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  He glanced at the trailer. But it was broad daylight, mid-day in fact. Nothing to be frightened of here. Besides hadn't he dealt with ghosts and witches? This was just a stupid trailer in the middle of a bright day.

  It was quiet, though. Why should Mr. Gold send him to an address in which nobody was there? Except somebody had to be there. The brown sedan had been running.

  "Come on, get moving," Max said, and with that he strode to the trailer's front step. He opened the screen door and knocked. "Hello?" He knocked again. "Hello?"

  No answer.

  He decided to do something he had seen in movies many times and always thought Who would ever actually do that? He turned the doorknob. To his surprise, it opened. Before he could warn himself, before he could scream inside to turn around, get in his car, and get the hell out of there, he heard a gurgling moan that chilled his heart.

  With cautious steps, he entered the kitchen — a filthy, beaten room that smelled of rotten food and urine. The kitchen opened into a living room that faired no better — stained blue carpet matted and torn, thick stink of cigarettes, and in the center, a large man tied to a chair. He had been beaten. Blood trailed lines down his face, neck, and arms. His right eye had swollen and bloody spittle dribbled from his mouth. The gore still glistened on his US Postal Service uniform and covered his name, Curtis, in dark splotches.

  At the sound of Max's footsteps, Curtis perked up his head, his body shaking, and said through a damaged mouth, "I swear I don't know anything about anything. I swear. I never wanted any picture. I swear. Just don't hurt me anymore."

  "It's okay," Max said. "I'm not one of them."

  "Then get me out of here." Curtis's voice broke into a panic. "Get me out of here before they come back. Help me! Please!"

  "Calm down. I'm going to get you out."

  "It wasn't me. I didn't do anything. It couldn't have been me. I was just making a delivery."

  "I know," Max said, kneeling down.

  "I-I ... didn't do anything. I swear."

  Curtis held his breath a moment as if he couldn't process anymore without stalling other body functions. Then he exhaled and sobbed. Max stayed silent while he worked loose the blood-drenched ropes that had bound the man. What more could he say? Curtis had picked the wrong time to deliver a package. That's all. And what had been meant for Max had been done on this uninvolved man.

  But it had been meant for me. The realization struck the depths of his stomach, threatening to reprise his breakfast. He could see the faceless attackers waiting all morning. Mr. Gold had told those blood-thirsty thugs that he had passed on the address to the target — it was only a matter of waiting. Except one of them or all of them couldn't be patient. When Curtis arrived, they decided to act. It wasn't until they started listening to their victim that they understood they had tortured the wrong person. Then they ran.

  Or maybe they never figured out they had made a mistake. Whichever the case, Max knew that they had intended for his body to be covered in blood, his bones to be broken, his mouth to be swollen. This was all for him.

  Curtis crumpled to the floor, still crying, clutching his ribs, and rocking like a child. Max pictured himself in that position — the one somebody had intended for him. "I'm sorry," he said, but Curtis did not respond.

  "Help is coming," Max said. On his cell, he called 9-1-1, left the address and said a man was dying, then ended the call. "Hang on. An ambulance is coming."

  He couldn't wait around, though. There would be questions and a trip to the police and if Curtis didn't make it, there would be no one to back up his story. He had to go.

  As Max drove away, his heart racing, the salty taste of his sweat on his lips, he kept imagining his own body curled on that disgusting floor. All over a nothing painting. "Not nothing anymore," he said. Turning onto the highway, heading back to the office, he knew there were several avenues to pursue, but one demanded immediate attention — Howard Corkille.

  It took Max twenty minutes to get back to the office, and halfway there, his anger boiled up again. Blood-soaked images of Curtis flashed through his mind. He had to do something about that or somebody else might get hurt — maybe even him. By the time he parked his car, Howard Corkille had been pushed to the number two priority.

  Max slammed open the door to Deacon Arts. Mr. Gold, fawning over a customer, jumped at the sound, saw Max, and let out a babyish yelp. "Mr. Porter," he said, backing up with his hands out. "I just delivered the message."

