by Stuart Jaffe
"I still have Hull's journal."
"If you tire of my threats, I tire more of your attempt to hold that over us. Some things are simply worth the risks. You wouldn't understand. You don't take real risks. You let others do your dirty work. Drummond or your wife."
"Shut up."
"Without them, what are you really? A boy who can research things. Based on your less than impressive skill regarding the handbell, I question even that much of your ability. You are nothing without your wife's gifts and your ghost's connection to the supernatural world. Nothing."
Max couldn't help it. He shoved Modesto's shoulders hard enough to send the man back a few steps. "You've delivered your message, errand boy. You can go now."
Modesto brushed his shoulders and stepped closer to Max. In a low tone, he said, "Tomorrow evening. Bring the bell here or run for your life." He shoved Max in the chest, and Max fell down onto the sidewalk. "Good day."
As Modesto walked away, Max got back to his feet, coughing and sneezing all the way up. Drummond drifted to his side. "Want me give him a brain-freeze he'll never forget?"
"Forget him." Max headed inside. "Hunting down family trinkets doesn't rate too high on my list of pressing issues. Besides, if we don't fix this coven problem, nothing much will matter since we'll probably be cursed or dead."
"You got a good point."
They walked into the office to find Sandra sitting bolt upright. She turned her head toward them — lips pale and cracked, eyes unblinking, sweat-soaked hair plastered to her head. All thoughts of covens and bells and Hulls and Modesto washed away from Max's mind. He lunged to her side and felt waves of cold air coming off her.
Wrapping a blanket around her shoulders, he said, "What's going on? Are you sick?"
"I'm fine," she said in a voice as dead as her eyes.
"We need to get you to a hospital."
"No. I want to stay." She looked to Drummond, an odd smile crossing her face. "Is this the cold you feel? The cold of the dead?"
Drummond put his hands in his pockets and floated back. "Sweetheart, you need to listen to your husband. Something's wrong here. You should see a doctor."
"They've never helped me before." She laughed — a hard, unusual sound that ended in a drunken snort. "I'd be better off at the church."
Drummond paled. "What the hell?"
Max turned to Drummond. "You ever seen anything like this?"
"Have you?" Drummond asked. "If I had to guess, I'd say those witches did something to her before they left. Cursed her, maybe. But I've never seen a curse like this."
"All the more reason to go visit our old friend."
Sandra perked up. "Oh, where are we going?"
"Not you, hon."
"But I want to come along."
"I'm going to see a doctor. You want to see a doctor?"
She pouted. "No."
"Okay, then. Please stay here and we'll be back soon."
"Make sure Drummond comes back. I've got a lot questions about the afterlife for him."
With that said, Sandra returned to the stark position and expression she had been in when they first entered. Max stared at her, waiting for a small glimmer of Sandra to appear. As he watched her with an ache in his chest worsening every second, he held back his tears.
Kissing her cold cheek, he said, "We're going to help you. Hang on for me, hon. You hear me? Hang on, and I'll stop whatever this is. I love you." He kissed her again before storming down the hall and toward the car.
* * * *
The last time Max stood in Dr. Connor's office, she had become a drunken hag, crawling on the floor for a nip of whiskey. The last time he talked with her, she had sobered up and regained the limited trust of the Hull family. While she certainly had not returned to her glory days, he now saw that she had risen far closer to that goal than ever before.
On the surface, her office looked like any optometrist's office — an uninspired waiting room with a chest-high reception desk and a red-headed woman in a nurse's uniform sitting behind it. An elderly man with thick glasses and an overbite sat on a couch reading an old issue of Sports Illustrated — swimsuit issue, of course. Over the speakers, radio station 98.7 ("We Play Everything") had Styx urging everyone to sail away into outer-space. Underneath, however, Max knew the real business at hand — witchcraft.
Rapping his knuckles on the desk, Max said, "Hi, there. Will you please tell Dr. Connor that Max Porter is here to see her?"
"Do you have an appointment?" the receptionist asked, tapping on her computer keyboard. "I don't see a Porter here. It is P-O-R-T-E-R, yes?"
