by Stuart Jaffe
When he reached the top, he found a lone figure standing on the stage — Blondie. The man wore a stylish suit like a true player of the nightclub scene, but his expression was one of impatience and malice. The hot attic air smelled of old wood like an ancient casket which gave Blondie a decidedly murderous aura.
"You sure took long enough," Blondie said. "Frankly, I don't understand why any of these people are worried about you. You can't seem to get any of this right. Although you sure screw things up a lot. No doubt about that."
"For you, I try my best," Max said, pleased that his voice wasn't shaking like his insides.
"Dr. Connor warned me about you. She said you had a smart mouth and a keen talent to get in the way. I figured she was just a little skittish because of your history with her. But it turns out she was right. I've got to know, though, before I kill you — why are you doing this? I mean, what do you gain by messing up things for Dr. Connor and Mr. Modesto? I don't get it."
Max thought about running, the words before I kill you often had that effect on him, but instead, he approached the edge of the stage, hoping to keep Blondie talking. He moved on instinct, something he continually tried to listen to more and more. And if his instincts weren't screaming for him to run, his brain must have heard something more important. And then it hit him. "Messing up things for Dr. Conner and Mr. Modesto? How?"
"I don't like it when people play coy or dumb, so stop it."
Max squinted in real confusion. "I don't understand. I saw them today. They've got the painting, you know that, they said they were going to beat me to the paintbrush. So, what exactly am I messing up, now?"
Blondie paced on the stage. "You really think this is just about getting some stupid brush? My, my, you are dumb. This, my stupid friend, this is about regaining their lives. Look at what you did to them. You ruined Dr. Connor's reputation and Hull pretty much cut her off from his family."
"Can't say I'm sorry. I don't really care about her. She tried to kill me once and she kidnapped my wife just recently. Seems to me, you were a part of that, too."
"Mr. Modesto didn't try to kill you. In fact, if anything, he's tried to help you navigate all these treacherous waters."
"I don't see it that way."
"Of course not. It's all about you, isn't it? What do you think happened to Mr. Modesto after you got hold of Hull's journal and held copies of it hostage?"
"That's my life insurance."
"I don't care what you call it. It pretty much ruined Mr. Modesto's standing, too. He's lucky they didn't kill him."
Max thought back to the strange dinner on Lake Norman, the one where Blondie pretended to be Terrance Hull. Mr. Modesto had handed Max the invitation. He knew Hull's schedule. He knew when the Lake Norman house would be clear. And that's why there were no servants, no chef, nobody around. That's why they tried to hire him to find the painting. Dr. Connor, Mr. Modesto, even Mr. Gold — they all were trying to get back into the embrace of the Hull family. And that thought brought with it another for the ride.
"Oh, I see," Max said, staring directly into Blondie's eyes. "It's not me that keeps screwing things up, it's you."
"Shut up."
"You failed to impersonate Hull well enough to get me to work for you. You failed to find the painting on your own and had to resort to kidnapping. And now, after all this, you've even failed to find the paintbrush. You just keep failing, don't you?"
Blondie's fingers curled into fists. Max's eyes darted around the room. He didn't see anybody else. Blondie said, "I suppose you found the paintbrush, then. Isn't that what you do? Find stuff nobody else can find?"
"You're pathetic. Not only did you fail at everything, but now you're standing here waiting for me to show up with the paintbrush so you can swipe it from me. No wonder Hull doesn't want to work with any of you. You can't do anything for yourselves."
"You watch that mouth of yours. It's going to get you in trouble."
"Wouldn't be the first time." Max looked over Blondie's waist — no sign of a gun. That was odd. Every time before Blondie had a gun.
Following his eyes, Blondie said, "Not in here. Gunfire would get too much attention, and this place is full of so many little nooks, I might not be able to collect all my bullets should I miss my target. Don't want to leave anything behind for the cops."
"You didn't care about that out at the rest stop."
"Different location, different circumstances."
