by Stuart Jaffe
From the handbell musicians association website he began a winding journey that ended with the a cluttered site called A Mostly Complete Handbell Buyer's Guide. Once there, he narrowed the search from a starting point of close to a million. Most handbells were not constructed in a baker's dozen, so that cut the list down into the thousands. Adding in the Winston-Salem, North Carolina area as a criteria brought up seven results. Four of those had been constructed in the last three decades — much too recent for it to be a cherished family heirloom when the Hulls reached back to the foundations of the city. Of the remaining three entries, only one set had been constructed in 1723 — a baker's dozen with white handles, red striped, ornate design on the outer rim, and another design on the inner rim. No mention of the letter H, but Max's gut knew this was his target.
While the listing did not bring him any closer to finding the lost bell, he now had a picture of one as well as confirmation that this wasn't a goose chase to keep him away from other matters. The bell was real, and the price tag of only one — $74,000. The complete set was worth far more than the sum of its parts. According to the buyer's guide, a price of two to three million dollars would be appropriate.
Two to three million dollars.
"I didn't need to know that," Max said, his nerves lighting up once again.
Hands covered his eyes, and Max yelped, jumping in his seat. Sandra's sweet voice giggled. "Sorry, hon. Didn't mean to scare you."
As Max hugged his wife, his heart continued to pound away. "Don't do that to me. Not with all that's going on."
"What is going on? Drummond's worrying me."
"Me, too. All of it is. Even this handbell thing. The timing of it is weird. But Drummond lying, or at least withholding the full truth, that's not like him."
"And this whole notebook thing — I didn't believe his story at first, but now he wants to go break in to that house. There's got to be something worth going in there for."
Max scanned the room to make sure nobody paid extra attention to them. In a low whisper, he said, "I think most of his story was true. I think he had met Dr. Ernest and worked with him well before Joshua Leed came into the picture."
"I agree. But then why not tell the full story? Why stop before getting into the witch coven? Worse, he lied about that. He purposely made it sound like that part of the story never existed."
"That's why I agreed to this break in. We've got to keep playing along with him until we know more of what's going on."
"I don't like it. These late-night things never turn out well for us."
"If you've got a better idea, please tell me."
Sandra stuck out her tongue.
"It's those mature responses that make me love you more." Max kissed her tongue.
"Be careful."
"Of course."
"No, you need to be more careful than usual. Drummond is lying to us and he's lying about something that surrounds a murder. That's stressful and confusing. It means he's got pressure building inside him. I may not be able to help much when it comes to witches and curses, but I know ghosts. Pressure like that — the kind that comes from having to face the secrets of your past — that's the kind of thing that can turn a ghost."
"Turn? That doesn't sound good."
"Not all ghosts are sweet and friendly."
"I'd hardly call Drummond sweet or friendly."
"Good ghosts, kind ghosts, can lose themselves, lose whatever made them decent. They turn. Become evil."
"Like what? Haunted houses, poltergeists?"
"Or worse. A ghost like Drummond, one who knows us well, could cause us both serious harm. He would be like an insane psychotic that still remembers the key details of our lives but has no empathy, no morals, nothing that would stop him from abusing that knowledge."
"I get the picture. What do we do to stop this?"
"I don't know for sure. I've never been in a position to try stopping a ghost from turning before. But I know that the worse this pressure builds upon him, the more likely he is to turn."
"Well, you're full of great news." Max rubbed his face. Now he had to worry about Drummond going crazy. And Agent Stevenson expected him soon. He needed to get going.
Sandra dismissed it all with a wave of her hand, but her eyes didn't believe. "I'm probably being paranoid. Don't worry about it unless Drummond starts showing cracks."
"Cracks?"
"Just an expression, hon. Not literal cracks. At least, I don't think real cracks would form." She trembled out a grin and kissed him.
"I know it's boring but please go back to the office and wait for Drummond. If I haven't returned when he gets there, call me. I've got some more research to do."
"Yes, sir," Sandra said with a mock salute.
