by Stuart Jaffe
"Your father and I did fine with you, didn't we?"
"Yes, Mom."
"Times were harder then. So, enough excuses. You talk with that wife of yours and get some children. Why on Earth get married if you didn't want kids? It's beyond me."
"Okay, I'll do that," Max said as he stepped into Benson University Center. "I have to go now. I have to eat."
"Are you eating well?"
"I'm trying."
"It's important. Lucas Hoffmeyer died last week because he stopped eating well. Of course, he was ninety-two but still, you have to take care of your body. Do you know I used to bring Lucas meals and read to him and things like that?"
Max dumped his things at the nearest available table, resigned to the fact that he would not get to eat until the phone conversation ended, and that would only happen when his mother decided it would happen. "No, Mom, I don't think I knew that."
"Well, I did," she said, her pride boosting every word. "He would call me 'one of his gals' and he'd tell me stories of his youth. Remarkably warm, gracious man. I really enjoyed talking with him. Oh, and his grandfather, you wouldn't believe the stories about his grandfather. Why the man served during the Civil War! Can you imagine that?"
But Max had stopped listening. The Civil War. Something about it clicked, and he found no internal resistance to interrupting his mother. "Mom, I have to go. I'll try to call you later. Bye," he said and closed the cell phone before she could say another word. Without bothering for food, Max rushed back to the library, his excitement held in check only by the odd looks he received from passing students.
The Civil War. The Hull family may have covered their tracks with dummy corporations now but back during the Civil War? He doubted they would have been so thorough back then. They would have tried but deleting files is different from hunting down every scrap of paper with the name Hull written upon it.
In less than an hour, Max had sifted through the entire roster of Civil War participants from the Winston-Salem area. It had been a fascinating experience in itself, but more so because of what he discovered. The name Hull came up several times often accompanied by the phrase "of the prominent family" or "married into the notable family" or even in one case, "proud grandchild of the great family." In each instance, Max wrote down the name and any particulars provided. He then began researching land deals from the Civil War era. As dinnertime neared, his unappeased hunger rebelled against his enthusiastic curiosity, and he had to admit that he had come up empty. All those "prominent" Hulls, yet not a single one owned any property.
After shoving down a burger and offering an apologetic call to Sandra, Max shuffled into his office. His watch beeped the arrival of seven o'clock, and thankfully, his new assistant had followed orders. Max dropped into his chair and said, "So, how was your day?"
Drummond stepped out of the far wall, his shoulders raised and his face scrunched. Through clenched teeth, he said, "You must get rid of that bastard."
Max's body still ached, though not as bad as that morning. But the thought of dealing with a belligerent ghost caused many of his bruises to flare up. "I can't fire him and he won't budge."
"Do you know what he did all day while you were out? He opened that window and he smoked. He smoked! Oh, if that smell isn't the most intoxicating, I swear there's a Devil and it wants to torture me every chance it gets."
"I really am sorry. But I have no way."
"Yes, you do," Drummond said, sliding closer with a boyish twinkle. "I've been waiting for you to broach the subject, to even suggest it, but you've clearly got a lot of other things to worry about. Either that or you're a thoughtless bastard."
"I'm really tired. Whatever you want, can it —"
"I don't have to be stuck here."
"You don't?"
"Not at all," Drummond said, his eagerness beaming.
Max had so many little puzzle pieces refusing to fit together that playing a guessing game with Drummond held no appeal. "Just tell me," he said.
"I'm here because of a curse. You can change that. You can undo the curse and set me free. Then I can help you with the case, be right by your side the whole time."
"Oh, sure. That'd be great," Max said, picturing how impossible his research days would be with Drummond floating around the library making boisterous comments — I'm bored — I want to smoke — Look at these co-eds.
"Okay, okay, so I won't be by your side all day. The point is I can do more out there than I can stuck in here. Besides, if Hull wants me stuck here, shouldn't that say to you that I present more of a threat to them if I'm unstuck?"
