Witch Water (15 page)

Fanshawe ground his teeth. Was she trying to
make him feel guilty for bothering her.
I don’t care who you’re
tending to—I’m paying more.
Before he could speak, she added,
“I’m very much hoping that you’ve successfully removed yourself
from the—”

“—from the purveying environment, yes, I
have. I’m in some out of the way town in New Hampshire, a tourist
spot, and-and…”

Her voice sounded dry. “Yes?”

Fanshawe’s nervousness rose up in a sudden
wave. “I…had a relapse, I— Shit!”

“That’s astonishing, Mr. Fanshawe, and quite
disappointing especially considering how well your out-patient
therapy has gone thus far. Don’t tell me you actually purchased a
pair of binoculars…”

“No! I didn’t, but then—my God—I found a
pair, here. It was in this display—”

“
Display?
What are you talking
about?”

Fanshawe could only release what seemed a
string of ordered babble. “This town, it’s…kind of odd. There’s
this Colonial theme or something, and a bunch of witchcraft stuff,
you know, for tourists like in Salem.”

Somehow the image of the woman’s stern
expression slipped through with her words. “Mr. Fanshawe. What does
witchcraft have to do with your problem? Not only were you supposed
to remove yourself from the purveying environment, you were
supposed to banish any implements—such as binoculars—from your
proximity.”

A lump appeared in his throat. “I-I found
them in this display full of old relics, and-and…I borrowed
them…”

“You
stole
them?”

“I-I—” He winced and ran a hand through his
hair. “I—yes, I guess I did, but, I swear, it wasn’t conscious, I
don’t remember doing it. I felt like I was in some sort of trance,
and next thing I knew it was in my pocket.”

Tilton’s voice sharpened. “It’s called an
appositive fugue-state, Mr. Fanshawe, which is a result of undue
stress factors as well as other more nebulous things. This led you
to drop your conscious guard. Seeking out the implements of
purveyance is no better than willingly putting yourself into a
purveying environment. We’ve discussed this.”

He looked up, glimpsed some attractive women
crossing the street, then grit his teeth. “I know, I know. I
just…lost control. I couldn’t help it.”

“That’s a loser’s excuse. Addiction therapy
only goes so far. There must come a time when the patient must
harness his own free will if he truly wants to reclaim his life.
You will return the binoculars immediately—”

“Actually, they’re not binoculars—it’s a
looking-glass, like, er, a ship’s glass, I guess you’d call it. One
lens, like a miniature telescope. It’s very old, and—”

“Don’t circumvent the subject, Mr. Fanshawe;
it won’t lessen my extreme disappointment in any way. The exact
nature of your object of purveyance means nothing. You will resist
the impulse to solicit your paraphilic symptoms. You
must
make this effort, Mr. Fanshawe, and you must make it now.”

“I will, I swear.” He felt ludicrous,
pathetic. “I just…needed someone to talk to. Christ, it’s not like
I can talk to just anyone about-about…this.”

“I should think not. You’ve no one to blame
but yourself for this mishap. It’s all up to you. If you fail,
there’s only one suitable recourse left: chemical
intervention.”

Fanshawe gulped.

“You’ve already been caught once,” the
doctor reminded, “and I’m sure that was an experience you’d just as
soon not repeat. You’re like a gambling addict, Mr. Fanshawe. Some
irregular synapses in your brain have habituated you to whatever
thrill it is you get from looking into innocent women’s
windows…”

“You would put it that way.”

“At this point, the only thing besides drugs
that can potentially correct this synaptic anomaly is the positive
reinforcement of learned behavior. You must relearn your mental
health by making a concerted commitment via your free will. I’d
think it would be rather easy for someone like you.”

Suddenly he felt steaming in angst. “Someone
like me? You mean a pervert, I guess, huh? A peeper?”

Tilton laughed, a rarity for her. “Goodness,
no! Someone like you: a good man, an attractive man, not to mention
a very successful man. Most patients with your problem have nothing
going for them, but you? You have everything.”

“Gee, I guess that’s a compliment—”

“Not much of one, Mr. Fanshawe. The best way
to relearn your normalcy is to do what normal people do. But if
you’re unwilling to pursue this avenue, I think it would be in the
best interest of both of us for you to find another therapist.”

“I’m filled to the brim with confidence,
doctor.”

“You need to be, otherwise, you’ll probably
wind up back in jail, and how much confidence can you expect to
have there?” She paused, perhaps deliberately. “Is there anything
else, Mr. Fanshawe?”

