Southern Haunts (25 page)

He entered the living room and immediately dropped to the floor. A thick, gray and black cloud covered the ceiling. Carl had passed out. Max didn’t see Drummond anywhere, but he and Milton had to still be fighting. If not, Milton would have killed Max by now. Another roar like thunder rattled the windows and shook the floors — definitely still fighting.

Max crawled on the floor like a new recruit under fire, until he reached Wayne. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. He listened to Wayne’s chest — heart still beating. He looked across at Carl. Carl’s shoulders rose and fell — still breathing.

Max coughed hard. Every time he tried to inhale, he coughed more. The temperature rose steadily. He tried to think, but his mind moved as sluggishly as his body.

He dug his hands underneath Wayne and grunted. He rolled the big man forward. He repeated the actions two more times until Wayne lay next to Carl. Max then crawled towards the couch.

Flames snapped out through the walls and into the living room. Lifting a blanket off of the couch, Max covered his head and breathed in as much air as he could handle. He blitzed into the kitchen.

The heat blasted upon him — a furnace roaring like he imagined the fire and brimstone preachers dreamed of. He knew it would cook his body. Leaping over a burning chair, he reached the top of the cellar stairs. No bottles. They were gone.

The stairs were gone, too. All he could see of the cellar was an inferno as if looking down into Hell itself. Max turned back. Covering his hand with the blanket, he turned on the faucet. Water sizzled out. He soaked the blanket in the sink for as long as he could endure the heat. Not long at all. Mere seconds. He grabbed the wet blanket and dove back into the living room.

With the blanket, he covered Wayne and Carl. It wouldn’t be much, but he hoped it would help.

The bottles. They had to be somewhere. A part of him hoped that the flames had already destroyed them. But Milton still had power, Shawnee was still trapped upstairs, and the doors to the house would still not open. If Milton had lost his power, those things would have gone away, and Drummond would have been able to come in and calmly announce that Milton was no more.

No, the bottles were still in play. Milton had to have removed them at some point, knowing that his vulnerability could be exploited. But where?

Another contraction forced Shawnee’s screams. Max glanced up at the ceiling. Milton would put those bottles in the last place to be burned, and the most important room to him at the moment.

Back up the stairs. Only this time, flames consumed the right wall. Smoke fogged the air. Max kept to his belly as he worked his way up.

A loud ringing cut through the crackle of burning wood. He finally recognized it — a fire alarm. It had been going for a long time, but with all the confusion, his mind had never registered it.

When he reached the landing, he watched Drummond pass through a wall into the hallway. Another form followed — Milton. Black smoke curled around his ghostly visage, massive and powerful, as he punched Drummond in the head. He jumped onto Drummond, attempted to strangle him, and shoved him down further. Against such a huge adversary, Max couldn’t be sure how much longer his partner would be able to hold out.

Even as Milton held Drummond down, he had the strength to look away, to look at Max. He hissed and thrust out a smoking fist. The swirling black cloud stretched down the hall with all the speed of a jab thrown by a well-trained street fighter. He caught Max on the cheek. A glancing blow off to the side, but it still packed enough power to force Max back a few steps. As Milton wound up for another strike, Drummond reached over and grabbed Milton’s neck.

The distraction was enough for an escape. Max sped into the baby’s room, but he had to pause a moment. The room was substantially cooler. No smoke. No fire. Whatever magic Milton held, he used a lot of it to protect this newborn he wanted as his vessel. If not for that, Max suspected Milton would have already slaughtered them all. Max inhaled deeply and spewed out black phlegm. Shawnee screamed at him, her pain and fear making her words unintelligible.

“Hang on. I got an idea.” He skirted around the blue field and entered the closet.

Pressing his back against the door jamb and his feet on the opposite side, he shimmied upward towards the ceiling. Once high enough, he reached out and shoved open the attic access panel. All of his muscles scolded him as he tried to gain purchase to pull himself further up.

His fingers slipped. He slammed into the floor.

He took a second to wipe blood off his eye before standing again. Though a fiery pain ran along his side, he tried again — shimmied back up, reached out, grabbed the lip of the access hole. This time his fingers caught the lip. He swung over and up, pulling himself into the attic.

The crate of blue Casper bottles sat in the middle of the floor. Max hurried over, snatched one, and smashed it on the wood floor — the same wood that had formed Unger’s General Store decades ago.

A howl erupted throughout the house. Louder than the raging flames, louder than the piercing alarms, or the screams of Shawnee’s pain. The howl ripped through, shaking the foundations of the building.

From a distance, Max could hear Drummond’s voice. “That’s it, Max! Do more of whatever you did.”

Max grabbed another bottle and shattered it. Another howl. Only this one weaker.

He reached for the whole crate, but the wood floor around it splintered open. Milton’s smoke hand poured out. Max stepped back, looking everywhere for a weapon, but dusty boxes of old memorabilia wouldn’t stop a pissed-off spirit. The smoke-hand darted at him, snagged his shirt, and yanked him to the side.

It shoved him upward, banging his head into the slanted wood of the roof. Max wondered how many times it had taken for Jack’s head to break through the kitchen ceiling. Each blow dazed him, and soon he knew he would learn the answer.

The cold smoke-hand slithered up and around Max’s throat. Max tried to shove it away but his hands slipped through the smoke. His head throbbed as if he wore a helmet of bruises beneath his skin. He saw the crate, out of reach, and smelled the charring house drifting into the attic. He thought of Sandra and closed his eyes.

“Quit sleeping on the job,” Drummond said, startling Max awake. Drummond crashed through the attic floor. He grabbed Milton’s arm and bent it backwards.

Max dropped forward. Coughing and gasping, he went straight for the crate of blue bottles. He picked up the entire crate and tossed it down the access panel onto the baby’s closet floor.

