Witch Water Part 20

"Sir, if I may, it might well be that you hain't receivin' the full measure of my meanin', sir."

Fanshawe tried to study her words with as much introspection as possible. What does she m... "You're not saying that Let.i.tia had anything to do with the guy's death, are you? That's impossible. What? She slipped him some drug to cause heart failure?"

"What it might be that you should do is like what my father used say to us when we was girls, sir, and what he said was that the surmise, sir, might call for a bit more forceful ponderment, sir," and then she winked at him.

Fanshawe felt his face go blank when something seemed to snick in his mind. "Oh, come on, Mrs. Anstruther. She put a curse on the guy? She stuck a pin in a voodoo doll?" He laughed. "She's a palm reader, not a witch."

Mrs. Anstruther's expression turned dead-serious. "Oh, hain't she now? Are you sure of what it is you're speakin', sir?"

Fanshawe just kept looking at her.

She turned quickly, offering a lively pretense as a man, woman, and two young teenagers approached the kiosk. "Lovely talkin' to ya, sir, as always, and I hope to talk to ya again soon. Got ta tend to these tourists now-"

"Have a good day, ma'am"-again he couldn't resist. He put a $10 bill in her tip jar.

The woman brought her hand to her heart, acting overwhelmed. "Gracious me, sir! The proper words simply don't exist to express my feelin' of grat.i.tude, sir, and bless you, sir!"

Smiling, Fanshawe pointed to the jar full of bills. "Looks to me like you're doing all right today."

She hunched over to whisper, "Yes, sir, but most'a that ain't but a bunch of piddling singles, sir. Ten-spots, now, they's what we call in England rare as rocking-horse s.h.i.+t!"

Fanshawe could've gusted laughter as he left her to her business. But as he crossed the cobbled street, the levity faded. What the old woman had distinctly implied stuck to him like burrs.

Let.i.tia Rhodes? A witch?

The idea seemed absurd, but then why should he discount it so quickly when he'd already convinced himself that Wraxall's sorcery, and Evanore's witchcraft, was real?

CHAPTER TEN.

(I).

Fanshawe felt physically aimless when he re-entered the inn, went upstairs, and showered and changed.

Physically but not mentally.

His thoughts had become something like an apparatus of many moving parts, all turning in synchronicity so to process everything Fanshawe had experienced.

A relapse into his voyeuristic obsessions hand in hand with Abbie, his only romantic interest since his marriage; the Wraxall legend; death by *barreling'; what were possibly hallucinations of a barking dog and then what he'd witnessed in the wax museum; Karswell's dead body and its coincidental condition, not to mention that he was investigating Jacob Wraxall just as Fanshawe was; the secret attic room and the discoveries of a more telling diary penned by Wraxall himself, plus multiple containers of witch-water and more looking-gla.s.ses; and not only his curious fortune as told by Let.i.tia Rhodes but also yet another 300-year-old diary penned by her linear ancestor Callister Rood...

My aura is black, which means my heart is black, he thought.

No, he didn't know what any of it mean but he did know that all of these things had seemed to replace all of his previous priorities. I don't even care about my businesses any more. I only care about...THIS...

The drone followed him back downstairs. When he crossed the atrium, the two joggers, shapely as ever in their perilously tight running gear, cast sideglances at him-and even smiles-as they entered through the automatic doors. Fanshawe nodded stiffly, though, barely noticing them. Where am I going? What am I doing? He felt driven just this moment but didn't know what toward. Next thing he knew, he was walking into the Squire's Pub.

"Aw, I'm sorry Mr. Fanshawe," came Baxter's crackly voice. He was stocking the bar shelves. "We ain't open just yet," but then he cracked a laugh. "Aw, shucks, what am I sayin'? I own the place, so if it's a drink you're lookin' for, what'll it be?"

For some reason, being addressed directly by another person brought more of his consciousness back to the surface. "Thanks for the offer, Mr. Baxter, but-"

What was he here for?

"-I just stopped by to see Abbie. Is she around?"

"Oh, sure!" Baxter replied with a little too much zeal. "She's back in the storeroom." He pointed out the bar entry. "It's that door next to the check-in desk."

"I don't want to bother her if she's busy working-"

Baxter flapped his hand. "Naw, naw, just you go right on in. And if that pipe-cleaner of a desk clerk gives ya any grief, just you tell him I said you can go in."

"Thanks, Mr. Baxter."

