Witch Water (30 page)

“Yes!” he barked.

“Are you
kidding
me? I can tell an
ex-junkie when I see one, and you ain’t it.”

“It’s something else!” he blurted.

“Well then why don’t you tell me? Even the
playing field. I told you my secret, it’s only fair you tell me
yours.”

He knew she was right, but he
just…couldn’t…do it.

“That’s good, that’s a good little
billionaire.
You’re a cliché, Stew. You’re like these
financial assholes in the papers every day, the type of guy who
won’t play a fair game. He’ll only play the game that’s
fixed.
”

He jabbed a finger at her. “Now
you’re
the one making judgments!”

She shrugged haughtily. “Then convince me.
Prove it to me that you’re for real. How can I trust you with my
secret if you won’t trust me with yours? All your money doesn’t
mean shit if you can’t be real. For fuck’s sake, I just told you
I’ve
whored
myself for my boyfriend in Nashua. Do you have
any idea how it made me feel telling you that? Whenever he set up a
big dope deal, I was the deal-sealer, Stew. Blow-jobs,
gang-bangs—”

“Stop it!”

Her grin rose and fell as she nodded. “One
time I fucked a
roomful
of bagmen to lock up a two-key
sling.”

“Stop talking like that!”

“Then have some
balls.
Make the game
fair. Take off your mask.”

The tiniest voice in his head whispered,
Don’t be fake,
but it was not a tiny rage that made him slam
his fist into a storage box. “Shit!” His knuckles throbbed when he
reeled back, holding his hand. The box was full of frying pans; he
felt instantly inane.

The second he began to talk, the pain
disappeared. “I’m what my therapist calls a chronic
scoptolagniac—”

“A
wwwwwhat?
”

He uttered the most dismal laugh of his
life.
What the hell? What difference does it make? Go ahead and
tell her…

So he did.

“I’m a pervert, Abbie, a voyeur. You want to
look into
my
closet? Well there you go. I’m a peeping
tom.”

Abbie could only stare, her face screwed
up.

“Sounds pathetic, I know. You wouldn’t think
someone could be
addicted
to something like that, but I am,
for most of my adult life. I can’t explain it, it just
is.
”

“I’m-I’m…speechless,” she said.

“So was my wife, so were my lawyers and
business partners. Crazy, huh?”

“You mean, like…looking in women’s
windows?
”

“Yeah. It’s as addictive to me as cocaine is
to you. It’s caused by a chemical imbalance in my brain, like the
imbalance that causes people to be gambling addicts. And the
thrill
 of peeping stimulates the same kind of endorphin
release that drugs stimulate. It’s
madness,
Abbie, but it’s
me.
”

Many moments ticked by with Abbie staring
dumbfounded at him.

Fanshawe went on, not even hearing what he
was saying anymore. “The funny part is…you thought
I’d
be
disappointed with
you.
How’s that for irony? I’m a pervert
and a criminal. I can’t help myself. When I got caught, and
after my wife left, I started psychotherapy…and it worked. I didn’t
peep for over a year. But then—”

“Relapse,” Abbie said.

He nodded. “It all fell apart, and I don’t
know why.”

Her expression finally went from twisted
bewilderment to something like mollification. “I feel a lot better
now,” she said very quietly.

“I don’t,” Fanshawe snapped. “I feel like
scum.”

She sighed dreamily. “I learn something new
every day. I never knew people could be addicted to peeping in
windows.”

“Well, now you know.”

She laughed. “I’m addicted to coke and
you’re addicted to that. We’re both addicts. Of all the things to
have in common…”

Fanshawe felt weak in the knees from her
comment.

She has more in common with you than you
think,
Letitia had prophesied.

“I feel idiotic standing here—I’m going to
go. If you want to see me again, well…let me know.” He turned
abruptly and headed for the door.

“Stew, wait.” Her footsteps rushed behind
him. “There’s one thing…”

Fanshawe turned.

crack!

Abbie couldn’t have laid her open palm
harder across Fanshawe’s face. His head jerked, and he thudded into
a wall of boxes. The pain exploded.

