Southern Gothic

by Stuart Jaffe

  “Rolson?” Max said. “Is he still with the witch?”

  “He’s her guard and he’s moved her to the O. Henry Hotel in Greensboro.”

  Max looked to Sandra. They both looked to Drummond. Max shook his head. “That can’t be good.”

  Chapter 20

  Sandra weaved through the highway traffic as she soared down Route 40 heading towards Greensboro. The old car shimmied as she pushed seventy-five miles-per-hour. Max reclined in the passenger seat, his head still swirling from his recent experience with the spirit world. Thankfully, Sandra had the sense to send Drummond ahead to watch the witch and perform a little recon. For Max, it meant less talking, less wisecracks. From the glove compartment, Max pulled out a bottle of acetaminophen and took two of the white pills.

  Sandra looked over. “You still feeling really bad?”

  “I ain’t feeling good, but I’ll survive.”

  The way she set her jaw as she continued to drive around traffic told Max everything — he had not only been wrong; he had hurt her. It bothered him that he kept hurting her in his efforts to treat her well or to protect her. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps unilaterally trying to protect people only leads to their pain.

  Max raised his seat and placed his hand on the back of Sandra’s neck, stroking her hair and skin at the same time. “I am so sorry. I never meant to harm you.”

  “I know you were trying to solve the case in a way you thought was right, but that doesn’t make it so. You have to realize there are more important things than solving a case or fighting the Hulls or any of this stuff. There’s you and me.”

  “I do understand that.”

  “Really? Because your behavior often makes me think otherwise.”

  “Do you remember our third date?”

  Sandra’s face relaxed. “Of course I remember our third date. It was the first time we ever had sex.”

  “Yes, but do you remember the date itself? I had planned out what I hoped would be a great evening for us, and though it did turn out to be a great evening, the plan never was. I expected to pick you up at six o’clock and take you to that awesome dive in Lansing — Carl’s Corner. We would sit down and eat until the live band started up. Then I’d take you dancing. Afterwards, I figured we would drive around for a little until I got up the courage to invite you back to my place. Not a complicated date, but one that required a little bit of planning.”

  Sandra warmed at the memory. “I can hear you calling me on the phone, telling me that you were going to take me out to dinner and dancing. I was really excited.”

  “Well, it didn’t quite turn out that way, did it? I picked you up at seven because I had a flat on the way to your house, then got stuck in a traffic jam. When we got to Carl’s Corner, they were locked up and closed — health inspectors had shut the place down.”

  “You looked so ridiculous and cute standing by the door, reading the health notice and shaking your head. I think you figured the whole evening had been screwed over.”

  “You remember what happened next?”

  “Of course. We went to Wendy’s.”

  “We sat there for hours chatting away. No dancing. No music except for whatever crap they pumped through their speakers. Sharing fries, sipping pop, and happy as can be. One of the best dates in my entire life. It was that date that I really fell for you. Not to mention, that all happened before you suggested we go back to my place. And that date was the first time that I learned something which has happened over and over again in our lives together — that together we can take a bad situation and make it work; together we make wonders out of tough times.

  “I mean, look at us now. We’re living in a trailer, practically broke. But as tough as it is, as worried as I am, ultimately, as long as we’re together, I know we’ll survive. We’ll be fine. So don’t ever think I’m going to jeopardize that. The risks that I took — I didn’t think they were going to be as serious as they turned out. I would never have done it if I had known what I was stepping into.”

  Sandra reached over and patted his knee. “You are so silly.”

  “I know. But I’m learning.”

  “Well, you better learn this one for good because I’m tired of having to prove it to you. Besides, our life is too dangerous for you not to figure this out. Now lay back, shut up, and get some rest. Things are going to get tough soon.”

  Max reclined and closed his eyes. The relaxed sensation washing over his weary muscles told him that he and Sandra had truly made up.

  Twenty minutes later, he woke to find them zipping down Bryan Boulevard. Sandra nodded ahead. “We’re almost there. What’s the plan?”

