Witch Water Part 12

"Warlocks and witches would burn the fetuses in a crucible and inhale the vapors, supposedly to see the image of Lucifer himself."

"Abbie!" Baxter barked, "if you don't stop talkin' all of that bucket-of-blood claptrap, I'm gonna-"

"But it wasn't the things Wraxall bought on his trip that were so important," she talked right over her father's objections, "it was specifically the people he went to talk to."

"So you've said," Fanshawe pointed out. "He went to see other warlocks."

"Yes, a number of them, but there was one-above all the others..."

Fanshawe waited, tapping his fingers on the bar and knowing she enjoyed stringing him along like this. "And?"

"This guy was the Mount Everest of warlocks," she said in a hushed tone. "His name was Wilson-I forgot his first name, but it was something unusual. There've been whole books about him. He was regarded as the most powerful sorcerer in England; he even turned lead into gold, and became very rich."

"The only thing he turned lead into," Baxter piped up, "was baloney."

"Wraxall bought the Gazing Ball from him, but when he got it back to Haver-Towne, he told the residents it was like a wis.h.i.+ng well. That's the baloney, if you ask me. Why would someone like Wraxall, at the least a devotee of the occult, go all the way to Europe to consult with other occultists, then, on his last stop, visit someone as notorious as this man Wilson, just to buy some weird variation of a wis.h.i.+ng well?"

"That explanation does sound fishy," Fanshawe agreed but still he was nagged by the sudden distraction of Abbie's beauty. I went all through dinner without l.u.s.ting after her, but now it's bowling me over. The calamities of last night and this morning, then the wax museum and his fears of becoming hallucinatory, and now this revelation about the looking-gla.s.s supposedly being possessed of supernatural characteristics? Everything mashed into his head like a logjam, and leading the jam, all of a sudden, was his steaming attraction to Abbie.

I need to think straight...

"There was another rumor that supposedly goes back hundreds of years," she added, "that the Gazing Ball, instead of being a map of earth, was a map of h.e.l.l-"

"Know what I think, missy?" Baxter chided. "I think it's a map of your backside, showin' my foot kickin' it!"

Abbie just chuckled and shook her head.

"I couldn't see that it was a map of anything," Fanshawe offered. "There were some markings on the pedestal but as for the metal globe itself-"

"Right. It's so tarnished you can't make out anything."

Fanshawe's observations began to settle down. "It's just another thing about Wraxall that's curious."

"Yeah," Abbie said. "Intercontinental travel was no easy feat back then. It was dangerous. One out of every twenty s.h.i.+ps either sunk due to poor maintenance or went down in storms. It would have to be important for Wraxall to make a trip like that."

Baxter was beginning to enjoy his chastis.e.m.e.nt of Abbie. "And you're gonna go on a trip to the moon if ya don't stop all this witchcraft ballyhoo. d.a.m.n, girl, why can't ya tell Mr. Fanshawe about the nice things we got in this area? Mount Was.h.i.+ngton, the Fire Quacker Festival, the steam-train tour?"

"There's lots of time for that, sir," Fanshawe informed. "I think I'll be staying awhile."

Both Mr. Baxter and Abbie seemed pleased by the remark and the change in subjects. Fanshawe asked for a soda water next; he didn't want to look like a lush. But as Abbie helped her father tend to a sudden rush of customers, Fanshawe wound up recollecting his hallucinations at the museum...

Ascend, if thou dost have the heart, and-ay-partake in the bounty that ye hast earned, the mannequin of Wraxall had said.

Then the mannequin of Evanore: Go thither, if thou dost have the heart, to the bridle- Fanshawe stroked his chin. What did she mean by that? but then he sighed at the ridiculous thought. She didn't mean ANYTHING, you dunce, because it was an hallucination! Dummies don't really talk!

When Abbie returned, she put her arm around him and hugged. "What are you thinking now? You seem lost in thought."

I'm lost in thought a lot, I guess, because I might be nuts... He wanted to ask her if she'd seen anything in the diary about bounties or bridles but refused when he realized he'd be taking the mirage seriously.

