Human sacrifice could be considered a religious freedom.

On the first day, he sat at his desk stirring his fourth cup of coffee.

"Sheriff, phone for you!"

"Yeah, I got it." Branfield picked up the receiver. "Sheriff Branfield here."

"Sheriff, Dirk Potrzebie for Scandal Sheet. I need an exclusive interview with those killer cultists. There's ten thousand dollars in it for you."

"No. Look here --"

"Okay, twenty."

"No. I can't --"

"Twenty-five, hell, thirty!"

"You don't understand --"

"Forty!"

"It's not about --"

"Fifty thousand dollars, that's as high as I can go."

"Now you listen here, mister, that's not how we do things round here. These people are in my custody, they're going to get a fair trial, and nobody but their lawyer talks to them until then. You got that?"

The line went dead. Branfield sighed, hung up the phone. He went to the door of his office and leaned against the frame. "Randy, why didn't you tell me who that was?"

His deputy swiveled around in his chair. "Gosh, Chief, it sounded important. Why wouldn't you want to take a call?"

"Normally I would, but it looks like we've got ourselves in a hell of a mess with these wackos. It's probably going to get crazy around here, so if any more of them tabloids call --" The phone rang.

Randy answered it. "Ocarina County Sheriff's Office, Deputy Marsh speaking." He listened for a moment, then put his hand over the receiver. "It's Weird World Weekly."

"I was going to say, if any more of them tabloids call, tell them no interviews, no photos, no nothing. Got it? Okay, I'm going on patrol."

Branfield lifted the keys to his cruiser from a nail and headed for the front door. Before he could reach it, the door flew open. Looking harried, Pastor Knotts jumped inside, pushed the door nearly shut, then peeped outside before closing it.

"Morning, Pastor. What can I do for you? Another broken window at the church?"

"Sheriff." Knotts drew a deep breath. "You realize we have a situation here."

"A 'situation'?"

"You know what I'm talking about. These heathens you caught out in the swamp. Something has to be done!"

"We are doing something, Pastor. We arrested them and we're going to try them for murder."

"That's not enough. We must round up all these devil worshippers and make them see the light! We can't have these sorts of pagan rituals going on in our county."

"Pastor, you may run the biggest church in town, but that doesn't give you the right to interfere in official police business. I've got two deputies out there talking to witnesses and a whole crowd out in the swamp collecting evidence. This is the biggest case we've ever had, and I'm going to make, uh, darn sure it gets done right. If I find you, or anyone else, getting in my way, I'm going to charge you with obstruction of justice and anything else I can think of. Do you understand me?"

"Now, Sheriff --"

"Don't 'now sheriff' me. You're in charge in saving souls around here, and I'm in charge of upholding the law. You go around trampling over evidence and tampering with witnesses, and these people might get off. You want that?"

"No, of course not. But we can't --"

"Look, Pastor, if you want to throw a revival, or give a sermon about this, go right ahead. You do your job and I'll do mine. And right now my job is to get in my cruiser and go on patrol. Excuse me."

Branfield pushed through the door, leaving the minister sputtering behind him.

When he stepped outside he found a crowd of people armed with microphones and video cameras. They saw him, surged forward, and began throwing questions at him. The camera lights converged, blinding him.

"Can you confirm that some of the victims were eaten by rats?" "Is it true that this group is sponsored by the Klan?" "Sheriff! Please tell our viewers how you captured these dangerous cultists!" "Can you connect these terrorists to the Iranian government?"

Blinking, Branfield thought fast. He'd have to tell them something, just to get rid of them. "Settle down, please. I'll give you a briefing."

All right. Someone had called in last night, complaining about noise near the old Watkins property. He'd figured it was the Klan again, a few good ol' boys likkered up and burning crosses out there. "We received a report of some suspicious activity in the swamp."

He would go out there, have a word with the Wizard, and get them to move their little rally somewhere else. With luck, somewhere outside his county. "When we reached the scene, we found several, uh, deceased persons."

It hadn't been the Klan. Branfield had gone to the 'Nam, he'd seen it all, but a couple of deputies tossed their cookies. No doubt about it, something had eaten those people. "I and my men took several suspects into custody."