  Max stretched his body, feeling far better than he had in the last few days. “You and I are going to cause a big scene. That’s the plan.”

  Chapter 21

  From the outside, the O. Henry hotel stood like a giant box of brick and granite. Though less than ten stories tall, it looked as if someone had taken a New York City hotel, yanked it from the ground, and plunked it down in the middle of a Greensboro parking lot across from the Friendly Shopping Center (Only a short distance from where Sebastian Freeman bought a house, Max noted). The inside, however, proved to be an entirely different experience.

  As they entered, Max immediately fell in love with the place. Dark wood walls, high ceilings, the earthy smell of a fireplace — like an old, dignified library with the atmosphere and aroma of a hunting lodge. To their left, they saw the reception counter. To the right, two brass elevator doors.

  Walking ahead, the space opened into a large lobby. Thick, heavy furniture filled the area as classical music flowed around them. The ceiling rose even higher — a full three stories up.

  Max and Sandra sat on one of the overstuffed couches and waited. Large windows formed the back wall looking onto open gardens with walking paths weaving through the foliage. The setting sun cast a golden hue across it all like a stylized painting. Max could hear the busy conversation of workers in the restaurant off to the right prepping for dinner.

  With a sigh, Max leaned back, his eyes drifting up toward the ceiling. His breath stuck in chest. He couldn’t believe what he saw.

  Near the ceiling of the lobby, a huge green banner had been painted across all four walls. Written in golds and browns, Max saw the entire story “The Gift of the Magi” by O. Henry — his most famous work, and the one the witch’s organization had been named after.

  Only a few people stood around the lobby — a receptionist and a bellhop. Not a good crowd for causing a scene, but when the time came, Max figured he would do the best he could.

  A half hour went by without any sign of the witch. Max shifted on the couch and Sandra patted his leg. He wanted to hurry the whole thing up, yet for the moment, he had no control over the situation. If only he knew what room they had locked her in, but he couldn’t see going up the receptionist and asking for the room with a witch.

  At length, Drummond appeared. “Good, you’re here. She’s coming down the elevators now. Rolson’s with her and two ugly-looking thugs.”

  Max straightened but not out of anticipation. Rather, his brain asked him a question that shocked him — Why here?

  As the elevator neared, Max’s thoughts kicked into high gear. O. Henry had used a complex secret code for Cal Baxter. Without practice, nobody could create a secret code so complicated that it took three years to solve. Perhaps his other stories, perhaps other experiences — somehow O. Henry had learned this skill.

  But then why use a secret code at all? Why not simply tell Cal Baxter directly? True, O. Henry was on the run from embezzlement charges, but surely he could have found some way to communicate with Cal Baxter.

  Unless, both O. Henry and Cal Baxter were part of this Magi group fighting the Hulls. The witch had told Drummond that they knew O. Henry. Perhaps Cal Baxter was part of that group, too. Perhaps that’s how they knew each other, and keeping their relationship secret might have been important enough to employ a coded message. If th
at were true, if O. Henry was involved directly with the Magi group, then this hotel might be something more than a place to spend the night.

  Max looked up sharply at the Magi story. Could this possibly mean something more?

  The elevator dinged its arrival, and Rolson stepped off with the witch in tow. On either side of her stood a burly man, all muscle and mean. Rolson wore a trench coat and fedora unknowingly mimicking Drummond. But whereas Drummond’s outfit suited the man, Rolson’s looked forced like a Halloween costume that didn’t quite come together — particularly with his green sweater underneath. It would have been comical if not for the man’s ruthless eyes.

  Max’s nerves awoke. He knew they needed to get the witch, but defying a man with a police force at his disposal did not sit easy. Then again, Max had defied the Hulls on several occasions, and that family had far more power than Rolson.

