by Stuart Jaffe
He opened the door and stepped in.
The Other Room was another guest room — enough space to place a twin bed, a bedside table, and a small chest of drawers on the side. One window spread sunlight into the dingy interior. The walls were covered in wallpaper from another era, brown vertical designs that hid dirt better than brighten the room. In the back corner, a Japanese tri-fold screen stood with a delicate painting of two birds on a ghostly limb. At the foot of the bed, a rocking chair faced the window. Max saw a man sitting in the chair.
"Mr. Corkille?" he said, his voice distant and inconsequential. "Howard Corkille?"
The rocking stopped and a single hand emerged from the side to gesture Max closer. When Max obliged, he saw a man hunched over, covered in wrinkles and age spots, destroyed by a lifetime over a century too long. The man peered up and grinned.
"Nice to see a different face," he said. He spoke with a sickening crackle that underscored every word.
Max's muscles refused to move. The man sitting before him frightened him as if he looked upon the living dead — not a rotting zombie from the movies, but rather a warm, fully fleshed but decrepit human being. Max feared to shake the offered hand, feared it might crumble in his grip.
Perhaps reading Max's expression, Corkille said, "Don't worry. You can't hurt me. Nothing can."
"The curse?" Max said, shaking the coarse, dried hand lightly.
"Oh, yes. I didn't believe in magic and curses and such until I tangled with the Hull family. Now, I know. When I was first put under this curse, I tried to prove it wasn't true." Corkille pulled back his sleeve to show long scars stretching from the crook of his arm to his wrist. "The skin would just seal back up. I once bought a shotgun and thought to blow my head off. It jammed. Every time I pointed it at myself, it jammed. Point it at the wall, no problem." Corkille gestured to the scattered holes in the wall. "Point it at myself — click."
"I can't imagine."
"After awhile, I stopped trying. Then I just got older and older. My body got weaker. My eyesight's remained. Thank the Lord for that. My hearing sucks. I smell horrible. Bladder control went out ninety years ago. Everything's failing little by little. But my mind won't ever go. Curses work that way, y'see. It won't let me have the pleasure of escaping any of this through dementia. I have to experience it every step. And I'm tired. I just want to die, just close my eyes and sleep forever."
When Corkille closed his eyes, Max thought he might fall asleep. He thought he had to keep Corkille talking, but with his next question, he found that Corkille was eager to talk with anybody. Isolation can have that effect.
"And you need the painting?" Max asked.
Corkille looked at his hands. "Painting was my life. I loved it since I was a boy. I remember an artist traveling through town, stopping wherever to do portraits to make a little money — that's when it all started for me. He gave me a brush and he taught me a bit. I caught the bug.
"My father was dead and my mother, she supported me. We worked hard to pull together enough money to get me schooled. And I learned to paint.
"I suppose some psychiatrist would blame it on being raised poor, would say that's why I took to forging. Maybe it's a little true. I certainly was attracted to the money and to thumbing my nose at the art world — they can be such asses. I don't know if this is true for all criminals, but for some of us, for me, there was an attraction to breaking laws. Not that I wanted to go hurting people but that I discovered a sense of freedom, a sense of invulnerability, that I've never found at any other time in my life.
"Felt it right up until the moment that witch came along and laid a curse upon me. But then, you know all about this kind of thing."
Through deadening eyes, Corkille stared straight at Max. Max fought the urge to flee. "What do you mean?"
"No need to play games, Mr. Porter."
"You know who I am?"
Corkille cracked a sly grin that could have belonged to Melinda on any day. "Do you think you're the only one who does research? I was cursed by a witch that worked for the Hull family. I pay attention to anything involving those two."
"You've been watching me."
"Not me personally. I'm too old for that. But, yes, since you first moved down here. That whole business with Stan Bowman and the Drummond curse — I followed you through every step. You handled yourself well, and I thought even back then that if I needed your type of services, I wouldn't hesitate to call. And now I need you."
Max shook his head. "Wait. You didn't call me. I found you. You've been hiding out all this time, not trying to contact me."
"True, I did not try to contact you. Not true, that I've just been hiding out here. I've been searching for that painting for many years."
"What's so important about it?"
"This is dangerous. I had hoped to avoid involving you, and I feared doing so would gain the attentions of Hull or the witch, but it seems they already are paying attention. So, now that we're talking, now that I've met you in person, I think you are the perfect man to find that painting."
Max leaned against the window frame with an exasperated sigh. "Really? I'm the perfect man? Is this a joke? No one will even tell me why some painting that has no apparent value is so important. And I'm perfect. So, why do you want it?"
"To help break this curse, of course. Surely, by now, you've come to understand that much. Why else would a witch be involved if not for magic? Why else would an occultist like Hull care so much? Listen, I will pay you double your fee, and I promise that when you find me that painting, you'll have plenty more."
The bedroom door burst open. "What the hell are you doing in here?" Melinda Corkille said, her face taut and red.
Max stammered but Howard turned towards her, raised his hands in celebration, and said, "My dear, we've just hired Mr. Porter."