He couldn’t remember what happened
immediately after that. His cognizance fizzed away, and his heart
tightened in his chest. He heard another
thud
and felt
substance in his hands: something yielding and hot. He was only
aware of his rage and the pain.

There was a gagging sound. When he could
calculate what he was seeing, Abbie’s face was darkening only
inches from his own. She looked horrified but was smiling in spite
of it.

“That’s terrific, Stew,” came a mocking
croak. “You gonna
kill
me?”

Fanshawe’s left forearm had slammed her
against boxes with such force that the cardboard caved in. His
right hand—

His right hand was clamped about her throat,
squeezing.

You’re a madman!
a thought screamed.
Let go of her!
but he didn’t. Instead, he gnashed his teeth.
“God
damn!
You-you fucking
bitch!
”

“Don’t cuss, Stew,” she laughed. “It makes
you sound
trashy.
”

“That was twice as hard as I hit you!”

Her hot throat throbbed in the web of his
hand when she replied, “Good, ’cos you deserved
it…mother
fucker.
”

Fanshawe felt consciously appalled when he
squeezed her throat more precisely while telling himself to release
her. Still, her voice ground, “How do you like that? The
billionaire shows his bad side…”

“I didn’t know my bad side was
this
bad. Thanks for bringing it out.”

“It’s good to know I have that effect on
men”—she began to squirm in his clench. “Or maybe it just works on
perverts who get off on peeping in women’s windows—”

She raised to her tiptoes when he squeezed
even harder. “Why are you antagonizing a guy with his hand to your
throat?” he growled, glaring.

She kept squirming, the pink of her face
darkening. “It’s my defense mechanism, asshole. Don’t you know
anything about women who hate themselves?” She grasped his wrist,
then edged forward, either in the beginnings of terror or to
deliberately press her bosom against his chest.

Fanshawe guessed the latter.

Abbie’s smile remained mocking. “If you’re
going to strangle me, at least have the decency to fuck me
first…”

Fanshawe released her throat, then dragged
her down.

««—»»

When they were done, she lay on the floor as
if dropped there, and Fanshawe felt like he’d just been trampled by
horses.

“Holy—,” Fanshawe began.

“—shit,” Abbie finished.

It seemed that they’d jammed a frenetic
sexual marathon into the space of twenty minutes. Clothes lay
everywhere. Fanshawe ached in places he didn’t know he
could
ache. Sweat-prints on the cement floor left bizarre shapes that
trooped the full length of the corridor. When Abbie tried to rise,
she winced, then settled for turning over and collecting her
garments on hands and knees. “Jesus, Stew. You must be packing a
whole lot of angst.”

Fanshawe’s knees were barked raw. His bare
heels thudded around as he put on one piece of clothing at a time.
What did I just do?
“I don’t know what came over me, Abbie.
I’m sorry.”

Abbie laughed. “I’m
complimenting
you, genius. That was the best sex I’ve had since college.”

Fanshawe rushed back into his clothes. “I
meant…I didn’t mean to choke you. I’ve never been violent like that
before. It was never my intention—”

“Stew, it’s okay.”

His heavy breaths reminded him of his age.
He sat back down quickly, then nearly put a shoe on the wrong foot.
“We gotta hurry. Your father could walk in any minute.”

She didn’t seem that concerned. “Well, if he
does, I can’t wait to hear
your
explanation.”

“Oh, that’s just great!”

Fanshawe finally got himself together. When
he looked over to Abbie, she was buttoning her blouse, forgoing the
bra which he’d torn during their heated tryst. Fanshawe stared.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, smiling.

“You’re beautiful…”

Abbie just kept smiling.

“You’ve got every reason to think I’m off
the deep end,” he said, “but I meant everything I said earlier,
about taking you to New York, and rehab, and all that.”

“I believe you.”

“So you’re game?”

“Yeah. I’m ready when you are, and until
then…I’ll do my best.”

Can’t ask for more than that.
Fanshawe felt exuberant all at once. He couldn’t stop looking at
her.

“But no more hitting each other, okay?” she
said in a jesty tone.

“You got a deal.”

