But then he saw the face of the man, dear God, the man, the man he knew, the man with the gun, the man who had saved him, the man he had seen a thousand times since and never, until this night, truly recognized.
Uncle Mistletoe.
"You," Peter said. "It was you."
Paul Blair gave a quick jerk of his head that might have been a nod. Then he shoved the pistol into the deep pocket of his topcoat and grabbed Peter by the arm, pulling him into the side corridor. "What are you doing here?" he said in a husky snarl.
Peter smiled with grim pride and looked down at the box he held. "Same as you."
"Come on then," Paul said, then turned and jogged down the hall.
Peter followed, clutching the box to his chest, wondering what Paul Blair had done with that pistol. Had he destroyed their computer files? But why use a gun? Why something that would make so much noise?
"Hurry up," Paul said, even though Peter was right behind him. They went down another short corridor, down a flight of stairs, and through two basement rooms lined with filing cabinets, then up a stairway, outside, and across a dimly lit parking lot to the street. Peter saw Paul climb into a nondescript, dark sedan, then reach over and unlock the passenger door. Peter scuttled in, noticing that the interior lights did not go on as he opened the door.
The car started instantly, and Paul pulled into the street at a moderate speed, took a left, a right, and another left before they first heard sirens. A police car passed them, heading, Peter figured, toward the Health Services building.
"Did you drive down here?" Paul asked.
"Yes."
"Where's your car?"
"About five blocks away from the center. I didn't want to take any chances."
Paul barked what might have been a laugh. "No chances," he said. "Right."
They drove for a while in silence. "Where are we going?"
Paul didn't answer right away. Finally he said, "I have no idea," and pulled the car off the street, turned off the ignition, sat staring through the windshield, straight ahead.
Peter saw that they had stopped in a street thick with rows of old town houses on either side. The lights were on in a few, but many looked empty. The night was cold, and all the windows were closed. No one would look out to see who had parked on the street.
Peter shook, both from the cold and from the fact that he had finally come face to face with the man who had both saved his life and navigated it to the present. He was also a man who knew Peter's shame, and as he realized this Peter felt his cheeks grow hot, and he looked to his right, out the window. His mind full of that dreadful day long ago, he had no idea what to say. That day, full of sunshine and blood, sat in the car with them like a silent, hungry beast, and he knew that if he did not recognize it and admit to its presence, it might devour him.
"The man," he said, and cleared his throat. "That day. Did you kill him?"
"Yes."
Peter breathed in deeply, let it out in a pale cloud. "Thank you," he said. "I always wanted to thank...whoever it was." He looked at Paul. "I'll never tell anyone."
"There's something else," said Paul, still looking through the windshield, "that I want you to keep secret too..." He looked at Peter, and Peter saw that his eyes were more intense than he had ever imagined they could be. He felt as though they burned him, looking into his mind. "I killed someone else. Tonight. The counselor."
The knowledge numbed Peter. He tried to speak twice before words came. "Jennifer Yalebrough?" he asked.
"Yes."
"But why -- I mean I was -- I saw you...why didn't you... shoot me too?" The boy felt as though he was in a dream, his thoughts thick, mind muddy. Things like this didn't happen in reality. Your Sunday school teacher was a murderer only in the wild plays of sleep.
"I couldn't have. That would have been against everything I believe in...against God's will." Paul shook his head as if at the impossibility of trying to explain. "I kill to protect, that's the only reason. The only reason. When people do harm, I try and make sure they'll never harm one of my children again."
"Your children?"
"My children," Paul said, almost savagely. "You were one...are one. Heather Heisey is one." He waved an impatient hand. "Oh, not literally, of course -- figuratively. No, spiritually, that's the word."
"You killed Jennifer Yalebrough," Peter said slowly, trying to encompass it all, "to keep her from..."
