Southern Belle

by Stuart Jaffe

"Last chance, lover. You can enjoy this body in ways you never have or —"

  He punched her. One hard crack to the head.

  She went down, rolling on the wet, dirty asphalt into the way of any alley traffic. Max rubbed his fist. Punching a person's skull hurt. And he hadn't knocked her out. In the movies, one punch knocked out a bad guy with ease — apparently it wasn't actually that simple.

  She raised up to all fours. "Sorry, hon," he said, walked up to her side and punched her on the back of the head. A muffled cry escaped her lungs as she fell forward. Still, she moved. He had to get her unconscious. That's all he could think to do. Get her unconscious, take her blood, make Connor exorcise this ghost from his wife. But she still moved, still tried to get to her feet. He rolled her over, pulled back his fist again, when her eyes shot open.

  "Help! Rape!" she screamed.

  Two young men the size of linebackers poked their heads around the corner. "Hey!" one of them called out. Before Max could do anything more, they tackled him and a horrible beating ensued.

  Chapter 20

  Max opened his eyes to see Drummond floating above. His body ached, his mouth felt a size too big, and he tasted blood in his mouth. He tried to sit up but his ribs sent sharp pains into his side.

  Drummond slid down next to Max. "Easy there, palooka. You got on the wrong end of a lot of fists. You'll live, but I'm glad I ain't you for the next week."

  Max spit blood. His tongue ran along his teeth — thankfully, none missing. "She's got Sandra. Your ghost bitch is in my Sandra."

  "I figured that much out."

  Trying to stand again, Max groaned and flopped back to the ground. "We've got find her. She could be doing anything with my wife. Or anyone."

  "We'll find her. Calm down."

  "How the fuck am I supposed to calm down? My wife is possessed by a dead witch. How am I supposed to say that sentence calmly?"

  "First, you need to listen. Can you do that? Because I promise you, the last thing on Patricia Welling's mind is bedding down with a man."

  "That wasn't how she behaved with me."

  "She was toying with you. Screwing with your head. Just like Connor. That's what witches do."

  Max hesitated. He wanted to believe Drummond, wanted to know that the woman he loved would not have to spend the rest of her life with memories of strangers. He didn't want to think about it either. Drummond's eyes — so sincere, so convincing.

  Holding his jaw tight both from frustration and the bruises along the bone, Max finally said, "You promise me. You tell me that she won't defile my wife that way."

  "She won't. It isn't easy to possess somebody conscious, somebody who will fight to regain control of her body — and you know Sandra's fighting like a cornered tiger. Patricia's going to be using a lot of energy to maintain that possession. And since she went to all that trouble and fight, there's got to be more on her mind than sex."

  "You better be right."

  "I am. And I'm sorry. I should've been here instead of wasting time following one dead end after another."

  Max glowered at Drummond. "You should have finished the job."

  "I did. I demolished that corpse."

  "Then it wasn't Patricia Welling in the Fed Building."

  "It absolutely was. I don't know why it didn't work, but we did what we set out to do."

  "Then why the hell —"

  "I don't know. But getting angry won't help us. Let's figure this out, find your wife, fix this mess."

  Though he managed to stand, it took more effort than he imagined any simple act would require. Yet with each passing minute, he felt his strength returning. The brutes who had battered him caused plenty of bruises but no broken bones. Even his ribs looked to be in the proper place — purple and black all along his side, but nothing where it didn't belong.

  "You okay? Can you walk?"

  "Give me a minute," Max snapped. "I got my ass kicked in." He took a few tentative steps. "And my ass hurts, too."

  The back door to the bar opened, and a heavyset man stepped out carrying two garbage bags. As he threw out the trash, he gave a few cursory glances Max's way.

  Once the man went back inside, Max rubbed his jaw. "Help me think this through. What do we know?"

  Drummond made a lazy circle as he spoke. "All the witches we know of have been freed from the curse and destroyed. So is there another one? One we missed?"

  "Possibly, but why is Patricia Welling still in Sandra? Why didn't she go poof?"

