Chapter 25
Chapter 25
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 25
Chapter Title: Officer Johnson (1)
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Saturday afternoon, I sorted through the items I'd bought in Louisiana and headed to Bill's antique shop.
I'd been swamped with deliveries until now, so this was the first chance I'd had to offload them.
I carefully loaded the stuff into the truck.
A pocket watch, a wooden box full of souvenirs from the 1904 Exposition, and a first-edition William Faulkner book.
Altogether, I'd invested $430 in these finds.
'Bill's gonna love these.'
When I pulled up to the shop, Bill was at the counter tinkering with something—an old clock, by the looks of it.
"Jake! Long time no see. Got anything good?"
"Picked these up at a flea market in Louisiana."
"Louisiana? You went all the way out there?"
"Delivery took me that way, so I stopped by. Ever heard of the Coushatta Flea Market?"
Bill's eyes lit up.
"Of course! One of the biggest flea markets in the South. What'd you score?"
I set the items out on the counter one by one.
Bill slipped on his magnifier and started inspecting them meticulously.
He picked up the pocket watch first.
"Elgin pocket watch... late 1920s model. And it's running smooth."
He wound it up to check.
Tick-tock, tick-tock—perfectly steady.
"The case is gold-plated. Excellent condition. I'll give you $120 for this."
Not bad—I'd paid $80 for it.
Next up was the wooden box.
The moment Bill opened it, his relaxed expression shifted completely.
"Hold on... this is..."
He gingerly lifted out one of the badges.
I smirked, figuring he'd recognize it.
'Louisiana Purchase Exposition 1904'
"...Is this the real deal? A commemorative badge from the 1904 St. Louis Exposition?"
"Yeah, that's right."
Bill peered at it through his loupe.
His hand was trembling just a bit.
"My God. Jake, how much did you pay for this?"
"$50 for the whole box."
Bill looked utterly incredulous.
"$50? You're kidding."
"Nope. Some grandma was clearing out her house."
Bill let out a deep breath.
"This badge alone is worth at least $800. Pristine condition like this? Could go higher."
"Whoa, $800?"
I echoed in surprise.
I'd figured it had value as an old piece, but this was way more than I'd imagined.
"The 1904 Louisiana Purchase Exposition was one of the most important fairs in American history. It marked the 100th anniversary of the Louisiana Purchase. Memorabilia like this carries massive historical weight."
Bill rummaged deeper into the box.
There were letters, photos, more badges.
"These letters are from the era too. Photos from the fairgrounds... All told, I can do $1,500 for the box."
"$1,500?"
$50 investment turning into $1,500? Unbelievable.
"Deal straight with a collector, you might hit $1,700. But I gotta leave room for my margin."
"$1,500's plenty, Bill."
Finally, the William Faulkner first edition.
'The Sound and the Fury'
"Hmm... William Faulkner? You've brought me something special."
Bill carefully opened the book.
He checked the first page, then the publication details.
"1929 first edition... dust jacket intact..."
But his face darkened as he went on.
"But Jake..."
"What's wrong?"
"The dust jacket shows restoration marks. See here? Tape repairs. And water stains on the corners."
Looking closer, yeah, it was there.
Details I'd missed under the flea market's dim lights.
"It's a true first edition, so it has rarity value. But this condition? 'Fair' at best, not 'Good.' I'd say $400 tops."
I'd paid $300, so $100 profit.
A bit disappointing given the condition, but still a win.
"It's a first edition, though..."
"Condition is everything with first editions. Collectors want perfection. The dust jacket especially—it swings the price big time. Mint condition? Could've been thousands."
No helping it.
Just a lack of experience.
Reason enough to keep studying this stuff.
Bill punched numbers into his calculator.
"Alright... watch $120, box $1,500, book $400... total $2,020."
"That badge was the jackpot, Jake. How'd you snag it for $50?"
"Just... felt special, y'know?"
Thanks to my special ability, really—but no need to spill that.
Bill nodded, getting it.
"You've got a real knack. Book was a shame, though. Be more thorough next time."
"Lesson learned."
Bill pulled cash from his safe and started counting it out.
I took the opening.
"Hey, Bill... had a weird experience this trip."
"Weird how?"
"...Touched a voodoo doll and nearly got in deep shit."
Bill's hands paused.
"Voodoo doll? Yeah, Louisiana's got that rep."
"Felt off the second I touched it..."
I laid it out seriously, but Bill burst out laughing.
No surprise—he didn't buy it one bit.
"Hahaha! Come on, you're pulling my leg. Touched a doll and felt weird?"
