THE TESTAMENT
OF
JAMES
THE TESTAMENT
OF
JAMES
From the Case Files of
Matthew Hunter and Chantal Stevens
by
Vin Suprynowicz
A Mountain Media Book
The Testament of James
From the Case Files of
Matthew Hunter and Chantal Stevens
Published by Mountain Media
P.O. Box 4843
Pahrump, NV 89041-4843
Copyright © 2014 Vin Suprynowicz
First edition
TheTestamentofJames.com
VinSuprynowicz.com
Vin’s books can be purchased from
Cat’s Curiosities
Hardcover ISBN: 978-0-9670259-3-3
(ISBN-10: 0967025931)
Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9670259-4-0
Cover painting by Matthias Stom
Cover design by Carl Bussjaeger
Author photo by the Brunette
Digital edition by Invisible Order
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be translated, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any other information or retrieval system, without the express written permission of the copyright owner.
Praise for The Testament of James
If the Da Vinci Code comes to mind (and I’m sure it will, to Vin’s eternal despair), forget it. Although a biblical mystery, TToJ is simpler, shorter, less frenetic, and all its action takes place within a few days and a few miles of Books on Benefit (in Providence, Rhode Island, which is both H.P. Lovecraft territory and Edgar Allan Poe territory, you might notice). Its conclusion is also a heck of a lot more relevant than the one in the famous Dan Brown book. . . . I received my copy on Christmas Eve and had devoured it before getting out of bed on Christmas morning.
— Claire Wolfe, author of 101 Things To Do ‘Til the Revolution and Don’t Shoot the Bastards Yet, from the Living Freedom blog at BackwoodsHome.com.
Now and then I see reviewers refer to a novel as a ‘romp.’ I don’t know that I’ve ever done so before, but I’ll do so now. . . . The story covers a short period of time (a couple of days) and is told in 200 pages because that’s what it takes to get it told well. The pacing is perfect and the reader (this reader, anyway) is left both satisfied with the story as it is and wanting more of the characters and of the world it happens in (exactly the outcome a series writer wants!). . . . Read this book.
— Thomas L. Knapp, Rational Review, Center for a Stateless Society, knappster.blogspot.com
CONTENTS
Acknowledgements
Part One
Chapter One: Tuesday Afternoon
Chapter Two: Tuesday Evening
Part Two
Chapter Three: Wednesday Morning
Chapter Four: Wednesday Afternoon
Chapter Five: Still Wednesday Afternoon
Part Three
Chapter Six: Thursday Morning
Chapter Seven: Thursday Afternoon
Chapter Eight: Thursday Evening
Part Four
Chapter Nine: Friday Morning
Chapter Ten: Midday Friday
Chapter Eleven: Friday Afternoon
Part Five
Chapter Twelve: Still Friday Afternoon
Chapter Thirteen: Still Friday Afternoon
References Indexed by Topic
Bibliography
About the Author
Preview of The Miskatonic Manuscript
DEDICATION
This book is for Amy, the first reader, who had faith in the Case Files of Matthew Hunter and Chantal Stevens when few others did.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My first debt of gratitude, of course, is to those who entrusted to me the Case Files of Matthew Hunter and Chantal Stevens, in the first place. The understanding was that I would set before the public some few of their adventures, chosen to demonstrate Matthew’s unorthodox methods, in hopes of encouraging a wider understanding and appreciation of his approach, and thus of the destructive and irrational nature of the persecution of plant helpers in general. Further, the goal was to find cases with aspects that might be of interest not merely to bibliophiles, but also to a more general audience. I have attempted to do that, while remaining mindful of the steward’s judgment at the wedding at Cana.
There were those, undoubtedly with the best intentions, who advised that I should do more to “goose up” these accounts, inserting manufactured car chases, gun battles, last-minute rescues and the like, while “pruning back” the bookish lore.
But Matthew Hunter and his associates are first and foremost tracers and sellers of old and rare books, a field in which I believe we can show there remains adequate drama, without grafting on the plot devices of an old Warner Brothers cartoon.
I have also resisted urgings to lard up this tale with scholarly footnotes. The subject index and bibliography at the rear should provide plenty of opportunity for those who wish to further pursue subjects encountered in Matthew’s adventures.
That said, I would like to acknowledge the generosity of master diagnostician Dr. Michael Petruso, in donating his time and expertise to discuss with me the possibility that a victim of crucifixion could seem to be recovering from his wounds, yet still succumb even after a period of days or weeks (though any medical errors in this book are mine alone.)
I should also like to thank that old shooter (and rigorous journalist) A.D. Hopkins, for his discussion of the true dimensions of the British .303 round (though any ballistic errors in this book are mine alone.)
Bob Beers has been selfless with his time as our volunteer webmaster, and manfully struggled through an early draft to deliver a detailed critique. Mama Susan Callaway was also a helpful early reader.
Carl “Bear” Bussjaeger went beyond the call of duty in designing our glorious dust jacket, based on a painting by Matthias Stom, c. 1600–1652.
