by Stuart Jaffe
Everyone had fallen to the floor, clasping hands over ears or rubbing their eyes. All except Madame Vansandt. As Max shoved off the floor, feeling like he moved underwater, he saw her rise into the air. A sphere of golden light surrounded her like a painting of an Old Testament prophet and she floated gently forward.
No time to follow her. Max figured if he could find the strength to get up, the others would, too. He stumbled to Sandra and helped her to her feet. Once up, she went to PB. Max turned to the Pale Man and his accomplice. Thankfully, both had taken Madame Vansandt’s spell head on.
The accomplice had been knocked out cold. But the Pale Man had managed to get to his knees. Madame Vansandt floated by his head and he lifted a weak arm to stop her. She ignored him and drifted through the open front door.
Max followed right up behind and kicked the Pale Man in the side of the head. Not sporting at all, but when dealing with contract killers, Max figured sporting wasn’t too important. As his foot made contact, as Madame Vansandt left the room, time returned to normal. The Pale Man dropped down. Dazed or unconscious, Max didn’t know, and he had no intention of taking a chance at finding out.
“We’ve got to get out of here now,” he said, “before the cops come up.”
Sandra frowned and pointed to her ear.
Speaking slower and louder, Max said, “We’ve got to go. Cops coming.”
Sandra took hold of PB by the right arm — blood stained his left shoulder — while Maria still sat on the floor by Madame Vansandt’s empty chair. Max pointed to the front door. “Take PB up to the roof. I’ll get her.”
He squatted before her and gently lifted her chin with two fingers.
A tear spilled from Maria’s eye. “She left me here. I was a good pupil. I did everything she ever asked of me. And she left me here.”
Though her words were muddled by his ringing ears, he understood enough. “You can’t trust a witch.”
“But I’m a witch. And your wife is, too.”
“I don’t know what to call the two of you, but you’re not witches. Not like that.”
Maria looked straight into Max. “How can you be sure?”
He smiled back. “Because you didn’t leave us.” He stood and opened his hand. “Come on. We’ll get through this. We always do. But we do it together.”
Like a shell-shocked soldier, she accepted his help standing and left the apartment with him. Her hands were cold and clammy, but Max did not let go. He guided her down the bullet-riddled hall, to the stairwell, and up to the roof.
With any luck, and that was a questionable qualification, Max hoped they could recoup up there while the police spent a few hours sifting through this mess. They would probably canvas the neighbors and a few businesses up and down the street, but he saw little reason they would check the roof. Any way he looked at it, though, they were going be stuck for a long time — and PB was losing blood fast.
Chapter 14
Climbing the stairs took longer than Max had expected. With PB limping up each step and Maria acting near-catatonic, it fell on Max and Sandra to lug, drag, cajole, and boost them up flight after flight. By the time they reached the roof access door, they were all sweating and gasping air. At least, his hearing had returned.
Max ushered Maria a few feet away and sat her down. “Wait here.” He returned to the door and helped Sandra bring PB to a clear section of the roof. They laid him down and inspected his wound.
“I don’t want to die,” PB said, his voice shivering as much as his body.
Sandra stroked his forehead. “You’re not going to die. We’ll take good care of you.”
“I don’t feel so good.”
“You got shot. You’re not supposed to feel good. But there’s a definite exit wound on your back, so that’s good. There’s no bullet stuck in you that we’ve got to go fetch. All we’ve got to do is close you up. So, put your head down and try to think of someplace pleasant. You’re in good hands here.”
Max wondered if PB could smell Sandra’s lies as much as he could. By the look on Drummond’s face, even he could tell and he had no sense of smell. “What’s it look like down there?” Max asked.
Though he had already surveyed the situation, Drummond floated beyond the edge of the roof and peered down. “Not good. The cops have cleared the area and are waiting for photographers and technicians to come in and analyze the place. I expect they’ll start asking questions of neighbors and others to find out what happened. I checked the back exit, and they have a rookie watching there. But even a rookie will notice the four of you. Sorry, but for now, there’s no getting down.”