"I don't have an appointment."
"Then I'm sorry, but Dr. Connor has a full schedule today."
"I'm sure she does. I'm equally sure that she'll drop everything once you mention my name."
The receptionist faltered. Max felt sorry for her since he had put her in a bind. She clearly wanted to turn him away, perhaps even thought that made the most sense, but there existed this slim chance that she should inform Dr. Connor. But if Dr. Connor wanted nothing to do with Max, then the receptionist will have angered a witch for nothing. But if she sent Max away and Dr. Connor did want to see him, she would also anger that same witch. Any decision she made risked pissing off a powerful witch, and Max knew exactly what it felt like to be on the wrong end of that sentence.
Drummond floated behind the elderly man and took a close look at the Sports Illustrated. "Some days I really wish I was alive. Look at these women."
Doing his best to ignore Drummond, Max leaned toward the receptionist. "Listen, I can make this easier for you. If you don't tell her I'm here, she's going to have an entire coven of cursed witch ghosts to contend with." He peeked over his shoulder. The old man ogling Sports Illustrated raised an eyebrow but whether that was because of what Max said or because of the white, wet number some hottie wore on a beach in Brazil, Max couldn't be sure. Drummond certainly liked the magazine. Turning back to the still-hesitant receptionist, Max added, "I'll make it even easier. If you don't go back, I'm going to barrel my way in there and start calling out for her, causing all kinds of commotion. I think that'll tick her off far more than if you interrupt her."
Scowling, the receptionist stood. "Please have a seat, Mr. Porter. I'll be a moment."
"Thank you." Max sat in a chair opposite the old man and snatched up a copy of Southern Living. He snapped the magazine open and coughed.
Drummond looked up. "Did you want me for something?"
Shaking the magazine, Max coughed again.
"Oh, right. You're afraid the old guy here will think you're nuts talking to me. Well? Just cough once for yes, twice for no."
Cough.
"Fine, fine. I was enjoying the swimwear, that's all. I wasn't going to let you go face Connor all alone. And even if I was, what do you care? You've been one-on-one with her before. You've lived."
Barely, Max thought.
"Are you going to sit there acting like a fool, or is there something you want me to do?"
Cough.
"You want me to check on Sandra?"
Cough, cough.
"You want me to get rid of this old guy? Get the magazine for yourself?"
Cough, cough. The old man sneaked a glance at Max. "Sorry," Max said. "Getting over a cold. Don't worry, I'm not contagious." The old man made a face that said how little he thought of Max's assurances. "I do wish I could see what the doc was up to, though, don't you?"
Drummond nodded. "I get it. You want me to check out what's going on back there."
Cough.
"No need to put attitude in your cough. This ain't the easiest way to communicate." Drummond slid through the wall and in seconds, slid right back. "Receptionist is coming."
Before the door to the back opened, Max had tossed the magazine on the coffee table and stood. The receptionist started as she came through, and the old man looked a bit surprised, too. "Mr. Porter, you may see Dr. Connor in her office. Just go down the hall and —"
"I know where it is," he said with more venom than he intended.
As he walked down the hall, Drummond followed. "You know, we really should come up with a system to talk when you can't really talk. That coughing thing won't work."
In a harsh whisper, Max said, "How many times have I had you do recon while I waited somewhere? It should be standard practice by now."
"We never agreed to anything. And I got distracted."
"Looking at hotties in bathing suits isn't why you're here. For crying out loud, you're a ghost. Go peep on somebody in the shower if you've got to, but when we're working, I expect you —"
"Okay, okay. You're going to draw attention."
Max wanted to argue further, but Drummond was right. Also, they had reached Dr. Connor's office door. Max knocked and entered.
The office was small and cluttered. Dr. Connor sat at a desk drowning in papers, some crinkled and faded yellow, some crisp and smelling of inkjet. Old texts had been piled up in the corners and a row of stuffed birds perched on a cabinet behind Dr. Connor's desk. On the wall to her left, Max saw an eye chart with a huge letter E at the top. On the opposite wall, Max saw a celestial map with the moon's phases marked out along with numerous symbols he did not know (though a few he recognized from the walls of Leed and Dr. Ernest).
