Southern Charm Page 10

  "Please," he whispered.

  Melinda didn't answer him, and Howard continued to run his fingers over the painting. Max could hear what Drummond would say, and a trace of his usual fiery passion simmered deep inside, but he stayed still. His mind conjured images long forgotten.

  He remembered the final days of his grandmother. She had outlived all her friends. She had lost her hearing years before and her sight amounted to fuzzy blobs of light and dark. Her bones were brittle and her muscles weak. At ninety-four years old, she had been reduced to spending her days sitting on the balcony of her nursing home and barely noticing the world drift by.

  At ninety-four.

  Howard had surpassed that age by over a century. Though he was in better health, that wasn't saying a lot. And as he got older, his body would get worse. Eventually, he would be just as broken, just as empty. Then he had eternity to look forward to. As much as Max wanted to snatch that painting and run to Hull, to Sandra, a part of him couldn't deny this ancient man a release from immortality.

  "Okay," Max said. "You tell me what needs to be done with this painting to break the curse, and I'll do it. Afterward, whatever is left, give it to me. Let me save Sandra."

  Howard looked up as if he had just become aware of the others around him. "No. You must help your wife now."

  Melinda sputtered. "W-What? But the curse —"

  "I'll get rid of the curse. Don't worry. But I don't need the painting itself. This is not a sacred object. It's really more of a map. And once I decipher it, then I'll know where to go to find what I do need."

  "A map? To what?"

  Howard grinned and Max's bones chilled. "To one of the most powerful bits of magic I ever heard about."

  Melinda rubbed her temples. "Fine. Okay. Then we still need the painting, even if it's the only map."

  With his hand shaking again, Howard pointed to the living room. "Get your purse." Melinda complied, and Howard said, "You have a phone that takes pictures, right? Take one of the whole painting. Then form a nine-square grid in your mind like a tic-tac-toe board, and take several pictures of each square — one of each square must be as close to the canvas as you can get, so I can see the textures. When you finish, give Max the painting and I'll get started."

  As Melinda took the photos, Max asked, "You're going to forge this painting?"

  "That's what I'm best at."

  Melinda left the room to download and print out the photos. Max sat next to Howard and stared at the dark painting. "Are you sure you don't need the original?"

  Howard patted Max's knee. "Even if I did need it, I've long outlived my selfishness. No way could I let Hull's witch curse or kill your wife. But don't worry. I'm not lying to you and Melinda. As long as I can reproduce this painting — and I can — then I should be able to find what I need."

  Max picked up Howard's hand and looked the old man straight in the eyes. "When I get Sandra safe, you have my word. I'll come back here. I'll help you."

  With a gritty chuckle, Howard said, "I appreciate your earnestness. But no need for promises. I know you'll be back. You know this isn't so simple, and while I do hope you get your wife back soon, even with her in your arms, the Hull family is involved. They won't let this rest until they have all that they want."

  Max nodded. "They don't want the painting either, do they?"

  "It's just as much a map to them as it is to me."

  "Okay, then. Get working on the painting. I'll get Sandra, and we'll be back to finish this thing."

  Melinda returned with the printouts. Using a magnifying glass, Howard inspected the photos. "These are all good," he said and turned toward Max. "Take the painting. Get your Sandra. But be very careful. This is the Hulls."

  "I know. All too well."

  Chapter 16

  When Max entered his office, he went straight for the bookcase and the whiskey. He would have to watch that or he'd be looking at an alcoholic in the mirror pretty soon.

  With a startling clap of the hands, Drummond popped in. "That's the painting? You got it? Good work."

  "I also got shot at."

  As Max recounted his evening, the ghost detective smiled. "Just like my old days. This is great."

  "Great? This is crap, and it's crap that's going to get Sandra killed. Now, come on. Stop being an ass and help me figure out the best way to exchange this thing for Sandra."

