by Stuart Jaffe
Max stopped himself from throwing out another sarcastic comment. Instead, he smiled. “I am. Good job. You going to be okay to keep working with me here? All those ghosts — are they going to bother you?”
“I’ll be fine as long as I don’t look directly at them. Gives me a headache, though.”
From the police cruiser, Officer Glader said, “Come on. Quit stalling.”
Max headed over to the passenger-side door of the dented car. He gripped the handle but paused. He wondered if a soldier navigating across a minefield felt the same way — knowing something terrible might occur in the next breath. Or maybe it would all be fine — just another false alarm. Bracing himself for whatever sights and smells he might encounter, he opened the door.
The rancid smell of bowels and blood wafted out. Max reared back and covered his mouth. His eyes watered. Pausing long enough to keep from doubling over and throwing up, he tentatively breathed in again. After giving the car a moment to air, he crouched forward.
A middle-aged man sat in the driver’s seat. He wore a black raincoat that had been painted with many of the same symbols found on the outside of the car. His head angled back as if snapped hard. Bits of his skull and brains painted the back seat. A shotgun rested between his legs with the muzzle pointing upward. One hand lay on the steering wheel and the other at his side as if he might drive off for an old time cruising.
Max had seen dead bodies before, and he had seen more than his share of the ghosts associated with those bodies, but rarely did he come across such a blood-soaked mess. “You see this guy’s ghost anywhere?” he asked Drummond.
“If he’s here, he’s off in the cemetery. I’m really the only ghost in the parking lot at the moment.”
“I don’t get it. He’s not around here and those symbols are wards — but you’re still here. You don’t seem affected by anything. What’s so special about this guy that makes Cecily Hull drag me out with a police escort?”
“Check the glove compartment. That’s always a good place to look.”
Max pulled down on the glove compartment latch. Sifting through the papers, he found the car registration and insurance. The name listed — Wilson Klein.
“At least, we’ve got this.”
Drummond flicked the brim of his hat. “See? I’ve watched you do wonders with only half a name. You’ve got the whole thing this time. You go on your computer and spend a few hours researching, I’m sure you’ll find plenty on this guy.”
“Glad you have such confidence in me, but that doesn’t answer why Cecily Hull wanted us out here. Officer Glader could easily have found out this guy’s name by running the plates or checking the glove compartment. Hull could have simply given me that name and asked me to research the man. But she wanted me out here. There’s something we haven’t seen yet.”
“You mean other than the ridiculous number of symbols painted all over the car and his raincoat? He even blacked the windows so he could paint more symbols on top of that.”
Max forced himself to stare at the body longer. Something itched at him. Something seemed off. When it hit him, he marveled that Drummond hadn’t seen it first. “This guy supposedly committed suicide — but look at his hands.”
Drummond leaned forward, his body slipping through the side of the car. “Well, take a gander at that. If he had killed himself, his hands would’ve flopped to his sides. Somebody positioned him afterwards.”
Max glanced back at Officer Glader. “You think it was him?”
Staying focused on Wilson Klein, Drummond said, “Not a chance. That cop is so green and scared that if we don’t get out of here soon, he might wet his precious cop car.”
Max snapped a few pictures of the body’s position. He had read that forensic photographers grew numb to the experience of photographing the dead. They could be photographing bowls of fruit or pretty vistas — it all became the same. But Max’s skinned prickled as he clicked several more shots. He thought about the old tribal beliefs that pictures captured part of a person’s soul. Knowing what he did about the world of ghosts, he found himself wondering what he should consider true.
“I can’t be sure,” Drummond said squinting at Klein’s hands, “but I swear this fella’s pointing at something.”
Max looked closer at the hand on the steering wheel. The index finger did appear to be pointing forward and at a slight angle. He stared into the dark copse of trees and licked his lips. “You really think he’s pointing out there? I mean, there are all kinds of explanations why his finger ended up that way. Perhaps he —”
“You can sit here coming up with excuses all night long, but we both know where this is going to end. Might as well get moving out there now.”