"Guess we can just add that to your list of failures."
Max had hoped to goad Blondie into making a mistake or revealing something important. He missed just how angry Blondie had become and was taken by surprise when the attack came.
"Bastard!" Blondie said and leaped off the stage. With his arms spread like a professional wrestler hulking in, he slammed onto Max, crashing them both to the floor. The big room echoed their grunts. Momentum took over, sliding them back and spinning them to the side.
Max felt his body roll and helped it along. He popped up on top of Blondie and punched the man's jaw. Blondie's head snapped back. But before Max could pull his fist back for another, Blondie struck hard into Max's sides, thudding against his kidneys.
As Max toppled over, Blondie got to his feet and kicked hard. Max rolled onto his back, every attempt to breathe bringing with it fiery pain below his ribcage. Moving with patience and power, Blondie straddled Max and gripped his throat with both hands.
"Where's the paintbrush?" Blondie said, barely moving his mouth.
"I don't have it," Max said, his voice betraying his fear.
Blondie tightened his grip. "Where is it?" he screamed, his face red, spit flying from his lips.
He's lost his mind, Max thought. He knew that kind of rage, and he knew that Blondie no longer was thinking about the paintbrush or Dr. Connor or Hull. He just wanted to release all his anger and Max was the object in his hands.
"Where is it?" Blondie screamed again and thumped Max's head against the floor.
Max tried to kidney punch Blondie, but he couldn't find the strength. His lungs strained for air. Little pale spots blinked into Max's vision.
He barely saw Blondie, now. His throat ached but even that pain started to lift. He had never asked Drummond what actual death was like, and now he wouldn't have to.
A flicker of a thought hit him. Death. He was dying. Those pale spots weren't from lack of air. He was dying — he could see the blurs, the ghosts! They drifted high above as if he were in the bottom of a giant fishbowl and they were the fish.
As Blondie cried out and clenched his throat, Max's eyes shot to the left. A little girl sat on the edge of the stage and watched. She wore a dress straight from the 19th century, and her cold, pale skin seemed to glow against the dress. The blurs hovered around her as she swung her feet. She cocked her head in interest.
Max reached out for her, pleading with his hands, his fingers, his eyes, everything he could — Please, help me. Tears dribbled from his eyes. Please. Even his lips trembled in an attempt to speak. Help me.
The little girl scooted back on the stage, her face startled. She clearly had not expected to be seen by the living. She stood and stared even longer at Max's face.
Watching this dead girl try to decide what to do seemed to last an eternity. He could hear a dim echo of Blondie's voice demanding to know the location of the paintbrush, but it was slow and distant. All he had rested on this ghost, and his mind could not think long on anything else.
As if seeing the full picture for the first time, the girl stepped closer. "Do you not want to die?" she asked.
Max wanted to snap a sarcastic, "What the hell do you think?" but it occurred to him that perhaps not all dead people thought in the same way as Drummond or as the living. Besides, it seemed best to just answer the question. He managed a tiny nod.
"Okay," the girl said.
She glanced upward at the blurs and spoke, but Max could not make out her words. The blurs understood, though. They all stopped their lazy drif
ting and stretched a bit in the girl's direction.
When the girl looked back at Max, the blurs swooped down, darting straight for Blondie. The first to arrive soared right through him. Blondie jerked to the side as if somebody had dropped an ice cube down his shirt.
Another blur passed through the other side, and Blondie jerked again. He looked around, confused. Then Max saw the change on the man's face — confusion turned to fear. The blurs sensed the change like sharks sensing blood. They shot in on Blondie's head, pushing together and pressing against him.
Blondie fell back, grasping at his face, trying to claw off the unseen threat. But Max could see it. The blurs covered Blondie's head like a plastic bag, and as he suffocated, Max was able to breathe again.
Blondie thrashed on the floor, kicking over chairs, and moaning out a desperate attempt for help. Even if he had wanted to, Max could only muster the strength to breathe. Blondie had seen to that.
