The max porter box set, p.46
The Max Porter Box Set, page 46
“Relax. My touch is ice cold, so this guy is moving slow for the moment.” Drummond tried to hide it, but Max could see that handling the snake had taken more out of him than expected.
Despite Drummond needing a breather, Max’s situation had not changed. “I’m not taking a chance that when I try to walk by it, it doesn’t suddenly warm up and decide it’s pissed off at being held in the air.”
“Stop being a child and get moving.”
“You’re the one making ghost moans. I didn’t know you could do that.”
“There’s plenty about me that you don’t know.”
“Do you rattle chains, too?”
“Shut up and get moving. There were three Goodman hunters down there and it didn’t look good for Candace.”
The rattlesnake moved its head around in a lethargic circle. Its tongue flicked in and out as it tasted the air — no doubt, tasting the fearful stench from Max. He couldn’t be sure, but Max swore the creature paused long enough to stare at him.
In the broom closet, Max saw a towel — stained and frayed but large enough to do the trick. He snatched it and took three hesitant steps forward. He tried to push out images of long, hooked fangs digging into his leg. A memory of a nature show popped to mind — some snakes could move lightening quick and lunge several feet forward.
He froze.
Was he already too close?
“Throw the towel already,” Drummond said. “Or you can be the one to tell Sandra that we could have saved Candace’s life, but you were held up by irrational fears.”
“It’s not irrational. That thing could probably kill me.”
“Then throw the towel and save yourself.”
The ghost had a point. Max held the towel out like a matador taunting a bull. But instead of shaking the cloth, he swung it forward and let it gently lay over the snake’s head. The distinct sound of its rattle spoke loud and clear — it was not happy.
Max then grabbed the mop. He hurried ahead and when he reached the snake, he poked the towel with the mop, making sure to touch it away from himself. The rattlesnake snapped out at the mop, and Max let it go. As it clattered to the floor, he slipped behind the snake and hustled toward the secret stairs.
“Finally,” Drummond said with a wink. “Glad you’re okay.” He pointed to a wall outlet next to a snack machine. “That’s how you open it.”
The outlet pulled out on a hinge. Inside, Max saw a keyhole and button. The keyhole had been turned to the side and the button glowed a promising green. Pressing the button set the hidden door sliding aside. Though low — Max would have to crouch in order to fit through — the door thankfully moved in silence.
Drummond waved him on. “Go. I haven’t done anything like that in a while. Forgot how much it hurts. Go save Candace. I’ll join you in a minute.”
Max nodded and ducked in. Once on the other side, he stood at the head of a narrow staircase. Wiring, pipes, and wood framing pushed in, while four bare bulbs provided enough light that he wouldn’t fall. Max hustled down the stairs.
The stairs and wall ended on the right. Max turned the corner.
He looked upon a brick garage with the now-familiar abduction van parked in the middle. A workbench with an overhead lamp and old tools had been set up against one wall. On the other side, in the empty bay next to the van, Candace Mobley hung upside down.
She had chains wrapped around her ankles, and beneath her head, the Goodman hunters had placed a metal tub of water. Around the tub, a crude casting circle had been drawn with chalk. They had her gagged — protection against her using the circle they planned to use against her.
The tattooed man stood next to her, staring at Max as he entered. Max had made no attempt to silence his approach — thumping down wooden stairs made that difficult.
“I know who you are,” the man said, “so I’m going to give you the courtesy of asking you to leave. We’re on the same side, after all.”
“I don’t go hunting down people who don’t cause trouble.”
“Since when do witches not cause trouble? And they ain’t people. They lost that right when they sold their souls.”
“Sorry, pal, but you’re operating on bad info. Witches don’t sell their souls. At least, they don’t have to. Come to think of it, I don’t know who they’d sell them to. You know a buyer or something?”
To Max’s dismay, the time for witty banter ended. He had hoped to drag it out long enough for Drummond to return. Instead, the tattooed man rushed forward.