  "I'm going to fucking kill you."

  The customer scurried out fast, and Mr. Gold could not hide his disappointment at losing a sale. When Max moved in, Mr. Gold's disappointment turned to fear. He stumbled over himself as he rushed back to his desk. Max followed right behind, grabbed Mr. Gold's arm, yanked him around, and punched him in the eye.

  Mr. Gold cried out and fell into his seat. "Please, don't. I'm sorry. I had to do it. I'm sorry."

  "Where's the painting?"

  "I don't know."

  "Do I have to hit you again?"

  "I swear I don't know," Mr. Gold said, tears and snot flowing down his face. "I never heard of the painting. I was just told to give you that address."

  "By who?"

  With an incredulous frown, Mr. Gold said, "By Mr. Modesto, of course. Who would you expect?"

  Breathing hard, his fist poised to strike again, Max stepped back, stunned by the name. Mr. Modesto. The Hull family representative. And if they were involved, this whole case became far more complicated.

  Chapter 6

  When Max entered the office, Sandra gasped. "What happened to you?" she asked as she rushed to his side. "Are you hurt?"

  Max glanced down — blood marred his shirt. "It's not mine," he said, thinking of Curtis the US Postal Service guy and his wrecked body.

  Sandra helped Max to his chair. Without a word, she then pulled one of Drummond's fake books from the bookcase, grabbed the flask inside, and poured a glass of whiskey. Max drank fast, coughed, sputtered, and drank again.

  "Don't you look all spiffy?" Drummond said, gliding through the front wall. "Can't say I'm surprised."

  "You say anything else remotely resembling 'I told you so' and I swear, ghost or not, I'll find a way to make you sorry."

  To Sandra, Drummond said, "Little touchy. What happened?"

  "I don't know."

  Max rubbed his sore knuckles — punching a person hurt. "What'd Corkille have to say?"

  Drummond settled in the client chair and put his feet on the desk. "I couldn't find him."

  "What do you mean?" Sandra said.

  "Sugar, the netherworld of ghosts is larger than you'd imagine, and there's a lot of us. Of all people, I'd expect you to understand that much. So I looked, asked around, but I couldn't find him. If he wasn't already dead, I'd suspect somebody got to him."

  "Don't you think it's odd that Corkille would hire us and then not be available?"

  "Like I told the amateur pugilist, by the time somebody's desperate enough to come to us, things are a lot more complicated and a lot more people are involved."

  Max barked a sharp laugh. "Let me tell you how complicated things are." He shared everything that had happened to him that day — meeting Melinda Corkille, chasing Melinda Corkille, discovering Curtis the beaten US Postal Service guy, punching Mr. Gold, and hearing the troubling confession of the Hull family's involvement.

  Sandra fell into her chair and whispered, "Shit."

  "Not a very womanly way to say it," Drummond said, "but I agree with the sentiment."

  "There's no way to back out of this, is there?" Max asked.

  Drummond shook his head. "You know better. When you get a name like Hull involved, there's no easy way clear."

  "What's Hull want with this anyway?" Sandra asked.

  "I don't know," Max said. "I just thought I was done with them the last time."

  Drummond snickered. "They do own the building. They probably own half the town. You should expect to come in contact wi
th them once in a while."

  "Shut up. I'm sick of hearing your little cracks all the time. It's been a tough enough day without having to hear a dead stand-up comic — and not even a good one at that."

  "Easy now. I'm just trying to calm things, and maybe help you all get a little perspective."

  "How do you think you're doing?" Max yelled, his face tight and red, his breathing heavy.

  Drummond rose toward the ceiling with a placating grin. "Okay, now, there's no need to raise your voice. I'll just go see if I can find Corkille. I'll come back tomorrow morning when you've blown off some steam." And then he was gone.

  Max looked at Sandra, the shock on her face matching his. "I can't believe he just backed down like that," Max said.

  "Maybe he meant what he said. He was just trying to calm you down and since it isn't working, he left."

