by Stuart Jaffe
Modesto's reaction troubled Max more than anything so far. There was no fear. No shock. Not even a hesitation. Just a simple raising of the corner of his lips. "If you're relying on the FBI, you have a problem."
Max's throat tightened. "Oh?"
"Kalon finished the prep work on the spell a while ago. I've merely been waiting for the last crucial ingredient."
"There's another object?"
"The journal is an item closest to the soul we wish to bring back. The hair from Blackbeard is filled with the magic's foundation. When a source of extreme power is applied, Tucker Hull's soul will burst into this room. But if he cannot find a body to occupy, then the whole point is moot. Thus, the bell. We force Patricia out of Sandra's body, and before either woman has the chance to regain control, Tucker Hull enters. But we needed that catalyst, and once again you provided."
"I did?"
"Only one thing is powerful enough to jolt a lost soul back to the living — the rage of another lost soul."
Max's eyes shot to Drummond. The ghost was furious.
Modesto's smarmy, sarcastic tone thickened as he spoke. "And here you thought you had goaded me into revealing everything, when what I needed was time to let Drummond realize how trapped he is, to hear how I slaughtered his friend, to let him understand how you've all been my pawns and how worthless he truly is. Now, he's too far gone. There's no returning him. He is the catalyst, and as I believe I hear the stomping of feet downstairs, I know that I've timed this perfectly. Your FBI friends cannot get up here before we cast the spell because, you see, it's already been cast. All that remains is for Kalon to release it all and bring back Tucker Hull!"
Swiping her hand in a wide arc, Kalon broke lines in all five circles. Drummond shot out lightning fast, straight for Modesto, and straight over the journal, the bowl, and the bell.
Chapter 26
Heat blasted from the bowl, knocking Max and Modesto back several steps. A deep red light strobed and Drummond screamed out. Whatever the spell had done to him, it wasn't enough to contain him. Drummond darted toward Kalon, backhanded her into the bookcase, and turned his dark eyes upon Max. Thick, dark smoke poured off Drummond — some of it flickering like flames, some of it dribbling like fog.
"Marshall, calm down," Max said, trying to coax the ghost back like he had done before. But Drummond huffed like a wild bull, lowered his head, staring straight at Max, waiting to attack.
"Why should you be calm?" Modesto said, and Drummond's head snapped toward the man. "You've been set up, used, and made a fool of. You have every right to be angry, furious, a raging madman, if you so choose." Drummond inched closer to Modesto. "That's right, you annoying piece of garbage. I dare you to strike me."
Max understood that Modesto provoked Drummond to keep him angry, keep him turning, but why was he trying to get Drummond to hit him? Max moved toward the bowl. Drummond hissed at him and pulled back a fist. "I'm not going to hurt you. I want to help you."
"He lies!" Modesto bellowed. "He is the one that brought these objects to me. Without him, I could never have cast this spell that hurts you now. And I am the one to have done it all. You are my puppet. You are weak and worthless. For decades, you've been nothing but a pawn. Even your greatest love was nothing but a witch's whim."
Modesto's words fired Drummond until the ghost opened his mouth and screamed. The air surrounding Modesto turned white with frost, but Modesto only smiled. His words had done more than enrage Drummond, though. They sparked Max's thoughts.
He noticed that Patricia had yet to move, even though her circle had also been broken. She remained seated and serene. Why? Max recalled how he had heard her muffled voice through the walls while he looked for the bell. She had pleaded with Drummond, offered to give up things for him, wanted to be with him. If her pleas had been authentic, if she truly cared about Drummond, what was the point of sitting there doing nothing?
From Max's previous encounters with the High Priestess, he knew she did not handle things calmly. Which meant that this behavior had to be strategic, and since Modesto did all he could to enrage Drummond, Max figured he needed more of that vicious energy than was present. Patricia stayed calm in order to deny Modesto her energy.
She doesn't want Tucker Hull back any more than I do.
Why would she? If Tucker Hull returned, she would have to struggle against his power both financial and magical or become his witch. So, remove the rage and she removes the catalyst.
