Dark Arts (22 page)

The receptionist didn’t respond the way he
expected when he reprised his worried nephew routine. “s'il vous
plaît tenir,” was all she said before putting him on hold.

He sipped his coffee while listening to a
repeating tone that was made to reassure callers that they were
still on the line. By the time someone picked up again, his coffee
was gone and his stomach was growling. “Bonjour, this is the
nephew?” the voice of an older man asked.

“Yes, is my uncle there?”

“I’m afraid so, you are in Montreal?”

“I’m in Alberta, and I can’t miss work, so
I’ll have to take the red-eye,” Maxwell said. It was one of his
father’s tricks. If you only needed information, but wanted to keep
your distance, you could sometimes get more information over the
phone by pretending the inconvenience of going to the source in
person was much higher than it actually was. “Why? Is there a
problem?”

“No, no,” he reassured. “I’m Doctor Hickey,
I treated your Uncle when he came in. Did he have a history of
mental illness?”

“Yes, going back as long as I can
remember.”

“I thought so. You must understand, I only
recognized your uncle by the description you gave us, he never told
me his name. He drew on the walls with his own, well, matter.
Strange symbols. He had a pistol on him too, but that’s been
handled – the police came to pick it up while he was still alive.
Your uncle assaulted one of them while he was being interviewed,
but didn’t speak English or French, it was something else. We
thought it might be Greek, but one of my colleagues who spoke the
language said it wasn’t that either. The police are looking for a
young man for questioning, but you’d have to call them for the
details.”

“Did the young man they’re looking for do
something to him?” Maxwell asked.

“He may have tried to light him on fire, but
those injuries were superficial, so yes, but he didn’t kill your
uncle, if that’s what you are thinking. Someone else did that weeks
before he was brought in. Your uncle had injuries to his face,
mostly his nose. I’m sorry you have to hear this, but if you’re
coming anyway, I should warn you. Half of his nose had been cut
away. That wound got infected, and it worsened for at least two to
three weeks. The infection spread, and by the time he got here,
there wasn’t much we could do. He died early yesterday evening, the
antibiotics didn’t have long enough to work, and he was very weak.
I’m sorry, it’s sad seeing family pass, I know, but in times like
these-“

Maxwell hung the phone up and breathed a
sigh of relief. “Looks like the right one killed you, asshole.” He
muttered as he headed for the kitchen in search of leftovers and
more coffee. “You tortured a girl for this bloody book, and her
father got to you before you could get away. Wish he finished the
job though, because we have to deal with your soul.”

That night Darren returned with his
girlfriend. Unlike Zachary, he had no ire for Maxwell when he
learned that their last gig had been cancelled, and hooked a rented
tape recorder up to the soundboard, laying a few extra microphones
around to catch the sound of the drums. He joined them, and Maxwell
was reminded why Darren made such a good rhythm guitarist. He spent
half of his time hopping around the stage and stoking the audience,
drawing them into the show by leading them in clapping, or shouting
repetitive parts of the lyrics.

The energy that had been drained during
months of touring had returned, and it was good to see Darren
enjoying himself. Having Miranda on guitar also freed him up to
play their old Hammond organ, which led to Bernie singing the only
things he had the bravery to deliver to an audience, Iron Butterfly
and Doors covers.

The new lineup had their picture taken by
someone from the Star, Miranda in Max’s leather pants and a vest
with guitar in hand, Maxwell bending low, concentrating on a guitar
solo behind her. Bernie stood beside them, looking out from the
stage, and Scott was behind and above them all, drumsticks raised
high, about to smash the cymbals. Darren almost got cut off on the
left, sitting on a milking stool nailed to a crate, head thrown
back as his fingers pounded the keys of the Hammond. The organ was
cut out of the picture, so to anyone who couldn’t guess what he was
doing, he just looked like a madman on a milking stool.

The next day they were on the front page
below the fold with the headline:

GATHERING FESTIVAL GETS MUSICAL

Three days of playing music, spending
afternoons at the beach, and getting to know the people who had
come from five different countries to attend the Gathering passed.
Maxwell and Miranda were inseparable. Scott and April were
similarly attached.

