Lawyers in Hell (26 page)

Over the din, Wolfe asked, “What was that all about?”

Churchill leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.  “Glenn Gould.”

Wolfe spread his hands.  “Who is Glenn Gould?”

“Some prodigy born well after we died.  One of the
moderns.”
  Churchill shrugged.  “Apparently someone at the Hall of Injustice saw this as a fitting punishment.  Not sure of the reason for the punishment, and I’m not about to ask.”

“Me neither,” Eugene agreed.  He tapped his empty bottle and looked at Wolfe.  “I thought you ordered another round?”

Wolfe scowled and turned to signal the barkeep.  He didn’t get that far.  His attention was drawn to a succubus.  He’d been warned about succubi.  The strangers back in New Hell had explained them:  female demons who controlled men through sex.  The red-skinned demon temptress stood just inside the tavern entrance, the saloon doors swinging to a slow rest behind her curvaceous body.  Scanning the room, her yellow eyes locked with his.  Flashing perfect teeth, she approached, her hips swaying enticingly.

Despite himself, Wolfe felt the initial stirrings of arousal.  He swallowed and looked to Churchill and Eugene.  Both men were busy inspecting their fingernails.

The succubus glided to a stop beside him and purred, “Are you General James Wolfe? 
The
General James Wolfe?”

Wolfe swallowed again and wondered if this had anything to do with the rumored audit of hell from on high.  “I am,” he croaked.

The succubus nodded and produced a scroll.

Hesitantly he took it from her slender red hand, determinedly ignoring the long, sharp fingernails.

“A pleasure, Mister Wolfe.  You’ve been served.”  Turning on her heel, she departed for the door, her alluring hips swinging with each seductive step.

Wolfe tore his eyes from her captivating backside to study the scroll.  It appeared very official:  vellum secured by a red ribbon and sealed with the stamp of the Hall of Injustice.  The strangers had told him about the Hall of Injustice, too.  His hands turned clammy.  His stomach twisted.  The uneasiness triggered an onslaught of bile and blood, rushing up his gorge.  Wolfe dropped the scroll on the table and scrambled for his handkerchief.  Turning his back on Churchill and Eugene, he hacked into the stained silk for several long moments.

The fit passed.  “My apologies,” he muttered.  Turning back to the generals, his eyes widened.  “I say!”

Churchill and Eugene, chairs together, had the scroll open before them, reading its contents.

Eugene glanced up, “That’s a bad cough, Wolfe.  You should see someone about it.”

Wolfe made a grab for the scroll, but Churchill snatched it away, lips silently moving as he continued reading.  Wolfe sat back and snapped, “I have consumption.  I had it when I was alive.  My brother died from it.”  He lapsed into silence as a sudden thought occurred. 
I wonder if my brother is here.

“Tee Bee,” Eugene explained.

“What?”

“Its official name is ‘tuberculosis.’  That’s what doctors call it now.”

Putting thoughts of his brother from his mind, Wolfe said, “Consumption sounds simpler.  Is there a cure for this … Tee Bee?”

Eugene grinned.  “Is there a cure for anything in hell?”  He turned serious and leaned forward.  “You don’t get out much, do you?”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“It’s obvious.  Your manner of speech, your lack of knowledge.”  Eugene’s fist hammered the table, causing the Scots to pause and look over.  “I wager you believe you don’t belong here.  You’re in denial, aren’t you, Wolfe?”

Wolfe flushed.  Flustered, he said, “I am not in denial, sir.  I am new here.  I woke up in this world but several days past.  And what if I am in denial?  Do you two gentlemen believe you belong here?”

Eugene nodded enthusiastically.  “Of course we believe it, don’t we John?  Between the two of us, we were responsible for tens of thousands of deaths.  It doesn’t matter if we were right or wrong, good or evil, innocent or guilty:  we ordered men to die.  And let’s not forget the ancillary effects on the innocent lives lost to looting, starvation and disease.”

Wolfe pursed his lips as he absorbed that, his fingers nervously drumming the tabletop. 
An interesting perspective, though clearly misguided, since responsibility ultimately belongs to the commanders-in-chief and the governments they represent.  A point of view worth pondering, however.

Churchill asked, “Who is this Marquis de Montcalm character?”

Wolfe’s head shot up.  “What?”

Churchill laid the scroll on the table.  “Louis-Joseph de Montcalm.  Marquis de Montcalm.  It says here he’s requesting a trial.”

