The other three cackled like witches.

"But this is your court, Fanshawe," Baxter went on. He whistled high and loud.

"And here comes the judge!" Howard celebrated.

The mad growling could already be heard. Footsteps crunched, and in a moment another man entered the 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 b.u.mps 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 gla.s.s, but then you'd just hire yourself a Dream Team and get off scot free. d.a.m.n, Fanshawe, the Founding Fathers would s.h.i.t 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 sc.u.m. Crimes against nature and G.o.d; 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 s.h.i.t'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 d.a.m.n 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 mola.s.ses. 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- tw.a.n.g!

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 f.u.c.k motherf.u.c.kers!"

"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 sc.u.mbag," 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 a.s.s up and go back to New York f.u.c.kin' City? By the time you get back I figure you'll be on all the news 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 s.h.i.tting 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 gla.s.s 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 embarra.s.sment, all you gotta do is put your John Hanc.o.c.k 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? h.e.l.l, 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 a.s.s down in that fancy kraut car of yours, and-how do I say this nice? Get the f.u.c.k 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 a.s.sholes 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-gla.s.s, 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-gla.s.ses, 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 antic.i.p.ation 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 s.h.i.t 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."