by Melanie Rawn
She tried to write it down, to designate language that would transmit the experience. Not surprisingly, no arrangement of syllables and sentences satisfied her. Sheer frustration suddenly made her laugh aloud in the thatched privacy of her little bungalow, wryly regarding scrawl-covered pages by candlelight.
Shaman? Wordsmith? Worker of sounds and symbols into pictures, thoughts, ideas? Her particular share of that something was inadequate to the task—but, truly, who possessed gift enough to articulate this wonder? It was enough to know the magic was real, and to feel its existence inside her as part of the whole of Creation.
The intensity would fade, of course, as all such feelings did. Yet there were fragments of it every day, like bright flecks of gemstones glimpsed at unexpected moments: writing postcards to Nicky and Alec, finding a batik robe for Aunt Lulah, selecting a beaded necklace for Susannah; just thinking about Evan. Maybe, she thought, whimsy making her smile, maybe the part of it in me reflects the parts in them, and the light and the colors keep refracting off each other, and that’s what love is. Those bits of Creation and Forever recognizing each other, making magic. And it’s up to us to keep them shiny bright.
Amused by herself and the world at large, she packed the pages away in her suitcase, blew out her candle, and went to bed.
“I AM NOT LOOKING FORWARD to this,” Judge Bradshaw muttered.
Evan Lachlan nodded agreement. “Salmon day. Work like hell swimming upstream, and all you get is screwed.” He opened the door leading to the back chambers, nodding approval when he saw the hallway was empty. “Kinda hard to leave it at the door if it’s already in the courtroom when you arrive.”
“I’ve never been seriously tempted before now. But I can hardly recuse myself without some sort of explanation.”
“That would make interesting hearing,” Lachlan chuckled.
“Well, yeah,” Bradshaw said, smiling a little. “And don’t worry—it’s a temptation I can resist. Although I don’t know how long I’ll be able to resist the urge to bash all their heads together.”
“I’ll hold your coat.”
“Heard from Holly?”
“She called at the butt-crack of dawn from Nairobi.” Lachlan sighed and raked a hand back through his hair. “Somebody at the conference offered her a safari, so she’s off taking pictures of warthogs. It’s her way of gettin’ out of writing up the invite list for the wedding.”
“Hand it off to Susannah. What will she be wearing, by the way?”
“Damned if I know.” The marshal grinned. “Personally, I’ve been threatening the Lachlan hunting tartan, embroidered in Day-Glo shamrocks.”
Bradshaw was fighting a grin as he entered his chambers—which was exactly what Lachlan intended. This was going to be a shitty day; they both knew it; and as Evan saw it, now that he knew certain things, his job was to provide a minute or two of breathing space as well as constant protection.
Physical protection, anyway. God only knew what Denise Josèphe had stashed in her purse. From Bradshaw’s description of her magical orientation, it could be anything from a few herbs to a mummified bat’s skull.
Returning to the courtroom door, Lachlan vetted spectators and lawyers and reporters—who had already been through one security check at the courthouse entrance. Because it was August and muggily hot, everyone was in summerweight clothing, which made the job easier: no place to hide instruments of mayhem beneath cotton dresses or short-sleeved shirts. He and Pete Wasserman were meticulous with metal detectors all the same. Everyone came up clean.
Supporters of the Reverend and of Denise Josèphe were pretty much identical in their wide mix of age, appearance, and social class. They could easily be told apart, however, by their choice of jewelry: crosses versus inverted pentagrams. Lachlan was sure both sides had chosen their wardrobes with the media in mind. The print reporters—no electron jockeys, thank God—annoyed Evan, but they knew better by now than to ask him for information. Instead they interviewed spectators until Pete told them to shut up or get out.
Susannah was busy behind the bench, arranging whatever it was she arranged for her boss. Her long blonde hair was scraped back in a severe chignon, her black suit and plain white blouse unenlivened by so much as a pair of earrings. Lachlan doubted she was even wearing mascara. She was gorgeous all the same.