Max yawned and said, "Hey, I've got no problem with the idea of setting you free. I do, however, have the problem of not having a clue how to do it, and while I know there's a book on that shelf about witchcraft, I find it highly unlikely that they would give me the curse-breaking spell so easily."
"You're right. That book won't help. In fact, you can't go to a book on witchcraft to help me. You have to go to a witch."
Max started shaking his head before Drummond finished speaking. "No, no, no. A witch? No. I am not going to ... no. I'm sorry but that is just ... no."
"Oh, come on," Drummond snapped. "I'm not asking you to give her your blood or something. Just find out what we need to do. That's it. Besides, she's a beautiful woman."
"What? Are you saying you know a witch? A real witch?"
Drummond gave a sly wink. "I knew her grandmother. Look, I promise it won't be any trouble. Just go to her house, explain who I am, tell her I need her help, and she'll help you out."
"She isn't the offspring of your illegitimate love-child or something?"
"Very funny. Now, come on, help me out."
"I wasn't joking."
Drummond stared at Max's pale face and pointed at him. "You're scared."
"I'm not scared."
"You are."
"I don't care about the witch. You want me to talk to her? Fine, I'll go talk to her. Okay?"
"No, you're scared. Maybe not of the witch, but of something. Me, maybe? You're worried that if you let me loose, I'll start haunting you."
"You already haunt me," Max said, trying to let the sarcasm ease his wounded nerves. "Really, though, I'm not scared. I've just got other things on my mind, that's all."
Drummond clapped his hands. "I see, now. You're scared that I'll just leave. Break the curse and your good pal, Marshall Drummond, the detective, will vanish forever."
"You highly overestimate yourself."
"I think you underestimate how dead-on I can be. Go see the witch, Max. And stop fretting. I'm not going away. Even if I didn't want revenge, I'd stick around. This is just too much fun."
Max tried to look away from Drummond, but the ghost kept floating before him. Drummond's eyes pleaded and smiled and harbored hope. Worse, Drummond was right. Max feared being alone in all of this. But what right do I have to keep this man imprisoned?
"Okay," he said.
Drummond put his arms out wide. "If I could, I'd hug you right now. Thank you. I promise I'll stick around. You've got my word as a detective and a ghost."
"Just tell me her name."
"Ashley Connor. You go see her tonight."
"Tonight?"
"Come now, my new partner, you're not going to make me stay stuck like this another whole day, are you?"
Like an old cop faced with yet another petty crime, Max donned his coat and said, "Fine, fine. Just give me the address."
Chapter 10
Sitting in his car, staring at the two-story office building amongst many clones in the office park, Max shuddered. Across the street, somber brown signs with white lettering pointed to the dwellings of lawyers and dentists. An auto insurance salesmen used the bottom floor of the tan building Max had parked in front of, and just a few blocks over was Hanes Mall and the endless rows of chain stores built up around the shopping Mecca. In this little, tan building, if Drummond had told the truth, Max would find a witch — not somebody playi
ng at being one with nature or hoping to pull off a few sparkly magic tricks, but an authentic witch. He shuddered again.
His mind kept dragging him back in time to the life of an eleven-year-old stuck in an apartment while the Michigan snows piled ever higher on the ground. School had been closed for two days and though Max's father risked his life to escape to work, his mother had been just as stuck as Max. At first, she attempted to entertain him, but he acted so moody that she left him alone most of the time. They would, however, sit together in front of the television for lunch — sipping soup and munching on grilled-cheese sandwiches. Max loved that tiny half-hour — the only minutes of the day his mother did not flit around the house cleaning, organizing, rearranging like a nervous animal convinced a predator lay in wait should anything be out of place.
The strangeness of the memory crept under his skin, jangling his nerves to a higher degree than his fear already had achieved. For now, that predator was a witch. A witch? How can this really be a witch? He never believed in such things. Until last week, I never believed in ghosts, either.
From his wallet, Max produced a picture of Sandra. He gave it a kiss and said, "I wish I could tell you all this, but even if you believed me, and I know you'd believe me, I don't want you getting caught up in it." He could hear her arguing back, saying that they were supposed to be a team, that the whole purpose of marriage was to form that team, and that he could never protect her from bad things by keeping her ignorant of them. "I know," he said to the picture as he placed it back in his wallet.
Max clapped his hands in a way that reminded him too much of Drummond, and he got out of the car. Everything looked cold — the empty parking spaces, the quiet night air, the pale parking lot lights. Even the simple, brown door carried a weight of threat.
Inside, he found a waiting room — one sofa, two chairs, boring coffee table with assorted magazines, jazz playing quietly from ceiling speakers, a few live plants dotting the corners, and framed photographs of deer and elk hung on the walls. A woman behind a counter like that in a doctor's office smiled at him and said, "Evening. How are ya?"
"I'm sorry. I think I'm at the wrong place."
"This is Dr. Ashley Connor's office," the woman said.
"Doctor?"
The woman kept her smile strong, but Max saw doubt entering her eyes. "Yes," she said, "Dr. Connor is an ophthalmologist."
"Oh, then I'm at the right place, I guess. Sorry for the confusion. I've got a lot of doctor appointments this week. Trying to catch up on the backlog," he said, hoping to sound convincing.
"Are you Mr. Porter?"
"Yes?"
"She's got you down for a nine o'clock appointment."
"She does?"
"Yes, dear. Nine o'clock."
"Isn't it a bit late?"
"Certain appointments are considered of the highest priority."
"I see," he said, knowing he would regret asking the next question. "Except I didn't make an appointment. I was wondering how —"
"Everybody does. Now, if you'll just fill out this paperwork, we'll get you back there as soon as possible. Thank you."
Max took the clipboard the woman offered and sat on the leather sofa feeling like he just stepped out of a boxing ring after being pummeled in the head for ten rounds. How could she have written in an appointment when he hadn't even decided to go ahead with this until he left the car? How did she even know his name? Confusion painted every motion he made, but he pushed on despite his desire to run. He hated to admit it, but the more he thought over the possibilities, the more he agreed with Drummond — he needed the detective's help.
Fifteen minutes later, the receptionist sent him back to Room #4 where he found the traditional mechanical chair — several metal arms poked out of the side, each ending in a different tool. A hefty, attractive woman swept into the room and said with a thick Southern accent, "Good evening, Mr. Porter. I'm Julie."
"Good evening."
"You're new here. Where you from?"
"Michigan."
"Oh, that's much too cold for me," she said, as she turned down the lights and covered one of his eyes. With pleasant, pointless conversation, Julie tested Max's vision and finished by putting dilating drops into his eyes. "Dr. Connor will be in here in just a few minutes once those drops have a chance to work."
"Do you always stay open this late?"
"Only when we have special appointments, but then that happens a lot. Dr. Connor is very much in demand. It's a pleasure meeting you," Julie said and whisked out the door.
Max waited. Time crawled.
This is a stupid idea, he thought. Just taking the smallest step back and examining his recent circumstances, Max would have to admit that everything appeared crazy and dangerous. If he told anybody he was at the eye doctor waiting to talk to a witch about freeing a ghost so he could protect himself and his wife from an obsessive real estate developer — heck, just stating it in his head made him want to be committed.
As the impulse to leave gained enough momentum to raise Max from his chair, the door opened and in walked Dr. Ashley Connor. She was younger than Max, looked to be straight out of school, and her features reminded Max why college had been such a wonderful experience. Often when confronted with a beautiful woman, Max would half-jokingly say to himself, "Remember, you're married." This time, however, he found his mind altering the mantra to "Remember, she's a witch."
"Hello, Mr. Porter," Dr. Connor said as the light scent of rosemary perfume drifted toward Max. She closed the door and turned on the lights. Max winced — his dilated eyes unable to see her well in the brightness. The blurry image took him by the hand and headed toward the backend of the room. "Do I understand correctly that you wish to see me not as a doctor, but in a different capacity?"
"That's right," Max said, shading his eyes with one free hand. "I want to discuss an old friend of your grandmother."
"Just wait, please. We'll get to it all."
Dr. Connor opened a door Max had not noticed earlier and escorted him through a brightly lit passage to a round room covered in items. Max squinted, trying to see what the things hanging on the walls and stacked on the floor might be, but everything was a blurry confusion. Dr. Connor placed him by a stool, asked him to sit, and settled on another stool just far enough away that he only saw the fuzzy outline of her shape.
"This is about Marshall Drummond," she said.
"How did you know that?" Max asked. "And how did you know I was going to be here today?"
Dr. Connor leaned forward and whispered, "Because I'm the real thing, Mr. Porter."
"Then I guess I don't need to bother telling you the problem, and you can just give me whatever I need to help Drummond get free."
Though Max could not make out the doctor's face, he had no doubt she wore a broad smirk. She said, "You don't really think this would be that easy, do you? I'm a witch, after all. I don't just give things away. You have to pay for them."
"Something tells me we're not talking about money."
"Now you're starting to think. I make plenty of money as an eye doctor, and it keeps the IRS off my back. But the witch business — there never seems to be an end to people calling for these talents."
"So, what exactly —"
With a swift stroke, Dr. Connor cut the back of Max's hand. Before he had time to do more than jump a little, she scraped something across the wound and settled back as if nothing had happened. "That will do for a start," she said.
"What did you do to me?"
"Nothing bad. Not yet. Just a little insurance. After all, your kind have a long history of poorly treating my kind. So I now have a small sample of your blood. If you ever attempt to hurt me, there's a lot I can do to you with just a few drops."
"Don't you dare threaten me," Max said as sweat trembled out of his body. He tried to keep a brave outward appearance, tried to think of cool Drummond on a case facing some thugs, and it helped a bit.
Dr. Connor walked behind Max and stroked hi
s hair. She then plucked out a few strands. "No threats. Just insurance."
"Fine. You've got your insurance. So, how do I get Drummond out of that office?"
"We're not there yet."
Max swallowed back his anger and unclenched his jaw. "I am not going to play games."
"It's all games. You can't even see five feet in front of you. You have no concept of who it is you're fighting against or what they're capable of. Because of your dear wife —"
"You stay away from her."
"— you're in a highly vulnerable position. You have high debt and the only money you're receiving is from a man you don't even know, let alone trust. It may just be my opinion, but I think you'd be best off to do whatever I say."
Though he hated hearing his weaknesses pointed out, he had to admit their validity. Even without the eye drops, he had been traipsing through his days blind and ignorant. He felt like the tail of a kite being whipped around in a heavy wind, unable to know what direction events would lead, just hanging on tight.
But it doesn't have to be this way. Drummond could help him get ahead for a change.
"Fine," he said. "What do we do next?"
"Next, you take off your clothes and make love to me."
"What?"
"Just kidding. Though I should tell you I don't care about marriage as an institution. If you ever feel like a little variety, I'd be interested."
Dr. Connor sat again, this time holding a book in her lap. "Let's see now," she said, and her tone told Max that this was going to go on for awhile longer. A loud buzz interrupted his thoughts and Dr. Connor scowled — at least, Max thought she scowled.
She walked to her wall and pushed a button. "What is it?"
"Mrs. Seaton is here."
"Thank you," she said, took a breath and sauntered back to her seat. "Okay, Mr. Porter, you might be having some luck tonight. Seems I'm a bit crunched for time. Everybody needs the help of a strong witch. Your friend, Drummond, has been put under a fairly simple binding curse. The markings used to keep him in one place have to be locked into a book or a scroll or something similar by copying the image on your floor into whatever item was chosen. To break the curse, you need to get ahold of the item, bring it to your office, and destroy it in the center of the floor marking. Understand?"
