Revelations (15 page)

He changes tacks. For the moment. “You know a Mr. Lassiter? Head of the Citizens Opposed to Carnal Knowledge group?”

Of course I do. They’ve been a few steps behind us the entire tour. And I’d know Lucifer’s handiwork anywhere, his juvenile sense of humor making itself evident in his self-righteous group’s acronym. I’m sure he finds it quite amusing. If his group ever figures it out, I somehow doubt they’ll see any humor in being members of C.O.C.K. I’m also not about to point it out, either.

“I do,” I reply, and offer no more.

“They don’t like you much, do they?”

“I’ve gotten that impression, yes. I’m sure they mean well, Sheriff, but they don’t understand us, or what we’re trying to do…”

“Maybe you can explain it to me?” He sits back slightly, crossing his legs at the ankle, one hand adjusting the brim of his ten gallon hat before he takes it off completely, and holds it in his lap. “What are you all about, Mr. Stone?” I give him a warm but fleeting smile. “I’m afraid I could never explain us to your satisfaction.”

“You could try.”

“I could…” I counter lightly, but offer no more.

He sighs, pinching up the brim of his hat, frowning down at it as he turns it within his hands, and then back up to me. “I really need you to cooperate,” he says.

“This group is after your blood.”

“There’s nothing they can do to me.”

“They can put you away for the rest of your life. Isn’t that bad enough? Keep you away from…your followers?” I can hear the words he’s trying not to say, for some reason, as if he’s afraid by saying it I’ll be either embarrassed or angry.

Either choice is ridiculous. Besides, I know what he says isn’t going to come to pass. I know better. I can’t tell him that, naturally. I owe him no explanations.

What will be, will be.

“I have done nothing,” I assert softly, “can they say the same?”

“Mr. Stone, you are a baffling man,” he admits in frustration, rubbing thoughtfully at his jaw. “You know, I could arrest Jarvis, too, is that what you want? To have him in the next cell? I could do that very easily…” His eyes are narrowed as he stares straight into my own, testing me. I conceal the trembling of my soul at his last words. He’s bluffing, and I know it. He only wishes to see my reaction. I cannot allow that. I will protect Judas, no matter what.

With my very life. Perhaps there may be a way in which he can leave this place, get away before his final act is carried out, although I admit to not knowing how or where that is to be. My Father very wisely doesn’t allow me to know that part of the script, perhaps fearing my interference. Or simply to save me the pain of knowing how his life will end.

Well, even not knowing, I intend to interfere, somehow. I just haven’t figured out how. All I know is I can’t allow Judas to die. He deserves a real life, a better life and death than this. And I intend to move Heaven and Hell to see he gets it.

For once. This time. I won’t fail him again.

My lips are moving, I feel words, perhaps ill-chosen words, threaten to spill forth when a sound draws our attention. We both turn in the direction of the noise, watching as the door to the jailhouse opens with an insistent clatter. In strides the object of our conversation himself, and I can’t help the smile that flies to my lips at the sight of him, followed quickly by amazement.

He looks just like he has walked off the runway of an Armani fashion show, decked out in a navy pinstriped suit, with the palest of blue shirts beneath it, set off by a silver tie, with diagonal stripes. His blond hair is well-coifed into a number of small braids that frame his handsome face most magnificently, and the overall effect is enough to leave me momentarily stunned as my lover makes his grand entrance, walking into the very lion’s den. He spies us immediately and struts toward us, taking up a position just on the other side of the bars, sets one hand on his hip, glaring at Kaplan defiantly.

The effect of his beauty is slightly marred as he fairly growls at Kaplan. “What the fuck do you mean by holding him here without bail?”
Chapter Twenty-Four: Judas

I do have to admit that I clean up rather well, don’t you think?

And yes, the cold water dousing had the desired affect, I have to give the woman credit where credit is due. Albeit grudgingly. But I’ve no time to worry about that now.

The new threads are not mine. I’d never spend the obscene amounts of money that these must cost, judging by the label. There are far better uses for such sums than adorning one’s body. They’re hers, and why she has them at all is beyond me.

But at the moment that is superfluous information, and the fact she does is simply fortuitous. No sense in looking a gift whore in the mouth, so to speak. Sorry, I’ll try to watch my tongue, be a tad more grateful. I perform the necessary ablutions and prepare myself for battle. Yes, I said battle. This is no longer a simple game, the stakes are far too high, it’s Jesus’ very life here—and I don’t intend to see him die again, no matter what I have to do.

