Mark Stone - The Judas Line

Jude squinched his eyes almost shut as he considered my words. “I never heard that,” he said slowly, carefully.

“Revelations.”

“What?”

“The Book of Revelations.”

“Where is this book?”

Now I was starting to get a little freaked out. “It’s in the Bible. You’ve heard of the Bible, yes?”

A nod.

“Well, there you go, then.”

Once more that squinchy look. “Where can I buy one of these Bibles? Is there a special store?”

Was he kidding me? Briefly I wondered if he had been living in a Buddhist monastery since birth. Holding up a hand, I said, “I’ll be back.” In my best Schwarzenegger voice. He just stared with a blank expression. “Never mind, classical reference. Wait here.”

It took moments for me to snag a copy for the young man. He needed the Book more than anyone else I’d ever met.

Fortunately he still stood on the steps, staring at our squarish steeple. “Here you go,” I said, handing him a black, leather-bound Bible. “It might be a difficult read, but it will answer many of your questions and raise some more.”

He accepted the book, albeit with some hesitance, and flipped through the pages. “Thank you, sir.”

My reply was automatic. “Please, call me Mike, everyone does.”

That brought a genuine smile and transformed his face into something extraordinary. It was if no one had ever extended him a simple courtesy before. “Well, one last question, if I may?”

“Of course. Go ahead.”

“How can God love someone who was born evil?”

Obviously the kid had some major issues, but I felt that if I tried to dig, to stick my big nose in, he’d shut up tighter than a clam. Instead, I gave him the best answer I had, one supplied by John Steinbeck in East of Eden . “Thou mayest.”

He staggered, gripping the iron railing for support.

“You okay, Jude?” I asked, alarmed.

Through clenched teeth he hissed, “Where did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“ ‘Thou mayest.’ ”

“A book called East of Eden , written by a man named Steinbeck. It’s a retelling of Cain and Abel-“

“Who?”

“For goodness sakes, Jude, where have you been hiding?”

“Geneva.”

“Really?” That would explain the prep school accent.

“Really.”

I raised my hands in mock surrender. “Okay, I won’t ask. Safe to say that John Steinbeck posited in his novel that when God spoke to Cain after he had slain his brother ‘thou mayest chose between good and evil,’ thereby conferring free will upon mankind. Now realize, this is what I remember from reading the book ten years ago and watching the mini-series.”

“What’s a mini-series?”

“Oh, Jude, you really have to go and read the Bible. Buy East of Eden and rent the mini-series. Take a couple of weekends to absorb them, then come back and we’ll discuss.”

“Really? You’d want to discuss literature with me?” he inquired in a slightly hopeful voice.

My heart went out to the lad because anyone with eyeballs could tell he was lonely. Possibly the loneliest man I’d ever met. I gestured to my robes. “And religion, always have to talk about religion as well. Part of the job.”

He threw me a downward kind of smile and held out his hand, which I shook. “Ok, Mr.-”

“Engel, but call me Mike, please.”

Once again he reeled. “That’s … that’s Danish … for … for-”

“Angel, yes. Trust me, I see the irony,” I laughed, keeping it light, not wanting to do anything to scare the young man. God must have led this poor soul to me, and I felt it was my job, my calling, to render him whatever aid I could.

We made our farewells and I watched the strange boy walk away, thoughtfully turning the Bible over and over in his hands, a lost sheep in desperate need of a vigilant shepherd.

A thunderous slam! brought me back to the present with a start, nearly launching me out of the pew.

“Mike, there you are!” Jude cried, running down the aisle, dark eyes wide. “Tried your place first. I need your help.”

Whatever words were about to pass my lips took a U-turn back down my throat as I drank in his appearance: hair matted and disheveled, slacks torn, a deep cut on his neck bleeding freely. “Lord, Jude … what happened?”

“Can’t really talk about it now, Mike …”

I crossed my arms over my chest and glowered. “Make time,” I rumbled threateningly. “You come into the house of the Lord reeking of blood and looking like that? You better start making time right now .”

He could tell I wouldn’t be moved on the matter and carefully laid a grimy brown backpack on the carpet. “My Family found me-at least one of them-and now they all know where I am.”

“And the blood on your hands?” I pointed to the smeared rust-red stains, evidence of a poor attempt at cleaning up.

“Belonged to my cousin Burke. He doesn’t need it anymore.”

I sat down hard, the pew bruising my backside.

Jude knelt next to me and I could smell rank man-sweat and the coppery tang of dried blood. “Mike,” he whispered urgently. “I had to, he came to kill me. It was self-defense and, let me tell you, if you knew my Family you’d understand.”

My reply slithered softly past my lips. “Make me understand, Jude, please.” I felt a jittery fear I hadn’t experienced in a long time, not since the dry desert wind of Iraq stung my eyes.

“I don’t have time, Mike.” Jude’s eyes seemed to grow larger and sadder, as if a great weight was crushing his soul. “Burke’s death threw them off track for a little bit, but if I stick around, they’ll sniff me out soon enough.”

“They want to kill you? Why?”

“Because I stole something from … my father, something he’ll do anything to retrieve. I have to destroy it before they find me again.”

How come talking to Jude made me feel like I’d taken a big hit of some sweet pot? Always a rush, but accompanied by a sense of unreality. “What is it, what did you steal? Why do you have to destroy it?”

“If I can destroy it, this thing I’ve stolen, it will change humanity’s fate forever, man.”

Surprisingly enough, that clinched it for me because Jude did not lie. Sure, he’d withheld his story, had kept himself apart, but he’d never uttered a falsehood that I could detect and I consider myself pretty proficient at spotting fabrication. “What do you need?”

The relief that blossomed on his face soothed any lingering doubts I might have had. “I need about a gallon of holy water, Mike; then I’m leaving town. If the police come to question you, just tell the truth.”

“What about the ten gallons I had couriered to your place?”

“I don’t have a place anymore.”

With an almost audible click , the tumblers of my mind ratcheted to a sticking place as I came to a decision, one that would change me and my view of the world forever. “Okay, Jude, I’ll get you the holy water.” For as long as I’ve known him he’d requested holy water, but wouldn’t tell me why. To my shame, the donations he’d made to the parish had kept me from asking more than once. Things, however, were about to change. “But in return, I’m coming with you.”

His brows furrowed. “Mike-” he began, but seeing the determination on my face stopped him cold. Shaking his head, he laid on a tired grin. “Really, Mike?”

“Try and stop me.”

For the first time in … I don’t know how long, he indulged in a good belly laugh, looking younger than his thirty-six years.

Jude

Mike’s Corolla chugged south like an asthmatic jogger, a rusty shitbox on steel-belted radials. During the frigid Omaha winters, the city used salt instead of mag chloride to de-ice the roads-much more effective but infinitely harder on the automobiles. You don’t see a car over five years old that doesn’t have rust somewhere. Keeps the local dealers in business, though.