Southern Belle Read online

  "Wait. Don't hurt him."

  "Hurt who?" Stevenson said, his eyes darting about the room. "Is someone else here?"

  "Agent Stevenson," Max said, his voice calm and confident now. "I know who killed Dr. Ernest, and I know why. And I need your help."

  Chapter 24

  As Max parked the car outside his office building, the blue-green display of the dashboard clock glowed 9:02. He shut off the engine and sat in the silence, mustering the strength for what he suspected would be the end of this case. He simply hoped it wasn't his end as well.

  "How do you want to play this?" Drummond asked from the backseat.

  While that old ghost could be infuriating, Max appreciated the way he acted when serious business was at hand. It felt strange putting all his trust in a ghost, but Max had grown accustomed to strange. "I don't think the handbell is anywhere in the actual office. If it was, you would have found it long ago."

  "You ain't kidding. I know every rat turd, leaking pipe, and dust bunny surrounding our office."

  "So, it has to be somewhere else in the building. I want you to do a sweep of the walls, floors, and ceilings. See if it's hidden behind any of the plaster or floorboards or under the boiler or anything. While you do that, I'm going to the office to do my part."

  "It shouldn't take me long. I'll let you know what I find." With that, Drummond disappeared.

  Max remained in the car for another three minutes, listening to the rain beat against the roof. "You can do this," he told his rearview mirror reflection. "You have to do this. Not just for Sandra, but for yourself. If this doesn't work out, the FBI will have you in jail before the sun comes up. So get your ass out of the car and get moving."

  Thrusting open the door, Max exited and walked straight to the stairwell. His chest puffed up slightly, and he had a swagger to his walk. Somebody yelled from down the street, and Max jolted to safety behind a car. Only when he realized the yelling had nothing to do with him could he stand again. With less bravado, he resumed his walk.

  Max entered the stairwell. Though he had been in this same stairwell countless times, a cold and inhospitable sensation covered his skin. Rather than going up to the office, he stepped into the back where a narrow door led to the empty storefront that had once been Deacon Arts. No surprise — the door was still unlocked.

  He entered the store, his steps echoing in the wide, empty space. Rain tapped against the large plate-glass window facing the street. A car drove by, its wheels shushing through the growing puddles.

  Nothing remained in the former art gallery except for a desk from which Mr. Gold would conduct his crooked business. The desk had been emptied long ago, but Max checked the drawers nonetheless. Not that he expected the handbell to be so easily found, but he had to try. After all, Mr. Gold had worked for the Hulls at one time.

  Next, he walked the perimeter of the store, checking for anything unusual, making sure nothing hid in the dark. Nothing turned up. The only real hiding places in the store were in the walls, and Drummond had that covered.

  Satisfied, Max left through the back door and headed upstairs to the second floor. On the landing, he stopped to check out the hall before going ahead. There were three doors — two had been boarded over and the third was unmarked. He had never been on this floor before, never had a reason to be, but now he wondered if it had always been like this. He half-expected a serial killer to come busting out the unmarked door, blood dripping from a carving knife.

  A loud thud hit the ceiling above — from Max's office. Somebody was up there. Max tore on up the staircase to the third floor, raced down the hall, and stormed through the door.

  Sandra/Patricia started at his abrupt arrival, placing her hand on her chest like a proper Southern gal. "My word, you gave me a fright." She chuckled, but her amusement curdled with a malicious tone. "I've been waiting for you all day. That spell you cast really knocked you out. I was beginning to think you might not make it."

  Max looked over her — no bruises, no rub burns, nothing to suggest that Patricia had taken his wife's body out for a joyride.

  "Relax," she said, sitting on the couch and crossing her legs to show off the fine, unblemished calves. "Do you really think that I would waste my time romping through the young studs of Winston-Salem when there are so many obvious threats to my life right now? That would be stupid. No, I don't screw the town until I know for sure that nobody is going to yank me out of this body."

