by Stuart Jaffe
Little explosions of fire popped behind him and another off to the right. He kept his eyes on the doorway and thought of the next step, the next step. He pushed out all other thoughts — and there were many — so that only his balance, only his next step, mattered.
It worked. He had gone about halfway, and by focusing ahead, he had stayed upright. Even his nerves had lessened because he had kept his mind clear on the present task. He grinned.
And that tiny lapse in thought sent him reeling.
He flapped his arms, tilted to the left, shifted his body hard the right but overcompensated, and once he went over, he couldn’t stop gravity. He looked in the direction of his fall. Two other narrow paths crossed like the parallel grating on an outdoor grill. Turning his body over, he thrust his arms and legs out forming a wide X in hopes of catching as much of the paths as possible.
When he hit the ground, his hand found one bit of stone to cling too — as did his foot and torso. A laugh erupted from his gut unbidden. He had survived. But as he pulled up onto the nearest pathway, a burst of flames rose beneath him.
For such a short duration, the ball of fire ate the air around him and forced his nervous sweat to evaporate. He stood and looked around. The heat continued to increase as did the strong smell of burning.
No pain. Just heat. My jacket!
Trying not to lose his balance again, he wriggled out of his burning jacket. A dark hole had formed on the back, its edges glowing as it smoldered a larger hole. Max tossed it aside.
“Damn you, Cal, I liked that jacket.”
He remained on that path without moving for a full two minutes. Only when he felt calm enough to attempt the rest of the walk did he put out his arms, focus on the doorway, and begin again. When he reached the safety of yet another stairwell, Max leaned over and threw up.
At least going down the dark, stone stairways brought him one floor closer to being done. If not for that simple thought, his brain would have tried to talk him out of continuing. But surely he had gone more than halfway. To stop now meant returning — a longer trip than pushing onward. Besides, he and Sandra had made it through all their troubles by pushing onward.
When he entered the next floor, he questioned such an approach. Where the other floors had paint marking out the circle and symbols surrounding it, this floor had deep grooves. That would have been fine, but these grooves had been filled with a dark, crimson liquid. The smell of death hung in the air. Worse than a rotting rabbit at a birthday party, this death smelled stale, old, and full of pain.
Blood. The liquid had to be blood.
More disturbing — Max saw nothing else in the room but burning torches to light the way. No danger of any kind. And the doorway on the opposite side stood open and inviting.
Motionless, he observed the room. Nothing changed. He heard no threatening sounds, saw no threatening movement.
Cautiously, he put one foot into the room. Careful not to make any loud noises, he stepped ahead. Little by little he moved across the floor, avoiding the blood-filled grooves of the magic circle. When he reached the other side, he continued down the stairs at the same pace. Only when he could no longer see the light of the floor above did he resume a normal pace — and even then, he kept an ear open for any sudden change.
He should have kept an eye open. After having climbed down so many stairs, he took the rest of the stairwell for granted — but a sudden drop revealed three missing steps. Max tumbled downward, hit the next stair with his shoulder, flipped over, and rolled into the room.
He saw nothing. At first, he thought he had gotten turned around so hard that he couldn’t focus but soon understood that the room lacked any light source. Reaching around for his flashlight, his fingers slipped into a slick wetness.
“Crap,” he muttered.
Clenching his jaw, he tried to swallow back the urge to throw up again. He continued to feel around. There! His hand found a metal tube — the flashlight. Pulling it close like a parent protecting a baby, he whispered Thank you before flicking it on. Then he decided such thanks might have been premature. Sitting in the beam of light, he discovered the source of the slick wetness. His fingers had found a corpse wearing a torn hunter’s cap — Alan Peck.
Whatever horror Cal Baxter had constructed for this room, Max decided not to find out. He shined his flashlight on the exit and discovered a clear path ahead. Crawling on the floor — partially due to the pain from his latest fall, partially to avoid any possible Cal-created surprises higher up — Max made his way across.
