“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 pronunciation 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 tittered 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.”

  Fanshawe’s brow creased. Birds? but then he figured her vernacular. She means two women.

  “Quite smart, yes, sir, quite smart, indeed, all dressed in some downright scant exercisin’ apparel.” She winked at him. “Handsome man like yourself? You might want to have a look round for ’em.”

  Fanshawe stood still. Oh, she means Harvard and Yale, but before he could reply, she prattled further, “And please don’t be put off by my sayin’ so, but seein’ as it’s obvious you’re not sporting no weddin’ ring, you just might be doin’ them a kind service to chat ’em up a bit.”

  Fanshawe sighed. Now she’s a matchmaker. Great. “Actually, ma’am, a walk is all I’m looking for today.”

  “Oh, sir, yes, sir, and what a splendid day it is to be about a walk. The weather couldn’t be more propitious, er, what I mean is favorable. In fact, a day like today’s what we called the acme of summer where I come from”—she faltered. “Or…might I have already mentioned that, sir?”

  “No, ma’am,” he lied. “It’s an apt description.” Fanshawe couldn’t resist; he put a ten-dollar bill in her tip jar.

  “Gracious me, sir, and blow me down! ’Tis a higher place in Heaven which awaits men of a generous heart, yes, sir. Says so in the Bible, it does. And a heart generous as yours, sir? ’Tis likely the size of a bloomin’ haggis.”

  Fanshawe could’ve reeled at her antics now.

  “Thank you, sir!”

  “You’re welcome, Mrs. Anstruther, and have a great day.”

  He stepped away, amused by her continued outpouring of gratitude in the outrageous accent. But in just moments he found himself strolling by the Travelodge, and he felt his shoulders slump. Don’t look, don’t look, he begged himself. Frolic was heard, shrill summer laughter, and splashing. He was passing the pool, with all those enticing windows running behind and over it. He could hear his teeth grinding as he hurried away, so wanting to look, but demanding of himself that he do no such thing. When he was safely past, he was shaking in place.

  God, I am SO screwed up…

  But his resistance didn’t make him feel better once he’d outdistanced the temptation. He found the signs, then the trails themselves almost unconsciously, and was wending upward in a daze. What was it? Passing what was surely a bounty of bikini-clad women by the pool? Knowing that somewhere among these dirt- and gravel-scratch paths the two beautiful joggers lurked?

  He walked more quickly, trying to empty his mind.

  His feet took him higher and higher up the grassy hillocks until he found himself close to the highest peak, peering between the hulks of two unruly bushes. The bushes’ smelled foul. Yes, he was peering…

  Oh, for God’s sake…

  He was peering back toward town. In the blaze of sun, the buildings—and their scores of windows—blazed back at him. A change of angle next, then the pool threw white, wobbling light into his eyes. When he squinted, he detected the tiny shapes of swimmers and sunbathers, and when he raised the squint…

  He cursed himself.

  Even at this distance, he could make out the rows and rows of first- and second-floor windows at the Travelodge. On the balconies of several units, the tiniest human shapes became evident. Fanshawe’s conscience felt split down the middle, one half relieved that he was too far away to see anyone in detail, the other half enraged that he no longer carried any of his erstwhile optical devices. He stepped away from the useless vantage point.

  Stray walking occupied the next quarter of an hour. First came the peak of Witches Hill…and along with it a shimmy in his gut. Next, he found himself again examining the odd rain barrel at the clearing’s fringe, and its ten-inch-wide hole which made no sense. With less conscious thought, though, he drifted over to the meager stand of trees that he knew overlooked the lower clearing—the clearing where he’d spied on the topless joggers. There’d been no sign of the women among the trails, and no sign of them now continuing their secret embrace: the lower clearing stood bare.

  Minutes later, he discovered the next sign, one he’d missed on his first expedition. HAVER-TOWNE CEMETERY, the sign informed. EST. 1644. Its layout was long and narrow, and girded by a crude and well-rusted iron gate. The farthest perimeter was studded with teetering tombstones whose inscriptions were barely legible from the sheer passage of time; some of the stones’ actual edges had abraded as well. With some effort, Fanshawe made out dates from the seventeen- and sixteen-hundreds. But the stones seemed rather paltry in number, then he remembered Mrs. Anstruther’s comment about a sparsity of them. In all, the word decrepit seemed an ideal description of the place.

  But most of the perimeter within the gate lacked any extruding markers at all, which leant the cemetery a bizarre disproportion. Where’s this tabby stuff Abbie and the old woman were talking about? he wondered. The position of the sun led him into the western portion of the graveyard. Sure enough, as he looked down into sprawls of weeds, he made out the crude patches of cement on the ground with names and dates finger-grooved in them. Another sign told him: THIS IS THE WEST END OF THE CEMETERY, THE UNCONSECRATED END. COUNTLESS WITCHES, HERETICS, & CRIMINALS HAVE BEEN BURIED HERE…

  Fanshawe shuffled around the patches. Bodies down there, skeletons, he thought. Images formed in his head, images of the long-buried. He took extra care not to step on any of the patches. Many of these were even less legible than the bonafide stones, but in a moment he had stopped, gone down on one knee, and peered.

  One patch read: JACOB WRAXALL, 1601-1675 CONVICKT’D OF SORCERIE, DEVILTRIE, & INFERNALL PROPHESIE. And the next patch: EVANORE WRAXALL, 1645-1671 CONVICKT’D OF WITCH-CRAFT & DIABOLIK CONSORTE. Four-year difference, Fanshawe calculated. But he was already jarred by his most immediate observation. What have we here?

  At the foot of the patch that marked Evanore Wraxall’s final resting place, there was an oblong hole, as if the coffin had collapsed…

  …or been exhumed and removed.

  Fanshawe tweaked his chin. So this was the answer to Mrs. Anstruther’s cryptic comment, referring to the grave plot as “queer.” For sure, in the area of space below which must be occupied by the corpse, there was a distinct indentation, almost as though that particular spot of ground had eroded, nearly like an old sinkhole.

  There was nothing else to presume other than the body must have been removed a very long time ago.

  So much for a decent burial.

  Several crows screeched at him from a high tree, but the birds looked sickly, bare patches showing. Large pink circles surrounded their tiny black eyes where feathers had fallen out; Fanshawe thought of negative omens. But his previous absent-mindedness returned; he was walking without thinking. Could this be the better part of his conscience blocking more thoughts of voyeurism? Next thing he knew, he’d entered another clearing not far off from the graveyard. He stood still, his eyes addressing a stone pedestal of some sort, about four feet high, and tapering as it rose. At first he guessed it might be a more elaborate grave-marker but then found no plaque or chisel-work to identify the interred.

  Sitting atop the pedestal was a tarnished metal sphere.

  It was slightly smaller than a soccer ball. Fanshawe’s impression was that the sphere was brass, for age had tarnished it to a deep patina over which a tracery of whitish incrustation had developed. This reminded him of the calcium deposits that frequently accumulate around faucet spouts. Cleaned of its patina the object would be impressive to look at; now, however, it was an eyesore. I wonder what… Oh, this must be the ball that Abbie mentioned last night when I was leaving the bar.

  What had she called it? A viewing ball? A gazing ball?

  He stepped closer, leaned down, and was able to see markings on the pedestal: swaths of geometric shapes, such as stars, circles, crescents, as well as fairly tiny lines of writing in some language other than English. He took a wild guess and thought Hebrew. But some of the geometric shapes reminded him straightaway of Jacob Wraxall’s brooding portrait and the features of his pendant. To the touch, the pedestal itself must be marble.

  But then he rose to inspect the sphere.

  Beneath the pallid green tarnish and webworks of crust he thought he noticed outlines of shapes, however faintly. At first he thought the sphere must be a geographic globe depicting the continents, but then he realized that the shapes didn’t correspond at all to anything global.

  Fanshawe touched the encrusted orb and found it cold—strangely so, for brass or any similar metal would’ve surely conducted heat from the sun beating down on it all day…

  Weird. He stepped back for another more distanced look, tried to figure what purpose lay behind the object, then could only draw blanks. But Abbie had promised to tell him about it, hadn’t she? Tomorrow, he thought with a pleasant twinge, when I take her to dinner. Just then, he allowed himself the luxury of letting Abbie’s image enter his head: her trim shapeliness, the incandescent dove-gray eyes, the exotic alliance of her hair color: auburn with blond. He stood dreamily, musing over the normalness of it all; just a simple dinner date, true, but simplicity and normality were elements that had always eluded him, either that or had been rendered moot by the involutions of his secrets. Just then, the brilliant blue sky seemed to welcome him to a new state of mind…

  Then the moment shattered.

  Fanshawe twirled in place at an adrenalin dump. It had been the unmistakable sound of a growling dog that had invaded his muse. Not this again! He stood still, eyes darting left and right, poised to flee. It had been much louder this time, as if the animal lurked distressingly close. He’d thought he heard the same sound on this hill already, then he’d even dreamed the sound, hadn’t he? He knew that he could not be mistaken this time.

  Careful. Don’t look at its eyes…

  His vision pored over the high weeds and tangles of bushes, but in just a few moments, again, he could discern that there was no dog. Next, he walked around the brush for a closer inspection, then found what he’d found previously: nothing. No dog.

  What the hell?

  Was he hearing things? There had to be some reasonable explanation. Perhaps some other hotel guest was walking their dog, and it happened to snarl along another trail. The idea seemed like an absurd excuse, given the snarl’s tonality but—

  All right. Enough. There’s no dog this time, either.

  Fanshawe took a final glance at the senseless pedestal and globe, chuckled at this next mishap of hearing a dog that wasn’t there, then turned to continue through the trails, when—

  The skin of his face seemed to tighten like shrink wrap, while every tendon and muscle in his body turned taut as stretched wires. This fright doubled that of the imaginary dog-snarl, and he broke into a sprint at this next sound that had caught him so unawares.

  There could be no mistake, nor any idle explanation.

  What he’d heard was this: a long, high, blood-curdling scream, indisputably that of a woman…

  (III)

  Fanshawe thought of a plum with its skin chewed off.

  A half hour after he’d heard the scream, the manic scene that he’d rushed into became a circumstance that could only be described as funereal. The ambience here seemed to leech power from multiple sets of throbbing red and blue lights. A crowd had formed quickly; the scream had been so shrill it was heard even by those even at the fringe of town. Blanch-faced EMTs were preparing the gurney, while an equally blanched coroner stood aside, signing papers on a clipboard. Several county police officers kept the crowd back; others were cordoning the perimeter, and in the center of all the activity stood a tall, fiftyish county captain who was trying but not quite succeeding in looking stoic. Silence, and a semi-tangible grimness, had settled over everything. Clearly, events such as this never occurred in an area such as Haver-Towne.

  Fanshawe’s knees still wobbled from the sight.

  “Well, jumpin’ Jesus, I just can’t believe this,” Mr. Baxter muttered next to Fanshawe. “Of all the crazy things to happen.”

  “I still can’t quite believe it myself,” Fanshawe said. The aftermath left his throat dry as old leaves. “It seemed more like a dream.”

  “So it was you who stumbled onto him?”

  Fanshawe shook his head and pointed to the pair of joggers who now looked winded not from exertion but shock. One stood by wide-eyed while the other nervously recited details to a scribbling police officer. “Those two, they were jogging the trails.”

  “Aw, yeah. They been here for the convention last couple of years—associate professors I think they are. And what a thing for a couple of gals to run into…”

  And run into it they had, literally. Fanshawe had followed the scream to a lower hillock. Evidently the woman in the lead, the bustier of the two, had tripped over some object just protruding from the high grasses that walled the trail. It was her friend who’d seen it and screamed. Fanshawe had arrived just as the first woman’s eyes were rolling back in her head—then she’d fainted.

  The obstruction had been a man’s head and shoulders, the rest of the body still concealed in the brush.

  Fanshawe had called 911, then helped revive the unconscious jogger. But the image of that victim lying in the brush seemed to sink into his brain like a stone in watery silt, that man…

  No details could be made of the man’s face, for he no longer had a face. What sat instead upon those shoulders was little more than a skull stripped raggedly of most of its flesh. The majority of neck muscles were gone as well, as if torn away. Only mere scraps of blood-mucked skin remained. Ears, nose, lips?

  Gone.

  The eyeballs were intact, but lidless, transforming what had once been the man’s visage into a grinning, staring mask.

  Upon seeing this, Fanshawe’s mind swam in a hot panic, fragments of thoughts bursting through. Murder? He doubted it. An animal attack seemed most likely. But if it were the former, couldn’t the perpetrator still be near? The jogger’s ceaseless, whistle-like screams only shattered more of Fanshawe’s concentration. What kind of an accident could account for this? And if the victim had indeed been savaged by a wild animal, why was his coffee-brown suit untorn, and his hands untouched? These and other questions only had time to half-solidify in Fanshawe’s mind. When the second woman had finally stopped screaming, the three of them could only stare open-mouthed at one another. Several police cars and an ambulance showed up sometime later, using the GPS on Fanshawe’s cellphone.

  Fanshawe shuffled his feet as he stood with Mr. Baxter. Baxter seemed disconcerted by something more than the presence of the corpse. What’s he got cooking in his head? Fanshawe wondered but didn’t feel he knew the man well enough to ask. Eventually, the police had finished questioning the joggers; they walked shakily back toward town. My turn, Fanshawe realized. The questioning officer approached, his eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses in which Fanshawe saw his own face. The county captain came over, too.

  Fanshawe felt interrogated. He explained his presence on the trails along with his chronological observations once he’d heard the scream, and answered rather typical if not irrelevant questions. Then came questions like: “Can you remember seeing anyone here or in town who struck you as suspicious?” and “Do you recall seeing a man dressed similarly to the decedent at any time today?” and “Did you notice any things—articles of clothing, for instance, disturbances in the brush, money, credit cards—while you were out here today?” to which Fanshawe answered in the negative. But then the captain, who seemed self-reflective, interrupted, “Oh, so that’s why your name’s ringing a bell. You’re one of those finance geniuses I’ve seen on TV.”

  Fanshawe knew the comment was incidental yet still his paranoia construed something smart-alecky about it. “I’m semi-retired now,” was all he said, but was surprised a particular question hadn’t been asked. “I did happen to hear something out of place—I mean, I think I heard something.”