And with each breath, the blurs and the girl faded from Max's sight. He was returning to the living. His hammering heart slowed even as Blondie's stopped. By the time Max had enough air to stand, Blondie's blue face stared empty-eyed at the stage.
"Thank you," Max said, his throat scratching the words out. He looked to where the little girl had been and smiled. "I can't see you anymore, but if you're here, please, follow me."
Max crossed to the back of the stage where a narrow staircase led to the dressing rooms below. Leaning against the wall as he stumbled down the stairs, he offered a silent wish of thanks to Jules Korner for building such a strange house — he would have fallen down a normal staircase. When he finally reached the main floor, his skin had stopped tingling.
Outside, Sandra took one look at him and rushed from the car. "Are you okay? What happened?" she said as she scooped him up in her arms and kissed him.
"Throat hurts," he managed and then pointed behind him.
He could see by Sandra's reaction that the little girl had followed him out. He waved Sandra on, nodding that he'd be okay, and let her go talk to the girl. The worried gaze she cast his way filled him with warmth.
Max settled in the front passenger's seat and waited. He tried not to think about anything but the paintbrush and the fact that his wife was about to find out its location. He was fooling himself, though. His mind played out those final moments when he saw the blurs, when he had almost died.
A well of tears rushed up. He tried to hold them back, but doing so constricted his throat, sending sharp pains into his chest. So, he buried his face in the crook of his arm and cried. There wasn't any closer to death he could have gone.
When Sandra returned to the car, she had a triumphant look that fell the second she saw her husband. He wiped at his eyes, but he couldn't hide anything. She came to him and wrapped her arms around his body.
"You're okay," she said. "You're alive."
He let out a shaking breath. "Forgive me. All my stupidness."
"Nothing to forgive."
He smiled and kissed her. "Good thing I married you."
Tears flowed again, only this time they belonged to Sandra. Max brought her in close, held her against his chest, and let her sweet scent fill his lungs. Though his body still shook with adrenaline, he knew he'd be okay. As long as she stayed with him.
"I've got it," Drummond said, appearing just a few feet away. "I found Korner. I know now."
Sandra lifted her head with a cocky grin. "I already know. A little dead girl told me."
"Well, I don't know. What are we talking about?" Max said a bit too hard and winced.
Drummond came in close as Sandra took in the air to speak. Together they said, "I know where the paintbrush is."
Chapter 21
The old Honda shivered as Sandra pressed the gas pedal further down. Max cringed at the sound of the straining engine, but he didn't say a word. If anything, he wanted Sandra to push the car faster.
Drummond leaned forward from the backseat, his excitement flowing out of him like a faucet opened full. "Jules Korner is one of the nicest ghosts I've ever met. The moment he heard I was looking for him, he started working to find me. Not an easy thing to do when you consider how enormous the Other is and just how many ghosts there are to get through."
Sandra passed an elderly couple in a car that looked a decade older than the Honda. "Well my little girl, Rebecca, she was every bit as nice and helpful. She felt awful about what she saw that bastard do to you, hon."
"Blondie? I'd be dead if she hadn't helped." Max rubbed his throat.
"Don't talk. It'll just make it worse," Sandra said.
Drummond pointed out a speed trap, and Sandra braked until she got to a respectable speed. "I'm glad that little girl helped you, but I got my information from the source. Korner told me that he had had several encounters with Corkille and few of them were pleasant. They weren't the buddies that Corkille suggested. In fact, Korner's pretty sure that Corkille forged a few Durham bulls on a few barns taking money out of Korner's pocket and possibly hurting his reputation."
Sandra scrunched her brow. "So, Corkille never taught Korner?"
"Korner wouldn't admit to it, but he had a funny look about the subject. Besides, he gave Corkille the paintbrush as a gift. In my experience, enemies don't usually give gifts. Best I can figure out, they did some work together long ago and then had a falling out."
Sandra scoffed. "That's putting it mildly."
