Witch Water

road rage, none of that nonsense. Just quiet nights, fresh air, the great outdoors…”

Fanshawe smiled involuntarily. “You sound exactly like my therapist, Mr. Baxter.”

“We ain’t got those here either!” the proprietor laughed, but then his voice quieted. “Oh, and don’t worry. We’re very tight-lipped here. Your secret’s safe with us.”

Fanshawe’s eyes snapped to him; he gulped. “Secret?”

“Well, I read Forbes, the WSJ, and such, and see your picture on occasion, yes, sir. It’s exciting to have someone famous choose our hotel. Just want you to know that your privacy will be respected like nobody’s business.”

Fanshawe released a relieving breath. What had he been thinking? Buddy, if you knew MY secret, you’d probably call the cops and have me thrown out on my ass. ”Thanks very much. But I wouldn’t exactly call myself famous. I’m just a financier, not a sports star.”

“Oh, we get them too, ’specially in the winter. That man A-Rod, I don’t care what the papers say, he’s a dang nice guy. Now, if you’d care to give me your car keys, I’ll have someone bring up your bags.”

Fanshawe relinquished the keys. “It’s the black Audi. Thanks.”

Baxter turned for the door. “If you need anything, just ring the desk. And be sure to have a look at our relic displays downstairs once you’ve settled in.”

“Relic displays? What kind of r—”

But Baxter had left faster than a blink. Relics? He must mean Colonial knickknacks. Fanshawe took a slow walk through both rooms, maintaining approval. He ran his hand over a lyre-back chair, then peeked through more rich, velvety drapes over the bedroom’s most westward window, to see still more luxuriant hills: a comforting vision. “Thank God,” he whispered, his face to the curtain-edge. “Not a single window to be seen. No target-object access…”

More of the room’s details stole his attention. A miniature wheel-clock ticked from a relief nook in the wall; a statuette of a Minute Man stood poised, bayoneted musket at the ready; a small vase spouted delicate roses fashioned from paper-thin curls of crimson glass. Cool, he thought. But next he was eyeing a framed engraving, or maybe it was an old tintype: a rather creepy manor house drenched in moonlight. Fanshawe moved his face closer, for it seemed that a thin, bent figure was climbing into a first-floor window. Was there also the tiniest image of a nude woman inside, screaming at the figure’s appearance?

No…, because he blinked and saw that the “figure” was just an oddly shaped bush. There must’ve been dust or something in Fanshawe’s eye.

He wasn’t sure what impelled him to look upward, but when he did, his eyes found an oblong panel in the ceiling. Trapdoor? he wondered. More than likely, either an access way or an attic. Next, he found himself scanning an in-wall bookshelf, noticing the gilded spines of tomes that appeared to be very old but actually weren’t when he took some out. They were merely “classic” editions of Washington Irving, Nathaniel Hawthorn, Edgar Allen Poe, and the like, made to look old. However, lower on the shelf…

Hmm…

The next book he picked was no “classic” but instead a calfskin-bound smaller-format book with a faded cover. Ye Witch-Tryalls of Haver-Towne. Fanshawe’s eyes narrowed when he carefully flipped to the copyright page and found the printing date: 1699. Immediately, he felt an abstract wallop nearly like a physical blow. This is REALLY old. It must be quite valuable, so why was it sitting here? He flipped through pages fine as rice paper, noticing the tight, antique type-style of the day, with all nouns capitalized and very often the word “ye” used for “the.” One page was an elaborate engraving, with the heading: “Ye Arrest of Jacob Wraxall by High-Sheriff Patten.” The plate depicted a stout man with a star-shaped badge and a tri-cornered hat, solemn-faced, escorting a thin older man toward a Colonial gaol-house. The prisoner wore buckled shoes, knee breeches, and a pleated tunic front; the expression on his Van Dyked face could only be described as sinister.