  "Maybe." Max let out a long sigh. "Take the rest of the day off. I'll see you back home for dinner."

  "You sure? There's plenty I can do."

  "I just want to be alone."

  Sandra leaned in to kiss Max but when he didn't turn to face her, she pecked his cheek and said, "I'll see you later. And don't forget, I love you."

  "I love you, too," Max whispered as she walked out the door.

  After a few minutes, he poured another shot of whiskey, held it to his lips, and inhaled its rich aroma. Then he tossed the fire liquid into the back of his throat, forced it down and let out a loud, "Ahhhh." Though he never grew fond of whiskey's sharp taste, after seeing Curtis, he welcomed the drink's numbing effect.

  Max closed his eyes and fell asleep.

  * * * *

  An hour later, he awoke, his heart pounding as he adjusted to his surroundings. He hated falling asleep by accident. He found the whole experience disorienting, at best.

  "That's the problem with this case," he said to the empty office. And though he received no response other than silence, he knew he was right. The whole case, in the few hours they had worked on it, disoriented him. Not a single aspect of it seemed solid. Nothing but questions. Who are the Corkilles? What's with the painting that nobody knows about but everybody knows about? Why would Howard Corkille disappear? What did Melinda fear? And on and on.

  And now the Hull family was involved.

  Disorienting.

  Max sat at his desk and tried to pick out a single detail he could count as fact. "Curtis wasn't the intended target," he said and wrote it on a piece of paper. A few seconds of thought, and he crossed out the sentence. Though it was probably true, he couldn't say it for a fact.

  He crumpled the paper and tossed it across the room. Tomorrow, he thought. He closed up the office and headed home.

  * * * *

  When Max entered the kitchen and saw their little table decked out with tablecloth, candlelight, wine, wineglasses, and two combo meals from Wendy's, all of the day's pressures erupted into laughter. He flopped into his chair, laughing himself silent, while Sandra looked on from the hall doorway. After a few deep breaths and a few lapses into more laughter, Max wiped his eyes, walked to his wife, and gave her a firm, loving kiss.

  "You're wonderful," he said.

  "I know. It's not my fault, though. I was just born this way." He kissed her again, and they sat down to dinner.

  They ate in comfortable silence for awhile. Then Max burped and said, "Tomorrow, I'm quitting the Corkille case."

  "Okay."

  Max hesitated. "You're not going to try to dissuade me? Tell me I have to stay on for the money or the business or whatever?"

  "I think the name Hull changes this enough."

  "I'd be lying if I said I didn't agree, but I've stood up to them before."

  Sandra sipped her wine with a calm hand, but there was nothing relaxed in her posture. "I was with you through all that. I was a target of theirs, too. And even if I didn't see this man today all bruised and beaten up, I know the type of people we're talking about. Wealthy, powerful people who murder detectives and cast spells on their ghosts. People who have a long, nasty history in this town. So, if you don't want to risk getting any more contact with them, I completely understand."

  "Well, good," Max said, confused at why he thought he should be arguing with her. "We do need the money, though."

  "Then stay on the case. I'm going to support you either way. I'm just saying that I understand why you wouldn't want to deal with Hull again."

  Max wanted to scream. His chest felt constricted; his mouth dry. "I hate this."

  "Hull?"

  "Everything. I just want to be left alone, do my research, and enjoy our life together. But ever since we moved down here, we keep having stuff like this happen."

  "It wasn't any better in Michigan."

  "I know. It's just — I don't know. I don't know how to say any of this." He knew what he wanted to say — that she should stop working for him — but he couldn't do it. After she had set up this silly dinner for him, after she had offered her support, after she had done what little work he asked of her, how could he let her go?

  Taking his hand, Sandra led him into the living room. She sat him on the couch and nestled under his arm. She smelled wonderful — a natural smell as if the wind had brushed her with the trees' aroma, a smell as warm and secure as a thick blanket.

  If he quit the case, the other ghost cases would disappear. He wasn't faring any better with the living. His fledgling business would die. The burning red number on his computer confirmed that.

