Witch Water Part 26

It throbbed. It expanded and contracted, and each cycle of this movement brought a sound, an even thump...thump...thump..., and only then did Fanshawe's vision begin to back-track, ever so slowly, until he could make out details of the blackness, but before those details converged he already knew what they would reveal: A heart.

A coal-black, chasm-black heart, beating within the confines of a chest cavity winged by ribs yanked open via devilish retractors over which flaps of flesh hung.

Like a camera, then, his vision pulled back more, to reveal his own head atop the naked corpse lying on a slab of infernal stone. Yes, Fanshawe saw himself lying there in the subterranean cranny, his chest cranked apart, and when a shadow crossed the charnel slab-somehow a shadow where no light existed to cast it-Fanshawe sensed an emanation of not only approval but of love.

An incogitable finger lowered, to touch the black beating ma.s.s in Fanshawe's chest. The face of the cadaveresque thing which symbolized Fanshawe...smiled.

"Back now," said a voice that existed not as sound but as darkness. "Ye final verge of thy rigor thee hast crossed."

"It's him!" a voice blared.

"Well, I'll be!" exclaimed another. "You were right!"

The voices caused Fanshawe to churn amid the overwhelming blackness he lay buried in. Like a victim trapped in a tar pit, he floundered, terrified. Eventually he surfaced-not his body, his mind.

"Yeah, I was right but I G.o.dd.a.m.n wish I wasn't!" a third voice cracked. Even in his consternation, Fanshawe knew it was Mr. Baxter's voice. "And it looks like we caught him red-handed!"

Fanshawe felt a physical heave, then found himself disarrayed face-first on the ground; the looking-gla.s.s tumbled out of his hand. He blinked his way out of the stupor, realizing that someone had shoved him hard from behind, severing the occult tether that had moments ago plunged him into a raging black netherworld. When he leaned up, exhausted and still terrified, he saw Baxter standing over him. Beside him were two other elderly men, one slim, stoop-shouldered, with an overly large jaw who wore an out-of-date suit; the other beer-bellied, in a shoddy Yankees T-s.h.i.+rt. In the moonlight, the three men looked down at him like inquisitors.

Fanshawe was about to speak but- FWAP!.

-Baxter reeled back and kicked him in the stomach.

"There's a good one in the breadbasket!" exclaimed the suited man with a high, piping voice.

Fanshawe clenched, losing his breath. His eyes bugged. What the h.e.l.l is going on? He feebly rolled back, then shambled to his feet.

Baxter and his cohorts surrounded him.

"What the f.u.c.k!" Fanshawe yelled at Baxter. "I want an explanation!"

Baxter picked up the looking-gla.s.s. "Well, Mr. Fanshawe, you're the dag-blasted last person I'd ever expect to catch stealing-"

Pain throbbed at Fanshawe's stomach, while anger forced his thoughts through the sheer bewilderment. "What are you talking about! What, you just kicked me in the stomach because of that d.a.m.n gla.s.s?"

Baxter remained with his arms crossed, while the other two elderly men stood like gray-haired henchmen. "Wasn't till just today I noticed the gla.s.s missing, then I could'a kicked myself for not checking the tapes from the security camera every day."

Fanshawe instantly made the deduction. He saw me take the gla.s.s, but... He was still enraged. "All right, I admit, I took the d.a.m.n gla.s.s! It wasn't my intention to steal it, I was just borrowing it!"

The Yankees s.h.i.+rt let out a sarcastic chuckle. "Yeah, borrowin' it for a little window-peepin'. You beat off when you do that, bub?"

Fanshawe felt his face redden. "It's not what you think, for G.o.d's sake! I just needed it to...," but then his vocal wrath dissolved. What could he say? "s.h.i.+t, if the looking-gla.s.s is worth that much to you, I'll buy the d.a.m.n thing! Name your price!"

"What Mr. Fanshawe here's gotta understand," Baxter said, "is not all of us put so much stock in money. Money's not worth much compared to things like character and honesty. Those are the things that make a man, Fanshawe. Not how fat his G.o.dd.a.m.n wallet is."

"I don't believe this!" Fanshawe replied, his mind twirling. "You don't kick a guy in the stomach because he borrowed a p.i.s.s-ant looking-gla.s.s!"

The Suited Man and the Yankees s.h.i.+rt grinned. Then Baxter said, "And it ain't really even the gla.s.s that's got our dander up. It's what you been doin' with it."