  "For a start, you can calm down. You won't be any good if you go into this acting crazy." Max took another swig, put the flask back in the book, and slumped in his office chair. Floating in front of the painting, Drummond continued, "Now, you've done a good thing in getting Corkille to recreate this painting. That's an ace in our pocket. Of course, the big ace is the painting itself. So, once you're calm enough to think and speak clearly, you've got to call Connor and arrange a meeting."

  "Where? When? You'll have to excuse me, but I've never dealt with a hostage negotiation before."

  "Easy does it. I'll help you out."

  Rage and tears filled out Max's chest. "I can't lose her. You understand that? She's everything to me."

  All the amusement flushed from Drummond's pale face. In his kindest voice, he said, "Trust me, Max. We'll get her back."

  Max looked at Sandra's empty desk, took a long breath, and eased back. "Okay," he whispered. "What do we do?"

  "We need a location that's close enough so that I can be there. It should be public enough to protect you but secluded enough to not draw unwanted attention. And we need a time that's soon — before the world really starts waking up and getting on with the day. The longer we wait, the worse things have a chance of going. How long will Corkille take on the painting?"

  "I've no idea. He's two hundred years old."

  "But he's a spry two hundred."

  In spite of himself, Max chuckled. Like popping a cork, laughter burst out of him until tears flowed from his eyes. Drummond said nothing. He just floated, waiting for Max to regain control, and Max appreciated it. They both knew this was the release he needed in order to keep functioning.

  At length, Max dabbed at his eyes and said, "What about The Grand Theater?"

  "The movie house?"

  "It's a big eighteen screen theater with a huge parking lot. Nobody'll be there until the first shows — probably around noon. We could meet around the back for plenty of privacy but it's also public enough to satisfy — there are homes bordering one side and a major road with businesses on the other."

  Drummond thought it over. "It's also just on the edge of the city. Plenty close for me to get around. Sounds perfect."

  * * * *

  The phone call had been strange. Modesto had answered, not Connor. He ignored Max's questions and simply said that he would handle this negotiation. It surprised Max, not because he maintained a steady, in-control voice, but that Modesto didn't sound the least bit concerned. He expected this all along. Drummond warned that this whole thing might have been a set up — Modesto may have forced Connor into the kidnapping to make Max get the painting for them. But that much didn't matter to Max. He hated Modesto and Connor equally. Who cared which of them got the idea to use Sandra against him? They were both capable of it, and they both had plenty of sins to be punished for. Still, Modesto's behavior continued to strike Max oddly. Something wasn't quite right with that man.

  * * * *

  The Grand Theater always looked like a warehouse club to Max. Large and boxy, the movie theater sat on the top of a high, flattened hill. Like a warehouse club, it mostly was a wide, paved parking lot. Around the side, near a green, dented dumpster, Max and Drummond waited in the car.

  Dawn had just peeked over the trees, casting long shadows and orange light. Max sipped on hot, fast food coffee. Not very tasty but full of caffeine. Adrenaline had kept him going in short bouts, fear kept him up the rest of the night, but he felt sluggish after all these hours. He hoped the coffee would, at least, keep him alert until he had Sandra back.

  "They're late," he said.

&n
bsp; Drummond stared at the entrance to the lot. "They're fine. Don't get all cocked over a few minutes. A slow driver or a flat tire or any number of things can hold them up. Just keep remembering that they want this painting. If Connor is to be believed, they need this painting. So, they'll be here."

  "I just wish it were over."

  "Stay focused on the moment, and before you know it, it will be over. You remember what you've got to do?"

  "What's to remember? Give the painting, get Sandra. It's a straight-forward exchange." Max turned on Drummond so fast, his hot coffee splashed a bit on his hand. Whipping his wet hand out the window, he sprayed the coffee onto the ground. "You're not planning on anything stupid, are you? They've got Sandra. Don't you screw this up."

  Drummond rolled his dead eyes. "You have got to learn how this game is played. You really think they'll just walk up and make a fair exchange? That never happens. Never. Even if they do give you Sandra, they'll try something, some way to bring the leverage back onto them."

  "Isn't that why Corkille's copying the painting?"

