Revelations (16 page)

Two minutes later I find myself on the inside of the cell, and Kaplan on the outside, locking the barred door between us. “I’ll be in my office if anyone comes looking for me,” he says with a wink, before disappearing from view, closing his door firmly. Good riddance to his cornpone self. I don’t foresee anyone needing him very urgently. Somehow I doubt anything of any major importance goes on in this place. We’re probably the biggest event to happen here in years. Lucky us.

“Judas,” Jesus begins, once the sheriff is out of sight, but I silence any possible words of protest with a kiss.

Nothing is said between us for all of two minutes until we have to come up for air. “Are you all right?” I begin anxiously, colliding with his own words, “Judas, what are you doing here?” He has a right to be surprised. In all the time we’ve been doing this, I’ve never been permitted to visit him before the trial. Not that I’m being permitted to now, this is my own idea, after all. Always before, I’ve been forced to sit on the sidelines, play the part of the traitor. No longer. At the moment, though, I’m hesitant to tell him what it is I’m planning to do…both because my plans aren’t close to being formulated, and also because I know he’ll protest, say we must follow the plan. Which I have no intention of doing. My only concern is for his safety. Hopefully it will be for both our benefits, but if I can’t work that out, at least I’ll make sure he’s safe. No discussion allowed.

I decide to give him a break, answer his question first, so he can relax and answer mine. “I’m here to see my client, of course.” I fairly smirk, which produces a small chuckle from Jesus.

“So you’ve added a law degree to your credentials now, have you?” He reaches out and fingers my braids, and then looks at me as if to say, whose idea was this?

“It was Mary M’s idea, she says she got the idea from some movie, I don’t know which one,” I admit, watching his eyebrows arch in astonishment at the admission. Not the idea that the hairstyle comes from a movie, of course, or that there is something which I do not know—I confess, I do have a tendency to be an arrogant, know-it-all prick at times—but because I actually allowed Mary M to not only help me and to touch me, but I actually listened to her, for once. I’ll have to ask Thomas later if he knows which movie she means, see if it’s a good one.

“Are you all right?” I repeat my question, scan his visage anxiously for any signs of maltreatment. Not that I think Kaplan necessarily looks the type to do something like that, but you never know. And it’s happened before. More times than I care to think about. The first time had to be the worst, I think. I was forced to watch as he received thirty-nine fucking lashes—I would’ve taken them for him, if I could. I know, that’s easy to say now, but it was true then and it’s still true. The intervening years have yet to dull that particular memory, and probably never will.

So I worry about him, each and every time. There’s always something, always someone that wishes to hurt him. It never fails to astound me. Or to tear me up inside.

“I’m fine,” he replies serenely in his resigned martyr’s voice, the one I know only too well, the one I hate to hear. It tells me he doesn’t intend to try, he’s simply going along with the way things have always been, down to the bitter end. Well, I’m not. I’m done following the game plan. But I don’t think I should let him know that quite yet, lest he try to work against me for any reason. Or argue me out of it.

It’s not happening, I have my mind set—he’s going to live. And hopefully, with me. If not, then not. Either way—he’s going to live.

“I’m sorry at the way things have turned out,” he continues, “I truly hadn’t expected it so soon. I thought we had more time. At least a few more days…” I take a seat beside him on his cot, take his hand in mine, twining our fingers.

“Have you heard from your father?” I ask hopefully, although I don’t expect that to be the case. He never directly intervenes in what we do. And yet, did he not send me to his son? Surely not simply to offer us paradise and yank it away so cruelly once it was attained? I wish I knew.

“No, not yet.”

We sit together in silence. Relative silence, that is. My ears and my still tender head are assaulted by the ticking of a clock. I bet Kaplan has one on the wall, just out of sight. One of those cheap plastic ones. I find the quite sound jarring. I’m all too well aware of its presence as it signals the passage of time. Clichéd, maybe.

But it’s still true, and it’s working against us.

“Are the others…?” He hesitates, as if looking for the right words. “Treating you well?” I read between the lines, of course. He knows how they’ve been before, how they can still be. That’s another reason I have my Thomas mole among them.

I think he’ll warn me before they attempt anything. If he can, that is.