The clerk wasn't even at the desk. Fanshawe opened the door indicated and entered a long corridor stacked high on either side with boxes of various supplies. It was fairly dark. He saw no sign of Abbie but did notice white fluorescent lights burning at the corridor's end. Though it hadn't consciously occurred to him before now, Fanshawe knew why he was seeking her: to ask her out on another date. Should he call out her name? No. With my luck she's already left. He reached the end of the corridor, noticing that it T'd. He stepped into the light, turned left, didn't see Abbie, then turned right- Holy sh...

Abbie sat hunched over a metal desk lit by a hooded lamp. She looked intent, keenly focused, yet lost at the same time. With great care, her fingers tweezed a typical key, like a house key. Then, with a meticulous effort, she raised the key to a nostril and quickly sniffed an acc.u.mulation of something white off of it. She paused, sitting upright, then stuck the key into a plastic bag full of white powder, and repeated the process.

Fanshawe didn't say a word. At once he wanted to leave unseen, but it was impossible for him even to move much less retreat out of the area.

After Abbie had done it a third time, she sat back and sighed, staring at the wall before her. She wiped her nose, seemed to grind her back teeth and swallow several times, then she rubbed her eyes. She stared out a moment more, and only then did she very slowly turn her head toward Fanshawe.

Her mouth fell open, then she thunked her head down on the desk. "Of all the s.h.i.+t," she muttered, already sobbing. "How much more s.h.i.+t is going to happen to me?"

"Abbie, I...," but Fanshawe could think of nothing to remark.

She kept her hands to her face, and her face still against the desk top. Her words croaked: "What are you doing here?"

"Your father said I could come in. I wanted to see you."

"Why!" she somehow whispered and shrieked at the same time.

"To ask you out again."

She sniffled and finally raised her face up. She managed a sardonic laugh. "Bet'cha don't want to now."

Before he could decide how to reply, he already had. "Yes. I do."

At last, she looked right at him. Pink patches splotched her face; tears ran down her cheeks. It didn't even sound like her when she said, "I'm a drug addict, Stew. I'm a c.o.ke-head-a junkie."

"I never would've guessed."

Another cynical laugh. "Yeah, the Girl Next Door turned middle aged. The Happy Innkeeper. Always a smile! Then-bang! The truth."

"How long?"

"This time? I don't know. Six, eight months."

"So you had a problem in the past," he interpreted, "got clean, but now you've relapsed?"

"Yeah." She seemed crumpled where she sat now. "Remember when I told you I lived in Nashua for a year?"

"Right, after college."

She nodded, turning the key over in her fingers. "Well, I guess it's a universal story. Young, idealistic, adventurous. First time away from home. I met a guy there, fell in love, but then found out that the only thing he really loved was c.o.ke. He sold the stuff, too, was a pretty big dealer. He didn't sell half ounces to college kids, he sold quarter keys to regional bagman. Next thing I know, I'm so hooked, I'm selling it for him." She faltered as if steeling herself, then looked right at Fanshawe. "And that's not all I sold for the guy."

Fanshawe gulped.

"You're still here?" she asked, acid in her tone.

"What's it look like?" Grimacing, he picked up the bag of cocaine, knelt, and- Abbie jumped up. "Don't you dare!"

"Try stopping me," he suggested, and emptied the bag into a drain on the floor.

She stood there, slumping. "You son of a b.i.t.c.h. Do you have any idea how much that cost?"

"Yeah, your soul."

"It's almost impossible to get around here!"

"Good. I just did you a favor so you can thank me."

"How about this? Instead of thank you, f.u.c.k you."

Fanshawe chuckled. How did I get myself into THIS? He scuffed his shoe over the drain. "Please don't cuss, Abbie. It doesn't work for you. And anyway, I've seen men who are a.n.a.lytical geniuses turn into useless waste products because of cocaine. Captains of industry, economic gurus, people who could create fifty thousand new jobs just with one deal, but now? They're all either dead or useless. I'll be d.a.m.ned if I'm going to watch that happen to you."

She kept glaring at the drain.

"I'll cut my stay short," he said, "then take you to New York and put you in a rehab, a good one."

"Oh really?" Her tone seemed to dare him.

"Yeah."

She sat back down, looking completely defeated. "f.u.c.k. I can't believe this happened. Couldn't you at least have f.u.c.king knocked?"

"I'm serious about the cussing. It makes you sound trashy."