He cringed where he sat, struggling with a
thought. “Well, yes, uh, a question. Do people with my
problem—”

“Chronic paraphilia? Scoptolagnia?”

He frowned. “Yeah. Do they ever have…you
know, hallucinations?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

Suddenly, no force on earth could make him
tell her what he thought he’d seen last night. He was
afraid
of her reaction. “Well…it’s nothing. I just had a bad dream last
night, that’s all.”

“I don’t believe you, Mr. Fanshawe, but
that’s neither here nor there. When you’re ready to tell me
whatever else it is that’s bothering you, then call my office.”
Another pause. “Mr. Fanshawe? Did you hear me?”

“Yes, I’ll…I’ll call.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Fanshawe.”

“Yes. Uh, bye.”

Fanshawe put his cell phone away, his face
pulled into a fierce smirk. “Fucking behaviorist. Why do I continue
to
pay
to be insulted by that woman?”

But moments later, as he began to stroll the
quiet street, he
did
feel better. Around one corner, he
spotted the Travelodge pool but winced and turned away.

He sputtered. Dr. Tilton had said he was a
“good man.” He didn’t feel like a bad one but…
Would a “good
man” want to look in windows? Would a good man do what I did last
night on the hill? Maybe I just think I’m a good man—a defense
mechanism—but I’m really a bad man…

His hand drifted to his jacket pocket, and
felt that the looking glass was still there.
Shit…

Good man or bad, he couldn’t lie to himself.
He wished he could flee to the hillocks right now and peep at all
those tempting bodies at the pool; and stare, stare, stare into all
those windows.

Hunk of shit.
Just when he’d started
feeling better, here came these waves of contemplations, to bring
him right back down again…

And next?

He passed the pillory.

He smiled falsely at a middle-aged couple,
waited for them to move along, then bent to inspect the ancient
punitory device. There was nothing there, on the wood or the
pavement below, to indicate that the device had been sullied or
occupied in any way. An elderly man walked by with a cane, perhaps
one of the professors. “God, that thing makes me sick to my
stomach. They say it’s real, been here hundreds of years. God knows
how many men and women were tortured in it.”

Off guard, Fanshawe stood up straight. “Yes.
I guess the good old days weren’t that good.”

“Disgusting to think the authorities back
then put
people
in that blasted contraption. It’s evil if
you ask me.”

Well, I didn’t.
Fanshawe was annoyed.
“Yes,” he faltered. “Things must’ve been pretty hard back then, and
hard measures were the result,” but he wished the old man would go
away.
Believe it or not, mister, I saw a woman get raped in this
thing just a few hours ago, by men in Colonial clothes.
He
could imagine the elder’s reaction.

The gentleman uttered a few more gripes,
then ticked away on his cane.

An ACLU supporter, I guess.
Fanshawe
stared back at the pillory, and also recalled all he’d thought he’d
seen through the looking-glass.
It was all just a bad dream. It
HAS to be…

“Eyin’ the ole pillory, are ya, sir?” piped
up Mrs. Anstruther’s cockney voice. She’d just turned the corner,
on her way to her kiosk.

Damn.
“Yes, ma’am. It’s…something,
all right.”

“Somethin’, indeed. Would ya fancy a
picture?”

“Pardon me?”

“What I mean, sir, is I’d be pleased to take
a photo of ya in it.”

Fanshawe’s brow ruffled. “What, the
pillory?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” and then she lifted the
pillory’s top slat. “Quite a few tourists ’ave their pictures took
in it. Makes for good conversation, don’t ya think, sir?”

Fanshawe figured she was angling for a
tip—today, he wasn’t in the mood. But it would almost be funny if
he
did
have his picture taken in the archaic device.
I
could send it to Dr. Tilton.
“I don’t think so, Mrs.
Anstruther, but thanks for the offer.”

She looked at the pillory as if with
fascinated interest. “Perfect punishment these buggers was, sir,
for folks who was
tarnished,
as you might say. Steal a
gobbet’a meat from the butcher’s? Well in ya go for a day at least.
And ladies caught
sellin’ thereselfs
”—now she
whistled—“well, now, those poor things could get up to a week, and
with just bread’n water, sir. And blokes got even more’n that for
rabble-rousin’ on a Sunday or cheatin’ on their proper wife or
sayin’ untruths to the Sheriff. Late on your land rent? In ya go!
Why, they’d put a fella in this here pillory for long as they saw
fit, even for takin’ a peek in a bird’s window!”