  "Maybe because she has a body now."

  Max nodded. "She has Sandra's body, so she doesn't need her old one. She must have taken over Sandra back at the church. I should've seen it. I did see it. Sandra was acting weird from the moment we left that church, but I didn't realize — and now she's fighting for her life."

  "Focus, Max. Please. I need your help. Sandra needs your help."

  With a deep breath that sent spikes of pain straight along his spine, Max nodded. "I'm sorry. I'll be okay. You're right, I've got to focus."

  "That's right. Sandra's counting on you."

  Max's eyes narrowed. "Connor knew. She had to."

  "That's why she wanted you to get the blood. Not so she would have control over Sandra, but so she could control Patricia."

  "But why not take care of it herself? If she's so powerful, why get me involved? She hates me."

  "Maybe that's why. Hatred can push people to do some dumb things."

  Heading back to his car, Max rolled his shoulder. He couldn't afford for his bruised body to stiffen up at a crucial moment. Despite the pain, he needed to stay limber.

  The parking lot had emptied, and his car stood a lone vigil, waiting for a driver. "Connor's not dumb. She used me for a purpose. She's waiting for something to happen, maybe, or she didn't want to be seen doing the job or —"

  "Modesto." Drummond clapped his hands, startling Max. "The Hulls must not know what she's up to."

  "Which is what?"

  "I hate to say it, but it looks like there's only one person who has the answers. At least, one who might be willing to talk."

  Max nodded gravely. He opened the car door and its whine sounded much like he felt. "If Sandra wasn't in trouble, I'd never agree to this."

  "I know. Can you drive?"

  "Unless you can, I don't have a choice."

  "I'll go on ahead, make sure it's safe."

  "Okay. See you back at good ol' Doc Connor's place."

  "Promise me one thing."

  "What?"

  "Don't kill her."

  Max raised an eyebrow, then got in the car. He slammed the door shut and started the engine. Drummond hovered for a moment, but when he saw he would get no further answer, he disappeared.

  Chapter 21

  The blue digital clock on his dashboard read three a.m. Though his body complained with every motion, he did not feel tired. Too much adrenaline, stress, and fear.

  When this is over, I'm going to sleep for days.

  As he stepped from the car, the still air smelled of a coming storm. Hot, humid, sticky — soon it would all break under a torrent of rain. But in the morning, the sun would return and pollen would coat the world. By noon, it would be as if nothing had happened.

  Not for me.

  Max walked a labored stride toward Connor's office. No matter what happened, he knew he would not be the same. Considering the dark thoughts that drifted through his mind, the horrible things he now thought himself willing to do should Dr. Connor prove uncooperative — he never imagined he could think like that.

  I haven't done anything, yet.

  The word yet echoed in his head.

  "There you are." Drummond zipped out of the office, coming straight through a wall, and darted right at Max. "Hurry. She's dying."

  Max managed a slow jog, each footfall sending sharp jolts up his leg. Drummond had unlocked the front door, and Max shuffled down the hall toward the back office. The photos on the wall had been knocked askew. A few lay shattered on the floor
. Before he entered the back office, Max saw blood streaked on the baseboard.

  Connor's office had been ransacked — papers strewn about, book stacks toppled over, wall charts ripped into shreds. A putrid odor rose from a shattered jar containing a pig fetus. Dr. Connor lay on the floor, her eyes open wide and unblinking, blood pooling beneath her, a wide gash in her forehead. She had strange cuts on her arm like claw marks.

  Wrinkling his nose, Max inched forward. "Dr. Connor?"

  The witch's eyes rested upon Max. In a weak whisper, she said, "I told you."

  "You're alive," he said, pulling out his phone. "I'm calling for help."

  "Of course, she's alive," Drummond said. "You think I'd lie about that?"

  Connor raised her hand and wagged a finger. "No help. I've reached the end."

  Max's thumb hovered over the Send button. He looked to Drummond who answered with a mild shrug. Big help.

  Connor lifted her head and coughed blood. "The handbell."

  "Where is it? What's it for?"

