Witch Water (37 page)

The slavering dog barked several times, as
if in agreement.

“But back in the old days, when things were
based on common sense and majority rules instead of loopholes and
kickbacks and plea bargains, the idea of justice still
meant
something. Witches and warlocks threatened the stability of the
community, so they were executed—it was the law of the land. Same
for murderers and rapists and child molesters, you name it.”

“I didn’t kill anyone!” Fanshawe blared.
“I’ve never raped anyone! All I did was look in some windows!”

Baxter’s shadow from the moonlight nodded.
“Well that’s just it, Fanshawe. Back then they killed perverts just
like they killed all the rest of the scum. Crimes against nature
and God; that’s how we took care of our own. Why should perverts be
an exception? First a man’d be lookin’ in women’s windows and next
thing ya know, he’d be rapin’ ’em, and then killin’ ’em so they
couldn’t talk. Best way to stop it was to nip it in the bud.”

“Oh, for shit’s sake!” Fanshawe bucked in
the barrel. “This is crazy! Let me go!”

Baxter’s voice turned placid. “Every now and
then…it’s good to get back to the old days.” He paused as if
absorbing the moment. “Monty? I think it’s time you let Buster have
at it. Poor little pooch must be famished after not eatin’ for a
week…”

Monty stood about ten yards away. He leaned
backward, struggling against the pit bull’s strength, then—

Baxter counted off, “One, two, three…go!

—unhooked the leash from the animal’s
collar. The pit bull surged forward, kicking up dirt with the
synchronicity of a machine.

Fanshawe screamed.

“Buster! Sic!”

“Get it, boy!”

“Eat that the head, Buster! Eat that
head!”

“You go, doggie! Let’s see you peel that
head like a damn banana!”

The dog tore forward, releasing cannonades
of foam-throwing barks. It didn’t run, it
galloped,
kicking
up more dirt and gravel with its muscle-bulging hind legs.
Fanshawe’s instinct was to shrink, to close his eyes and hope his
knowledge of the imminent horror would make him lose consciousness
but he experienced instead the opposite. It was as if some
psychical imp of the perverse had confiscated his reflexes, then
forced his eyes to remain open and kept his adrenalin pumping.
Though less than thirty feet away, the mad animal tore toward its
target in the most cruel slow motion. Each foot the pit bull
traversed seemed to take ten seconds; even Baxter and his henchmen
hooted, cheering the animal on in long low words that poured like
molasses. Fanshawe convulsed inside the barrel, screaming,
screaming.

Ten feet closer the animal had galloped,
then twenty feet, then twenty-five. Fanshawe could only stare in
skyrocketing horror as the dog’s head tossed with each stroke of
its legs. It was the beast’s gleaming fangs that riveted Fanshawe’s
gaze, the fangs and the high-p.s.i. jaws snapping open and
closed.

Twenty-six feet, twenty-seven…

Fanshawe was screaming now with such
ferocity he expected chunks of his lungs to fly out of his throat.
Madness held dominion of his consciousness, while his inner visions
were full of the image of the monstrous animal voraciously eating
the flesh off his head like a fat man eating the caramel off a
candy apple…

Twenty-eight feet, twenty-nine…

Fanshawe’s eyes, at this indivisible moment
before an imponderable death, seemed to double in size so to force
him to bear witness with even greater clarity. Did the insane
animal’s jaws actually
unhinge
or was this hallucination?
Baxter and his cronies were in conniptions of bloodthirsty glee,
when—

twang!

The pit bull stopped abruptly in its tracks,
jaws snapping just an inch away from Fanshawe’s face…

Baxter and his men were laughing so hard
they were bent over.

“The fun’s over, Monty,” Baxter wheezed.
None-too-pleased, the dog was reeled backwards away from the
barrel, and Fanshawe was able to see the details of the ruse. It
was a second, much longer leash that had also been attached to the
animal’s collar, which suggestion and sheer horror had prevented
Fanshawe from seeing.

Hee-hawing laughter continued as the
u-collar was taken off and then a nearly comatose Fanshawe was
hauled out of the barrel and dropped on the ground. Strings of
foamy slime spattered his face; he’d wet his pants. The Yankees guy
was laughing so hard he was literally slapping his knees, while
Howard and Monty were yucking and wiping tears out of their
eyes.

