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in New
York, when his sickness had been at full spate, the city’s endless
trove of windows had caused him to brim with something like
feverish delight. At night he’d walk the posh Upper West Side, to
duck into tactical alleyways and raise his mini-binoculars at the
gem-like glass frames that too-often presented the merchandise that
his warped mind shopped for. His office, with the door locked,
served as a veritable voyeur’s outpost on the countless nights he’d
tell his wife he’d be working late, and for this he possessed a
high-powered pair of Nikon field glasses and even a compact
telescope, both fitted with digital cameras. Worse, he’d gone on to
purchase a mini-van with custom one-way window-inserts; at night
he’d park in strategic lots and manipulate a small Zeiss-brand
spotter scope at the windows of the best condominiums.
    Whacked in the head, he thought. And
for years, his poor wife had never known, and never known either
that whenever they made love, Fanshawe’s mind was stuffed, steamy,
and delirious with the images of other women he’d viewed so
discretely and pervertedly. The inconceivableness of his addiction
struck even Fanshawe himself: a man of extraordinary financial
success enslaved by this lowly and risky crime. At least Dr. Tilton
understood—all too well—and he was encouraged to know that she’d
treated others suffering from his own diagnosis of chronic
scoptophilia. “For sure, Mr. Fanshawe, yours is a disorder that is
rather commonplace in a general realm but oh so uncanny in
particular regards to you. ” “Pardon me?” he’d asked,
prickled by her insinuation. “You are most certainly an unrepresentative peeper”—and at this, Fanshawe winced—”in
that your bounteous wealth retails little mollification at all.” “I
don’t even know what that means,” he snapped. “For $1000 per hour,
could you please speak English?” And then she’d smiled in
that tiny, barely discernible way of hers, a way that made him feel
even lower. “A man of your vast financial solvency could certainly
enjoy the pleasures of the most beautiful call girls and strippers
available, but you’ll have none of that, hmm? Instead, you skulk
around alleys, or hide in your van to slake your dismal and
pathetic need from a distance.” He’d wanted to walk out then and
there, until he admitted that she was quite right, and that this
observation proved her clinical competence. The highest-class strip
clubs and the most preeminently attractive call girls did nothing for him. “It’s no good, is it, Mr. Fanshawe, unless
the lecherous images with which you quench your craving are stolen, from victims, not whores, from unknowing targets, not willing and morally oblivious pole-dancers? You
must steal from them, Mr. Fanshawe, you must look at them in
your unrestrained lust without their permission, otherwise
the satisfaction is useless, no better than a heroin addict
injecting tap water.” Fanshawe stared right back at her, insulted,
humiliated, but realizing that his hatred for her was just
camouflage for his hatred of himself. He croaked his reply: “You’re
absolutely right…”
    Weird, weird, he thought now. Of all
the addictions to be cursed with, Fanshawe had been cursed with this.
    When he slanted around the back lot of the
Inn, he saw that the closest half of it was filled with cars while
only one car sat far off in a space in the farthest section. It was
an old black Cadillac Deville; Fanshawe knew that the year was
early ‘60s because his own father had owned a similar vehicle when
he was a child, yet this one had been restored to almost show-room
condition.
    He heard a slight scuff, then saw that the
trunk was up. A stooped, stout-bellied man placed a suitcase
inside, then thunked the lid closed and walked back.
    The man was Mr. Baxter.
    He reentered the hotel through a back door.
Did the Cadillac belong to Baxter? And was he going on a vacation
of his own? Why park the Caddy way out