Definitely not the Klan. They had seemed more like animals than humans: naked, barking, dancing around a fire. Usually he spent his nights breaking up fights at bars, but this went way beyond routine. "That's all I can tell you right now. We expect to arraign the suspects tomorrow."

Another flurry of questions blew over him. "I'm sorry, I can't comment on an ongoing investigation. Okay, whose truck is this? You're blocking me in."

On the second day, a woman appeared in the Sheriff's office, introducing herself as Jenny Applewhite. He turned her card over in his fingers. "Better American Rights Foundation? That's . . . BARF?"

"Yes. And I've heard all the jokes, thank you. I'm here to represent your prisoners."

"What, the killer cultists?"

"That's right. Their religious freedoms have been violated."

"Their religion has nothing to do with it. They killed eighteen people. That's murder, no matter how you slice it."

"May I see them?"

"I can't stop you. For some reason the public defender hasn't shown up yet. Randy, show her to the cells."

She spent the better part of an hour in the back. When she came back out she confronted Branfield immediately. "Sheriff, my clients will need protection."

"Is that so? Who protected those eighteen people they killed?"

"They didn't kill anyone. And if a lynch mob breaks in here, it will be a dreadful miscarriage of justice."

"We don't have lynch mobs any more, Ms. Applewhite. Everyone gets a fair trial before we string 'em up, all legal and proper like. Goober down to the gas station is the judge, Deppity Fife fits the nooses, and Ayunt Bee bakes cookies for their last meal."

"Very funny. I've handled cases like this before, I've seen what the community goes through, and I see it happening here. First you have a crowd of protestors, then they attract the activists and nut cases, then you have a mob."

"I don't know how you do things in New York, ma'am --"

"Maryland."

"What?"

"I'm from Maryland, not New York."

"Oh. Well, I don't know how you do things in Maryland, but here in South Carolina we have freedom of speech. If those people want to march around with signs, there's not a blessed thing I can do to stop them. I kinda thought someone from your 'Rights' Foundation would pick up on that."

"I'm well aware of their right to assemble and to speak their minds. I'm a lawyer, remember? What I meant was that these people need grief counseling. The community has suffered a terrible loss."

"Grief counseling?! For the whole town?"

"Yes."

"Of all the -- are you out of your -- what is the world coming to? Grief is one of the most private things a person has! It's a part of life. It builds character. You bring in a busload of shrinks and you take that away from them. You candy coat death and you take a chunk out of life."

"Well, when they come in here, tell them that. Maybe someday you'll make it into the twentieth century. Me, I have to file some motions. These people are innocent and they're not going to go to jail for murders they didn't commit."

"Right, they're all innocent. Everybody's innocent. Have a nice day, counselor. See you at the arraignment."

On the third day, Branfield made his way to the courthouse. It was right across the street, in the middle of the town square, but he had to get through the protestors, the media, and the extra lawmen the state had sent. He'd heard the Governor and her Attorney General had come to town, but they hadn't bothered to visit him; no doubt they had plenty of time for the national media.

Things got a lot quieter once he made it into the courtroom. Thank goodness they hadn't let cameras in here. All the talking heads had to wait out in the town square.

He took a seat in the second row.

Long after the scheduled time, Judge Lindsey made his entrance. Even without cameras he seemed to be preening for the sketch artists.

"All rise!"

The bailiff read the charges. With over thirty perps and nearly a hundred counts, it took some time. When the judge asked for pleas, Ms. Applewhite rose.

"Your Honor, in the interest of saving the court's time, the defendants wish to plead not guilty to all counts."

"So ordered." The judge rapped his gavel.

"However, I would like to bring several matters to the court's attention. First I have a motion to dismiss all charges."

"On what basis?"

"According to my clients, they did not kill the victims, and had no intention of killing the victims."

"Would counsel like to elaborate?"

"Certainly, Your Honor. At the time when they were allegedly murdering the deceased, my clients were engaged in a religious ritual. They were attempting to contact the entity they worship. That entity sent several representatives to the ritual, who then proceeded to, er, disembowel the deceased. Now, the First Amendment stipulates that our government may not interfere in the practice of a citizen's chosen religion. The murders occurred solely at the instigation of this entity, not at that of the worshippers. Therefore they should be held blameless for the deaths."