Her chuckle bubbled like hot pitch. "You don't know trashy. You'd be sick to your stomach to know some of the things I did in Nashua."

"Probably. So don't talk about it."

She stood up again, with a sudden expression that was confused and s.l.u.ttish at the same time. "So you're gonna put me in a rehab, huh, Stew?"

"Yeah. You sound like you don't believe it."

"Why should I? It sounds no different from all the other bulls.h.i.+t men have been telling me my whole life. I'm not naive anymore-I know what this is all about."

"What do you mean?"

She walked right up to him. "It's the oldest trick in the book that every stupid woman falls for every time. Oh, yeah. The knight in s.h.i.+ning armor, makes the girl think he really cares about her, tells her all the things he's gonna do for her, how he's gonna rescue her. And what does she do? She believes it, because she's made so many mistakes and been f.u.c.ked over so many times, she's got nothing else to believe."

"It's not bulls.h.i.+t," he said.

She crossed her arms, talking to him with absolute virulence. "Gimme a break! I've seen this so many times, if I don't know by now I might as we'll jump off a f.u.c.king bridge. In the end the girl finds out it was a crock of s.h.i.+t and all the guy really wanted was a f.u.c.kin' piece of a.s.s. Well, I've f.u.c.ked guys for bulls.h.i.+t before, so I guess I might as well f.u.c.k you-"

crack!

Fanshawe slapped her hard across the face.

Abbie flinched backward, a hand to her cheek. She shuddered, half-stooped. "You p.r.i.c.k! You a.s.shole! I can't believe you just did that!"

"Neither can I." Fanshawe was aghast. He was about to apologize but realized the lameness of that. He wasn't sorry. "I really do care about you."

She remained stooped over, rubbing her face. She growled, "I don't believe that!"

"That's fine. You will eventually." This was his mind's first time-out from this calamity. "Like I said, I'll cut my stay short. I've got a few things to do first, just give me a day or two. Then I'll take you to New York, put you in a rehab, and we'll take it from there."

"Take what from there?"

Fanshawe stalled. It was a good question. "I'm not really sure, but I'm sure of this. You're not doing drugs anymore." This was the first time he really looked at her since he'd come in. In spite of her tear-streaks, her facial pinkness, and the overall expression of disdain, Fanshawe felt a soft explosion in his belly. Her body, her gray eyes and indescribable hair, her curves and legs and her bosom-the totality of her s.e.xiness could've made him melt. Even after this giant headache...I'm still crazy about her.

She could've been a stoic mannequin standing there now. Suddenly her anger turned to dread. "Stew? Please don't tell my father."

Of all the comments she could make, this sounded the least explicable. "Why would I tell your father? I just got done telling you I'd-"

"I'm serious, Stew. I'm really confused right now, and pretty d.a.m.n ashamed. I don't know if I'm even thinking straight. But if my father found out about me doing c.o.ke again...," then her voice dissolved with the thought.

"You father seems like a pretty understanding guy, Abbie-"

"Oh, he is, he's a wonderful man, and I'd probably be dead if it weren't for him. He saved me. He dragged me out of Nashua and brought me back here, took care of me, got me clean. But what you have to understand about my father is...he's a very structured person."

"Structured?"

"Yeah. He has certain systems for dealing with things. Let me put it this way: he doesn't give two second chances. I already got my first one. He forgave me the first time because I'm his daughter and he loves me. It crushed him, it wounded him, suddenly realizing how I'd deceived him. My father won't allow himself to go through the wringer again, and I can't say I blame him. His system for dealing with heartbreak is to terminate the source." Her eyes began to fill with more tears. "That's what would happen if he found out I was doing c.o.ke again. I'd be disowned, Stew. He'd kick me out of this house, write me out of his will, and erase me as if I'd never existed. And I know I'd deserve it."

"Well, that's not going to happen. Because you just quit cocaine, and I'm going to make sure you quit for good."

She looked about to fall apart, teetering forward. "Promise me, Stew. Promise me you won't tell him."

"I promise I won't tell him. Now stop acting like this." He was getting exasperated, and he knew it was because of this monumental monkey wrench that had just been dropped into his mental machinery. "And don't blow it yourself. Get yourself cleaned up, and stay out of your father's way for a while. You're all lit up like a pinball machine, and if your father sees you like that he'll have no choice but to think you're on something. And wipe your nose; you look like you've been eating those powdered donuts."