Revelations (14 page)

I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I feel sorry for him. I can tell he’s in pain, and I’m sorry about that, but he needs to snap out of this. We all do. Jesus needs us now, more than ever. Whether or not it came early, that doesn’t matter a whole lot.

The point is it’s happened. We have to get ready for what comes next… again.

I’m giving him fifteen minutes to get his shit together, and then I’m going to find out what he knows so we can act on it.

I’ve decided to cancel all my concerts for the next couple of weeks and stay around here. They need me, I can feel it. I sent Ruth on vacation. She doesn’t need to be involved. I’m back, boys, back with my family. Mary M is going to stay…

until the end.

It’s so very hard to think when he isn’t here, to act without him. I know that probably doesn’t make any sense, as many times as we’ve been through this. And as long as I’ve been standing on my own two feet now, doing my thing. But it still hurts. I do love him, we all do. And right now there’s only one person that can hold us together, keep us on track. But he’s still sitting at the very spot where they arrested Jesus. I can’t bear the look on his face, like a wounded child. Even so, him getting drunk like this isn’t going to help at all. I’ve told Thomas to quit bringing him alcohol. I don’t give a shit if Judas gets mad at me, I’ll take the blame. I
want
his anger, at least then I’ll know he’s feeling something other than pain.

All right, Iscariot, it’s time to snap out of this.

It doesn’t matter how much I drink, I can still see him. I can still feel him being pulled from my arms, taken away from me. Oh God, I thought I’d felt pain before, but that was nothing compared to this. I was useless, not a damn thing I could do. Kaplan made that quite clear, the smarmy asshole. Did he have to cuff him—seriously? Who was he showing off for? Three guesses who the chief instigator and architect of my misery was. I don’t care how well he thought he disguised himself, I knew who he was, the bastard. Some things never change.

For the first time in my life—in any of my lives—I feel paralyzed, unsure of myself. I don’t know what it is I should be doing. I know I need to do something. I
have
to do something, it’s an imperative. But what? All that’s running through my brain at the moment is how can I lose him when I just got him? How? It isn’t right, it isn’t fair.

And yes, I know, you don’t have to tell me—no one ever promised me life would be fair. It never has been before. But just this once, for just this one moment, there was hope, a possibility, a glimmer of a chance. He loves me, he truly loves me…and now he’s gone, taken from me. Oh fucking hell.

Life’s not only not fair, it’s damn cruel.

I haven’t moved from the spot where last I saw him. How can it be only hours ago? It feels like forever. One moment we were sleeping together, curled about one another, holding each other. I kissed him gently, something I’d done maybe a few times over the course of the night—or maybe a few hundred—ever since we fell asleep after making love. As if to reassure myself that he was indeed there. A purely blissful moment. Until I became aware of a voice that whispered my name, and the most hateful words I think I’ve ever heard—“Thank you, Judas, for all your help, there you have your evidence, gentlemen”—and then they were there. And he was gone.

I take another pull of the bottle that rests in my lap. I’ve long ago forgotten just what it is I’m drinking, and I’ve stopped caring as well. Good Thomas, he’s taking care of my every need. Drinking needs, that is. Nothing more. No one else for me but Jesus. And so, no one…

I can barely breathe, my heart is being squeezed so fucking tight I can’t even feel it beat, and this roaring in my head is only growing louder, as if I’m trying to drown my pain with a mindless cacophony. But it’s not working. Not at all. Time has become a meaningless blur. I finish one bottle, reach for another. “Thomas!” I yell.

“Where are you?” But it’s not his voice that replies, not his hand clamping down on my arm in a vise-like grip. It’s hers. What the fuck?

And then I feel her other hand. It lands hard across my cheek. My head wobbles back and forth, as I try to make some sense out of what’s happening, and still this insistent ringing in my ears.

“Judas, you can’t do this,” she abjures me. She squeezes my face between her hands; her blue-tinted eyes are boring into mine, much as I try to avoid them, and her nose is turned up in a moue of distaste—probably because I reek of liquor. Do I care?

No, not really.

And yet I know she’s only speaking the truth. Words of frustration well up in my brain, attempt to make themselves heard, but get lost along the way, and to my disgust, I feel a tear slide down first one cheek, then the other. No, I refuse to cry in front of her, she’ll only use my weakness to her own advantage.

