by Stuart Jaffe
"Max?" Sandra said, the false calm in her voice easy to catch. "Are you okay?" She must've noticed his rising anger. If anybody could pick up on that, it would be her.
"Let's just get there," he said, and not another word passed in the car. Even Drummond had the sense to stay quiet.
* * * *
Max had the car door open before Sandra had even stopped. He stomped up to the front door and kicked it in. A bit over-the-top, he'd admit, but it just felt good.
"Max!" Sandra said, and though he heard her calling, his brain shoved any response aside.
He stormed into the foyer. The house was dark, but with so many windows, a full moon, and the Honda's headlights, Max had no trouble finding his way. He cut into the living room (or maybe they called it the receiving room, who knew with folks like this), tore away the plant hiding the studio door, and pushed in.
"Howard?" he called out. No answer came. He flicked on the lights to find the studio unoccupied.
As Drummond slipped in through the wall, Max whirled around to leave. Sandra blocked the doorway. "Look, honey, I can see you're upset, but we need to approach this sensibly."
Drummond said, "Listen to your wife. I've seen too many cops and PIs end up in the hospital because of going into a situation hot-headed. Just calm down and —"
"Out of my way," Max said and barreled past Sandra.
As he worked toward the kitchen, he opened every door he went by. Closets and entrances to a study or a bathroom or a dining room. Stairs to the basement.
Max stared down that dark chasm for a moment. "Howard? Melinda? You down there?" His voice echoed back. He stood still and listened, raising his hand to stop Sandra and Drummond from making noise.
Drummond cleared his throat, and before Max could scold him, he said, "I'm a ghost. I'll just go down and check it out. Be right back." He slid through the floor and was gone no more than ten seconds. "Nope. Empty down there."
Slamming the basement door, Max stomped to the upstairs. He took one look down the long hall and it hit him. The maids didn't go into the one room, the room that Howard Corkille had been living in for more decades than was natural, the Other Room.
Picking up his pace, the grin of a hunter on his face, Max headed straight for the end of the hall. The dark, wooden door had been left ajar. Max burst through, hoping to catch them or surprise whomever might be left, only to find another empty room. Nothing but a bed and that chair facing out the window.
"Damn," he said as Sandra and Drummond came in behind him. "They have to be here. Corkille's too old, too frail, to be moved around. He could barely make it down to his studio."
"We've been gone all day," Sandra said. "Maybe they just took their time moving. Maybe they're far from here."
"No. If they aren't here, then Connor and Modesto got to them. We're too late." Max dropped onto the edge of the bed and rubbed his face. "They've got to be here. I can feel it."
Sandra looked to Drummond. "Go check the rest of the house. See what you can find."
"I'll try," Drummond said with a defeated tone. "Don't expect much, though, and don't think it'll be quick. This place is like Korner's Folly with all its little rooms."
Max lifted his head, more alert suddenly. Something was different. He looked around the room, trying to recall the day he found Howard Corkille. Sandra, bless her, stayed quiet and watched carefully while Drummond left to search the other rooms.
I came in and saw Corkille sitting there, Max thought. He wanted to speak, he thought best when he did so out loud, but his throat wouldn't allow it. Breathing hurt enough, let alone speaking. He didn't look forward to eating anytime soon.
He walked around the room, pointing to different objects until he saw the bedroom's back corner. That was it. A Japanese tri-fold screen had been set-up there before.
Max approached the corner with cautious steps. He pressed his ear against the wall. A muted sound drifted upward like a ghostly moan, both quiet and disturbing.
Stepping back, Max inspected the wall — dirty, brown wall paper above a chair rail and wood panels below. "There," he said despite the pain and pointed at one wood panel. With a gentle touch, he pressed and pulled on the panel trying to figure out how it opened.
Sandra had been watching him this whole time. Crouching next to him, she placed her hand on the panel and slid it to the side. It opened with ease.
She shrugged. "Lucky guess."
Max stuck his head into the wall and looked around. Nothing special. Just wood and wires, dust and dirt. But he could hear that moaning voice more clearly now.