  "Foolish boy. You never listen." She chuckled despite the strain each quiet word cost her. "I warned you what Hull was doing. I warned you."

  "You said that they were trying to resurrect Tucker Hull. I listened to you. I did. It's one of the reasons I haven't done any work for the Hulls."

  "First, an item from the source — the journal. Second, a powerful charm full of life — Blackbeard's hair. And last, a cursed object that can call upon a soul with all the power of a great witch — the handbell."

  "That's really what it's for?"

  "Thirteen bells for thirteen witches. And one of them missing."

  Drummond drifted in towards Max. "Patricia's bell."

  "My mother," Connor went on, "had fallen in love with Hull and knew that if he ever discovered the depth of her feelings, he would destroy her."

  "Not a good idea to get emotionally involved with your prime witch," Max said.

  "Exactly. She stole the bell to protect herself — she hoped to use its power, if necessary. But she failed and the bell was lost."

  "And Hull needs it for his resurrection spell."

  Coughing up more blood, Connor nodded.

  Drummond bent closer to Max. "Not to be so callous, but if you don't get everything we need from her —"

  Max waved the detective off. He knew what needed to be done. "Where's the bell?"

  "The bell will draw out Patricia's ghost, leaving your wife an empty vessel for a few seconds. If Modesto can cast the spell at that moment, Tucker Hull can enter your wife's body before her own spirit can reclaim it."

  Before she could finish her sentence, Max grabbed her collar and yanked her up. "Then where the hell is the bell?"

  Her eyes rolled upward. Max slapped her face hard three times before she focused on him again. "I never found it. That was supposed to be your job."

  He dropped her and clutched his head. "We're screwed."

  "Don't give up," Drummond said. "Remember, Modesto doesn't know where it is, either. Tucker Hull can't come back without it."

  "Great. So, Sandra will just share her body with your old girlfriend forever."

  "We'll find the handbell. We'll use it and get Patricia out of there, but we'll do it away from Modesto and his spell. Come on, Max. We're not giving up."

  Max glanced down at Connor, her blood pool widening. "You weren't trying to help us. What did you need the blood for? Protection?"

  She moved her head up and down slightly, weakly. Inhaling with a wheezing sound, she raised her arm like a marionette on a limp string. She let the breath leave her body and pointed toward her desk. When the last of her breath left her body, her arm flopped to the floor, and she never inhaled again.

  "Crap," Max said. Bad enough he failed to get the information he needed from her, but with the way his luck had run, he guessed the FBI would be blaming him for this death, too.

  "You okay?" Drummond asked.

  "What's it say about me that I'm no longer freaking out over dead bodies?"

  "That you're finally starting to understand this world."

  Max sighed. "That's dark."

  "I'm a ghost. What do you expect?"

  Stepping over to Connor's desk, Max said, "She pointed here. Help me look."

  Drummond floated around Max as he leafed through her file cabinet. "I see pens, papers, appointment book, some bills."

  "I don't need an inventory."

  "Well, I can't search like you unless I'm willing to take on the pain of touching things."

  "Sandra's life is at stake and you're worried about a little pain?"

  "Did you forget what I did in the basement of that crazy art forger? I took on a lot of pain for you both back then. And there was the time —"

  "Okay, I'm sorry. We don't need to go into all the times you've suffered for us."

  "Then why don't you look at your feet?"

  "Huh?"

  "On the floor. There's a book at your feet. Must have been knocked off her desk when she was attacked."

  Max crouched down and stared at the book. It had that crinkled, leathery covering he hated to see — human skin. With every effort to hide his revulsion, he picked up the book and placed it on Connor's desk. A long feather — maybe an owl, maybe an eagle, probably a vulture — had been used as a bookmark.

  Opening the book, Max noticed his fingers shaking. His pulse beat against his neck. As he pushed the cover over, he flinched. He felt like a mouse inspecting cheese on a trap. The bookmark brought him to a page with the words THE BOOK OF SPELLS written in a meticulous script.