And nervous. She fussed with Bradshaw’s laptop computer—which any reporter would have sold body parts to hack into—a silver pitcher of ice water, a tall cut-glass tumbler, a gavel that had at one time been used by Joseph Story, United States Supreme Court Associate Justice from Massachusetts, who had written the majority opinion freeing the Amistad captives in 1841. Lachlan had been surprised, and then not surprised, to find out the gavel had been a gift from Alec Singleton when Bradshaw was appointed to the Federal Bench.
The attorneys were arrayed at their tables, seven men of varying heights, weights, ages, and demeanors, all in expensive suits. Lachlan didn’t recognize any of them. They had been mightily offended when he insisted on putting them through the same security as everyone else—as if a degree from Harvard or Yale pulled more weight than the five-pointed star of a United States Marshals Service badge.
Denise Josèphe was at the defense table, inspecting her flawless fingernails. Another green-eyed blonde in a black suit, white blouse, and tightly pinned French twist—but the contrast with Susannah could not have been greater even if the accused hadn’t been wearing makeup and jewelry. Seeing her in person, Lachlan now remembered her. Mainly he remembered that, at a book launch this spring, her lipstick-red dress had clashed so agonizingly with Holly’s aubergine and the featured author’s coral velvet that the wincing photographer told them his film was color and he didn’t dare take a picture.
The Reverend Fleming arrived at last, tall and silver-maned, impeccably dressed in a black suit and tie. His side of the courtroom murmured sympathetically, ready to offer handshakes and hugs. He paused at the doorway for Pete Wasserman to run his security check; Evan watched his colleague’s polite professionalism, knowing what Pete thought of this guy, who included Jews in his list of pagans, Mormons, Catholics, Muslims, Buddhists, and other sinners. But nobody would ever see it on Pete’s face.
Fleming made his way slowly up the center aisle, accepting words and embraces with grace. Denise Josèphe’s adherents muttered and scowled, and a few of them made complex gestures with their hands, presumably to curse him. Lachlan doubted that any would have more effect than simply giving him the finger.
The court clerk finally announced Judge Bradshaw. Everyone stood. His Honor swept in like a nor’easter, robes swirling, face grim above the collar of a gloomy gray broadcloth shirt and the knot of probably the ugliest paisley tie Lachlan had ever seen him wear. Gaveled into session, the courtroom silenced itself and the lawyers told Bradshaw their names.
Evan had watched His Honor in all his many judicial moods: generally calm, sometimes irritated, occasionally sarcastic, rarely moved. He had never seen this expression on Bradshaw’s face before, and never heard him begin a session with a single word: “Chambers.”
Lachlan did what Wasserman signaled him to do with a jerk of his chin, and escorted the parties to the back hallway, ushering them through a glass-paned door. He stood guard outside, studiously not listening. Five minutes later the volume became such that he could not help but hear. Five sentences later, he decided his presence and perhaps even his weapon were necessary, and opened the door.
BRADSHAW SEATED HIMSELF BEHIND HIS desk and waited until everyone was inside. There was only one other chair in this room, over in the corner—a purposeful arrangement allowing him to use the desk as if it were the bench in his courtroom.
Now that he was close enough to smell her, Denise’s little gris-gris bag was also close enough to irk him. He was familiar with the usual contents of such bags: nails, bones, Snake Root Seal, John the Conqueror root, calendula, marigold, buckthorn, skunk cabbage, bloodstone, hematite, and who knew what else that was sp
ecific to her current purposes. He had known full well she’d bring something with her, and had considered gathering a few things of his own. But he had never yet brought his magic into his courtroom, and wasn’t about to start now.
“You will explain yourselves,” he told the assembled lawyers, “and then I will decide whether or not your arguments will be heard in public—any more than they already have been,” he added pointedly.
“There was no gag order—,” said one of the attorneys.
Bradshaw shut him up with a glance. “I’m waiting.”
“Simply put, Scott Fleming’s death was deliberate, cold-blooded murder.” Denise’s lawyer took a half-step forward. “That hasn’t been establ—”
“I won’t warn you again,” Bradshaw snapped. “Continue.”
