"Thanks very much-" A tip jar with several dollar bills in it sat on her booth shelf. Fanshawe put in a ten.

"Why bless you, sir, and thank you from the bottom of my heart! A pleasure it's been a-meetin' you, and may it be a lovely day the Lord 'as comin' your way."

"The pleasure's been mine," and Fanshawe headed away. That woman is a TRIP, he thought. I'll bet the accent is fake, she's probably from Jersey. He laughed when he thought one of the Revolution soldiers flinched, then he found himself looking again at the palm-reader's parlor. It was just a narrow rowhouse of old, faded brick, with interesting pediments and stone sills. He wondered what the palm reader looked liked-Probably older than Mrs. Anstruther-then he ground his teeth when he glanced up the store front to the second floor.

Windows, always windows...

He scanned the map some more, then pa.s.sed the Travelodge, the two-story structure forming an L-shape. A splash turned his gaze. Bright beneath the summer sun extended an outdoor swimming pool. It was mostly older children wading around with their parents, tipping over rafts or volleying inflatable b.a.l.l.s. A tanned, muscular lifeguard sat bored up in his chair: The Thinker in swim trunks with a whistle around his neck. Fanshawe noticed a fair number of attractive women in hats and sungla.s.ses, stretched out on lounge chairs, all agleam in suntan oil. He gave them a bland glance, but then caught himself looking much more intently at the rows of sliding-gla.s.s doors facing the pool. He barely heard the sound of frolic from the water.

d.a.m.n it. There I go again. He could not resist roving his gaze across all those windows. Then his eyes locked on. In one window, a woman crossed his view in a spare, orange bikini...

He winced and pulled his gaze away.

He stalked off fast, crossed the cobble road as the British woman had instructed, then loosened in relief. SCENIC NATURE PATH, the sign read with an arrow pointing.

He followed the arrow.

He tried to ignore the guilt that came along with him, like another stroller several steps behind. The Travelodge had bothered him, and so had the immediacy with which he'd scanned all the tempting windows. In New York, after a year of therapy, he never succ.u.mbed to the same temptation. Why here? Why now? He walked faster, lengthening his strides as if to out-pace his disarray. Soon his outrage at himself bled over into despair, and he felt lost.

I am NOT going to relapse...

But he felt better the more he walked, through winding gravel paths up into low hills. It was a smorgasbord of natural beauty for as far as he could see. b.u.t.terflies floated over the high, sweeping gra.s.s. Wild flowers of every color seemed to shift with some manner of sentience, begging his eyes to appreciate them. Fanshawe walked for some time, each step loosening another tight st.i.tch in his malformed mood...

The paths, he saw, comprised a web-work about the hillocks, and would've served as a tricky maze had there not been wooden, plaqued maps at every fork. When he glanced over his shoulder, he was taken aback by how high he'd ascended, and when he strode atop a risen n.o.b, the view of the countryside pilfered his breath. The hills seemed to extend to endlessness, loomed over by the ghost of a distant mountain. There was a baby-blue sky and blazing sun; spa.r.s.e clouds seemed to exist in a whiteness more perfect than he could conceive. Fresh air, and the great outdoors, the rigid Dr. Tilton had instructed. Well, it doesn't come any better than this...

But...where was he?

He stepped down off the n.o.b to discover a rest stop with an ornate bench and another map on a plaque. One dotted guide-mark read THE WITCHES PATH, then after a few more steps, another sign announced that he'd reached it.

The more the hill rose, the higher the gra.s.ses on either side seemed to grow. Fanshawe followed the path, intrigued without knowing why. More tourist stuff, and he mocked, The Witches Path? It's just a friggin' path!

But as he approached what seemed to be the most elevated of the hills, he stopped. Facing him now was a sign larger than the others, as well as a clearing in the gra.s.ses, leaving only bald dirt. Engraved letters on the sign began: WITCHES HILL: IN JULY, 1671, THIRTEEN WITCHES WERE...

