Modern Magic
Page 184
“I’m sure.”
“Of course, you’ll no longer have access to this office.”
“I only ask for a few days to pack up.”
“That should be acceptable. And naturally, our files will remain with us, as will the journal you acquired this past evening.”
“Journal?”
“You don’t really believe I’ll let you keep it, do you?”
Max considered his options and saw fairly fast that, unless he planned to attack Modesto, he had none at the moment. Attacking Modesto did not strike Max as a wise move—satisfying but not wise. Modesto stepped over to the desk, lifted the journal, and placed it in his briefcase, his movements always graceful, always controlled. Then he left, saying over his shoulder, “Good day, Mr. Porter.”
“Why the hell did you do that?” Drummond said once Modesto had exited.
“What could I do? He knew we had the journal.”
“Not the journal, you idiot. Why’d you quit working for Hull? Now you’ve lost this office. And that means I’m stuck here—still.”
“Don’t get mad at me. You didn’t seem to be doing much good either.”
“I’ve got a damn foot-long blade of fire cutting through my hand right now thanks to you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re the one who told me to attack Taylor. Do you know how painful it is to hit somebody in the corporal world?”
“Like a foot-long blade of fire cutting through your hand?”
“I swear if it didn’t mean more pain, I’d punch you in the jaw right now.”
Sandra helped Max back into his chair. “Back off,” she said. “Max has gone through a lot to help you out.”
“Some help.”
“He could’ve left you from day one. You’d be a bodiless spirit in the bookcase. He didn’t have to do any of it.”
“But he did do it, and now he’s got my hopes up and what’s going to happen? Nothing. I’m given the short stick again.”
“Sorry if I don’t cry, but my husband has risked his life for you. Hell, so have I. And by quitting this job, our lives may be in even more danger.”
“Exactly,” Drummond said as if everything out of Sandra’s mouth had supported his view. “Call Modesto and apologize for talking so rashly. Get your job back. Maybe Hull won’t try to silence you if he thinks he controls you.”
“Not likely,” Max said.
“Then why’d you do it? I don’t get it.”
“Because I’m angry,” Max said, pushing away at Sandra’s fawning. “All that we went through tonight and the moment that ass walked into this office, I knew he’d be taking the journal. It’s not fair. How are we supposed to do anything good in here when everything is stacked against us? It’s like they brought us down here just to play with us, and I’m tired of it. I just want to go home, get some sleep, leave this place, and move on.”
Drummond let out a defiant laugh. “You’re only saying that ’cause Modesto showed up. Before that, when you’d thought you’d won the day, you were all smiles. I saw it. You like this. I know. I’ve seen that look many times—half of them while looking in the mirror. Let me tell you something, though. You can’t win every day. Sometimes you’ve got to be humbled a little. The important thing is—”
“Will you shut up already,” Max said.
“Hey, I don’t deserve that from you.”
Sandra threw a towel through Drummond. “Just leave him alone, already.”
“I’m just saying that—”
To Sandra, Max said, “Please go home … and start packing.”
“Okay,” she said, her disappointment obvious.
Max buttoned on his shirt and stormed out of the office. “I’m going for a walk,” he said, ignoring the chill brought on by his shirt—still damp from the evening’s excursion.
At least an hour passed, Max did not keep track, when he found himself rambling down Fourth Street for the umpteenth time. When he had started his walk, he was fed-up and anxious to go. However, after he had calmed a bit, he remembered the way Sandra had fallen in love with the area when they first arrived. And now he liked it a lot, too. Winston-Salem was more than just Hull, and he had to admit that he would miss some of this place. If only he had enough strength to turn away that carrot from the beginning. Of course, then he would never have come here. He and Sandra would be wandering somewhere in the Mid-West or the Northeast, struggling to build a life.
“Some life,” he said—ghosts, witches, graveyards, curses, blackmail, and torture. Yet, the morning air smelled fresher than any he had experienced elsewhere. The people (except for those associated with Hull) were genuinely nice.
No, it’s none of that. I’m just tired of disappointing Sandra. This move to the South was meant to be their fresh start—his new job, his chance to make it all right. And it’s all just crap, now.
As the road inclined, Max noticed the sound of a car just behind him—not passing but following. He quickened his pace and tried to get a glimpse of the vehicle in the store window reflections. He saw a dented van with no specific markings. When he turned around the van slowed, inching forward with trepidation. The driver wore a mask. With a sudden motion, the van gunned forward, screeched to a stop in front of Max, and the side door slid open. Two masked men jumped out, grabbed Max, and pulled him inside.
Just got crappier, Max thought as the van drove off.
Chapter Twenty-Five
A rich aroma—cinnamon and burnt incense. The odor was strong enough to wake Max. With the back of his head throbbing in time with his pulse, he opened his eyes. Wolves, bears, and hyenas glared back at him. Wood-carvings. He knew them, too. They were on a rolltop desk—the one that belonged to Dr. Connor.
He sat in a wooden office chair—his wrists and legs tied to its frame. Every muscle in his body complained, and his eyes threatened to close for a long, relaxing sleep. A man crouched nearby and a woman stood a few feet further away. “Modesto?” Max said, a grim, dry taste in his mouth.
