Centurion: Mark's Gospel as a Thriller

by Waller, Ryan Casey

The Office of Record is located in a redbrick, two-story building on the edge of downtown. I leave an hour early and make a slow walk of it. The rumors are true. A centurion is perched on nearly every block. Each warrior is dressed in red body armor and a golden helmet and carries an assault rifle.

  For Southerners guns are strictly forbidden. Punishment for possession is immediate execution—no jury and no trial. I behold more guns on this walk than I've seen in all my twenty-three years. I don't know how to feel about that, but something inside me stirs. The hairs on my neck bristle.

  At the Office of Record, I receive a number and am told to wait in a room with ten other Americans who've clearly seen better days. The gentleman next to me smells of oil and his boots are tattered and ancient looking. A woman my mother's age stares at me and I know what she's thinking. My son was your age when they took him. The waiting room is sterile, brightly lit, and far too cold. Unlike in Miles's dilapidated taxicab, the air conditioning in this building is in good working order.

  No one speaks; everyone seems nervous. As Americans, we limit our contact with Kingdom authorities. We're a people not to be trusted, and the Kingdom looks for any and every reason to "select" us for work in the camps. Just coming to the Office of Record is a fantastic way to kick-start that process.

  Twenty minutes later a stunning woman is ushered from the office, where I'll soon be summoned. She's young and has long, disheveled black hair. She's crying and wiping tears away as she walks, fumbling with her papers. I should avert my eyes and mind my own business. This isn't the place to stick your nose in other people's affairs.

  And I would do that, if she weren't so terribly gorgeous.

  But she is.

  Her eyes sparkle, and I'm positive I've never seen eyes so dark; they're black as the night. Her skin is a cocoa brown and looks to be as smooth as silk.

  She's from Mexico, I think.

  I know from my history courses that millions of Mexicans used to live in this region, but now they're as rare as falling stars. I've never actually spoken to a Mexican, as they're forbidden to live in the West.

  The woman glances my way for a moment before ducking her face into her tiny hands. When she passes me, she looks up once more, and our eyes slam into one another. Her stare is electric.

  I've never been in love. But if this dark-eyed young woman were to speak to me, I believe that would change. She's magnificent, and my body immediately aches for her.

  A moment later she's gone, but her scent lingers—the delicate smell of woman that I've known only from a distance, lavender and peach. I have an irrational urge to bolt from my seat and chase after her, to grab her by the arm and ask why she's crying, to see if there's anything I can do to help. But before I can make any stupid decisions, a woman calls my name.

  It's my turn.

  I let go of the exotic woman and stand to face the Kingdom and the authority of King Charles. This will be my toughest test to try to go unnoticed. If I'm unable to convince these people of my motives, my mission will end before it's begun.

  My supervisor is a petite woman named Dr. Stone—no first name, just Dr. Stone. She's in her midfifties, with short blond hair, a small button of a nose, and oversize blue eyes. She's surprisingly attractive for a Kingdom bureaucrat. She smiles warmly when I enter her office and motions for me to sit in a leather chair across from her powerful-looking desk. It's a desk that screams authority.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Larsen," she says tenderly as I sit. "May I call you 'Deacon'?"

  Dr. Stone can call me anything she wants, as long as I get out of here without handcuffs around my wrists. I nod.

  "Excellent," she says. Her voice is high and polished, as if she has attended a finishing school where they teach women to speak in properly aristocratic tones. She has the classic English accent of the elite. "My name is Dr. Stone. I'm your assigned supervisor."

  "I was told to report here every Monday at noon," I say, wanting to dismiss with formalities.

  Dr. Stone closes a large file on her desk. My name, Deacon Larsen, is printed in bold black letters on its cover.

  "Yes," she replies. "That's quite right. It's vital that you not miss a single meeting with me. One absence and your travel privileges could be revoked. Permanently," she adds, elongating each syllable until the word becomes impossibly long. "Which means you wouldn't be able to travel back West to finish your schooling."