Fanshawe couldn’t guess why the engraving had so captivated him. He sat down on the bed to examine the plate more intently. In the rendition, the prisoner’s wrists were shackled behind his back…

Fanshawe stared open-mouthed but it was no longer the plate he was seeing, it was his not-too-distant past, when he himself assumed a position similar to that of the prisoner. It was handcuffs not shackles which immobilized his wrists, and a police cruiser, not a gaol-house that he was being shoved toward. “You have the right to remain silent,” he was told by the New York cop who grasped his arm too hard. Venom hissed out with the universal words, a repressed disgust. “I got more important things to do than waste time on a pervert.” Fanshawe was jammed into the caged back seat; the door slammed in his face. He couldn’t recall his precise thoughts at that time, only a harrowing numbness. When the cop drove out of the alley, faces scowled at him from several lit windows. Fanshawe felt boneless sitting there.

The cop grimaced over his shoulder. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Successful guy like you pulling a scumbag move like that? I just don’t get it. What the hell is wrong with people?”

Through the passenger window, Fanshawe saw several homeless men standing around a garbage can. One of them looked right at him and grinned.

“Too bad times have changed. Thirty years ago, you would’ve gotten a go-round—the good old night-stick shampoo. I’ll bet it was a little girl you were peeping on,” the cop said, “or a little boy.”

“No!” Fanshawe blurted. “It was…a woman, an adult woman.”

“Oh, so I guess that makes it all right, huh? I need to be busting crack dealers and guys pulling bank jobs, not fucking around with pieces of shit like you.”

The cruiser pulled out onto Amsterdam Avenue; suddenly a million lights seemed to blink in Fanshawe’s face. He sat forlorn, his wrists aching. Yeah, he thought. A piece of shit like me…

The grim vision shattered at the click of the door. Fanshawe glanced up abruptly at the attractive woman smiling at him from the doorway. Her shoulders slumped from the weight of his luggage. “Mr. Fanshawe, I presume?”

“Yes—oh, here. Let me get those. The big one’s pretty heavy. I thought he’d be sending some brawny bellhop.”

“Oh, don’t bother, sir. Believe it or not, I like hauling luggage. At my age I need all the exercise I can get.”

The comment seemed odd or self-conscious. Fanshawe doubted she could be more than mid-thirties. “I’m Abbie, Mr. Baxter’s daughter,” she told him and hefted the larger of the bags up on the bed. As she did so, hair which at the same time seemed blond and auburn danced before her face. She dressed casually in faded jeans, sneakers, and a plain blouse, yet under the nondescript apparel, Fanshawe sensed a curvaceous and even exotic physique. Don’t eyeball her, you scumbag, he groaned at himself, for when she leaned over to situate the big suitcase, his gaze zoomed in on ample, fresh-white cleavage. He snapped his eyes away.

“Well, thanks for bringing the bags, Abbie.”

“It’s my pleasure, Mr. Fanshawe—”

“Stew,” he corrected and shook her hand. Her shake was firm, her hand delicate yet mildly callused, no doubt from her share of hard work. He found the dichotomy bizarrely arousing. The graceful hands revealed no signs of wedding rings. When he attempted to tip her, she refused.

“I hope you like our hotel. We go out of our way to offer guests something a little more interesting. Most places these days are kind of stiff and sterile.”

“It’s gorgeous. The furniture, the treatments, that whole Colonial feel.”

“Um-hmm.” Next, Abbie raised his laptop case to the bed but she flinched when a magazine flipped out of a side pocket. “Oops.” When she bent to pick it up, Fanshawe’s eyes darted once more to her cleavage. He bit his lip.

The magazine was Fortune 500, and on the cover was Fanshawe’s face. “Stewart Fanshawe: Miracle Man” read the cover line.

Abbie smiled, and replaced the magazine. “Don’t worry, your—”

“My secret’s safe with you,” Fanshawe tacked on. “Yes, your father said the same thing and, believe me, I