A few years younger than Max, Dr. Connor had always been a beautiful woman, but the hard times she had suffered through took a toll. Dark hollows had formed around her eyes, and her mouth no longer smiled brightly. Though she wore a white doctor's coat with a spaghetti-strapped summer dress underneath, her once vibrant sexuality had diminished.
Max tried to hide any guilt from his face. He had caused this woman a lot of harm — but often in the course of protecting himself from her vicious attacks.
As Max stepped in, Drummond followed behind only to smack against the opening of the doorway. "What the hell?" Drummond said.
Max turned around, and Dr. Connor cackled. "You don't think I'd be stupid enough to rebuild this office without some protections?"
Drummond pushed on the barrier several more times until he finally leaned his shoulder against it and pursed his lips. "You let her know I can still watch from here. She does anything to you, and I'll find a way in there."
Max took a seat at the desk. "Drummond says you better be careful. He won't let anything happen to me."
"How adorable," she said, her mouth a stoic line. "Shall we get to talking seriously or are you going to waste more of my time?"
Scrunching his brow in thought, Max glanced back at the doorway. "You put up a barrier against ghosts." His eyes widened. "You already know, don't you?"
"Of course, I know. I wouldn't be this town's top witch, if I didn't know what was going on. You really think a witch like me doesn't keep tabs on every witch hunter in the country? You think all the witches around the world don't talk with each other? We can use the Internet, too, you know."
"Then you know why I'm here."
Dr. Connor lifted her head, leveling a sultry yet sadistic look upon Drummond. "Patricia Welling."
Drummond smashed his palm into the invisible barrier. "I hate this woman. Stop playing games with her. Get what we need and let's go."
"That's right," Max said. "We want to stop these ghosts of the witch coven, and judging by your spell at the doorway, you're afraid of them, too. We know where the last one is, but we can't get to it to destroy it. Now, since our interests are aligned for the moment, why don't you help us out? Tell me how to get rid of the last one, and then you won't be needing to lay down a bunch of wards wherever you go."
Dr. Connor wriggled out of her white coat, letting one of her spaghetti-straps fall off her shoulder, and she licked her lips. "Help never goes just one way. You know that."
"If you're trying to tempt me into cheating on my wife, it's not going to happen."
She pouted. "I don't know why you always resist. I'm young, able, and willing to do all those nasty things a proper wife would never dream of doing. We'd have a great time together."
"For one, I love my wife and actually meant my vows when I gave them. For another, you're a witch, and I don't trust you."
"But you want my help."
"I'm offering to help you out, too, don't forget. My problem appears to be yours."
Fixing her strap, Dr. Connor said, "Don't put your faith in appearances."
Drummond laughed. "She shouldn't be talking, looking like she does."
Dr. Connor opened a low drawer in her desk and pulled out a large book. In any other office, Max would have thought he looked upon an atlas from centuries ago. In Dr. Connor's office, he fought the bile roiling in his gut because he knew that the book's lovely brown hide cover was made of human skin. Having touched one of those books before, he had no desire to ever to do so again.
"In this book," she said, caressing the cover with the tips of her fingers, "is the answer you seek."
Max paused. "I have to say I'm surprised but pleased. Thank you for making this so easy. If you'll tell me what page to look —"
"Bless your heart, aren't you the sweetest thing. I'm not giving you this book, and this won't be easy. What kind of businesswoman would I be if I simply gave everything away?"
"Then what do you want?"
Sliding the book back into the drawer with one hand, Dr. Connor raised her other hand. "Not so fast. You've only just gotten here, and there's so much to discuss. I wonder — how much do you really know about Patricia Welling?"
"Max, get out of there." Drummond pounded his fist against the barrier. "Don't play her games. Come on, now. Leave and we'll find some other way to deal with all this."