At the next set of stairs, he sighed relief. He knew right away this led to the final floor. Bright light cut through from below, and he heard Rolson grunting hard in time with rhythmic strikes of something heavy against the floor.
As he neared the bottom, the temperature dropped. An unnatural drop that Max had felt many times before — the presence of a ghost.
He entered to find a room identical to the one on the first floor — a simple, elegant room lined with doors and bearing a painted circle on the floor. A candlestick with a black candle stood in the center. The only differences — the floor had been made of wood and a thin layer of ice covered everything.
Rolson had taken a position putting the circle between them. He held a sledgehammer and sweat soaked his pasty brow. He winked at Max, raised the sledgehammer, and yelled as he slammed it down on the wood slats within the circle. The sledgehammer bounced but the wood remained intact.
Rolson laughed. “All we put each other through and this damn thing is sealed with magic. The ghost of Cal Baxter won’t ever let go of his gold.”
Max opened his mouth but did not speak. He couldn’t. Behind Rolson, one of the doors had opened. A hard-looking man with close-cut hair, a pointed nose, and beady eyes entered. He wore a fine suit and appeared disgusted to stand in such a place. Max felt confident he knew the man, but all doubt went away when another man followed in close behind — Mr. Modesto.
“Mr. Porter. Detective Rolson. I believe you both know of Tucker Hull.” Modesto gave a slight bow and gestured to his employer.
Chapter 27
Rolson dropped to the floor, prostrating like a zealot before his prophet. “Mr. Hull, I swear I’m trying with all the strength I have, but I can’t break open the floor.”
Modesto stood regal and snobby as usual. He stepped over Rolson as one might step over a rotting animal — careful and with disgust. Though his hair looked grayer than before and a few more lines marred his face, Modesto still carried the weight of his office in every over-pronounced syllable he spoke.
Max turned his attention to Tucker Hull. “Why the new body? Didn’t like the one you stole when you destroyed my office?”
Modesto tilted his head back so he could look down upon Max. “Of all people, Mr. Porter, I would have thought you would take the time to do a little research on Mr. Hull. Had you done so, you would not bother with such a foolish question.”
“Well, you know me — always the fool.”
“Indeed. The process of maintaining Mr. Hull in this world requires fresh bodies from time to time. Nothing the Hull family’s sizable resources cannot accommodate.”
“And by process you mean spell.”
“Of course.”
“And by sizable resources you mean all this gold you plan to steal.”
Tucker Hull’s eyes narrowed so sharp that Max felt a stab of pain in his chest. Those eyes traveled up and down Max, appraising him like an art dealer. Then Tucker walked forward — slow and strong. His voice matched. “I cannot steal what has always been mine. You are the thief here. But as the Lord would have it, perhaps one of His grand jests, I happen to require your unique thieving skills. Open the floor. Now.”
Max pointed at Rolson’s sledgehammer. “How can I possibly open this floor up when your own man can’t do it with that thing?”
“Give me another chance,” Rolson said. “I’m sure I can do it.”
With an impatient fluttering of his hands, Modesto
said, “Mr. Hull demands this of you, Mr. Porter. Refuse and he will be forced to send people out to harm your wife.”
“I’m not refusing. Okay? Everybody just calm down. All I’m saying is that I don’t know what you expect me to do that Rolson hasn’t done.”
Tucker moved closer to Max, but he approached in a slight curving pattern. Trying to avoid the circle, Max thought. Tucker stared straight into Max — the power behind those beady eyes burning through in an instant.
All at once Max was a child gazing up at a disappointed father, a dog fearful of its master, a young girl afraid she had misunderstood the glance of a boy, and a woman afraid she had understood the glance of a man. His head spun. Every cell in his body wanted both to run in fear and stay within Tucker’s stare as long as possible. Intimidation and seduction — hand in hand — Max had never before experienced a person holding such power.
When Tucker spoke, however, the mesmerizing spell of his eyes broke. “Stop stalling. I do not expect you to use such a crude method as a sledgehammer. You are one of the few in the world that have seen, accepted, and appreciate the greater planes of existence around us — the places of magic and the supernatural.”