Max set back into a fighting stance without even thinking. His martial arts training kicked in, and while he could not perform acrobatic acts of deadly grace, he could manage to hold his own — a rather new and welcome phenomenon as far as he considered it.
The tattooed man thought Max would be an easy beat-down, so he started with an intimidating right punch, swinging wide like a cowboy in a John Wayne flick. Max leaned back, letting the man’s fist swish through the air, and returned with three sharp jabs to the ribs. He had to admit, he enjoyed the surprised look this earned.
Raising his fists like a boxer, the man took on a more cautious approach. He snapped out a few punches to get his distance and then moved in fast. He jabbed with his left, and while Max swatted it aside, the right followed through with the real strike. He nailed Max in the side and the painful blow reverberated straight through to Max’s skull.
Coughing, Max bent over and put out his hand to hold off another attack. But the man refused to be gentlemanly — not that Max expected as much. In fact, Max hoped the man would attack because his intention had been a feint. As the man’s tattooed arm arced overhead, Max used his position to place a firm back kick right into the man’s gut.
As the man stumbled over, grabbing his stomach, Max stepped in a short half-circle, brought up his leg, and clobbered the man in the side of the head. The tattooed arm reached for the ground while the man groaned and wobbled. Good thing, too, because Max had used up his best, most reliable moves. Anything else might have resulted in failure and embarrassment.
“Well, well,” Drummond said, dropping through the ceiling. “Looks like you’re starting to finally understand how this business works.”
“Hurry up before this guy gets moving again.”
“Why don’t you crack him in the head and knock him out?”
“Do you know what that really does to a person?”
“Makes it so they can’t fight back.”
“You can cause real brain damage, and I’m not going to sleep with that on my conscience — not when he’s no longer a threat.”
Drummond gazed at the tattooed man curled up on the floor. “We better hurry it up, then. He won’t be down for long.”
“That’s what I said.”
Ignoring Max’s exasperation, Drummond strayed toward the workbench. “Looks like the chain connects over here.”
Max did not move. He stared beyond Drummond at the two men standing in the back.
“Right,” Drummond said. “I told you there were three of them.”
Based on the wrench in one guy’s hand and the baseball bat in the other’s, Max guessed they did not have the same concerns about causing brain damage to him. He tried to recall anything he might have learned about fighting two men at once. All he could bring up was that they wouldn’t attack one-at-a-time like in the movies. And his instructor’s number one lesson about being in such fights — don’t get in them.
The man with the wrench called out, “Terry? You okay?”
The tattooed man — Terry — grunted, and Max heard him scuffling back to his feet. Standing still and getting beaten seemed like a dumb way to go out, so Max charged forward. Between a metal wrench and a wooden bat, he opted for the bat — he figured at least he had broken through wooden boards before.
As he dashed forward, the man pulled the bat back. Max leaped into the air and thrust out his foot in a flying sidekick. It shouldn’t have worked, but the audacity of the move and Max’s loud scream caused his opponent to hesitate. The kick landed on the man’s side. The momentum of Max’s entire body sent the man tumbling down.
“The brick,” Terry yelled.
Max jumped to his feet and whirled around for the next attack. Terry’s yell turned into a high-pitched cry and he dropped to the ground — the handiwork of Drummond’s icy touch. The ghost held his head as he floated toward the ceiling. He’d be of no use for a few minutes. That left the metal wrench to deal with alone.
Except Max forgot that the man with the baseball bat had only been knocked down, and Max had just committed the cardinal sin of fighting — never turn your back on your opponent. Even as the thought formed in his mind, Max felt the man’s burly arms grab hold. He strained and struggled, but he would have had better luck freeing himself from a crocodile’s jaws.
The man with the wrench walked up, made a fist, and punched Max in the gut. Max coughed out what little air he had in his lungs. He closed his eyes, knowing the next blow would be to the back of his head — and this time, the metal wrench would bring the damage.