Chapter 13
When Max walked into his office, Sandra and Drummond turned, ready to launch into whatever business they wanted to share. One look at his stunned face stopped them. As he explained what happened since they had argued, their faces also dropped into shock.
After Max finished, nobody said a word. The only sound was the droning buzz of a fan Sandra had set on her desk. Drummond was the first to break the silence. "So, we're working for Corkille now?"
"I think so," Max said. "I think his side of this story is the most honest."
"You know he's lying about something, though, right?"
"Don't they always?"
Drummond clapped his hands. "There you go. That's what I like. Healthy skepticism. I can see now that I'm doing a bang-up job. Teaching you perfectly."
"I guess," Sandra said, "it's time for me to earn my keep."
Max shook his head. "Can we not start in on that fight right now?"
"I wasn't being sarcastic. And considering all of this Corkille stuff, I think you'll be very happy with what I have to say."
"Hey," Drummond said. "I was part of this, too."
"I haven't forgotten."
"One of you tell me," Max said.
Sandra puffed up a little. "I think we've found the painting."
Until he heard those words from his wife's lovely lips, Max didn't think his day could get any weirder. So many questions flooded his brain that he shut down, staring stupefied at his wife. The ghost behind her spoke first.
"I'm the one who figured out the name change."
Max snapped to. "What name change?"
Drummond slid into his chair, kicked up his feet, and said, "I've been spending a lot of time with ghosts lately, trying to find out whatever I can about Corkille and Sullivan and everything else. A lot of them, not all ghosts, but a lot of them moan and groan about the lives they had. Just a bunch of pansies. And they cry on about how many people came to their funerals and who said what and so forth. I was trying to have a pleasant conversation with this figure skater who cracked her neck on the ice, poor thing was only twenty-three, beautiful gal who had a promising career. Great mouth, too. Smile
that just melted me."
"The point, please."
"Oh, right. Anyway, we were just talking and I was about to lay a good line on her, the kind that would've led to a date without a doubt, when this old lady floats by wailing and wailing about being dead. I lost it. You know, sometimes these things just build up inside you and her little tirade set me off. I yelled at her. And she turned to me with such hatred and self-pity and she said, 'I'm sure you had a wonderful funeral with plenty of people to cry for you, but not me. I was a good person and only three mourners came. Just three.' She yapped on, but I didn't hear any of it. Because it hit me just then — what if the painting was actually called 'Mourning in Red,' as in at a funeral?"
Sandra flitted about with sudden energy like an excited schoolgirl. "When Drummond told me about his idea, I just knew he was right. We did some searches but came up empty. Then we tried some of the art dealer forums, and guess who we found to be looking for the same painting?"
Max looked at the floor. "Gold," he said as if he could shoot the name into the art gallery below.
"Bingo. But it doesn't look like he's had any success."
Drummond said, "Gold's not looking under the right name. He's still just an idiot."
Sandra continued, "The name is a big part of it, but then I realized that we were searching the wrong way. This painting is not a valuable painting. The artist isn't well-known. Nothing we've been told indicates that anybody not involved with this whole curse even knows the painting exists. It's not a famous painting. It's common. So, we should go where we little common folk go."
"First, we checked eBay," Drummond said with a twinkle of pride at using computer lingo, "but nobody had listed it."
"This is my part of the story," Sandra said.
"Sorry."
"Next we went to craigslist, and again we found nothing. And then I decided to post on craigslist myself. I simply named the painting and how much I'd pay for it. Don't worry, not much — but then, it isn't worth that much to most people."
"And we got a hit."
"Drummond!"
"I'm sorry, but I'm just as happy as you are."
Max waved off their little spat. "You got a hit? Where? When? Heck, who?"
Sandra said, "A guy named Chris Thorne, and he lives just north of us in Virginia. We only need to set up a time and place to exchange for the painting."
"Don't you usually send a check and get it in the mail?"
"Do you really want to risk it that way, or do the whole thing in person?"
"I guess we're taking a little trip to Virginia. When do we go?"
"He should e-mail me tonight."
"Great," Max said. "You've both done a great job."
Sandra kissed Max on the cheek. "Since we can't do anything about the painting until we get the e-mail, why don't we do a bit of premature celebration. Care for an early dinner and some alcohol? I think we could both use it."
"Hey," Drummond said. "That's not very fair to me."
Sandra rolled out her bottom lip. "So sorry. But there's not much we can actually do for you, is there?"
"You could quit mocking me. And you don't have to rub it in all the time. I know I'm a ghost."
Max put his arm around Sandra's shoulder. He knew things were not suddenly okay between them, and he knew she was aware of it, too. But one thing he had learned through the course of their marriage — some days it paid more to let the ugly stuff slide away for a while. To Drummond, he said, "We'll be back later to check on that e-mail."
* * * *
Dinner was a pleasant affair. They went to Fourth Street and enjoyed the Italian wonders of Dioli's Trattoria. Despite the shadow of the witch's impending midnight meeting looming over him, Max managed to push fear away long enough to eat. He drank in the beauty of his wife and the joy of her success, and he felt capable of facing the witch. If all went well, within the next day or two, he would have that painting, this case would be over, he'd get paid, and life would become easier. If.