“Which means we can’t get to a hospital.” Sandra moved behind the brick enclosure for the stairwell, and Max and Drummond followed.
“Not so good, huh?” he said.
“Not unless you brought along a needle and thread. It’s exactly what I said to him. No bullet to worry about, but we’ve got to close him up or he’ll bleed out long before the police leave here.”
Max paced for a brief moment. To Drummond, he asked, “What are they doing with the people who live here?”
“I heard a couple cops saying the folks are going to be given a night in a hotel,” Drummond said. “Should be let home tomorrow.”
“Then once they’re all gone, I can sneak down, break into an apartment, and swipe a needle and thread or bandages or something.”
Sandra said, “He’ll be dead long before you’ll have a chance.”
Throwing back his coat, Drummond stuck his hands in his pockets and watched over the boy from several feet in the air. “He’s going to be dead if you keep talking about it instead of doing something.”
“What about you? Why don’t you go down and find a needle and thread?”
“I can try, but I doubt it’ll work. Trying to hold something as small as a needle while going through the pain of touching the living world will be near impossible. I mean I can endure a lot, but blinding pain and daintiness don’t go together — it’s not going to work.”
Max and Sandra went back to PB’s side. The boy looked pale. When they tried to pull off his shirt, he let out a short yelp. They stopped. With both hands gripping tight, Max took PB’s shirt and ripped it open. Again, PB cried out, but Sandra clamped her hand across his mouth.
“Shhh,” she said. “If you scream, the police will know somebody’s up here. They’ll come looking.”
PB nodded that he understood as Max tore the loose shirt into two pieces and then balled up each one. Max said, “We’re going to plug up those holes with these.”
They all knew the hole in the back would hurt the most because they would have to lift his body to reach it. So, Max chose to tackle the entry wound first. He leaned in close. Pumping blood pushed out of the hole like tidewaters on the rocks.
Without giving himself time to back out, Max pressed the shirt onto the wound. PB’s body tensed and he screamed. Sandra tried to quiet him, but he wriggled and threw his head aside.
“Stop! Stop!” he cried.
Max let go as if touching an electric wire. With the pressure removed, PB eased back down.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Sandra said, “It’s okay. We’ll think of something.”
“Try this,” Max said, and pulled off his coat. “You can bite down and scream into this.”
“Okay,” PB said. “And I’ll still do my best to keep quiet.”
Drummond clicked his tongue. “That’s one helluva brave kid.”
They placed the arm of the coat into PB’s mouth and the rest wadded over his face. So that PB knew it was coming, Max announced he was going to try again. He pressed the strip of bloodstained shirt onto the wound and PB screamed. The coat muffled the noise some, but to Max’s ears, it still sounded too loud.
More importantly, the shirt soaked up blood but did nothing to stop the bleeding. Max guessed the wound might be too large to simply apply pressure. That seemed to make sense, but then again, he knew nothing about med
icine — except not to guess when it came to medicine.
Max threw the shirt away. “Damn.”
The boy looked relieved to be done with the pain, but the blood still pulsed out. His eyelids fluttered.
Sandra said, “Hang in there. Don’t give up.”
Max didn’t know if she was talking to him or PB. Probably both.
When Drummond spoke next, Max heard the change in the ghost’s tone. A decision had been made — one that Drummond did not take lightly. “I’ll do it,” he said. “I’ll stop the bleeding.”
“Can you do that?” Max said. “I mean, I guess it’s possible, but wouldn’t that take some precise control? So you don’t harm the boy?”
“If I don’t try, he’s not going to make it. Besides, it’ll be far easier than trying to keep a needle in my hand, and far more likely to succeed.”
“Okay.” Max turned to PB. “Hey, can you hear me?”
PB nodded.