But the blow never came.
The man with the wrench trudged across the garage and stopped at the far wall. Using the wrench, he scratched something into one of the bricks. Bright light flashed in a stuttering assault as if the paparazzi had shown up to photograph the garage.
When it ceased, spots filled Max’s sight. With his arms still pinned behind him, he could not get free, but he could hear. The sound would haunt him many times later in life. Cracking bone, a shrill scream, and a horrid sucking like a feeding baby — but not a human one.
As Max’s sight returned, he saw a fist come straight into his gut again. The man with the wrench grabbed Max’s shirt and yanked him back toward the stairs. Though finally free from the other guy’s grip, Max had little strength left to fight. He tripped and the man tossed him forward.
“Check on Terry,” the man said, and his partner laid down the baseball bat before hurrying to Terry’s side.
Max crawled backwards until he felt the cool wall. To his right, the stairs leading back into the Science Center awaited, but he had no intention of breaking for it. Too weak. These men would catch him before he managed to get halfway up — and then they really would beat him badly.
The one hunched over Terry said, “He’s not in good shape. Maybe he needs the hospital.”
To Max, the other guy said, “If he needs the hospital, then so will you.”
He stepped forward, and Max looked away. He didn’t need to see the wrench coming down on him. Then his heart jumped.
Above, at the top of stairs, Max saw Sandra kneeling. She held her left hand at her shoulder, and in it, Max could see a stick of chalk. He had no idea how long she had been up there, but clearly it had been long enough to draw a casting circle.
Her eyes snapped open but she did not seem to be seeing anything. Then he heard two thuds. Looking back, Max saw that the two men had slumped onto the floor. Sandra gasped for air as she clung to the handrail for support.
Racing up the stairs, Max thrust out his arms. He swept her into an embrace and kissed her cheeks. Sweat soaked her body but after a moment, her breathing steadied and she smiled.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Me? What kind of spell took so much out of you?” He gazed down the stairs. “Those guys ... they’re not ... I mean...”
Sandra raised an eyebrow. “You think I’d kill somebody?”
“To save my life, maybe.”
She nodded. “For that, I probably would. But no. They’ll wake up feeling horrible, but they’ll be fine. It’s really not that difficult a spell. I don’t know why it hit me so hard.”
“I do,” Drummond called from the bottom of the stairs. “Come here.”
Holding Sandra close, they climbed back down to the garage. Sandra covered her mouth when she saw the witch. The body looked much like the previous one — broken bones, emaciated and oddly discolored, the expression strained with pain. Max ushered his wife forward — no need to stare at that horror too long — until they caught up with Drummond.
“See that?” Drummond pointed to a single brick. Like before, this one had been scorched. “That’s two. And this time we got to see what happened. That one fella wrote something into the brick and it burned like this. At the same moment, Candace Mobley suffered whatever you want to call what happened to her. There’s a clear connection.”
“What does it have to do with Sandra being wiped out by her spell?” Max asked.
“Because I experienced intense pain from holding that snake and touching Terry. I mean, far worse than normal. I should’ve been able to help you more both times, but I felt like I’d been clobbered by Tony Canzoneri.”
“Who?”
“Welterweight champion in the early 1930s. How about Mike Tyson?”
“Yeah, I get it.” To Sandra, he asked, “You know any spells like that?”
Wrenching her shoulder from under his arm, she stepped away. “Now you want my expertise. You’re doing it again. You fight me and tell me you’re so worried about me, yet the moment you need my help with witchcraft, you’re happy to use me. What happened to you supporting me in all of this? What happened to me being the witch for our side?”
“It’s not like that. I do want you to —”
“You know, we spent all those years telling ourselves we needed to be honest with each other yet we’d always turn around and ignore what we said. We’d keep secrets. Now, we’re doing it again about witchcraft. We go in these circles until it all becomes a big fight.”
