The Rapist (15 page)

I gnash my teeth and taste salt at the water that streams down my cheeks. Frustration wells bitterly up. I moan, I shake, I cover my face with my hands. I weep, weep as I never have before in my whole life, from the depths of my bowels, great wrenching sobs that shake and tear at me, leave me shuddering and gasping for wind.

And then it is over. I am a different person. I feel the absence of all emotion as I remember what the old man has said. A second chance. I am to receive a second chance. That is it. That is my answer. I’ll take that chance. I’ll take the five or six thousand years in whatever form assigned me stoically and then…

I’ll do it all the same. Screw the old man. He just wants me to help him out of his mess. I almost fell for his tricks.

I withdraw my hands and lift my head, my eyes bright and shining and new, my mouth opening to speak, and…  

He is gone.

The old man is gone.

And I’m not on the mountaintop.

I’m in my cell again, on death row.

And six people are at my door.

Two guards, shaped like condominiums.

One priest, fumbling with crosses and bundles beneath his cassock.

My warder Lars, teeth in a smile.

The turnkey, Mr. Timex.

And one more, who must be the hangman. I am aware of the others as the turnkey begins to unlock the door, but I cannot take my eyes off of the hangman as I feel the blood freeze in my veins and my balls shrink up in their sack of fluid and the perspiration run like open wounds from my armpits down my sides. I recognize his pink eyes, his horrid smiling pink eyes, and when he speaks, the words are innocuous, but I have heard the voice many times before, always in a meadow before now.

“Hello, Truman,” he says. “I’m your executioner. Are you ready?”

I say nothing, only stare. Then I nod my head and get up from my bunk. I smile, then chuckle a little, and then a little more. Soon I am laughing so hard that tears stream down my face. I roar with laughter, the sounds of my guffaws echoing throughout death row. Five of my company stare at me in wonderment; one just smiles calmly, saying nothing. It is he I address when I can catch my breath.

“You almost did it. You came this close.” I hold up my forefinger and thumb. I stand. “Let’s go. I’m ready.”

We leave my cell in a body and all that is to be heard is the sound of laugher. Mine. Even before we get outside, I know what to expect. Rows and rows of people, lining the cobbled street, all hooting and jeering and laughing and spitting and hurling stones at me. I stumble and almost fall at the weight of the burden I suddenly find myself carrying. Blood streams down my forehead, into my eyes. At the end of our pilgrimage, I see the three trees. The ones on the left and the right are already occupied. Mine is to be the center oak, but I know that and I know that I have always known that. I turn and say to the old man the words I have rehearsed all my life.

“Father, why hast thou forsaken me?”

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

There isn’t space nor time enough to acknowledge everyone who had a hand in helping me to the place where I could write this and get it published—I hope you know who you are and accept my gratitude. But there are a few who I want to single out. First is Cortright McMeel,  who has championed this book from the beginning. Second is my publisher, Jon Bassoff, who isn’t afraid to publish controversial work and who deserves credit for designing the best cover I’ve ever had on any of my books. I’d like to also give a shout-out to my copy editor, Alice Riley, who did a superlative job. Thank you each and every one. One other person who validated this book years ago and gave me the confidence to believe it could be publishable—Dr. Francois Camoin.

—Les Edgerton