Once she left, Max gathered his things together and waited at the entrance. He watched her as long as he could, then waited another three minutes after she left his view. The idea that he hid from his wife wriggled under his skin, but until he knew what the FBI wanted, he wouldn't dare give voice to his concerns. They had enough to contend with. No need to get Sandra fired up with more worry, too.
As he walked to his car, he saw no sign of her. He drove off campus onto Silas Creek Parkway, a stretch of road that made a long arc around the city, until he hit Peters Creek Parkway. A left turn towards downtown brought him straight to the BB&T Ballpark.
He had no trouble finding a parking space — mid-week, afternoon, minor league baseball games never packed the seats. The park had been constructed less than ten years ago and still bore the feel of newness about it. Not really good for a ballpark. The seats were too new, the paint too clean. The place lacked the sense of history which was part of a baseball game experience.
Except I'm not here for a ball game.
Max strolled around toward the left field seating entrance. Partially to stall and partially out of need, he stepped into the men's room. While standing before a urinal he heard the crack of bat and heard muffled cheering. He couldn't go. Though the restroom was empty, he felt a dark presence hanging over his shoulder as if the entire FBI had him under surveillance.
He rinsed his face with cold water, dried off, and made sure not to look at his reflection. Seeing the fear in his own eyes might have been enough to send him running.
"For crying out loud, Max," he said. "You've faced down the Hull family. This is nothing more than an FBI agent with a threat." Hearing it so simply stated raised his confidence. After all, even if he did end up in jail for a crime he never committed, jail could never be as bad as burning alive — and that had nearly happened to him once.
When he finally walked into the seating area, the bright sun warmed his face. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he turned around and searched for Stevenson. It wasn't hard to find him. The FBI agent made no attempt to blend in. Still wearing his G-man black suit and shades, he raised a game program in the air to signal Max over.
Stevenson picked up a plastic cup of beer sitting between his feet on the cement floor. "You had me thinking you wouldn't show."
"Didn't seem as I had much choice." Max watched the game. Winston-Salem versus Wilmington. Fifth inning. 4-2. Two outs, no men on base.
"Sorry about that. I don't like threatening people but I didn't think you'd come otherwise."
"Probably wouldn't have. You don't exactly come off as the real deal." Max sat in the hard wood seat with metal trim. He had never been a big baseball fan, but once in awhile, he did enjoy going to a game, eating a hot dog, and sitting in these seats. It was as much a part of the game as the game itself.
"I am an FBI agent. But I don't handle the traditional cases."
"Does that mean I'm not really going to be charged with murder?"
Stevenson sipped his beer. "That part's real, I'm afraid. There are people I work for who think you are very involved in this thing."
"You want to tell me what this thing is? Who did I supposedly murder?"
"How long have you known Dr. Matthew Ernest?"
&n
bsp; Max rolled his head back and looked heavenward. "You've got to be kidding."
"Oh, I don't think you murdered Dr. Ernest. At least, not directly. You didn't pull the trigger is what I'm saying. But the man led a strange life, and he had a way of making even his closest friends turn into vicious enemies."
"I've never even met the guy. Never heard of him until yesterday."
"Was that when you spoke with Joshua Leed at lunch, or was that when you met Leed at his home in Thomasville? How long have you known Mr. Leed?"
Max stared at Stevenson, not sure if he wanted to cry or scream. "I only just met him."
"Yesterday, right?"
"Yes. That's exactly right."
"Seems you just met a lot of people yesterday."
The player at bat cracked off a fly ball to center field for an easy catch, closing out the inning. Max wondered how many outs he played with. How many times would he deal with Hull and avoid losing? Maybe this was his final at bat. "Am I under arrest? Do I need a lawyer?"