Point man for the prosecution was Andrew Parkhurst, nephew of the congressman whose interests dovetailed so comfy-cozy with the Reverend Fleming’s. Wondering how anyone with a law degree from East Nowhere God-in-His-Glory College had ever managed to pass the bar—and knowing he was being a Harvard snob for thinking it—Elias gestured for Parkhurst to begin.
“Your Honor, Reverend Fleming states that his son was not there as a Satanic participant.”
“So what was he doing?”
“Testing his faith. His true faith.”
Bradshaw was professionally compelled to maintain an impassive expression and the proper judicial distance; Susannah had no such problems. She frankly stared, saying, “I beg your pardon?”
With impervious serenity, Parkhurst went on, “As Jesus was tempted, so too was Scott Fleming. Also like Jesus, he triumphed over Satan. That’s why he was killed.”
“And rose again on the third day?” Denise inquired sweetly.
“That’s enough,” Elias ordered.
“Are you telling me,” Denise’s lawyer said slowly, “that he went into that house knowing full well what would go on, he was willing to participate, and did so as some test of faith?”
“Exactly. He was murdered because his faith survived the experience. They could not allow him to live and bear witness.”
“The facts,” interjected Denise’s lawyer, “are that Scott Fleming went voluntarily to a ritual, participated enthusiastically—evidenced by his own semen—and when further sexual gratification was not forthcoming, threatened serious bodily harm and had to be restrained, at which point he incurred injuries that led to his death. It was an accident.” He folded his arms with an air of And that’s that.
“His neck was broken!”
“Entirely accidental.”
“The Lord God knows the truth of this—and the truth of what is in your heart, Counselor. And in yours, Judge Bradshaw,” he added with a portentous frown.
Denise glared. “You sanctimonious prick! You wouldn’t mind if he brought his religion into the courtroom if he believed the same things you believe! You’d strew his path with rose petals every time he took the bench!”
“That’s enough!” Bradshaw roared.
The door swung open. Marshal Lachlan stood there, broad shoulders almost filling the doorway, hands casually on his hips, jacket open to reveal his Glock. Subtle, Bradshaw thought, sardonically amused.
“Everything okay, Your Honor?”
“Nothing to worry about, Marshal. Thank you.”
Lachlan nodded, left chambers, shut the door, and stood with his back against the rippled glass. It was so obvious, it was almost funny. It also worked. Everyone calmed down, with a weather eye on the powerful shoulders shadowing the glass.
Bradshaw watched the two sides face off, his eyes narrowing. He could guess what had happened. Some people got off on strangulation or suffocation during sex. If Scott Fleming wasn’t one of them, then at the very least he had been introduced to the practice that night. Had it gotten out of control? Or had someone deliberately killed the boy? Considering Denise’s usual playmates, he leaned toward the former. But proving it one way or the other—
The only fact that mattered was that the boy was dead. Recalling the tall, lanky, defiant youth on that hilltop the night of Imbolc, Elias shook his head. “Shall we return to the question of why this case is in my courtroom?” he asked pleasantly.
Parkhurst said, “Kidnapping across state lines—New Jersey to New York. Murder in the first degree. RICO.”
“You have an interesting interpretation of the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act,” retorted the defense.
“These Satanists have ties to known gangsters. I have an affidavit describing the implements—candles, incense, clothing, and the like—recovered at the crime scene, and how they were purchased at a store that is serviced by a garbage collection company controlled by the de Lezze family.”
Susannah said what Elias was, frankly, too stunned to say. “You mean that somebody bought stuff from a store where the trash gets hauled by a Mafia business, and that constitutes involvement with racketeers?”
“Precisely,” said Parkhurst.
Bradshaw sat forward, fingers laced white-knuckled so that those knuckles could not connect with a set of perfect teeth in a face with a Hamptons summer tan. “I can guess how this case got so far so fast,” he began. “Everyone has friends. I won’t comment on this, as it has nothing to do with my present ruling. Scott Fleming was, by his father’s admission, a willing participant in whatever went on that night. Nobody took him from New Jersey to Long Island under duress. So much for kidnapping. Regarding murder, talk to the district attorney for Suffolk County, where the estate is located. As for the RICO allegations—stop wasting my time.”