  Now Patricia's earlier words registered with Max. "You knew I cast a spell. You've been following me, watching me, waiting for me to find the bell."

  "You and Drummond. I'm still in the afterlife. I can see him fine — and he's certainly still a fine looking man."

  "So you're here, tearing apart my office, looking for the bell."

  "Once I knew where you were headed, I rushed on over here. Frankly, I didn't think I'd get so much of a lead on you."

  Max thought of Stevenson bitterly. "We got delayed."

  "That's the problem with studious men like you — you're never paying attention to the right things. Always worrying about minor matters while you let the world around you burn."

  "Explain that one to me." Max hardly cared what she talked about as long as he kept her talking. Drummond needed enough time to succeed.

  Patricia shook her head pitifully. "You really think you're smarter than me. Let me explain to you something far more important. Let me explain why I'm sitting here letting you live. Fairly simple, actually. You are alive right now because you do not possess the handbell."

  "Don't be so sure."

  "If you had it, you would have used it already. Unless you like seeing your drab wife embodied by a woman who knows what turns a man on." She licked her lips slowly, leaning forward like Marilyn Monroe, and finished the pose of with a tiny bite on her bottom lip.

  "Not interested."

  "I doubt that."

  "There's only one woman I want, and no matter what you look like, you ain't her."

  Patricia shot to her feet, scowling and grinding her teeth. She backhanded Max across the face, snapping his head aside and dropping him to the floor. That woman had serious strength. When he could focus again, he saw that his head missed the sharp corner of the desk by mere inches.

  She stood over him like a mighty hunter over a lamed lion. "Do you really think your little body can take much more abuse? Come on, now. It's over. You've lost and simply won't admit it. But you and I both know that you're never going to leave this office unless I allow it, and I'm not letting that happen until you tell me where the bell is."

  Blood dribbled into his mouth — a bitter, metallic taste. "Why bother asking? You know I don't have it. And if I knew where it was, I'd have gotten it already."

  "Unless it's in here. Unless you walked into this room expecting to take it, but then you found me. So, tell me where it is or I'll start hurting you in ways that will pale even the most perverse thoughts you can imagine."

  Max wanted to jump up, surprise Patricia by his action, and pummel her into submission. But to do so meant striking his wife, and no matter how brave his words had been, he still saw Sandra's body when he looked at Patricia.

  Patricia bent down and raked her nails across his cheek. "I'm so glad you're resisting. I always have fun torturing fools like you, but this will be even better with your wife trapped inside, forced to watch as her own hands rip you to pieces."

  She raised her hand again, her fingers splayed in a claw, and Max clenched his fists, wishing he could fight back. But then Drummond's deep voice called out, "Patricia! Stop it."

  Turning with a coy, girlish giggle, she said, "Oh, Marshall, please let me have a little fun."

  "I can't let you do this," he said, moving back toward the far corner, forcing Patricia to turn her back on Max. "I can't let you harm good people because you hate me."

  "Sweetheart, I don't hate you."

  "I helped Ernest and Leed destroy your coven."

  "You did what you thought was
right. And you were hurt because I hid the truth about myself."

  Drummond gazed out the window, and Max swore the ghost's eyes glistened as if he tried to hold back tears. "I knew enough to figure it out. I wasn't hurt because you lied. I understood that. I was hurt because you ... you broke my heart. You let me fall for you when you knew damn well what the outcome would be. But you didn't care enough to worry how it would all hurt me."

  Taken aback, Patricia's hand covered her mouth. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea."

  "You knew exactly how I felt."

  "I meant that I had no idea you could feel so strongly. Honestly, my love, I swear I thought I was just a plaything to you. I wanted more. Always. From the day we met by the tree, I wanted more. I knew it couldn't happen, though. I knew the kind of work you did. How could you ever give that up for a witch? And it hurt you bad, I see that now, but don't think I wasn't hurt, too. I was devastated. I knew all along the ending we headed toward, yet I only wanted to enjoy the small time we had until it all came apart."