He pulled his head out and thrust his arm in, feeling around. There's got to be some kind of — Click. His hand passed over a switch and on the adjacent wall making up the corner, a full-sized door opened.
Max and Sandra looked at each other. "Careful," Max whispered.
"You, too," she said.
Max took one step toward the door when Sandra grabbed his shoulders and kissed him. At first, they pressed hard against each other but then eased back enough to feel lip against lip. It wasn't a sensual kiss. It didn't arouse thoughts of the bedroom. Rather, the kiss filled Max with memories of all the wonderful moments in his life he owed to Sandra. The kiss pulled from him the deep-seated love that made up the core of his being. He could feel his heart bursting for his wife. And just when the thought hit him that should anything bad happen, this could be their last kiss, he understood that she had figured that much out already.
They let go, smiled, and headed through the door. A few feet in, the floor gave way to a narrow staircase. It went down the inside of the house, perhaps riding underneath the original stairwell, perhaps hidden between walls nobody noticed to be too thick. It was a forgery of architecture that traveled below the first floor into a second, separate basement.
As they neared the bottom, the fluttering glow of candlelight lit the way. That awful moaning continued. The closer they came, the more Max could hear that the sound actually came from two different sources. One was a woman's voice, chanting in a long, mournful tone. The other was of a person in pain.
When they reached the basement, both Max and Sandra jumped back in surprise. The room was a large square with a low ceiling. A chalk circle had been drawn on the concrete floor and around the ring were symbols like those found in Dr. Connor's books. Candles lined the cinderblock walls.
Howard Corkille sat in the center of the circle, wearing a white cloth as if he thought himself to be a monk or Gandhi. But one look at the far wall showed his lack of compassion. Dr. Connor and Mr. Modesto stood with their arms chained to the beams above their heads.
Max had just enough time to take this in. Melinda Corkille, dressed in a black cloak, stepped in front of him and raised her hand.
"Always causing trouble," she said and sprayed something in his face. As she waved the spray into Sandra's direction, Max felt the world slip away.
Chapter 22
Before Max could open his eyes, he felt pain. His throat stung as if he had a sunburn on the inside; his right hip throbbed as if he had fallen on a concrete sidewalk; his shoulders and arms burned as if two giants played tug-of-war with him as the rope. Everything hurt. He heard Sandra moan nearby and tried to open his eyes.
At first, no luck. Whatever Melinda had sprayed in their faces had left a sticky crust around his eyelids. He tried to wipe it away only to discover that his hands were handcuffed over his head. Thankfully, he wasn't hanging that way other than from being unconscious. Planting his feet on the ground relieved the stress on his shoulders, arms, and wrists though the pain remained.
While trying to stretch his eyebrows high, he managed to crack one eyelid open, then the other. Though he only saw through a crusty residue, he could make out the room and the situation. It wasn't good.
They were still in the secret chamber with the circle, the candles, and the Corkilles. Sandra, Max, Dr. Connor, and Mr. Modesto had been handcuffed to pipes on the ceiling. They were spread out to four points on t
he circle that, if connected, would form a huge X. Howard still occupied the center (where the X would intersect) and Melinda, dressed in a dark cloak and little else, walked the inner part of the circle while chanting softly to herself.
"Max?" Sandra said, groggy and sore.
Melinda halted her march, tilted her head toward Sandra, and licked her lips. "No, no, foolish girl. Max is of no use to you anymore." She walked the circle again. "None of you can help each other nor yourselves." She stopped at Dr. Connor who looked weak and defeated. "Not even you."
Mr. Modesto held on to a modicum of pride, standing firm and tall despite his chains and bruised face. "You are the foolish girl if you honestly believe that a man like Mr. Hull will let you —"
"Let me? Mr. Hull? You are so naïve it's a bit sad, really. Mr. Hull has had no power in this from the beginning. While you and your witch here spent all your time trying to weasel back into the Hull family's grace, do you really think Terrance Hull had no clue? Let me? No. He let you run around like fools. He used you as pawns so he could get to the magic that he sought. And the only reason that he bothered with you at all was so he could get Max to do the work."