  "That's not enough. Chances are they'd kill Corkille, Melinda, and you and Sandra if they found out about that. Heck, they already killed the previous owner and they tried to kill you. This painting is extremely important to them."

  "We don't know who shot at me for sure."

  "Maybe you can ask them. They're here."

  A car more beaten than Max's Honda clunked along the parking lot. Two men were visible inside as the car shuddered to a halt several feet away. Nobody moved for a bit as if the cars themselves were sizing each other up.

  With an impatient sigh, Max reached behind, grabbed the painting, and stepped out of the car. Drummond slid through the car door and floated nearby. "Be careful," he said.

  Max held back a sarcastic reply. He didn't need these henchmen to see him talking to thin air.

  The two men stepped from their car. Max recognized the heavyset man right away — Mr. Gold, owner of the Deacon Art Gallery. With a shiver, Max also recognized the second man — a thin, blond man who was good with a sniper rifle and, apparently, at impersonations.

  "Do you have a real name, Blondie, or should I call you Mr. Hull?" Max said. Blondie's lips lifted in a grin that lacked all sense of amusement.

  Drummond swooped by them all and peered into the car. "She's in here. Tied up and laying low. She looks okay. Not hurt. Not frightened. Really, she looks more angry than anything else."

  Max wanted to laugh. That was his Sandra all right.

  "Let's keep this simple," Blondie said. "Mr. Gold will verify the painting, and assuming he gives it an okay, we'll release your wife."

  "I don't see my wife," Max said. He had to play his part well, and he figured the further away from their car she was, the safer she would be.

  Blondie glared at Max for a brief instant before turning back to the car. He opened the back door and yanked Sandra out. She looked exactly as Drummond had said — unharmed and angry.

  "Hi, Sugar," Drummond said and Sandra's eyes flickered in his direction as she tried to take in the situation.

  "I believe this is yours," Blondie said, pushing her against the car hood. "Now, let Mr. Gold check out that painting."

  "Of course," Max said. He placed the painting on the asphalt and took three steps back.

  As Mr. Gold proceeded to examine the painting, Drummond whispered something in Sandra's ear before blocking her from view with his body. Max tried not to watch them too closely or else he'd draw Blondie's suspicions, but he was suspicious himself. Drummond winced in pain but continued whatever he was attempting.

  "Well, well," Mr. Gold said, "Max here has been busy. He found the painting underneath Mourning in Red. The real painting. Shame you had to remove the top painting in such a brutal manner. I could have lifted it and saved both artworks."

  "Neither is really that good," Max said.

  "Art can have great value even when it's bad."

  Blondie spit off to the side. "Enough with the college debate. Is it what we want or not?"

  Flashing a distasteful sneer, Mr. Gold said, "It's what we want."

  "Good, then all we need to do now is kill them both."

  Drummond's head jutted up for just a second, then he furiously returned to Sandra. Max finally understood — Drummond was undoing her ropes. For a ghost to do such a thing — an act that required dexterity and patience, and an act that would cause a ghost a lot of pain — left Max awestruck.

  He would have stared with his mouth agape had not Drummond snapped, "Max, stall him or we're all dead."

  This woke him up. Max said, "You can't kill us. We have a copy of the Hull family journal. If we get harmed, that journal will go public. It'll take the family apart. And somehow, I don't think they'll look on you too kindly over that."

  Blondie pulled a gun from his jacket pocket — a small, stubby looking thing that, Max had no doubt, could pop a hole right through his skull. "I'm not Hull, and I don't work for him. You want to destroy that family, go right ahead. It'll make life a lot easier on the rest of us."

  "You work for Hull's witch. Same thing."

  "Not to me."

  "But the witch only wants this painting for Hull."

  "Lots of people want this thing. If the stories are to be believed, this holds some serious mojo. Me, I don't care at all. I just want to get paid to do my job and I'll be on my way. And right now, my job is to make sure there are no loose ends."

  "What about you, Mr. Gold?"

  Drummond gave an enthusiastic nod. "That's right. Just keep them talking. Almost got this."

