The Miskatonic Manuscript (Case Files of Matthew Hunter and Chantal Stevens Book 2) (3 page)

Angrily, Judge Fidelio Crustio brought down his gavel. Once, twice. He sneered until the side of his face actually started twitching. “Are you finished, young man?” He took a moment to regain control of his features, drew a breath. “Because you’re going to have a very, very long time to think about the despicable threats and absurd pronouncements you’ve made here today, in a place from which you’re going to find you have no ability whatsoever to commit any of these
low, skulking, reprehensible crimes with which you threaten our fine men and women of law enforcement.

“Importing these deadly poisonous drugs and selling them to children, or in such quantities as to show reckless disregard of the near certainty they would fall into the hands of children, LSD and mescaline and other incredibly toxic and dangerous mind-warping substances which cause young people to stare into the sun until they go blind and to jump off tall buildings under the delusion that they can fly.

“Well I’m here to tell you, young man, that this government and this society will not stand for such arrogant actions. We will not stand for it! You have the nerve to call your network of drug-smugglers a ‘church’! You will learn here today, and others will surely also soon learn, why we have conspiracy statutes to deal with such ‘churches’!

“And as for you. You came from a fine family, now shamed by your willful and despicable actions, knowingly importing and peddling toxic and deadly addictive drugs. You cannot claim you were driven to these crimes by poverty or ignorance; you had a fine education and every advantage of a privileged upbringing, and how do you use them? Not to pay back your debt to this country, no! Instead, you use all those advantages to peddle poison, and then to heap insult on injury by calling your despicable drug-distribution conspiracy a ‘church’!

“Well listen to me now, you embarrassment to an otherwise fine family. This court exists to teach you and your kind a lesson. I’m going to use this sentencing today to send a message, a message to any deluded or misguided souls who might look at you as some kind of ‘Robin Hood hero,’ as you’ve been called in the press, and be tempted to copy your actions — a message that this nation and this society will no longer accept your polluting the veins of our young people, peddling your despicable, addictive filth. No more!

“Based on the volume of toxic,
narcotic
LSD and mescaline you imported and manufactured and attempted to sell and distribute, and on your blatant refusal to show the slightest remorse or contrition for
the sheer scale of your demented and monstrous crimes, having seen you found guilty on one count for each of the estimated million doses of LSD and peyote cactus found in your possession, this court sentences you to serve three life sentences without parole, served consecutively, in a maximum security penitentiary reserved for our most dangerous offenders. And may God have mercy on your soul.”

The gavel came down. The Annesley mother sobbed into her handkerchief. But the Annesley brothers did something else, something that a few of the more observant drug police couldn’t help but notice. Their smiles may have been tight-lipped and grim, but nonetheless they smiled. The bailiffs dragged Windsor Annesley away. He managed one last look at his wife, giving her a reassuring smile, and then at his brother Worthington. Perceptibly, both brothers nodded. As planned, then, war was declared. Windsor Annesley had just signaled his brother that the path of peace and conciliation had been tried, and failed. The party was now free to try it Worthy’s way.

Outside, the crowd continued to chant, the volume growing as word began to filter out that Judge Crustio had delivered the maximum sentence, just as observers had expected. The pool reporters dashed from the room, looking for quiet corners from which to call in the story on their cell phones. Two bald-headed bailiffs in beige uniforms with gold braid and badges threw open the double doors at the rear of the adjoining courtroom where the defense witnesses — never allowed to testify — had been allowed to watch the proceedings on closed-circuit TV. Matthew and Emilio stood up and joined those who were shuffling in slow motion down the center aisle to leave.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

Outside, fully fifty uniformed cops, including several on horseback, kept a careful eye on the still noisy demonstrators. Despite the dapper, Kennedyesque good looks of the upper-crust Annesley brothers, the rank and file of the Church of Cthulhu were pretty much every mother’s nightmare: spiked day-glo hair, heavily tattooed, Dumbo earrings, black leather & chains. Though Windsor Annesley had worked during his term as president to craft a less threatening, more tweed and buttoned-down public image, the more radical elements of the Cthulhian Party were well-known — and widely reviled by the politicos and their lapdog press — as the No-Compromise Drug Lobby, their motto being “Forget Legalization; Hang the Drug Warriors.”