Denise smirked. Bradshaw wanted to go find her Measure and shred it, thread by golden thread.
“Your Honor!” spluttered the prosecution’s second chair. “You must help us expose these Satanist witches for the murderers and blasphemers they are!”
Parkhurst nodded emphatically. “United States District Court is the only possible venue for this trial, for it goes to the heart of our Constitution and our government. ‘One nation, under God!’” He reared up to his full five-foot-nine, and repeated, “Under God!”
“That’s the Pledge of Allegiance, not the Constitution,” Denise’s lawyer said. “The separation of church and state—”
“Our Founding Fathers were righteous and godly men,” said Parkhurst. “They believed in Holy Writ.”
At this point, Bradshaw reflected, Holly McClure would have gone into a lecture describing the divergent beliefs of Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, Franklin, and any number of other icons of the Declaration and Constitution. He regretted not having her and her harangues immediately to hand.
“‘There shall not be found among you any one that maketh his son or his daughter to pass through the fire,’” quoth Andrew Parkhurst, “‘or that useth divination, or an observer of times, or an enchanter, or a witch, or a charmer, or a consulter with familiar spirits, or a wizard, or a necromancer. For all that do these things are an abomination unto the Lord: and because of these abominations the Lord thy God doth drive them out from before thee.’”
“Deuteronomy 18, verses 10 through 12,” Elias said.
Dark eyes widened. “You are of the Faith?”
“I have an education,” he replied smoothly, not adding that his education—any Witch’s education—included chapter and verse of the strictures in the Scriptures. “But I think we shall render unto the Almighty the ‘drive them out’ part. This is a court of law, not a school of theology.”
“‘They sacrifice to devils, and not to God: and I would not that ye should have fellowship with devils.’ First Corinthians —”
“Do we have to listen to this?” Denise complained.
“The hell you attempt to create in your pagan pageantry is laughable compared to the true Hell awaiting you.”
Suddenly, for the first time in Bradshaw’s experience of her, Denise said something worth hearing. In a quiet, dignified voice, she said, “There’s nothing in my religion that says thou shalt not
suffer a Christian to live.”
Good point, Bradshaw had to admit, but he had to take this back into his own hands. “Ms. Josèphe.” He paused, fixing her with a bleak stare. “The District Attorney of Suffolk County may do as she sees fit. Whereas there are no Federal charges here, there may very well —”
“You’re out of your fucking mind!” Denise leaped to her feet, green eyes flashing. “I will not be charged with —”
“I have no influence over local jurisdictions. However, I will offer you a word of advice. Let your attorneys speak for you. That’s what you pay them for — and it would be wise of you to let them do their jobs. For although you’ve been in my presence for only about ten minutes, I’ve taken your Measure.”
Turning crimson, she shut her mouth.
“I’ve made my ruling,” Bradshaw finished. “We’re through here.”
“Never!” Parkhurst exclaimed, turning red beneath his tan. “This is an outrage!”
Elias made a grab for his temper and missed. “Open your mouth again, any of you, and it’ll be to choose between a night in jail and a thousand-dollar fine for contempt of court.”
Into the abrupt silence Susannah said, “Thank you, Your Honor,” and went to open the door with the grace of a society hostess bidding farewell to dinner guests. “If you’ll return to the courtroom, His Honor will be along shortly.”
Lachlan smiled sweetly at the people filing past him, and stayed at his post. “Y’know, I just love not being a lawyer,” he said to Susannah, who winced before looking a question at Elias.
“Give me a minute,” he said in response. When he was alone, with Lachlan’s tall shadow still outside, he lowered his forehead to his clenched hands and swore. He’d done a perfectly legitimate hand-off. He was free of it. And he pitied whichever Suffolk County judge got assigned this mess.
But he wasn’t free of it, not really. Denise would probably have to stand trial for murder—she and whoever else they could round up of the night’s participants. Hedonistic morons, every single one of them. But one of them had done murder, and Elias was willing to bet it hadn’t been Denise. A hundred and fifteen pounds of her against two hundred and ten of Scott Fleming?