  But I had something over the Hulls. That was a hard truth. He had no problem going up against the powerful when he had leverage. Against the Hulls, he had their journal that detailed many of their unsavory crimes and dalliances with magic. But against Rolson and the police, Max had nothing. In fact, in the seconds that Rolson stepped from the elevator, Max finally saw how the police thought of him — a suspect in a murder investigation, an overnight jailing for disorderly conduct, possible connections to an illegal fighting operation, and if made known, trespassing on a crime scene.

  Max might have stood frozen in that lobby and missed his opportunity. Sandra saved him. She walked straight towards the witch with a loud, cheery voice and her arms open wide. “Momma! I’m so excited to see you!”

  The employees at the reception desk glanced up at the sudden noise. Max hurried to Sandra’s side. “We’ve been looking so forward to your visit. How was your trip?”

  Ignoring Rolson’s scowl, Sandra took the witch’s arm. But one of Rolson’s thugs pushed her back. Rolson thrust his hands in his coat pockets, and with smarmy condescension, he said, “I’ll give a little credit for finding us, but you won’t be taking her away. Look around you. Make all the noise you want. Nobody cares. You know why? Because I’m in control here.”

  Max glanced at the reception desk. The two employees had disappeared. No bellhops either. Apparently, everyone had discovered something important to do elsewhere.

  “Get it now?” Rolson went on. “These people won’t sacrifice their jobs or this business to help you. They know who I am. They know the family I represent. They understand who’s in charge.”

  Instead of swooping in or flying around the scene, Drummond stood by Max’s side. His presence gave Max a bit of strength. “Don’t listen to this bozo. If he really had that kind of power, he wouldn’t have two hired goons with him. He’d have two police officers.”

  Though shaking inside, Max turned a firm glare upon Rolson. “I know the family far better than you do. And I know exactly what you are. So, I’ll give you a choice. Hand over the witch and we go our separate ways in peace.”

  “That won’t happen,” Rolson said, his cold eyes dropping a few more degrees.

  “Then I’ll just have to take her.”

  “You’ll be arrested.”

  Max peeked at Drummond. “I doubt that very much. Unless you want to explain in your report how you were connected to a woman practicing witchcraft for the benefit of illegal gambling.”

  This gave Rolson pause — and that pause gave Sandra a moment to act. She thrust forward, shoulder-checking the nearest thug in the gut. Taken off guard, the big man stumbled back a step. Sandra grabbed the witch and bolted for the closing elevator doors.

  In that instant, Max knew she would make it onto the elevator as long as he bought her a few extra seconds. So he punched Rolson in the jaw. As Rolson fell, Drummond flew straight through the remaining thug. The cold and pain of having a ghost pass through caused the thug to yelp in a decidedly unmanly fashion. All of this gave Sandra and the witch the time they needed to slip into safety. The witch looked relieved as the elevator doors closed.

  No time to cheer, though. Rolson and his two thugs had gotten back on their feet. Max whirled about and dashed off deeper into the hotel.

  He weaved around the lobby’s couches and chairs until he reached the back end of the room. A bright hallway led further down. One side had all glass panels looking out into the gardens. The other side, painted white, had been decorated with ivy and mirrors. After the heavy, dark woods of the lobby, the brightness caused Max to squint as he ran.

  At the far end, he saw a glass-paned door. He shoved it open and burst into a private meeting. Men and women in business attire sat around a conference table covered with papers and laptops. They looked at him as if he had spit in their soup.

  “Sorry,” he said as he dashed by, looking for an exit. The only door he saw led into the garden. He heard Rolson and his men rushing through the glass hall.

  Max darted into the garden, straight across, and threw open the door leading back into the lobby. From the corner of his eye, he saw Rolson stutter to a stop and turn back down the hall. Max couldn’t tell if his little maneuver had helped or hurt him, but he figured as long as they hadn’t caught him, he still had a chance to survive this.

  Drummond’s head cut up through the floor, keeping pace with Max’s feet. “Sandra and the witch went downstairs. They’re holing up in one of the meeting rooms.”