“Hard to deny when I’m staring at you.”
Tucker grinned. Max thought the man’s teeth had been sharpened into points but Tucker’s lips closed too fast to be sure.
“Clearly this is a problem of magic,” Tucker said, “I expect you to find a magic solution.”
Max turned to the circle, trying to control his shaking limbs. In all the possible outcomes they had planned for, he and Sandra and Drummond had always expected Rolson to have already dug up the gold by the time Max arrived. Looking at the flickering black candle, Max wondered if this miscalculation would cost his life. Or, if Modesto’s threats were to be believed — Sandra’s life.
Rubbing his hands, Max said, “Okay. Let me think this through.”
The floor couldn’t be forced open because of a magic seal of some type — or a magic something. Tucker expected Max to open it. Why me, though? Tucker had access to the best witches in all of North Carolina — probably in all of the country, if not the world. Why not bring one of them down to break the spell?
Only one reason made sense to Max — Tucker couldn’t. Not that Tucker couldn’t get hold of the best witches, but rather that he knew they couldn’t break the spell. Something unique about Max gave him, and only him, the ability. Otherwise, the Hulls would have opened the floor and taken the gold long ago.
But that posed a different problem. The Hulls had owned Baxter House for over a century. Even if they had not found the secret rooms until recently, they had to have been looking. They had to have been aware of the magical possibilities to protect the gold. All of which pre-dated Max’s birth by decades. So, whatever was unique about Max had to have been able to exist before him.
That meant that it had to be something Max had learned or acquired or — Max’s skin prickled as it clicked in his head. The magic circle. He had become connected to it. He would have figured it out sooner but, between threats from Hull and having faced the dangerous floors of Baxter House, his brain had suffered a bit of fatigue.
Crouching by the circle, he hovered his fingers over the paint. He had no desire to see that horned-creature again. But what choice did he have? He could only stall so long, and even if the rest of the plan worked, they still needed the gold.
Modesto stepped up behind Max. “My employer does not have a lot of patience this evening. I strongly advise you to open this floor at once.”
Closing his eyes, Max touched the circle. And nothing happened. He pressed his palm on the paint. Still nothing.
Straightening, Max winced at the idea forming in his head. He put out a hand toward Rolson. “Give me the sledgehammer.”
Rolson lifted his head. “If you think you’re stronger than me, you’re crazier than I ever thought.”
“Do as he says,” Tucker snapped and Rolson moved fast enough to create a breeze.
Holding the sledgehammer, Max entered the circle. Again, nothing happened. Max frowned. He had expected something big — flashes of magical energy or bolts of lightning or a loud, ghostly thumping. But he recalled the way Tucker had avoided the circle. Perhaps simply standing inside unharmed proved enough of the connection.
Then his entire body seized. His muscles constricted, spit flew from his mouth, and his limbs shook. Instead of crying out, he could only manage a weak gurgle.
His head arched back. Floating on the ceiling, he saw the horned-beast. It pushed off and soared toward him. Max wanted to duck, but he had no control over his shaking body.
Except the beast did not touch him. It circled around him. The connection between them returned. Max’s thoughts flooded with images — some his own, some from elsewhere. He saw birthday parties and children running in a field. He saw Sandra’s joy as she held an engagement ring. He saw an ugly face lurking from a bedroom door and children throwing rocks at windows. He saw a train car full of gold.
Each image hit like a fist to the head. Yet Max endured — he had to make use of this moment. He had to stay focused. There seemed to be a pause between images, and when he felt the next pause arrive, Max did his best to form his own image — a message for the beast.
When his mind cleared, Max’s control over his own body returned. He couldn’t be sure that the spirit understood what he intended to do, but he hoped it wouldn’t be angry with him. Only one way to really prove anything, though. Max raised the sledgehammer and brought it down on the wood inside the circle. It smashed through with ease.
