by Stuart Jaffe
“What? Magic and witches?”
“All of it. I thought with the Hulls gone, these problems would settle down. I’m not stupid. I didn’t think they’d disappear entirely, but shouldn’t they have become — I don’t know — less?”
Sandra laced her fingers through his and leaned her head on his shoulder. “We’ll figure this out. You know that. We always do. And you know exactly how we’re going to do it, too.”
He couldn’t hold back a smile. “Push straight on through.”
“Damn right.”
Man, he loved that woman. “Okay.”
“We keep at it until we win.”
“Right on, Coach.”
“Good,” she said, and Max thought she was going to turn in for a deep kiss — one that would lead them to a more intimate evening. Instead, her brow tightened and her playful smile drifted into a serious expression. “I have an idea of where to start.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Really? I haven’t even said anything yet, and you’re going to start doubting me?”
Max raised his hands in surrender. “Sorry. I’ve been through a lot today.”
Softer, she said, “See that? You’re handling it all so well, I forgot what happened to you.” She clasped his hand again. “Okay. Here it is: I think we should take what we know, especially what I know about the writing on the bone, and we take it to a witch. Get an expert to tell us what’s going on.”
“A witch? What witch? They’re practically extinct around here. We’ve known less than a handful — and that includes your limited dabbling and a coven of dead witches.”
“But you were beaten up today by the Magi.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
Like a teacher with enormous patience, she said, “The Hulls were ousted from their power only a short time ago. That’s not enough time for any one group to fill the vacuum. Mother Hope and the Magi can’t be the only ones. You think it’s a coincidence that they suddenly have a case for us, that they strong arm you this way, or that some fool like Edward Wallace appears on the scene out of nowhere?”
“You’re saying we’re in the middle of a power struggle.”
“Absolutely. I don’t how these dead guys from the 1700s are connected, but you better believe they are. If I’ve learned anything from you and Drummond these past years, it’s that there are no coincidences.”
She was right — like usual — but that didn’t make the idea of visiting a witch any more palatable. “Even if I wanted to take what we have to a witch, we don’t know anyone other than your friend, Maria, and you’re not in the best place with her. Heck, if you were, she probably would still refuse us after everything we put her through on our last case.”
“I’ll find somebody new to talk with. The Hulls are gone, nobody is in control yet, so the witches don’t have to hide like before. They don’t have to go through Dr. Connor or anybody before casting a powerful spell. It’s open season out there.”
Max popped to his feet. “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“I don’t mean it like that. Do you see witchcraft shootouts going on? No. I simply mean we can have a witch on our side, casting spells if we need, and nobody’ll be looking over our shoulder. The witches are coming out, and we can use them to learn about that bone.”
“Great — first, Dr. Connor, then Mother Hope, and now mystery witch. In case you forgot, I don’t have a good history with witches.”
“You’ve done fine with me.”
“You’re not a witch.”
“Not yet.”
Max dropped by her side, on his knees, his hands locked on either side of her. He had never sounded so cold in his life. “You listen to me. It’s one thing to learn some basic spells to help us fight that world. It’s another thing to start studying it to become a witch. A real witch. I mean, we’ve called you that before, but I never meant it like I think you’re starting to.”
“I can be a good witch. I don’t have to learn the dark stuff.”
“You really think you’re the first to say that? We’ve been warned about witchcraft and we’ve both seen what can happen. Look at how it ruined Dr. Connor.”
She took Max’s face in her hands, and with a placating tone, she said, “Stop worrying. I am not an evil person, I am not working for the Hulls, and I am not Dr. Connor. If — and I’m saying if — I choose to study witchcraft further than the basics, then I promise you, I’ll do it responsibly. In the meantime, we have a case to solve, and we’re going to need a witch’s help.”
Max let out a sigh. He had said all he could. If he tried to “lay down the law” and forbid her from delving further into witchcraft, she would laugh at him — after she slapped his face and screamed bloody murder at him for an hour. She had heard his concerns, and he trusted she would do her best to keep them in mind as she pushed on.
In the end, he knew she was right about it all. They needed her to learn what she could on witchcraft. They needed to push through like they had done so in the past. They needed each other to be on the same side. And, for now, they needed a witch.
“One more thing,” she said, unable to mask the hesitancy in her voice.
“What now?”
“Your mother.”
“What about her?”
“She needs to go home.”
Max’s face dropped open. “You know I can’t ask her to do that. She just got here. Besides, I thought I’d done a good job of keeping her out of your hair.”
“This isn’t about me, and you know it. Look at the argument we just had. Look at the bruises on your body. Look at the people we’re talking about. Hulls and Magi and Mother Hope, not to mention Drummond — how are you going to explain any of that to your mother?”
“Why does she have to know about anything?”
“She doesn’t. That’s my point. Send her home, promise to visit in a few months, and you don’t have to worry about her getting involved. But the longer she stays here, the more chances she has of bumping into things. What if J accidentally says something? What if she snoops around your desk one afternoon?”
“She’s not a snooper.”
