Southern Belle

by Stuart Jaffe

  With his back, Max pushed off the wall and moved closer toward the hall leading further into the house. Drummond stood near the end of the hall, yelling at his hand which cupped nothing at all — which meant probably the ghost of Leed.

  "Shut up already. I appreciate what you did but that doesn't give you any right to meddle here. Patricia Welling is my responsibility. You did your part ... What? ... I'm not still in love with her ... You don't know what you're talking about ... If I had known then ... that doesn't prove I knew anything. And besides, raking over the past won't change where we are now ... Don't tell me to calm down."

  Drummond's gray face flushed red for a split second. Max cleared his throat loudly and when Drummond spun toward him, Max nearly fell back from the man's glare.

  "What do you want?" Drummond said, his brow turned down sharp, his voice graveled as if he had smoked all night. A haze of darkness lifted off his shoulders.

  Max tried to keep his face calm. Inside, every synapse fired off red alert warnings. "Drummond? You in there? Calm down. Stay with me."

  "You blame me for this, don't you? For what's happened to Sandra. Everyone blames me."

  "I don't blame you for something you did long ago and out of love. And I need your help now. Please, don't turn. Stay the man I know. Come on ... Marshall."

  Drummond's face relaxed. He lifted his head and looked around as if unsure how he got to the house. "About time you got here." As he moved into the living room, he placed the object in his hand back into his coat pocket. "Best get this spell done before the sun rises. They tend to be stronger when the stars and moon are visible. At least, that's the lore."

  Max gawked as the ghost pointed to the empty space by the living room window.

  "That should be a good spot," Drummond said. He raised a quizzical eyebrow to Max. "What?"

  "Nothing," Max said and gathered the items needed for the spell along with the Grimoire. He ignored Drummond's odd expression, ignored the pressure mounting in the dusty air, ignored all the warnings blazing in his head. If Drummond turned now, Max didn't see anything he could do to stop it. Only way forward was straight through — do the spell, find the handbell, summon Patricia and his wife, hope he figures out what to do after that.

  Max opened the Grimoire to the appropriate page and set the book on the seat of a wooden chair. He then sat on the floor in the spot Drummond had indicated. For his part, Drummond went to the book and guided Max.

  "First thing you do is put one candle at each of the four compass points."

  Max picked up one candle. "Which way is North?"

  Without looking up from the book, Drummond pointed toward the kitchen. Max reoriented himself to face the kitchen and placed the candle in front of his crossed legs. Then he set the other three candles to either side and behind him.

  "Next thing you do is fill the goblet with water and set it down in front of you."

  Max did as instructed. He went to the kitchen to fill the goblet from the sink, and as the water streamed in, he tried to avoid looking at the wall where he had seen Leed murdered. He thought of all the rage and hatred that gave Patricia Welling the physical and mental strength to destroy that man. "She's not going to like it when I get this bell." The thought brought a grim smile to Max's face.

  He returned to Drummond, sat as before, and set the filled goblet in front of him. Drummond leaned closer to the book and read. "Light the incense, then the candles." Max did so. "Now you meditate."

  "I what? I don't know how to meditate. I've never even tried to do it before."

  "Guess you'll be trying it out now."

  "Is there another way? I don't want to screw this up."

  "You'll do fine. Listen, in the '70s there were plenty of people coming through my office trying all kinds of stuff. Sex, music, drugs. Lots of drugs. I swear they did so much of the stuff that, even dead, I got a contact high. They also experimented with meditation. I think the Beatles had something to do with that."

  "Great. So now you're going to be my guru because you were stuck watching a bunch of stoners pretend to meditate?"

  "If you have a better idea, tell me. What's the big deal, anyway? If you don't do it right, the spell won't work. No problem."

  "Unless not working means the spell kills me ... or worse."

  "This is for your wife, remember?" Drummond said sharply, his eyes narrowing as his anger increased.

  Max tried to laugh off the tension. "You're right, you're right. Sorry. I'm really tired and worried and I don't know what to do."