That didn't happen.

"I'm thinking about how much I like this town," he fibbed. He turned but had no choice but to be faced by her bosom, since she was standing. He could've melted.

"I've got to turn in now, Stew," she said, leaning against him. "Early day tomorrow. The guy who runs this joint cracks a big whip."

"I heard that missy!" Baxter barked But Fanshawe rushed to rise.

"Don't leave just because I am," Abbie said. "Hang out, have another drink-"

"I gotta turn in too," he fibbed again. "I'll walk you." He bade goodnight to Mr. Baxter, then walked hand in hand with Abbie.

In the elevator, she sighed and leaned her head against Fanshawe's shoulder. "Thanks, Stew. I had such a nice time tonight."

"Me too." He felt suddenly vibrant, gripped her waist tighter. He was about to turn and kiss her but the door slid open on the second floor.

"Here's my stop," she said, but her voice seemed edgy, nervous.

Their eyes met, and the moment stretched. Without forethought he was kissing her, and felt dropped into some scintillant esoteria of lovely scents and warmth. The kiss drew on, seemed about to get fervent, but then Abbie reluctantly pulled back.

"I really like you, Stew," she whispered. Her face was flushed.

"I like you a lot too."

"I so much want to ask you into my room but..."

Fanshawe smiled. "I know. It's too soon."

She hugged him and gave him a final, quick kiss on the lips. "Thanks for not being like most guys."

"Go out with me again. Soon."

"I'd love too."

Her grin could've lit up the elevator when she pulled away. Their hands separated as she back-stepped out into the hall.

"Goodnight, Abbie."

"Goodnight..."

She didn't budge, and her soft grin remained as the doors slid shut.

Fanshawe leaned against the elevator wall, dreamy. The compartment rose to the top-floor hall; he seemed somnambulant walking out...

In his room, he felt gently giddy at the division of impressions: This has been one h.e.l.l of a couple of days. I relapsed to voyeurism, I steal a looking-gla.s.s without even being aware of it, several times I hear an invisible dog barking, then I stumble on the dead body of some guy named Karswell, and later I peep on Abbie with the gla.s.s but then see the town turn hundreds of years old before my eyes and I even see Evanore Wraxall herself naked in her window, then, if that doesn't take the cake, today two wax dummies talk to me in the museum, and after aaaaaaaaaall that...

He gazed at the wall ...I have this wonderful dinner date with a girl I'm crazy about...

He shook his head, actually chuckling as he rubbed fatigue out of his eyes.

He poured himself a gla.s.s of water. It struck him that the subject of Karswell, the dead man, had never been raised along with all the other ghoulish talk at the bar, and just then- His cellphone rang.

"It's me," Artie said over the line. "Sorry to call so late, but I finally got some p.o.o.p on your man."

"Karswell," Fanshawe uttered.

"Yeah, Eldred Karswell. Sixty-seven years old, resident of Ellicottville, New York. No criminal convictions, no old dockets, no arrests, not even a traffic citation."

"Clean as a whistle on all counts, is what you're getting at," Fanshawe presumed.

"Mmmm, well, there's no dirt on him but-let's just say some weird stuff."

Fanshawe laughed in spite of himself. "I'm getting quite accustomed to weird stuff, Artie. What've you got?"

"First, the guy was a Protestant minister in the seventies, but he was dismissed from active pastoral license by the Diocese of New York."

"Oh, no. Don't tell me for molesting kids-"

"Nope. It was after a series of theological controversies between Karswell and something called the Board of Informatory Regents of Episcopacy."

Fanshawe's lips pursed. "What?"

"It's some kind of doctrinal regulatory commission, the bosses of the church." Artie paused as if entertained. "You ready for this?"

"No, I'm paying you to jerk me around."

"The Diocese essentially defrocked the guy for advocating and practicing Christian mysticism."

Fanshawe's speculation chugged to a near halt. "Of all the oddball things."

"Tell me about it, boss, but that's not all. Karswell's also a published author, and it's not just books about mysticism that he writes about-"

Fanshawe's eyes widened.