“I know you don’t believe that I talk with a ghost, that it’s all some kind of game between us, but that’s wrong. I do see a ghost, and he’s here right now. A ghost’s touch is cold. Very cold. When he passes through you, you feel a chill. But he can stop and touch you — really touch you — and the more of himself he allows to reach into the living world the colder it gets for you.” Max wasn’t sure if PB followed, but the boy would believe soon enough.
Sandra said, “We’ve got to stop that bleeding. We don’t have anything hot enough to cauterize the wound. But you can use extreme cold to do the same thing — sort of. It’ll be enough to hold you together until we can get you out of here. But it’s going to hurt. It’ll hurt you and Drummond. A lot. Unlike any pain you’ve ever had. So, be ready.”
To Drummond, Max said, “You sure about this?”
“I’ve frozen all kinds of things for you guys before. At least this time, I’m doing it to directly save a life.”
“I know. Just be careful.”
“Thanks for the advice. I was planning on haphazardly throwing myself at the boy, but since you warned me to be careful, I’ll move with caution.”
Oddly, Drummond’s sarcasm eased Max’s nerves. Knowing the ghost had to lash out gave Max the sense that everything was normal. Of course, trying to keep a teenager from dying on the roof of an apartment building wasn’t normal, but it still relaxed Max a small bit.
Drummond put his hand near PB’s wound. “Okay. Get that coat ready. This boy’s going to scream bloody murder in a second.”
Max set the coat in PB’s mouth. Chomping like a horse with a bit, PB closed his eyes, wincing in anticipation of the pain. Drummond gave a quick nod and plunged his hand into the boy’s shoulder.
The screams of both PB and Drummond melded into an inhuman garble. Tears streamed from PB’s eyes as he let his voice rage into the coat. Being a ghost, Drummond didn’t have to worry about the police hearing him — his unbridled screams caused Max’s skin to shiver.
PB lifted his head. His focus locked on the bullet wound, and Max watched him watch the skin freeze over. Whether from pain, disbelief, or both, the boy’s eyes rolled upward and he passed out.
Drummond removed his hands, and for a moment, the only sound Max heard was the wind. Sandra gently moved PB onto his side, and Drummond attacked the exit wound with his ghostly cold hands. He screamed again, but this time he managed to hold back some of the noise.
After pulling his hands away, he said, “That must’ve been the worst thing I’ve gone through since becoming a ghost.”
“It sounded bad,” Max said, “but you’ve been through worse.”
“I don’t think so. Something about the kid’s skin — it was like a thousand knives slashing into me. Maybe because he’s so young. I’m not sure why. But it hurt something awful.”
Max thought of his short brush with being a ghost and the nerve-shattering pain he felt when touching the corporeal world. “You’ve done good,” he said.
“I hope.” With a weary grin, Drummond drifted over the roof ledge and peered down. “Cops don’t look like they’re going anywhere soon. I’m taking off for the Other. I’ll heal up from this faster in there.”
“Heal? You’re a ghost.”
“I can still get hurt. Or did you miss all the screaming?”
“Okay. No need to get snippy. We’re not going anywhere until the cops do.”
For a reply, Drummond grunted and disappeared. Max slumped down next to Sandra. She had dressed PB in Max’s coat and then fallen asleep. Seemed like a good idea to him. He closed his eyes.
Over the next several hours, they rested. Whether asleep or awake, Max’s mind tumbled over itself in a jumble of thoughts. He admonished himself for bringing such a dangerous life to two young boys. Then he mocked himself for thinking this was any less dangerous than the lives they had endured before. At least, assuming PB survived, the Sandwich Boys had a shot at a decent life.
Shot? Bad choice of words. Max decided it was good that he could still make a joke — even if only to himself.
His thoughts drifted to Drummond. Max had experienced the ghost world for only a short burst and in a limited way, yet it gave him a new perspective to his old friend. It was lonely being a ghost. No matter how many people Drummond surrounded himself with, he would always be unable to smell or taste or touch. Well, he could touch, but the sensation only brought excruciating pain.