“I apologize for the rather rough way you were handled, but I did not think you would have come here otherwise,” Modesto said. He had removed his tailored jacket and his sleeves were rolled up like a harried newspaper editor from the 1940s. His disarray frightened Max more than anything else at that moment.
“I already gave you the journal.”
“And I thank you.”
Dr. Connor bent closer to him and said, “You were an easy one. We led you a little down the path and you went for the bait. I thought you’d have been tougher to wrangle, but—”
“That’s enough,” Modesto said. “I apologize for the doctor as well. She’s a little excited. We’ve been searching for this journal for quite some time. I had always suspected it was in the cemetery, but our employer has a lot of strong feelings when it comes to Moravian cemeteries. And then there was no way to find out which grave. Until we had you find it for us.”
“What made you think I could do it?”
“We simply hired you to help us out. We figured that your information would aid us in our search. I never really thought you’d be the one to locate the journal. You’ve never shown yourself to be all that bright. So, this was just a bonus.”
“This whole job was a setup to find that journal?” Max said. He was about to point out that it didn’t contain Drummond’s curse but held back. Instead, he added, “All this just to protect Hull? From what? A little embarrassment. The guy’s dead now, anyway.”
Modesto brought his face right in front of Max and studied him. Then he backed away and said, “I don’t think he knows much more. We should be fine.”
“Then …” Dr. Connor said like a girl awaiting her turn for a pony ride.
“Yes. You may do with him as you like. Just make sure there’s nothing left to find.”
With a relieved shudder, she said, “Thank you.” She handed Modesto his jacket. “If you need anything else, of course, I’m always here for you.”
“W
e appreciate that.”
“And I will take care of everything here. Don’t worry.”
“I never do,” Modesto said and walked away.
Dr. Connor turned towards Max. “Let’s see now. I still have a little of your blood and hair. What shall I do with it?” She took the seat Modesto had occupied and with a giddy laugh, she folded her hands in her lap. With exaggerated surprise, she said, “Oh, I know, I’ll make a little spell you might be familiar with. It’s called a binding spell.”
Max stayed silent. He guessed that pleading would gain him nothing, and the idea of spending what little time he had left negotiating with this awful person (let alone begging) did not sit well. Instead, while Dr. Connor mashed various plants in a wooden bowl, Max scanned the room for anything that might help.
She had a number of sharp implements—some obvious like knives, some less so like a hooked item that reminded Max of a dentist’s pick. The remnants of rope from what they had used to tie him had been piled on the floor. Three candles burned in an ornate holder sitting on the desk. However, nothing could be considered useful unless he got out of the chair.
“Can I ask you something?” Max said, trying to go with his gut like Drummond.
“You can ask. I don’t guarantee I’ll answer.”
“Your grandmother—why did she bind Drummond? I know what you said last time, but seeing as I won’t have time to get Drummond to talk with you, I’m just curious. Was it just a lover’s revenge?”
After placing another ingredient in the bowl and stirring it up, she said, “A little revenge, yes. I don’t think she was too mad at him, though. She was a wise woman and knew what sleeping with a man like Drummond meant.”
“Then it was something else?”
Dr. Connor sniffed the bowl and reeled back. “That’s about right. Maybe a little more of your blood just to be safe.” She walked behind him, and for a second Max thought she would slit his throat. She laughed at his tensed body. “Not yet. You don’t die until the end, when your soul gets bound to this chair. Then I suppose I’ll put the chair on the curb. Let whoever wants it, take it. Or perhaps the garbage men will take it away and you can haunt the dump forever. For now, I just need this.” With a hunting knife, she made a thin cut in Max’s bicep and let his blood drain into the wooden bowl. “That’s better.”
“So, why bind Drummond when killing him off would have worked better?”
“That was the backup plan.”
“Backup? Why would she need a backup plan? Unless, you mean, she didn’t know if it would work?”
“My grandmother was a fantastic witch. Just because Hull didn’t trust her doesn’t mean she would ever have failed. And the proof is haunting your office.”
“But if—”
With the back of her hand, Dr. Connor struck Max. “Be quiet now.”
Using the blood-soaked mixture from the bowl, she drew a circle around the chair. All the time, she chanted. Max could not understand the language she used. The pungent fumes encircling him and the non-stop chanting flamed the pressures mounting inside him. He hated it, but he could feel tears welling.
Before he could control himself, he blurted out, “Please, don’t do this. I don’t know anything important. This is just a big mistake. Please—”
With a sadistic grin, Connor gazed up at him. She never stopped chanting. She never stopped drawing her circle.
Drummond went through this, Max thought. He saw it as if it was a live performance before him—Hull’s witch performing this same spell, binding Drummond to his office; the incessant chanting; the desperation boiling inside. No wonder Drummond’s so pissed off all the time.
“Okay, then,” Dr. Connor said as she stepped back. Max thought he saw a little sadness, pity perhaps, creep into her eyes as she appreciated her work.
“Dr. Connor?” a voice called from behind.
Dr. Connor scowled as she stepped by Max. He heard a door open. “What is it?”