But she failed to understand how mad Drummond had become. She didn't know him as well as Max — how could she after being stuck in a wall for decades? Max saw that hulking beast that had been his friend and knew Drummond had more than enough energy to fuel Modesto's spell.
An idea popped into Max's head — intuitive, risky, and possibly foolish. Perfect.
With a warrior cry, he dived for the handbell. His eagerness overtook his agility causing his fingers to snap closed too early. Instead of clasping the handle, he bumped it with his knuckles. It slid away from him. Its lip caught on the uneven floorboards, and the bell tipped over, rolling under Max's desk.
Even as he heard Modesto's shout, Max scrabbled across the floor. Like a mouse desperate to find a safe escape, he pressed up against his desk. Unlike a mouse, he could not slip underneath. No time to pull the desk away from the wall and get in the open side. Instead, he stretched his arm under the back lip, feeling around, trying to snatch that bell.
A memory flash in his head from elementary school — standing in front of a wall of boxes with holes cut out, being told to stick his hand inside and identify what he felt, not wanting to but reaching in because teacher demanded it, feeling little bugs crawling over his hands, kids laughing, teacher opening the box. "See that? It's just string hanging from the top," she said, but he dreamed of crawling bugs for weeks.
Max swallowed down the lump climbing up his throat as his hand probed the unseen beneath the desk. The tip of his finger brushed against something. He felt for it again, hoping it wasn't wet, hoping it didn't bite him. Metal. He touched metal. The bell! He tried to get it to roll closer toward him, but his finger seemed to only rub the edge.
He pushed away images of cockroaches discovering his hand. That's when an icy grip wrapped around his ankle and yanked him back. Max screeched both from surprise and from the cold pain numbing his foot.
Floating over him, Drummond gazed down. The ghost's eyes held only madness. Despite the pain Drummond often complained of when touching the corporeal world, he took hold of Max's neck and lifted the man up against the back wall.
Max tried to protest but his freezing throat could not form words. His hearing dropped and returned in waves. When he could hear, everything echoed as if they stood in a massive cavern.
"FBI," a voice called from miles away.
"No, Drummond!" Modesto yelled. "You want me!"
As the sound faded, Max's vision darkened. He had been close to dying before, and that time, a deep sadness overcame his body. This felt similar. He saw the ghost blob that was Leed glowing like a fluorescent rock as he hid amongst the books on the shelf. He saw the spirits of Sandra and Patricia both overlaying Sandra's body like some bad effect from an old 70s horror flick.
With a high-pitched whine, his hearing returned and so did Modesto's incessant yelling. "You idiot! You can't even become a dark spirit correctly! No wonder your mother hated you."
Drummond whirled around, dropping Max onto the desk. As Max struggled for air, he heard Modesto laugh.
"That's right. Your crazy mother wasn't so crazy after all. She locked herself up in that madhouse for one reason only. To get away from you!"
Banging on the door. "FBI! Open the door or we'll —"
The next seconds happened faster than normal yet moved slowly in Max's eye. Drummond launched toward Modesto, snarling as he bared his teeth. Max rolled off the table and wrenched it away from the wall. As Max reached for the bell, he saw Drummond reach for Modesto.
The FBI smashed o
pen the door. Max raised the bell above his head and winced at what might come. Two men wearing bullet-proof vests and carrying assault rifles stormed the office. Modesto, smiling ecstatically, reached into his coat and pulled out a human skull. "Meet Tucker Hull!" he said as Drummond slammed into him. Max rang the bell.
All the sound stilled for an instant.
The explosion that came ripped apart the office. The FBI men were thrust straight out of the room and down the hall. A shockwave pressed Drummond flat against the ceiling and Patricia flew out of Sandra as if punched in the jaw. Modesto fell onto his back, laughing like a drunkard. A hurricane of magic swirled around them all, tearing the desks and books to pieces.
"Sandra!" Max shouted, trying to be heard above the howling winds. He crawled toward her, each inch a struggle. She remained seated in the chalk circle. The gale winds pressing against him never touched her — bright colors of magic shot around the room yet always avoided her. Max called out for her again but she made no response.