"I'm serious. My head got foggy... Whole thing was bizarre. Voodoo curse, maybe?"
Bill was still chuckling.
"Nah, you were just wiped out. Long haul to Louisiana, flea market grind—who wouldn't? Real voodoo curse? You'd be dancing with knives or some shit. Haven't seen the movies?"
"Maybe... That's why I left it."
Truth be told, I wasn't even sure myself.
Real curse? Or my ability reacting weirdly?
Bill tsked, eyeing me.
"Still, sucks you left it behind."
"Why?"
"There's collectors who specialize in occult stuff like voodoo dolls."
"...Seriously?"
Bill nodded gravely.
"Yeah. Seen plenty in this biz—cursed diamonds, witch ritual artifacts, knives from serial killers... even horrific Nazi camp relics."
"Who buys that?"
"Rich folks. Drawn to the dark side—thrill, or maybe they buy the mystical value."
He paused, then lowered his voice conspiratorially.
"Key point? It fetches top dollar."
"Uh... if it was made by 'Marie Laveau,' what'd it go for?"
Bill whistled.
"Marie Laveau? Authentic? Easily tens of thousands. Occult nuts would kill for it."
"Tens of... thousands?"
My voice shook.
"Yep. Know who she was? Voodoo Queen of 1800s New Orleans. Huge figure in Louisiana Voodoo history. Her stuff? Priceless as antique and occult."
My stomach twisted hearing that.
Authentic? I'd tossed away tens of thousands.
Bill caught my face and grinned.
"Doesn't matter if voodoo's real or not, Jake. What matters? The story fires up collectors. 'The cursed doll of legendary Marie Laveau'—that's the hook."
"Still... tens of thousands..."
"Too bad you passed, but water under the bridge."
Bill handed over the cash—twenty $100 bills and a twenty.
"Bring more good stuff. Historical items especially—they're hot right now."
"Got it. Thanks, Bill."
"Tough trip to Louisiana, but solid payday."
Heading out, I tallied it up.
$430 invested, $2,020 back—$1,590 profit.
'That badge was the real winner.'
Still, a bitter aftertaste lingered.
Couldn't stop thinking about that pricey doll.
'Nah, no choice back then.'
It'd creeped me out bad in the moment.
Even if I could go back now? I'd pass.
Safety over cash, always.
Walking to the truck, I resolved:
Pay extra attention to historical stuff—souvenirs, badges especially.
Books? Scrutinize condition harder.
'And occult crap... best not touch.'
No matter the value, didn't want that again.
In a way, good lesson.
Learned to spot dangerous items.
Sunday, 2 a.m.
Tom had pinged me last night with another delivery request.
Emergency run to a chemical plant in Pasadena, southeast of Houston.
'Sorry it's Sunday, Jake. But it's expedited—$1.30 a mile. Round trip 300 miles: $390. Not bad, right?'
Solid deal—premium pay bumped it above usual.
After drop-off, I'd hit a warehouse auction south of Austin.
"...Drive safe today too."
I fired up the truck and rolled out.
Austin to Houston: east on I-290.
Dawn roads were quiet as ever.
Just occasional trucks and early commuters. I flicked on the radio.
Click.
[...In the serial murder case, the FBI announced progress in the investigation. Suspect profile emerging; arrest imminent...]
That case again. Over it.
Switched channels to music. Willie Nelson's "On the Road Again" came on.
[♪ On the road again, just can't wait to get on the road again ♪]
About an hour in, passing Giddings.
Ranches stretched out on both sides. Dawn mist hugged the pastures low.
That's when I spotted it.
A cop car pulled over on the shoulder.
Hood up, flashers going—broken down.
I slowed as I approached.
One officer peering under the hood. Black guy, big build...
'Huh?'
The black cop from the checkpoint a few days back. Officer Johnson.
Hesitated for a sec. Keep driving?
But early morning, deserted road—guy wrestling a busted cruiser alone? Felt wrong.
Screech.
Pulled the truck behind his car.
He turned. Wary at first, then recognized my rig and me.
"The guy from the checkpoint..."
"Yeah. Jake Winch."
"Still early, but... good morning, Mr. Winch."
Up close, he looked seriously inconvenienced.
I hopped out and walked over.
"Car trouble?"
Johnson sighed shortly and patted the cruiser.
"Yeah. Died on me outta nowhere. Won't start now."
Sunday dawn—calling for help meant a long wait out here.
I checked my schedule—plenty of buffer—and offered:
"...Mind if I take a look? I know a bit about auto repair."