"From doing to other girls what she did to Heather, yes," Paul finished for him. "That's why, because I swore to protect Heather, and I couldn't, I was too late for her, but not for the others." Paul turned on him with an abruptness that pushed him against the door. "And what about you? You said you were doing the same as me back there. What does that mean?"
Peter smiled sheepishly. "Not quite the same," he said, holding up the parcel he still carried. "This would be a little anti-climactic now."
"What is it?"
"A fake bomb. Hear it ticking? I made it out of an alarm clock and wires and cardboard tubes."
"And what were you going to do with it?"
"Put it in one of the offices. Then call early tomorrow morning and tell them there's a bomb in the center. There's a note in it. I made it with words and letters I cut out of the paper. It says, 'Stop the killing or the next one will be real.' I thought maybe it would keep people from going in there."
Paul Blair took the box from Peter, stripped the brown paper wrapping off it, opened the cardboard flaps, and looked inside. He looked so long that Peter thought he might never do anything again without being prompted, so he spoke. "Looks like we've got the same agenda."
Paul looked up slowly. "No," he said. "I wouldn't wish that on anyone. We don't have the same agenda at all."
"We think the same way, about...things," Peter said. "That Yalebrough woman -- I said I wouldn't tell, and I won't. What you did to her, she deserved it."
"That's what you think?"
"Yes. And she wasn't the first one either -- I know that. And there were others too. Weren't there?"
The older man slumped back in his seat and closed his eyes. Peter couldn't tell in the dim light whether his face bore a tight smile or a grimace of pain. "There were others," he said.
Paul told Peter then. He told him about the death of his wife and the boy whose car hit hers, about how the loss had inspired his vow to watch over the baptized children, about the slaying of Peter's kidnapper. He told him about Rafael Santiago who sold drugs to children, about David Compton and Ananda who betrayed young girls' trust, about the Tuckers who murdered innocence.
Paul Blair told Peter Hurst everything, and the longer he talked, the more stories he told, the more thrilled Peter grew, the more overwhelmed he became by the deeds of this man whom he had known but never really known.
Chapter 34
Finally Paul stopped talking, and Peter thought he saw a tear sliding down his cheek. Was it in relief, he wondered, at finally being able to tell someone beside the Lord all that he had done?
"That's...amazing," said Peter, as much to fill the silence as for any other reason. He was almost too astonished for words. "It's like...like the revenger of blood."
"Who?" said Paul, fisting away the tear.
At last, in the Bible, Peter felt at home, and his words flowed. "In the Book of Numbers. 'The revenger of blood himself shall slay the murderer: when he meeteth him, he shall slay him.' Don't you remember? If somebody was killed, his next of kin became the revenger of blood. It obeys Genesis 9:6. 'Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed.' Not God, see, but man. Man is God's tool. And that's what you've been doing. Carrying out God's commands."
"I don't know," Paul said, and his voice sounded exhausted. "I'm just...trying to help. The children. The young people. Trying to keep them from being used, preyed upon...taken down the wrong paths."
"Yes, you are! That's what you're doing. I...agree so much with you. I'm in total sympathy."
"Then you won't tell."
"
No." Peter thought then about the man next to him, all the good he had done, the judgments he had made for God. He thought about his own life and the things he had wanted to do, mad dreams of God and guns and holy ecstasy and power.
And he made his decision.
"I won't tell," he said, "on one condition."
"Condition?"
"You become my mentor."
"What?"
"My teacher. I become...your disciple."
"Disciple?" Paul Blair roared, and Peter saw the strength behind the quiet facade so clearly and nakedly that it frightened him. "I kill people, boy! What in heaven's name are you saying? Do you think this is like a comic book? Batman and Robin? You want to be my boy companion? Disciple," he spat. "Jesus had disciples. It's blasphemy to call it that."
"Why?" Peter wished he could keep his voice from trembling. "You do God's will. You're an instrument of His will. Why else would you do what you did? I only want to do the same, carry on when you can't anymore -- "
"You want to kill people? Shoot them and see their heads open up in front of your face?"