By the time he wiped cannoli crumbs from his mouth, the fears had resurfaced. Sandra knew, of course — she took one look at his troubled face and he saw her understanding. He shook his head, and she stayed quiet.
They went home, watched some nonsense on television, and when it was time that they normally would get dressed for bed, Max donned his coat. This time, however, Sandra did not stay quiet. "I'm coming with you," she said, and Max knew better than to argue. Besides, if he was honest with himself, he wanted her along.
Twenty minutes later, they sat in their car across the street from the witch's office. "It was about a year ago that we were sitting here like this," Max said.
"Yeah," Sandra said. "This time feels worse."
Max watched the digital clock in his car stereo add another minute. "Yeah," he whispered. With only two minutes until midnight, Max stepped out of the car. The 'door ajar' bell chimed repeatedly, its sharp tone standing out in the quiet night air.
"How long should I wait?" Sandra asked.
"Until I either come out or you hear me screaming."
"That's not funny."
"Wasn't meant to be," he said and walked toward the office.
It never got easier — crossing that small parking lot in the dead of night. He had done this several times, and each instance twisted his nerves into a ball of wriggling worms. He hated the witch's office — hated that he never knew what he would find when he opened the door.
The cool night air prickled his skin, and when he reached the overhang, he wondered if he might be better off turning around and leaving. Yes, the witch promised important information, but she had done terrible things before — cursing him would be the least of her sins. Still, the desperation in her eyes that morning led Max to believe that this was no trap. The question that plagued him, though, was What exactly is this?
The door was unlocked. Max touched the knob, his fingers trembling over the rusting metal, and pushed the door in.
The darkness in the waiting room neared pitch black. If not for the lone candle at the far end of the hall, Max would have seen nothing. But she wanted him to see a little bit. That much was clear. She had left a blatant marker, and as Max headed down the hall, as his gut tightened around the remnants of dinner, he considered that the drunken soul he had seen that morning might have been acting.
When he reached the candle, he smelled incense burning from the closed office door. "Come in," Dr. Connor called.
Last chance, he thought, looking back down the hall.
But the office door opened, and Dr. Connor stood before him wearing a black gown and looking more in control of herself. Four clusters of candles lit the room, one cluster at the mid-point of each wall. They cast competing shadows behind her as she stepped back and gestured to one of the two chairs facing each other in the center.
"You seem much better than this morning," Max said as he leaned against the entryway. The warmth of the candles pressing against him matched the pain in his stomach pushing to get out.
"I was not at my best," she said with a fluttering chuckle. "But I want to thank you. You've given me a little ray of hope, and that has made me feel much, much better."
"I did?"
"Only fitting since you were the one who destroyed me."
The ice in her voice struck out at Max, reminding him that no matter what, this woman should only be seen as dangerous. "What do you want?" he asked.
"Information, of course. Isn't that what you trade in?"
"I don't have anything for you."
"You definitely do. And in exchange, as promised, I will tell you what Terrance Hull is doing and why it is vital to you and your interests."
Despite his pounding heart, Max acted as if none of this mattered. "Fine. You go first."
Dr. Connor licked her lips and said, "Please, sit down." With a sweeping motion, she went to her desk and reached underneath. A string quartet piped in from ceiling speakers. Max didn't recognize the piece but it was a somber, slightly dissonan
t sound that made the witch appear more devious, more of a threat.
Exactly what she wants.
"Come now," she said, stepping toward the chairs. "I promise I won't curse you tonight."
"How comforting."
The idea of heading further into this spider's web did not appeal to Max, but he wanted to hear what she had to say. There were so many loose threads, and if this witch would tie some of it together, even just one or two things, he had to take a few chances. No risk, no reward — Drummond would be proud.
When Max settled into his chair. Connor sat opposite him. "I'm sure Howard Corkille has told you his pathetic little story. He probably even told you some of the truth. But what you should know is that Terrance Hull is not seeking the painting as some sort of retribution upon Corkille for deceiving his grandfather. He never even liked the old man that much. No, Terrance Hull needs to find the painting for the same reason he needed to get his journal back a year ago. They are two of three key charms to a powerful spell. I was to cast that spell, but because of you, Hull is not as confident in me as he once was. When you help me get this painting back to him," she said, her eyes turned toward the ceiling as if peering into the future, "he will care about me again."
"So, what's this spell?"
"Simply to raise Tucker Hull back from the grave with more power than he ever had when alive, to restore him to his place as the head of the Hull family, but this time, with an enormous fortune to wield."
"Is that all?"
Dr. Connor curled her lip. "For now."
"And you actually think I'll help you do this?"
She placed her middle finger on Max's forehead and slid it down to the tip of his nose. "You will be eager to help me."
Max swore she kept speaking, but he could not hear anything. A weight pressed into his body as if a sandbag had been dumped into his lap. At first, he thought it was fear taking over. As Dr. Connor edged back, concentrating on him and mouthing silent words, he knew the weight was not fear but some kind of spell.
"Stop this." He tried to lift his arms but they wouldn't budge from his side.
"I just need to ensure that you won't do anything rash."