Rolson cheered while Modesto offered a slight lifting of the lips. Tucker watched without expression.
Twice more Max brought the sledgehammer down. Twice more the floor gave way, sending splinters of wood flying off. Max peered down, reached through the hole, and pulled out a gold bar.
Dropping the sledgehammer in order to use both hands, he carried the bar outside the circle and placed it on the floor with a heavy thud. Tucker moved in close to the gold. “Get the rest.”
Over the next fifteen minutes, Max brought out bar after bar. Forty bars in all. When he reached down and found nothing, he said, “That’s it.”
“The chest,” Tucker said. “Where’s the chest?”
Max pressed his face to the floor and peered in. “Nothing else down here. Sorry.”
“Damn!” Tucker stomped over to Rolson and kicked him in the side. To Modesto, he said, “Get moving.”
Modesto pressed his palm against a stone in the wall and a door slid aside. He rolled out a flatbed dolly and loaded it with the gold. As Modesto worked, Tucker glared at Max. Once the last gold bar clinked onto the pile, Modesto exerted all his strength to push the dolly through the door. He did not return.
“Hold on here,” Max said, staring at the door in disbelief. “We could’ve all come in through there?”
With a mocking sneer, Tucker said, “You don’t think I’d be stupid enough to go through Baxter’s sick little maze, do you? You don’t think Baxter would go through it, for that matter? Didn’t you look at the blueprints?”
“I didn’t have much time.” Max shot a nasty look at Rolson. “What’s your excuse?”
Tucker clutched his hands behind his back. “Don’t feel bad. It was really a small note added to indicate the existence of a safe passage — not something drawn in. Most of the construction crew probably had little knowledge of it.” He walked in front of Rolson. “Now, you have one last task, and after that, you may go wherever you wish, do whatever you wish, continue working for us or not. You will be a free man.”
Rolson popped to his feet. “Anything. What do you want?”
“Kill Mr. Porter, of course.”
Rolson raised his weapon and pointed it at Max. “On your knees. Slowly, now. No sudden movements.”
Max lowered to his knees. “Come on. Be smart about this.”
“Shut up. You’ve been a pain in my ass since I met you.
Turn around. This has to look like a professional hit.”
Looking straight at Rolson, Max said, “Have you been listening to any of this? There’s a door that bypassed all those damn floors. They knew about it all along. They knew how to get down here but didn’t tell you. You could have died on your way down, but they didn’t tell you. Doesn’t that show what they think of you? How can you trust them to set you free? How do you know they won’t simply kill you next?’
Rolson lowered the gun a little. Max could see the doubts entering the old detective’s brain.
Tucker snickered. “Mr. Modesto warned me how you think. Always accusing my family of the worst intentions. You think we murder people with ease. We do not. The fact that you’ve lived this long is proof. Rolson and those loyal like him are rewarded for their help, not punished. You, however, have not been loyal. You’ve tried to hurt us many times. And while we do not murder with ease, that doesn’t mean we won’t when necessary. All I see with you is one mounting trouble after another. This way is much better. Kill him. Do it now and you will walk away here owing nothing to Hull family.”
Rolson raised the gun again — firmer, more determined. Max tried to find something to say that would stall the moment. Anything that might create a little time. But his mind went blank. He could only think of the dark hole at the end of the handgun — that soon he would see a flash of fire, and long before he heard a sound, he would feel his head crack back, and he would be no more.
His heart raced, and he put his hand to his chest. Chest? “Don’t shoot. I know where the chest is.”
Tucker leaped forward and shoved Rolson’s gun out of the way. A bullet shot off digging into the stone wall. Warning off Rolson with a look, Tucker pointed to Max. “If you are lying to stay alive, you’ll wish I had let Rolson shoot you. I can make you suffer greatly — and for far longer than is possible in the natural world.”
“I have no doubt about that.” Max paled with honest fear. Especially because while not technically lying, he hadn’t really told the truth, either. He had an idea of where the chest might be, but he didn’t know for sure.