"If it comes to that. If I have to. If they deserve it."
"And who decides that?"
"Who decides when you do it? It seems to me like it's God. God working through you. Well, I've felt God working through me too, Mr. Blair. And it's a great feeling. And I want it to keep happening. I want to do His will, and I want to do it in a way that will make a difference, a way that will matter. The way you've been doing."
"No, no, listen -- "
"I know the vow, I've said it enough times -- 'preserve the child...defend him through the temptations of his youth and lead him to shun the darkness.' It means to teach, yes, but it can also mean to remove those temptations -- and what are temptations if not the works of the devil? -- to remove them from their paths. Cut them out, excise them in whatever way you have to."
"You cannot...do this."
"Does that mean it's wrong? Are you saying that what you've been doing is evil?"
The older man's face contorted as if in pain. "No...no, it hasn't been wrong. I wouldn't have done these things if I thought they were wrong."
"Of course you wouldn't. You know they're right. And if they are, there has to be someone to keep doing it, to carry on your work, doesn't there?"
Paul Blair opened his mouth to answer, but Peter rattled on, afraid to let him speak, afraid he would refuse. "How old are you, Mr. Blair, just tell me that."
"I'm...I'm fifty-five." He sighed. "Fifty-five," he repeated in a voice that resonated with sorrow. "Too old for this."
Peter laughed, went on to flatter him. "Oh no, not after what you did tonight. You are fast and smart and strong, Mr. Blair. But it's true, you are getting older. You won't be able to do this kind of thing, to...continue your crusade indefinitely. That's why you need me."
Paul tried to talk, but Peter rushed on, unstoppable, like a pilgrim having sighted the Holy City at long last. "I'm young, I'm strong, and I am bright, Mr. Blair. But most importantly, I've dedicated my life to the same values and beliefs that you have. We think alike, sir! And I'm just as respectable and well thought of as you are. Above suspicion. I mean, I'm going into the ministry. Who would ever suspect me of doing the kind of things that...that we've already done?"
He paused, exhausted from his effort to convince Paul, who now took a deep breath and leaned forward, resting his head on the steering wheel. "You would live a lie," he said, and Peter wasn't sure if it was a question or not.
"I would do what I had to. I could deflect suspicion by...condemning my actions, preaching non-violent confrontation, whatever I had to do. What matters is defending the faith from its enemies, keeping them from taking the minds and souls of the young, and I can do that, sir, I know I can. If you help me. "Teach me."
The man was silent, his head down, his eyes closed.
And then Peter was struck with an inspiration that he knew could have come only from God, and he smiled in the dim light. "It was on Peter, petra, 'The Rock,' that Christ built his church. Why don't you build what you've started on another rock, another Peter?" He put his hand on Paul's shoulder. "And could there be a better team than Peter and Paul?"
Paul Blair straightened up, and Peter took his hand away. "I have to think," Paul said. "And I want you to think too. Think about what it means."
"I know what it means."
"No. You don't. It means giving up your life."
"Like Christ did. To save it."
"To save others."
"Even better."
"You think about it. About what I've told you. About what I've done, the people I've killed. It isn't easy. It hurts. And the memory of it hurts. You think about it. Pray about it. And we'll talk in a few days."
"When?"
"I'll call you."
"Thursday. I don't have classes then, and my parents will both be out."
Paul nodded. "I'll take you back to your car now."
They drove the blocks in silence. When they stopped, Paul turned to Peter and said, "Just remember, it isn't easy. And it never gets easier."
But as Peter stood on the sidewalk and watched the taillights of Paul Blair's car bleed into the night, he thought about the dead woman in the clinic, a bullet hole in her head, and knew that it would be very easy indeed. Easy and wonderful.
~ * ~
Dear Lord, Paul thought as he drove toward his home, how can I do this?