“The usual.” I shrug. All right, maybe I’m glossing over things a bit, but there’s no sense in worrying him about something he can do nothing about. The atmosphere when I left was decidedly hostile, for lack of a better word. And no one was exactly sorry to see me go. Mary M said she was going to talk to them, but I honestly don’t think it will help. Which reminds me. I have to find Mary—as in his mother—and see she’s taken care of. Luckily I know they won’t do anything to harm her, she’s well loved. But this must’ve come as quite a shock to her too.

Which gives me an idea.

“I tell you what. I’ll bring Mary back with me next time. It’ll do you both good.”

He squeezes my fingers, rewards me with one of his beautiful smiles. “I’d like that, Jude. Will you bring both of my Marys?” he teases, and I can’t help but feel he is happy that this longstanding enmity between myself and Mary M has been not only been eased a great deal, it’s perhaps working toward being eradicated.

Maybe you can teach an old Judas new tricks. Or maybe it’s because for the first time in my life I’m truly happy, and I know he’s the reason. He makes my heart sing. So I’ve no reason to hate her. Maybe I’m simply mellowing in my old age.

Which brings me back to the whole way too soon thing, and how cruel it is.

Rather than explode with the frustrated rage that threatens to course through me, I reach for him instead, as my salvation. Our arms twine about one another, our lips meeting once again, and this discussion is over. At least for now.

“Jude,” he murmurs into my mouth, my hands sliding through his dark tresses caressingly, “Jude, don’t expect too much from the judge. Bail will never be set, that’s how it’s meant to be…”

I refuse to entertain such a notion. They can’t deny him that, surely, and if they do, then I’ll simply have to try another tactic. A less legal one. Whatever it takes to release him. I mean what I say. He is
not
going to die this time. You have my word on that.

I push such thoughts aside, as I melt into him, one hand gripping the back of his head, the other enmeshed with his between us, and I’m so very hard for him that I can feel it, bulging against these designer trousers. A slight movement on my part brings our joined hands into his lap, and I can feel his own raging desire. Oh damn, why is life so very cruel?

And as if to illustrate my point, the outer door—which I wish now I had locked, in hindsight—opens, and a chorus of shocked gasps begins. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to divine who’s arrived. I’m all for giving them more of a show, but I’ve no wish to cause Jesus any more trouble, so I gently pull away, turning so that he’s behind me, shielded by my body.

Well, well, there they are, the sniveling hypocritical asinine members of C.O.C.K. Led by the chief cocksucker himself, good old Mr. Lassiter. And isn’t he all decked out today in a white silk suit so bright he could pass for a televangelist?

“Ladies, you may wish to avert your eyes,” he drips in his saccharine tones, although I notice most of them continue to stare voyeuristically. “Thank goodness we came when we did, otherwise I fear we might have been treated to more of the same thing we interrupted earlier.”

Jesus’ hand tightens on my arm, and it is only this that restrains me from going after Lucifer, for I’m ‘justthisclose’ to doing so. But I refrain. For his sake.

I manage to find my voice. “What do you want here? We’re having a privileged attorney/client meeting, and you
aren’t
invited.” This only produces a smirk. “Wouldn’t that entail you being an attorney first?” Without waiting for an answer, he turns to his group. “See what unnatural creatures they are? Even now, they think only of carnal pleasure. We’ve done a good thing, getting this man off the streets and away from our children.”

“You have no children,” I remind him with a sneer.

“Jude, please ignore him,” Jesus murmurs softly, “they’ll get tired and go if you don’t give them any reason to stay.”

Which is the point at which the sheriff returns, probably having heard the hubbub all these bleating sheep are making, paperwork in hand as he steps out of his office. “Mr. Lassiter.” He nods politely to the big dick. “Ladies and gentlemen,” to the rest. “Is there something I can help you with?” How badly I want to say he can help them by adjusting their holier-than-thou attitudes, and by removing the big sticks they have shoved up their asses. But Jesus’ wisdom prevails, and I remain silent. For once.

He’s such a needy child sometimes, and ridiculously easy to see through. Did he think he really fooled anyone with his act? I’ve known for years he has a boner for Jesus. I’ve just been too much of a gentleman to mention it before.

Yeah, right. Being a gentleman has nothing to do with anything. Timing is everything. And my timing is nothing if not impeccable.

All I can say is they’re both fools. And it’s been great fun playing them for all it’s worth.