Fanshawe, eyes intent, read the words aloud. "Witches Hill. In July, 1671, thirteen witches were executed here, including Evanore Wraxall, the notorious coven leader. Dozens more pract.i.tioners of the Black Arts would be executed on this very hill for another fifty years..." Fanshawe chuckled without much mirth. Sounds like somebody needed a hug.

But he tried to contemplate the gravity of the words. What I'm standing on right now was the Colonial equivalent of a gas-chamber. People-witches or not-but living people had died on this very ground over three hundred years ago.

He shuddered at the cruelty of it all, and the madness, then turned to leave. But at a break in the gra.s.ses which rimmed the clearing, his eyes widened. This hill was, as he'd thought, the highest around, and through the break he could see the entire town down below. Perfect as a picture on a postcard, he mused, drinking up the view. Yes, he'd been in New York too long. New York didn't have views like this, just incalculable skysc.r.a.pers, ubiquitous scaffolds and window-cleaning platforms, and monolithic apartment buildings consuming entire city blocks. Gazing at the little town now, it occurred to him that too much of his life had pa.s.sed since he'd experienced such a monumental sense of wonder.

The faintest breeze brushed over his face, and hidden within it, he heard, or thought he heard, a sound just as faint. Just a drift of something, like a word spoken by someone too close to a rushing surf. Yet, a word it had seemed to be, in a feminine tenor. The word was this: "...lovely."

Fanshawe paused to identify the direction from which it had arrived: just off from the break in the gra.s.ses, where a lone tree stood entwined by leafy vines.

Then two more words, even fainter: "...love you..."

Before Fanshawe had stuck his head fully out from the tree, he saw with a jolt that he was not alone. Just below the immediate rise of the hill lay a lower elevation surrounded by flanks of unkempt bushes, while two t-shirts draped over a bush left a clue: HARVARD and YALE. The joggers, Fanshawe remembered. Indeed, the two women were lying together in the lower clearing, sunbathing on towels, and after a moment of peering, Fanshawe recalled their headbands and well-toned bodies. Both women were topless, yet they'd also rolled up the edges of their running shorts as much as the fabric would permit. Fanshawe stared without breathing.

Their age could not be determined, though he suspected they were well out of the groves of higher learning. One, Harvard, lay flat on her back, eyes closed, with a tiny grin touching her face, while Yale lay on her side, on one elbow, to gaze down in apparent adoration. "I love you," came another drift-like whisper, and Harvard replied, "I know," and grinned with more obviousness. They kissed daintily, then Yale ran a hand up her companion's belly and across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s in a single, fluid motion. Harvard's nipples erected, at once, to dark pink plugs of sensitive flesh. Then Yale a.s.sumed her friend's supine pose. There they both lay now like a pa.s.sionate secret, smiling, basking in brilliant sun, their hands joined.

It was only when they both lay still that Fanshawe's emotions began to simmer. He gulped, his mouth going dry. His gaze rolled over their enticing bodies like drool. His eyes would not close.

No, no, no, words scarcely his own pleaded. I can't be doing this, I MUST NOT DO THIS... His groin fidgeted, he s.n.a.t.c.hed a breath through his teeth as he continued to stare.

No...

His hand moved against the command of his conscience, and slithered across his crotch, but just as he would prepare to m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e-outright, oblivious-he gnawed his own tongue and dragged his eyes off the fleshy spectacle like nails being dragged out of a plank. It was all he could do not to moan aloud in anguish spliced with self-disgust.

Pervert, sc.u.mbag, peeper...

Moments later he'd forced himself well back from the tree. Tears lay in the grooves of his narrowed eyes. He stepped back and back and back until he nudged the large wooden sign; and then he leaned there for a several minutes, regaining his breath and his senses.

This isn't supposed to be happening...

What if somebody else had walked up and seen him? Or one of the women themselves? What could he say? What excuse could he give?

Nothing. Because his intent would've been obvious to anyone, anyone in the world.

