Her pause seemed like shock. "I can't. I have to close tonight; we stay open till two when we have a convention."

"Oh." He'd had no previous idea that he was going to ask her out. Idiot. What was I thinking? I'm fifteen years older than her probably, maybe twenty. I'm the OPPOSITE of her. He struggled for something to say next, but then- An uproar poured into the bar with no warning; Fanshawe turned, startled. The professors, he realized. At once the bar was filled with mostly long-haired, bearded men ranging from their fifties to their seventies. Where earlier they'd been wearing suits, now they wore jeans and T-shirts, and the T-shirts were all emblazoned with prints of dour faces, presumably philosophers. The men lined up at the bar, ordering drinks in chaos, waving dollars bills in their hands. They're like spring-breakers, Fanshawe thought, only...old. But one thing he didn't like was loud groups.

And he was embarra.s.sed. Abbie had turned him down.

Part of himself was oddly impressed, because she already knew he was rich. But still...

It was past ten already, and his fatigue from the long drive was taking its toll. "This is a little rowdy for me," he tried to tell her.

"Huh?" She was juggling bottles for squawking customers, pouring two drinks at once. "Not to be born is best!" someone howled; then someone responded, "Sophocles!"

"I've got to go," he attempted again. "Can you just put my drinks on my room bill?"

"They were on the house," she raised her voice over the revel, smiling as she was now operating several bar taps simultaneously.

Fanshawe got nudged by a bearded gray-hair whose T-shirt read TRANSCEND YOURSELF! and showed a print of St. Augustine. "Pardon my Dasein," the man said, then barked to Abbie. "A Witch's Moon Lager, please!" Pardon my WHAT? Fanshawe wondered, aggravated. He left twenty on the bar as a tip, looked once more to Abbie, and saw that she was swamped with demanding customers. "See ya later," he spoke up, waving, then slipped out of his seat. She hadn't heard him. I can't even say goodnight to her it's so d.a.m.n crowded. How can somebody as successful as me have karma this bad? As he was shouldering his way out, he noticed two attractive women chatting with some of the professors, long-legged, vivaciously breasted. Their eyes glittered in a mild buzz. It took a moment to realize he'd seen them before, but in running apparel, not evening dresses. Harvard and Yale, he recognized. Tan legs shined; the slopes of their b.r.e.a.s.t.s visible in their gowns seemed to flash at him. What flashed next was the image of them nearly naked as they lay hidden on the hillock; but he pulled away, just as some drunk yelled, "The human self is the only thing that can be known and therefore verified!" and someone responded "Bulls.h.i.t! There is no objective basis for truth!"

This is some weird party, Fanshawe thought. Finally, he broke out of the crowd under the bar transom, almost desperate now to flee the sudden tide of raucous drinkers. He turned toward the elevator, but before he could stride away- "Wha-"

A hand grabbed his arm with some insistence; he turned around to see that Abbie had trotted after him. Her face was beaming as more drunk professors shouted objections behind her. "I'll be right there!" she yelled to them, then turned back to Fanshawe. "You didn't give me time to finish before all those old eggheads barged in. Day after tomorrow, I get off at seven. There's a great Thai place on the next block."

Fanshawe was subtly rocked. She hadn't turned him down after all. "That's great. Seven o'clock it is, day after tomorrow."

"So it's a date. Just meet me here."

"Sure thing, Abbie, but I hope I see you before then."

"So do I," she said, then seemed surprised she'd said it so abruptly. "But where are you going now?"

"It's late; I'm bushed from the long drive. And after four Witch-Blood shooters? I definitely need to go to bed."

Her grin amplified. "Not going to the graveyard?"

The graveyard... "At night? Are you kidding?"

From the bar, the professors were banging their fists on the bartop, yelling "Barkeep! Barkeep! Barkeep!" in unison.

"You better get back in there," he advised. "I think the professors are about to riot."

"Good idea." Her hand slid down his arm, an inconsequential contact, yet Fanshawe felt electric. "See ya! Oh, and remind me to tell you about the Gazing Ball."

"The what?"

But Abbie was already bulling her way back into the bar. The professors began to applaud.

I hope she's got earplugs, Fanshawe regarded. And...what did she say? Gazing Ball? But as he waited at the elevator, he realized he was br.i.m.m.i.n.g; she'd agreed to go out with him. The elevator took him up, and he saw his own smile warped in the stainless steel siding.