The quake that struck felt like a giant had grabbed the house and rocked it from side to side. Max tried to steady himself but he couldn’t hold his balance. He toppled over, tumbling into the closet, and onto the blue glass below. He felt shards dig into his back.

Heat and smoke poured into the baby’s room. Quivering on the floor, Shawnee held her stomach.

“You did it, Max! You did it!” Drummond hovered overhead, beaming. “Wish you could see this — all of the Unger ghosts are flying away. I can see them. They’re saying
Thank you
and man, they look relieved.”

Max closed his eyes. He smiled, but he knew it was too late. He had no more strength, he had lost too much blood, his bones were broken — no way could he get out of the house.

“Don’t give up on me, Max. I’m telling you. You’re going to be okay. The Ungers — they’re coming back.”

Through a half-closed eye, Max watched as the flames entered the baby’s room — Milton Hull’s magic no longer protected them. Smoke haloed around the fire. The burning building moved in on Shawnee, but suddenly stopped.

She lifted into the air, only this time there was no fear, no threat — the Ungers were helping. Max lifted up, too. He felt as if he floated on a blow-up cushion in a swimming pool. With Shawnee by his side, the two glided downstairs while the flames formed an orange tunnel. Plenty of air reached their lungs and despite the proximity of the fire, Max felt no heat.

Straight outside, they went. As they were set gently on the grass, Max saw Libby and Sandra helping Wayne and Carl to safety.

With a roar, half the house collapsed in a sparking, fiery blaze. The Fire Department would arrive soon. They would have endless questions.

No matter. The job was done.

Chapter 31

By the time Max received permission
to join Sandra, Drummond, and Libby in the maternity ward waiting room, he had endured hours of doctors prodding, stitching, and wrapping him up followed by the police asking him questions. A story had been agreed upon ahead of time, and Max stuck to it. He told the officers that they were having a small gathering of friends at the Darian home when the fire broke out. Nice and simple.

The officer pressed a little because of Jack’s death, but the body had been burned so severely that Max had no fear of the inquiry turning into a homicide investigation. A nosy detective could certainly discover the numerous oddities, but nobody had a reason to bother. No evidence had survived, and the police had their hands full with a serial arsonist who had set fires all over the city. It became evident that the real concern was dotting
i’s
and crossing
t’s
for the insurance company.

Soft jazz played in the Forsyth Medical maternity waiting room while newborns cried their first tears down the hall. Every few minutes, Sandra patted Max’s knee, assuring herself that he had survived their ordeal. Every few minutes, Drummond crossed through the walls to check on Shawnee’s progress and would return with a simple, “Not born yet.”

Libby paced the room. Though anxious for the baby, she periodically asked at the desk if they would check on Carl. The nurse patiently explained that Carl had suffered numerous burns and other injuries and would be in surgery for hours more.

To Max’s surprise, Wayne had emerged from the fire unscathed — at least, physically.

Around three in the morning, Max’s cell phone chirped — Peanut Butter. “Hey, Ghostman. How’d it all turn out?”

Max kept his face neutral — most expressions aggravated his wounds. “You guys did great. You actually saved people’s lives last night.”

“By setting fires? You crazy?”

“You really care if I’m crazy or not?”

“Long as you keep paying, we’ll keep working.”

“You know I can help you — set you up in an apartment or something.”

“No, sir. We’ll earn our pay and take it from there.”

Max had to admire the kid’s pluck. Even his pride. “Welcome aboard. Now go get some sleep.”

Sleep sounded nice. It would be awhile, though, before they would be home and in bed. And he would want a long shower, too — the smell of burnt wood permeated his skin. Max stretched his legs and opted for a short walk.

He followed Libby down the hall. She turned back and offered a slight smile. “Guess we should count this as a win.”

“A big win,” Max said.

“Losing Jack doesn’t sound like such a great deal. And I doubt Carl’s going to want to continue doing this. Looks like I have no team anymore.”

“Why don’t you join us?” The words had left Max’s mouth before he could stop them. Not that he objected, but he knew this was different than the Sandwich Boys. They were guys he would pay from time to time to do odd jobs for him. Somebody like Libby would expect to be an integral part of each case, and for that, he should have given it more thought and discussed it with Sandra.

Libby saved him the trouble. “No, thank you. I like the work, I do, but seeing it go this far — this isn’t for me. If I can ever help you in some small ways, I will. You feel free to call me. But I could never do something like this again.” She returned to the waiting room, a constant shake in her shoulders. Max wondered if that would ever go away for her.

He walked in the opposite direction and stopped at a soda machine. As he fumbled with a dollar bill, trying to get it crisp enough to be accepted by the machine, he heard a sound that chilled his skin. A distinctive
click-clack
of high-heels.

He looked behind and saw her. More than the heels, he now saw the entire woman — petite, blond, walking away from him. By her coat and the deference given by the nurses, and by her swagger, Max pegged her as a doctor. He followed her. Keeping far enough back to go unnoticed, he watched her turn the corner. As he came around, she headed for the elevators. One set of doors opened at her approach, and she stepped right in.

Max had to decide — get on the elevator with her or let her go and watch what floor she stopped at. Why was this doctor part of the Magi group? Why had she destroyed his computers? Maybe he was wrong. Maybe this was some other high-heeled woman. But that
click-clack
pattern could be no other.

Without realizing it, he had stopped feet away from the elevator. The woman lifted her head and locked eyes with Max. Her lips formed a malicious grin. The doors closed.

Max walked away. He didn’t want to be paranoid, but clearly Mother Hope had people all over. Maybe they were worse than the Hulls. Maybe it didn’t matter. Hulls, the Magi group — they were all a cancer for everyday people.