Т Паркер - The Last Good Guy

“No flattery, Reggie,” I said. “You’re the most repulsive human I’ve ever met. You really did it, didn’t you? You raped a girl of fourteen in a bus. Four Wheels for Jesus. Threatened her and your own daughter for years after. I think you should put that gun to your head and prove how sorry you are, once and for all. End your life with a shred of dignity instead of this groveling. Jesus would agree.”

“Roland, he’ll—” said Penelope.

Reggie gave me a concerned, cagey look. “Do you really think Jesus would agree?”

“I know he would,” I said. “And on a practical level, if you use that gun to do the right thing, you won’t spend a day in prison. You won’t have to face the world as a child rapist and a fake holy man and a murderer. You’ll be remembered as Pastor Reggie Atlas, a brave but troubled man who did what he had to.”

“Roland—”

“You know, you’re right,” said Atlas. “I can do what you suggest. It would address those issues head-on. But it wouldn’t be fair.”

“Give me one reason why it wouldn’t,” I said.

Atlas held the gun with both hands, but now the orbit of the barrel had lost its shape. The mad ellipsoids terrified me.

“Well, for one thing, I was innocent once,” he said. His voice wavered and desperation widened his pupils.

“Yeah? Explain that.”

“Did you tell him how you singled me out, Penelope? How you came to me for private moments of talk and fellowship? How your hands trembled in mine when we prayed? Did you tell him about the looks and the smiles you gave me, and the poems you wrote and the clothing you wore for me — the black sweater and the little pink skirt? The lotions and perfumes that smelled like coconut, because you knew how much I liked it? Because it smelled like the mansion on the sand, where you agreed we were going to live and produce holy children. You haven’t said anything about that? How you tempted and seduced me. Systematically ? How you enjoyed what we finally did together? I know you did. You were eager. You were wet !”

I heard movement behind me, then Penelope stepped into my peripheral view. Reggie swung the pistol at her, then back to me, the breath in his nostrils short and fast.

“You know I was too drugged to fight,” she said, her voice seething with contempt. “I’ve told you and you’ve heard, Reggie. I was dizzy and afraid and trapped. I told you to stop. I hit you and nothing happened. Wet? That was my body’s defense against you! Autonomic, like throwing up a poison. It took me years of shame before I understood that. I wanted to be baptized . I wanted to be accepted and loved . I didn’t want to be touched like that, Reggie. It was the only thing I didn’t want you to do! You knew it, too. You one hundred percent knew .”

Again Atlas looked to her, then back to me, but this time left the weapon pointed at my heart.

“I loved you more than I’d ever loved any earthly person or thing,” he said. “And you loved me that much, too. I knew you wanted me and it was time. Our time. I never meant to harm you. In the big picture, I have not harmed you in any way.”

Penelope took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Her voice hitched into a sob and she continued. “You tricked me and raped me... You threatened me if I told. You tracked my daughter. No more, Reggie. Enough.”

“You seduced a humble man of God.”

“You used God’s name to fuck a girl.”

“I have suffered, too,” said the pastor.

“Tissue,” she whispered. Swung the white purse around and took out the strawberry-stained wad and pressed it to one eye, then the other.

“You used me,” said Reggie.

“I adored you,” said Penelope.

“You stole my soul and corrupted my flesh,” said Reggie, pointing the gun at Penelope again, the barrel wild. “I want them back.”

“Me, too,” said Penelope, stuffing the tissue into her bag and pulling out a plump pink derringer.

I saw his flinch and launched into Reggie with all the speed I had. Grabbed his gun in both my hands and forced it up and away so Reggie blasted the ceiling instead of Penelope. Her handcannon quaked the room, then boomed again as Reggie crashed back into the wall, his gun clattering to the floor. Eyes wide in the gunsmoke and breathing hard, blood blossoming through his clean white shirt, Reggie gazed down at himself with what looked like disbelief. Then collapsed, the wall behind him pocked by two closely spaced holes.

“Smokey only takes two rounds,” she said. “I’ll reload.”

“Not necessary,” I said.

I took her gun and ushered her into the kitchen, helping her into a chair at the small table. Her face white as snow and her body shaking badly. Over the half-wall I could see Reggie trembling on the living room floor.

“Now what?” she asked.

“Get ready to answer a lot of questions.”

“I’ll tell them the whole truth.”

“That’s all you need to do, Penelope.”

“The whole damned miserable truth.”

Back in the living room I knelt beside Atlas. Watched his breathing stop. Saw his eyes surrender their terror and then their light.

Through the blinds, I saw lights coming on in the houses across the street.

Stood and found my phone.

In spite of our accepted beliefs and earnest hopes, things really don’t happen for a reason.

There is no master plan, only private notions — both yours and others’ — some of which work out well, while others explode like pipe bombs.

Everything else is out of your control.

So you wipe your eyes, chart your beliefs, and fly again accordingly.

I flew Hall Pass 2 up to the Bishop Airport, rented a Jeep in town, picked up some camping and fishing gear I needed. Turned off my phone and listened to the news station fading into static as I climbed into the Sierra Nevada mountains.

Fished alone, as I prefer, really nailed the browns on the East Walker, let the fish go free, ate canned food, and drank good bourbon. On the San Joaquin, I crawled out of my tent at sunrise just as a black bear swatted my coffeemaker off the fire-pit grill and into the trees, then lumbered away.

In Reno I took second place in the amateur all-ages category at the Reno Ballroom DanceDown, teaming up with a woman I found in the hotel bar whose regular partner had sprained an ankle just that morning. I’d been hoping for luck like that. Lenore was a delight to dance with, much better than me and utterly regardless about winning trophies, which, as a youngish male, I covet beyond reason. The trophy was a dandy. Our barely rehearsed country-swing dance to “The Last Worthless Evening” was good enough. Justine cut in for a few steps. Said she was proud of me for how I was treating Penelope and Daley. Sticking up for them. Giving them a second chance. Wished she could have a second chance, too.

Lenore, her partner Wayne, and I drank late on victory night, until Wayne, limping badly, took me aside and threatened to kick my ass all the way back to San Diego if Lenore looked at me like that again. I told him not to bother, I was headed home early the next day anyway.

As I drove from Reno back down to Bishop Airport through the fragrant sage and the spotty cell signals, Burt and Penelope brought me up to speed.

Federal prosecutors were readying charges against Alfred Battle and several of his SNR henchmen/-women for kidnapping, conspiracy to commit murder, conspiracy to use weapons of mass destruction. And more. Lark had declared the indictment would be “aggressive and comprehensive,” and there would likely be some very long federal prison sentences handed down. Lark told Burt off the record that Adam Revell was singing like a parakeet.