How could he take another human being, one he had vowed to protect from harm, and drag him into the web of frequent and terrible violence his life had inarguably become? What he had done had had positive effects, but his methodology was not something he wanted to hand down to a younger generation, and especially not to someone as bright and devout and so obviously a source of goodness in Christ as Peter Hurst.
It was remarkable, Paul thought, the way in which the boy had taken the unspeakable tragedy of his childhood and overcome it to make himself not only a good Christian youth, but a leader of the same. That drive and ambition to serve God left Paul with no doubt as to the sincerity of Peter's motivation for following Paul's lead. He wished to do God's will, and if violence toward those who harmed the young was part of the divine plan, so be it, he would do what had to be done, the same way Paul had. And maybe he would do it with or without Paul's help.
Paul didn't think Peter would turn him in to the police, no matter what Paul's answer was. He had seen the misplaced hero worship in the boy's eyes. And, practically speaking, waiting before turning in a killer could make him an accessory. Peter was smart enough to realize that. No, he had nothing to gain by exposing the man he wanted to be his mentor, as he called it. So Paul's decision did not, he decided, have to be made in fear of exposure.
No. Instead it could be made by careful consideration, and, most of all, by the guidance of God.
Perhaps, Paul thought as he drove his car into his driveway and turned off the ignition, there was a reason he had been offered this choice. Could the fact that they had both been there at the clinic the same night be a mere coincidence? It was doubtful, especially to a man who chose to see the hand of God in everything.
God had brought them together then, but why? To merely give Paul a spiritual son, a follower to whom he could entrust his mission when he was too old to carry on? Or could they have come in contact for another reason? Could it have been to make Paul see that there was another way?
Perhaps God had brought Peter there that night to make Paul see that the way he had been following was no longer right, for him or for the time, to open Paul's eyes as that other Paul's eyes were finally opened on the road to Damascus, to see that his way could endanger others who might emulate him. Perhaps it took endangering another to make Paul see what God wanted him to.
He went inside, took a hot bath, then sat up and considered the problem for hours, until he had an answer.
He decided, just before dawn, that the killing could, and would have to, stop. He could not engage Peter Hurs
t in executions, no matter how well-deserved. He could not take a boy he had sworn before God to preserve for Him, and then turn him into a killer.
That meant, then, that he would no longer kill.
It would not be difficult. In the past ten years, Paul had performed only five acts of violence. He had killed only when the situation had demanded it, when there was no other way. But, to be entirely honest with himself, he had not always looked for other ways. He even found himself wondering if his temper, his anger over the depredations on the children he loved, had dictated his actions to God rather than the other way around.
He could still keep his vow. He could still protect. But neither he, nor Peter Hurst, would kill anyone.
He would enlist the boy, and they could work together. Intimidation would be the first option, and perhaps the two of them could succeed in frightening malefactors into putting an end to their offenses against God and the children. Perhaps the threat of violence could have the same effect as violence itself. In his heart, he doubted it. He had seen too closely into the souls of the soulless to think that they would change so quickly. But he had to try another way.
For Peter's sake, he had to leave the violence behind him.
~ * ~
Yes, he could see the woman, looking over her desk at him, could see the fear in her eyes, and he could see his hand coming up and the pistol in it, and the flame shooting out the barrel, and the bullet opening up her head -- isn't that how he had put it? -- and the pistol firing again and again and again, never empty, and the lying bitch flying apart into a cloud of red, a cloud flying not into the sky, but straight down to hell...
And with that last thought Peter Hurst ejaculated into a handful of tissue. The intensity of the orgasm left him breathless, and he gasped in air, shuddering in ecstasy. The shudder died away and became a small laugh that grew louder, and Peter laughed upon his bed in the empty house, balled up the tissue, got up naked, padded quickly to the bathroom, and flushed it down the toilet. Then he went back to his room, crawled into bed, and thought about what the night had blessed him with.
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