What's the big deal about a financial mogul going on a date? he asked himself, but he knew, and he knew what Dr. Tilton might say. The situation was unique because it represented his re-emergence into "the regulated societal stream"-which was her way of referring to the everyday, normal world. For most of his adult life, exceptionally attractive women had made themselves all too available, with s.e.xual implications all too apparent. Fanshawe had never been interested; they did not exist at the other end of a telescope or pair of binoculars; therefore, the were unexciting. Even in the year since his marriage had detonated, he had not been interested. Tilton's right. Now that I've removed myself from the "purveying environment" I WANT to go out with a woman, not l.u.s.t after her through a window. True, he'd felt the pangs during his walk through town, but since he'd been in Abbie's presence at the bar, those old demons had barely reared their heads.

Any other time, he'd be itching to go on a "peep."

Maybe I really am getting cured...

Half-tipsy, he walked down his hall which stood in total silence. The elegant tulip-shaped lamps branched out from the flower-papered walls; they looked a hundred years old, and added to the inn's rich authenticity. He frowned when he reached into his pocket for his card-key and found a twenty-dollar bill. Unbeknownst to him, Abbie had slipped his tip money back, a pick-pocket in reverse. Cla.s.sy, he thought.

He went to bed and fell asleep instantly, something that hadn't happened in a long time.

But it would not be a sound sleep.

CHAPTER FOUR.

(I).

The silence stretches like the neck of a decomposing corpse on a gibbet; the darkness brims. And through it, images rise and fall akin to chunks of uncla.s.sifiable meat bubbling in a horrific stew. Fanshawe's dreams whirl slow, putrid: he sees women in windows through the infinity-shaped viewing field, beautiful women, nude, sultry, and, best of all, unknowing. Their s.e.xual features are pinpoint-sharp, focused to a preternatural clarity. One is exercising; one seems to be talking to herself as if in argument, anger coning her nipples. Another lay flushed on a couch, her tight stomach sucks in and out as she m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.es with a peculiarly curved rubber phallus. But then the women clump together, squashed to nauseous misshape, and drain away into a swirl of liquescing b.r.e.a.s.t.s, navels, and pubic triangles, to be replaced by more images: faces. The disgusted face of the police officer, the agape stares of residents in lit windows as red and blue lights throb, the vision of pock-cheeked drug addicts, winos, thieves, and, likely, rapists, child-molesters, and murderers. One of them buckles over to vomit, hitching in silence. Some of the vomit splatters noiselessly on Fanshawe's thousand-dollar shoes, for he sits there with these men in the deplorable holding cell, being appraised by the sc.u.m of the earth. A man standing hip-c.o.c.ked in the cell's corner looks at him with a smirking grin and mouths You're MY b.i.t.c.h tonight... Then more faces, a parade of faces: Artie's face when he bails Fanshawe out, the judge's face at the arraignment, the faces of the lawyers at the pre-trial conferences...all expressions of blank disgust. But the last face to haunt his dreams is the worst: his wife's, Laurel's, a face whose expression radiates heartbreak, outrage, revulsion, and hatred concurrently. She stares as the nightmare stares back. I hate you, her lips speak without sound. You make me siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick, yet after a moment, the face warps as if before heat-waves on asphalt, then mutates and grows, not like a balloon expanding but instead a tumor or cyst in aberrant hyper-development, and just when the throbbing ma.s.s seems about to erupt, it collapses into a black void...

Fanshawe cannot close his eyes against the dream's blackness, which goes on for what seems hours. He hears nothing save for his anguished breaths and thudding heart. Then- A voice, echoic, as if speaking in a rock-hewn grotto miles deep.

Abbie's voice.

"Jacob Wraxall, one of the founding members of the town. He lived here with his daughter, Evanore-"

Fanshawe sees what he believes is the great portrait again, until its subjects move. Wraxall and his tantalizing yet somehow obscenely visaged daughter are taking slow steps up a dark, narrow stairwell, the elder in coattails and ruffled bib, his pendant of stars and sickle moons glittering, the sibling with her blood-red hair and plunging bustline, the smooth stark-white flesh nearly luminous in the plunge. They each hold a candle whose flickering light turns their eyes into green-crystal pools. Jacob's expression is solemn as an undertaker's, while Evanore's is one of deep, intractable rapture. They enter a room...