“If she finds out any of what we do, if she learns that you talk to a ghost, she’s liable to think you’ve lost your mind and have you committed.”
Max turned to the bedroom door. “I can’t believe you’re asking me to turn my own mother away.”
“Don’t be dramatic. You know I’m not like that.”
He turned back, his anger rising even while he knew she had a point. His mother would be better off back home, and their chaotic lives would be simpler to handle. But after all the times they had ignored her efforts to visit, the fact that it got to the point where she showed up unannounced, Max had to admit that he felt guilty. Guilt mixed with anger — not a good combination.
“I am not telling my mother she’s not welcome here. You two have never liked each other, and that’s fine. But don’t put me in the middle of it.”
“This has nothing to do with that.”
“Of course it does. Anything involving my mother causes you to stiffen up. You act uncomfortable in your own house, uncomfortable around me, and you find every excuse to be somewhere else.”
“It’s not like that,” she said, but she rolled her shoulders in an attempt to relax her stiffened back.
Max tried to ease back his voice. “Look, it’s okay. I’m not suggesting you have to become buddies, and I don’t mind playing interference for you. But it’s not fair for you to insist that I send her home when she just got here. It’s not right.”
Sandra jumped to her feet, turned toward the bed, and punched her pillow. “You’re not listening. I’m not saying any of that.”
“Then what?”
When she turned back, her eyes blazed. “Forget it. You do what you want.” She stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door shut.
Max slouched, stunned by the sudden end to their argument. Th
at wasn’t how things usually went between them in a fight. Normally, they would keep at it until they worked through the problem. Then they made up with a kiss and often a trip to bed. It was a pattern of behavior that Sandra had broken, and Max’s stomach twisted at the sound of the bathroom fan whirring away — a sound, he suspected, meant to mask her anger or her tears.
That didn’t go well, he thought as he stepped into the hall — no reason to force his wife’s isolation in the bathroom. Once she realized he had left, she would at least have the bedroom to pace. He went downstairs, intending to get a glass of water — all that yelling had dried out his throat — but then he heard his mother and J talking in the office.
He stopped at the kitchen entrance. With his office adjacent, they would see him the moment he passed through the kitchen, and from their tones, he didn’t want to intrude.
“I worry about him,” J said. “He’s been through a lot.”
Max turned to go back upstairs, but he stayed still.
“Of course, you worry,” Mrs. Porter said. “We all worry for those we care about. It’s natural.”
“PB’s been my friend for a long time. I mean I know I’m young and all, but that don’t mean he isn’t close to me. You know?”
“I do.”
“When I found out that bullet hit him, I didn’t know what I’d do. And if he had died —”
“Then you’d carry on. That’s what good people do. Death happens, but there’s nothing honorable in killing yourself because your friend died.”
Max heard the shock in J’s voice. “No, no. That’s not what I meant. I’d never off myself. But if something happened to PB, I’d seriously think about offing the bastard who dared —”
“Watch your mouth,” Mrs. Porter snapped, and Max cringed as if she would reach out to slap him upside the head.
“Yes, ma’am. Sorry.”
“J, whenever someone we love is hurt, we all feel the desire to defend our loved one or to have revenge. But that never works. If you ever lose PB, don’t go that route. You have to suck up the pain and move on.” She gave a knowing chuckle. “There’s an old saying that the best revenge is to live well. That’s what you should do — live well.”
“Is that what you’re doing?”
There was a lengthy pause. Max thought he could hear his mother’s soft gulp. “What do you mean?” she said.
“Hey, I thought we were being honest here. Just because Max is too busy to see what’s going on, doesn’t mean I can’t see it. Tell me what happened.”
“It’s not like that. I’m not seeking revenge. But I am trying to live well, to keeping living on.”
“You lost someone?”
“I did,” Mrs. Porter said, and Max reached for the wall to steady himself. “It’s no fun getting old. The world changes around you, and for a while, while you’re still young, you can keep up with the changes. But that next generation is nipping at your heels, and the next thing you know, nothing is done the way it was when you were growing up. Everything seems wrong, and you fear for the future because those idiot kids can’t possibly run the world successfully — not with their crazy, unrealistic ideas. Of course, the generation before mine thought the same thing.
“The worst part of getting old, though, is that all your friends get old, too. And then they start to go away. One by one, year after year, until you’re living alone in a cold, rural town in Michigan, and you have only one friend left.
“Her name was Deena Hart. She moved to Michigan after her husband died because her children lived nearby. We met one afternoon at a charity drive for the fire department. One of those chicken dinner things. Anyway, you’ll see when you’re my age — you go to a function and there’s somebody with as many wrinkles as you, and you instantly want to see if there’s a friendship to be had because nobody else shares the frame of reference you have for anything. And we clicked — same tastes in music and movies, both of us loved to read, and we both indulged each other in getting drunk and reminiscing about our dead husbands.”
Max bent over and tried to breathe slowly, but each time he imagined the scene his mother portrayed, he felt sharp pains in his lungs. How many times had she called him and he brushed her off? How many times had those calls been the desperate cry of his lonely mother?