“How’s that for a good scare, Fanshawe?”
Baxter asked.

Fanshawe managed to stand up, wobbling.
“You’re a bunch of old fuck motherfuckers!”

“Aw, now, don’t be that way. Can’t the
billionaire take a joke?”

Fanshawe snarled like the dog. “That’s what
this was? A
joke?
”

“Well, no. You’re still a scumbag,” and with
surprising reflexes, Baxter kicked Fanshawe in the crotch one more
time.

Fanshawe collapsed, cringing. He was getting
tired of this.

Hands fumbled in his pockets; his watch was
taken off.

“Bet this is a Rolex!” Yankees enthused.

“It’s a
Brietling,
you redneck
vagabond!” Fanshawe groaned.

“Fits dead-solid perfect!”

“Got a horse-choke wad of cash in his
wallet, too!” Howard exclaimed.

“Take the cash, leave the cards,” Baxter
instructed.

Fanshawe craned his neck to see Howard slip
stacks of bills out of the Nautica wallet. Then he threw the wallet
in Fanshawe’s face.

“And to top it all off, here’s his
checkbook!” Yankees informed.

Fanshawe had to laugh. “Character and
honesty, huh? Who’s the thief now? Who’s the
criminal
now?”

“We ain’t
stealin’,
Fanshawe. This is
what I think you fancy citifed types call
punitive damages,
”
and then Baxter ripped off another laugh. “Now why don’t you just
drag your ass up and go back to New York Fuckin’ City? By the time
you get back I figure you’ll be on all the news channels.”

Fanshawe struggled back to his feet. “What’s
that?”

“Yeah, I can see it now on CNN: Pervert
Billionaire Caught on Tape Stealing from Historical Inn.”

“You’re shitting me, right?” Fanshawe
said.

Monty piped up, “And they’ll pay a pretty
penny for that tape on one of them cable shows.”

Howard: “And then they can interview all of
us about how we caught him red-handed peeping in windows with the
self-same glass he
stole!
”

More, more laughter cackled up.

But Fanshawe knew they were right. They
could do that and more. He’d be lambasted in the papers. Too many
outside sources had him cold now. Getting caught the first time was
one thing, but security tapes and multiple witnesses?

“A’course,” Baxter began, “if ya want to
save yourself from all that public embarrassment, all you gotta do
is put your John Hancock on that there checkbook of yours,
hmm?”

The checkbook was thrust in Fanshawe’s
hands.

“We’d be pleased as punch to keep that tape
safe and our mouths shut for, say fifty grand—”

“Fifty?” exclaimed Yankees. “That’s a bit
light, ain’t it? Hell, he
is
a billionaire.”

Baxter smiled. “Like I said, a
hundred
grand.”

Fanshawe kept his rage quelled, wrote the
check, and gave it to Baxter.

“A wise decision, Fanshawe. And all that’s
left for you to do now is pack your bags, sit your ass down in that
fancy kraut car of yours, and—how do I say this nice? Get the
fuck
out of town.”

“Fine,” Fanshawe said.

“Now me and the boys are gonna go have us a
few beers at the ale house,” Baxter said, pocketing the check.
“When I get back to the hotel tonight,
don’t
be there.”

Howard, Yankees, and Monty all high-fived.
The pit bull wagged its tail. Monty threw it a Snausage.

“Well,” Fanshawe said. “You assholes got my
money, you got my watch, and you got the tape. But you know what
I
got?”

“What’s that, Mr. Peeping Tom?”

Fanshawe pointed right in Baxter’s face. “I
got the Two Secrets of Jacob Wraxall,” and then he picked up the
looking-glass, put it in his pocket, and walked briskly out of the
clearing and off Witches Hill.

(II)

Fanshawe didn’t care if anyone saw him
flecked with dog spit, scuffed, disheveled, and with a wet spot in
his pants; however, when he returned to the inn, no one was about
to see him. He didn’t bother showering, nor even changing his
clothes.
Just get out of here,
he resolved. He felt
automatonic when he opened his suitcase, but instead of filling it
back up with his belongings, he
emptied
it.

Twenty minutes in the attic was all it took
to get what he needed: the most vital of Wraxall’s books, some of
the bones, some of the empty looking-glasses, and, of course, as
many jars of witch-water as he could fit in his suitcase, in
particular, those marked
E.W.

He loaded up the car but did not leave.