A black fog sweeps over Fanshawe's vision, thickens, then dissipates, and now- Wraxall stands in a hooded cloak of sackcloth, in a plank-boarded, windowless room. He reads silently from an old book with a cord holding in the folded sheets in place rather than a typical binding. Candlelight wavers, throwing light that seems leprous; smoke rises from the eyeholes of a skull serving as a censer, a baby's skull.

Evanore now stands bereft of clothing; her lambent skin shines either in sweat or oil. Fanshawe can feel himself trembling as he looks at her in the dream: the slim, curvaceous body, long white legs, b.r.e.a.s.t.s so deliciously swollen she could be lactating yet her abdomen shines lean and flat. It's a jarring contrast: all that glistening skin, white as fresh snow, shimmering below the dark-crimson hair. Indeed, her hair is combed back wet now, rendering the appearance of actually being dipped in blood; the tuft at her pubis shines similarly. She is reciting words of some unhallowed prayer that Fanshawe remains deaf to. His gaze stays riveted to her stimulating physique until something unsought drags his eyes down to show him that the nude woman is standing within a queerly angled pentagram inscribed on the bare wood floor. The inscription has been fashioned with some black substance akin to char. Immediately he notices the sticks of burnt bones lying aside.

The candle-lit spectacle recedes, to reveal a dozen other cloaked figures looking on from the background...

Abbie's reverberating voice continues, "They practiced their witchcraft in secret. Years went by, but the town never knew..."

The black mental fog creeps back, then disperses.

The room is gone. The night seems to seethe as Fanshawe is looking at a clearing deep in a woodland where trees hulk like dryadic miscreations. Their knotted arms outstretch, soon to be mimicked by Evanore, now dressed in her own hooded gown, and the remaining twelve in her coven. In gangrenous moonlight, they stand in a circle in the clearing, some bearing torches. But as Evanore raises a newborn babe in her hands- Chaos unfolds.

More torches plunge into the circle, these held by townsmen with stern, determined faces. Other townsfolk wield pitchforks, and others, muskets. Male coven members are b.u.t.t-stroked in the face; the women are dragged to the ground and stripped, then slapped dizzy by hard opened palms. The black ma.s.s had been encircled without anyone ever knowing, and as remaining members try to flee, they are beaten to the ground by still more men in tri-cornered hats, then hog-tied. Several armed deputies part, allowing the stout and basilisk-eyed Sheriff Patten to enter the scene; he is followed by the black-ca.s.socked town pastor whose large silver cross flashes in torchlight. The infant which had nearly been murdered is delivered to the pastor's hands. Patten looks this way and that, then his gaze seems to find what it seeks: Evanore Wraxall. She's already been stripped naked, and stands defiant as one deputy keeps her in place by elbows pinned behind her back. The sheriff pauses to stare at the white, raving body, but then the pastor's reproving glance reminds him that l.u.s.t is a grievous sin.

Patten crosses himself. Duly shackled now, the other heretics are being roughly led out of the wood, but three of the sheriff's raiding party hold several torches together, boosting the potency of their flame, and into this flame, four branding irons are held. Minutes pa.s.s.

The pastor nods consent; Patten stands, arms crossed, the fire-light in his eyes. Four of the deputies pull the irons out when they're smoking hot, then they turn them toward Evanore...

The witch's nude body seems to relax, even in what she must know awaits her; the guard behind her holds her fast.

The branding irons are each formed in the shape of the cross.

One iron is pressed into the front of the right breast, then another is pressed into the left. Flesh silently sizzles. A third iron burns into her white abdomen, cooking the flesh. But the fourth is handed to Sheriff Patten himself. He whispers a prayer, then approaches, then sinks the iron into the abundant plot of pubic hair, searing first the hair, then the private flesh beneath. Only after an extended allotment of time is the iron withdrawn, leaving a smoking indentation in the shape of the Savior's symbol.

But Patten's lower lip twitches as if he's secretly infuriated, while the pastor's face seems made of stone; for not once through the agonizing ministration did Evanore scream or even flinch. Instead, she simply smiles back at her persecutors as the brand-marks continue to effuse smoke.

More black fog, then the field of Fanshawe's nightmare shifts, to that of a quiet hillock webbed by footpaths and askew brush. A gray sky yawns over all, low clouds shedding drizzle, as the queue of shackled heretics, now dressed in rags, is led up at musket-point. The sheriff and his deputies take their places about the hill's crown; so do the town's citizens. The pastor reads from a Bible, then closes it.