First things first. The other apostles are milling aimlessly about the tent like bedraggled orphans, doing nothing useful, with the possible exception of Thomas, who’s trying to be helpful to me, while I’m trying to lose this headache that plagues me. And no, don’t tell me it’s my own fault for imbibing so much. I want the pain to go away before I go to face down that ridiculous lawman, so I send the lad off for something to take away the edge. Meanwhile, I attempt to organize this pathetic group, to give them some direction. Obviously we aren’t going on tonight, not without Jesus here. And when I do get him back—I still won’t allow him to go on, at least not before tomorrow. Maybe not then. Or ever. But they don’t seem inclined to listen to me, the miserable bastards. They just glare at me and mutter under their breaths, rather than acknowledge the fact I’m in charge for the moment.

It’s the only logical course of action, if they were only capable of listening to reason. I sense they blame me for what’s happened, but I’m not sure why. None of them has the balls to say anything directly to my face, but their nasty attitudes definitely show it.

Until Thomas sheepishly thrusts a special edition of some podunk press into my hands, disappearing almost immediately, and I realize where their enmity stems from. They know all about Jesus and me now—they’ve gotten quite an eyeful.

There’s a picture of us plastered on the front page (although the picture is tastefully obscured in all the right places, I still have to wonder how that fucking devil managed to get a picture, even amid the uproar of Jesus’ arrest). Well, doesn’t that take the fucking cake?

“
Thomas
!” I roar, aching to have those pills in my system, and then be on my way. But once again, it’s Mary M that answers my bellow. “Never mind the pills,” she insists as she leads me aside, away from the common herd, pushes me gently into a chair, and then proceeds to stand behind me, rubbing my temples softly. I hate to admit it, but her touch feels good, and it has a rather soothing effect.

“Judas, do what you need to do for Jesus, I’ll see what I can do with them,” she murmurs, “and for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

I think I must be having an out of body experience. This can’t be my body she’s touching so gently and it can’t be me she’s addressing without her usual caustic zings. This can’t be Mary Magdalene actually apologizing to me, so who have I become? My eyes reflect my confusion. She laughs.

“I know, right? Me and you? Me apologizing to you? Whodathunkit? But all kidding aside, I think I misjudged you, and I’m sorry. I think you truly love him, and he loves you, and I wish I could do something to help…” And then she does something I’d never have imagined if I lived for a million years—she leans down and kisses my forehead.

For once I have no nasty rebuttal, and the only words that cross my lips are,

“Thank you.”

The raging pain in my head is already subsiding, and I decide I’ve no more time to waste. The question now is how am I to get to the small burg where my Jesus is being held—and yes, I’m being very possessive about him, for he is mine, let there be no mistake about that. Mine first, anyway. After me, he can belong to the others. Selfish, I know, but after two thousand years of waiting, I really don’t care. The vehicles we use for basic transportation are currently in use, and I don’t have the time to sort that out. And once again I’m saved by Mary M—this is indeed a day for wonders—as she presses the keys to her rental Humvee into my hand. Perhaps that’s a sign of some kind. If she and I can actually get along and speak to one another in a civilized manner—and I would have bet a lot of money against that ever happening—then I should be able to save Jesus. Sounds simple, no?

Who am I kidding? No, it doesn’t.

Don’t ask me why I let her do my hair in this way, but I did, and I have to say the effect is rather interesting. In an odd sort of way.

So now I’m wide awake, and I’ve finished with my pity party, decided not to roll over and play dead after all—there is too much at stake here. I’m on a mission, as I stand here defiantly, one hand on my hip, staring at that hick policeman who had the gall to arrest Jesus Christ and put him in the pokey, and nothing and no one is going to stand in my way.

Of course, Kaplan doesn’t know the truth about what he’s done, but do I give a shit? Hell, no.

“What the fuck do you mean by holding him here without bail?” I repeat, focusing my attention on Kaplan, although I dart a glance at Jesus, just to make sure he’s all right. He appears to be, but appearances can be deceiving. It hasn’t been all that long since he got here. Not really. It just feels like it, to me.