The words “Who’s there?” answered almost
immediately when Fanshawe knocked on Abbie’s door. “It’s me,” he
replied impatiently. “I’m about to leave.”

The door snapped open and a nightgowned
Abbie stepped back in bewilderment. Even after all he’d gone
through tonight, the image of her—a breath-taking, beauteous
one—wiped all other concerns from his mind. Coltish legs shined
below the short-hemmed nightgown; her hair shined as well, as if
preternaturally illumined. Beneath the sheer fabric, her breasts
absolutely
seduced
his vision.

She was shocked by his appearance. “What
happened
to you?”

“Doesn’t matter. Pack your stuff, pack
light. Meet me at my car in ten minutes.”

“But I— That’s—”

His voice droned, disguising all the wonder
that seemed to percolate in his spirit. “If you’re coming…ten
minutes. If not, goodbye,” and then he left.

She was there in five, and then Fanshawe
pulled away from the gabled, moonlit edifice that was once the
shrine of the abominable genius, Jacob Wraxall.

Abbie’s face in the dashlight was full of
untold questions but she somehow knew not to ask. Instead, she
said, “I tried real hard, Stew—I mean I really did.” Guilt seemed
to rust her voice. “But I couldn’t hack it.”

“What? Cocaine?”

“After the meeting got out…I folded. I can’t
help it,” and then she shrugged. “I am what I am. If you want to
throw me out of the car, that’s cool.”

Fanshawe just drove. His headlights
projected blazing white circles before them, revealing the town’s
quaintness, but in shifting glimpses that were wholly involuntary,
he seemed to see the town when it was not so quaint: three hundred
years ago, teetering, skulking under an impalpable caul of fear,
oppression, and sorcery, haggard victims reeking in pillories, and
the periodic melees atop Witches Hill. When he glanced at Abbie,
she looked dismal as she inhaled a line of white powder off her
key.

He didn’t object; he said nothing.
She’s
a wreck.
If I can’t get her fixed up with all my money, then
no one can.
He drove leisurely through town, only now realizing
how exhausted he was; but even in this fatigue he felt wired by the
anticipation of what was to come.

Self-disgust contorted Abbie’s face when she
did another line. “Yeah,” she sputtered. “We are what we are, all
right. I guess people can spend their whole lives without ever
realizing that.”

Fanshawe didn’t comment, just drove.

“We gotta jump from one foot to the other,
trying to be what society
tells
us to be, and not be our
true selves.”

Fanshawe tested a frown. “If you’re trying
to find some philosophical way to justify being on drugs…that’s
probably not going to cut it.”

She laughed without mirth. “You’ve got me
there. At least the crazy shit you’re into won’t kill you.”

Fanshawe smiled.
It almost did
tonight.

She did another line. “What I meant is…even
when we fit ourselves into the mold society tells us we should be
in…good or bad, we never really change. We still stay the same way
deep down…in our hearts.”

Fanshawe stared abruptly. When he turned,
the only thing he saw beyond the windshield was an unwavering
blackness.

Like my heart.

Abbie seemed to notice something past the
buzz of her cocaine. “Why’d you turn here? To get to the turnpike,
you have right.”

“We’re not going to the turnpike—”

“I thought we were going to New York.”

“We are,” Fanshawe told her in dull
monotone, “But we have to go somewhere else first.” More unbroken
blackness flowed past the windows. “It won’t take long, but I’ll
need your help, and what you need to know is…”

The headlights reached out into still more
blackness.

“Is what?” Abbie asked, partly suspicious,
partly amused.

“It’s fucked up,” Fanshawe said baldy. “If
you’re not up to it, then I’ll take you back to the inn. But the
way I see it is”—he shrugged, and glanced at her cocaine—”what have
you got to lose?”

Abbie laughed. “How can I argue with
that?”

««—»»

“You’re kidding me?” she said, frowning.
“You’re
stealing
this?”

“Yeah,” Fanshawe said, and without
hesitating, he began to unscrew the tarnished globe off the Gazing
Ball’s bizarrely inscribed pedestal. “I’ll explain later.”

“But—”

Fanshawe paused, irritated. “You in or out?
Make up your mind.”

“Stew! I don’t know what’s going on!”

“Keep your voice down. I think your father’s
at the tavern with his friends, but I can’t be positive.”

“What’s my father got to do with—”