  "You expect me to believe —"

  "Only that my heart was true to you. I fell for you every bit as hard. But look at me now. I have a body — one you can touch. With that handbell, I can become whole. And, Marshall, listen to me — I'm more of a witch than you ever knew. I was very powerful back then, and with the added strength of my coven, I can be more. When I'm whole once again, I can even bring you back."

  "What?"

  "You can have a body of your own. We can actually be together again. In our hearts and our bodies."

  Max watched Drummond carefully, but he couldn't read the ghost's face at all.

  Drummond pursed his lips. "You're serious? I could be free from this half-dead existence?"

  "And we can be together."

  "Together."

  She leaned towards him, but this time the motion lacked her seductive leer — this time, she clearly wanted to be closer. "Those days we spent meant everything to me. I've never stopped thinking about our tree and our time there. Never. Not even as I watched the decades pass from beneath the city, as I suffered burning pain that would never stop. Only those memories could cool me, help me endure. All I could dream of was returning to our tree. All I wanted was to be in your arms, feel your lips. If I could turn us back, I'd give up all my power and knowledge in witchcraft — if it meant we could be together."

  "I want to believe you. I do."

  "Then believe. Because it can still be true. This body and that fool on the floor, they will be our vessels. We can return to the mortal world and live out our lives together. And after I bring you back, I'll never cast another spell. I'll put it all behind us. Don't you want that? To be together again. If you can bring yourself to sacrifice these two, we can have everything we always wanted."

  "You think it's fun being the ghost lackey for these two? I've got no problem with getting rid of them. But the problem we do have is that we don't know where the bell is. It's in this building, we know that much, but where?"

  "If you'll be with me, if you'll love me, then don't worry. We'll find it."

  "Do you know where it is?"

  "No, but we'll figure it out."

  "Well, where do you think it is? Put yourself in that witches shoes. Where would you hide it? The roof? Basement? Perhaps you knew an old crone witch who would take on the challenge of holding it for you."

  Max didn't want to believe it, but it seemed that Drummond had finally turned. He had expected something more flashy, though. At least something involving all that dark mist he had seen previously.

  I'm sorry, my friend. I failed you.

  Now Max's last ally had become his enemy. The disappointment filling him made it difficult to think beyond the moment, beyond hearing how Drummond and Patricia planned to kill Sandra and himself. All they needed was the bell. In fact, the only thing keeping Max alive was the fact that they hadn't found it yet. Drummond had even resorted to asking Patricia if she had ...

  Wait. That doesn't make sense. Drummond had spent the last several minutes going through the building top to bottom. He already knew that the bell wasn't on the roof or in the basement. Or he knew that it was in one of those places and didn't want her going there. He gazed up at Drummond — did Drummond just wink at me? And no dark mist. He hadn't turned yet.

  "Patricia," Drummond said, "look in my eyes."

  "Yes, darling."

  "Let me tell you how I see our future."

  Drummond launched into a flowery story that sounded like anything but Drummond. This was it. This was Max's chance to get out.

  As quietly as he manage, Max rolled to his stomach and from there, up onto all fours. He knew how absurd he looked, but his pride would have to take a backseat to his survival. Like a cowering dog, he scurried out of the office and into the hall. He could still hear Drummond's tale of weddings and children and a small farm away from all the horrors of the world. How long could he keep up his love-tale before Patricia noticed Max's absence?

  He needed to find that bell. He paced the hall, thinking over every word Drummond had said since coming into the office. The answer had to be there or else Drummond would have taken a different tactic. What had he said? He asked Patricia to think about where she would hide the bell — because he wanted Max to think about how Connor's mother would have seen things. But they had already covered that line of thought before. Wait. What did he say last? Something about an old witch crone and ... Max lifted his head, his eyes resting on the other door in the hall — the one belonging to the old woman that had always shot him nasty looks when she came out to get her paper.