Max’s head snapped toward Drummond. “You’re not coming?”
“Listen, partner, I’ve always got your back. But I can barely look into those woods. I won’t be any use to you. I won’t be able to look around, won’t be able to help search for evidence, nothing. But I’m still here. If you run into any serious trouble, then you start screaming. I’ll go in there anyway. I’ll do what I can to help.”
Max looked back at the dark tree line like a small animal stirring at the mouth of a cave, wondering if a bear slept inside. “Fine. But if I die —”
“Yeah, yeah. You’ll haunt me forever.”
Max backed away from the car. “This man here was moved after he died. I’m not misinterpreting this, right? It means he was murdered. “
With a solemn nod, Drummond said, “Be careful.”
Swallowing down the rise in his throat, Max headed toward the tree line. When he entered the wooded area, the temperature dropped. Even in the nighttime, this area remained cooler. No. Ghosts riddled the cemetery grounds. With their spectral bodies as condensed as Drummond had indicated, Max recognized the cold chill that continued to strike his skin. He waded through ghosts.
Up ahead and to his left, the land opened up for the graves. With so many Civil War-era African-Americans buried here, a large number must have been slaves. Most of their graves would be unmarked. But to his right, Max glimpsed a flicker of firelight. Trying not to let his mind wander or wonder, he focused on that light. Even as he marveled, he continually moved forward. The near constant icy chills from walking through ghosts threatened to send him running out of the woods.
Several feet in, he found a small altar that had been set up against two trees twisting around each other. The altar consisted of an old wooden stool covered with a moth-eaten cloth. Two candlesticks covered in old wax sat on the stool. One had the liquid remains of a long red candle. The other bore a black candle which still flickered its light. Two old photographs leaned against each of the candlesticks.
Max paused to scan the woods. He did not want to meet whoever lit these candles. Stepping closer, the air around him warmed. Apparently, the ghosts did not like this place and left it vacant.
He picked up the photos. The first depicted an old, wood slat house — barely more than a shack — black and white photo, something from the early 1900s. The second photo prickled Max’s skin as if touched by one of the ghosts. Also black and white, the photograph was of six white coffins. They were laid out on black tables, saw horses, and gurneys. A crowd of men stood solemn and cold with their hats clutched low — their dress again suggested early 1900s. The coffins varied in sizes, including two distinctly small ones.
Officer Glader honked the horn of his cruiser. Though Max did not jump, his heart certainly fluttered through several beats. He swiped the photographs, shoved them in his pocket, and hastened toward the parking lot. The more distance he put between him and the altar, the better he felt. Dealing with a police officer out of his depth seemed the better choice than hanging around a candlelit altar in the woods.
As Max neared the cruiser, Officer Glader stuck his head out the window. “I just heard on the radio — somebody called this in. Police will be here soon. It’s time to leave.”
Max glanced at Drummond. The old ghost
nodded. “Either somebody waited to call this in for a reason or —”
Max tried to keep his voice calm. “Somebody might be watching us.”
Glader said, “All the more reason to get your ass in my car. Besides, you’re not done yet.”
“There’s more?”
“Cecily Hull wants to talk with you.”
Feeling a wobble in his legs, Max hurried into the police car. “How about you take me to jail? That might be more pleasant.”
“Sorry. I’m not officially here.” As Glader drove away, Max made sure not to look in any of the mirrors. He did not want to see those woods ever again.
Chapter 3
OFFICER GLADER HEADED SOUTH, straight into the center of Winston-Salem. With midnight approaching, the roads were fairly empty, but even those loitering on the streets kept to themselves. After all, nobody wanted to bother a police cruiser at night.
