He wanted more.
That was the point of the therapy. To free him from the reservations of ordinary people and be the true elevated being he was. Someone who not only controlled fortunes, but lives as well. He could decide whether this person lived or died. Whether her man mourned or joined her. He wanted to do it with his hands instead of with a memo or a policy. Not with a pen or in a dream, but with his own hands.
The headlight of the train flashed in the tunnel. It was coming.
The woman looked over her shoulder in a panic. Spencer followed her eyes. She was looking at her shopping bag. She’d left it behind. The man turned and darted in front of Spencer to grab it. He snatched it up and turned to rejoin her at the front of the platform.
Spencer extended his leg, like a playground bully. The man’s foot caught on his and he stumbled. The woman screamed and tried to catch him. Spencer watched, enraptured, hoping against hope that they become entangled and would both go over the edge. He gritted his teeth holding back the smile.
11
Doug saw Cary lurching to catch him. Her hands grazed against him and he intuitively reached out to grab her, despite his conscious desire to push her out of harm’s way. His body did what it wanted, not what his mind did, and he latched on to her. She slowed him and pulled, preventing him from going over the edge. She saved him.
He hit the platform, feeling the raised bumps of the yellow strip pushing painfully into his ribs and elbow. He heard screams from other people on the platform.
He saw the son of a bitch who’d tripped him smile.
He heard Cary shout “No!”
But she’d saved him.
He felt the impact for only a split second.
12
Cary tried to pull him back from the edge, but he was too heavy. He hit the floor and she screamed and the train hit his head with a thump she felt in his body more than heard and then she was screaming more and more. Her eyes flooded with panicked tears and her vision narrowed down to a dark tunnel in which there was nothing visible but her husband’s caved in head lolling at an impossible angle on his broken neck.
She tried to right his head, cradle him and wake him. The crackle of shattered bones in his neck vibrated through her hands and she almost dropped him in fear and revulsion. Doug’s eyes rolled back in different directions from each other. His mouth fell open. Hers did too. But of the two of them, only she screamed.
13
Spencer watched the EMTs cover the man’s body. The police had dragged the woman away. She was screaming hysterically about Doug—his name was Doug—being tripped by THAT MAN! She pointed at Spencer. Another policeman came to talk to him and Spencer handed him his business card. The policeman read it carefully before handing it back. He didn’t need to be told that he was the Spencer Cronin of Cronin Global Investments. It was right there on the card. It was there in the policeman’s mind. In his deference.
Of course, he’d be happy to give a statement, he told the policeman. “Though I don’t know what to say. The man was running toward the end of the platform, and he stumbled. People should be more careful.”
No one countered his observations. No one took the woman’s side and accused him of tripping a man. No one wanted the full force of his fortune and power levied against them. They took him at his word, and never questioned why a man of his stature would be down in the tunnels with everyone else.
The EMTs lifted the gurney the dead man’s—Doug’s—body rested on and wheeled it away.
Spencer climbed up out of the subway station after it, and called his driver from his cell phone. He wanted to have a drink at Top of the Hub. He wanted to look down on the city and dream about November.
The Passion of
the Robertsons - Duncan Ralston
I don't know any stories I'd call a genuine Christmas miracle, but since you asked, I'd have to say the closest was when Harry Maitland met Mr. and Mrs. Robertson on the closing shift at the Hometown Hardware a couple of years back.
You've heard of this so-called "war on Christmas"? Well, Eric and Jean Robertson had been fighting that battle on the front lines before the lines had even been drawn. From the day after Thanksgiving until just after New Year's they'd led a shock and awe campaign of charity work, door-to-door caroling and chants of "Merry Christmas" to just about everyone they met. Not "Happy Holidays," oh no. Not ever. Eric and Jean were "put the Christ back in Christmas" types. If you said to them, "Happy Holidays," you'd get a thousand-yard stare and hear them mutter under their breath, reminding themselves to cross you off their "Nice" list for next year.
And God help you if you wished them a "Happy Hanukah."
These people ate, shat and slept Jesus—and not just on Sundays when Reverend Davies passed around the collection plate. So when an atheist stumbled into their midst on the day the lady's true love gave her three French hens and a partridge in a pear tree, that is to say December 28th, the Robertsons felt a little "Christmas cheer" was in order.
When they came across Harry at the hardware store, it was just about quitting time. Beer o'clock for Harry, if the last few customers didn't dawdle. It had already been a "day from Hell," as Harry himself might have called it in those days, and he wasn't about to stand for their Bible-thumpery.
Come 9:05 the Robertsons finally gathered up their purchases at the front counter, having ignored both announcements over the P.A. that the store was closing. Harry grudgingly scanned the nylon rope, the rolls of duct tape and plastic wrap… and he couldn't stand by and say nothing any longer.
"Got a hot night planned, huh?"
Mr. and Mrs. Robertson just blinked at him.
"It was a joke," Harry mumbled. "You know, because of the…" He shrugged, his humor having flown over their heads. "Never mind."
He rang up their odd purchase and said nothing further until the couple hit him with their standard "Merry Christmas."
"It's not Christmas, anymore," he snapped, and it was the worst possible thing he could have said in that moment. "It hasn't been Christmas for like three days."
Mr. and Mrs. Robertson eyed him with suspicion, as if he'd admitted he belonged to one of those strange religions that handles snakes, or worships their ancestors. They snatched their bag from Harry's hand and stormed out into the snow.