Leo Behnke of The Book Group, Las Vegas, did yeoman work on the page design.
Mary Ann Sorrentino offered vital and timely help in making sure the Penitente gang wouldn’t sound like they learned their Italian at Berlitz last week . . . though any linguistic errors are mine alone.
Phil DeFlumear has educated many of us on the finer points of bookmanship. Once you’ve gone online and bought a few “1818” Frankensteins, or “Scribner’s 1925” Great Gatsbys — and received only jacketless 1970s reprints — you can come to appreciate what a real bookman is, and why we should all be thankful that a few still struggle to uphold the standards of the trade.
My thanks to Thomas B. Roberts of Northern Illinois University, editor of Psychoactive Sacramentals / Essays on Entheogens and Religion, for sending me an inscribed copy years ago, which I did finally get around to reading, and am happy to heartily recommend, here.
I must be getting old. How are we to repay our debts of gratitude to those who have gone on ahead? I believe my old friend Les Daniels, creator of the “Mind-Rot” column in The Providence Eagle, who often invited me to “drink deep of the purple prose that is Providence,” would have enjoyed my attempts to sketch the idiosyncrasies of the gang at Books on Benefit. Though of course, none of the characters or business enterprises in this book are based on real individuals, living or dead. . .
We lost Sasha Shulgin, this year. He started out a brilliant chemist, but in the time I knew him he was also kindly, patient, though
tful and wise. The movement to recover the wisdom of the sacred plants could not have had a better godfather. A nation whose “authorities” would harass such a giant, rather than honor him, has largely betrayed its early promise of greatness, along with its hollow guarantee of religious freedom.
Finally, I have known some real-life literary detectives. But the first among these was my dad, who once handed me a book by British Bible scholar Hugh Schonfield, called The Passover Plot. He could not have guessed where it would lead.
THE TESTAMENT OF JAMES
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
TUESDAY AFTERNOON
Matthew heard the front door to the shop open behind him, though he could have sworn he’d locked it. A gust of cool air swirled in, followed by an imposing figure in a black cape. He wasn’t more than six-foot-four, which meant technically he shouldn’t have had to duck his head to get in. But he did.
Matthew didn’t know the face, long and square-jawed, though he felt maybe he should. In fact, the first thing that occurred to him was that the Theatre Department had brought in a ringer, some professional curtain-chewer past his prime to play the lead in the latest student production of “Dracula,” since the casting of some pimply undergraduate with a voice not yet settled was the standard Achilles heel of such offerings.
“I’m sorry, we’re closed today,” Matthew said. “There’s been a death.”
“Your unfortunate employee. You have my condolences. Natural causes, I believe?”
The giant had the deep, resonant voice to match his stature, and spoke precise British English — upper class British English, though he was actually Mediterranean. The family had retained the best of tutors.
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps?” asked the big guy.
“There was some kind of event here a few evenings ago. I don’t know all the details myself, Mr. . . .”
“Penitente. Dominic Penitente.”
“So if you’d be willing to come back tomorrow . . .”
“You have a certain book, Mr. Hunter.” He really did have that James Earl Jones kind of voice, would probably have sounded just as great reading Green Eggs and Ham, or the advertising copy off the back of some cereal box. “Your employee took delivery of this book several days ago, perhaps even the day he died, which I do regret. I represent a buyer who is willing to pay a substantial price for this book. Discreetly, of course. Whatever the Californian with his mail-order Divinity degree is offering, I assure you my employer can do better.”
“What book are we talking about?”
“It’s not necessary to be coy, Mr. Hunter. You understand my employer is willing to deal in cash, if you prefer. Reporting transactions to your revenue authorities, that sort of detail, is of no interest to him. Nor can we be made to answer any questions about such a transaction. Diplomatic immunity, you understand. . . .”
“You have the advantage of me, Mr. . . . Penitente? I’ve been away for more than a week. If this book arrived here in the meantime, I’m not aware of it. You’ll have to give us a week or so to get back up to speed. At that point, we’ll see if Robert left us any record. Although I have to tell you books that come in here get priced and put on the shelves, they don’t go in the computer unless we’re listing them for sale online, which depends on a number of factors. The easiest way to find out if we have it is to just leave me the author and title. . . .”
“You’ve dealt in the past, I believe, with Mr. Rashid al-Adar.”
“Look, sir, I don’t want to be impolite, but we’re closed. I have people coming from the funeral. So unless you can tell me exactly what it is you want, I’ll have to ask you to come back when we’re open.”
“Mr. al-Adar brought a book here. He brought it to your late associate. He wanted you to sell the book for him. I want to buy it.”
“In that case, if such a book turns up, I’ll get in touch with Mr. al-Adar to find out his instructions for a sale. Then I’d be glad to contact you. You have a card, something with a phone number or an e-mail address?”
“I do.” The dapper giant produced a glossy white business card, in raised type so it felt like braille when you rubbed your thumb across it, mysterious for the absence of the usual corporate name and logo, but elegant.
It said “Dominic Penitente / rare manuscripts,” under which was centered a 10-digit phone number.
