AS MAX HUSTLED ACROSS THE PARKING LOT, Drummond floated alongside. Every footfall on the pavement acted like an accelerating metronome dictating the pace of his heart. Max had to admit that Drummond was right — finally moving, finally getting results in the long stakeout, had miraculously erased the hours of discomfort spent in his car. Even if nothing came of it, if it all turned out to be a false lead, he did not care. At least, he was moving. And he knew better than to think nothing at all would come of it. The woman carried a book of spells. Probably a witch. Whenever a witch crossed his path, something always came of it.
When they reached the side entrance, Max said, “Mind getting the door?”
Drummond bowed. “It’s what I live for.”
“You’re not alive.”
“Making my point for me.”
Drummond’s pale, ghostly form slid through the glass door and onto the other side. He turned around and paused. Touching the corporeal world caused pain for a ghost, and Max could see Drummond bracing before shoving open the door.
The second Max heard the lock disengage, he yanked open the door to minimize Drummond’s contact. As he stepped into the hotel, he said, “Thanks.”
“No problem.” Drummond flapped his hands, then blew on his palms.
The corridor stretched toward the lobby — boring tan walls and a patterned carpet that evoked nothing more than its utilitarian purpose. The place was clean and quiet which was probably all that most people wanted. The hotel was five floors with about twenty or so rooms, plenty of places for a witch to hide.
With an encouraging nod, Max said, “You know what to do.”
Drummond’s face scrunched up as he shook his head. “Sure, just make the ghost go through the whole hotel room by room. No sweat off your brow. You don’t have to do anything to earn it.”
“Sorry, did I not say please?”
“First off, no, you didn’t. Second, maybe you should learn to do some real detective work so that you can find this information without me. What if I wasn’t here?”
In a harsh whisper, Max said, “I’d go to the lobby to talk to somebody at the desk up there. I would have to come up with a lie, but I’ve learned some good ones from you. I think I could handle it. The real question is why are you still here? You are my partner. You want to be a good partner and do your part?”
“Okay, okay. Just thought you should learn to rely on yourself a little.”
Grumbling further, Drummond disappeared into the depths of the hotel. Leaning against the wall, Max settled in for another wait. One of the doors opened straight down the hall, and a boy stepped out dangling an ice bucket at his side. It thumped against the wall like a drum tom. Max guessed the boy to be nine or ten. A voice inside the room said something that stopped the boy, but Max could not discern the words. With an overenthusiastic nod, the boy spun away and sprinted down the hall — coming up short when he saw Max.
The boy stood frozen. His hand clutched the ice bucket as if it were a life preserver. Walking fast and stiff, he pressed against the wall opposite Max as he slipped by. At the end of the hall, he disappeared into an alcove with vending and ice machines.
Max listened to ice being scooped up and plunked into the bucket. There was something playful in the sound as if the boy had returned to his gleeful self. Moments later, the boy appeared and re-enacted his walking wall slide. When he reached his room, he darted in, and as the door closed, Max heard loud giggles.
“I know how you feel,” Max said to the empty hall.
Less than a minute later, Drummond slipped through the ceiling and lowered in front of Max. “I found her. Room 207.”
“Good job.” Max turned back and headed to the end of the hall. The elevators were in the lobby, but he did not want to draw the attention of anybody working up there. At the opposite end, he had noted a stairwell to the side entrance. He climbed up to the second floor and headed down the hall until he reached room 207.
As he approached, Max pulled out his Glock 9 mm. He did not embrace the idea of guns, but getting closer to achieving his Tae Kwon Do black belt had taught him that there are situations in which having a gun would protect him better than anything. Most people did not have to worry about such things, but in his line of work, it had become evident that life-threatening situations were a more common occurrence than he had once expected.
He had only begun regular training with the weapon, so he did not put much faith in his ability to hit a target. Hopefully, the threat would be enough.
“Care to tell me what I’m going to find in that room?” Max whispered.
Drummond wrinkled his brow. “You’ll find exactly what you think you’d find. A witch casting a spell.”
“Nobody else? Just her?”
“I’d have told you if there was someone else to be concerned about. And put away that gun until you can hold it with enough confidence that I believe you know what you’re doing.”
Max agreed he probably did not appear too intimidating yet. Besides, the gun was not loaded. He wasn’t crazy. Holstering the weapon, they reached room 207.
The door stood slightly ajar, kept open by the night lock poking out. Max considered the possibility that this woman was no witch at all. Rather, she could be the mistress he had been searching for. She may have come to the hotel early to set the room up for a rendezvous with Mrs. Berkley’s husband. Perhaps she merely role-played the idea of a witch.
But if that were true, Drummond would not have suggested she was casting a spell. He would have recognized a playful albeit odd liaison for what it was.
Unless what waited behind that door was a little of both. The mistress and the witch. Max gently pushed on the door.
The room — a suite with a bedroom connected to a room with a television, couch, and desk — was empty.
“I swear she was just in here.” Drummond circled the ceiling as if a bird’s eye view might help him find the absent witch. The coffee table had been pushed against the wall and on the open floor, a casting circle had been drawn with a fine white powder.
Max said, “You think this is —”
The bathroom door whipped open, and a black clad figure with arms stretched overhead stormed out. Max had only enough time to think — that’s the witch. The next thing he knew, he was on the floor curled into a ball.
The blinding flash and deafening crack came to him only as a fuzzy memory. The smell of wood embers surrounded him. As the ringing in his ears subsided, he attempted to open his eyes. His eyeballs throbbed as if he had stared at the sun for hours.
“Max? You okay?”
Squinting, Max saw Drummond hovering above him. “What happened?”
As he struggled into a sitting position and fought back nausea, his ghost partner said, “That was the witch version of a flash-bang grenade. Doesn’t work on me, though. You need a nervous system for it to be effective.”
“Lucky you. Did you follow her?”
“Just because it can’t hurt me, doesn’t mean it didn’t distract me. The light was bright. And, frankly, I figured I better stay here and make sure you’re alive.”
With a deep breath, Max attempted to get to his feet. Halfway up, he decided a few more moments rest was in order. “Did you get anything? Did you see what she looked like?”
“She was wearing that big cloak, remember?”
Leaning his head back against the couch, Max closed his eyes and held his stomach with one hand. “You mind being a detective and look around this place? I’m doing my best not to disrupt the crime scene with my vomit.”
“I’ve already looked. Just a normal hotel room except for the casting circle. Rather plain looking circle compared to other ones we’ve seen, but I suppose spells don’t care about aesthetics. We do get one thing out of this, though. On the edge of the circle is an old piece of paper with a name typed up.”
“Let me guess — Mrs. Berkley’s husband, Rodney.”
“Not even close. Does the name Wilburn Walker mean anything?”
Max opened his eyes. He looked straight at Drummond and said, “Not yet.”