Sheriff Patten steps toward the stoop-shouldered captives. He reads from a scroll...

Abbie's voice echoes back through the dream's black blood: "Evanore and the coven were all condemned to death..."

Now, a horse-driven carriage pulls into the town square. Jacob Wraxall gets out with his personal attendant, Callister Rood. Rood bears a large suitcase, then takes a crate down from the coach. A town man immediately rushes over to tell them something silently. Jacob's reaction is one of alarm. And next?

Jacob is standing in the cemetery, looking solemnly down at some graves.

"Jacob and Callister Rood were abroad in England at the time," Abbie's voice wavers; however, a long silence follows, broken only by the sounds of Fanshawe's quickening breaths. "But when they returned, Jacob's daughter had already been executed..."

(II).

Was it the sound of a growling dog that Fanshawe woke to? He churned irritably out of his sleep, then sat up.

He grimaced.

At once, the long smear of nightmare poured back like reeking slop through his mind. His subconscious had concocted imagery to accompany Abbie's grim recital of Wraxall and his daughter. Christ... The dream's aftermath left him feeling faintly sick; the moderate hangover didn't help. But then he winced, recalling what had roused him out of his sleep.

A growling dog? He rubbed his face. His eyes ached; they felt dry. I thought I'd heard a dog growling yesterday too, on the hill... But outside, then, he heard a rudely loud motorcycle in the distance. There's your growling dog...

His brows shot up when he noticed that morning as well as most of the afternoon was already gone. Jesus! How could I have slept so long? For years-for decades, actually-he'd risen at four-thirty in the morning. Now I don't have to anymore. The Wall Street pressure-cooker was finally behind him; perhaps his body was taking back the rest it had been robbed of after so many years of ceaseless thinking, speculation, buy-outs, and re-organizations.

But this?

He'd slept sixteen hours. Maybe I'm getting a cold... Could the faint headache be a cold coming on rather than too much alcohol last night? But either way... So what? he thought. If I want to sleep sixteen hours, I can. I can do anything I want; I'm on vacation...sort of.

But he felt worn out even with the extra sleep. The dream... Why would a dream-unpleasant but not excruciating-cause such exhaustion? The Witch-Blood Shooters, he suspected. Smart move, Fanshawe. At least the window promised spectacular weather. Now, if I can only enjoy it without feeling like s.h.i.t... A cool shower helped a little, plus more casual dress, including a lighter sports jacket. Downstairs, he noticed no sign of Abbie or Mr. Baxter. An older woman he hadn't seen before was preparing to open the bar, while a pair of college-aged waitresses set tables in the dining room, in preparation for the upcoming dinner hour. The Professors, he thought next, noticing several of them browsing the display coves. The long hair and beards were the giveaway. Bloodshot eyes were a giveaway, too, that at least their hangovers must be worse than Fanshawe's. He heard the elevator open and close, then came a soft, regulated pattering as Harvard and Yale walked briskly down the carpeted hall and across the atrium. They wore blank, midriff running tops today, with no designation, but he thought he saw Harvard glance once at him, then say to her companion, "Where have I seen that guy before?" They jogged out into blazing sunlight and were gone. Fanshawe's hangover pulsed at his temple. For an instant he thought of inconspicuously following them, to see if they repeated yesterday's topless coddling at the hidden nook, but then rebuked himself for even considering it. He grabbed some complimentary candies off the check-in desk, then milled around the displays. It was not his own volition that guided him toward the display with the looking-gla.s.s, but when he found it- Hmm...

The Witch-Water Looking-Gla.s.s lay in a different position from when he'd first seen it. He couldn't imagine why he would take note of such a thing, yet he was certain. The instrument was inverted; the eyepiece end faced toward the front desk earlier, whereas now it faced toward the Squire's Pub.

Mr. Baxter must've taken it out of the case to show someone, he reasoned, a perfectly sound explanation.

So why would he even stop to consider it?