The fact that the movement hosted a political party as well as a church was something the feds had gleefully used against them, even though the lawyers had carefully created two legally discrete entities, even though American preachers of countless denominations had been urging their parishioners to vote for “Social Justice” and the candidates of the Left for a hundred years — and even though political activism was the last legal avenue open to the Cthulhians once the courts moved to ban the church.

The Cthulhian political platform was that anyone who had ever arrested a user of a sacramental drug — LSD, peyote, marijuana,
any
consciousness-altering substance, natural or synthetic — or prosecuted such a person, or sentenced such a person to prison, had thus violated that victim’s First Amendment freedom of religion, which invalidates all drug laws, and must himself be imprisoned, for kidnapping,
murder, and depriving fellow Americans of their liberties under color of law.

Down at the bottom of the courthouse steps, Worthy Annesley was studiously avoiding questions from the standard cadre of shouting television microphone-wavers, attempting to shield his mother and sister-in-law from the jostling throng. Curiously enough, though, once he had them safely bundled into their assigned limousine, closing the door and waving on the driver — an older black man, below medium height, with a neatly trimmed white beard and mustache — he turned and re-mounted the courthouse steps, a bodyguard on each flank, heading directly toward Matthew and his Apache companion, Emilio.

As the threesome moved up the steps, six more surly looking brethren of the Church of Cthulhu closed to form an arc behind the younger Annesley brother and his two escorts — one black and one white — holding the microphone-wavers at bay so he could have a brief, private conversation. The choreography of this screen was almost eerie, since the six moved independently, without the appearance of any order or signal being given.

“Emilio,” Worthy said, extending his hand. “I just wanted to thank you for coming.”

The younger brother had slightly less polish, he hadn’t quite mastered that look of unflappable, bemused self-confidence that his older brother managed to exude, always a clever quip at his own expense in the face of any reversal. But there was still no doubting the presence of the same star quality, the hard-to-explain charisma, albeit at perhaps a slightly lower wattage. Worthy Annesley was six-foot-one, slim but handsome in a craggy way, his shock of reddish-blond hair managing to look perfect even when slightly windblown.

“Mr. Annesley,” responded the old Apache with the silver-gray ponytail and the deeply lined face. “I’m only sorry I couldn’t be of help.”

“But that has nothing to do with you, Emilio. It’s that damned judge, pardon my language, not allowing any of our expert witnesses,
not allowing the jury to learn anything about the sacraments, the medicine plants, not even allowing medical testimony from distinguished doctors that peyote addicts no one, that in fact it has helped so many people. But at any rate, you have the eternal gratitude of my family for making this difficult trip. Are you OK? Is there anything you need? Has your return fare been taken care of?”

“I was very fortunate that my friend Matthew here lives in Providence. He has opened his home to me, he even knew what food a simple country boy needed to eat, when your rich city fare proved too much for my old bones. Yes, my tickets are all paid for, I’m not in need. But I’m so sorry for this news about your brother. The white man’s justice is harsh.”

“Matthew Hunter, isn’t it?” the younger Annesley brother asked, extending his hand now to Matthew. “This is Bucky Beausoleil, my personal assistant.” The tall black man to Worthy’s right shook Matthew’s hand, in turn. Wiry, probably in his forties. “And this is our press guy, Tony Waranowicz.”

The press guy to Worthy’s left was in his forties, as well. Fifty, maybe. He wore his hair down over his ears, late-’60s Beatles style, and looked like he’d been trying to grow a mustache for a couple of weeks.

“Tony. I don’t envy you your job.”

“Nah, the key is just to stay on message, Matthew. What no one has taught the young folk of the press today is that it’s OK to question the other side, too. So every time we answer a question, we say, ‘Now here’s a question you should ask the other guys. Both sides should answer about the same number of questions, right? Ask them, now that they’ve been at it for a hundred years, whether they can give you a date when they expect to win this War on Drugs — how many more dead bodies they think it’ll take.’”

Matthew smiled. Worthy got down to business.