"-the dude's written books about witchcraft, demonology, devil wors.h.i.+p, the history of human sacrifice-"

Fanshawe gulped.

"-he's had over a dozen books published, all stuff like that. Last year he published a book with Montague University Press called The Magic of St. Ignatius, and his most recent publication was a paper that came out a month ago in some off-the-wall religious journal called The Anglican Scholar. The t.i.tle of the paper?" Artie chuckled over the line. *The Thinking Christian's Guide to Thaumaturgology.'"

Fanshawe almost spit out the sip of water he'd just taken. "What the h.e.l.l is that?"

Artie laughed. "That's just it, I don't know! The word wouldn't even Goggle! Your man's into some goofy s.h.i.+t, boss. He's got a house worth one-five, and property tax out the yin-yang, never paid late. Top-flight credit rating, two other cars plus the Caddy-a new Merc and a loaded Yukon, plus he's got his own office and staff."

"So he's got money. From the books?"

"Can't say for sure but I doubt it. He's never been on a bestseller list, and there's very little about him on the web."

"Then how'd you find out about his books?"

"The research goons found his t.i.tles on some online book auctioneers, and there's a tiny bibliography at a European booklist site. My opinion? I think Karswell writes for some fringe underground specialty market. Can't see there being a lot of money in that."

"Family money, then, the lottery-who knows-" Fanshawe chewed a lip. "-and who cares? Is that all?"

"Come on, boss, I'm better than that, ain't I?"

"You tell me."

"He's got an agent, some woman named Reobek, office in Scarsdale. I actually talked to her a little while ago. Wouldn't give me Karswell's direct contact info, but she gave me his office number. Said he's out of town for several weeks. Christ, the woman's got a Bronx accent so thick I wanted to jump out the window. But, anyway, she did say he's in New Hamps.h.i.+re for the time being." An intended pause. "How's that for a coinkyd.i.n.k? Same place as you."

"Guess you left the old thinking cap at home, huh?"

Artie didn't get it, but since he often worked ten- or twelve-hour days, Fanshawe gave him a break. "But I saved the laugher for last. She said one more thing... She said Karswell was working on a book about a warlock..."

Fanshawe caught his stare sticking to the wall, and thought with instantly: Wraxall.

"That's the scoop so far. I'll try his office number in the morning; maybe they'll give me his cell number in case you want to talk to him."

"He wouldn't be very talkative, Artie. He's dead."

"Say again?"

"Karswell is dead"-the image of the dead man's face resurfaced like a bellow. "No doubt about it."

"You sure about that, boss? His name wasn't on the Social Security Death Index."

"That's because there hasn't been time. He died yesterday. Just so happens that he was staying in my hotel."

Suddenly, distress seemed to come through with Artie's next pause. "So that's why you wanted to know about him. How...did he die? Heart attack or something, right? Natural causes? Please, boss, please-don't tell me it was murder-"

"It was murder, Artie-"

"s.h.i.+t, Stew! Get out of there right now! You're not Little People, you know. Out of six and a half billion folks walkin' the earth, only five hundred are billionaires and you're one of them! I'm sending up a car and some of our guys to bring you back-"

"Forget it," Fanshawe sluffed. "The police think it was murder, but they're kind of Keystony around here. I think it was a wild animal attack-"

"I don't like this, Stew. You're too f.u.c.kin' important to be near f.u.c.ked up s.h.i.+t like that."

"I guess you picked up the fine language in Harvard Yard, huh?" Fanshawe laughed. "Don't worry about it, all right? But do me a favor and get research to ha.s.sle the agent again, try to find out the name of the warlock Karswell was writing about."

Now the line's silence seemed to remotely convey Artie's lengthening face. It was a long silence. "Oh. So you're up on warlocks, are you?"

"Just do it, Artie, okay?"

Artie groaned. "Sure, find out the name of the warlock, you bet..."

Fanshawe put the cellphone away, thinking. Karswell. Writing a book on a warlock...

And now he's dead.