  Max took several steps closer to Mr. Gold. "You really okay with murdering my wife and me?"

  "I ... I ..."

  "See that, Blondie? I don't think he's on board with your plans," Max said. He surprised himself with the firmness of his voice when he knew his insides were jittering as if electrocuted. "I think Mr. Gold is realizing that no matter who you work for that person isn't as powerful as the Hull family. I think he's wondering what kind of lunatic he signed on with."

  With a flick of the wrist, Blondie turned the little gun onto Sandra. But Sandra wasn't there. She had stepped to the side and swung her newly-freed fist into his jaw. He lurched to the right and flailed out his hand, sending the little gun into the distance.

  Max sprung toward Mr. Gold as Sandra pulled back for another strike on Blondie. The well-trained sniper, however, had other plans. He caught Sandra mid-swing with his forearm and shoved her back against the car.

  Mr. Gold held the painting in front of him like a shield. Max felt a stab of pity. Had Corkille not been busily recreating the painting, Mr. Gold's shield would be worth something. As it was, Max had no problem punching through the canvas and into Mr. Gold's gut.

  "No," Mr. Gold cried out, scrambling off toward the theater entrance with the damaged painting hooked on one arm, the other cradling his stomach.

  Max turned back to see Sandra and Blondie grappling on the ground, rolling toward the little gun. "Drummond! A little help!"

  Drummond had been standing near the gun, kicking it out of reach every time Blondie got close. He looked at Max and said, "What more do I have to do? She's putting up a good fight."

  "Help her, damn it!"

  Sandra wrenched Blondie over, straddled him, and threw a mean jab into his nose. His head snapped back and smacked hard on the pavement. Dazed by the blow, his eyes rolled without focus.

  Sandra stood up and massaged her hand. "Get the gun, Max," she said. "And I'm going to need some ice."

  Drummond shook his head and laughed. "One hell of a woman."

  Chapter 17

  Max drove south along Route 52. They stopped at a gas station for some ice to wrap around Sandra's hand before crossing over to Peters Creek Parkway and down to the Corkille house. Drummond hovered over the back, his arms stretched across the seat like a satisfied king.

  "You both did an excellent job back there," he said. "Really top notch. Not only did we
get Sandra back safely, but Max, my boy, you ruined that painting. Superb."

  Max did not share Drummond's enthusiasm. "I'm just glad Sandra's okay."

  "Don't worry about me," she said. "They didn't mistreat me or anything like that. The worst was when they took me. I didn't know what was happening and that was scary. But once they got me to this little apartment, they were very business-like. Dr. Connor came by once to make sure they didn't try anything stupid with me."

  Drummond said, "Best to be vigilant right now. Connor's angry at us, and an angry witch is not something to underestimate."

  "No risk of that," Sandra said. "She made it all too clear what she would do if Max didn't come through. Believe me, the curses she said she would cast were far worse than living forever or being a bound ghost."

  "Hey, I am a bound ghost. It ain't no picnic."

  "How about having your genitals dry up and wither away? Max'll be the recipient of that pleasant curse. And for me, she plans to make me barren."

  Max couldn't hide the rising pitch in his voice. "W-What? Can she do those things for real?"

  "I'm not sure just how powerful witches can actually become. But I know this much — spells against a person require them to be at the casting. She can't do them remotely. So, we're okay, for now. Just don't get caught by her."

  Thinking about the time she had tried to curse him before, Max shivered. "I really hate that woman."

  Sandra reached out and Max took her hand. As the car sped down the road, their fingers entwined. Max brought her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers.

  "I know things have been tough with us, but when I thought I might not get you back — it killed me."

  Sandra laid her other hand on top of his, but her eyes remained focused on the road ahead. Max wished he had the right words to say that would let her know just how much he felt for her, but she was a smart woman — smart enough to know that people feel extra passionate after a life and death ordeal. Anything he said, anything he did at this moment would just be dismissed as the results of adrenaline and facing one's mortality.