  "Of course." Drummond's face relaxed. "I understand. You ready now? Good. All you have to do is focus on the object you want to find. Think about it. Picture it. That's all. Take slow, deep breaths and do your best to picture that handbell. Don't let any other thoughts take you away from that image. You think you can do that?"

  "For Sandra, definitely." Max closed his eyes and breathed slow and deep. The incense entered his body, and his muscles loosened up. Sleep threatened to take over his weary body; he even felt his head grow heavy. Focus. He had to stay in control of his thoughts. The handbell — that was the only image he needed to worry about. All other thoughts, all other desires, even sleep, had to go away.

  Time loosened. Only the sound of his lungs expanding and expelling filled his ears. Only the handbell filled his mind. He saw it from every angle, practically felt it in his hand.

  "Something's happening," Drummond said.

  Max opened his eyes but still pictured the handbell in his mind. The candle flames flared, and Max felt something tugging on his skin. No. Not tugging on it — tugging from within it — as if thousands of tiny hooks were in his skin and pulled away from him. It hurt and threatened to break his concentration.

  "Max? You okay?"

  The handbell. Think only of the handbell

  A force grabbed hold of his chest, pressed in and pulled out simultaneously. Max could feel his life draining away as this force exerted control upon his body. He felt as if this power tossed him around the room though he never moved an inch. Blood shot out his nose, and he coughed up an acidic phlegm.

  He strained to keep focus but something smashed his head from the inside. Light-headed, his eyes rolled and he flopped forward.

  But as his face fell to the floor, he caught a glimpse inside the goblet. Instead of his reflection, he saw a building — the building — his building — his office building — the place where the handbell would be found.

  Chapter 23

  Upon waking up, the urgency in Max's stomach forced him to roll over and vomit across the living room floor. His head pounded, his thighs ached, and he had a nasty crick in his neck. Golden sunlight peeked through the windows, each beam a blinding spear through his eyes.

  "It's about time," Drummond said, soaring into the room.

  Sitting up slowly, feeling his stomach curl again, Max scrunched his brow. "That spell hurt. Besides, the sun's just coming up. I was out for what? A half-hour?"

  Drummond flicked his hands toward the window. "The sun is setting, not rising. You've been out for almost twelve hours. I screamed at you, I knocked chairs over, I even passed my hand through you. Nothing worked. We've got to go meet Modesto, and we don't have the handbell. In other words, all our leverage is gone." Drummond leaned toward his coat pocket. "And to top it off, you wretched all over the floor."

  "Calm down," Max said, gently rising to his feet.

  "How am I supposed to be calm? Everything's falling apart."

  "This isn't like you. Relax. Keep control of yourself."

  Drummond glowered at Max. Bracing himself, Max turned his head to the side. Instead of an attack, Drummond cocked an ear toward his coat pocket, nodded, and eased back. Right there, Max decided not to fret over the little ghost in Drummond's pocket anymore.

  In a less agitated voice, Drummond asked, "Did the spell work at least?"

  "The bell is somewhere in our office building."

  Drummond brightened. "That's great. That's perfect.
It's like a homefield advantage. Let's go."

  "Hold on a moment. We need to think this through. It's late now. Getting the bell without a plan won't be of any use to us or Sandra. In fact, that'll be playing right into Modesto's hand. There's a lot about this whole thing that doesn't add up."

  "We don't really have time."

  "Modesto will wait all night if he has to. He wants that bell badly, and if waiting a while longer than he would prefer means getting it from us, then he'll do it. But why is it in the office building? If Connor's mother stole it, why would she put it there?"

  "Hiding it anywhere would be smart. Once Hull discovered it missing, he'd have set Modesto loose to find it. Back then, Modesto was young and eager to please the Hulls — more so than now. He'd have been ruthless in his search."

  "So, Connor's mother makes sure the evidence isn't on her or near her or in any way connected to her. But why the office building? Why not rent a storage locker? Or hand it to a trusted friend? Or even bury it in the backyard?"