The county prosecutor shot to his feet. "Objection!"

"Noted, Mr. Read. This is not a matter for an arraignment hearing. You should argue these facts at trial."

"Very well, Your Honor."

Branfield saw Applewhite refer to her laptop. That ridiculous motion had only set them up for the next one.

"Second, we ask for a writ of habeas corpus. The State has not produced a single murder weapon."

"Mr. Read?"

"Your Honor, the coroner is performing autopsies as fast as she can. At this point, we can't provide a conclusive cause of death for any of the victims. However, in view of the fact that these defendants were apprehended in a remote location with the bodies, we can only conclude that they must be responsible. I assure the court that, by the time we go to trial, we will find the murder weapon or weapons."

"Good enough. Any more motions? No? Then the defendants are remanded to custody without bail." The judge banged his gavel and ended the hearing.

Applewhite caught up to Branfield in the corridor outside the courtroom. "Sheriff! Sheriff! Can we talk?"

"I don't know. I'm a witness. Wouldn't this be considered tampering?"

"Come off it, we're both officers of the court. If we can work something out, we're saving the court's time and the taxpayer's money."

"What did you have in mind?"

"You were there, you heard my motion. It's all true."

"What? Some kind of 'entity' killed those people? I've never heard anything so ridiculous."

"Not the entity, representatives of the entity. And you didn't find any weapons."

"How do you know that?"

"My clients were there. You know it and I know it. So how did those people die?"

"That's the coroner's job. I just put the cuffs on."

"All I'm asking is that you consider another theory of the crime. Is that too much to ask?"

"Hmmm. Maybe if you told me about this 'entity.' None of the killers seem to want to talk."

"Okay, I promise I'll tell you what you want to know. Later. Right now, just keep an open mind."

"Lady, that's in my job description -- 'Must have open mind.' But I can't promise you anything."

On the fourth day, Branfield looked out the front window across the town square. The circus was in full swing.

Broadcast trucks lined the sidewalks, antennae bristling, station logos gleaming. Technicians lounged around the trucks, eating, chatting, working on equipment. Reporters wandered around the square looking for interviews.

A crowd of protestors milled around the front of the courthouse, waving signs and chanting slogans. Something about a murder case always seemed to bring out a few loonies, but this took the cake. Most of them looked like out-of-towners. So far they hadn't caused any problems beyond the usual scuffles and harassment of passersby.

Off to one side Knott's congregation from the Church of the Almighty occupied Boone Street beside the courthouse. They'd tried sitting on the courthouse lawn, but the state law had told them to move. Most had lawn chairs. A few had tables -- among them Aunt Frances, a fixture in town -- and they handed out food and drink to the faithful.

As if he didn't have enough trouble, the cultists had taken to chanting in their cells. The same thing over and over again. He'd told them to stop but they just looked at him and kept going: "Fun gluey, mugly enough, tool who, real yeah, gargle nargle, foot again." He thought he would go insane. If this kept up he'd handcuff them to their bunks and gag them, hang their 'civil rights.'

About time to let Henry go, anyway. Deputy Shanks had picked him up the night before on a D&D, which happened once or twice a month, and brought him in to sleep it off in a cell. Branfield collected a cup of water and a couple of aspirin, unlocked the door, and went into the lockup. Over the chanting he shouted, "Hey, Henry, time to rise and shine. Here's some aspirin."

But Henry wasn't there. Shanks had made a mistake in the log or something; the old man in the cell wasn't Henry, not by a long shot. He sat on the bunk, back against the wall, legs pulled up to his chest. The sheriff put down the cup and unlocked the cell. Warily he approached the figure, who didn't seem to notice anything. He rocked back and forth, moved his lips soundlessly, and at this range Branfield could see a trail of spittle running down his chin.

Something about the man's face struck a chord, and a chill ran down Branfield's spine. This was Henry! He had the same pale blue eyes and gold tooth, but his hair had turned white.

"Henry, man, what happened?"

