Witch Water

Fanshawe had called 911, then helped revive the unconscious jogger. But the image of that victim lying in the brush seemed to sink into his brain like a stone in watery silt, that man…

No details could be made of the man’s face, for he no longer had a face. What sat instead upon those shoulders was little more than a skull stripped raggedly of most of its flesh. The majority of neck muscles were gone as well, as if torn away. Only mere scraps of blood-mucked skin remained. Ears, nose, lips?

Gone.

The eyeballs were intact, but lidless, transforming what had once been the man’s visage into a grinning, staring mask.

Upon seeing this, Fanshawe’s mind swam in a hot panic, fragments of thoughts bursting through. Murder? He doubted it. An animal attack seemed most likely. But if it were the former, couldn’t the perpetrator still be near? The jogger’s ceaseless, whistle-like screams only shattered more of Fanshawe’s concentration. What kind of an accident could account for this? And if the victim had indeed been savaged by a wild animal, why was his coffee-brown suit untorn, and his hands untouched? These and other questions only had time to half-solidify in Fanshawe’s mind. When the second woman had finally stopped screaming, the three of them could only stare open-mouthed at one another. Several police cars and an ambulance showed up sometime later, using the GPS on Fanshawe’s cellphone.

Fanshawe shuffled his feet as he stood with Mr. Baxter. Baxter seemed disconcerted by something more than the presence of the corpse. What’s he got cooking in his head? Fanshawe wondered but didn’t feel he knew the man well enough to ask. Eventually, the police had finished questioning the joggers; they walked shakily back toward town. My turn, Fanshawe realized. The questioning officer approached, his eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses in which Fanshawe saw his own face. The county captain came over, too.

Fanshawe felt interrogated. He explained his presence on the trails along with his chronological observations once he’d heard the scream, and answered rather typical if not irrelevant questions. Then came questions like: “Can you remember seeing anyone here or in town who struck you as suspicious?” and “Do you recall seeing a man dressed similarly to the decedent at any time today?” and “Did you notice any things— articles of clothing, for instance, disturbances in the brush, money, credit cards—while you were out here today?” to which Fanshawe answered in the negative. But then the captain, who seemed self-reflective, interrupted, “Oh, so that’s why your name’s ringing a bell. You’re one of those finance geniuses I’ve seen on TV.”

Fanshawe knew the comment was incidental yet still his paranoia construed something smart-alecky about it. “I’m semi-retired now,” was all he said, but was surprised a particular question hadn’t been asked. “I did happen to hear something out of place—I mean, I think I heard something.”

“What’s that, sir?” asked the cop with the clipboard.

“A dog growling, a large one by the sound of it. I suppose it could have been a wolf.”

The captain shrugged. Was he repressing a smile? “There’s been no wolves here in ages,” and with that the man didn’t seem interested in the least.

“I just thought I’d mention it; this does look like it could be a wild animal attack.”

“A wild animal wouldn’t likely snatch a man’s wallet,” the captain enlightened, then the cop added, “No change in the victim’s pockets, either, no pens, no handkerchief, no keys…”

Fanshawe contemplated the surprising information.

As if to change the subject, “In town long, Mr. Fanshawe?” the captain asked. It seemed intimidating the way he crossed his arms.

“I’ve been here two days but may be staying several weeks or even months. Not sure yet. I’m kind of …on vacation.”

The captain’s brow jigged. “Kind of?” but then the officer caught himself. “I’m sorry, Mr. Fanshawe. Vacation or not, it’s none of my business—”

Good, because you don’t WANT to know why I’m really here, Fanshawe thought.

“—but it’s our conclusion that this man here”—he took a grim glance to the now covered corpse—”is a homicide victim.”

“It would seem so. No wallet, no keys,” Fanshawe said, confused.

“Just want you to know it’s a pleasure to have someone of your influence staying here in Haver-Towne,” came the captain’s next odd remark. Now he seemed not to be aware that a dead man was in proximity. “Sorry a nasty thing like this had to happen. What I hope you can understand, sir, is there hasn’t been a murder here in, well, since way back when. Right, Mr. B?”

“Not since Colonial times,” Baxter accentuated, but then that discreetly troubled look grew more pronounced.

“Something wrong, Mr. B? Looks like you got something on your mind.”

“Aw, yeah…” Baxter glanced again to the covered corpse—the facial region of which was revealing blood spots through the white fabric. “Aw, damn, captain. I guess I could be wrong here, but I don’t think so. See, I think I know who this man is…”

— | — | —

CHAPTER FIVE

(I)

Fanshawe heard the entire speculation twice, first as Baxter recited it to the police, then again when he walked back to town with the man.

“Eldred Karswell,” Fanshawe repeated. That’s some name. “So he’s the man who booked my room before I arrived?”

“Yeah. That was definitely the same suit he was wearing last time I saw him. Don’t see many brown suits nowadays, do you?”

“No, I guess not.”

“Don’t know anything about the guy ’cept that he had money and seemed like a nice fella. A bit stiff, but… nice.”

“How old do you think he was?”

“Sixty, sixty-five, he looked. Always dressed good too, kind of like you.”

Fanshawe didn’t like the portent of being compared to a dead man. “Retired?”

Baxter looked up. “Didn’t say, but he struck me as a history buff. Asked to look at some old books at the inn.”

Well, Fanshawe thought. The history buff is now history himself.

But Baxter seemed agitated, as though he’d done something wrong. “Damn, I guess I should’ve notified the cops when Karswell never came back to the hotel that night, but, hell…”

“You couldn’t have known. He was a guest, that’s all. How could you know that he didn’t go to visit a nearby town, or maybe had some friends stop by and go somewhere else. He’d already booked the room.”

“Right, for seven days, and six of ’em were already up when he disappeared.” Baxter’s face crinkled. “Just