Wolfe took the scroll and read it.  His lips moved as he struggled through the legalese.  Minutes later he laid it on the table, his mind racing.  He glanced at Churchill and Eugene, who watched expectantly.  “This subpoena is preposterous…” he began.

Two demons, large, scaly, red and horned, burst through the saloon doors and took positions to either side of the entrance.  The tavern occupants fell silent.  The player piano abruptly stopped.  Gould seized the moment to begin an aria, but the key cover slammed down, nearly taking Gould’s fingers off at the knuckles.  His solitary curse was the only sound.

Another two demons entered, smaller cousins to the burly specimens stoically guarding the entrance.  They scanned the interior.

Wolfe noted one of the small demons lacked a horn, while the other missed an ear.

One Ear pointed at an unoccupied area.  The two demons rushed over and slapped a pair of tables together, placing a chair behind them.  They promptly cleared out several more tables, dragging the heavy furniture across the wooden floor, creating an open space.  Nodding in satisfaction, One Ear returned to the entrance and pushed through the saloon doors while the demon with the missing horn placed a second chair beside the joined tables.  It sat.  A moment later, a battered stenotype appeared on the table in a curling puff of smoke.  The demon arranged itself before the device, cracking knuckles and flexing fingers.

One Ear returned, a man following closely on its heels.  The man was old, his stooped body clad in an ill-fitting and dusty suit.  A length of chain ran from a button hole on his threadbare vest and into a pocket.  His drawn face sported a prodigious white beard, contrasted by several dark strands of hair peeking from under a battered straw hat.  Hobbling with the infirmity of age, he moved to the table and sat heavily in the lone chair.

A series of papers appeared before him.  Producing a pair of spectacles, he bent forward to read the top sheet.  Muttering to himself, he set it aside and quickly leafed through the remainder.  Returning the spectacles, he wagged a finger at One Ear, who leaned close.  They conversed for a moment before the man nodded and the demon stepped back, taking a position slightly behind the old man’s right shoulder.

In a voice like gravel on tin, One Ear announced, “This court is now in session.  All rise for the honorable Judge Roy Bean.”

Wolfe exchanged looks with Churchill and Eugene, then glanced over at the Mongols and Scots, who appeared equally confused.

The two burly demons snarled and took one step forward from their posts at the door.  Chairs scraped as everyone stood.  The big demons stepped back, regaining their positions.

Bean’s demon assistant said, “Court may be seated.  Except you.”  The demon pointed at Wolfe.  “You will approach the bench.”

Wolfe looked to Churchill and Eugene for guidance.  Both men had found something interesting on the floor.  Swallowing, Wolfe approached.

One Ear held up a clawed hand.  “Close enough.”

Wolfe stopped.

Judge Bean picked up a sheet of paper and cleared his throat.  “You are James Wolfe, son of Edward Wolfe?”

“Yes sir.”

For the first time Bean set eyes on him.  “Your Honor.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“And do you understand the charge brought against you?”

Wolfe shuffled his feet.  “Not exactly, Your Honor.  I had little time to read the document.  To be honest, sir, I do not understand what this is about.”

Judge Bean grunted and looked back at his assistant.  “Where is the Plaintiff?”

“
Ici, Monsieur le president
.”

Wolfe’s neck hairs stood at the voice and confident tread of leather boots pounding across the wooden floor.  The footfalls stopped, and he sensed a presence near by.  A quick glance confirmed his suspicion.  It was Montcalm.  Adversaries in battle, they had spied one another from afar, but never personally met.  This was the closest he had come to the French general.

Judge Bean grunted again.  “Good of you to attend, Mister Montcalm.”

Montcalm sketched a bow.  “Apologies, Monsieur le president.  I was detained by –”

Judge Bean raised a hand.  “I am not the President.  You will refer to me as ‘Your Honor.’”

Wolfe allowed a slight smile at Montcalm’s rebuke, until Bean’s stern gaze shifted his way.  The man may have had the look of someone old and tired, but his eyes were sharp.  This judge still retained his faculties.

“Mister Wolfe,” Judge Bean began.  “You have been summoned before this court to answer the charge of cheating.”

So the outrageous accusation on the scroll was true.  “Your Honor, that is a ridiculous –”

“Silence,” Bean growled.  “You will not address this court until ordered.”  Scowling, he cast about the table top.  “Where’s my gavel?”

One Ear said, “Missing, Judge.  I have my best imps looking for it as we speak.”  A sudden puff of smoke revealed a claw hammer, close beside Bean’s hand.  “I believe that will suffice for the time being, Judge.”