He leaned against the sign for some time. He felt jittery, like someone who'd lived on nothing but coffee for a day. Was his heart beating irregularly? Soon he was slumping in place. His mind felt dark, hollow, and blank, but in time he realized he was looking at something with some focus, something he hadn't noticed when he'd first come up onto the hill. It sat by itself, just before the wall of gra.s.ses, at the clearing's edge.

A barrel.

It was a large one, four feet high and three wide, encircled by two rusting iron bands. Riled by termites and creviced by water-damage, the grayed slats suggested that the barrel was very old, but a closer glance showed him that a heavy coat of some water-resistant resin covered the entire vessel, no doubt a more recent application. A lone antique barrel sitting on this history-laden hill struck Fanshawe as odd, yet he next made an odder observation.

The barrel had a single ten-inch-diameter hole in its side.

He looked perplexed at it. What the h.e.l.l's an old barrel doing up here? Perhaps it was an original-era rain barrel, preserved for its value as a relic. But if so? What's with the hole? A hole in the side of a barrel kind of defeats its purpose.

He shrugged and turned to leave. The temptation raged: to steal a departing glance at the near-naked joggers, but after a wince, he resisted and strode back toward the path that would lead him out. Before he could fully leave the hill's perimeter, however...

A shock riveted him, and he spun back around.

He'd heard a sound that couldn't be denied. A crisp, guttural growl, unmistakably that of a large dog.

Wild dog... Fanshawe's hand came to his heart. His eyes darted for a branch or stone, something that might serve as a weapon, but when his eyes pored back over the clearing he saw that there was no dog to be seen.

CHAPTER THREE.

(I).

The sun was just beginning to wester when Fanshawe made it back to town. Recession be d.a.m.ned, he thought. If anything, more tourists were apparent now, more cars in various lots, more strollers enjoying the town's quaint shops and atmosphere. As a financial maven, he was pleased to see that people had vacation money to spend. It also pleased him that some resolve seemed to be filtering back into his conscience: he'd resisted the impulse the pa.s.s the Travelodge and its alluring windows and sunbathers, and instead had taken a more circuitous route via a street farther off, mostly residential. He walked casually now, more at peace with himself. He spotted several empty beer kegs stacked behind the tavern; they made him think of the unlikely barrel on Witches Hill. I'll have to ask Abbie about that, he ventured. Later, he came around the back of the Wraxall Inn. Not once did he look up at the windows of the upper floors. Back in New York, when his sickness had been at full spate, the city's endless trove of windows had caused him to brim with something like feverish delight. At night he'd walk the posh Upper West Side, to duck into tactical alleyways and raise his mini-binoculars at the gem-like gla.s.s frames that too-often presented the merchandise that his warped mind shopped for. His office, with the door locked, served as a veritable voyeur's outpost on the countless nights he'd tell his wife he'd be working late, and for this he possessed a high-powered pair of Nikon field gla.s.ses and even a compact telescope, both fitted with digital cameras. Worse, he'd gone on to purchase a mini-van with custom one-way window-inserts; at night he'd park in strategic lots and manipulate a small Zeiss-brand spotter scope at the windows of the best condominiums.

Whacked in the head, he thought. And for years, his poor wife had never known, and never known either that whenever they made love, Fanshawe's mind was stuffed, steamy, and delirious with the images of other women he'd viewed so discretely and pervertedly. The inconceivableness of his addiction struck even Fanshawe himself: a man of extraordinary financial success enslaved by this lowly and risky crime. At least Dr. Tilton understood-all too well-and he was encouraged to know that she'd treated others suffering from his own diagnosis of chronic scoptophilia. "For sure, Mr. Fanshawe, yours is a disorder that is rather commonplace in a general realm but oh so uncanny in particular regards to you." "Pardon me?" he'd asked, p.r.i.c.kled by her insinuation. "You are most certainly an unrepresentative peeper"-and at this, Fanshawe winced-"in that your bounteous wealth retails little mollification at all." "I don't even know what that means," he snapped. "For $1000 per hour, could you please speak English?" And then she'd smiled in that tiny, barely discernible way of hers, a way that made him feel even lower. "A man of your vast financial solvency could certainly enjoy the pleasures of the most beautiful call girls and strippers available, but you'll have none of that, hmm? Instead, you skulk around alleys, or hide in your van to slake your dismal and pathetic need from a distance." He'd wanted to walk out then and there, until he admitted that she was quite right, and that this observation proved her clinical competence. The highest-cla.s.s strip clubs and the most preeminently attractive call girls did nothing for him. "It's no good, is it, Mr. Fanshawe, unless the lecherous images with which you quench your craving are stolen, from victims, not wh.o.r.es, from unknowing targets, not willing and morally oblivious pole-dancers? You must steal from them, Mr. Fanshawe, you must look at them in your unrestrained l.u.s.t without their permission, otherwise the satisfaction is useless, no better than a heroin addict injecting tap water." Fanshawe stared right back at her, insulted, humiliated, but realizing that his hatred for her was just camouflage for his hatred of himself. He croaked his reply: "You're absolutely right..."