The last bit of information fogged
Fanshawe’s mind.

“Anyways, sir, I must be off to me work, but
I hope your day’s a jolly one!” She made to leave, but her frail
formed paused. She lowered her voice. “And if you’re in want of
exercise
today,
sir, you might be wise ta stay
off
’a
them trails you’ve grown so fond of amblin’ on. Don’t know if ya’ve
’eard, but”—she leaned over—“there been some dirty-work, I’m
afraid. Some poor man was
murdered
on them trails, he was,
just yesterday, sir—a man who was stayin’ in
your
hotel.
”

Karswell,
Fanshawe thought.
Not
just my hotel, but my ROOM.
He could have done without the
reminder. “Yes, I did hear, ma’am,” he said, avoiding the rest.
“What a terrible tragedy.”

“Oh, yes, sir, to be sure. So you’re best to
keep your distance”—a thought seemed to perk up her tone—“and if
you got your steel up, sir, you know you can anyways have a go at
the waxworks,” and then she walked off with a smile.

There she goes again.
She seemed to
be
daring
him to investigate the wax museum.
Why?

The deadpan stares of the Revolutionary
mannequins seemed directed specifically at Fanshawe. A short line
of tourists waited at the ticket booth.
Maybe it’s pretty
good,
he considered.
It might get my mind off all this
bullshit.
He got in line, paid for his ticket, then cool
darkness invited him to enter a faux-stone hallway with an arched
ceiling.

Other patrons with their children appeared
to be enthralled by the staged displays of old-time figures:
smiling women in sack dresses working spinning-wheels and
washboards; motionless toddlers playing with hand-crafted toys; an
old crone bent over a hearth oven. One corpulent dummy in
tri-cornered hat and buttoned vest displayed a starred badge over
his heart. He held a roll of paper, and had a flintlock pistol on
his hip. SHERIFF PATTEN read a plaque. The sculptor proved his or
her skills by incorporating an all-too-realistic bad complexion on
the officer, and a nose like a rotten strawberry.
They probably
didn’t have Stridex back then,
Fanshawe thought and moved to
the next stage.

He found the exhibits to be very competent
but far less interesting than the slow-moving lines of other
patrons seemed to believe. Several varieties of soldiers, clerics,
farmers, and wood-workers came next. But Fanshawe’s stiff lack of
interest suddenly left him feeling—

Anxious?

Why should he feel like
that?

Next, like a carnival horror-house, a short
corridor festooned by rubber cobwebs drew him into what could only
be—

Ah, the torture chamber…

First, a sign said NO CHILDREN, PLEASE, and
all at once—and for some reason he couldn’t guess—Fanshawe’s
boredom was transmuted into a dusky thrill. Abbie had said this
particular exhibit had given her nightmares; now Fanshawe
understood why. The rictus of a slatternly woman in an iron maiden
couldn’t have been more realistic, while the expression of the
rustic man chained into a chair with a wood fire under the grilled
seat made Fanshawe’s innards clench. Several cloaked witches stood
in a circle listening to a grim, hooded figure who read from
parchment, a pentagram about his neck. Fanshawe felt a chill when
he looked closer at the figure’s face and saw that the artisan had
blended into the features of a human face some characteristics of a
skull. Did the eyes of the witches themselves glow with the
faintest traces of scarlet light? Next, a woman in a bustle-dress
cringed as inquisitors stretched her on a metal rack; her mouth
locked open in a silent scream. A man shackled to a brick wall
projected a look of perfect horror as he was approached by a
stooped witch-finder bearing an iron rod with its end red-hot. A
proverbial shirtless man with considerable muscles grinned as he
held a great curve-bladed ax above a headsman’s block; the victim
with his neck on the block seemed to have tears in his eyes.

Fanshawe was unnerved by the grueling
authenticity of the figures, but what actually stopped him in his
tracks was the next presentation: a blond woman hung off a whipping
post, her face in absolute turmoil. Her dress-top had been ripped
open to reveal her bare back, while the torn material strategically
hung to block the sight of her breasts. The voyeur in Fanshawe
tempted him to reach over the velvet ropes that bordered the
display, to see how detailed her breasts had been rendered, but, of
course, he didn’t. Even if he was alone in this section, there
might be a security camera; he could picture himself on some
World’s Dumbest Criminals show.