  Sandra stroked his arm and said, "You know the last time we went up against Hull things turned out okay."

  "Yeah, and we figured out back then that we can't keep running."

  "It's sure an easy habit to fall back into, though, right?"

  "You knew before I walked in here, didn't you?"

  "Knew what?"

  Max kissed the top of her head. "You knew I'd want to quit the job, and you knew that eventually, if I talked about it even a little bit, I'd talk myself right back into doing it. We need the money, we need the work, and we can't run away. You know me that well."

  "Maybe," she said with a toying chuckle.

  "Then tell me this much. Since I'm staying on in this mess, how am I going to solve it? Every aspect of it is nothing but tangles of questions."

  Sandra sat up, leaving her hand on his chest, and looked upon him with incredulous eyes. "You've drunk too much tonight, if you can't figure that part out."

  "What'd I say?"

  "Honey, tomorrow, you go hit the library. You do what you know best. Research. It doesn't matter which thread of this case you follow. Pick one and start working."

  Max nodded. She was right. He should've gone to the library from the first. Maybe it was the financial pressure or maybe the eagerness brought on by a new client, but he had jumped into the fray too fast. He needed to learn the background, research the names, know who these people actually were. Tomorrow, he would start this case over again.

  "You're a smart gal," he said and planted a strong kiss on her lips.

  "I know that, too," she said, returning the kiss.

  Despite the long day, the stress, and the alcohol, Max felt his body stirring at Sandra's touch. They spent a few minutes on the couch kissing like teenagers until finally she pulled back and said, "I've missed you."

  "Huh?"

  "That's the first time you've really kissed me like that in I don't know how long. This business has got you so worked up, you just haven't been, well, you."

  "I hadn't realized. Maybe I have been a bit distant. I sometimes feel crowded by Drummond and you in the office all the time. Not to say that —"

  "Don't over-think it, hon. Especially right now," she said and started kissing him again. Max didn't need any more motivation. They went to the bedroom, grasping and gasping, feeling young and fresh, each excited by the other — it had been too long since they did more than just be physically satisfied. When they finished that night, they held each other until they fell asleep.

  Chapter 7<
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  Wake Forest University's Z. Smith Reynolds Library — for Max, the place had become a refuge from the world. It's bright, open study areas balanced with the crowded stacks overstuffed with books. It was the greatest knowledge buffet, and Max loved it.

  He launched right into his investigation, confidence and hope blending with his sense of purpose. He started with a computer search of the name Howard Corkille. After receiving over two hundred thousand hits, he narrowed it by adding "North Carolina." This returned twenty-seven thousand. He checked out a few links — some lawyer in California writing about a deal with NCU, a baker in Florida born in North Carolina, and a bar mitzvah blog. Adding "Winston-Salem" brought the number down to one hundred twenty-seven.

  "That's better," he said, garnering a scowl from a young gal working at a desk surrounded by books and papers.

  Following several links to start and using that information for deeper research, Max learned much about the Corkille family over the course of that morning. Edwin Corkille, born and raised in Ireland, fled the country after being accused of murdering a woman he had been promised to for marriage. He insisted on his innocence but could see that nobody wanted to believe him. So he ran.

  His family was wealthy, and when he arrived in New York, he used some of his funds to purchase land in North Carolina. "Then things turn murky," Max said as he wrote down the information. Something had occurred within a decade because the next references to Edwin Corkille involved an involuntary dissolution of property. Several banks fought over what few assets he had left. In the end, he was broke.

  The American Corkilles had no contact with their Irish family, and as a result, found no help to regain their standing. They became a working class family, struggling to survive, finding life in the military during the Civil War (and finding death as well). Yet no mention of new fortunes could be found.

  Max re-read what he had found detailing the last few decades. The Corkille name was little known except for acreage sales from the property Melinda now lived in and a few mentions of Melinda's involvement with the Second Harvest Food Bank — a charity providing food for the impoverished. Of course, if all the Corkille's money came from selling art forgeries, that type of success would not be found written about in old newspaper articles.