"What?" Sandra said as if Melinda's words were smelling salts.
"Good, she's awake." With a triumphant strut, Melinda approached Sandra. "Time to face the hard truth. Your husband would never work for Hull. Hull knows that. So how else could he get Max to put his charming, diligent talents to use? Hull let word slip to his bumbling, idiot cronies that he sought a certain painting, that it was of great power and importance, and that he would reward his people well for finding it.
"Modesto and his witch are not subtle. Hull knows this. He counted on it. He figured that word would get to Max eventually — after all," she said, looking at Max over her shoulder, letting the curve of her breast show just beyond the cloak, "you're the only one around here who really deals with these kinds of investigations."
Max thought of Jasper Sullivan. Hull had put out the word like chum and simply waited for a shark like Sullivan to arrive. Max didn't doubt it to be true. People like Hull and Corkille, people who know about ghosts and magic, they know they are always surrounded by otherworldly things. For another person, the whole plan would be ridiculous, but for Hull — especially considering the vast, spider web of connections the Hull family had created in the area over the centuries — it wasn't hard to believe. Hull knew Corkille had enough enemies over two centuries that someone, alive or dead, would take interest and hire the only man working the magic angle — Max. And if no one had taken the bait, Hull surely had a back-up plan, probably more direct, probably something Max would have hated more.
Looking up at his hands cuffed to a pipe, Max thought, Hated more than this?
At the foot of each captive, Melinda had drawn a symbol in chalk. "You people — you're all just pawns. You think you're smart or brave or ahead of everyone else. You're nothing. This fight has always been between the Corkilles and the Hulls, and tonight the Corkilles will finally win. Howard will be released from his dread curse, Blackbeard's magic will be used up in the process, and without that, Hull won't be able to raise his abominable ancestors."
Dr. Connor cringed. "And all that power released — the curse, the voodoo — all of that magic — you won't let it just dissipate into the air, right?"
Melinda arched an eyebrow. "That would be wasteful, and we must strive to be green, mustn't we? No, I think it best if I absorb all of that power. I think this city needs to be rid of the Hulls. And when I have that power, well, a little revenge would taste good, too."
Dr. Connor's face returned to the maniacal drunk Max had encountered on a few days ago. "You're a moronic dolt," she said. "Terrance Hull will destroy you and barely lift his pinkie."
"If you believe that, then you don't understand the great power infused in the brush." Melinda patted the side of her cloak.
"But you don't know Terrance Hull. You think we're surprised that he used us? You think we feel betrayed or even offended? He's supposed to use us. I'm nothing more than a tool for this great man from a great family to use however he sees fit. You should be afraid, little girl. Ask Max. He knows just how hard it is to go against the Hulls."
Melinda whirled to Max, letting her cloak flow back over her shoulders, letting Max see her firm breasts, her flat stomach, her smooth hips. "I can't say I care much at all for what Max Porter thinks. He could've had me. Look at this body. You gave this up?"
Max locked eyes with Sandra. "I love my wife." Sandra's lips trembled a kiss in the air.
Melinda stepped between them. "Aw, isn't that sweet. But so stupid, too. You should've slept with me when I had offered. Then this would've been avoidable. See, Blackbeard's hair may be infused with that voodoo priestess's spell, but it needs a catalyst to get hold of all that power. That catalyst is the life essence. Perhaps Dr. Connor would explain what that is?"
Dr. Connor snarled. "Rot in Hell."
"She's a bit out of sorts," Melinda said, shrugging one shoulder. "Oh well, I've had to do it all myself this long, might as well keep going." She stepped closer to Max, the tips of her breasts brushing his chest. "The life essence is simply any bodily fluid that carries your life. Had you slept with me, I would already have your fluids and you wouldn't be here."
Max looked beyond toward Sandra. "Happy to disappoint."