  Drummond snapped out his hand as if smacking Max upside the head. "Do you really not understand? This is a cursed bell with a long history of destruction, a cursed bell that became linked to the ghost of a cursed witch. Not any witch, by the way, but the High Priestess of a coven. And most importantly, this was a bell that the Hulls needed if they ever got it in their heads to resurrect their great-great-grandfather — which is exactly what they want to do. If you stole a bell like that, would you really trust it to a friend? Or leave it unprotected in a storage locker or worse still, bury it in the ground where any kid or dog could dig it up?"

  "I guess not. But why the office building? Assuming Connor's mother knew how powerful this bell was, wouldn't she want to hide it somewhere that would protect her from its curse? Some place with a lot of magical mojo. Some place ... oh."

  "That's right. You think it's a coincidence that they cursed me in my office? That of all the buildings in Winston-Salem, the one Hull owns entirely on his own is that one? There's power in those walls. Always has been. It's a smart place to hide the bell. Hull would never suspect it to be right under his nose, and Connor's mother must have hoped the building's magic would contain any curse the bell truly had. At the least, all that magic would mask the magic radiating off the bell."

  "Why would that happen? The building containing the curse, I mean."

  "It wouldn't. It didn't. But one witch can't know everything."

  Max shuffled to the kitchen and poured a glass of water. He felt no better physically, but his head had cleared. "This is good. We know the bell is in the building, and we're fairly certain the building's magic won't contain the bell's curse. All we have to do now is figure out how to turn that to our advantage."

  "Since the sun is about gone now, you think you can do that figuring on the way back to the city?"

  "Yeah. Let's go." Max swiped his keys from the counter and reached for the door. Before he touched it, however, three strong knocks banged away.

  "Mr. Porter? It's Agent Stevenson. May I have a word with you?"

  Max took enough time to send a stern look Drummond's way. "Please be quiet. Let me focus."

  "Always," Drummond said.

  Max opened the door to find Stevenson standing in the dimming light, a friendly smile on his face that promised he knew all the answers before he asked the first question. "Mind if I come in?"

  "Actually, I'm leaving."

  "Actually, this isn't your house." Stevenson walked inside, forcing Max to step back or be plowed over. The FBI agent surveyed the kitchen, glanced into the living room, and wrinkled his nose at the vomit on the floor. "You not feeling well?"

  Max rested against the kitchen counter and crossed his arms. "I've had better days."

  Stevenson turned his trained eye onto Max. "You look like you've gone a few rounds with a heavyweight. You want me to take you to a hospital?"

  "No need. It looks worse than it is."

  "Kind of like your situation." Stevenson pulled over a chair and sat. "On the surface, it looks like you murdered Dr. Matthew Ernest, then went after his old assistant, Joshua Leed, then broke into Ernest's home to tamper with the crime scene, and on top of all that, there was a bizarre murder at an optometrist's office which, though quite different from these other murders, does seem connected when one considers all the occult paraphernalia found in the victim's office. Looking at all the bruising on your face, you might even be the subject of an assault investigation that occurred last night at the Fox and Hound Pub. Now, that all looks bad for you, and if I were any other agent, I might've hauled you in already."

  "But you know I didn't do those things."

  "The only thing I know for certain is that you broke into Leed's house because you're here right now. And I'm fairly certain you were at Ernest's house last night, too. I was there, but whoever broke into that house slipped away."

  Drummond perked up, clapped his hands, and opened his mouth. Before he said anything though, he exchanged glances with Max and made a zipper motion across his ghostly lips.

  "Am I under arrest?" Max asked, his words sounding more brazen than he felt.

  "Not yet." With his index finger, Stevenson tapped a complicated rhythm against his chin and let his eyes rove the kitchen. "It's strange how both this house and Ernest's house had those markings on the walls. Made me think of a cult. Your house, however, doesn't have any markings like that."

  "I don't belong to a cult."

  "Odd. You don't seem surprised we went through your house." He thought a moment and nodded with a grin. "You came by and saw us, didn't you? That's why you're out here."