As the evening reserved for initiations drew
nearer, the number of people gathered swelled until the field
nearest the main house was covered with tents, and the gravel lot
beside it was filled with campers and motorhomes.

There was only going to be one show on
initiation day, and it ended before noon. The heat and humidity
fell on the Webb farm, and the barn was like a furnace before the
morning was through.

Miranda’s shirt was off, revealing a bikini
top underneath before the set was half over. Scott and Maxwell made
a joke out of it after they finished playing Radar Love by kicking
their jeans off and finishing the morning in their boxers.

The large crowd, larger than the barn could
hold, all broke up as they finished their last song for the day:
Feel Like Making Love. Maxwell and Scott put their pants back on,
then followed Bernie and Darren through the small door at the back
of the barn. Miranda was right behind them.

Maxwell patted the hood of his black and
white 1958 Edsel on his way by. “We’re going to have to take the
boat out tomorrow, make sure everything’s running.”

“That’s yours?” Miranda said.

“Every last foot of it,” Maxwell said. “I
can’t keep riding my Harley on gravel,” he said, taking Miranda’s
hand. “Can’t keep testing my luck like that.”

“About time,” Bernie said. “I’ll help you
tune it up.”

They only made it half way to the beach
before a Mercedes tore into the circular parking area in front of
the public bathroom building, nearly running several people in swim
suits, carrying coolers and towels down. A tall, middle-aged dark
haired man in a suit got out of the passenger side and zeroed right
in on Scott. “Who’s that?” Miranda asked.

It took a moment for Bernie to see it, he
hadn’t run into the man since he was a child, but he realized who
it was as Bernie said his name. “Steven Sands, he’s April’s dad.
Trouble.”

“And the only family to be kicked out of the
circle,” Maxwell said. “We were kids when it happened, but that
didn’t stop my father from going on about it.”

“Scott,” he said, slamming the car door and
pointing at Bernie. “Where’s my daughter?”

Scott stepped forward and said; “you’re
looking for me. I haven’t seen her since last night. She left
late.”

“We haven’t seen her, not last night, not
today,” Steven said. “Did she say where she was going? Who she was
getting a ride with?”

“I was asleep,” Scott said. “When she left I
was already asleep.”

“You’re free to look around, I’ll go with
you, we’ll get everyone looking,” Bernie said.

“I’ll hit the gravel lot, check the
motorhomes,” Scott said.

“You’ve done enough, thank you,” Steven
said, opening the car door.

“Wait,” Bernie barked, striding towards
Steven. “If you’re going to cause trouble, you’re going to leave.
You’re not welcome here. I’ll go look with you and you’re leaving
your car here.”

“I should have recognized you right away,
you’re as tall as your father, just as indignant too. That’s not
going to help you in the world, son,” Steven said. He looked at
Maxwell then. “April’s not the real reason why I’m here anyway. You
have something that belongs to me, boy.”

Maxwell crossed to the car, Miranda stuck to
his side, still holding his hand, but he let it go. He stopped to
stand beside the front bumper of Steven’s car. He could see Angelo
inside, acting as chauffer. “What would a puffed up suit want from
me?”

“The Libro de Puertas, the Book of Doors, I
paid Angelo twenty thousand dollars to have an errand boy fetch
that for me. I hear nothing for months, then that it’s in town, and
that he can’t give it to me.”

Maxwell felt the weight of his mistake then,
and understood why the Elders did not want the book to find the man
who paid for it’s retrieval. Steven Sands was the last person he
would trust with the book and shard, he’d rather give it back to
Panos. “The money is between you and Angelo, and the rest is mine,
bugger off.”

With a quick, practiced hand, Steven slapped
Maxwell across the face hard enough to turn his head and cut his
inner cheek against his teeth. “Don’t you dare speak to an elder
that way, young ma-“

Maxwell stepped forward with a fast,
straight jab with his left fist. Steven didn’t have any warning or
time to respond. His hands started to go up after the shocking
strike to his mouth. Steven, easily half a head taller than Maxwell
and broader shouldered, staggered back. “Seems you’ve mistaken me
for one of your kids, geezer,” Max said before slapping one of
Steven’s upraised hands away and hitting him in the nose so hard
with his right hand that he felt the crush of cartilage under his
knuckles.