Despite the intense winds, Max neared his wife. He tried to call her once more but a cold hand grabbed his head and slammed it into the floor. Blood gushed out of his nose. He rolled on his back, dazed, and the cold force pressed on his chest. But when he opened his eyes, he saw Drummond still stuck on the ceiling.
"Patricia!" Drummond screamed.
The cold lifted and Drummond's head rocked to the side as if slapped hard. Max didn't waste time worrying. He rolled back to his stomach and crawled the final two feet to his wife. He clambered to his knees and held Sandra's shoulders.
"Honey? Look at me. Are you there?" Her eyes looked dead like a coma patient — unresponsive and unaware. "Please, be in there." Tears streamed down Max's face. "Please. You're everything to me. I know life has been rough for us these last few years, but I couldn't do any of it alone. I've always needed you. I know you think you don't give me enough, but you do. If anything, I don't show you enough. Without you, I'm lost. Don't leave me. Please."
The outer wall of the office shattered — brick and glass blasting outward into the street. Max clasped Sandra's hand, but her eyes closed and she slumped forward. The weight on his shoulder grew heavier. Dead weight.
He arched his head back and wailed. Through his teary eyes, he saw the blurred image of Drummond. The ghost's arms surrounded the air in front of him, and his mouth lay open as if pressed in a kiss.
A cold hand touched Max's chin. He braced himself to be struck by Patricia once again. But Patricia was above him kissing Drummond. And the hand, though cold, brought no pain. He looked down and saw Sandra, his Sandra, gazing up at him.
A new pain burst in his chest. One filled with joy. He lowered his mouth and gently touched her lips with his. She grabbed the back of his head and pulled him in tight and hard. The kiss intensified as if they could press into one another and make the world around them disappear. But after a moment, she weakened. He pulled back to make sure she was okay — only exhausted.
"I love you," he said and heard Drummond echo the sentiment above.
The magic storm subsided. Wood and glass clattered as it found new resting places. Bits of paper drifted to the floor like autumn leaves. Time returned to normal.
The FBI rushed in, waving guns and barking commands. Max tried to raise his arms but the pain in his abused body refused to yield. He settled for collapsing on the floor with Sandra falling on top of him.
An FBI agent grabbed Max and Sandra, sat them up, and yelled words in their faces. A calmer voice said something in the distance, and through bleary eyes, Max saw Agent Stevenson approach.
"It's okay. Just arrest that one," he said. The other agents converged on Modesto.
As they escorted Modesto away in handcuffs, Stevenson turned to Max. "We've got a lot of questions for you."
Max's entire body numbed. "You recorded it all, didn't you?"
"That doesn't mean I understand it."
"Can it wait until tomorrow? We'd really like to rest for a bit."
"Medics are on the way to check you out. Frankly, you both look like you need some time in the hospital."
Max squeezed Sandra's shoulder. "Maybe so. But then we can answer questions at the hospital. Okay? Please? We ain't going anywhere, and you caught the guy who killed everyone. You even have his admission on record — even if the rest of it sounds crazy."
"As long as you go to the hospital, I'm okay with that. Besides," Stevenson said, gesturing to the office, "you got a hell of a cleanup to deal with still."
Max forced a grin which came off more like a pained wince. The EMTs arrived and immediately started to check out Max and Sandra. They flashed a light in his eye and asked him basic questions.
He listened as best he could, answered what he could, but his eyes focused beyond them, to a pile of rubble near the bookcase. It shifted. First a little. Then the debris tumbled away, and Kolan rose up, brushing off the dirt from her black dress.
She stepped away from the pile, graceful and surefooted, and moved to the exit. None of the FBI, none of the EMTs, nobody appeared to notice her. At the doorway, she turned to Max and offered the most malicious grin he had ever witnessed.
"I've got a lot to learn about the world," she said — but her voice was a man's voice. And though he had never heard it before, Max had no doubt in his mind — the voice belonged to Tucker Hull.