Crossing his legs in an incongruously feminine manner, Stevenson said, "Relax. We're far from that sort of thing. Right now, I'm merely investigating Dr. Ernest. Well, and now his murder. Dr. Ernest was wanted for questioning in connection with a slew of murders stretching from here all the way up into Massachusetts, running over the course of the last five decades. Strange cases, too. Not a typical nutcase that wants to cut up pretty girls because Mommy kept him in a diaper too long. No, Dr. Ernest rode the whole magic bent. Killed girls in a ritualistic way. Gruesome stuff. But I don't have to tell you that, huh?"
Even without Drummond there to point it out, Max could hear the agent fishing for information. "I don't know anything about this."
"You ever read Frankenstein? I don't mean some bolts-in-the-neck version, but the real book. Mary Shelley."
"No."
"It's a good book. Very different from what you'd expect. Actually, all the classic horror stories are like that — Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Dracula — and even modern tales like Carrie. People see the movies and think they know the whole story, but they're wrong."
Although the sun burned hot on the open field, Max found the warmth pleasant. He only wished the conversation were equally pleasant. "What does this have to do with —"
"In Frankenstein, you've got the monster, of course, and Dr. Frankenstein and his assistant. Since you haven't read the book, did you ever at least hear about the assistant's assistant?"
Max shook his head.
"Of course, you didn't. Nobody's ever heard of that character because the character doesn't exist. The book would've been a failure if there had been a third person in that group. See, when men do evil things they try to keep it from getting known. If they didn't, if they would only come out and proclaim their guilt, well then I'd have an easy job. Dr. Frankenstein, Igor — two people can keep a secret between them if the motivation is strong enough. But three people. That won't work. That always leads to someone being an odd man out. Sort of like you and Dr. Ernest and Joshua Leed. Now I'm not saying you were part of their group or that you encouraged Leed to get rid of Dr. Ernest, but I do know that the three of you are connected, and that whatever secrets you held are now held only by two people. Perhaps you and Leed got tired of taking orders from the good ol' Doctor and thought the time had come to strike out on your own."
"It's not like that at all."
"What is it then? Did Leed convince you that Dr. Ernest led a witch coven into Winston-Salem and you two tried to stop him from turning your beloved city into a haven for the dark arts? Or did he tell you that Dr. Ernest was a witch hunter? It's got to be one or the other."
"Witches? Who are you? Fox Mulder?"
Stevenson chuckled. "As far as I know, the FBI doesn't have a real X-Files division. But we do have people like me, specialists in some of the less traditional areas of investigation. You should be able to understand that. Your little research firm seems quite similar, focusing on lots of cases that are less traditional. Isn't that why you're researching witch covens?"
Max shifted, his seat no longer the familiar, comfortable bit of the game that brought with it pleasant memories. "I didn't kill anybody. And I don't know anything about Dr. Ernest. Leed didn't kill him either. In fact, Leed contacted me because he found out about the murder and he wanted to hire me to look into it. I'm guessing he didn't trust the police to handle it because he knew people like you were looking, too."
Stevenson formed a fist and hammered his chest until he let out a belch. "Why didn't you say so from the start? I could've saved my Frankenstein bit for another occasion. Unless, you're not telling me the whole story. Is that it, Max? Are you holding out?"
"Holding out about what?"
"Perhaps Leed wants more from you than you said. After all, he went around the country with Dr. Ernest for years. He's a person of interest as Dr. Ernest's accomplice. Maybe he's thinking of picking up where the doctor left off. Maybe he wants you to join him. Disciples can be like that, you know."
"Why me, then? I told you I've never met either of them before yesterday. It wouldn't make sense for him. Why rest all your illegal plans on somebody you've only met?"
"That's the same problematic thought I've been having." Stevenson patronizing grin scratched under Max's skin. "Unless what you're telling me is bullshit. If, in fact, you did know them, perhaps handled research for them at some point in the past, then it all adds up quite neatly."
"Your math is wrong."
"I hope so. Truly do. You and your wife seem like nice folks, and I'd hate to be the one breaking up a good marriage because I've got to arrest you."
"I didn't do whatever you think I did."