No response.

Branfield turned to the other prisoners and yelled, "Would you SHUT UP for a minute!! There's something wrong with this man!" Of course they ignored him.

"You sit tight, Henry, I'll call a doctor," Branfield reassured him, pretty sure Henry hadn't heard, but it made him feel a little better. He went back out to the office and called Chicora General.

In a few minutes an ambulance arrived outside, running its siren to get through the crowd. Naturally it brought reporters running from all directions. While the paramedics attended to Henry, Branfield told the reporters that the cultists were fine, this was an unrelated incident, nothing to see here. They seemed to lose interest.

Back inside, they were trying to unfold Henry so they could put him on the gurney. Branfield asked, "George, any idea what's wrong with him?"

"Well, I'm no doctor, but it looks like something in his head." George pointed at his ear and twirled his finger. "But if I had to stay with these fools I'd go crazy too." He indicated the cultists. "Hey, this could take all day. Why don't we just carry him out?" So they picked him up, one by each arm, and hauled him outside like that.

During all this the cultists kept up their chanting, pointedly ignoring the business with Henry. It occurred to the sheriff that he'd deliberately avoided contact with his prisoners. Everyone wanted to talk to them, find out why they did it. He didn't care. Focus on the task at hand; that had gotten him through the 'Nam and everything since.

Now he had to make them stay quiet, without violating their rights and jeopardizing a conviction. He walked down the passage between the cells, searching their faces, looking for someone with authority or a semblance of reason.

Suddenly he stopped short. "Mac?"

No reply, only the incessant chanting. "Mac Watkins? I haven't seen you in a coon's age. It's me, Buster Branfield. Remember? Football at Chicora High? You were fullback, I was safety." He thought he saw a light dawn in Mac's eyes, but then it fled.

"C'mon, Mac. What happened to you? You were the star. You had the prettiest girlfriend, the biggest ride, the most touchdowns. You were going to school up north, come back home, and run your daddy's plant. Then I heard you'd turned into some kind of hippy, run off to Canada or somewhere to dodge the draft.

"Talk to me, Mac. We were friends once. Doesn't that mean anything?"

Apparently not.

"All right, all right. At least tell me who's in charge here." Mac pointed through him. Branfield turned his head to look into the opposite cell. "Him? The old man?"

Mac nodded. The Sheriff thought he could identify most Orientals, but the wizened figure before him now didn't look like anyone he'd ever seen. "You the head honcho?" A blank stare. "Speak English?" More of the stare. "Where are you from? Anh là nguoi nuoc nào?" No answer, just more chanting.

Branfield raised his voice to address the whole cell block. "Okay, look, I'm a reasonable man, but this noise has got to stop. Tell me what you want and we can work something out."

He looked around for some kind of acknowledgment -- a raised hand, a lifted head, a look, any kind of sign that they'd even heard him.

Nothing.

"All right, if you don't want to do this the easy way, we'll do it the hard way."

He went back to his office. Someone would know a way to keep them quiet and avoid a mistrial or some such. Maybe their lawyer. Come to think of it, he needed to talk to her anyway.

On the fifth day, the Sheriff drove his cruiser out to the Watkins plant. Mac wouldn't talk to him, but maybe his sister would. Their father had had a heart attack right out on the factory floor, back in '87, and without Mac there, Dora had taken the reins.

"Sheriff, how nice to see you. You said you had some news for me? It must be bad if you couldn't tell me over the phone."

"Not necessarily. The thing is, I've found your brother."

"My brother . . . Mac? Is he all right?"

"Yes. For the present, yes, he's all right."

"Where is he?"

"That's the touchy part. He's down at the jail."

"Well, why didn't you bring him with you? Oh. Oh!"

"Yes, I'm afraid he's in custody, and the charges are fairly serious."

"What did he do?"

"We found him in the woods with a group of people. Some of them had been killed. We're not exactly sure who did what, so Mac --"

"Oh my God! You're talking about those Killer Kultists! It's been all over the news! Mac is one of them? Oh my God! Oh my God, I knew something like this would happen sooner or later."

"Wait, you knew about this?"