Fanshawe glared back at him.

"We don't got room for perverts in our nice little town, Fanshawe," Baxter continued. "It's so f.u.c.kin' disheartening, you know? Seems like the whole world these days is full of perverts, weirdos, sickos, and creeps. But the worst of the bunch are guys like you, hiding behind success and respectability. No one knows." Baxter's eyes leveled. "But I knew, and I wish to h.e.l.l I'd figured it out sooner. First, Sadie Simpkins tells me she's seen you loiterin' around up here at night-"

"Who?" Fanshawe bellowed.

"Aw, you seen Sadie. Wonderful gal. With the poodle?"

Fanshawe ground his teeth. That b.i.t.c.h!

"But when she told me that, I thought nothin' of it. *So what,' I think. *Mr. Fanshawe just has a fancy for late-night strolls.' A couple of the gals at the convention told me the same thing, as a matter of fact, and now that I think of it, I wouldn't be surprised if it was their window you've been peeping in, good-looking as they are."

Harvard and Yale, Fanshawe realized grimly.

"No," Baxter went on, "like I said, I didn't think nothin' of it-of course not! Mr. Fanshawe's a billionaire! Billionaire's don't get up to no good! Billionaires ain't deviants. Ah, but then I notice the gla.s.s missing, checked the security tape, and, presto! There it is-the truth starin' me right in the chops! I would never have thought it in a c.o.o.n's age." Baxter grimaced. "Mr. Billionaire is a f.u.c.kin' peeping tom!"

"A perv," added the Suit.

"A sick piece'a s.h.i.+t," added Yankees s.h.i.+rt.

"Bet he was lookin' for little girls."

"Or little boys!"

"No!" Fanshawe's blood was boiling. But what could he do?

Then all three men took a foreboding step closer.

"You're kidding me, right?" Fanshawe challenged. "You're threatening me? Don't you know I could sue you for a.s.sault and battery, and imprisonment? s.h.i.+t, my lawyers could sue you right out of business."

The men chuckled, and each took another step closer.

This is ridiculous! "Listen, Mr. Baxter. I know I'm not exactly a kid anymore, but-no offense-you guys are old men. I could take all three of you."

"Think so?" Baxter asked coyly. "Was a famous saying my daddy used to tell me: *Be a man large or small in size, Colonel Colt will equalize...'"

Then the Suit and Yankees s.h.i.+rt pulled pistols.

Fanshawe froze. "All right!" he yelled. "What more do you want?! I took the gla.s.s and, yeah! I looked in some windows! You're pulling guns on me for that? What are you gonna do? You're gonna kill me for that?"

"Howard," Baxter said. "Prop the somb.i.t.c.h up."

The Suit handed Baxter his pistol, then took Fanshawe from behind, chicken-winging him quite like the colonist had when Fanshawe had been doused with oil.

Baxter grinned in the moonlight. "Howard's stronger than he looks, huh? Go ahead, try and throw him off. After all, he ain't nothin' but a old man."

When Fanshawe tried to jerk his arms, he found his captor's grip tenacious as metal straps. Then he tried to haul himself away but remained planted in place. "This doesn't make sense!" he yelled, mortified now.

"Well, tell me if this makes sense," Baxter said, and then walked up very quickly and kicked Fanshawe between the legs.

The burst of pain folded Fanshawe up, and again he was face-first in the dirt.

Laughter rose.

"That's what I'm talkin' about!" exclaimed Yankees s.h.i.+rt.

The Suit: "No jerkin' off for him tonight!"

"Tickles me pink," Baxter joined in, "to give a low-down lyin' thievin' sc.u.mbag a good old fas.h.i.+oned kick in the nuts!"

Fanshawe's cheeks ballooned from the pain. Clutching his crotch, he rolled over, cross-eyed. "You've got to be out of your minds!"

"Naw," Baxter said very calmly. "We're just three old duffers sick to death of watchin' this fine world go straight down the toilet." Baxter shrugged. "Every so often, well...we do somethin' about it..."

"Here here," said Yankees, keeping his gun on Fanshawe.

"Old days were the best days," said Howard.

"I hear that," Baxter rambled. "The ooooooold days."

"Listen to me!" Fanshawe spat, still crumpled in pain. Did these men really mean to kill him? Whether they did or not, Fanshawe had no choice but to tell what he knew. "I don't expect you to believe this, but I can prove it!"