J said, “So you two hooked up?”
“What? No. I’m not like that.” Max expected his mother to launch into a lecture that J would never forget — not because of its coherence but because of its vehemence. Instead, she made a soft, thoughtful sound. “You prove my point.”
“I did?”
“Your question about me and Deena — somebody from my generation or older would never ask such a thing. Most wouldn’t even consider the possibility. But your generation has less of a problem with gay people. See? Times change.
“Anyway, no, we were not lovers. We were just two old ladies who enjoyed each other’s company and felt lucky for it. We knew we had nobody else.”
“She’s gone now, right?”
“Two weeks ago. Heart attack. She had just been to the doctor, too — got a clean bill of health. But at our age, what can you do? We don’t live forever.”
“So you came here to be with your family. That’s nice.”
“I don’t think my son feels the same. Certainly, not his wife.” With an exhausted huff, she said, “I don’t know what I’m going to do next, though. I suppose I’ll go back home. For a little, at least. See if I can find a new friend.”
“Pick a younger one.”
Mrs. Porter laughed. “I’ll try to remember that. But who knows? Maybe I’ll sell my house and travel. I never saw as much of the world as I wanted.”
“Or maybe you can stay here. I sure would like that.”
“You’re sweet. But I don’t feel so welcome here.”
Max hurried back to the stairs. Tears dampened his cheeks. Halfway up, he stopped. Sandra would be in no mood for another conversation that might devolve into a fight. He turned back and stopped. He should not have eavesdropped in the first place, and he wasn’t sure he could handle hearing anything more. He looked upstairs, then down. Finally, he sat on the lip of one stair and leaned his head against the banister.
Chapter 11
The next morning started earlier than Max had wanted. Sandra nudged his shoulder before dawn, rousing him from an uncomfortable night on the couch, and informed him that she had arranged a meeting with a witch in Lexington. She had the coffee ready when he finished his shower. Lest he think things were okay between them, her mouth never rose above a thin, straight line. Not that he felt all that forgiving either.
As they left, Max jotted a quick note to his mother. He promised to take her for a better lunch later in the day, and that with any luck, he would be able to carve out a full day soon. He taped the note to the coffee machine and headed out.
Driving down Route 52, Max and Sandra kept quiet. The radio remained off. Only the tires rumbling along the highway made any sound.
“Are you two sleepy or fighting?” Coming from the back seat, Drummond’s voice jolted Max.
“Sheesh, you trying to kill me?” Max said with more force than he intended. “How long have you been back there?”
Drummond tilted his hat back. “I see. Fighting.”
“Careful,” Sandra said as she stared out the passenger window. “You don’t want to poke your pale nose into this.”
“Not trying to. But I assumed when you told me to be here this morning, it’s because you needed me for something, right?”
“We’re going to visit a witch — Madame Yan. I figured it was best if we all went.”
“You’re right about that, Doll. Silly for the two of you to go without some supernatural backup.”
“My thoughts exactly. Nice to see I’m on the same wavelength as somebody in this group.”
Max would have rolled his eyes, but he thought it best to pay attention to the road. Drummond went on, “What do we know about this Madame Yan?”
“Not much,” Sandra admitted. “I found her on the Internet.”
“What?” Max said. “I thought you knew her or had a recommendation.”
“Oh, so now you want me to be a witch so I can provide a good recommendation.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s exactly what you meant.” Sandra crossed her arms. “Make up your mind. Either it’s too dangerous or you’ll trust me to be able to handle it. But don’t start wanting me to be a witch when it suits you.”
Max started to speak, then thought better of it. At length, he asked Drummond, “You have any luck with your ghost?”
“I got it all set up for later. Don’t worry.”
“Gee, why would I ever worry?”
“Hey, you two want to have a fight, that’s your business. Don’t take it out on me.”
Max took the ramp onto Route 8, made a left, and headed straight into Lexington. The sun was up, and the morning traffic had begun. They drove by a used car dealership lined with flags, an old factory with a FOR LEASE sign hanging in massive lettering, and a small building with the original name GUN SHOP painted on the side.
Max knew the area because of his forays into the wonders of Lexington barbecue. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, his mouth salivated at the thought of pulled-pork drenched in tangy, vinegar-based wonderfulness. He wanted to say that they should have set this meeting for lunchtime, but under the circumstances, he thought it best to keep quiet.
As they drove by Speedy’s, a top quality barbecue joint, Sandra pointed to Rainbow Street. “Make a right here.”
They turned up a narrow lane into a poorer section. All the homes were small with small yards — some with chain-link fencing, some with old trees, many littered with toys, bikes, or half-built cars.
Sandra pointed to a faded-yellow rancher. “That’s the place.” A station wagon that probably looked old in the 1980s sat in the drive. Max pulled up behind.
As they exited the car, Max noticed that the usual trappings of a witch’s home were missing. No arcane symbols painted on the walkway or near the edge of the steps. No subtle yet ominous charms hanging on the porch — bones chimes or dreamcatchers or mojo bags. No line of salt across the lip of the front entranceway.