Drummond had moved closer to Candace’s body. “Hey, you two, save your marriage spat for home. We’ve got work to do here.”
Over his shoulder, Max said, “What now?”
“She’s still alive.”
Max and Sandra rushed over. The witch’s eyes were two wide-open orbs. She turned her head toward Sandra and moaned a word. With as delicate a touch as possible, Sandra pulled off the gag. In a crackling whisper, Candace said, “Black.”
“What’s black?” Sandra asked. “What are you trying to say?”
With a scream, Candace cried out, “BLACK!” Her body jolted back and forth as her head snapped to the right with an audible crack. Max pulled Sandra back, but there was no need. Candace had finally died.
Max, Sandra, and Drummond did not move. They stared at each other in silence. Then Max’s cellphone rang.
He jumped at the sound, and with a sheepish chuckle, he fished the phone from his pocket. The screen displayed a number but no name. “Hello?”
“Is this Mr. Max Porter?”
“Who is this?”
“I’m Jillian from Mount Tabor High School. We need you to come in right now to discuss PB’s behavior. Principal Hardy is expecting you.”
After ending the call, Max shook his head. Then, grabbing his sore stomach, he started to laugh.
Chapter 12
THE LAST TIME Max sat in the Principal’s office, he had been caught smoking cigarettes in the boy’s locker room with Jimbo Banker and Kenny Kisoto after fourth period. Back then, he feared the wrath of his mother. More, he loathed knowing that for years to come, she would reference this moment whenever she wanted to drive home her disappointment in him. That went on until he hit college and found better ways to disappoint her.
But now, sitting in a chair slightly less comfortable than a granite slab, watching Sandra’s knee bounce fast enough to give a speed metal drummer a run, and with his own fingers tapping a similar rhythm, he saw things quite differently. His mother, no matter how angry she had been, must also have been terrified. Not of the principal, but rather of the idea that she may have failed as a parent.
Max and Sandra weren’t even PB’s legal guardians, yet Max found himself worried that all of his actions, no matter how good intentioned, may have contributed to ruining this kid and the chances he had for a decent future. But he pushed that idea away. PB had suffered hard times, yet he was far from ruined. The longer Max had to wait for Principal Hardy, the more convinced he became that this school had decided before the fact that PB was a bad seed and that Max and Sandra were the ones contributing to the boy’s delinquency, sending him down a dark and dangerous path.
The small office felt hot, stifling. It closed in around him as if the drab walls looked down upon his concern and shook their head — a good parent wouldn’t be here, they seemed to say. Phones rang from the main office beyond the thin door, people chattered away, students complained, yet in the Principal’s office time stood still.
“You sent Drummond to look more into the Goodman hunters,” Sandra said. “Smart move.”
Max tried to hide his surprise. Was she extending an olive branch? “Thank you. I just want to say that —”
“You know what else is a smart move? Practically everything I’ve been doing. Interviewing the witches to get information about their lives and behaviors. Once they started opening up to me, I was able to find out about their fears, too. Amazing how when you treat them like human beings, instead of monsters with twisted minds, they actually talk with you. That’s how I found out about the Goodman hunters myself and eventually found Laverne. That’s also how I found out about the original Mobley cabin and figured out that they may have taken Candace there. And that’s why I was in the right place at the right time to save your disloyal ass.”
“Disloyal?”
She glanced back at the door to make sure nobody could hear. Leaning closer, her mouth a firm, angry line, she said, “You sent PB to spy on me. You don’t trust me.”
“I trust you completely. I also worry about you.”
“Don’t start that again. I’m sick of hearing it. Anytime you need an excuse for making the wrong decision about me, you claim it was all because you worried for my safety. But here’s the real truth. Not too long ago, we had a case with the Darden family. Remember them? Young group of kids cursed into a house. Well, not really, but that was part of the lie they gave us. You had no problem calling me your witch at that time. You were all about how you’ve got your own witch, and you didn’t have a problem with me sneaking upstairs in their house and casting spells.”