  "I think we've got something," Max said. He snapped the book shut, tucked it under his arm, ignored the involuntary shiver his body made upon contact with the human skin cover, and headed out of the office.

  "Where are we going?" Drummond asked.

  "My house. We can figure this all out over there."

  "But the office is —"

  "I'm not sure I want to go back in there just yet."

  "Because of Sandra?"

  "Why is that a shock? I love my wife and when I last saw her there, she wasn't really my wife. I won't be eating at the Fox and Hound anytime soon either. Besides, if Connor is right, then Hull and Modesto need that bell more than anything. Modesto's been trying to use me to find it, and since I haven't seen him trying to follow me —"

  "He's probably staking out the office."

  "So we go to my house, take a close look at this book, and see if we can't save Sandra, stop this coven, and prevent Tucker Hull from being resurrected."

  "Sounds like a lovely evening."

  Chapter 22

  As they zipped along the highway, the night's lights danced along Max's face. His stern expression cut through the reds, yellows, and whites leaving only the dark. They had been in dire situations before, but this time, he had no idea if he could ever get his wife back. It wasn't a calculated risk. What he had in mind would be a step into a world he wanted less and less to do with.

  Stay strong. Stay focused. Only one thing matters — get Sandra back.

  When Max neared his house, Drummond leaned forward, squinting as he looked out the windshield. "Keep driving," he said. "Don't slow down."

  "What's wrong?"

  "Do it."

  Max drove by the house and turned at the end of the street. Drummond waved him onward while watching the road behind them.

  "Get back on the highway."

  "What's going on? Did you see Modesto?"

  Drummond settled back. "Worse. The FBI."

  Slapping the steering wheel, Max said, "Damn. Now what?"

  "You got a lot of people interested in you. I'd say even if you wanted to, the office is definitely out, now. We could go back to Connor's place."

  "And get picked up for her murder?"

  "Well, there's that, of course."

  Max glanced up at the oversized green signs passing by on the highway. One read — LEXINGTON. "I think I know where to go."

  "I'm listening." />
  "You know what's near Lexington? Thomasville."

  Drummond shook his head. "Leed's house? The cops'll have that place taped off."

  "That hasn't stopped us before. I doubt anybody's going to be out there tonight. Why would they? It's not a pressing murder for the local cops, and the FBI are involved, so the locals may not even have authority to be out there. We know the FBI are out at my house."

  "They might be at both locations."

  "You really think the FBI is going to put that much manpower onto this little case?"

  "I suppose not."

  "Something else bothering you then?"

  Drummond shifted uncomfortably. "Leed died there ... in a bad way."

  "You afraid his ghost might be hanging around?"

  "I'm not afraid of him. But I don't necessarily want to see him either. Especially if he's not quite himself."

  "You think he turned?"

  "From what you said, he had a pretty violent death. I'd think that might push a guy toward the evil side a lot quicker. Don't you?"

  "Well, we don't have many options, and I'm not wasting the night searching for a place to sit down while we work this out. Sandra needs us. It's that simple. If Leed is there, you'll either make friends or you'll suck it up and deal."

  Drummond tugged at his bottom lip. "I figured you might say that."

  * * * *

  The saying goes Third times the charm, but Max felt nothing charming about seeing Leed's house again. Cast in the dim moonlight, the old place had died along with Leed. The porch which had seemed quaint, now looked disheveled. The charisma of the warped wood floors and peeling white paint had turned ugly and dilapidated. Instead of the charming old farmhouse on the hill, Leed's place had taken on the air of a haunted house that children hurried by, afraid they might stir something in the shadows. Worst of all, Max thought they might be right.

  Drummond floated into the living room, his eyes roving every corner, every hiding place, every darkened nook. "Looks okay."

  Max let the witch's book fall to the floor, leaned his back against the wall, and slid down with an exhausted exhalation. He stared at the furniture but couldn't bring himself to sit on anything in the house. Drummond may not have found anything, but somewhere in the house, Leed's ghost had to be hanging around. He had seen that horrible death. No way did Leed peacefully move on to wherever the moving on go.