Weird, weird, he thought now. Of all the addictions to be cursed with, Fanshawe had been cursed with this.

When he slanted around the back lot of the Inn, he saw that the closest half of it was filled with cars while only one car sat far off in a s.p.a.ce in the farthest section. It was an old black Cadillac Deville; Fanshawe knew that the year was early *60s because his own father had owned a similar vehicle when he was a child, yet this one had been restored to almost show-room condition.

He heard a slight scuff, then saw that the trunk was up. A stooped, stout-bellied man placed a suitcase inside, then thunked the lid closed and walked back.

The man was Mr. Baxter.

He reentered the hotel through a back door. Did the Cadillac belong to Baxter? And was he going on a vacation of his own? Why park the Caddy way out there? Fanshawe wondered.

He walked around front, then paused to stand a moment, taking closer notice of the old inn's architectural style, which he guessed would be called some manner of "Georgian," for England's King George. The imposing cross-gable made the basic structure seem even more cla.s.sically timeworn; it gave the sprawling mansion the form of an uncapitalized "t." The building's roof segments were steeped at uncommonly high angles. Fanshawe thought himself a modernist when it came to architecture, yet, since he'd come here, he'd grown more and more fond of all this historical archaicism. This used to be a family house, a patriarch's, he reminded himself; hadn't Baxter referred to Wraxall as an upstanding resident? Talk about going downhill fast.

He mused over what life must have been like so many years ago. Cutting your own woodslats, digging your own wells, chopping wood every day of your life... Evidently, Jacob Wraxall had been the equivalent of a wealthy country squire; hence, it had been his personal taste behind the mansion's layout. But...an occultist? Someone who believed he was a warlock? If he believed that, then surely he believed in the Devil. Fanshawe wondered what went on behind these baronial walls when the rest of the town slept unaware.

A large double gla.s.s door had been installed, but the rest of the building's front face couldn't have appeared more authentic. A pillared portico surrounded the entire house, while narrow lancet windows marked the second story; of the third, Fanshawe noted small circular windows marking the hallway, and wide bow-windows set into the faces of the extending cross-gables. The gable he peered at now would offer a "peeper" a bull's eye view of the Travelodge and some of the Back Street upper windows. Thank G.o.d I didn't get THAT room...

A stunning, multi-colored dusk bloomed behind him when went back inside. The inn stood cozily quiet, save only for the methodic ticking of an ancient grandfather clock. He sighed happily; the lengthy walk had helped him unwind just as he'd hoped. Now, a meal might be in order. He walked down the silent hall, stopped for a moment, then went on. He knew he'd been about to re-enter the display cove containing the bizarre looking-gla.s.s, but...

Why do that? Why remind myself? The idea made about as much sense as an alcoholic looking at ad signs pasted in the window of a liquor store.

But I'm NOT an alcoholic, he a.s.serted. Across from the cove, the sign reminded him: SQUIRE'S PUB; then a quick peek inside showed him that the bar was empty save for- Abbie...

And there she was.

Fanshawe felt a b.u.t.terfly in his stomach.

"Hi, Stew!"