“Boston,” Matthew noted.
“A cellular telephone,” Penitente explained. “I’ll be staying here in your fair city for a few days. You may call at any hour.”
“I’ll keep it handy.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hunter.”
They shook hands. The big guy looked almost sad, as though he regretted whatever he’d have to do next. His hand was dry but at least he didn’t try to apply one of those Vulcan death grips like the characters who spent too much time at the gym, guzzling protein shakes. Dominic Penitente looked around the store briefly, sizing it up. Matthew almost expected him to ask if he could browse for a minute, hunt for The Chronicles of Narnia or the Malleus Maleficarum. But instead the big Dracula look-alike left after nodding briefly, whatever that meant.
* * *
Skeezix stepped aside to let Dominic Penitente, if that really was his name, sweep down the front walk. His black cape flared behind him as he turned the corner. Skeezix immediately disliked the guy, found himself growling softly. As the man in the cape turned down the sidewalk, he also passed Chantal, who seemed to be hesitating about coming up the walk. Skeezix smiled at her; she gave him a thumbs-up.
Then Skeezix turned to peer in the glass panels of the front door, past the hand-lettered sign that read “Closed: Death in the Family.”
He rapped quietly, cracked the door, tilted his head inside. “Is it OK?” he asked.
“Come on in, Skeezix. Drinks are in the cooler; you could help set out the food on the table.”
It never would have occurred to Skeezix to be a fashionable 10 minutes late. But since he was family, it really wasn’t necessary for him to knock, either.
The bookstore had been a private home, long ago. The front dining room was now lined with bookshelves, but they’d kept the good-sized dark wooden table and a motley assemblage of user-friendly armchairs, not to mention a few of the traditional overstuffed red leather variety over by the fireplace. During the day customers were welcome to sit and read, but it had long been the custom for some of the town’s small bookish fraternity to gather there at closing, 6 o’clock of a Sunday, to share take-out food.
“She’s outside,” Skeezix said.
“Chantal?”
“She’s walking back and forth.”
“I’ll go out. Do me a favor and lay out the food, Skeezix. Some’s still in the fridge in the kitchen. Including the vegetable stuff. Ask the cats to please not walk in it.”
She was indeed hesitating on the sidewalk. Slightly below medium height, Chantal was one of those unusually pretty brunettes with blue eyes. She was self-conscious about her lower body, though, which was not as slim as called for by the current arbiters of emaciated cadaver fashion. Not that Chantal carried extra body fat, at least not anywhere that men tended to find it unattractive. Chantal’s problem was that she favored strenuous outdoor pastimes, including hiking, running, and actual mountain-climbing, with the result that her calves, thighs, and butt were muscular and prominent. The problem — if anyone other than Chantal actually considered it a problem — wasn’t much helped by her favoring short plaid pleated skirts, which had the effect of making her look like she was late for some high school field-hockey scrum. She got carded when ordering wine in restaurants with tedious frequency.
“Chantal.”
“I wasn’t sure if I was welcome.”
“Come in out of the wind.”
“It was such a shock about Robert. You must have had to drop things to come back. We probably could have handled things for you, here.”
He took both her hands. “Your friends have missed you,” he sa
id. “Come in.”
Others who had known Bob, either booksellers or librarians or members of one English Department or another, were putting in an appearance now, some of them puffing from the steep walk up the hill from the memorial service. There was genuine warmth in the welcomes for Chantal, the circumstances of whose absence had generated much speculation. Serafina, she of the green eyes and the long black fur, seemed particularly anxious to renew Chantal’s acquaintance, though the cat’s nervousness increased as more and more people arrived, till finally she scampered for the sanctuary of the back stairs.
Books On Benefit occupied the street level of a late 19th century brick structure in the Second Empire style, which is to say it was a big block of a multi-colored thing with gables and bay windows and fairly ornate trim. Since the structure was built into the western side of College Hill, said hill dropping away steeply behind the house toward the modern downtown to the west, it appeared from the eastern or “street” entrance to be your standard old three-story house. A relatively small sign, illuminated by a couple of small white spotlights in the evening hours or on a rainy day, announced
BOOKS ON BENEFIT
FINE & COLLECTIBLE
BOOKS BOUGHT & SOLD
But from the steeply ascending side street up which Matthew’s late afternoon visitors were now puffing their way, the house clearly had two more “basement” stories with partial western exposures below. It was a mostly residential neighborhood, so parking was along the streets, except for two precariously perched spaces nestled around the windows that peeked out from the building’s second basement, reachable from the side street if you knew they were there.
At the front of the house, facing historic Benefit Street with its Federalist and Greek revival captains’ houses, there were manicured rectangles of neatly trimmed grass to either side of the front walk. In a larger, fenced side yard, well shielded from the street and shaded by several trees, one an ancient maple, grew a plethora of tall plants popular during the warmer months with butterflies and hummingbirds, including hollyhocks, foxglove, and giant poppies, though most were only beginning to bud, this early in the year.
The Testament of James (Case Files of Matthew Hunter and Chantal Stevens) Page 1