Max stood to go, but Stevenson grabbed his wrist. "You may be innocent of what I'm talking about, but you aren't innocent. So, let me give you this bit of advice — stay away. Everything, everyone connected with Matthew Ernest turns evil. You want to get my people off of you, then remember to stay away. Because pretty soon, I'll have to be interrogating you officially."
"I'll remember." Max yanked his arm free and stormed out of the ballpark. It felt good to stomp up the stairs, shoving out every bit of tension the conversation had created. By the time he reached his car, he was puffing and sweating. He slid into the driver's seat and glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror. Stevenson told him to stay away and the first thing he'll be doing that night was breaking into Matthew Ernest's home. "Well, I said I'd remember — not that I'd listen."
Chapter 7
As evening approached, Sandra and Max leaned back in their office chairs and bit into their slices of pizza from The Mellow Mushroom. The restaurant was only a few blocks away, yet Sandra preferred bringing the pizza in. "That place is always jam-packed and noisy."
Breaking the stringy cheese bridge between his mouth and the pizza slice, Max nodded. "That's because the pizza's delicious."
Drummond popped his head through the bookcase. "Are you two done yet? I've got to go over the plan."
"Then stop hiding in the walls and tell us."
Drummond soared out to the middle of the room, chest puffed out, arms crossed. "You know damn well that even though I can't eat any of that food, I can sure smell it. That's cruel. May even qualify as torture."
Max raised his arms. "What do you want from us? We're alive. We need food. I wasn't about to drive all the way home to eat just to turn around and come back here. Plus, we figured it would be worse for you to stretch all the way out to our house. You'd be complaining of a migraine long before we set foot in Ernest's house. This seemed like a fair compromise."
"Fine. Just finish up already." Drummond relaxed his posture and glanced at Sandra. "Sorry I swore. You're too refined a lady to have to put up with that."
Sandra smiled. "The fuck I am."
This tickled Drummond, and he barked out a series of laughs that nearly choked him.
Wiping his fingers clean on a paper napkin, Max wondered how long he could keep his cool. Drummond's lies,
the FBI, Leed — it all swirled inside him like a ship caught in a squall. He wished he could tell Sandra, his close confidante. But he had to protect her, too.
He took a sharp breath. He could do this. Stay focused and find the way through. They had survived past calamities that way, and they would survive this one the same.
"Okay, I'm done eating," Max said. "Tell us the plan."
With a longing gaze at the pizza box, Drummond settled in a chair opposite Max. He had no need for chairs, of course, but Max appreciated his effort to seem human. "Matt's home is on Ebert, south off of Silas Creek Parkway." Drummond's enthusiasm for detective work cleared his mood. "It's got crime scene tape around it but no cops anymore. They're probably done with it and waiting for the release order. No need to waste resources watching over it now."
"Then we're too late?"
"We're fine until it's released. After that, somebody will hire a cleaning crew to make it look like nobody ever died in there so whoever owns the house now can sell it. That's why —"
Sandra washed down the last of her dinner. "We know. It has to be tonight."
Pausing to look from Max to Sandra and back, Drummond screwed up his face but eventually shook it off. Fine by Max. He had no desire to explain marital relationships to a ghost.
"The way I figure it," Drummond went on, "I'll go in first and unlock the door. You walk in, get the notebook, and we leave. Should be easy."
Max coughed. "When is this stuff ever easy? Heck, we don't even know where in the house the notebook is."
"I'm pretty sure I know. Most of the house is normal and unimpressive. But there's a room I can't get into. The door has a ward on it. It's a symbol you draw so that —"
"We've seen them." Max recalled the bizarre symbols all over Joshua Leed's house. Then he saw Sandra's shocked face and realized his mistake.
Drummond raised an eyebrow. "When have you ever seen a ward symbol?"
The silent tension around them grew thicker. Max's brain raced for a plausible answer as Drummond stared at him with that detective eye — the look of man who could spot a lie with minimal effort. Max opened his mouth, hoping to sound natural, when it hit him. He had seen a ward before. "Don't you remember the art forgery case?"