“Matthew, our mutual friend, Les McFarlane, was going to talk to you on my behalf,” he said, lowering his voice a bit. “I’d hoped I
might consult with you about a hard-to-find book that I’m looking for. I understand that’s in your line.”

“Les did mention that,” Matthew replied. “You’re welcome to stop by any time. You know we’re on Benefit Street?”

“Yes, maybe you could make sure Bucky here has the address and phone,” he said, again indicating the taller bodyguard. “Maybe tomorrow?”

“Unfortunately, my office manager has talked me into some kind of TV interview tomorrow at the store, 11:30 in the morning, live at noon, something like that. Says it will be good publicity, the usual. I doubt you’d want to stumble into that and get a microphone shoved in your face.”

“No, thanks for that consideration. Not ideal.”

“They should be gone by 12:30, though. You could stop by the store tomorrow, one o’clock or after, or we could do lunch somewhere.”

“Perfect. Bucky, make sure you get all Matthew’s contact information and then set something up for early tomorrow afternoon, would you please? I’ll hope to see you then, Matthew, looking forward to it. And thanks again, Padre Emilio: Please let Bucky know if there’s anything you need, anything at all.”

The winning smile, as though waiting for a flashbulb to go off, and then Worthy Annesley was trotting back down the courthouse steps, waving to a supporter, heading for another waiting car.

Matthew and Bucky traded contact information. The tall and evidently competent bodyguard was worried about any public location, lunch at a restaurant, anything like that. He figured the press would continue to mob his boss wherever he went for at least the next couple of days. Matthew offered the use of his office at the store.

In fact, Bucky seemed to want to chat. He’d never been in favor of drug use, he said, he’d always considered it a scourge, he wanted to make that clear. But he’d come to the church after the way he saw the justice system treating his own son, his boy from his first marriage.

“He did wrong, I don’t deny that, and neither does he. He broke the law. He helped haul marijuana. But it all gets sold to willing users. Everyone knows that. My son never robbed anyone, never hurt anyone. He was just the only one who wouldn’t roll over and snitch and turn state’s evidence. All the older guys had been around, they knew how to play the game. So they threw the book at my boy. And now he could spend the next 40 years in prison? Half his life? People spend less time in prison for murder. It doesn’t make no sense.”

Matthew and Emilio agreed, expressed their sympathy. Seeing that the conversation seemed friendly, a slim, thirtyish woman, nut-brown and with somewhat prominent ears, hesitantly joined them, pressing close to Bucky.

“Emilio, Matthew, this is my fiancee, Marquita Solana. Go ahead, Marquita.”

“No,” she said. “It’s not important.” Matthew recognized her, now. She was an occasional customer at the bookstore — the section on the occult and unexplained phenomena. She never talked much. She was pretty when she smiled, though that wasn’t often. And although she was tall and trim, he was pretty sure she was at least half Indian. Native American.

“Yes it is, honeybunch. These gentlemen are being very nice. They want to hear. Go ahead.”

They waited a moment for her to work up her courage.

“It’s my son, Gilbert,” she said. “He’s in high school, here. He was doing so good, he made new friends. But now they say … it’s not working out so good. They put him in the class with the troubled kids. He has these fits.”

“He has visions,” Bucky corrected her, gently. “He doesn’t hurt anyone. But he says he sees things, says he hears voices. He’s seventeen and it started this year.”

“They said he was on drugs,” his mother explained. “I said ‘I don’t think so. Go ahead and test him.’ They ran all their tests. Gilbert wasn’t on no drugs. But you know what’s crazy? Now the school
put
him on drugs. They say he’s dangerous. We just thought, we heard about Emilio, and we thought, what with his being here …”

“We wondered if we could bring Gilbert to talk with Emilio, and with you, too, Mr. Hunter. We’re not sure what to do. The school says Marquita could get in trouble if she doesn’t make sure Gilbert takes these drugs, but we don’t think they’re good for him, we don’t like the way they’ve changed Gilbert.”

“Yes,” said the old Apache at Matthew’s side, nodding. “I would like to talk to this boy. You should bring him to me while I’m here, as soon as possible.”

“That would be wonderful,” Marquita said, smiling a little, finally. Pretty smile.