“I like it rough, Stew, just not
that
rough. Christ, for a minute I thought you
were
going to kill
me.”

So did I,
he considered in a covert
dread. He tried to make a joke of it. “You’re too good-looking to
kill.”

“That’s good to know…I think.” A long
revelation stilled her. “Wow.”

“What?”

“Sex with you took my mind off coke.”

“Let me know when the effect wears off. I’ll
make sure I’m available.”

She chuckled, shaking her head.

“I better go now…” The moment made him
antsy. He felt as though he should say something else but didn’t
know what it should be.

“All right, I’ll talk to you later,” she
said.

He stalked over to her, grabbed her rather
roughly, and pulled. Again he was cramming her against the boxes
but instead of choking her he was kissing her, while his hands
couldn’t resist mauling her contours.
I adore this woman,
he
thought. Their tongues delved; they sucked each other’s breath as
if desperate for it. Fanshawe wished he could dissolve into the
heat, scents, and substance that was her.

“If you bang me again like you just did,”
she panted, “I’ll be in a wheelchair for a week,” but the prospect
didn’t seem to daunt her: she reached to unbuckle his belt…

Fanshawe sucked her neck, then dug his
fingers hard into her buttocks. She sighed, flinched, then nearly
squealed when he twisted her nipples through her blouse. He wanted
to do it all again right there, but common sense returned.

He had other things going on besides Abbie.
His awareness of the looking-glass in his pocket reminded him.

“Later,” he said. “But I need to show you
something tonight.”

“Yeah?” she purred.

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

He looked right into her eyes. “Witches
Hill, around eleven-thirty.”

Her eyes lit up, but then she slumped.
“Shit. I can’t. Believe it or not, I’m not just an inn keeper with
a secret. I’m also on the town council. We’ve got a big meeting
tonight at eight. Sometimes those things go till two in the
morning. It’s a big pain in the ass but I signed on for it,
so…”

“Tomorrow night, then.”

Before she could say “Okay,” Fanshawe kissed
her hard one more time, then left.

(II)

Fanshawe showered, changed, and rested,
nursing his carnal wounds in his room.
I was choking her,
he
thought.
I was…

He didn’t want to think on it further. Not
being in control of himself was something he’d never experienced
outside of his voyeurism. Images of Abbie and their primitive
lovemaking kept flashing in his mind. It had been exquisite.

And now she’d agreed to leave with him, go
to New York.

The prospect thrilled him, even in spite of
her own much more destructive addictions. But there was something
else that thrilled him as well.

He saw that Dr. Tilton had left another
message, and so had Artie. They would have to wait. From the
sweltering hidden room in the attic, Fanshawe retrieved Jacob
Wraxall’s other diary, and spent the rest of the afternoon reading
every handwritten line that had remained legible after over three
centuries.

It was a demented tableau that unfolded
before him. His stomach turned with each sentence he deciphered,
yet the more he read the more grimly fascinated he found himself.
The nighttime doings of Wraxall, Evanore, and Rood demonstrated an
unprecedented exercise in systematic and cold-blooded
diabolism,
and in real-life atrocities that paled their 21st
century counterparts. Murder, rape, and torture were mere
commonplaces for these three; instead it was the nauseating
intricacies of their occult regimen that placed them on so high a
pedestal of evil: infanticide and patricide; the draining of blood
and evisceration of live subjects, too often children and newborns;
absolutely depressing sexual despoilments; and the alchemical
distillation of fetuses, among other even more unspeakable things.
Also, the sexual revelries of Evanore and her twelve coven members
provided a level of moral abandon that Fanshawe simply could not
conceive of. On occasions when certain coven members were thought
to have lost a faith dark enough for further inclusion, the
punishments they were subjected to were described to every iota
that the style and lexicon of the 1600’s could convey, and to an
assiduity that at one point forced Fanshawe to rush to his suite’s
bathroom and throw up.

This is awful,
he thought when he’d
finished.
And it’s all real.
But as disgusted as the
revelations left him, the more he regretted how much of the diary
remained hopelessly unreadable. He even felt gypped by what he
wasn’t able to read, which seemed contradictory, given his open
disgust.