"Oh?"
"Rebecca died decades before Korner broke ground on that land. Murdered. She's been haunting that area ever since. She told me that Corkille had become a leach to Korner, and that one evening the Korner's threw a large party in their home. At the party, Corkille told the story of Blackbeard and suggested they call upon the pirate's spirit for fun. Séances and such were quite popular at the time. Korner wasn't happy at all but he didn't want to embarrass his guests with his disapproval, so he went along."
"Corkille tricked him," Max rasped.
"Yes, and stop talking. Corkille was trying to find the paintbrush even back then. So he used a summoning-possession spell, bringing forth a spirit and letting it possess Korner, who then painted the result. They called for Blackbeard, but they only got some poor fool who knew the rumors."
Drummond slapped the back of Max's headrest. "Let me guess — he painted Mourning in Red."
"Right. Well, he painted the original piece with the shadowed figure. He painted the woman on top of it later. Anyway, the party ended and Corkille left, but Rebecca told me that things forever changed at Korner's Folly. Some residual piece of that magic stayed with Jules — perhaps the possession had not been a poor fool but actually Blackbeard pretending to be a poor fool. Whatever it was, it drove Jules to find that paintbrush. When he succeeded, he recognized what had become of him and he feared for his soul."
"He also hated Corkille for bringing the spirits into his life."
"Exactly. So, he painted over the original and gave it to Corkille along with all the things associated with the painting — all the paints, the easel, and the brushes."
"Including the paintbrush, right?"
"Right. I think he hoped to break free from whatever magic surrounded him, but also, I think he secretly wanted to put it onto Corkille as well. Either way, Rebecca said he had Corkille arrive at the Folly one day, handed him the painting and the materials, and explained that this ended their relationship. Howard Corkille was no longer welcome."
"And over the years, the painting got lost," Max said. "Corkille never realized he had the brush the whole time."
"Until now," Drummond said. "Korner told me that he had spoken with a witch who summoned him shortly before he learned that I was looking for him."
"Let me guess."
Sandra hit Max's arm lightly. "Stop talking or I'm going to drop you off at home first."
Drummond said, "Dr. Connor knows the whole story, so you can bet Modesto knows too. My guess is that they sent Blondie to the Folly to wait for you, to stall you, while they went t
o Corkille to get the paintbrush. If Corkille didn't figure it out on his own, he'll know the second they arrive."
"He knows," Sandra said, getting off the highway. "In fact, he's known from the moment we brought that painting back. He looked at it, figured the whole thing out, and then sent us off to Korner's Folly. But he made sure Melinda stayed behind. He was pretty firm about it. Why? Because he needs her help to find the paintbrush and perform the spell. He definitely knows."
"Sweets, you've got great intuition and reasoning skills. Someday, when you die, think about holding on and becoming a ghost. We could have a great time."
Though Max couldn't speak well, he could still scowl. Sandra caught his reaction from the corner of her eye and let out a snicker. "Sorry, Marshall. I'm all for Max." Max's scowl turned upward into a gloat.
As Sandra neared the Corkille house, all the talk ceased. Max wasn't sure exactly what they would find, but he knew enough to be concerned, and clearly so did the rest of his team. His team. He liked the sound of that. More than just a nice sounding concept, he knew it to be true.
Each one of the three of them provided indispensable skills they needed. Take out any one of them, and there would be no way to make this business work. Inwardly, Max marveled at the absurd idea that up until this point he had been trying to find a way to get his wife out of the office.
It had been fear. He knew that now. At first, fear of the financial pressures. Then, Melinda and Howard kept them spinning so much, he feared failing the case and losing any possible momentum that would have on their business.
Thinking of the Corkilles did nothing good for Max. He could feel the fires building in his gut. He knew that sensation all too well lately. But everybody in this case, the Corkilles, Jasper Sullivan, Connor and Modesto, every single one of them lied and manipulated Max and his team over this paintbrush. A damn paintbrush!