Despite Drummond needing a breather, Max’s situation had not changed. “I’m not taking a chance that when I try to walk by it, it doesn’t suddenly warm up and decide it’s pissed off at being held in the air.”
“Stop being a child and get moving.”
“You’re the one making ghost moans. I didn’t know you could do that.”
“There’s plenty about me that you don’t know.”
“Do you rattle chains, too?”
“Shut up and get moving. There were three Goodman hunters down there and it didn’t look good for Candace.”
The rattlesnake moved its head around in a lethargic circle. Its tongue flicked in and out as it tasted the air — no doubt, tasting the fearful stench from Max. He couldn’t be sure, but Max swore the creature paused long enough to stare at him.
In the broom closet, Max saw a towel — stained and frayed but large enough to do the trick. He snatched it and took three hesitant steps forward. He tried to push out images of long, hooked fangs digging into his leg. A memory of a nature show popped to mind — some snakes could move lightening quick and lunge several feet forward.
He froze.
Was he already too close?
“Throw the towel already,” Drummond said. “Or you can be the one to tell Sandra that we could have saved Candace’s life, but you were held up by irrational fears.”
“It’s not irrational. That thing could probably kill me.”
“Then throw the towel and save yourself.”
The ghost had a point. Max held the towel out like a matador taunting a bull. But instead of shaking the cloth, he swung it forward and let it gently lay over the snake’s head. The distinct sound of its rattle spoke loud and clear — it was not happy.
Max then grabbed the mop. He hurried ahead and when he reached the snake, he poked the towel with the mop, making sure to touch it away from himself. The rattlesnake snapped out at the mop, and Max let it go. As it clattered to the floor, he slipped behind the snake and hustled toward the secret stairs.
“Finally,” Drummond said with a wink. “Glad you’re okay.” He pointed to a wall outlet next to a snack machine. “That’s how you open it.”
The outlet pulled out on a hinge. Inside, Max saw a keyhole and button. The keyhole had been turned to the side and the button glowed a promising green. Pressing the button set the hidden door sliding aside. Though low — Max would have to crouch in order to fit through — the door thankfully moved in silence.
Drummond waved him on. “Go. I haven’t done anything like that in a while. Forgot how much it hurts. Go save Candace. I’ll join you in a minute.”
Max nodded and ducked in. Once on the other side, he stood at the head of a narrow staircase. Wiring, pipes, and wood framing pushed in, while four bare bulbs provided enough light that he wouldn’t fall. Max hustled down the stairs.
The stairs and wall ended on the right. Max turned the corner.
He looked upon a brick garage with the now-familiar abduction van parked in the middle. A workbench with an overhead lamp and old tools had been set up against one wall. On the other side, in the empty bay next to the van, Candace Mobley hung upside down.
She had chains wrapped around her ankles, and beneath her head, the Goodman hunters had placed a metal tub of water. Around the tub, a crude casting circle had been drawn with chalk. They had her gagged — protection against her using the circle they planned to use against her.
The tattooed man stood next to her, staring at Max as he entered. Max had made no attempt to silence his approach — thumping down wooden stairs made that difficult.
“I know who you are,” the man said, “so I’m going to give you the courtesy of asking you to leave. We’re on the same side, after all.”
“I don’t go hunting down people who don’t cause trouble.”
“Since when do witches not cause trouble? And they ain’t people. They lost that right when they sold their souls.”
“Sorry, pal, but you’re operating on bad info. Witches don’t sell their souls. At least, they don’t have to. Come to think of it, I don’t know who they’d sell them to. You know a buyer or something?”
To Max’s dismay, the time for witty banter ended. He had hoped to drag it out long enough for Drummond to return. Instead, the tattooed man rushed forward.
