Witch Water

clearing. He was in his seventies, balding and bespectacled, with a large, gleaming forehead.

“Howdy, fellas,” he greeted.

“Hey, Monty,” Baxter said. “Thanks for loanin’ Buster out.”

“Oh, it’s always a pleasure! Old men like us need a thrill every now and then.”

“I’ll drink to that!” exclaimed Yankees.

The man—Monty—came closer into moonlight, and he brought a scampering shape with him. Fanshawe could only stare in unreserved despair when he got a look at the snuffling, snarling canine at Monty’s side. It was not quite the giant Doberman he’d witnessed in the town of old, but instead an overly large pit bull with strings of foam hanging from its maw and bumps of muscles tensing. The animal’s eyes looked insane from the beginning, but when the dog saw Fanshawe’s head sticking out of the barrel—

“Ho, boy! Not yet, Buster!”

—it lunged, tugging its leash, and nearly pulled Monty down. Terrifying barks ripped out of its throat. Those insane eyes seemed as intent on Fanshawe’s face as if he were a pile of raw steak.

“Mr. Fanshawe here says he wants his day in court,” Baxter began, “but he knows full well that courts don’t serve justice no more, and what they were designed to do is serve justice. For the people. The law-abiding people of this great land. That’s what the Founding Fathers wanted.”

“You can’t kill a guy for looking in windows!” Fanshawe wailed.

“Aw, but nowadays? Things are just all twisted up and messed about so bad there ain’t no real justice left anymore. Now, take a rich fella like you. Oh, sure we could call the cops, give statements that we seen you peeping in windows, not to mention the security tape of you stealing the glass, but then you’d just hire yourself a Dream Team and get off scot free. Damn, Fanshawe, the Founding Fathers would shit in their graves if they knew what American Justice has turned into. Politicians and rich men? They can do whatever they want.”

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