  Drummond pointed to the wall clock which read 7:30 p.m. Max said, "You seem like a smart guy, probably a good agent, too. But you're not going to figure this all out. I know a lot more of what's going on, and I can't figure it all out."

  "Maybe we can help each other. After all, since you know more than I do, and assuming you're innocent of the murders, well then it's only natural you'd want to help the FBI find the real killers and clear your name."

  "Do you believe in ghosts?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "Ghosts. Witches, curses, covens, black magic, and protective wards. Do you believe in any of that?"

  "I know that the people involved in all this certainly believed in that kind of thing. But believing in something, no matter how strong the belief, no matter how pure the faith, doesn't make it reality."

  "Denying it, even though you can't see it, doesn't make it fantasy."

  "You want me to believe in all of this stuff? Believe that the reason Ernest and Leed covered their walls with arcane symbols was because those bits of paint would magically protect them? From what? Ghosts? Except they weren't protected. They ended up dead."

  "Leed died outside his protected room. In fact, he died right here in this kitchen."

  Stevenson pushed his blazer back enough to reveal his holstered sidearm. "Are you admitting to having killed Joshua Leed?"

  "No. Just that I watched him die in here. But I was no closer to him than I am to you."

  "Then who killed him? If you're afraid of retribution, the FBI can protect you."

  Max knew he should have stopped talking the moment Stevenson had entered, but his mouth had a mind of its own. The pressure and confusion that had been building in him finally released, and if it meant pissing off a federal agent, then so be it. "A ghost killed him."

  "A ghost? Really."

  "I know you don't believe me, but that's the truth. That's why you can't help me. This whole thing started with a curse cast decades ago, and now it's come back to haunt us."

  "Who is us?"

  "But you won't open your mind to the possibilities, so I don't see how you can help. I doubt you'd even believe that there's a ghost in this room. He's standing near you, and even if you felt his cold hand pass through you, you wouldn't believe."

  Drummond waved his hand across Stevenson's neck. The agent bolted to his feet, whirled around, and star
ed at the empty room. He spun back, eyeing Max while his hand rested on his firearm.

  "Enough games, Mr. Porter. If I can't produce results soon, my superiors are going to insist I arrest you, and I now have at least two charges that I can take you in under — tampering with the Leed crime scene and obstruction. I don't want to do that. I think if I do, you'll shut down, and I'll never learn what happened here. But if you give me no alternative, your sweet wife will have to see you behind bars."

  "If you keep wasting my time here, my sweet wife won't live long enough to see me ever again."

  "What does that mean? If you know of a threat against your wife, tell me. Let me protect her. For fuck's sake, I'm with the FBI. I have access to some serious power."

  Max couldn't help himself. He laughed. "You don't know what power is."

  Stepping away, Stevenson tapped his chin again. "Maybe I was wrong. You seem crazy enough to do all these things after all."

  "Oh, come on." Max instantly regretted opening his mouth. "Don't take the easy way out. I didn't do any of this. You know it."

  "I don't know anything."

  "Trust your gut. I'm innocent here."

  "Because a ghost did it? Did a ghost kill Dr. Ernest, too? Same one, I suppose?"

  "Yes. Exactly."

  Stevenson pulled his weapon. "Maxwell Porter, you are under arrest for the murder of —"

  "Wait, wait. I didn't do it. Why would I?"

  "That's what you're going to tell me when I take you in."

  "But think about it. Why would I kill Dr. Ernest when that's what caused ..." Max's brain started connecting information in a fevered rush. "Oh, no."

  Stevenson lowered his weapon. "What's going on? What's wrong?"

  "The body. It was undisturbed."

  "What body? Who are you talking about?"

  Drummond shot forward. "The witch in the church?"

  "Ernest never got to that body. She hadn't been touched. It bugged me when we saw it, but I didn't know why."

  Stevenson said, "What body? Who was with you when you saw it?"

  Drummond turned to Stevenson and raised his hand. "Let me put this guy out for a few hours and we can still try to get that bell. If you're right about this, we've got leverage again."