So why does he stay? That bothered Max. Drummond could have moved on to the real afterlife — one that presumably offered more than the cold existence of a ghost — yet he stayed. Max had never bought into Drummond’s line that the afterlife was boring and that he preferred to work cases. There had to be more. Thinking on the way Drummond looked at PB, Max wondered if perhaps the answer was simple loneliness. Except, surely in the afterlife, Drummond would connect with those he knew and loved. Maybe even Patricia Welling, the witch that claimed his heart.
Perhaps the answer was even simpler — fear. Maybe that’s what kept most ghosts hanging around. Some of them, of course, had unfinished business to fix, and some had no idea they were even dead. But for the majority, Max thought that they might all be afraid to move on.
As lonely and cold as being a ghost had felt, at least Max knew he had Sandra watching out for him. She brought a sense of warmth into his heart. Maybe Drummond stuck around because working cases with them felt better than leaping into the unknown.
Sitting on the rooftop as the sun descended, Max watched over PB. The boy never stirred. Most of the time, Max checked for the rise and fall of PB’s chest.
“Still breathing?” Sandra said in a soft voice.
Max grinned. “Yup. Still breathing.”
Nestling under his arm, she hugged his waist. “How about you? Still breathing?”
“They haven’t gotten me yet.”
Sandra chuckled. “Not for lack of trying.”
Max squeezed her shoulder. After a short silence, he said, “I’ve been trying to make sense of all this.”
“Any luck?”
“No.”
Her body warmed his side. “It’s frustrating. On one hand, we have this cold war turned hot between the Hulls and the Magi Group.”
“And that’s why Mother Hope caused our accident — to curse you so you’d have to help her.”
“Right. Except we also have Cecily Hull in the mix. She’s trying to take advantage of this chaos, but she doesn’t really know how. So, she tries to make us help her. That much makes sense. It all rather sucks for us, but it makes sense.”
“But if she wanted to enlist our help, why with this Libby Holman stuff? It seems unconnected.”
“That’s the part that bothers me. Cecily Hull does not strike me as an idiot. She could have brought any number of things for us to research that would have helped her out. Heck, all the work I’ve done checking out the Hull family makes me an expert on them. I probably know Tucker’s history far better than Cecily does. That’s got to be worth more than the Z. Smith Reynolds murder. But th
at’s what she brings to us.”
Sandra lifted her head slightly. “You know what really gets me? If Madame Vansandt told us the truth — which, admittedly, could be a big If — but if she did, then which Hull took her eye? And why?”
“That bugs me, too. I mean that’s a huge deal — cutting out a person’s eye. In a regular case, something like that should click into place right away. I should be saying, ‘Oh, of course. They took the eye so that X and Y could happen and that connects to Z and A.’ But nothing clicks like that.”
“None of this case clicks together.”
“Somebody thinks it does. Why else would that pale guy keep being sent after us?”
“Maybe he’s not. He was at first, but maybe now we just happen to get in the way.”
Max shot up straight, his eyes wide and staring into the dark. “I think you’re right. If the Pale Man didn’t come here to kill us, then he was sent with his team for something else. While spying on us, Leon found out about it, called Mother Hope, and she told him to fight back. That means two important things: One, the Pale Man definitely works for Tucker Hull. And two, Madame Vansandt has something that everybody wants.”
“And she ran.”
Max jumped to his feet. He checked over the ledge — only two police cars remained. “I’ve got an idea. Here’s what we need to do. The police should be gone soon. When they leave, you and Maria have to take PB out of here. Go out the back exit. Nobody will see you. Probably nobody left in the building for tonight. The police sent everyone to a hotel so they could investigate. So, you take PB and get him looked at by a doctor. But no hospitals. Any gunshot wounds showing up will get reported and the police will follow up.”
“We’ll take care of it. What about you?”
“I’m waiting until Drummond gets back. Then he and I are visiting Madame Vansandt’s apartment again. We’re going to find whatever caused this shootout.”