  Though he felt less sure about his conclusions, he also understood that Drummond could only stall so long for him. He had to act or the whole effort had been worthless.

  Max crouched in front of the doorknob. Trying to think of what he had in his pockets that he could use to pick the lock, he concluded that even if he had something small enough, he lacked the skill to do it with any speed. He stood and ran his fingers along the top of the molding above the door. No key. He looked around the banister in the hall for a pot or a shoe or anything that one would hide a key in. Nothing.

  Except there was a doormat — a coarse, weaved thing, fraying at the edges. Could it really be that easy? Max bent down and lifted the mat. A cockroach scuttled away leaving behind a scuffed, silver key square in the middle.

  Max slipped the key into the lock and gently opened the door. Trying to be stealthy, he only opened it wide enough to slide in. He closed the door behind, hoping Patricia had not noticed where he went.

  Before his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, he smelled the room — the stale stench of a body unwashed for years. Max tried breathing through his mouth to avoid the odor, but the air tasted awful, too. He could feel it coating his tongue.

  Once his eyes adjusted, he noticed that the main living room looked rather bland and unimpressive. An old woman's room, sparsely furnished but each piece held numerous knick-knacks — a coffee table with porcelain figurines, end tables with collector's plates on either side of a long couch, a reading lamp with beaded chains hanging from its neck. The old lady snored peacefully on the couch, one arm draped across her forehead, the other hanging toward the floor and an empty bottle of tequila.

  Witches sure loved the hard stuff.

  Except this old lady didn't seem like a witch, especially a witch charged with protecting a cursed object. Maybe Drummond had it wrong. But when Max turned to go, his opinion changed. Painted blood-red on the back of the door, Max saw a large pentagram. Beneath it, a series of symbols had been carved into the wood.

  Okay. Right place.

  A muted screech filtered through the walls. Patricia must have discovered Max's absence. He could hear her yelling as well as Drummond's bass tones thumping a reply. How long would he be able to argue with her before turning? Considering the strong emotions between them, Max didn't think he had much time left.

  He figured the old lady wouldn't hide the bell in t
he front room. Too easy to be spotted by unwanted eyes. The kitchen to his right looked plain and, frankly, untouched. Whatever the old lady ate, it wasn't coming from there. He doubted she ever stepped foot in that room. Which left either the bathroom or her bedroom — both of which were down a dark hall on the left.

  The old lady grunted and shifted her body deeper into the couch. With a loud eruption, she passed gas. Other than quelling a juvenile desire to laugh, Max didn't react. Considering the stench in this place, he guessed he would never notice any added odors.

  As silently as possible, Max eased down the hall. The closer he came to the bedroom door, the worse the rank odor became. The hall grew darker as if even light wanted nothing to do with this place.

  The voices of Drummond and Patricia intensified though Max couldn't make out the actual words. The anger came through clear enough. He hurried to the door, ignoring his internal warnings that urged him to turn around, to get out of that apartment, to run.

  "Hold on, Sandra. I'm coming for you," he whispered and opened the door.

  He expected to find a room similar to Connor's office or perhaps one filled with protective wards like Dr. Ernest's room. Instead, he discovered a twisted display that belonged in the pages of Psycho Weekly. The foul odor that permeated the apartment doubled in the bedroom. Max could barely breathe without throwing up. A bed had been shoved in the corner to his right, the sheets stained with browns, yellows, and reds. Odd-shaped books had been piled next to the bed. Two bookcases leaned against the walls to either side — each one filled with jarred organs, animal fetuses, and various eggs.

  Worse — black and white photos covered the walls. A man in hip-waders displaying a half-eaten fish carcass foul with maggots. A girl in her confirmation dress sitting with a book of poetry in her lap and the head of a cat. Children rolling down a hill of corpses. Max couldn't bear to look at any others. He prayed they had been images designed on a computer and not real in any respect.