He looked to the bar to be confronted by a smile that hit his eyes like a strong, white light. G.o.d, she's beautiful... He tried to seem casual as he approached the modest bar but instead felt hopelessly nervous. "Hi, Abbie. I meant to come in for a drink earlier but the place was packed."

She was putting up gla.s.ses in an overhead rack. "Oh, I know, and that was some crew. The New England Phenomenology Society have their annual conference here every year."

Fanshawe winced. "The Phenoma-what Society?"

"Phenomenology," Abbie chuckled.

"What is that?"

"They explained it to me a dozen times but I still don't know. Some kind of philosophy. They're mostly professors from Ivy League colleges."

Fanshawe nodded. "Now that you mention it, they did look like a bunch of professors-"

She made an expression of incredulity. "Yeah, but they drink like a bunch of students. If we had a chandelier in here, those guys would be swinging from it-party animals, I'll tell ya. I'm not complaining-they tip great-but it's not easy getting hit on by a couple dozen sixty-year-old eggheads."

Fanshawe tried to think of something clever to say but stalled when Abbie placed another gla.s.s in the overhead rack. Her posture when she'd reached up accentuated her figure and thrust her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

He cringed and pried his gaze away.

"So what did you do today?" she asked.

He pulled up a stool. "Checked out the shops on Main and Back Street, looked around, then went for a long walk."

She grinned. "Witches Hill?"

"You got it. I couldn't resist the signs. It was Mrs. Anstruther who recommended the trails."

"Oh, now there's a character-" Abbie leaned over and whispered, "Every now and then she comes in here and gets crocked, drinks Boiler Makers, and she's in her late-eighties! You wouldn't believe the stories she has."

"Somehow...I think I would. She practically dared me to go into the wax museum, as if it'd be too much for me."

"It's plenty realistic, that's for sure." Now she was restocking the reach-in coolers. "The torture chamber can be a little over the top-definitely not for kids. Some of the sets gave me nightmares when I first saw them."

Fanshawe diddled with a bar napkin. It was difficult diverting himself from her presence. "But you guys really do pump up the witch-motif, huh?"

She paused, a bottle in hand. The label read: WITCH'S MOON LAGER. "Well, sure, we exaggerate it all, for the sake of the tourists."

"It's good business. Market-identification."

"My father thinks it's silly. Silly drivel, he calls it-"

"But he owns the place, doesn't he?"

"Yep. My grandfather bought the inn in the fifties, and when he died, my father inherited it. We've been running it ever since."

"But if he thinks the witch theme is silly, why does he push it?"

She splayed her hands. "Because he knows it can make a buck, but he still thinks it's-and I quote-silly drivel."

Fanshawe asked automatically, "You don't?"

Now her pause lengthened. "In a way. But it's also history, and that's interesting. These things really happened back then, when our culture was in its infancy."

What is it about her? Fanshawe was hectored by the thought. He struggled for more to talk about. She turned her back to him for a moment, to arrange strainers and jiggers, then was agitating something in a shaker. Her reflection stood beside herself, while Fanshawe's eyes had no choice but to fall on her back and b.u.t.tocks, on the figure beneath the simple blouse and jeans: a figure of perfect curves. His eyes adjusted, to glimpse her face in the reflection as she looked down at the counter. For an indivisible instant, her own eyes flicked up and caught his in the mirror- He gulped.

She turned. A sound-clink!-and then a shot gla.s.s was set before him.

Abbie was grinning. "On the house."

"Thanks..." Fanshawe squinted. Some dark scarlet liquid filled the gla.s.s.

"It's our drink special," Abbie announced. "Could you ever guess?" and then she pointed to the specials board which read: TRY OUR WITCH-BLOOD SHOOTER!

Fanshawe chuckled. "I barely drink at all these days but with a name like that how can I resist?" He raised the gla.s.s, peered more closely at it, then looked back to Abbie. "Wow, this really does look like blood..."

Abbie laughed and tossed her hair. "It's just cherry brandy mixed with a little espresso and chocolate syrup."