"Not really. All I know is, Mac got involved with some weird religion at school. After a while he dropped out. He would turn up every once in a while, usually to ask for money, then he'd disappear again. He didn't even show up for Papa's funeral. The next time he showed up I told him I couldn't help him. We had a big fight and I haven't seen him since."

"This 'weird religion' -- do you know anything about it? Where their headquarters is?"

"No, I can't help you there. He never talked about it."

"What about his school? Where was it?"

"Somewhere in Massachusetts. He wanted to go to MIT, but didn't have the grades, so he got into this little college near Boston. It had a funny name -- Massachutic? Massatonic? No, Miskatonic."

"Okay, thanks. I have to go now. You may want to get a lawyer for Mac. He's in this pretty deep."

"I'll think about it. Thank you for coming, Sheriff."

Branfield drove back to the office and walked over to the courthouse. He found Jenny Applewhite in the Hall of Records.

"Counselor. How are you?"

"Fine, Sheriff, just fine. What can I do for you?"

"You were going to tell me about that 'entity.' Maybe we could have lunch together."

"I don't know if you want to do this on a full stomach, but what the hell. Let me get my stuff together."

They crossed the square to Bob's Diner, got a booth, and ordered.

"I've learned a couple of things since we talked last. One of your clients is a local boy. In fact, I went to school with him. Mac Watkins."

"Really? Did you get him to confess?"

"Funny thing, he wouldn't say a word. Just kept chanting the same thing over and over.

"I wanted to see you about that anyway. Can you get them to stop? One of the other prisoners went a little loopy and it might have been because of the noise."

"I'll see what I can do."

"Okay. Now, about this 'entity'."

"Right. Let me set it up for you. Do you know how old the Almighty Church is?"

"Two thousand years, I guess. Birth of Jesus and all that."

"No, that was the beginning of Christianity. The first Pope wasn't named until 590 AD. Although that depends on who you ask. And the Almighty Church didn't come along until 1757."

"What are you getting at?"

"There are faiths all over the world, and most of them are older than Christianity. Confucianism dates back to at least 3000 BC. Zoroastrians go back even further. And those are the organized religions. Before that you had worship of ancestors, heavenly bodies, idols, animal totems, nature spirits. Primitive people believed these things -- these entities -- were alive. They thought they could communicate with them, ask favors, get protection from other entities.

"That's mine, the steak sandwich.

"Hey, this isn't bad.

"Where was I?"

"Prehistoric theology, animism, astrology. Despite the stereotypes, we Southerners aren't completely ignorant." Branfield sampled his Diablo sandwich. He'd pay for it later, but damn it tasted good.

"Yeah. Now suppose there were nature spirits that ruled the earth before Mankind ever evolved. And suppose these spirits fought a war with another group of spirits. And suppose they lost the war. And suppose the winners locked them away, in prisons they couldn't escape -- under the oceans, under the polar ice caps, or even in other dimensions."

"This is pretty funny."

"Yes, I see you laughing. . . . Suppose these 'Great Old Ones' could still communicate with a handful of earthly beings, through dream sendings, or telepathy, or what have you. They'd try to manipulate these people to believe in them, to perpetuate their religions, to try and bring them back."

"Like the Killer Kultists."

"Yes! You're catching on!"

"So can you tell me about this 'nature spirit' we're dealing with?"

"They call it 'Cthulhu.' They believe it was sealed into a city sunken in the South Pacific called 'R'lyeh'."

"'Tool who'? 'Real yeah'? That's part of the chant those cultists keep saying!"

"Right. So can you cut them some slack? They're following a religion older than history."

"That's not up to me. They killed eighteen people. Whatever rules they play by, they're in my county, and we have laws against murder."

"I told you, they didn't kill anyone. They called upon Cthulhu, and Cthulhu sent Faceless Ones to reap His sacrifices."

"I'm no lawyer, so correct me if I'm wrong, but if they held a ritual where they might expect these 'Faceless Ones' to appear and kill people, they're at least accessories to those murders."

"Where is that 'open mind' you said you had?"

"I draw the line at killing people. I'm all for religious freedom, but when they sacrifice human beings, they're not simple worshippers, they're killers."