Max set back into a fighting stance without even thinking. His martial arts training kicked in, and while he could not perform acrobatic acts of deadly grace, he could manage to hold his own — a rather new and welcome phenomenon as far as he considered it.
The tattooed man thought Max would be an easy beat-down, so he started with an intimidating right punch, swinging wide like a cowboy in a John Wayne flick. Max leaned back, letting the man’s fist swish through the air, and returned with three sharp jabs to the ribs. He had to admit, he enjoyed the surprised look this earned.
Raising his fists like a boxer, the man took on a more cautious approach. He snapped out a few punches to get his distance and then moved in fast. He jabbed with his left, and while Max swatted it aside, the right followed through with the real strike. He nailed Max in the side and the painful blow reverberated straight through to Max’s skull.
Coughing, Max bent over and put out his hand to hold off another attack. But the man refused to be gentlemanly — not that Max expected as much. In fact, Max hoped the man would attack because his intention had been a feint. As the man’s tattooed arm arced overhead, Max used his position to place a firm back kick right into the man’s gut.
As the man stumbled over, grabbing his stomach, Max stepped in a short half-circle, brought up his leg, and clobbered the man in the side of the head. The tattooed arm reached for the ground while the man groaned and wobbled. Good thing, too, because Max had used up his best, most reliable moves. Anything else might have resulted in failure and embarrassment.
“Well, well,” Drummond said, dropping through the ceiling. “Looks like you’re starting to finally understand how this business works.”
“Hurry up before this guy gets moving again.”
“Why don’t you crack him in the head and knock him out?”
“Do you know what that really does to a person?”
“Makes it so they can’t fight back.”
“You can cause real brain damage, and I’m not going to sleep with that on my conscience — not when he’s no longer a threat.”
Drummond gazed at the tattooed man curled up on the floor. “We better hurry it up, then. He won’t be down for long.”
“That’s what I said.”
Ignoring Max’s exasperation, Drummond strayed toward the workbench. “Looks like the chain connects over here.”
Max did not move. He stared beyond Drummond at the two men standing in the back.
“Right,” Drummond said. “I told you there were three of them.”
Based on the wrench in one guy’s hand and the baseball bat in the other’s, Max guessed they did not have the same concerns about causing brain damage to him. He tried to recall anything he might have learned about fighting two men at once. All he could bring up was that they wouldn’t attack one-at-a-time like in the movies. And his instructor’s number one lesson about being in such fights — don’t get in them.
The man with the wrench called out, “Terry? You okay?”
The tattooed man — Terry — grunted, and Max heard him scuffling back to his feet. Standing still and getting beaten seemed like a dumb way to go out, so Max charged forward. Between a metal wrench and a wooden bat, he opted for the bat — he figured at least he had broken through wooden boards before.
As he dashed forward, the man pulled the bat back. Max leaped into the air and thrust out his foot in a flying sidekick. It shouldn’t have worked, but the audacity of the move and Max’s loud scream caused his opponent to hesitate. The kick landed on the man’s side. The momentum of Max’s entire body sent the man tumbling down.
“The brick,” Terry yelled.
Max jumped to his feet and whirled around for the next attack. Terry’s yell turned into a high-pitched cry and he dropped to the ground — the handiwork of Drummond’s icy touch. The ghost held his head as he floated toward the ceiling. He’d be of no use for a few minutes. That left the metal wrench to deal with alone.
Except Max forgot that the man with the baseball bat had only been knocked down, and Max had just committed the cardinal sin of fighting — never turn your back on your opponent. Even as the thought formed in his mind, Max felt the man’s burly arms grab hold. He strained and struggled, but he would have had better luck freeing himself from a crocodile’s jaws.
The man with the wrench walked up, made a fist, and punched Max in the gut. Max coughed out what little air he had in his lungs. He closed his eyes, knowing the next blow would be to the back of his head — and this time, the metal wrench would bring the damage.
But the blow never came.