In case you’ve already pegged me as the bad guy in this drama, that’s fine with me, I don’t really care. I guess from most everyone’s viewpoint, I am. But then again, how can good exist without evil? So that also makes me necessary in the scheme of things. This whole good/bad thing is so subjective, anyway—it all comes down to whose ox is being gored. (look it up, if you have no idea what I mean). Remember this—history is always written by the winner, not the loser. The Bible only shows you what they want you to see, and from their perspective, I’m the bad guy. Think about this, too—women get the short shrift there as well. Written in as second class citizens, they’re kept from any roles of importance within the church. Think that’s an accident?

Hell no. Not to mention certain books of the Bible have been conveniently lost. So keep that in mind before you start making judgment calls.

“Good morning, Sheriff Kaplan.” I smile at him congenially, reaching out to take the expected glad-hand. “I merely wanted to assure these concerned citizens justice is indeed being done. I didn’t realize we’d walk into a re-creation of the crime.” I can feel the heat emanating from the Iscariot from here. The only reason he isn’t in my face is that Jesus is restraining him. Good call on his part, but also no less than I’d expect from the son of God.

My group is still stunned from the sight of seeing two men romantically entangled at the mouth, averting their eyes once they realize what is happening. Again. Well, most of them. I do notice a few of the women are casting surreptitious glances toward the cell—a couple of the men as well. Ah, human nature, how I do love your hypocrisy. One grey-haired little woman of indeterminate age, anywhere from fifty to sixty, I think, detaches herself from the group and cautiously approaches the cell where Judas and Jesus are still sitting. How cute that Judas is trying to keep us from seeing his lover. So very innocent of him, the naive fool. Not that it will do him any good, in the end. It never does.

The woman is making some sort of a hex sign with her fingers, as if to ward off whatever they have that just might be contagious enough to sully the purity of her mind. “You boys are young, why are you ruining your lives this way? God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve.” Oh Lord, not that tired old chestnut. Seriously?

Luckily I’m a consummate actor and above bursting into fits of laughter at another’s expense. At least when it suits my purpose.

Murmurs of agreement from the peanut gallery. Naturally. You truly didn’t expect any sort of original thought from this group, did you? A second figure steps forward now, to offer his testimony, no doubt. He points an accusatory finger in their direction.

“It’s your fault,” he intones, “your fault that my son’s gone wrong. You homos took my son away. Ever since he told me he’s a fruit, he’s been in nothing but trouble.

Stealing, and skipping school. You turned him gay, all of you! You ruined his life!” Ho hum, how very tiresome. Perhaps it’s time I came to the rescue of these poor boys, and put an end to these dreary true confessions. It won’t really do to let Jesus speak; he has this way with people that I’d like to avoid. I take up a position between these two sheep. My hands are piously clasped before me as I regard the sinners in our midst, while maintaining a grave and sober mien. “They aren’t bad boys, they’re just misguided,” I insist in my best Sunday go-to-meeting voice, “they just need to be shown the error of their ways, don’t you think? Be put back onto the path of righteousness.”

“Hear, hear,” echoes behind me. The sheep are shuffling. Time to move them along. We’ve done enough damage here, I think. Judas is livid, and he’s barely being contained by his lover. I’m just enjoying the fuck out of this.

My attention is caught by Jesus, a slight movement on his part. His eyes meet mine, and I sense he’s trying to tell me something. Interesting. Something he obviously doesn’t want Judas to know about, as it’s being done over his head, out of his sight. I’ll definitely have to check this out later. Could be fun.

For now, Sheriff K diplomatically herds us out of his office, and I allow him to do so. Under the guise of giving the accused time with his lawyer. I could burst that particular bubble right here and now. But I don’t. Maybe when the time’s right. For now I want to hold onto that little bit of leverage, see what it comes to. I should see what Jesus wants, but before I go, one more thing. I hand the sheriff a book, nodding toward the two in the cell. “For them, for the salvation of their souls,” I tell him gravely, before I move my flock outside. Are we leaving? Oh hell no, we’ve only just begun. This is where we’ve left the picket signs—the ones that say Death to Sodomites, God Hates a Homo, and other cute sayings. The signs are handed around, and the members of my flock begin their vigil outside the jail, walking back and forth, buttonholing anyone who walks by to tell them about the sinner in our midst. This is just so priceless.