“Sure!” Her hair tossed as she strode along. “I’ve been dying to ask. What did you think of the graveyard?”
Fanshawe chuckled but the humor behind it seemed dried out. “It’s a doozy of a graveyard, all right. Why is there a very suspicious hole where Evanore Wraxall’s body should be?”
Was she teasing him? “Oh, I didn’t tell you that part, did I?”
“No, you did not.”
“Are you sure?”
Fanshawe simply scowled at her.
She appeared more enthused now than ever. “Okay, here goes. It was exactly 666 days after her execution”—her long eyelashes fluttered—”when Jacob Wraxall dug Evanore up and ran off with her remains.”
Fanshawe’s pace slowed. “Uh, do I want to know what he did with the body?”
“Well, there was no embalming in those days, Stew. She was nothing but bones by then. Wraxall used the bones for black magic.”
“Warlock dad digs up witch daughter. No Father of the Year Award for him, huh? And what’s with the old barrel on Witches Hill?”
“Weeeeell, do you really want to know?”
By now there was no doubt that she was using the subject to toy with him. Toy with me all you want, he thought. “Yes, I really do. You know, it’s not fair for you to keep stringing me along.”
“They called it barreling,” she said abruptly, slowing down a little herself.
Fanshawe didn’t understand. “Barreling? What—”
“The method of execution, I mean. It was called barreling.”
Fanshawe wondered. They drowned the witches in barrels? “What ever happened to good old hanging, decapitation, and burning at the stake?”
“That was old hat by then. And, remember, witchcraft, sorcery, and heresy were considered the worst crimes in those days. So those convicted got—”
“Barreled… Now I get it. They put the witch in the barrel and fill it with water till she drowns—”
Now Abbie’s refreshing smile turned grim. “Oh, no, Stew, it’s much worse than that. In fact, barreling was about the worst form of capital punishment that the witch-finder counsels ever thought of. Did you see the hole in the front side of the barrel?”
Fanshawe reluctantly nodded.
“They’d put the witch in the barrel, pull her head out through the hole and keep it in place by sliding this thing called a U-collar around her neck.”
Fanshawe made a face, trying to picture what she’d described. “Oh, like a pillory only…with a barrel?”
“Well, sort of. See, after they did that…they’d bring out the dog—”
Fanshawe’s eyes narrowed as if leery of something. How could he not think of those times he’d thought he heard a dog barking, not to mention the dog he thought he’d seen through the looking-glass just before dawn?
He felt the heat of Abbie’s hand in his, hoping he wasn’t sweating. “The…dog?”
Just at that moment, a dog began yelping from across the street. Fanshawe stopped with a jolt, and jerked his gaze.
“Nervous, Stew?” she laughed. “Suddenly you’re on pins and needles.”
He frowned across the street, at the same annoying poodle that had snapped at him this morning. Its overweight master frowned back almost as an accompaniment with the animal’s hostility. That little fucker again… The poodle strained against its lead, barking directly at Fanshawe. God, I hate little yelping dogs. “I like dogs,” he explained. “Just not that dog.” But the distraction snapped. “And what were you saying? Something about barreling…and a dog?”
“Don’t worry, Stew,” Abbie allayed. “The kind of dog I’m talking about was nothing like that little pooch.” Abbie maintained her cheery composure even in the luridness of what she was about to detail. “After they locked the witch’s head so that it was sticking out of the hole in the barrel, they brought in the dog. It was always a big one, like a Doberman, Irish Wolf Hound, like that. But they’d also…” She let out a warning breath. “Are you sure you want to hear this right after dinner?”
“You must think I’m a real light-weight,” he said, yet still baffled by what she was taking so long to describe. “I’m from New York, remember? People—usually stock brokers—jump off of buildings every day. The local crime page in the paper is worse than a slasher movie.”
“All right, you asked for it. They’d starve the dog for several days first, and they’d rile it up, and…well…”
“What?”
She let out another abrupt breath. “The dog would attack and…eat the flesh off the witch’s head.”
Holy shit… Fanshawe nearly stumbled. “Hello! Me? I’ll take hanging any day!”
“Hanging was considered letting them off too easy,” Abbie said. “They had to pay for their crimes against God. Oh, and that’s not some mock barrel up there. It’s the one they really used.”
Fanshawe recalled the details he’d noticed of the barrel, how the clear resin completely covered the old wooden slats: a perfect preservative. But the grotesque verbal portraiture created its own images, which sunk deep into his mind’s eye. They’d sic a starving dog on the witch’s living head… His stomach seemed to turn inside-out. “You know, after all that happy talk, I need a drink. How about I treat you to a Witch-Blood Shooter?”
Abbie’s smile, as always, shined like a bright light. “You’re on.”
— | — | —
CHAPTER SEVEN
(I)
It was just after nine p.m. when Fanshawe and Abbie entered the Squire’s Pub. The comfort he felt by being with her—the idealism of a first date notwithstanding—continued to ease the turmoil he’d been dwelling on all day. Additionally, he was pleased by how easy it was to slip his arm around her waist; he could tell she was glad he did that. Closer now, her subtle perfume and shampoo scents were driving him nuts, to an arousing degree, yet not once had he even re-framed the vision he’d stolen last night, when he’d peeped on her and seen her utterly naked.
Several tables full of loud professors took up the pub’s rear section; Fanshawe noticed the two joggers, too, who didn’t seem to be having quite the raucous time as their inebriated elders, which was understandable.
Most of the bar, however, was empty. Perfect, Fanshawe thought. Mr. Baxter stood in attendance, and at first Fanshawe was worried what the proprietor might think of him walking in with his arm around his daughter. The instant he spotted them, though, he seemed to perk up, as if somehow energized by their entrance. Fanshawe let his hand slide across the small of Abbie’s back when they parted for him to pull a barstool out for her.
“Well, hey there, you two,” the older man greeted, a crackle in his voice. “How was dinner?”
“Excellent, Mr. Baxter,” Fanshawe said, then sat down next to Abbie. “A perfect meal for a perfect evening.” He wondered if he should take Abbie’s hand so quickly in front of her father, but before he could finish the consideration, she took his.
“Oh, yeah, Dad, it couldn’t have been better,” she augmented, “and Stew says the curries are as good as the Thai places he goes to in Manhattan.”