  "That would be awful," I say, hearing how hallow and facetious my voice sounds compared to hers. Sweat gathers beneath my arms. These are nervous sweats that always accompany my lies. I desperately wish to be a convincing liar, but I don't have the genetic makeup for it. The truth sits like a weight on my tongue, begging to be dropped off on a set of ears.

  As I sit here, trying to lie, my brain silently screams the truth. I'm never traveling west. If I make it out of Oxford—and that's a major if—I'll head north, marching with an army straight toward the heart of the Kingdom. And that's where I'll die.

  Dr. Stone laughs. "Yes, I'm sure the prospect of living in dumpy old Oxford isn't all that appealing to an ambitious lad like yourself. The West has much more to offer." Dr. Stone leans back in her chair to signal our conversation will now be casual and friendly, just an old chat between two trusted friends. She smiles. "Your file says you wish to train as a physician. Is this accurate?"

  "That's right."

  "What sparked your interest in medicine?"

  "I don't know."

  "And you still plan to become a physician?"

  I shrug. "Of course."

  "You're not worried about taking a full year off from your studies? And how that might affect your chances of admission to medical school?"

  "I'm pretty good at school," I mumble. "I'll be all right."

  "Are you always this rude in the presence of authority? Or is it just women you detest?"

  "No," I say, sitting up straight in my chair.

  A dry grin spreads across Dr. Stone's face. "Do you have a girlfriend back on the coast? Some little tart you fancy?"

  I shake my head.

  "If you did," she says, "you probably wouldn't tell me, would you?"

  "I'm sorry...I don't know what that has to do with my reporting here. Just tell me what I need to do, please."

  Dr. Stone grins again, leans forward, and rests her elbows on her mahogany desk. Her grin vanishes. "You don't like me," she says. "I understand that. I'm English and you're American. On top of that, your parents perished in the camps. You probably hate every snotty English face you see. It wouldn't surprise me if you were imagining a scene in which I meet a violent death. Am I right? Hmm? Are you, young Deacon, wondering what it'd feel like to wrap your hands around my neck and squeeze the life out of my body? To squeeze my beautiful body until my limbs stop flailing and my chest heaves one last desperate time before my eyes roll to the back of my head?"

  I start to speak, to stop this crazy woman from talking, but I feel like I've been kicked in the gut by the hoof of a horse. I inhale, but no air fills my lungs. My head pounds as if someone has taken a mallet to it. How did she read me so fast? What have I done to give myself away? Then it hits me. Miles...the cab driver. He's a spy. I'll kill him.

  I shake my head furiously. "I don't know what you're talking about, ma'am." My voice sounds even cheaper than before, the words evaporating the second they leave my tongue. I can see it in her eyes; she knows I'm lying. "I would never—"

  Dr. Stone holds up her hand for me to stop. I obey. She rises gracefully from her desk and pads around to the front, where she sits on top of the expensive wood and crosses her legs toward me. Our bodies are now inches from each other. The toe of her stiletto taps sharply against my shin. I swallow hard as her perfume crawls across my face.

  "Why have you come home, Deacon?" she says, the tenderness in her voice returning. "The Office of Record made sure that your parents' home was well secured and that the appropriate documents were left inside for you. Anything that needed to be done could have w
aited until the spring when you finished school. We make it a point to care for the families of those chosen for the camps, especially those who die honorably in service. Everyone in this town knew your parents. No one would have disturbed their home."

  I clear my throat. "It felt wrong to be so far away. I needed to come here, to see it all for myself."

  A sharp line extends across Dr. Stone's forehead. "To see what?"

  "Nothing. I don't know...the house. I wanted to read the will with my own eyes; I needed closure."

  Dr. Stone takes a long, hard, hungry look at me. She searches for truth, for authenticity, for what lies behind my eyes. I pray to God she's not good at reading people.

  "What sort of doctor are you?" I say.

  "A psychologist."

  Fantastic.

  "A doctor of the mind," I say.

  "Common misunderstanding."

  "What is?"

  "Psychologists don't only study the mind; we study human behavior. We analyze why people do the things they do. You're a nice-looking young man."

