The Miskatonic Manuscript (Case Files of Matthew Hunter and Chantal Stevens Book 2) (11 page)

“A hundred years ago, if an American wanted the boost of some cocaine, they bought a Coca-Cola. Today, they smoke crack. Is that better? A hundred years ago, a person in pain could legally smoke or eat some opium. Today, they shoot heroin. And in the meantime, because of the heavy-handed government crackdown, legitimate pain patients can’t get the relief they need. Is that better? Well, it’s better for the drug dealers — they smuggle and peddle more potent drugs because they can make more money per pound. The government’s War on Drugs did that.

“For the record, I had nothing to do with that death that’s been in the news the past few days, the first death in what are now going to be hundreds, thousands of deaths of drug judges, drug prosecutors, drug police. As you know, I’m locked away in a maximum security prison, for the crime of peacefully practicing my religion. I have no idea who struck that first blow for freedom. I did not order it. I’m just here to tell you what it means.

“Here’s the question people should be asking: In a hundred years they couldn’t win their war, even though no one fought back. So how do you think they’re going to do, now that freedom-loving Americans
are
fighting back?

“Now listen to me.”

Matthew would have dared anyone to resist those four words.

“You have made war on us for a hundred years, believing we would never fight back. You were wrong.

“Don’t whine, now, Fearless Drug Warriors. You chose force. If we feel like it, we can spike the water supplies of your courthouses or police stations with LSD, or any other consciousness-altering agent we please, any time we please.

“Are you ready?
You
will no longer have control over your own state of consciousness, just as you have deprived our brothers and sisters of
their
freedom to determine their own states of consciousness. You chose force. We’ll see how you like it.

“We will go further. If you do not end the hundred-year War on Drugs immediately, setting all the prisoners free, right now, then every time a drug prisoner dies in custody, or during an arrest, we will see to it that one of you dies. A drug judge, a drug prosecutor, a drug cop, a secretary who simply files your letters, an eye for an eye. We, the freedom-loving people of America, will kill you. Are you listening?

“You were offered an honorable peace, if you ended your War on Drugs. The deadline passed. You ignored our offer. You laughed.”

It was the only word on which Windsor’s casual tone broke, just for a moment. They had laughed at him. That he would not forgive. Was that a weakness on which they could somehow capitalize, that show of pride, of ego? It made him human, at least.

“Now we’ll see how you like being in a war where finally, after a hundred years, your chosen victims
do
fight back,” Windsor Annesley continued.

“We seek no compromise. There will be no negotiation. You have our demands. You must repeal all drug laws immediately. Repeal, or throw them all out as unconstitutional, every one, right now. Allowing a person in pain to get a prescription to pay two hundred dollars to buy four joints from a government dispensary run by one of your paid-off cronies is not repeal. Taxation and regulation are not repeal. If you continue, we will defeat you. And when we have won, we will lock all of you in little cages, just as you have done to us, and take
away
your
freedom to determine your state of consciousness, by dosing you up with the drugs you hate, without telling you the timing or the dose, without giving you any choice in the matter.

“You wanted to force us to be straight. We abjured the use of force for … one … hundred … years. Now, instead, we will borrow a page from your book and force you to take some of the weirdest trips in history, over and over and over. You chose force. We’ll see how you like it.

“I’m Windsor Annesley, and I am not afraid. But you know what? The drug warriors are afraid. Watch their courthouses swarm with armed guards, now, like little anthills. Watch them panic and stop cars and throw women and children to the ground, screaming and lashing out in their panic and their terror. Why are they doing that? It’s not because they’re afraid anyone will hurt
you.
No one wants to hurt
you.
It’s because now they know the answer to the question: ‘What if you fought a War on Drugs, and someone fought back?’

And he smiled then, and nodded. And the video ended.

* * *

A decrepit 1942 facility that had once been known for drawing the lowest attendance in the International League, Pawtucket’s McCoy Stadium had been renovated in 1998 and was now known to draw as many as 10,000 fans to some of the Triple-A Paw Sox games, although they weren’t going to do that well this afternoon against the Lehigh Valley IronPigs — the summer crowds preferred the cooler, twilight outings.

