Southern Charm (13 page)

When he reached the stairs, the thought that he might survive sparked. He turned toward his car, putting the painting behind him, and scurried to the driver's side. Two shots snapped the asphalt at his feet. Max didn't stop. He couldn't — his body refused to do anything but keep running for the car.

He wrenched the door opened with a screech and jumped in. Tossing the painting to the side, he shoved his keys into the ignition. He kept his head low as he started the car and turned on the brights. The entire Welcome Center lot became washed in the strong car lights. Peeking over the dashboard, he searched for any movement, any sign of his attacker.

Though the restrooms were uphill and covered with trees, Max swore he glimpsed a thin, blond-haired man dashing off. He waited and watched. Nobody came out.

He slipped the car into drive, and with his body hunched over the wheel, he tore off onto the highway. A mile passed by before he would sit up straight. Another mile passed before he slowed down enough to stop the car from shaking.

Now only he was shaking.

By the time he arrived at Melinda Corkille's home, Max's head had entered that late-night fuzziness. His dashboard clock read 2:57 am and he felt every second of sleep deprivation dancing along his skin. When he rang the doorbell and knocked on the wood, the sounds echoed in his ears.

Several minutes later, the porch light winked on and the door opened. Melinda poked her groggy face outside and squinted. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I've got it," he said and pushed his way in. "Get Howard."

Melinda's mouth tightened into a firm line. "I am not waking up that man in the middle of the night for anything."

"You don't understand."

"Go home, Max. I'll call the police if I have to. And I don't care what Howard said before. He is not getting worked up into all this just to have you ditch him in the end. I've seen it before. Idiots come along intrigued by his story and they want to help him break the curse. Only thing that gets broken is him."

"But I've got the painting.
Mourning in Red
— I've got it."

Melinda stood dumbfounded. As her thoughts finally connected, she stammered a few syllables and finally managed, "I-I'll get Howard."

"Thank you," Max said with a sarcastic bow.

While she left the room, Max hurried back to his car to retrieve the painting. He paused at the door, his eyes searching the darkness, his heart pressing against his chest. Just because he got away doesn't mean the sniper gave up.

"I'm not giving up, either." He pictured Sandra, tried to will his good thoughts toward her, and then set about his work.

When he returned to the house, Melinda was escorting Howard to his art studio. Max hadn't noticed her when he had first arrived — he just wanted to get to Howard — but seeing Melinda in a silk robe and a revealing piece of flimsiness underneath caused his pulse to quicken in a different manner than before. But that was just testosterone doing its thing. He closed his eyes, pictured Sandra once more, and focused on what was important.

Melinda waved him in. Max could see the excitement on Howard's face. With care, he set the painting on one of Howard's easels and stepped back.

"It's still wrapped," Melinda said.

Max nodded. "I didn't want to take anything away from Howard." As much as he felt the clock ticking against him, Max did find the resolve to let Howard have his moment.

Howard lifted a shaking hand to the painting. His bony fingers found a small nick, and with surprising strength, he ripped off the brown-paper wrapping. Melinda helped remove the remaining strips.

All three stared at the sad painting. It portrayed a voluptuous, nude woman posed on a red couch with her left hand covering between her legs. Her right hand pressed against her brow creating a shadow over her closed eyes that only accentuated the deep sadness she clearly felt.

"Is this the right painting? I thought it was supposed to be a landscape."

Howard's unsteady finger traced the bumps of paint, getting stronger as he moved along the canvas. "This is the right one."

"You painted this?" Melinda asked.

Corkille's mouth twisted like a disapproving teacher. He reached for a bottle on his desk, soaked a rag with its contents, and wiped it on the painting. With only three broad strokes, the paint smeared off.

"Stop him!" Max said. Each wipe felt like a strike against Sandra.

Melinda put her hand on Howard's shoulder but he threw it off. "No," he said. "Watch close."

A few more strokes of the rag and they all saw what Howard wanted them to see — underneath the paint was another painting.

"I don't believe it," Max said. "What the hell is that?"

"That," Howard said, working off more paint with a gentle touch, "is what we all are after."

The second painting, the real painting, sent tremors along Max's nerves. It showed a dark figure, a huge man, standing in a doorway. Little wisps of smoke snaked from either side of his head. The doorway overlooked a room without any defined end. Strange symbols, the kind Dr. Connor used, floated around another nude figure — Max couldn't tell the sex because the figure was curled into a ball.

Melinda's face brightened. "Can this do it? Can this really help you break the curse?"

"Of course," Howard said.

Max put a hand on the edge of the painting. "Then break your curse now. I need to take this painting."

Melinda shot to her feet so fast she startled Howard. "Don't you dare."

"This isn't the way I want it, but I don't have a choice."

"Was this the point all along? Just use Howard like everybody always did?"

"They have my wife. Sandra. They have her, and the only leverage I've got is that painting."

"Well you'll have to find something else. This poor man here has suffered long enough. He needs this painting, and that's it."

"We're talking about the witch, Connor," Max said, his voice breaking.

In a grim tone, Howard said, "And that means the Hull family, too."

"I don't know. Probably. I haven't 
thought 
it out that far. All I know is Connor and her thugs have my wife. They'll kill her. Or worse."

Melinda sat back with Howard and rested her head on his shoulder, leaving Max standing alone and feeling a thousand miles away from that painting and even further from Sandra. Tears welled in his eyes. His lungs didn't want to breath in. Everything inside his body wanted to shut down.

"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."

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."