  "Thanks." I shift rigidly in my seat.

  "You remind me of my own son. Your eyes are wonderfully blue." She looks me up and down, her eyes feasting on every inch of my body. "You're thick and strong. Why do you dress so formally?"

  I take a self-conscious look at myself. It's true—I don't dress like a student; I dress like I'm already a doctor. My father taught me never to dress for the role I have in life but for the role I want to play. I wear slacks and a sport coat. Today my pants are gray and my jacket blue. My father said, "The face you wear tells the world how to treat you." I wear serious clothes and a serious face.

  "Something my father taught me."

  "I imagine you're quite the athlete."

  "I'm all right."

  She winks. "You're more than all right."

  I don't know what to make of Dr. Stone. She simultaneously strikes me as an all-knowing supervisor and a psycho I should keep my eyes on at all times. Neither scenario bodes well for me. As my supervisor, she has absolute authority over me. If she wanted, she could have me sent back West immediately. And that would represent the mildest form of punishment she has at her discretion. Should she suspect my motives aren't precisely as I've stated in my travel visa, she could have me arrested and sent north to prison in less than a day's time. There's no such thing as due process in the South. Not for Americans. We're charged, convicted, and sentenced in a single day and by a single authority—even when the punishment is death.

  I need Dr. Stone to like me. At the very least, I need her to believe me.

  "I think we're getting off on the wrong foot," I say. "I didn't sleep much last night. I don't hate you, Doctor. And I don't hate the English. I may come from the South, but I've been a student in the West for three years. I understand what the English are doing, and I fully support it. In fact if I score well enough on my exams, I plan to do my residency in the north at Kingdom Hospital. I'm not some uneducated Southerner looking to raise hell. I want to be a model citizen for my fellow Americans, showing them how we ought to behave and properly submit to King Charles. I'm not here to cause any trouble."

  Dr. Stone reveals nothing. Maybe. She sits quietly and glares at me. Then she raises her hand and beckons me closer with her index finger. I lean forward in my chair.

  "Closer," she whispers, curling her finger like a witch enticing a child to the boiling stew. I slide to the edge of my chair until my legs are pressed firmly against hers. She leans down and puts her mouth next to my ear and whispers, "You're a bad liar, Deacon—outrageously bad. No man in his right mind leaves the life you had in the West to come here, to this miserable dump of a city—unless he's interested in picking a fight." She blows hotly into my ear. "Are interested in a fight, Deacon?"

  I start to say something, to tell her she's lost her mind, but her hand clasps my throat with a supernatural strength, her fingernails digging into my skin and cutting off my air. She spits into my ear, "My eyes are on you. Should you so much as sneeze in a manner that perturbs my sensibilities, I'll have your head on my desk. I won't be sending you back to school. There's only one way out of Oxford for you, and that's north—to the bloody camps."

  She releases her grip, and I fall out of my chair and onto the floor, gasping for air. Dr. Stone's face spins circles above me as the room grows dark, and only one thought races through my mind. You're bloody well right.

  vibrate with anger as I enter the Oxford Trust. It would be my luck that of all the possible supervisors in the Kingdom, I get the one who's certifiably insane. Dr. Stone. Just thinking of her name makes my blood boil. I laugh darkly at the irony of a crazy shrink holding the keys to my fate. Perfect.

  No, Doctor, I wasn't imagining your death—but I am now.

  My face is flushed as I approach the bank teller. I self-consciously pat at the scratch marks on my neck and discover I'm bleeding. I rub the blood between my fingers and try to smear it off. Dr. Stone gripped me with a ferocious power I wouldn't have thought she was capable of unleashing. She's so small. I shove my bloody, shaky hand into my pocket and introduce myself to the teller, whose nametag reads, "Jude."

  "What can I do for you?" Jude says.

  "I'm here to settle my parents' accounts," I say softly. I pull the paperwork from my pants pocket and hand it to Jude, a guy who looks about five years older than me. He's tall, with wide shoulders, flaming-red hair, and a gap between his two front teeth.

  "Excellent," he says.