But it was a handy spot for Sergeant Phil Robichaux — his muscle shirt showing off the new tattoo on his left biceps, the skull and crossbones and the two spent bullet casings bearing the dates of his two kills — to meet his bag man.

One of the glorified meter maids had already given him trouble for showing it off at the station house, but the union had come to his defense once again. The contract was very clear — tats
were fine, they were the officer’s personal business, as long as they were “normally covered by the uniform.”

The bag man had season tickets in the next row. Robichaux had actually inherited the arrangement from his Providence P.D. predecessor, who’d inherited it from his. Given how long the “War on Drugs” had been going on, nobody really knew for how many decades the police officers of the West Providence Area Command had had their livelihoods subsidized by those who distributed marijuana and the standard range of narcotics in their neighborhoods, but everyone agreed it kept things under control and relatively violence free.

Nobody needed a bunch of homicides to crop up in some wildcat turf war — that would look bad for everybody. This way sergeants who would otherwise struggle to send their kids to college on a paltry $70,000 a year got a helpful additional tax-free subsidy, and the known operators, supervised by the boys on the Hill to make sure everything ran regular, didn’t have to spend a lot of time and money bailing their couriers and flagmen and dealers out of the lockup all the time. They understood they were supposed to deal mostly to the Schwartzes and the Puerto Ricans, keep the stuff away from the good kids on the football team, it all worked out pretty good.

Only tonight Phil Robichaux had more on this mind than just the cool new tattoo and picking up his regular pouch of twenty-dollar bills. He gave the signal to meet his man in line for a bratwurst up at the refreshment concourse.

“Hey, we no sooner get some good pitching then they get called up to Fenway, and we’re back to Rootie Kazootie,” Lucky groused to let Phil know he was behind him.

“I know it,” Robichaux agreed. “Where’d they get this kid tonight, some carnival?”

“A problem, my man?”

They dropped their voices now, Phil pretending to look up the new pitcher’s two-digit ERA in his program, the two men not even
looking at each other, a couple of strangers waiting in line for a hot dog and some spicy brown mustard.

“Yeah, I got a problem, which could soon be your problem.”

“I’m all ears.”

“We got a new area commander, been workin’ his way up as a ‘community policing’ hand-holder down at headquarters, groomin’ him for somethin’ bigger so he’s got to get his ticket punched in the Naked City, and we’re the ones got lucky.”

“I heard.”

“So he’s got all these computer printouts and he says we’re doin’ fine on small-time busts but the numbers don’t jive, with that much dope movin’ around there’s somethin’ wrong, he’s askin’ why we never make any big scores. You know I hate to hurt any of your guys, things been goin’ along real smooth. This guy won’t last long, but for now I gotta throw him some fish.”

“I understand, Phil. This can be taken care of.”

“Easy to say.”

“No, listen. We got a problem of our own. This black college kid has moved into the area. Played some ball up in Boston, but now he dropped out to move in with his knocked-up girlfriend, and he’s paying the rent by selling dope that he gets from his contact up north.”

“Yeah?”

“Plays havoc with the distribution chain, and he’s underselling our guys. We’ve tried talking to him, but he thinks he’s a tough guy.”

“I’m surprised he hasn’t gone for a moonlight swim.”

“It’s been discussed, but you know we try not to play things that way if it can be avoided. It’s the modern era, Phil.”

“Don’t I know it. Nothin’s simple anymore. So you’re sayin’ …”

“Give me a few days. We’ll set you up to make a few buys from Joe College. You mention in your warrant request that your sources say he’s movin’ up to heavier quantities, heavier stuff. We’ll plant enough stuff in this jigaboo’s crib to make some nice pictures on the evenin’ news, your new commander will be happy, and the word goes out that you don’t set up freelance in our part of town.”

“OK, that works for me. But it’s gotta be soon.”

“You can ask your boss for buy money and a wire in maybe two days. This kid’s a moron, thinks he’s Mister Personality.”

“What’s the lucky ballplayer’s name?”

“Big defensive lineman, but gentle as a lamb. They call him Big Tiny Little.”

“Big Tiny Little, I like that. Yeah, gimme two of the brats. Those well-done ones over there, not these ones you just put on.”

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

“Cory’s here,” Chantal said, her expression conveying modest concern or uncertainty.