"Have a good night," Harry called after them with heavy sarcasm. He'd already begun to count his till as the door swung shut.
At 9:38 Harry finally locked the front door and drew the security cage shut. As he crossed to the bike racks he spotted a station wagon sat at the far end of the darkened, otherwise empty lot. Someone parked illegally overnight. If he'd noticed it before he'd closed the shop he might have called the cops and had it towed.
It was too late for that now. Harry had bigger fish to fry. A good few inches of snow had come down since he'd biked to work and he'd need to walk it across town to the Ram's Head here. After the day he'd had the call of the drink was strong. He'd planned to down a few shots with Marianne, his favorite bartender—she quit a few weeks after the incident in question, fancied herself an actress—before he got down to the good stuff.
Harry liked the dark beers, the kind so thick they were practically meals in a glass. Just perfect for when you hadn't eaten anything since lunch and also had an urge to get plastered. A beer like that fit the bill most days for Harry Maitland. The hardware store didn't pay him well enough to support both dinner takeout and his after-work proclivities, and he'd never been the kind of guy to brown-bag it.
Crouching in the dark beneath the busted streetlamp, Harry slipped a hand into his jeans pocket for the keys to his bike lock. He fumbled them out and jabbed one of the duplicates blindly for the keyhole.
That's not iiiit, he thought, mimicking the way his latest ex-girlfriend had teased him in singsong while he fumbled under the sheets.
Harry might have laughed if the sound of tires squealing hadn't startled him.
He dropped the keys on the ground and spent a tense mome
nt sifting through the snow in the dark before he noticed the bike racks and the brick wall behind them had brightened considerably and were still brightening while he fumbled.
When he finally clued in that a car was speeding toward him, curiosity had him spin around when he should have been diving out of its way.
Behind the windshield of the advancing station wagon Mr. and Mrs. Robertson sat with matching halos of dome light, ferocious determination in their eyes. A moment later the bright white of the headlamps blotted them out of Harry's sight.
When the rust-flecked grill slammed into his pelvis, Harry saw nothing but black.
"—on our naughty list," Harry heard Mrs. Robertson say as his world came back into sharp focus.
Under different circumstances waking to what he saw that night in the Robertsons's den might have filled him with nostalgia. The walls had been decked with tinsel and holly, stockings hung from the stone fireplace, a warming fire rumbling in the hearth. A plate of neatly iced gingerbreads and sugar cookies lay on a green-fringed table runner alongside a crystal dish filled with pinecones and fragrant potpourri, and three gold candles in polished silver sticks, one each—Harry suspected—for the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. A brass version of "Joy to the World" crackled from a record player while Mr. and Mrs. Robertson sat Indian-fashion on the carpet wrapping gifts and placing them under a gargantuan plastic tree held upright by a wire nailed to the wall near the ceiling. The plastic angel stood askew on the crown of the tree, its tiny hands clasped in prayer.
It was almost like Harry had fallen asleep on Christmas Eve during It's a Wonderful Life and woke to discover his parents hadn't put him to bed and he could watch—if he pretended to still be asleep—as they placed gifts from Saint Nicolas under the PVC tree.
Except for the pain, that is. The pain wouldn't let him wax nostalgic.
Struggling to move his limbs, Harry tried to look down but something constricted his head at the neck. A hazy memory recurred of Mr. Robertson slapping a roll of duct tape down onto the counter and finally Harry became truly horrified at his predicament.
"What is this? Why can't I move?"
Looking over his shoulder, Mr. Robertson stood abruptly, appearing both anxious and pleased, dressed in a ridiculous Christmas sweater with a shirt collar peeking out above the neckline. The man smiled. "You're awake. Welcome to our humble abode."
Looking like she'd just stepped out of a '50s television show in a checkered button-up dress with beige nylons, pearls and a plain white apron Mrs. Robertson plucked up a crystal goblet and a decanter filled with a creamy yellow-white liquid from the coffee table. "Would you care for some egg nog?"
"No, I don't want—" Harry remembered civility wasn't required of him. "What are you doing to me?"
Jean Robertson set down the decanter and offered him a pitying smile. "Relax, Mr. Maitland. You've been heavily sedated but you are very badly injured. Struggling wouldn't be in your best interest."
Eric gave his wife a look of concern. "Do you think I hit him too hard?"
Her response was curt. "He'll be fine."
"What if he's paralyzed?"
"He's not paralyzed, Eric. Are you paralyzed, Mr. Maitland?"
"I don't—" Harry swallowed a dry lump. "Why are you doing this to me?"
"Do you believe in God?"
Harry laughed in spite of his circumstances. Couldn't help himself, really. "That's what this is about? You fucking whackos—"
Mrs. Robertson slipped a delicate hand into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a dull black revolver. "Tut tut, Mr. Maitland. God is listening."
"Yeah? Well, God can suck my fucking dick!"
Pulling a face like he'd just sucked on a lemon, Mr. Robertson put a comforting hand on his wife's shoulder. Mrs. Robertson's naked lips rose in a sneer of disgust as she pointed the pistol at Harry.
"I don't want to shoot you, Mr. Maitland," she said. "But I cannot allow you to say such hurtful things about our Lord and Savior in this house."
Mr. Robertson dropped his hand to his side. "He's never going to believe, Jean."
"He'll believe, Eric. