by Stuart Jaffe
"I'm not going to help you," he said, while a voice deep inside questioned his timing for bravado.
"I wonder what your wife will say about it?"
"What?"
"She must be feeling a bit lonely outside, in that cold car, waiting for you to play your little detective game with me. She must be wishing something more exciting would happen."
Max strained against his invisible bonds. Though he knew she would never hear him, Max screamed Sandra's name, begged her to drive away — even as he pictured Dr. Connor's hired hands ripping open the car door and yanking her out. She would struggle. She would fight back with a kick or a punch, but they would overpower her.
The witch had his wife.
Dr. Connor sauntered to her rolltop desk and opened the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's. She tipped back her head and guzzled for a moment. With a satisfied exhalation, she returned to Max. "Now," she said, "you will help me get that painting, so that I may return to Terrance's favor. If you don't, I'm sure the Hulls will always have need for a good blood sacrifice."
With the coldest, most hateful scorn he ever held, Max nodded. He thought to threaten her should anything happen to Sandra, but he could see in her eyes that she knew. And though Drummond was not in the room, Max could hear his strong voice saying, "There's no way this is going to end up good."
Chapter 14
Max slammed open his office door, cracking the glass right across the gold-painted 319, and headed straight for the bookshelf. He grabbed the first book he could reach, opened it, found only pages, and tossed it aside. Another book. Another. And another.
Drummond entered from the ceiling and said, "Um, Max? You feeling okay?"
"What does it look like?" He tilted three books from the shelf and watched them fall to the floor.
"Take it easy. Those are my books."
"You got a gun here and I want it."
"I don't have a gun."
Max grabbed the well-used book that hid Drummond's whiskey bottle. "You got this. And I don't believe at all that you ever went around without a gun when you were alive. So, where is it?"
"Calm down."
"Get me the fucking gun!"
"I swear I don't have one."
Max scanned the room until his eyes rested on the floor. "Of course," he said, and stomped on the floorboards. "Which one is it? Tell me."
"I don't—"
"Damn it!" Max said, hammering his desk with his fist. "They've got Sandra. You understand that? That witch took her from me. So, you tell me where that gun is. I've got to get her back."
Despite the pain of corporeal contact, Drummond concentrated enough to push a chair closer to Max. "Tell me what happened."
Max stared at the chair, his hands itching to rip up the floor, but finally lowered his head with a sigh. He pulled the whiskey from the book and drank. Then he told everything as best as he could remember. Twice he had to stop for another swig. He hoped Drummond would cut him off and reveal the location of a gun, but the ghost only listened until the telling finished.
"This is bad," Drummond said.
"Now you know. Please, where's the gun?"
"What do you think you're going to do? Go blazing into Hull family headquarters and demand Sandra back or you'll start shooting?"
Sheepish, Max said, "Something like that."
"No." The timbre of Drummond's voice caught Max's attention — filled with sorrow and shock. Drummond closed in on Max, his body lacking the usual grace of a ghost and instead moving like he felt every year since his death attacking each muscle. He was worried. That worried Max more. "I've dealt with things like this before," Drummond said. "And we've both dealt with Hull. You know you can't just go running in there. You'll only get her killed and probably yourself, too."
"I can't just sit here."
"You need to get control of yourself so we can plan. Now, you said they want you to find the painting, right?"
"Yeah."
"Well, we have found it. Let's see if our seller wrote back to Sandra. If we're lucky, we can get that painting fast, and then we'll have something of value to them."
An e-mail awaited them on Sandra's computer (Max felt weird using her property as if he was already stepping toward the acknowledgement that she might no longer need such things) — the seller wanted to do the transaction by mail. Max wrote back that the painting was meant as a gift, so he needed it right away. The seller replied that for a few extra dollars, he'd use overnight shipping.
"We can't do that," Drummond said. Max agreed. It was too easy to see Hull somehow intercepting the package.
Drummond clapped his hands at a new idea. "Tell him that we'll pay an extra fifty percent if he'll meet us tomorrow."
"In case you forgot, we don't have any money."
"It's going on a credit card, isn't it?"
Max kicked the desk. Then he wrote the offer. The seller agreed to meet at the North Carolina Welcome Center off Route 77, but he wanted to meet right away.
"He thinks we're doing something illegal," Drummond said. "Could work to our advantage. Meet him at two a.m. It'll give you time to get ready but it's so early that he'll still feel secretive about it. That's good for us."
Max wrote back and the deal was set.
"Get some rest," Drummond said when Max turned off the computer. "You'll be on the road in a few hours. I'll come as far as I can, but I suspect the border is a bit longer than my leash will allow."
Max threw back a last shot of whiskey, barely feeling the burn in his throat, and propped his feet up on the desk. Just like an old detective, he thought, picturing Drummond back in the 1940s. It almost felt good. But with Sandra in such danger, good feelings, like sleep, would not come.
* * * *
The Welcome Center had always struck Max as more than a glorified rest stop. Situated on the slope of a mountain, Highway 77 barely audible from the distance thanks to copious trees, the place reminded Max of a lovely park. In fact, were it closer to home, he might have considered it a nice place for a picnic, though the terraced land had been designated mostly for parking. At the top of a series of stairways, the open building sat providing bathrooms to weary travelers.
Max stood by his car and watched as the few people on the road this late at night stretched and walked. The lot below rumbled with the sounds of numerous trucks — most set up for the driver to sleep for a few hours. A heavyset man paced at the top of the stairs leading to the bathrooms.
Max waited as two groups of travelers arrived, used the facilities and left. For the moment, the Welcome Center was empty except for Max and the heavyset man who still paced atop the stairs. With a final scan of the area — too dark to make out much at all — Max climbed the stairs.
"You Max?" the man asked.
Max nodded. "Where's the painting?"
"In my truck. Come on."
The man wore a yellow windbreaker that made an odd shushing sound as he walked. He checked out Max a few times, bashful when caught, and wiped his hands on his coat several times. Max glanced around as they walked.
Nothing in this man's behavior signaled a threat. If anything, the guy struck Max as somebody who came upon the painting and now hoped to make a quick buck selling it. The late-night exchange made the guy nervous but not enough to turn down the cash. And since no matter how many times he looked, Max didn't notice any danger, he felt better about the situation.
They approached a rusty Ford pickup, and the man said, "Y'know, we've had this painting for years. Just catching dust in the shed. I would never have found your ad 'til my brother phoned me up. You suppose it's worth something?"
"Not really," Max said. "It's not famous or anything. Just an old family painting that got sold off long ago by accident. In fact, we always thought we had it until my grandfather died and we learned that it was gone. That's why we put out the ad." Drummond would be amazed at how smoothly the story slipped off his tongue.
The man nodded with regret as if to say that things alway
s turned out this way for him. He pulled out a smartphone to run Max's credit card. "Well, I can't say I don't wish it were something worth millions but I'll take what I can get."
"Millions would be nice, wouldn't it?"
The man laughed, a big rosy-faced grin, and then his lips formed a small O. A little red trail leaked from his hairline. Only when the man's eyes rolled up did Max's brain register the sound of a gunshot. The man dropped to the ground dead, and Max dropped, too. His mind raced to catch up with events.
The gunshot had sounded far off. A sniper? And the bullet had struck the man somewhere on the side of the head — which meant Max had no real cover at the moment. As if to illustrate the point, a bullet shot through the side of the truck just above his head.
Max rolled underneath the truck and shimmied behind the dead man's body. Now he had cover — for the moment. He was impressed with himself for not panicking and for acting with some thought. Not too long ago, he probably would have ended up dead. Now, at least, he had a chance. Except waiting to be shot again while congratulating himself wasn't going to save his life. He cleared his mind and focused on the present.
He needed to get out of there, get to his car, get to safety. But he needed that painting, too. Without that, Sandra had no hope.
Max reached forward and patted the man's pants. Stop being a tentative prick and get the keys. He shoved his hand down the pockets nearest him. Neither one had a key. With a deep breath, he reached over the body and fumbled for the far pocket.
Another shot popped into the truck above. Max's hands shook but he worked for the pocket as best he could. Trying to keep some cover, his face buried into the lifeless man's stomach. The man smelled of aftershave and alcohol — not a bad scent but a combination Max hoped never to smell again.
He felt a wallet but no keys. Another gunshot popped in the distance, and the dead man took a bullet in the shoulder. Max jumped at the hit, smacking his head against the underside of the truck. He hurried back underneath, rubbing his head. That's when he heard the jingle of keys.
Without exposing himself to the sniper, Max placed his foot on the dead man and gave a soft push. Again, the jingle of keys. Not a pants pocket, then, but a jacket pocket.
He rolled closer to the body and reached into the near-side jacket pocket. With closed eyes and a silent prayer that he wouldn't have to go over the body to the other side pocket, his finger felt around. And he found it. A ring with five keys.
He snatched the keys free, rolled to the passenger side of the truck, and crouched beneath the door. One by one he tried the keys. The first two wouldn't go in. The next three went in but wouldn't turn the door. Before he let despair take over, though, he heard Drummond in the back of his head — "You're nervous. Try again."
The first key failed, but the second key actually slipped in and turned. Max opened the door. In the back of the cab, behind the passenger seat, he found a painting wrapped in brown paper. It wasn't large — all of two feet long and a foot-and-a-half wide. He pulled it from the cab and crouched back down.
His pulse hammered as he clutched the painting. He kept expecting a shot to hit him. But the sniper hadn't done anything for the last few moments. Why? "He's a sniper," Max told himself, his words coming out in shaky breaths. "He's going to reposition."
Max looked down at the brown-wrapped painting. An idea popped into his mind. Without debating himself, he dashed across the parking lot with his body in a low crouch like soldiers did in the movies — and he held the painting like a shield. Whoever hired this gunman to kill him wanted the painting. Anybody willing to kill for a painting wants it undamaged — no excuses. As long as Max didn't provide a clear target, as long as the sniper risked hitting the painting, he would be safe. At least, that's what he hoped for.
When he reached the stairs, the thought that he might survive sparked. He turned toward his car, putting the painting behind him, and scurried to the driver's side. Two shots snapped the asphalt at his feet. Max didn't stop. He couldn't — his body refused to do anything but keep running for the car.
He wrenched the door opened with a screech and jumped in. Tossing the painting to the side, he shoved his keys into the ignition. He kept his head low as he started the car and turned on the brights. The entire Welcome Center lot became washed in the strong car lights. Peeking over the dashboard, he searched for any movement, any sign of his attacker.
Though the restrooms were uphill and covered with trees, Max swore he glimpsed a thin, blond-haired man dashing off. He waited and watched. Nobody came out.
He slipped the car into drive, and with his body hunched over the wheel, he tore off onto the highway. A mile passed by before he would sit up straight. Another mile passed before he slowed down enough to stop the car from shaking.
Now only he was shaking.
Chapter 15
By the time he arrived at Melinda Corkille's home, Max's head had entered that late-night fuzziness. His dashboard clock read 2:57 am and he felt every second of sleep deprivation dancing along his skin. When he rang the doorbell and knocked on the wood, the sounds echoed in his ears.
Several minutes later, the porch light winked on and the door opened. Melinda poked her groggy face outside and squinted. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"I've got it," he said and pushed his way in. "Get Howard."
Melinda's mouth tightened into a firm line. "I am not waking up that man in the middle of the night for anything."
"You don't understand."
"Go home, Max. I'll call the police if I have to. And I don't care what Howard said before. He is not getting worked up into all this just to have you ditch him in the end. I've seen it before. Idiots come along intrigued by his story and they want to help him break the curse. Only thing that gets broken is him."
"But I've got the painting. Mourning in Red — I've got it."
Melinda stood dumbfounded. As her thoughts finally connected, she stammered a few syllables and finally managed, "I-I'll get Howard."
"Thank you," Max said with a sarcastic bow.
While she left the room, Max hurried back to his car to retrieve the painting. He paused at the door, his eyes searching the darkness, his heart pressing against his chest. Just because he got away doesn't mean the sniper gave up.
"I'm not giving up, either." He pictured Sandra, tried to will his good thoughts toward her, and then set about his work.
When he returned to the house, Melinda was escorting Howard to his art studio. Max hadn't noticed her when he had first arrived — he just wanted to get to Howard — but seeing Melinda in a silk robe and a revealing piece of flimsiness underneath caused his pulse to quicken in a different manner than before. But that was just testosterone doing its thing. He closed his eyes, pictured Sandra once more, and focused on what was important.
Melinda waved him in. Max could see the excitement on Howard's face. With care, he set the painting on one of Howard's easels and stepped back.
"It's still wrapped," Melinda said.
Max nodded. "I didn't want to take anything away from Howard." As much as he felt the clock ticking against him, Max did find the resolve to let Howard have his moment.
Howard lifted a shaking hand to the painting. His bony fingers found a small nick, and with surprising strength, he ripped off the brown-paper wrapping. Melinda helped remove the remaining strips.
All three stared at the sad painting. It portrayed a voluptuous, nude woman posed on a red couch with her left hand covering between her legs. Her right hand pressed against her brow creating a shadow over her closed eyes that only accentuated the deep sadness she clearly felt.
"Is this the right painting? I thought it was supposed to be a landscape."
Howard's unsteady finger traced the bumps of paint, getting stronger as he moved along the canvas. "This is the right one."
"You painted this?" Melinda asked.
Corkille's mouth twisted like a disapproving teacher. He reached for a bottle on his desk, soaked a ra
g with its contents, and wiped it on the painting. With only three broad strokes, the paint smeared off.
"Stop him!" Max said. Each wipe felt like a strike against Sandra.
Melinda put her hand on Howard's shoulder but he threw it off. "No," he said. "Watch close."
A few more strokes of the rag and they all saw what Howard wanted them to see — underneath the paint was another painting.
"I don't believe it," Max said. "What the hell is that?"
"That," Howard said, working off more paint with a gentle touch, "is what we all are after."
The second painting, the real painting, sent tremors along Max's nerves. It showed a dark figure, a huge man, standing in a doorway. Little wisps of smoke snaked from either side of his head. The doorway overlooked a room without any defined end. Strange symbols, the kind Dr. Connor used, floated around another nude figure — Max couldn't tell the sex because the figure was curled into a ball.
Melinda's face brightened. "Can this do it? Can this really help you break the curse?"
"Of course," Howard said.
Max put a hand on the edge of the painting. "Then break your curse now. I need to take this painting."
Melinda shot to her feet so fast she startled Howard. "Don't you dare."
"This isn't the way I want it, but I don't have a choice."
"Was this the point all along? Just use Howard like everybody always did?"
"They have my wife. Sandra. They have her, and the only leverage I've got is that painting."
"Well you'll have to find something else. This poor man here has suffered long enough. He needs this painting, and that's it."
"We're talking about the witch, Connor," Max said, his voice breaking.
In a grim tone, Howard said, "And that means the Hull family, too."
"I don't know. Probably. I haven't thought it out that far. All I know is Connor and her thugs have my wife. They'll kill her. Or worse."
Melinda sat back with Howard and rested her head on his shoulder, leaving Max standing alone and feeling a thousand miles away from that painting and even further from Sandra. Tears welled in his eyes. His lungs didn't want to breath in. Everything inside his body wanted to shut down.