The man with the wrench trudged across the garage and stopped at the far wall. Using the wrench, he scratched something into one of the bricks. Bright light flashed in a stuttering assault as if the paparazzi had shown up to photograph the garage.
When it ceased, spots filled Max’s sight. With his arms still pinned behind him, he could not get free, but he could hear. The sound would haunt him many times later in life. Cracking bone, a shrill scream, and a horrid sucking like a feeding baby — but not a human one.
As Max’s sight returned, he saw a fist come straight into his gut again. The man with the wrench grabbed Max’s shirt and yanked him back toward the stairs. Though finally free from the other guy’s grip, Max had little strength left to fight. He tripped and the man tossed him forward.
“Check on Terry,” the man said, and his partner laid down the baseball bat before hurrying to Terry’s side.
Max crawled backwards until he felt the cool wall. To his right, the stairs leading back into the Science Center awaited, but he had no intention of breaking for it. Too weak. These men would catch him before he managed to get halfway up — and then they really would beat him badly.
The one hunched over Terry said, “He’s not in good shape. Maybe he needs the hospital.”
To Max, the other guy said, “If he needs the hospital, then so will you.”
He stepped forward, and Max looked away. He didn’t need to see the wrench coming down on him. Then his heart jumped.
Above, at the top of stairs, Max saw Sandra kneeling. She held her left hand at her shoulder, and in it, Max could see a stick of chalk. He had no idea how long she had been up there, but clearly it had been long enough to draw a casting circle.
Her eyes snapped open but she did not seem to be seeing anything. Then he heard two thuds. Looking back, Max saw that the two men had slumped onto the floor. Sandra gasped for air as she clung to the handrail for support.
Racing up the stairs, Max thrust out his arms. He swept her into an embrace and kissed her cheeks. Sweat soaked her body but after a moment, her breathing steadied and she smiled.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Me? What kind of spell took so much out of you?” He gazed down the stairs. “Those guys ... they’re not ... I mean...”
Sandra raised an eyebrow. “You think I’d kill somebody?”
“To save my life, maybe.”
She nodded. “For that, I probably would. But no. They’ll wake up feeling horrible, but they’ll be fine. It’s really not that difficult a spell. I don’t know why it hit me so hard.”
“I do,” Drummond called from the bottom of the stairs. “Come here.”
Holding Sandra close, they climbed back down to the garage. Sandra covered her mouth when she saw the witch. The body looked much like the previous one — broken bones, emaciated and oddly discolored, the expression strained with pain. Max ushered his wife forward — no need to stare at that horror too long — until they caught up with Drummond.
“See that?” Drummond pointed to a single brick. Like before, this one had been scorched. “That’s two. And this time we got to see what happened. That one fella wrote something into the brick and it burned like this. At the same moment, Candace Mobley suffered whatever you want to call what happened to her. There’s a clear connection.”
“What does it have to do with Sandra being wiped out by her spell?” Max asked.
“Because I experienced intense pain from holding that snake and touching Terry. I mean, far worse than normal. I should’ve been able to help you more both times, but I felt like I’d been clobbered by Tony Canzoneri.”
“Who?”
“Welterweight champion in the early 1930s. How about Mike Tyson?”
“Yeah, I get it.” To Sandra, he asked, “You know any spells like that?”
Wrenching her shoulder from under his arm, she stepped away. “Now you want my expertise. You’re doing it again. You fight me and tell me you’re so worried about me, yet the moment you need my help with witchcraft, you’re happy to use me. What happened to you supporting me in all of this? What happened to me being the witch for our side?”
“It’s not like that. I do want you to —”
“You know, we spent all those years telling ourselves we needed to be honest with each other yet we’d always turn around and ignore what we said. We’d keep secrets. Now, we’re doing it again about witchcraft. We go in these circles until it all becomes a big fight.”
Drummond had moved closer to Candace’s body. “Hey, you two, save your marriage spat for home. We’ve got work to do here.”
