Witch Water

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?”

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