  Jude takes the papers from the counter and examines them. He then punches a few keys on an outdated computer and waits while the old machine does its dilapidated thinking. I've heard rumors that the Office of Record and the banks are the only establishments in the South that still have computers. But it's hard to call the dinosaur Jude is working on an actual computer. The thing must be twenty years old. The relic finishes grinding, and when it does, his face flinches. He flickers his eyes away from the screen and onto me, then returns his gaze to the screen.

  "You're Mr. Larsen?" he says. "Deacon...Larsen?"

  "I am."

  He moves the computer mouse with an unsteady hand. "Yes, OK then. Give me a moment. This won't take long."

  "Is there a problem?"

  Jude clicks the mouse once more before tearing a sheet of paper from a yellow legal pad. He scribbles something on it with a blue ink pen, takes a deep breath, and slides the paper under the bulletproof glass that separates us. I reach for the paper and pull it slowly toward me. Jude's note contains a single number.

  "What's this?"

  His face is expectant, like he's waiting to receive important but potentially disastrous news. "Your balance, sir."

  Panic floods my voice like water into a sinking ship. "Of what? Debt? For the love of the one true God, please don't tell me my parents owed this amount to the bank."

  Jude smiles and glances at the tellers on either side of him. Neither is paying any attention to us. In a soft voice, he says, "No. The account is in the black, sir. That number represents the cash your parents have deposited in our vault. Would you like to make a withdrawal?"

  My mouth goes dry, and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. My knees are weak, my arms buttery, my insides watery. "I...don't understand. You're saying this money belongs to my parents?"

  Jude shakes his head. "No, sir. I'm not saying that at all. I'm saying this money belongs to you."

  I look once more at the messy handwriting and read the number slowly in my head.

  777,321.40.

  The sheer size of the figure hurts my brain. "But...this is a fortune. There must be some mistake. My parents weren't wealthy. They barely had enough money to pay for—"

  "There has been no mistake," Jude says, interrupting me. "You can rest assured of that. Now I believe you're also in possession of a key to the safe-deposit box. Do you have it with you?"

  The key! I almost forgot.

  "Uh...yeah," I say, digging it from my pocket. "I have it right he
re."

  Jude motions to his right. "If you'll give me a moment, I'll meet you by the red door and accompany you to the vault where your box is located."

  I nod and Jude disappears. I snatch the sheet of paper with the monstrous number written on it and shove it deep inside my pocket, where it immediately morphs into a fifty-pound weight. On unsteady legs I shuffle toward the red door. Virtually no thoughts run through my mind as I try to come to grips with the fact that I've just won the lottery.

  The paper burns hot and heavy against my leg as I wait.

  The red door swings open, and I step from the lobby into a long hallway with brown shag carpet. It's deathly quiet. Jude silently leads me to the end of the hallway and through a secured steel door. We're now standing in a small room lined with safe-deposit boxes from floor to ceiling. The room is brightly lit, and there's no furniture, save for a small wooden table. A constant low hum makes the room feel as if it's buried deep underground.

  I'm not afraid of small spaces, but if I were, I imagine this would be a distressing room, as it's roughly the size of an oversize elevator. The humming noise grows louder.

  Jude presents me his hands, palms up, and asks for the key. I give it to him, and he retrieves another key from his pocket. "Both are needed to open the box," he clarifies. "But there's one last bit of information I'll need from you."

  "What?"

  "The password," he says, expectancy once again painted on his freckled face.

  "I don't have a password. Just the key."

  "The password," Jude says deliberately, "will be given by you after I've provided the stimulus."

  "The what?" I say.

  "The stimulus is a question written by your father. I'll repeat the question, verbatim, to you. Then you'll provide me with the password. If not, the box will remain locked."

  "Where's the question?"

  Jude points at his temple. "Right here."

  "You have it memorized?"

  He nods.

  "OK," I say. "I'll try...but I can't guarantee I'll know the answer."

  Jude grins tightly, and I see sweat beads on his forehead. The man clearly knows something I don't. "Are you ready?"