"I'm sorry you feel that way. Maybe a jury will see it differently."

"Not in this county. Not in this state. Not in this country. Whatever 'rights' these people have, they've lost them, First Amendment or no."

"Well then, I guess I'll see you in court."

On the sixth day, Branfield sat in his office, waiting for the next shoe to drop. He'd tried to sidetrack the reporters, telling them as little as he could. He'd tried to get the cultists to shut up, with no success, although they seemed much hoarser. He'd tried to get Mac Watkins some legal help, but Dora still hadn't sent any of her corporate legal staff, and the Public Defender's office in Columbia wouldn't return his calls. He'd tried to work a deal with the cultists' counsel, but she'd gone with baffling BS over dazzling brilliance.

Aunt Frances came into the office, bearing a plate full of cookies. Pastor Knotts followed.

"Deputy, would you like a cookie?"

Marsh, at the front desk, gladly accepted. They pushed into his office.

"How about a cookie, Sheriff?"

"Don't mind if I do." He took a sugar cookie from the plate and wolfed it down. "You know, this would be a better world if everyone were as charitable as you. Um. Dang, I'm tired." He sank back in his chair and his eyes closed.

On the seventh day, Sheriff Branfield rested. He woke in a hospital room. Repeated buzzes on the bedside monitor brought a nurse.

"Dammit, what's going on? What happened to me?"

"Sheriff, you were brought in with an overdose of Valium. We pumped your stomach. Deputy Marsh had the same problem."

"Oh yeah. Give me that phone."

"I'm sorry, you need to rest. You know, if we hadn't gotten a 911 call, you might be dead."

"Right. Now hand me that goddam phone."

"You need to rest now."

Branfield started to protest, but somehow he couldn't keep his eyes open. Everything went dark.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw Deputy Shanks leaning over him. "Sheriff? You awake?"

"Yeah, yeah. Please tell me you know what's going on."

"Um, well, it's not good."

"I didn't think it would be. What's the scoop?"

"You know those cultists we had in the jail? Well, they're gone."

"Gone. Gone where?"

"We're not exactly sure. The State law people are looking all over, and they've been talking to everybody, but so far nobody's turned up."

"So, what you're telling me is, we had a jailbreak, and they did it while I was sitting right there in my office."

"That's about the shape of it, yeah."

"Okay, the first person you need to talk to is Pastor Knotts. And Aunt Frances. Aw geez, the cookies! They doped the cookies!"

"Huh?"

"Find the Pastor! And Aunt Frances! Now!"

"Yessir!" Shanks hurried away. Branfield tried to think about his duties, about what had happened to him, and what the consequences would be. But then everything went dark again.

When he regained consciousness this time, he saw Dora Watkins and Deputy Shanks standing on opposite sides of his bed. He knew time had passed, but he had no idea what had happened in that time.

"I'm awake already. Tell me what's going on."

Shanks answered first. "The State law guys found the cultists."

"Really. Were they calling Tool Who again?"

"What? No, they were strung up. Hanged. Out in the swamp."

"All of them?"

"Yes, every single one. We checked their prints."

"Dora. Mac was with them."

"Yes. I figured something like this would happen sooner or later."

"You expected your brother would die?"

"He'd forsaken the real world. For all we knew, he'd become a Moonie or something. What does it matter? As far as the family's concerned, he died a long time ago."

"He was my friend."

"He was my brother."

The Sheriff sat at his desk, stirring his first cup of coffee.

It all seemed too funny for words. A week ago he'd had a jail full of religious kooks; now he had a jail full of another batch of religious kooks. They sat in their cells, saying prayers and singing hymns.

A week ago the town square was half full of reporters, protestors, and crazies; now they overflowed the square. Booths had appeared, selling everything from fried okra and boiled peanuts to t-shirts and balloons.

A week ago the Killer Kultists had had only one lawyer; now the lawyers were tripping over each other. The National Almighty Council had sent a team, and other Almighty faithful across the country were volunteering to defend these upstanding citizens.

A week ago he'd felt tired; now he felt old and tired.

Created: August 14, 2001; Updated: August 9, 2004