"Prove what, Fanshawe?"

"Prove that you're a pervert and kiddy diddler?" Yankees added with a chuckle. "Bet he hangs out at toy stores in his spare time!"

Fanshawe snarled, addressing Baxter. "The gla.s.s! I swear to G.o.d. It works!"

Baxter's lips pursed. "Say again?"

"The looking-gla.s.s! It's not folklore-it's true! Jacob Wraxall didn't just think he was a warlock, he was a warlock! He can manipulate time, he can see the future! And the witch-water looking-gla.s.s works!"

Baxter laughed. "Oh, I get it, you're tryin' to distract me with all that witchcraft poppyc.o.c.k and silly warlock drivel. Well I won't fall for no pish-posh. Ya can't bamboozle me."

"I'm serious! It really works!"

"It does, huh?"

"If you look in it after midnight, you see the time period in which it was made!" Fanshawe nearly screamed. "Go ahead!"

Baxter stalled, eyeing the gla.s.s.

"What he h.e.l.l is he yammerin' about?" asked Yankees.

"Probably on the drugs," said Howard.

"Go on!" Fanshawe insisted. "Look in the d.a.m.n thing!"

Baxter sighed with a smile, and turned. He raised the looking-gla.s.s to his eye, pointing it toward the town.

He froze. "G.o.d d.a.m.n...," then he lowered the gla.s.s.

"There!" Fanshawe said. "I told you, it works! You saw the town as it was three hundred years ago, right?"

Baxter turned back to Fanshawe, looking more disgusted than ever. "The only thing I saw, Fanshawe, was my daughter buck-naked in her room, gettin' ready for bed."

Fanshawe wilted in the dirt. I should've known. It only works for people with the blackest hearts-like me...

Baxter dropped the looking-gla.s.s, then turned back, rubbing his hands. "Time to get this party rollin'. Fellas?"

Chuckling, Howard and Yankees approached Fanshawe, who was about to jump up, but- smack!

Baxter cracked him on the top of the head with the pistol. For the third time that night, his face met the dirt.

My G.o.d, they can't be serious... The blow had been not quite hard enough to knock him out, but sufficient to impair his motor skills: trying to move with all his might only resulted in the most feeble motions of his arms and legs, no more formidable than a man in a nursing home.

Dizziness marauded him; he felt himself being picked up and carried away from the Bridle. It was Howard and the Yankees s.h.i.+rt who did the carrying. Baxter followed, gun in hand.

Fanshawe mumbled incoherent words. The stars he was seeing from the blow merged confusingly with the stars of twilight. Eventually he was carried into one of the other clearings...

"Up ya go, Mr. Pervert," Yankees grunted.

Baxter's two lackeys, in spite of their age, easily elevated Fanshawe's limp form, then lowered him down into something rimmed, like a hole...

Fanshawe's cognition lolled, head aching. A manhole? A grave? but...no- At first he thought they meant to bury him alive but as more of his senses throbbed back he knew full well where they were putting him.

Holy mother of...

They were putting him in the barrel.

Fanshawe yelped when a rough hand shoved his head down. Moonlight showed in the hole cut into the barrel's front, and from there another hand appeared, reached in, and s.n.a.t.c.hed Fanshawe's hair. He yelped again, louder, when the hand yanked his head out of the hole, and then a u-shaped wooden collar with leather treatments was dropped over his neck and fastened.

Reeling, Fanshawe tried to look upward but could only see the feet of his attackers.

"Been a while since we seen a good barrelin'," remarked Yankees.

Spittle flew when Fanshawe yelled, "You can't do this!"

"Sure we can, and why not?" said Baxter from above. "What this world needs is a look back to the old days, Fanshawe. It was majority rules back then, the way the Founding Fathers intended. And criminals were punished in the ways the majority agreed. It was for the greater good, see? To protect the good people from the bad."

Horror dumped adrenalin into Fanshawe's brain, rousing him from the grogginess inflicted by the blow. His fists beat on the inside of the barrel. "Let me out!"

"Oh, we'll let you out, all right," Howard chuckled, "once we're done."

"Name your price! Just let me out!"

"There you go with your ever-lovin' money again," Baxter chided. "You just don't understand, do you?"

"I understand you can't kill a guy for looking in windows! Call the police, have me arrested! I deserve my day in court."