Hull walked away, unnoticed by all.
Drummond floated down to the floor, no smoke burning off him, and he watched Hull leave. Then he turned to Max. "Well, that's not good."
Max smiled for real now. Only the Drummond he knew would say that. His friend would be fine.
He heard Stevenson ask a question, but it was too late. He couldn't stay conscious any longer, and with all those important to him safe, he had no reason. Max passed out.
Chapter 27
The week that followed dogged Max at every turn. That first night spent in the hospital had been met with police and FBI questions. The drive home involved some reporters following him. And days that were meant to be restful and recuperative filled up with more police on the telephone, visits from the FBI, and ambushes with reporters. Despite it all, Max and Sandra managed to hole up in their house and heal.
One afternoon, Max hopped onto the living room couch, propped his feet on the coffee table, and flicked on the television. Sandra curled her feet under Max's legs and rested her head on a throw pillow. Some mindless reality show blared away with a contestant claiming that she had signed up to win this thing, not to make friends. Max looked to Sandra with a knowing grin, but she barely registered any of it.
She had been quiet since their return. At first, he thought she suffered from amnesia. Not full-blown I don't know who I am amnesia, but a localized situation in which she could not recall what had happened to her while Patricia had taken over. But as the week progressed and he mentioned the events that had transpired, he saw it in her eyes — the poor gal knew everything. She had been cognizant of it all, even as she was powerless to do anything about it.
Drummond dropped in from the ceiling. "What's on?" he asked, floating next to the couch.
"Just junk."
"We don't have a case, so might as well watch it."
Drummond had not left them alone since they got home. He meant well, but between his constant chatter to them and his constant chatter to the ghost-blob Leed — which he still kept in his pocket — Drummond made Max consider running back to the hospital. Or perhaps just a library. Anywhere that he knew Drummond would avoid.
Max chided himself for such selfish thoughts. Drummond had been through a lot, too, and in some ways more. After all, Max got his Sandra back. But Patricia — after their kiss and with no vessel to park her cursed spirit, she dissipated like a fog blown away by the hot sun. Max tried to comfort Drummond, assured him that with all the spells cast and completed, her soul must finally have been allowed to rest, but he still caught Drummond with a long, dark gaze and a mournful frown.
One night, Drum
mond said, "You know, I even feel guilty about my new freedom." The destruction of the office had somehow untethered Drummond — or, at least, widened his range. Max couldn't be sure and Sandra wasn't ready to explain any of it to them. Drummond went on, "At the end, I knew she wanted nothing more than to be with me, and instead, she's been cast away, lost in an eternity of darkness."
"You don't know that. None of us know what happens when we move on."
"That's nice of you to say, but think about it — she was a witch, a High Priestess, and possessing Sandra was the least of her crimes. I love her, but I'm not delusional about her."
Max wondered if he could say the same for himself. He loved Sandra so deeply that he suspected he overlooked and excused her flaws. Isn't that part of being a husband? Accepting the whole person for better or worse?
"I take it back," Drummond said, pointing to the remote control. "This reality crap is really crappy. What else is on?"
Max leaned forward for the remote when a knock came to the front door. He waited. The knock came again.
"Reporters?" Drummond asked.
"Why don't you go peek and find out?" Max snapped and immediately regretted his tone.
"Okay, okay. No need to get snippy." Drummond stuck the top half of his body through the front door, then pulled back in. "It's your FBI pal, Stevenson."
"I thought we were done with all this nonsense." Max yanked open the door. "What do you want?"
Stevenson's initial smile faltered but he recovered fast. "It's good to see you, too. I'm heading out soon. Everything's wrapping up here, and I wanted to come say good-bye. May I come in?"
They walked into the kitchen. With robotic coldness, Sandra rose from the couch and followed.
Stevenson shifted from foot to foot. "I wanted to thank you both for taking the great risk you did. Most people don't have that kind of bravery, and I don't think we could ever have solved this case without it. In fact, I think Max knows that we probably would have arrested the wrong man."