  Max managed a nod as he gasped for air and sprinted down a hallway to his right. Doors lined both sides. Up ahead a cleaning cart blocked the way. Max barreled onward, hardly slowing down to slink by the cart, and rushed toward the end of the hall.

  “Down here,” Rolson called out, his voice followed by the thumping steps of his thugs.

  Max’s eyes darted from one side of the hall to the other, checking every door he passed. They all had numbers. One had the word ICE. He kept searching for the one he needed, even as he heard Rolson gaining ground.

  Finally, he saw it — STAIRS. Max smashed his shoulder into the door, slamming it open, and stumbled forward. If not for his one hand accidentally banging the metal railing, he would have taken a horrendous spill — one that might have ended his escape. But his hand did hit the railing, and he grabbed it in time to guide the rest of his body onto the staircase with sure footing. He raced downstairs.

  “This way,” Drummond said, shooting ahead of Max as he led them to a door. The name Medieval Room had been printed on a simple doorplate.

  Max jumped into the room and slammed the door shut — breathing heavy and sweating hard. Sandra and the witch huddled at the end of a long conference table. Medieval decor covered the walls — crossed axes, thick metal banding, even a complete suit of armor standing in the corner.

  “What the heck is this place?” Max said.

  Drummond said, “You really want to talk decorating right now?”

  “Both of you be quiet.” Sandra held the witches hand and leaned close to hear.

  Max wanted to know what they were talking about, but that would have to wait. Rolson couldn’t be too far behind. Surveying the room Max noted only the single door. Maybe he should grab one of the axes.

  Reading his thoughts, Sandra said, “They’re fakes.”

  “Then we’ve got to get out of here.”

  The door opened and Rolson stepped in. He brought a phone to his mouth. “I’ve got them. Get an elevator ready. We’re coming up.”

  Max fumed. He hated the way Rolson’s voice sounded as if the entire escape had been thwarted by his own hand. He hated the satisfied look on Rolson’s face. Or the way that Rolson rolled on his heels like an enthusiastic Santa Claus bell-ringer — jolly, red faced, and chubby.

  Rolson chuckled, and Max pictured him saying Ho Ho Ho. “When they told me you were not to be underestimated, that you had some serious fight in you, they weren’t kidding.”

  No need to ask who they were. Max wondered if he would ever be done with the Hulls.

  “I have to admit,” Rolson continued, “even with their warning, I
didn’t expect you to be so much trouble. But now it’s over.”

  “The hell it is,” Max said and leaped onto Rolson.

  Both Drummond and Sandra called out, “Max!” Sandra sounded worried, but Drummond’s voice flooded the room with vigor and excitement.

  In the instant that Max jumped into action, he had the satisfaction of seeing Rolson’s shock. He wished he could stop things at that moment like a still frame at the end of some movies. But nothing stopped. Max careened forward and knocked the man against the door.

  He shoved back, trying to gain a second to reset, but Rolson had some training — he didn’t wait. As Max stepped back, Rolson moved in with a gut punch followed by an uppercut. Little lights sparkled across Max’s vision as he tumbled to the floor. His chin ached and his eyes required a few extra seconds to settle the images around him.

  Seconds he didn’t have.

  Though Sandra tried to intervene, Rolson shoved her aside with ease before straddling Max and punching him in the face. Those hammy fists slammed into Max’s cheeks twice. As Rolson pulled back for a final, devastating blow, his face took on a horrified, painful twist. Though Max couldn’t see clearly, he knew the answer — Drummond.

  Rolson fell to the side giving Max a chance to get back up. Drummond let go, rubbing his hand and wincing, while Max steadied himself. Without hesitation, Max kicked Rolson in the side. Then he kicked again. And again. He only stopped when the door opened and a middle-aged waiter entered the room.

  All eyes turned on the waiter. The dignified man stared back with his salt-and-pepper hair lending a sense of propriety to an otherwise chaotic moment. He glanced down at Rolson, stepped close in, and punched hard enough to finish the work Max had started. Rolson was unconscious.