"I know enough," Max said. "She's the ghost of a witch, and she's killing off those connected with her coven's curse. We know where she's buried, so all we have to do is destroy her body. Beyond that, the details don't really matter much."
Running her index finger across the other, she tutted. "Naughty, naughty. You shouldn't be lying. Especially to yourself. You know very well that details always matter. For instance, wouldn't you agree that it makes a huge difference, perhaps even an insurmountable difference, if your dear Drummond knew all along that Patricia was a witch?"
"She's lying," Drummond yelled. "Don't believe anything she says."
"What if he had been by that tree with the odd branch on purpose all those years ago? What if he had sought out dear Patricia with the intent of seducing her? And if he did that, why? Why seduce a witch?"
Max glowered at Dr. Connor. "If he did that, then I'm sure he planned to kill her all along."
"Except he hadn't met Matthew Ernest or Joshua Leed yet. That happened after he had begun his relationship with Patricia. I wonder what he wanted from her. After all, he hadn't sought out any old witch of that coven. He targeted her, specifically. Of course, I would, too, if I had been him. I mean, if you want to gain control over a witch's power, you might as well go for the High Priestess."
"What?" Max couldn't help himself. He turned toward Drummond.
"It's not true," Drummond said. "She's lying. I mean maybe Patricia was the High Priestess, I don't know. That's my point. I don't know."
Dr. Connor chuckled. "I see your partner neglected to tell you that little fact. Well then, I suppose you two have plenty to discuss. And I should be getting back to my patients."
"Wait," Max put his hand on her desk. He wanted to grab her wrist but didn't dare. "You still haven't told me what the price for your help will be."
"Oh. That."
"A case of whiskey? Information? What do you want?"
The pleasure that filled her eyes could not be mistaken. She thrilled at the words dangling on her tongue. The longer she waited to speak them, the worse Max felt — this was going to be bad. Really bad.
"You want my help in a very serious matter. There isn't enough whiskey in all of North Carolina to buy this kind of help — and that's a lot of whiskey."
"Then what?"
She placed a
glass vial on the table. "Blood."
"Excuse me?"
"Specifically, your wife's blood."
"You leave her out of this."
"I can't do that. Either you give me her blood or we have no deal."
Max jumped to his feet. "You can go to Hell."
As he turned to leave, Dr. Connor tapped the glass with her finger. "There isn't another witch in all of North Carolina that can help you. Not when your time is so limited." She tilted her head. "By the way, before you go, tell me, how many times has Mr. Modesto pressured you to find the Hull's handbell?"
Drummond tried to reach Max, to pull him out of the office, but he couldn't get through the barrier. "She's poison, Max. Leave now. We'll go see Sandra, take her to a doctor. Come on."
Max didn't move. He stood rock-still. "What do you know about the handbell?"
"You really aren't too bright," Dr. Connor said. She lifted the glass vial. "Your wife's blood. I'll tell you everything you need to know to stop the coven, and I'll even throw in the handbell for free."
"I thought you didn't give anything away for free."
"Oh, he has a little bit of brains after all. Get me the blood and you'll get what you need. It's that simple. It's a non-negotiable deal. Bring it to me tonight. I'll be here."
Max took a long stride toward her desk and pointed his finger at her face. "You won't win this. Whatever's going on — I've beaten you before. I will again."
"Hallelujah." She lifted her hands toward the ceiling. In one hand, she held out the vial. "Tell yourself whatever you have to, but get me the blood."
Looking at the vial, Max wondered if he could do it. He believed that Sandra would resist. She understood witches and their spells better than he did — no way would she give up her blood. Yet she knew what they faced with the coven. Perhaps she would take the risk and volunteer.
He reached for the vial but pulled back before he touched it. He hated the thought that had entered his brain, but he couldn't deny it — what if he didn't tell her? In her current state, she might not be able to make such a decision. He could simply lie to her, tell her it's for a medical test, and she might not even remember it in the morning. Shaking off such a moral betrayal, Max glanced back at Drummond. Even if Max were so villainous as to attempt such a thing, Drummond would stop him.