He turned onto West 3rd Street and parked next to Merschel Plaza — a grassy park on two levels. The bottom level was open land which could be used for a variety of purposes. A narrow walkway covered a strip on top about the width of the street. People could walk along this path, picnic, or simply use it to cross into the buildings toward the south. Cars had parking underneath. Just west of the Plaza stood an apartment building — the bottom floors in brick and the top floors painted off-white.
Drummond floated outside the car. He stared at a large grassy lot to the east of the Plaza strip. “That used to be the Pepper Building. Gone now.”
Max did not like the troubled look on the ghost’s face, but whatever the man’s past with the Pepper Building, it would have to wait for another day. To Officer Glader, Max said, “Where am I supposed to go?”
Glader nodded his head toward the apartment building. “Somebody’ll be in the lobby. Take you to the top floor.”
“Of course they will.”
As Max exited the car, Glader put his hand on Max’s arm. “Please, tell her I did a good job.”
“I will. But you promise me you’ll go find some other job. Or stick to being a good cop. Jobs like this — they’re only going to lead a guy like you into trouble.”
The moment Max closed the door, Glader had that cruiser halfway down the street. “Do me a favor,” Max said to Drummond. “Go back to the office.”
“The office?”
“You can go to my house if you’d like, but you don’t seem to care for the Sandwich Boys all that much lately — not since J started getting glimpses of you.”
“Now hold on just a second. I don’t get bothered by people being able to see me — you don’t bother me and neither does Sandra — so don’t start blaming your problems with the kids on me.”
“I love those boys. I look forward to them really connecting with me, making a real family. You’re the one who seems to be trying to put distance between you and them.”
Drummond tilted his head and eyed Max carefully. “I’m not sure what’s going on in your head right now — I’m fine with those boys. Heck, now that J can see me, I like him better. Maybe we should just focus on this impending interview with Cecily Hull and leave the rest for another day.”
Max looked around to make sure nobody had seen him arguing with an empty space on the sidewalk. “That’s why I wanted you to go to the office. Or my house or wherever. Cecily Hull is not an idiot, and she has Madame Ti as her number one witch. Do you really think that building is going to let you in? There’s got to be ghost wards on every floor, in every window, and every stairwell. I figured you could do without all that pain.”
If Drummond’s pale skin could have reddened, Max figured he would be as pink as a glass of zinfandel. The old ghost said, “Oh. Right. Then I guess I’ll see you in the morning.” He did not wait around for a response.
Max headed toward the apartment building with a mixture of amusement and concern battling across his face. His soft steps sounded loud in the quiet night, and he wondered if visiting Cecily Hull alone was any less dangerous than entering a copse of dark woods filled with ten thousand ghosts. With a shudder, he pushed off where those thoughts might lead.
Turned out Officer Glader was wrong. Max never got inside the lobby of the building.
As he approached the front door, a large man wearing an expensive but ill-tailored suit stepped outside — clearly a bodyguard, clearly armed. One look at Max and the man gestured him over.
“Ms. Hull isn’t ready to see you just yet,” the man said.
Max puffed up his chest and cocked his head to the side. “You can call up and tell Ms. Hull that I’ve had enough of her toying with my night. Either she can talk with me or I’m going home. I had my fill of these power games back with Mother Hope and the Mobleys. I don’t need any more of it from her.”
He felt only half as brave as he sounded, but the big man did not have enough information on Max to know that. He raised one finger before turning back and making a quick call on his phone. Seconds later, he returned. His face gave nothing away nor did his voice. “Follow me,” he said.
The big man led Max around the side of the building and down a short alley. A metal door painted to match the brick stood flush at the back. The big man pulled out a tiny keyring and opened the door. Gesturing, he said, “Just follow the stairs up.”
Feeling like a guy stepping into a hidden speakeasy during the 1920s, Max entered a narrow stairwell and proceeded to climb five flights. However, unless this imaginary 1920s fellow headed toward a meeting with a mob boss connected to witchcraft, the similarity ended there. Max chuckled. Drummond probably knew of real mobsters who had used magic.