“Mr. Kenroy’s insurance company is on the phone.”
“Again?”
“They’re disputing last May’s charges and they wish to talk with you.”
“Tell them I’m busy and that—”
“I’m sorry, Doctor, but they’re insisting. They said this is the fifth time they’ve called, and they threatened if you didn’t talk with them—”
“Fine, fine. I’ll be right there. Oh, and tell Mrs. Johnson she’ll have to wait until tomorrow for those curses. My schedule got a surprise booking today.”
Max waited. He could feel her watching him, feel her pondering what to do, and finally, he heard her close and lock the door with a huff.
He struggled against his restraints with no success. The idea of hopping to the exit came and went—she would hear, and besides, it was a stupid thought. What would he do once he got there? Hop to freedom?
He fought to move his legs. His right foot had just a tiny bit of mobility. Looking down, he saw the tip of his foot moving right near the edge of the binding circle.
Perhaps …
Wiggling his foot back and forth, he inched the chair closer to the circle but still could not reach it. Muffled sounds of Dr. Connor arguing over the phone reached Max’s ears. He took a deep breath and pushed again with his foot. This time the tip of his shoe touched the powdery substance. Again, wiggling his toe, he made a small break in the circle then worked his way back to his original position.
It would have to do.
He did not know for sure if breaking the circle would have any effect on the spell, but he now knew magic and spells were real—so why not other things he had heard growing up? Wasn’t that the way magic circles worked? Break the circle and the spell failed. He hoped so, because even if he had come up with another idea, it was too late. He heard the phone slam down, and a moment later, the door opened.
As Dr. Connor walked by, she slapped Max in the back of the head. She knelt down in front of him and the circle, flustered but regaining her composure. Max used every ounce of will power not to look at the break in the circle. Each motion of her head jangled his nerves.
After several deep breaths, she began to chant again. She lit a stick of incense and held it above her head, then made small motions with it over the edge of the circle. “Good-bye,” she said, raising her eyes toward Max with a look both seductive and repulsive. Then she dropped the burning incense onto the powdered circle.
In the fraction of a second before the explosion, Max saw confusion, fear, and resigned understanding pass over Dr. Connor’s face. Then the blast hit. White light splashed from below and intense heat pushed upward. As Max flew backwards, still tied to the chair, he saw Dr. Connor grasping her face and screaming as the powerful waves shoved her flat.
The chair broke through the thin, office wall and pulled Max with it. When he hit the hard floor of the broom closet, the chair shattered, as did his right wrist. Despite the tumultuous noise of the explosion, he heard his bones breaking. Then a mop clattered on his head.
A few seconds passed before he could stand. Holding his right hand close to his chest, he checked the rest of his body for injuries. Just scratches. A hesitant knocking came from the office door.
“Dr. Connor?” the assistant asked. Her meek voice would have been comical if Max had not come close to losing his life only moments before. “Are you okay?”
Stepping through the wall (an effort of sheer will considering the pain in his legs), Max saw Dr. Connor sprawled on the floor, face down, smoke whirling through her hair. Fine with him. He stumbled toward the back exit (one he thought he had become too familiar with already) and walked into the parking lot. The morning sun blazed in the sky.
He headed toward the chain stores figuring public places would keep anybody from moving on him for a while. His wrist cried out for the emergency room. With his good hand, he checked his pocket—still had the cell phone.
Flipping it open, intending to call Sandra for help, he froze. One missed call, the phone displayed. He tried
to convince himself that the trepidation he felt worming through him was only a result of the stresses he had endured in the last two days. The phone call could be from anyone about anything. Yet as he pressed the button to play the voicemail, the feeling intensified.
“Um, Mr. Porter, this here is Sam. I’ve found the names of those hoods that attacked you. That is, their real names.” As Max listened to Sam speak the second name, everything changed.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Leaning against his car across the street from the South Side home he had come to know better than he had ever expected, Max finished wrapping his hand. Although he felt the pressure of time upon every moment, the pain in his hand forced him to stop at the nearest drugstore on his way to this house—that and the insistence of his wife. Now, as he looked upon the dusty Chevy in the driveway and smelled stale flowers in the air, he worried he had made a mistake. The fact that Annabelle Bowman was more involved in all this came as no surprise—Max’s alarm grew from not knowing where her loyalties fell.
“Keep the car running,” he said to Sandra. “I’m not very welcome here.”
“I’ll add it to the list.”
“Cute, honey.”
“Just be careful.”
Max approached the house, forcing confidence into his unsure demeanor. As he reached the porch, Annabelle opened the front door. She pointed a crooked finger at him, her red face scrunched in anger.
“I told you not to come back. Now get the hell away,” she said, spit flying from her small mouth.
“I’m sorry. I don’t want to upset you—”
“Then go.”
“—but we have to talk.”
“I’m going to call the police.”
“Just a few minutes and I’ll go.”
“You go,” she said and turned away. “I’ll get Stan’s shotgun.”
“I know about Stephen.”
When Annabelle turned back, her face had fallen and her color drained. Part shock, but Max saw fear, too.
“I just need a few answers. Then I’ll go. Please.”