No Rest for the Wicked - Chapter 6

After the meal with Theo, Max headed to the King & Queen gym to burn some of the vegetarian birria tacos off and check on Benny. While no longer on the fighting circuit, Max still tries to keep his physique in check, which comes in handy when faced with some of the rougher characters in town. It also helps keep his body shape from rounding out given the diet he survives off of which is mainly take out and the largest sized coffees he can get his hands on. His diet is more indicative of the profession he has chosen. Nights out in the desert searching for hidden government installations, long stakeouts in front of suspicious buildings, and a life on the road don’t provide for opportunities to get in the daily servings of veggies and fruit. Luckily, a regular fitness routine at Benny’s and a fighter’s build keeps Max looking healthy and fit.

King & Queen Gym is like a second home, a place where echoes of the past spar with the tenacious energy of the present. It isn’t fancy or flashy, and it isn’t one of those slick corporate fitness chains with juiced-up trainers in branded T-shirts. It is old school, gritty and unapologetic. The kind of place where fighters are forged from sweat and determination, and reputations are built punch by punch. A crooked wedge of wood propped open the front door, letting in the dry Vegas air. Upon entering, Max was hit with the familiar, intoxicating scent of sweat and worn leather. It was the smell of hard work and history.

Benny is where he always is, anchored by the ring, barking at a pair of young boxers sparring inside. His voice is gruff and commanding, reverberating in the rafters like the rumble of distant thunder. He is a mountain of a man, still broad-shouldered and imposing despite the years trying to slow him down. He keeps his salt-and-pepper beard neatly trimmed, and his bald head shines under the harsh gym lights like a beacon of authority. He turned when he saw Max lingering by the door, his familiar scowl lifting just slightly in acknowledgment.

“Well, well,” he said. “Look who finally decided to show up.”

Normally Max stops by the gym in the morning with breakfast tacos or donuts in hand for Benny and whoever else is there to work out, but given the appointment with Fiona and Theo, he had to adjust his usual routine.

“Miss me?”

“Missed your food delivery. Why the change up?”

“Had a meeting this morning.”

“Anything good?”

“Maybe, met up with the curator at the art museum down by the university on a fresh case.”

Benny raised an eyebrow. “You see Fiona?”

Max nodded, heading to the free weights area. “Mmm hm, she helped me get the meeting.”

Benny let a slight whistle escape his lips. “That had to be…fun.”

Lifting a pair of dumbbells and bringing them to a bench to sit and work some bicep curls, Max shrugged. “Meh, it could’ve been worse. She didn’t stay long.”

“I always liked that girl. She has a good head on her shoulders and would make a fine wife.”

This conversation was familiar to Max. Everybody liked Fiona, and everybody felt Fiona was good for Max. They weren’t wrong, and they all believed Max was crazy for letting her go. Max often thought, perhaps they were right, but she deserved someone not always tied to something else, and he couldn’t do that to her.

“So, what’s the new case?”

“Well, it’s convoluted at the moment, but so far I’m investigating the murder of an artist from 20 years ago.”

Max put the dumbbells down and headed to a punching bag. Benny grabbed hold of the bag to steady it. “You talkin’ about Devine?”

Max paused between hooks. “Yeah, you knew him?”

“Nah, just remember when he died. Word was he was diddlin’ one of the Davenports.”

“Erin Davenport?”

“Yeah, I think that sounds right.”

Max’s curiosity was piqued. Benny isn’t the type to care about tabloid news. “Where’d you hear that rumor?”

“Well, your Dad actually. They used to get invited to the Davenports for dinners and such.”

Max let loose a few jabs, then stopped to catch his breath. “Mom and Dad knew the Davenports?”

Benny chuckled, hugging the bag. “Max, everybody knows the Davenports.”

“Yeah, but why would two government employees know them enough to be invited into their home?”

Benny sighed, the exasperation clear in his voice. “C’mon Max, don’t read into it. You know your parents weren’t low-level employees. They were big time in the DOE. I’m sure it was just part of the deal going to dinners and such. They went to plenty of other ones too, at other places.”

“Well, how did Dad hear about the Erin Davenport Adrian Devine love connection?”

Benny shrugged with a casual lift of his shoulders. “How would I know? That was ages ago.” He patted the bag, his voice firm. “Now get to trainin’. You’re gettin’ soft around your mid-section.”

Max nodded and started working through some punching combos while Benny headed to his office in the back. Hitting the bag always feels good, Max thought to himself. Wakes up the senses, flexes the muscles and, for him, gets the brain churning. Max had worked countless cases, and he can remember all of them distinctly. It’s easy to when you investigate strange phenomena. A few cases involved ghosts, or allegations of ghostly presence. Max knew well that not everything that is unexplained is of some other worldly or mystical nature. Plenty of his cases ended up with very logical earthly explanations for them. There was one in particular, though, that had a spiritual component that reminded him a bit of these paintings. A spirit was manifesting in photos, moving in the pictures, sometimes pointing at objects or just walking around in the photo. It turned out the spirit was trying to tell their great grandson about a buried piece of jewelry worth millions at the old family cabin. Was it possible the boys in the paintings could be something similar?

As Max finished up, Benny emerged from his back office with a large envelope in his hands.

“Hey kid, this came for you. No return address…you expecting something?”

Max cocked his head and furrowed his brow. “No, let me see it.”

Opening the envelope, some papers fell out. Calculations of some sort and what looked like coordinates covered them. As Max’s eyes traced the numbers and letters on the pages, his face grew pale.

“What is it? Who is it from?”

Max pointed to the page on the top, “Look at these equations, they’re in mom’s handwriting.”

Benny grabbed the top page skeptically, “What? How is that possible? Besides, you can’t be sure this is her handwriting.”

“Benny, I know my mother’s handwriting. I have studied every curve and dash in that letter she sent me. She wrote this.”

Max looked at the next page, “Benny, look, there are dates next to these lists of numbers. This one is next week.”

“That’s bananas. You don’t know what these numbers even mean Max, it could mean anything.”

Flipping through the last few pages, Max saw it was mainly lists of numbers and decimals, with the occasional calculation next to them.

On the last page was a note, this time written by someone different:

Max - The accident that they said killed your parents was staged. Your mother’s research on Fourth Axis Theory got too close to the truth. Something big is happening soon. They know I contacted you, that’s why I had to go dark. Stay the course, your parents are depending on you.