Matthew had repaired to his office, pricing books, working through the backlog. Rarely trusting his memory — values could change too quickly — he started by looking up each one, as well as he could, online or in the reference books. But in the end it was partly intuitive. Was there a likely buyer, or would it have to sit on the shelf for years to attract the right party? Pricier books could be started anywhere from 60 to 75 percent of market; you wanted a knowledgeable buyer to be confident he or she was getting a bargain; you didn’t want them to find the same book somewhere else for less money tomorrow. Over time, if they didn’t move, Marian would mark those down, as many as four times. Books worth less than thirty or forty dollars the staff was supposed to deal with, and oddly enough you had to price those even lower, in terms of market value, because it simply wasn’t worth the time to go find them on the shelf and knock them down by 15 percent once or twice a year.

But of course, he was always getting interrupted.

“Cory your … Navy electronics buddy?”

“Right.”

“I expected him to ship that thing back to us. There’s some problem?”

“I don’t know. Can you talk to him?”

“Sure. Both of us, right?”

“OK.”

Chantal ushered the guy into Matthew’s little office. Matthew cleared the chair but no one else sat down. Cory was out of uniform
in an open-collared sports shirt, though the neatly creased beige slacks came close. Come to think of it, Chantal might have mentioned he was no longer on active duty. Handsome guy, a little bit of that Kevin Costner look, short sandy hair. He carried the “homing beacon” thing, which still looked like a heavy and over-engineered two-gallon paint can, in a pasteboard box.

“Hi, Cory, nice to meet you. Appreciate your looking that thing over for us. So, is it safe to plug into our system? No Trojan horses?”

“Do you know what this thing is?”

“It’s a long-wave homing beacon.”

The lieutenant seemed surprised. “That’s right. If you don’t mind my asking, why do you need a long-wave homing beacon?”

“I don’t need one. I’ve got one.”

“Do you know the main use for transmissions on these low frequencies?”

“Communication with submarines, for one thing.”

“I can’t either confirm or deny that.”

“You just did. Come on, lieutenant, that hasn’t been a secret for thirty years. What are you telling me, if we turn this on you’re afraid one of your boomers is going to come charging up the bay and run aground off Quonset Point, looking for its mommy?”

“Where was this device made?”

“I have no idea. Do you?”

“It wasn’t made in this country.”

“Hardly anything is made in this country any more, except fried chicken and jail cells.”

“For that matter, none of the components were made in any of the countries that manufacture our components.”

“Now that’s a little more interesting. But it’s not a bomb, right? All it does is what it’s supposed to do?”

“That’s right. Mr. Hunter, I’ve been asked if I could have your permission to take this thing apart, analyze and photograph the components.”

“Which is a pretty amusing request, given that I’m sure you and the boys at the Navy lab have already done all those things, plus whatever metallurgical tests you thought you could pull off without melting it down into a doorstop. So what’s this all about? It’s too small, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“If you’re not concerned about what it does, then you’re concerned about how it does it. It’s too small, it shouldn’t be able to send out that kind of signal using nothing but house current, right?”

“OK, Mr. Hunter. I’m sorry if I treated you like a dummy. But you put this thing in our hands. You must have known we’d want to know more. Is there a price for this information, to put us in touch with whoever built this?”

“Lieutenant, Chantal trusts you, so you must not be a dangerous halfwit. The information you think I’m willing to sell I don’t have yet, myself. A contact of mine sent me this and urged me to plug it into our computer system, he said it could be of some future use to me. That’s it. Truthfully, I just asked Chantal, who foolishly spent a couple of her younger years traveling to exotic places and helping Uncle Sam blow things up, if she knew someone who could check to make sure it wasn’t going to erase our entire database, or send it all to Mongolia or something.”

“Mongolia?”

“A figure of speech, lieutenant. What I’m going to do now, unless you’ve got a fire team hiding in the bushes outside, is to plug this thing in. If you want to monitor the frequency — which I’m sure you’ve determined — to make sure we’re not sending the secret recipe for Mrs. Field’s chocolate chip cookies to some Russian U-boat lurking off Block Island, feel free. I suspect over time we’ll be hearing more from the person who sent me this. Make sure Chantal knows how to get hold of you; if anything develops that looks like it’s going to threaten national security, giant bugs from outer space, anything like that, I’ll be sure and let you know.”