But that was the 1920s. In the present, having a secret entrance to an apartment situated in an apartment building seemed silly and redundant. Then again, Max did not have the kinds of enemies a Hull attracted. He paused on the stairs. Actually, he shared many of the same enemies. Maybe he should get a secret entrance to his house and office.
The top of the stairs ended with a concrete landing and a simple metal door. He knocked.
He figured most of this exercise in door knocking and secrecy had been put in place to display the level of power Cecily Hull had attained. But to Max, this amounted to a bit of theater and little more. While she certainly had rebuilt some of her family’s former wealth, and she had clearly maneuvered herself back into a position of attaining some power, the disarray of the witch community proved that nobody had become the ruler of magic in North Carolina. Not yet.
The door opened, and a young man with military hair and wireframe glasses bid Max welcome. “Ms. Hull is ready to see you now.”
He led Max down a corridor with tan fabric-covered walls and dim lighting. The fabric dampened most sounds and gave the space an artificial aroma. Several dark wood doors on either side remained closed while soft classical music played from well-hidden speakers. At the end of the hall, the young man opened a door on the right and moved aside.
Max stepped straight into Cecily Hull’s office. He imagined the door on the far wall led to her actual apartment, but he suspected he would never see that part of the building. Never really wanted to, either.
Cecily Hull’s office brought together a strange mixture of styles. Her desk sat in the center of the room — made of glass and metal, no drawers, a simple and elegant and thoroughly modern design. Behind her, a floor to ceiling window looked out upon the Plaza, shedding natural light across the entire room during the daytime. This late at night, the window appeared more like a picturesque mural of city lights.
Yet the modernity changed with a wall of built-in bookcases of dark wood. Dusty, leather bound books — ancient and archaic texts, no doubt — filled the shelves with forgotten lore. It was a private library that most witches would have killed for. Some probably had tried.
Cecily Hull stood behind her desk. Tall and stark, she splayed her skeletal hands on the glass and leaned her head to indicate the uncomfortable looking chair in front of her. Speaking in the exacting, clipped manner Max only associated wi
th her — even the slight Southern tinge to her accent did nothing to soften her tone — she said, “Mr. Porter, have a seat.”
Max did not want to sit. Sitting implied that he would be spending more than a couple of minutes in the office. But he did not want to be rude, either — at least, not yet. He sat.
She looked him over and her mouth tightened. “In the future, should you ever come here again, please have to courtesy to wear something clean.”
Max glanced down at the wine stain on his yellow shirt. “Perhaps next time you can avoid the threat of police and I won’t feel obligated to leave without changing my shirt.”
“I apologize if Officer Glader acted overzealous. Thank you for accompanying him this evening.”
Max shrugged. “You didn’t give me much of a choice.”
“I know that you do not like me. I do not expect you to be my friend. I have no need for friends. But the deaths of Grandma Mobley and Mother Hope have had greater repercussions upon the magic-using communities than ever were created when you defeated my Hull relatives.”
“If our lack of magic-related cases is any indicator, I think things have been improving.”
Cecily tapped her fingernails on the glass before turning toward the window. “What did you think about the suicide at the cemetery?”
Like a bratty teen, Max crossed his arms and leaned his chair on its back two legs. “Sorry, but I don’t work for you. You want somebody to do research or look into whoever that was that died, go hire somebody.”
“That is exactly why you are here. I wish to hire you for this case. I know you do not want to do this, of course, and I would be lying if I did not say I agreed with you. However, at the moment the world I live in is still in flux. Until I have better control over the situation, until I have my own people in place to do your job for me, I want to hire the Porter Agency to handle this matter. Someday I’ll have no need for you, and I am sure you will be delighted when that time comes, but it is not today.”
She turned around and did her best to offer a charming smile. Max’s skin crawled at the unnatural sight. With a single clap of his hands, he popped to his feet. “No,” he said and strode toward the stairwell.