A cove away, one of the professors could be heard talking heatedly on his cell phone-an argument no doubt with his wife. "Oh, so that's why you want a divorce. Great. Work my a.s.s off thirty-five years, now you decide you don't want to be married anymore, decide you'd rather just take half of everything I worked for, for us!" Fanshawe slipped away, feeling for the man. Welcome to the Divorce Club, buddy... But the situation caused him to think of one of Dr. Tilton's insinuations several months ago. "You're lucky your wife didn't take you for half of your net worth, Mr. Fanshawe-that's what usually happens." "She got twenty million and a house in the Hamptons," he detailed, but then she asked a question he would never have expected: "Are you...still fond of her?" "I love her!" he blurted. "I miss my wife, but I don't expect you to believe that, considering what I did." Her cool eyes thinned on him from behind the shining desk. "Did you try to get back with her?"

"Yes. I begged her. I told her I was in therapy, told her that it was working. I-I told her I hadn't...gone on...a peep, in over six months."

"And what did she say in response?"

Fanshawe had felt dizzy with nausea. "She didn't say anything, but...well, her response made it clear that she'd never give me another chance."

Dr. Tilton touched her chin with the tip of her finger. "I don't understand, Mr. Fanshawe. If she didn't say anything, on what do you base her negative response?"

Fanshawe had gazed back at the sterile-voiced psychiatrist, his mouth open. "I...just hung up. Her response was the sound of vomiting. Just hearing my voice made her physically ill."

It had been the only time he'd witnessed the following expression from Tilton: pity.

Fanshawe groaned at the recollection, then quickened his pace out of the hotel.

More than a spa.r.s.e number of tourists strolled the town's streets. A slim woman in a furniture shop leaned over to inspect the panel-work of an armoire. Fanshawe's eyes locked on her body, imagining it nude, but when some inkling of being looked at caused her to glance up at him, the fantasy collided with his shame. s.h.i.t! What am I doing? He quickly pretended to be looking at an umbrella stand right next to her. I'm eyeballing women in broad daylight! He walked off, hands behind his back, as if he hadn't noticed her returning stare. But no sooner had he crossed the block he caught himself staring up at rowhouse windows.

His self-disgust raged. What the h.e.l.l's wrong with me? I just got a date with a really nice girl but I'm out here...doing this.

"Top'a the day to ya, sir," the easily recognized voice cut into him. Mrs. Anstruther smiled at him from her kiosk. "Out for a stroll, are you?"

"Yes, Mrs. Anstruther. It's quite a day for it." But was there something sly about her smile? It lifted wrinkles on her face to something mask-like, which made him feel as though a cunning a.s.sessment were being taken of him. He knew it was pure paranoia on his part, to think for even a moment that she'd guessed his intent when looking up at the windows.

"Quite a day, yes, sir, a lovely day, indeed. The acme of summer's what we'd call a day like this back home."

Fanshawe smiled at her p.r.o.nunciation of the word "summer." It had sounded more like soomer.

"Garnerin' up your nerve, perhaps? To have a peek inside the waxworks, sir?"

"Not today, Mrs. Anstruther."

"Nor the palmist's, hmm?"

"Not likely. I think I'll take another walk around the trails. They were really interesting. And Abbie mentioned an ancient graveyard."

"Oh, there's an ancient graveyard, there is-a marble orchard's what we'd call 'em back home, but that phrase don't seem to 'ave catched on in the States. Not that you'll find much marble in the graveyard of what you're speakin'. 'N'fact, the west end don't got nothin' in the way'a markers, sir, 'cept for some splotchy stuff what they wrote the name's of the dead in with their fingers."

This woman can RAMBLE, Fanshawe thought. "Yeah, Abbie mentioned something about that. Tabby, I think she called it. Low-grade concrete."

"Right she and you is, sir. And as for the little boneyard as what you was mentionin', least the unconsecrated one, it's sure as His Majesty King Charles were buried in Windsor that Jacob Wraxall and his 'orrible daughter was buried there. But it's the daughter's grave, sir, Evanore Wraxall's, that you'll likely as not find the more queer."

"Queer?"

"Yes, sir. It ain't like what you'd expect."

Fanshawe showed her a snide glance. "Queer in what way, Mrs. Anstruther?"

She t.i.ttered with a wave of a bony hand. "Oh, best I not spoil if for ya. Best you'd find out yourself, yes, sir."

Up to her old tricks again. "I see," he said, chuckling. "Well, I appreciate your consideration."

"Oh, but, sir, please pardon my makin' mention of it, though I did happen to spy a pair of birds, not more than a minute or two ago-no, it couldn't'a been more than that-two rather smart looking birds which seemed to be 'eadin' same way as you."