The Miskatonic Manuscript (Case Files of Matthew Hunter and Chantal Stevens Book 2) Read Online Free

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