Melinda's hand moved fast, slapping Max's cheek with surprising force. "Pay attention. Just because you turned away from what would have been the best lay of your life doesn't mean I don't win. You could have had a wonderful afternoon of pleasures your wife can't even begin to imagine. She probably hasn't even heard of half the techniques I know. Instead, you get this. Because there are other life essence fluids in the body. Blood, for example."
Her words died against the low ceiling, leaving the room in cold silence. She stepped back, offering Max one final view of her tone body before pulling the cloak back over. "Let's start proper," she said and faced Mr. Modesto. "No one is more proper than you. At least, no one pretends to be more proper, especially when serving out the most despicable orders."
Despite his bruised cheek and bleeding lip, Modesto raised his chin and managed to exude a small portion of dignity. "It is no wonder that Mr. Porter declined your advances. You're a hideous person."
In a flash, Melinda snatched a simple, wooden bowl and an elaborate dagger from a recess in the wall. She cracked Modesto across his proud chin with the blade's hilt. Max saw Modesto's eyes roll but he came back a moment later. Just in time to watch as Melinda sliced a line open on his chest.
She didn't bother opening his shirt. She let the sharp blade do all the work. Shirt and skin cut open with ease, and a patch of blood spread.
After setting the dagger down, she ripped the cut shirt off. The bowl came next. She placed it against Modesto's chest and pushed on the wound to release more blood. As it collected in the bowl, slowly dribbling like syrup, Melinda whispered foreign words. Max tried to hear her, but he couldn't make sense of it.
He looked everywhere, twisting his wrists around the handcuffs only to find the block wall behind him. Melinda lowered the bowl on the circle's edge, dipped her finger in the blood, and traced the chalk symbols she had drawn earlier. With his foot, Max rubbed an opening in the circle, and while he did disturb the chalk, he uncovered lines that had been painted on the floor. As Melinda rose with the bowl and dagger and headed toward Dr. Connor, Max tried to clear his mind, not to panic, and to find a way out.
"Your usefulness to the Hull family has long since run its course," Melinda said as Dr. Connor glared at her in defiance, "and I can guarantee that I'll have no use for you when the Corkille family takes over. But, if it gives you any comfort, you'll have one final use, and it'll be for this spell."
Snarling, Melinda jabbed the dagger into Dr. Connor's stomach and placed the bowl underneath to catch the blood. The witch grunted and sweat beaded on her forehead, but she managed not to scream.
"Stop thi
s," Modesto said, his voice weakening. "I'm sure we can make a deal."
"Is that right?" Melinda shook her head. "You have some great pull with the Hulls that I don't know about? Even if you did, why would the Hulls deal with me — the woman who will usurp them? Oh, look, I think Dr. Connor is trying to be brave."
To Max's utter shock, Dr. Connor maintained her firm glare on Melinda as if to say, You'll never beat me. Melinda jabbed the dagger into the witch once more. Dr. Connor barely reacted. She held her witch's gaze until her eyes lost focus and her head slumped forward.
Modesto let out a whimper while as before, Melinda whispered odd words and then knelt on the circle. She traced the chalk symbols with blood as she continued this strange rite. Max saw Modesto lose control. The once-dignified man kicked and screamed and cried. He tried to free himself but without success.
Each burst of energy lessened in strength from the previous one. It was a strange thing to watch. Max could actually see the moment that Modesto gave up. It held for just a second. One moment, Modesto railed against his bonds and spitted out his hatred for Melinda. Then, for a flashing instant, he froze. Max saw it in his eyes — the acceptance of fate. The next moment, Modesto let his body hang as he wept in silence.
Melinda ignored Modesto as if he were a child acting up for a parent's attention. When she had finished her blood tracings, she rose with the dagger and bowl in hand and turned toward Sandra.
"No," Max said, his body flushing with cold fear.
Melinda watched Max from the corner of her eye as she crossed the room. "It's too bad your sweetheart isn't more awake. I guess I drugged her a bit too much. It would've been fun to listen to her scream. And you, too."
Though tears streamed down his face, Max held his tongue. He looked around the room again, desperate to find anything useful. But he saw nothing that he could reach. Not with his hands cuffed to the pipe above him.