Wolfe heard Bean mumble something about his gavel and not some bloody hammer.  The demon assistant remained silent.

With a throat clearing harrumph, the judge continued.  “The charge is cheating.  To-wit, Mister Montcalm has accused you of cheating your way to victory at the, er …” a shuffling of papers, “at the battle on the Plains of Abraham.  How do you plead?”

Wolfe’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly, his indignation growing at such a preposterous claim.  Suddenly he felt his gorge rise anew.  Panicking, he fought to control it.  He would show his weakness to no one.  Especially now.  With supreme effort he wrestled it down, a silent victory, save for the bitter taste lingering in his mouth.  Drawing himself up, Wolfe said, “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

Judge Bean drew his lips into a thin line.  “Very well.  Mister Montcalm, present your case.”

Where Wolfe was thin and sickly, the Marquis de Montcalm was fit and sturdy, possessing a round face, large nose and generous mouth.  Sketching another bow, he began, “Your Honor, my case is simple.  On the night before Monsieur Wolfe and his men ascended the bluffs near the said plain of Abraham, he lied to my guard standing watch on the river.”

“Lied?  How so?”

“It is like this, Your Honor.  We had expected a flotilla of supplies that night.  Sadly, there was a change of plans I was unaware of, and the flotilla delayed.  My guard, not informed of the change, saw Monsieur Wolfe’s boats and issued a challenge.  One of Monsieur Wolfe’s men was fluent
en Français
and answered the challenge.  The guard, not knowing better, and having no clear view in the dark, allowed them passage.  Thus, by trickery and deceit did the British gain the plains and force me to do battle.”  Montcalm crossed his arms and shot an accusing look at Wolfe.

Silence descended as Judge Bean’s jaw worked, his smoldering eyes burning into the Frenchman.  In a low voice he asked, “And?”

Montcalm spread his arms.  “And what, Your Honor?  Is that not sufficient?”

Judge Bean launched out of his chair and ground his knuckles on the table.  His face flushed as he spit, “And
that’s
your case?  Some British soldier lied to your guard?  Your poor little guard?  Oh, the horror.”  He barked to One Ear.  “Where’s that box of Snotex?  I think I’ll go cry for a minute.”  He swung back on Montcalm.  “What kind of fool do you take me for, you idiot?”  Nostrils flaring, he snapped, “An assassin plunging a poison knife into your back might be cheating.  Wolfe bribing your men to turn on you might be cheating.  Why, if Wolfe here challenged you to a duel and had one of his snipers shoot your damned head off, then
that
would be cheating.  But, lying to a guard?”  Bean reached for the hammer.  “I should fine you for wasting the court’s time.”  He raised it.  “This case is –”

One Ear’s hellphone went off, its ringtone playing cheery notes from
The Devil Went Down to Georgia
.  Bean paused, head turning to fix the demon with a withering glare.  The assistant raised a finger, asking for a moment while it took the call on its remaining ear.  It listened, nodding repeatedly before terminating the call and approaching Bean.  It leaned over to whisper in the judge’s ear.  Slowly Bean lowered himself into his chair, his features passing from anger to puzzlement to reluctant acceptance.  As the assistant stepped back, the judge spent several moments staring hard at the table.  Looking up, he snapped, “That was the Big Guy.  He wants you two to refight the battle.”

Montcalm bowed.  “
Bon!  Tres bon
, Your Honor.”

Wolfe stammered, “That is impossible, Your Honor.  There are no Plains of Abraham here, and we have no men.”

Bean glanced up at the assistant.  One Ear whispered into his ear.  Bean nodded.  “I am informed there is a field located some three miles west of us.  It will be altered to approximate your Plains of Abraham.  You are ordered to meet there in two days time.”

Wolfe swallowed.  “And the men?”

“Your Honor,”
Judge Bean reminded him.

“And the men,
Your Honor?”

“Yes, well, the court agrees that assembling the original combatants on such short notice is impossible.  Therefore, you will have at your disposal a number of revenants equal to the numbers of men that took part in the battle.”

Wolfe felt light-headed. 
Revenants?
  He knew about revenants from English folklore.  “Revenants?” he squeaked.  “Revenants are undead beings, Your Honor.  Mindless, undead beings.  They have no capacity to give orders.  I warrant they can barely follow one.  No, Your Honor, I cannot command an army of revenants.  It is impossible.  I would be all over the field issuing instructions.”