Too late.

I brace myself for whatever scathing comments she cares to make, glaring at her defiantly, albeit drunkenly, although if I were thinking clearly I could just push her away and move. But I don’t. And she doesn’t.

“Judas Iscariot, you’re in love with him, aren’t you?” She’s dropped her voice to a surprised murmur; there is no detectable malice in her words. Why not? She hates me, I know she does. Why is she acting like she even gives a damn? Because she cares about him. My weary mind provides the answer, she loves Jesus too. Just not in the same way that you do, even if she sometimes acts like she does.

I don’t answer immediately, but she proceeds as if I have replied in the affirmative. “You need to snap out of this, or you won’t be of any use to him.” A statement, no commentary. Simple fact.

“Nothing we do will help,” I manage to get out, thickly. “Nothing. ’sall ordained.

You know it, I know it, we all—”

If I’d been paying better attention—or paying any attention at all, actually—

perhaps I’d have seen her motion to Peter, but I’m not, remaining oblivious until much to my surprise I feel myself being lifted in those huge hairy arms—damn, that man is stronger than I gave him credit for being—and I’m being tossed ignominiously into the pond. And it’s fucking cold. And I’m fucking wet, and very much pissed off.

But also very much soberer than when I was thrown in, which I am sure was her objective. Damn, I hate it when she’s right. But there’s no time for this petty crap now. And no time for wallowing in the slough of my self-pity. There is work to be done. And I don’t mean preparing for his end.

Why has it never occurred to me before? Two thousand years of doing what I’m told has dulled Judas’ brain. Two thousand years of going with the flow, following orders, and following the script. So, here’s a novel thought—how about a rewrite?

Let’s change the way this story ends. And let’s give it a happily ever after, for once.

Sound good? It does to me. Now, if only I can get these idiots to go along with my ideas before they give up. Or worse.

All in all, I have to say things could have gone better. But they could also have been a lot worse. We were very much taken by surprise. We weren’t prepared mentally, or otherwise. It’s too soon, for this. It shouldn’t have happened. Not yet.

Not like this. This isn’t right. Still, all things considered, I’m grateful Kaplan didn’t arrest Judas as well as me. Very grateful. Although I’d certainly appreciate his company here, no question of that, but not at the price of his freedom.

I’m also grateful that at least he’s removed the handcuffs. I suspect Sheriff Kaplan used those as much as a show for Judas’ benefit as anything. Once we were out of sight he removed them, and allowed me to sit beside him in the front of his vehicle for the drive into town, rather than in the back, where I suspect most prisoners are relegated. Still, it was so painfully excruciating to watch Judas’

agony. He struggled so valiantly, did my Judas—and I have no qualms about calling him that now, not after last night—but it was simply meant to be. Like every other time. I recognized Lucifer, even in disguise; I’ve seen him in too many of those to be fooled by any of them. I’m grateful he restrained Judas, and kept him out of harm’s way. Whatever his motive was, I have no doubt Judas can handle him. I’m not sure what happened after I was taken away. All I can say is I’m sure Judas wasn’t quite as amenable as me, and he probably showed it in some way, either verbal or physical, or both.

Kaplan has been rather kind, considering the seriousness of the charges that have been brought against me. Pretty heinous charges, but I expected no less, to be honest. Sadly, I’ve heard the same thing often enough before. From what he’s told me, I can tell he’s not too fond of Judas—or Mr. Jarvis, as he calls him. That’s not my concern at the moment. I wonder what Judas is doing? I worry about him. I know he won’t react well to this. It will take him some time to pull himself together. But once he does, and I pray he does quickly, he’ll be here, I know he will. I know him too well to doubt he’ll come to me. And when he does, I’ll have to reassure him everything’s all right. The question is can I convince myself of that before I see him? I’ve no choice in the matter, I must. For his sake. For our sake.

For what little of our sake there may be left.

