Lawyers in Hell (28 page)

Wolfe crossed his arms.  “Yes.  That
is
strange.”

“It has apparently baffled the French, too.  At this moment they argue furiously among themselves.  However, I believe I have the answer.”

“And that is?”

“It is possible these revenants can only comprehend one command at a time.  They are undead, after all.”

Wolfe pondered that.  He knew no more of the inner workings of the undead than he did of hell, but Churchill’s idea was oddly plausible.  “So, by your reasoning the Legionnaires must receive repeated orders to fire.  They lack the capacity to extrapolate.”

“In a nutshell, yes.”

“Therefore, by your reasoning, the Legionnaires must still be stationary, having been given the order to fire and not an order to advance, while the balance of the French army approaches, having been given the order to march and not to fire.”

Churchill scanned the French lines.  He lowered the binoculars.  “You have a knack of complicating something simple, Wolfe, but the answer is yes.”

Wolfe clapped his hands.  “Then let us get to work before Montcalm and his crew figure that out.”

*

It took three successive volleys from the Colonial revenant’s rifles before Montcalm and his team caught on and raced back to their formations, arms waving and fingers pointing.

The first two Colonial volleys tore into the French Legionnaires, causing much damage but few deaths.  A long look by Wolfe through the binoculars determined that the dead had sustained head wounds.  Armed with this knowledge, Churchill issued a series of precise commands to the comprehension-challenged revenants, and gave the order for the third volley.  This produced the desired results.  Heads exploded.  Bodies dropped. 
Advantage, British.

Leaving Churchill, Wolfe joined his longbows, walking in that calm, determined stride expected from powerful men, the kind of nonchalance in the face of enemy fire that resulted in so many battlefield deaths among high-ranking officers.  Except, in this case, Wolfe had little to fear.  This wasn’t some historic conflict fought on the fields of Europe.  This was a silly little rematch, a skirmish between undead soldiers who could barely grasp one-word commands.

A heavy thrum, the sound of bowstrings released under high-tension, alerted him to danger.  Wolfe instinctively dropped to the ground. 
So much for nonchalance
.

Twisting his neck, he watched a cloud of incoming bolts slam into his silent formation of longbowmen.  Many along the front row lurched a step back, the leather fletching of deeply embedded bolts protruding from their decaying bodies.  Others dropped to the ground, bolts piercing heads, mouths and eyes.  Throughout all this, not a sound was uttered, not a scream or cry of pain. 

Unnerved by the eerie silence, Wolfe leapt to his feet and shouted, “Nock arrow.”  The revenants slowly, painstakingly reached down to pluck standing arrows embedded in the ground and fit them to their bow strings.

Wolfe pointed at the enemy crossbowmen and raised his arm.  “Aim.”

Silently they obeyed.  Even undead, the revenants remained masters of their craft, and single-mindedly understood the role expected of them:  they knew no other.

Wolfe dropped his arm.  “Release.”

The deep drone of unleashed bow strings punched the air, its reverberating hum not unlike a swarm of angry bees.

Fascinated, Wolfe watched the mass of arrows rise high into the ruddy sky before arcing into a deadly descent.

A chorus of oohs and ahhs drifted up from the spectators.

The arrows slammed into the crossbowmen, driving many to the ground.  One landed by Montcalm’s feet.  The French general looked up, startled, and shook his fist at Wolfe.

Wolfe held his finger and thumb an inch apart.  “That close, you bastard,” he mumbled.  Viewing the results, he was disappointed by so few deaths.  He knew his revenants would be hard-pressed to exclusively target heads until the enemy was within range for a decent horizontal shot.  Still, with the maddeningly slow pace of the revenants, he knew his side could manage two or more volleys to each volley from the enemy crossbowmen. 
Another advantage, British.

Once again Wolfe commanded, “Nock arrow.”  Maybe this time they would strike Montcalm, whose death would put an end to this farce.

An unexpected hue and cry rose among the spectators.

Wolfe paused, looking their way.  Many among the crowd were on their feet pointing, jumping and gesticulating wildly.  Unsure why, Wolfe examined the French forces.  Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.  The French men-at-arms continued their slow advance as General Longstreet fiercely stalked the formation, unsuccessfully encouraging the undead to advance faster.  The French muskets had engaged, the uneven pop of their fire drifting across the battlefield.

Moments passed while Wolfe waited.  Eugene’s contingent failed to return fire.  Stepping several paces away from the longbow men to capture an overall view of his lines, Wolfe cursed, suddenly understanding why the crowd had reacted.

Arnott!

Wolfe was betrayed by the late-comer to his cadre.

The British pikemen under Arnott were rolling over the thin red line of Eugene’s formation from behind, their steel-shod weapons tearing into undead bodies and punching through undead heads.  Eugene, caught unaware, now struggled to reposition his revenants in a vain attempt to repel the assault, their slow response making the task nearly impossible.

Churchill, hearing Eugene’s frantic shouting, was slowly refusing a portion of his own flank, turning his lines to face the pikemen and support his friend.  However, this repositioning left the balance of his Colonials facing the enemy, with no commands to guide them, and exposed to the weapons of the Legionnaires. 
Advantage, French.

Wolfe cursed again.  These revenants were just too slow.  Looking to Montcalm and his crossbowmen, he noted they were still reloading.  His longbows, however, were ready with arrows nocked.  Issuing the necessary orders, Wolfe had them fire another volley before setting off for Churchill.

Prying a Lee-Metford from the undead hands of a fallen Colonial, Wolfe came up to the beleaguered general and said, “The only way to end this is to kill Arnott.”  He held up the weapon.  “Do I just pull the trigger?”

Churchill, his powdered wig matted and askew on his head, furrowed his brow, puzzled.  “It’s a rifle.  Of course you pull the trigger.”  Sudden understanding dawned as Churchill remembered Wolfe’s unfamiliarity with ‘advanced’ technology.  Taking the rifle, he checked its magazine before handing it back.  “It’s loaded.  Eight rounds.  Just aim and shoot.  Keep shooting if you have to.”

Nodding thanks, Wolfe skirted the front rank of musketeers in search of Eugene, praying the man was not a casualty of Arnott’s treachery.  He discovered Eugene of Savoy on the ground, barely thirty paces from the slowly advancing pikemen, clutching his side as blood spread through his brown jacket.  “You hit?” he asked.

“What do you think?” Eugene snapped.

“Sorry.  Where’s Arnott?”

Eugene raised a shaking hand.  “Somewhere over there, hiding among the pikemen.  Damned if I never saw him reposition his revenants.  Too much going on to expect a backstab.”

Wolfe had few words of comfort, only an unspoken responsibility for involving these great men in Montcalm’s mad quest for revenge.  “Hold on, friend, I must find and kill Arnott, lest we all die.”  Patting Eugene’s shoulder, Wolfe sprinted before the pikemen.

Finding Arnott nowhere in view, Wolfe placed himself before the advancing pikemen and shouted, “Halt.  Halt, damn you.”  Slowly, in clusters of two or three, then in larger groups, the revenants lumbered to a stop.  Silent and motionless, pikes facing forward, the revenants halted.  Their steel blades displayed a variety of undead trophies:  torn arms, meaty pieces of decayed flesh, and skewered heads.

A flash of motion and the crack of gunfire tore a yelp of surprise from Wolfe as pain lanced across his left wrist.  Wolfe glanced at the bloody furrow caused by the round.  A bare quarter inch lower and the wrist would have shattered.  “Not again,” he mumbled.  This was the exact spot where his first wound occurred at the Plains of Abraham.  He shivered, remembering.

A second shot rang out.  Wolfe grunted as something slammed into his stomach.  Eyes welling with pain, he looked down.  Dark blood spread across his shirt in a growing stain. 
I don’t believe this
, he thought. 
My second wound, just like last time
.  Was this to be his punishment?  That history would repeat itself?  Even in hell?

“You still standing?”

Wolfe peered through pain-filled eyes as Arnott stepped around a statue-like revenant, pistol gripped firmly in one hand, approaching with the casual air of a man in control.  Wolfe eyed the weapon and saw that it was no flintlock.  This weapon was small and darkly metallic, something from Wolfe’s future.

A wave of nausea suddenly overcame him, and his gorge reacted violently.  Fighting to keep his bloody coughing spell under control, he spit out, “Why?”

Arnott smiled.  “A promise of money, advancement, a key place in a growing empire.”  Arnott shoved a revenant by the shoulder.  The undead soldier stumbled a few feet before resuming its motionless state.  “I mean, think about it, Wolfe.  Revenants?  This whole rematch was a joke from the start.  Nothing more than a money-making opportunity for the right people.”

Wolfe dropped to one knee as another wave of nausea overtook him.  The muzzle of his Lee-Metford touched the ground in his limp right hand.  “Who are the right people?” he managed.

Arnott lowered to his haunches, maintaining eye-level with Wolfe.  “Those who have a hand in just about everything legal and illegal in and around New Hell.”

“Criminals, then.”

Arnott shrugged. “If you must.  Brilliant criminals, though.  You’re new to hell.  Suffice it to say, they fixed this battle, and stand to make a lot of
diablos
, as do I from wagering on the outcome.  Anyway, enough chat.  I have a battle to win.”

Wolfe felt light-headed.  “Have you no – honor?”

Arnott laughed.  “Honor?  In hell?”  Leaning forward, he touched Wolfe on the knee with a finger.  “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Wolfe.  My name’s not Benjamin Arnott.  It’s Benedict Arnold.”  He paused, smiling.  “Well, I can see by your blank look that my name means nothing to you.  I’m not even offended.  Let’s just say that betrayal is no big thing.  Been there.  Done that.  Really good at it.”  Leaning back, he raised his strange weapon and aimed it at Wolfe’s chest.  “Sorry.  Have to go.”

The consumption Wolfe had fought so hard to control won out, and he coughed violently, blood and bile flying from his mouth to splatter on the ground.  He coughed again and again, every breath becoming a strained wheeze between each sharp intake of air.

Arnold paused and lowered his pistol.  A humorless grin played across his lips.  “That’s some deadly sickness you have there.  Can’t be the belly wound.  Tuberculosis?”

Wolfe nodded.  The violent wave subsided.  As he wiped at his mouth with the back of his sleeve, he noticed Arnold’s gun pointed off to the side.  Firming his grip on the Lee-Metford, he forced himself into another coughing fit.  Arnold continued to watch, taking sadistic satisfaction from Wolfe’s state.

Wolfe suddenly reared back, tilted the Metford’s barrel up and squeezed the trigger.  The resulting blast and report wrenched the weapon from his hand.  He threw himself sideways, expecting a bullet to strike his chest, thus completing the trio of wounds accrued during his final moments on the Plains of Abraham.

No shot came.

Instead, Benedict Arnold lay sprawled on his back, his head a bloody mess, the lifeless eyes fixed on the reddish sky.

Wearily, Wolfe sat up.  The wound in his belly ached.  Blood pooled on the ground between his crossed legs.  Another bout of nausea wracked his body; roaring filled his ears.  He lay on his back.  Moments later he opened his mouth in wordless surprise at the sight of several figures slowly crossing overhead, high in the sky.  One paused, as if watching.

Then came a deafening roar, and the ground heaved.

As Wolfe felt his body pitch through the air like some rag doll, he remembered Churchill saying that death was not final, that he would be back.  However, this time he prayed it would not be in that lousy little room back in New Hell.

*

“And finally, this just in:

“Disaster struck the much-hyped Plains of Abraham rematch today when a chasm opened under the battlefield, swallowing participants and spectators alike.  Among the casualties was our crew from the Perdition Broadcasting System.  While the cause of this tragedy remains under investigation, a survivor claims to have witnessed at least seven apparitions appear overhead and, I quote, ‘One of those bastards spread his arms and all hell broke loose.’  More on this story as details follow.

“Until then, good night and good luck.”

“And that’s a wrap, Mister Murrow.”

Edward R. Murrow merely nodded and, reaching for his pack of cigarettes, lit another.

The Register

by

Michael H. Hanson

NIH (Not In Hell) Field Assignment 662

Chrysler-Smith, Alistair

Newport News Rest Home, State of Virginia

Class 1 Topside Transit Visa

It is a proud and lonely thing to be a field agent for The Hell Register of Preeminently Damned Lawyers
, thought Alistair Chrysler-Smith, a blond-haired man of medium height and build, who strode out of the Virginia nursing home with a weary smile and a wealth of new data on his bright-red electronic hellpad.  Four former paralegals, two law clerks, a judge, five defense attorneys, and all of them dying from the smorgasbord of illnesses, cancers, and failing organs that define the closing act of the play known as old age.  Bitter, angry, and weathering a lifetime of professional regret:  a nice crop of potential recruits indeed.

Alistair hopped into his car, a black, fully restored 1957 King Midget Model III (the Register’s middle management had no shortage of comic bureaucrats and smartass requisition officers).  He drove his folded-steel compact with its nine horsepower motor down the driveway and out onto the I-66 highway.

Consulting his hellpad while scratching his well-groomed white beard and mustache, Alistair calculated he had less than twenty minutes to cross three state lines, park, and reach the Newark New Jersey courthouse in time to watch a sleazy lawyer get a child-killer acquitted on a technicality.  Punching an aftermarket switch on the dashboard, Alistair activated an under-the-hood, supercharged amulet to create a small, shimmering portal.  Driving through the portal, he crossed roughly three hundred miles in a matter of heartbeats, to emerge on the Garden State Parkway.

Part actuary, part statistician, and part psychologist, a field agent for the Register had a great deal of operational leeway and discretionary equipment at one’s disposal, as long as one was discreet.  His job was prestigious and important, but demanding; the accuracy of the Register’s field agents was rigorously scrutinized by hell’s performance monitors.  Consequently, Alistair sported the latest in hand-held computers to supplement his eidetic memory and rapid-firing neo-cortex.  In short, Alistair liked to cover his ass.

*

NIH Field Assignment 663

Chrysler-Smith, Alistair

State of New Jersey/Newark Courthouse/Summit Diner

Class 1 Topside Transit Visa

Leaving the courthouse hours later, Alistair smiled.  True, the murderer had choked under cross-examination and it looked like a death sentence was in the making.  But it was the behind-the-scenes machinations that concerned the Register.

The prosecutor, an unrepentant sinner, had secretly broken several chain-of-evidence statutes in her pursuit of a guilty plea (and concomitant political advancement).  The defense attorney had come close to getting an acquittal, but considering that he was sleeping with the very attractive D.A., there wasn’t much venom in his bite.  Oh, and the judge had taken bribes via his clerk for three upcoming cases.

Alistair found a nearby park bench and began recording his day’s observations

Half an hour later hunger pangs became a distraction and he left the park bench to hit the road for New Jersey’s number-one eatery.

*

Sitting by himself in the back booth of the Summit Diner, finishing off a gravy-soaked steak with a large side of soggy fries, Alistair clicked his forked tongue (one of several physical idiosyncrasies meant to keep him from getting intimate with the natives) and ran his eyes down his daily numbers spreadsheet:  potential acquisitions; countdowns to demise; breaches of standards of professional conduct and ethics; cases won; cases settled in favor of client (or self); payoffs; bribes, threats and intimidations; destruction of evidence; subsidiary sins; taking the Lord’s name in vain….

“Mind if I join you, handsome?”

Alistair’s large green eyes registered mild surprise.

“Gefjon,” Alistair said, “of course.”

The stunning, young brunette in a tasteful Chanel suit slid onto the booth’s opposite bench.

“Still wearing those atrocious off-the-rack outfits, I see,” Gefjon said.

“Don’t knock Valentino.  He’s the fashionable businessperson’s best friend.”

“Please.  He’s the Wal-Mart of the upper middle-class.”  Gefjon raised her hand.  “Waitress!” she yelled.  “Coffee.  Black.”

Alistair set down his electronic notepad and studied the apparently twenty-something satanic judgment counselor.  He’d known her professionally for over 200 years, subjective time, which really didn’t mean much, considering the amount of temporal jet-setting required by their respective jobs.

“So what brings an uptight snob like you into a delightful dump like this?” Alistair asked.  “Slumming?”

“Insults are beneath you, field agent,” Gefjon snapped.  “Besides, this little trailer seems good enough for an employee of the Register….”  Her upper lip curled as a grimy trucker left a four-dollar tip on the front counter before sauntering outside.

“I like the ambiance,” Alistair said, “not to mention, I used to eat here back in my soft-body days.”

Her eyes opened wide.

“A telling admission,” Gefjon said, leaning forward.  “Either you’re finally losing your edge, or you’re up to something, Alistair.  Spill it.”

Alistair smiled and sipped his coffee.  Gefjon’s day-job ensured that they crossed paths at least five times a week.  Where Alistair’s information-gathering activities were purely passive in nature, Gefjon used every trick in her arsenal to aggressively recruit qualified personnel for hell’s burgeoning legal system.  As an earthly manifestation of a hell-spawned succubus, Gefjon was legendary for leading good mortals down the brimstone path.  What free time she could scrounge was spent seducing register staff in hopes of getting inside info and a jump on her competition.

A lower-order demon, Gefjon had strict limitations placed on her access to “topside” earth, including having to check in with her superiors below every six hours.  Her situation was analogous to being on probation with an ankle monitor, quite different from Alistair’s status as special field agent, the infernal equivalent of full ambassadorial rank.

“If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times…” Alistair said.

“‘Register staff maintain the highest security standards in the deepest pit of hell,’” Gefjon laughed.  “Yeah, sure.”

“I lived a good portion of my mortal life in New Jersey.” Alistair sighed.

Gefjon leaned forward, intrigued.  “You practiced law here?” she asked.  “You passed the Jersey bar?”

“Why no, in fact, I was never a lawyer in life.”  The look of shock on Gefjon’s face was fully worth the price of admission.

“B-b-but … but …” she stuttered, “I thought all Register staff are former lawyers!  Are you saying you were never a judge or even a legal advisor?”

“Correct,” Alistair said.  “Nor a stenographer, nor a legal clerk or paralegal, or patent modeler, or any of a hundred other jobs in the biz.”

“Then how…?”

“When I first moved to New Jersey – and no, I won’t tell you from where – I got a job as a staff editor for the Martindale law directory.”

“No way!”

“Way,” Alistair said, “and it was definitely an overrated position.  We were more data-entry clerks than real editorial staff.”

“And that’s why you…?”

“Not so quick,” Alistair said.  “After four and a half years of that mind-numbing work, I became an editor for the Services and Suppliers Catalog.  That lasted three years.  Then I moved on to eventually become a senior editor on the.…  Are you ready?”

“I’m all horns.”

“The Bar Register.”

Gefjon gasped.  “So
that’s
why you were recruited to work on the….”

“Nope,” Alistair said.  “I was a loyal, conscientious, hard-working, and downright honest employee during my eight years with the Bar Register.”

“Sounds like you were a prime candidate for the, uh, other side.”  Gefjon frowned.

“Possibly,” Alistair said.  “But then the big move came.”

“You murdered your boss,” Gefjon guessed, “chopped your wife into little parts, went on a molestation rampage across Rutgers University.  No, you got caught on ‘To Catch a Predator.’”

“I was given a position in the company’s lawyer and law firm ratings department.”

Gefjon let her breath out slowly.  “The penny drops.”

“From a great height.”

“And I take it that – like our Register’s own ratings department –”

“In a word, yes,” Alistair said.  “Processing peer review questionnaires was the public face of ratings, and it was definitely a more egalitarian process of information-gathering than my current paranormal barnstorming investigations.”

“You said, the
‘face.’”

“Yeah.  That’s the rub,” Alistair said, signaling for a coffee refill, “and there my downward spiral began.”

“The ratings system was compromised, wasn’t it?”

“Not at first,” Alistair said.  “But the financial demands of life, a handful of screaming kids, my spendthrift, upwardly-mobile wife, the price of cocaine….  I needed the money.”

“You could have robbed a bank, Alistair,” Gefjon sniffed.

“You’re such a romantic, sweetheart,” Alistair smiled.  “I was never prone to theatrics.  Within five years I’d bugged every computer on the floor.  Once I had undetectable access to all the databases, it took me a year of tracking ratings applications before I found my marks.  Three thousand lawyers and law firms desperate to garner a rating, and not necessarily an A, but a B! or even a C!  People who wanted to join the golden crowd so very much….”

“And for the right price….”

“I offered them legitimacy,” Alistair said, “and what followed was a glorious reign of twenty years where I raked in millions.”

“Your bosses never found out?” Gefjon asked.

“Nope,” Alistair said.  “It was the IRS who finally caught on.  My backstabbing second ex-wife cut a deal and ratted me out.  I stuffed a shotgun in my mouth right before they raided my home.”

“And so you departed ratings, leaving it to fester under some other corrupt, replacement boss.”

“On the contrary,” Alistair said, “I was, ironically enough, the only criminal in that department, that building, and that company.”  Alistair left a large tip on the table, escorting Gefjon out of the diner and into the cold night air.

*

NIH Field Assignment 664

Chrysler-Smith, Alistair

State of New Jersey/Howard Johnson, North Plainfield

Class 1 Topside Transit Visa

Alistair stuffed a warm cinnamon-raisin bagel swabbed with cream cheese into his mouth.  If there was one thing he liked about Hojo’s, it was the bottomless continental breakfast.

“I swear you pick these tacky establishments just to offend me,” Gefjon said.

Alistair looked up to see her leafing through the New York Times.  The far windows showed the sun beginning to crest the horizon.

“You were particularly frisky last night.”

She smiled.  “You’ve given me more insight into the Register in an hour than I’ve scraped up on my own over the last hundred years.”

“Have I now,” Alistair asked.  “And what do you think you know?”

“Just that this world-hopping reporter routine of yours is only half of the equation,” Gefjon spat.

Alistair smirked but remained silent.

“Fine,” Gefjon said, “play it close to the vest, but don’t think I haven’t figured you out.  The ratings system was corrupted right here in this lowbrow state and I’ll bet you’ve done the same thing with the Register down in Hell.”

“A nasty accusation from one so low on the totem pole,” Alistair said.  “You know, I could report you on a number of violations – attempting to seduce a superior officer of the court being only one of them.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Gefjon said, “your not-so-subtle little past-life story last night did the trick:  I want in.”

Alistair’s face took on a ghastly smile and Gefjon swallowed nervously.

“Do you really, my dear?” Alistair asked.  “Even considering the potential repercussions?”

“Are you kidding me?” Gefjon squealed, then lowered her voice to a whisper:  “Status means everything to the arrogant pricks strutting around the infernal Hall of Injustice.  There isn’t a prosecutor, defense attorney, or judge in hell who wouldn’t give their left cloven hoof for a chance to one-up their colleagues.  Besides, I’m sick of being an errand girl on a tether.  I want some freedom, like you have.  Damn it, I’ve paid my dues.”

“You could be right,” Alistair said, sipping his orange juice.

“Please,” Gefjon said, “I
get
it.  You’ve been playing me like a trout.  You wanted to see how discreet I was, while bedding me over all these decades.  Well, have I passed?”

Alistair smiled.  Glints of red sunrise reflected off his teeth.  “You’re in.”

*

BIH (Back In Hell)

Field Agent Repatriation 665

Chrysler-Smith, Alistair

Priority 1 Recall

Pandemonium, In Transit

Barreling up Nile Boulevard, Alistair’s demonic taxi driver, a tiger-striped, wolverine-faced monstrosity named Matali, paid scant attention to his bureaucrat passenger.  Only operatives with the highest of hell’s security ratings ever traveled this narrow, mostly empty road that led directly to the lower garage caves cut deep into the base of Pandemonium’s grand City Courthouse.  Matali knew it was best not to get chummy with these spook types.  Besides, the infernal mange eating its way across his buttocks and lower back was more than enough to worry about on this pothole-covered road.

Alistair looked up from his hellpad to take in the surrounding mix of skyscrapers, warehouses, and volcanic parks.  If New Hell was hell’s Manhattan, then Pandemonium was its Chicago, smaller, no less corrupt, and a lot less hypocritical in its immorality and venality.