Steven staggered backwards, and Maxwell
pushed him to the ground with only the slightest effort. A quick
fist struck upward, catching Maxwell in the cheek too lightly for
him to care. He waved the hand away and swung as though he was
trying to pound through Steven’s head to hit the ground.

He got three shots in and stood up,
straightening his bloody rings. “Dad told me all about you, cunt.
Beats his kids, beats his wife, even smacked Bernie there once
while visiting, but just once.”

Angelo started to open the door and Maxwell
shot him a furious glance, pointing a finger. “Back in the car!
We’ll roll this piece of shit back into the passenger seat, and
then you can roll the fuck out of here.”

Maxwell knelt down to pick Steven up by the
front of his jacket and smirked at the sound of the large man
whimpering. He had him on his feet, leaning against the back door,
Bernie, stoic-faced, opened the passenger door and helped him in.
Blood ran from his nose freely, his mouth was a bashed, broken
mess. “New generation coming up,” Maxwell said to Steven and
Angelo. “We’ll look for your daughter, but she’ll decide whether or
not she goes back to you.”

“I’ll give you fifty thousand,” Steven
struggled through his injuries, spitting blood at the dash as he
spoke. “For book.”

“You’re going to want to keep your head up,”
Maxwell said before slamming the door.

“Holy shit,” Scott said as the car began
reversing.

“What was that?” Miranda asked as she picked
up his right hand.

“Nothing good about that man, maybe his kids
turned out different, but he’s rich because he makes sacrifices,
deals with dark things. I went too far though, way too far.”

“I wanted to try to stop you, man, but he
was a blood fountain on the ground before I had time to think,”
Scott said.

“I think you have a piece of his tooth
here,” Miranda said, picking a small white square from a cut on his
finger, beside his ring.

“Da’ told me never to punch for the mouth,”
Maxwell said. “Going to have to wash this up, get chunks of his
cheeks out of my rings, too.”

“About time he got his,” Bernie said. “I
don’t like seeing anyone stomped, but he had that coming.”

“What did he do?” Miranda asked.

“When I was young, maybe nine, I was
visiting their house,” Bernie said. “Playing with April and Trent,
her older brother. April broke a vase when she was trying to give
it to her father with a bunch of wild flowers she picked from the
yard. There was broken glass all down the stairs, and she cut
herself. She started balling, I think she was more scared that she
was bleeding than badly hurt, so he came down, gave April shit, and
when her brother tried to help, Steve gave him shit for not
watching his sister. Then he slapped him. He bumped into me and I
fell down the stairs. When my father and Maxwell’s dad came to get
me, I had a cut on my forehead, and they could sense something was
wrong in the house, even past an abusive dad.”

“As if that wasn’t enough. The Circle
demanded to get a look at the house, and I don’t know what they
found, but he was cast out a few days later. I still went too far,”
Maxwell said, looking down at the small patch of blood on the
gravel.

“I’ve never seen anyone move that fast,”
Miranda said. She seemed stunned, still holding his bloody
hand.

“I’m sorry you saw that. I’ve got an
impatient side that only comes out when I’m about my father’s
business and I know I’m standing in front of a killer.”

“We don’t know that, Max,” Bernie said, a
warning in his tone. “April can say it, she’s his daughter, but no
one has proof.”

“I’m starting to believe it,” Maxwell said.
“But you’re right. Head down to the beach, I’m going to clean up in
the main cabin.”

“I’ll clean you up, but no more of that,”
Miranda said. “I get that sometimes it’s easier to just lose it,
but you don’t have to. You’re not alone here, no one can corner
you.”

“You’re right,” Maxwell said. “I get that
way, and I worry I could be like him.”

“Okay, that’s not what I’m worried about,”
Miranda said. “I just don’t want you to do something you can’t live
with someday, or get thrown in jail.”

“One drunk tank was enough,” Maxwell
said.

“Story there?”

“Got drunk, wandered off, got caught pissing
against a wall, ended up in custody until the morning,” he
replied.