The jail where I’m being kept is a small one. Appropriately so, for a small town such as this. Kaplan runs it with the aid of one deputy. There are two barred jail cells, set next to one another, with a single small window set high upon the back wall of each cell. I’m alone in one, and I think the other is occupied as well, but I can’t be sure, my line of sight doesn’t extend that far. I’ve seen worse places, trust me. This one is actually rather homey, considering. There are two cots, each with a decently warm blanket and not too soft pillow, a chair, and a small table with a reading lamp beside it. Although there seems to be nothing to read. Not that I could concentrate on reading even if I had the material, to be honest.

I’ve been alone here for a few hours. At least I think that’s how long I’ve been here. I’m not sure my perception of time is accurate. They took my cell phone, and I don’t wear a watch. Kaplan seems busy enough, doing other things I imagine.

People have been coming in and out quite a bit. I get the impression the deputy is somewhat flustered at all the attention, at being a bit busier than usual—perhaps Kaplan sent him out to take a break. Some of the people that come and go seem familiar. If I’ve seen them before, I can’t place them. Yet. I imagine I’ll find out soon enough.

I fall to my knees beside the cot, leaning into it for support, my hands clasped against the softness of the blanket. I close my eyes, and begin to pray.

Father, please help me, give me strength, show me that this is your desire.

Explain to me just what it is you wish me to do. I wasn’t prepared, I’m sorry. I’m
finding it hard to think at the moment. Please…

My prayers are interrupted by a discreet cough behind me. I turn my head to find Kaplan standing there. I assume he wishes to speak with me. I push myself up from my kneeling position and face him.

“Are those just for show?” he asks. For a moment I’m confused, thinking he means my prayers, but then I understand. The robes. Not standard apparel in this place or time, but they are comfortable, at least to me, and I have always explained them as being part of my act. As I remind him now.

“Will this be a problem?” I ask, wondering if there is some standard jail apparel he wishes to exchange for these. It doesn’t matter. They are just clothes, after all.

“No, no.” He shakes his head. “I was just wondering.” He stands there for a moment, hands buried in the pockets of his tan lawman’s trousers, brow furrowed thoughtfully as if he is formulating what he wishes to say next. I allow him the silence to do it in. “Mind if I come in to talk?”

“Of course not, Sheriff. It’s your jail.” My smile is polite but distant. As if we both know there is nothing else I can do; there’s no sense in being rude to him, either. That is not my way. I remain standing as he enters the close quarters of my cell; I hadn’t realized before that the door wasn’t locked. He motions to me to take a seat upon the bed, and he pulls up the lone chair so we’re across from one another. He leans forward, his hands upon his outspread legs, in a confidential pose. I have to assume he doesn’t consider me any sort of a flight risk, but his revolver is within easy reach; I can see it resting against his hip. My mind occupies itself with such minutiae in order not to think on the one thing I truly wish to think about. But worrying about Jude won’t make things any better. I sigh resignedly, as I wait for him to speak.

He gives me a quizzical look, but doesn’t ask.

“You’re a hard man to get a hold of, Mr. Stone,” he begins at last, “and your…

assistant…is a hard man to get around.”

I can’t help but hear the nuance in his voice when he speaks of Judas, as if he’s trying to ascertain our relationship for his own mind. I refuse to cooperate in that regard. I know he’s seen more than enough to formulate his own ideas. He doesn’t need my help with that. “He does his job and he does it well.”

“That he does,” Kaplan concedes with a nod, “that he does. Does that mean you’ve been avoiding me?”

“That means he’s protective toward me,” I reply, “especially when I have things to do.” I spread my hands wide, to encompass the cell in which we sit. “As you see, Sheriff Kaplan, I’m now a captive audience, you’re free to speak to me as much as you like.”

“Because he isn’t here.”

I see no reason to comment on his statement. There is no question there. I force myself to swallow the lump in my throat, otherwise I won’t be able to trust my voice.

He’s made his point, felt his shot hit its mark, so he moves on. “Maybe it would’ve been in your best interest if he’d let me see you before it had to come to this,” he continues, pulling a handkerchief from a breast pocket, and snorting into it for a moment, before continuing. “Sorry, sinuses,” he apologizes before getting back to the point. “I was trying to tell you that I’ve gotten complaints about you, and they were saying things. Pretty awful things. I only wanted to warn you, you know?” He pauses, perhaps to give me a chance to defend myself, maybe pin the blame for my silence on Judas. I refuse to do so, saying nothing.