Over his shoulder, Max said, “What now?”
“She’s still alive.”
Max and Sandra rushed over. The witch’s eyes were two wide-open orbs. She turned her head toward Sandra and moaned a word. With as delicate a touch as possible, Sandra pulled off the gag. In a crackling whisper, Candace said, “Black.”
“What’s black?” Sandra asked. “What are you trying to say?”
With a scream, Candace cried out, “BLACK!” Her body jolted back and forth as her head snapped to the right with an audible crack. Max pulled Sandra back, but there was no need. Candace had finally died.
Max, Sandra, and Drummond did not move. They stared at each other in silence. Then Max’s cellphone rang.
He jumped at the sound, and with a sheepish chuckle, he fished the phone from his pocket. The screen displayed a number but no name. “Hello?”
“Is this Mr. Max Porter?”
“Who is this?”
“I’m Jillian from Mount Tabor High School. We need you to come in right now to discuss PB’s behavior. Principal Hardy is expecting you.”
After ending the call, Max shook his head. Then, grabbing his sore stomach, he started to laugh.
Chapter 12
THE LAST TIME Max sat in the Principal’s office, he had been caught smoking cigarettes in the boy’s locker room with Jimbo Banker and Kenny Kisoto after fourth period. Back then, he feared the wrath of his mother. More, he loathed knowing that for years to come, she would reference this moment whenever she wanted to drive home her disappointment in him. That went on until he hit college and found better ways to disappoint her.
But now, sitting in a chair slightly less comfortable than a granite slab, watching Sandra’s knee bounce fast enough to give a speed metal drummer a run, and with his own fingers tapping a similar rhythm, he saw things quite differently. His mother, no matter how angry she had been, must also have been terrified. Not of the principal, but rather of the idea that she may have failed as a parent.
Max and Sandra weren’t even PB’s legal guardians, yet Max found himself worried that all of his actions, no matter how good intentioned, may have contributed to ruining this kid and the chances he had for a decent future. But he pushed that idea away. PB had suffered hard times, yet he was far from ruined. The longer Max had to wait for Principal Hardy, the more convinced he became that this school had decided before the fact that PB was a bad seed and that Max and Sandra were the ones contributing to the boy’s delinquency, sending him down a dark and dangerous path.
The small office felt hot, stifling. It closed in around him as if the drab walls looked down upon his concern and shook their head — a good parent wouldn’t be here, they seemed to say. Phones rang from the main office beyond the thin door, people chattered away, students complained, yet in the Principal’s office time stood still.
“You sent Drummond to look more into the Goodman hunters,” Sandra said. “Smart move.”
Max tried to hide his surprise. Was she extending an olive branch? “Thank you. I just want to say that —”
“You know what else is a smart move? Practically everything I’ve been doing. Interviewing the witches to get information about their lives and behaviors. Once they started opening up to me, I was able to find out about their fears, too. Amazing how when you treat them like human beings, instead of monsters with twisted minds, they actually talk with you. That’s how I found out about the Goodman hunters myself and eventually found Laverne. That’s also how I found out about the original Mobley cabin and figured out that they may have taken Candace there. And that’s why I was in the right place at the right time to save your disloyal ass.”
“Disloyal?”
She glanced back at the door to make sure nobody could hear. Leaning closer, her mouth a firm, angry line, she said, “You sent PB to spy on me. You don’t trust me.”
“I trust you completely. I also worry about you.”
“Don’t start that again. I’m sick of hearing it. Anytime you need an excuse for making the wrong decision about me, you claim it was all because you worried for my safety. But here’s the real truth. Not too long ago, we had a case with the Darden family. Remember them? Young group of kids cursed into a house. Well, not really, but that was part of the lie they gave us. You had no problem calling me your witch at that time. You were all about how you’ve got your own witch, and you didn’t have a problem with me sneaking upstairs in their house and casting spells.”
