Каарон Уоррен - The Best Horror of the Year Volume Ten

Despite being a lawyer, Lyle could follow little of this, even as that phrase— “sovereign citizen”—set off bells in his head. His face and ear ached like a bad tooth; not terrible, but promising more to come.

“For the purpose of this interaction,” the Walrus fumed, “I am the authorized representative of JOHN ROBERT DOE.” He paused, then carefully enunciated, “I am the live flesh-and-blood man Doe: John-Robert, sui juris . That’s Doe-FULL COLON-John-DASH-Robert, sui juris . So don’t hang your straw man B.S. on any of us!” He spat. “We. Are. Asseverated! I did the paperwork myself! And if you federal stormtroopers can’t—”

“Settle down, J-Bob-D,” Earl said soothingly, “he didn’t mean nothing by it.”

“He appears under color of law here!”

“He ain’t under color of law; he just wandered—”

“He presented a badge , Roberts: Earl-James! That’s—”

Earl was holding up his hands soothingly and kept repeating the words “misunderstanding” and “simmer down.”

The Walrus shifted his attention back to Lyle, pointing viciously as though casting a hex of his own. “I do not wish to create joinder with you!”

“He ain’t creating joinder, J-Bob-D; he just wandered in at the wrong time and has misunderstood this entire situation.”

As all this played out, the alleged witch had slowly gotten to her feet, although she was still stooped over and panting, hands planted on her knees.

“Listen, Detective Good, work with me.” Earl locked eyes with Lyle, then continued portentously, “You aren’t here in honor of, or under jurisdiction of, any admiralty courts or their agents, are you?”

Lyle finally noticed that although Earl was not obviously armed, many of the gathered “private individuals” wore guns at their hips. A lone assault rifle leaned against the sagging barn. The phrase “sovereign citizen” finally clicked: He’d come across it while reading a report on domestic terrorism and anti-government groups.

Earl continued, “Nor are you appearing on these privately held lands under color of law to create joinder in any manner?”

The right answer to Earl’s questions was fairly obvious:

“No,” Lyle said, “of course not.”

“Satisfied?” Earl asked the Walrus. The man crossed his arms above his belly, leaned back in his folding chair, and looked away, then nodded once.

“Nonetheless,” Lyle said, “what’s happening here isn’t right. Adulterating a cake with bodily fluids is not right, regardless of intent.” The schoolteacher reddened but held firm, refusing to drop her gaze. Lyle could see the words I Googled it forming in her mouth, although she didn’t dignify his criticism with an actual response.

“That witch-cake business,” Earl said reasonably, “was just the last straw that broke the camel’s back. Whole thing was practically said and done by then. Our Common Law Grand Jury had already issued a True Bill of charges.”

“Charges?”

“Of her witchiness. She came here and blighted our whole situation.” Again, grunts and grumbles and head-nods rippled through the crowd.

Lyle glanced at the fallow field around him, the sagging barn, the fact that these many gathered “private individuals” didn’t appear to have more pressing business on a weekday afternoon than sitting in a muddy field and murdering an old woman. He expected he’d now hear tales of failed crops and joblessness and bankruptcy. But that was not the case.

“She made me kill six people,” a frail, elderly woman in a powder-blue camp chair and matching tracksuit offered. Nodding and affirmation again riffled the crowd. “Two big fellas that had broke into my barn in October, and then a family of four in a brand-new minivan last week. They were lost, trying to get back to the interstate. And they were Hindus.” She looked around with mild astonishment as she added this last, although her tone was less I can’t believe I murdered an entire Indian family! and more I can’t believe I ate an entire footlong Subway sandwich!

A hand went up. Lyle shifted his gaze, acknowledging the hand-raiser. It was the heavy man whose red ball cap proclaimed his intent to MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN. “She made me throw battery acid in some girls’ faces in Pittsburgh.” Again, commiseration throughout the mob like a made-for-TV AA meeting.

More hands were raised, and more voices chimed in:

“She made me poison a bunch of the formula they give out at the hospital in East Liverpool.”

“…made me Krazy Glue razor blades all over the playground equipment out in Canton…”

“…made me mail roadkill to a daycare…”

“This is crazy talk,” the woman muttered to Lyle, not raising her head, her moving lips concealed by her hanging hair. “You can see that.”

“…burn down eleven churches—Jew and Islam ones, mostly…”

“…violate graves…”

“…defile…”

“…torture…”

“…corrupt…”

“…children…”

“…rode us…”

“…she rode us hard, rode us fit to make our hearts burst…”

“…rode us cruel…”

“Please,” the hanged woman whispered. “You gotta help me. Please.”

But still the voices continued with their earnest accusations. Not with the enthusiasm of a witch-hunt, Lyle thought, but the oddly resigned admissions of the bewildered and contrite.

“And there was the sex stuff.”

“Yeah. That stuff.”

“A lot of bad, weird sex stuff. Copulations with things you shouldn’t, animals, dead stuff… .”

“And with things that shouldn’t even exist. Nightmare stuff.”

“Uh-huh. Total nightmare stuff.”

“Yeah.” Earl nodded with finality. “A lot of bad stuff. Me, too. No need to rehash it. All was sworn into the record as testimony before the CLGJ. We didn’t just get up pitchforks and torches, Detective. This is a done deal.”

“You’re saying this woman took control of you all?” Lyle said carefully.

“She rode us,” Earl specified, “like ponies. Came in the night, bridled us, and then rode us off to do the things she wanted done.” Earl frowned. “Nope. That ain’t right, ’cause she can’t just hop on your back and go against your will. It has to be something there’s already a glimmer of in you, even just the dimmest middle-of-the-night curiosity. She finds that glimmer and focuses a bright, bright light on it, making it flash and shine bright in you. Dazzling bright.”

Lyle glanced back at the frail woman, terrified, red-rimmed eyes peeking out from her scraggled hair. He was struck by the absurd image of this woman riding piggyback on the fat man who’ll MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN, cackling madly and waving a cowboy hat with glee.

“Once you’re being rode, the shame is gone. It feels good when it occurs to you to do it—when you’re pouring the acid out of an old tractor battery into a Ball jar, or whistling down the aisles at the Dollar Store looking for superglue and razor blades, or twisting the wire around a kitten’s neck. And you feel good doing it. It feels… ,” Earl paused, and Lyle was shocked to see tears pooling in the hard, lean man’s eyes. Earl sniffled, then rubbed at his eyes with one hand, index finger and thumb pinching the bridge of his nose. He loosed a long, slow breath. “It feels wonderful to do it, like it’s the thing you been waiting to do all your life, like sinking a nothing-but-net three-pointer or winning a big prize or sliding into bed with a beautiful pair of gals. But then, after that bitch lets up on you… .”

He shook his head, grimacing, breathing slowly and with effort.

“It’s like meat that goes rancid in your mouth. It’s fucking awful. You never felt so low.”