Kaplan’s risen from his chair and is eyeing me a bit skeptically, as if I’ve either sprouted an extra head or begun to speak an alien language. “What are you, his attorney, too?” he asks. His very sarcastic tone of voice indicates he believes me to be jesting. I can imagine what he thinks my other function is. Not that I give a fuck what he thinks. What have I got to lose by lying? Not a damn thing. And everything to gain.

“Yes, I am,” I reply smoothly, tossing my head for effect (don’t ask me why, I just do, it makes the braids breeze about my face momentarily. I do believe I’ve made Jesus smile at my affectation. Score one for me). “Tell me what his bail is, and I’ll post it, and we’ll be on our way…” From one pocket, I pull out a wad of bills thick enough to choke the proverbial horse and begin to count them out, keeping an eye on the good ol’ boy in the jail cell, who seems amazed I possess such a huge sum. He probably wonders if I stole it, but it’s none of his damn business. Just give me a receipt and let us go, Jethro Bodine, I intend to send him where you can’t reach him, where he can be happy, and we can end this pointlessness once and for all. Despite the script. Fuck the script, I say, I’ve just added an alternate ending, one much more to my liking. Call it the director’s cut, if you will. If only I were really the director, which I’m not.

He looks skeptically at me, and then at Jesus, then back at me, before replying,

“I’m afraid it’s not up to me to set bail, Mr. Jarvis, so I can’t oblige you with an amount.”

I stop counting, frowning at him as I pause, my thumb poised over the face of some bearded President. Grant, I believe. “Don’t be ridiculous, Kaplan, this is your town, you’re the law. Set the amount and I’ll pay it, here and now, no questions asked. Hell, take it for yourself, I don’t care, just let my client out, and we’ll be on our way.” I risk a glance at Jesus, just for a second. He’s quietly shaking his head at me. I ignore that. I expected no less from him, as this isn’t the way it’s supposed to go. Well, that was before, and this is now. New story.

“It’s still not up to me.” Kaplan shrugs. “I’m just the sheriff here. You need to talk to the judge about bail for Mr. Stone.”

“Fine!” I snap, shoving the bills back into my pocket ill-naturedly, approaching the bars, still very much on my high horse. “Where can I find him or her then?

Courthouse, I presume?”

“If we had a courthouse, then yes,” Kaplan answers in a manner that makes me itch to knock him on his ass. “But we don’t.”

I pause, mentally counting to ten, only reaching to five before interrupting myself. “Then where can I find this judge? At home? At the barber shop? Give me some kind of clue, unless you intend to have me go on some sort of a scavenger hunt, just to give my client his rights?”

“You’ll be able to find him right here,” Kaplan continues, and I hate the look of amusement on his Howdy Doody face. I glance around the penny ante building scornfully.

“Here where?”

“Here here. When Judge Reynolds comes to town, he’ll be sitting here. He’s the circuit court judge for this area, and this is where he’ll be.” I roll my eyes in exasperation. “And just when do you expect that to happen, Sheriff?” If I don’t get an answer and get it now, I swear I’ll reach through those bars and pound his face against them until he tells me something concrete.

“In about two days’ time,” he answers, “and that’s the best I can do, I’m afraid.

You’re lucky that just happens to be his regular sitting time, otherwise you might be waiting nearer a month.”

Does he seriously consider that lucky? But I bite my tongue before I say something untoward, something that will only predispose him against what I’m about to ask for next. Two days. It will feel a hell of a lot longer. Maybe I can think of something else in the meantime. But for now, I know what it is I want to do. “I wish to confer with my client, it’s my right,” I insist. “Do you have an office we can use, for privacy?”

“Sorry, I can’t give you that kind of privacy,” he responds, and I feel my face flush with the implications of what he thinks I am asking for. I didn’t even say conjugal visit, now did I? I think that man needs to get his mind out of the gutter.

“But I tell you what. I’ll let you in here, and then I’ll just go do some paperwork in my office, and let you and your…client…talk. How’s that?” Before I can make what is undoubtedly a smartass, ungracious reply, Jesus speaks first, smoothing any potential ruffled feathers. “That would be just fine, Sheriff. We appreciate your kindness.” The look he gives me clearly tells me if I want even half a chance of getting some time in this cell, I’d best behave. So I do, albeit grudgingly.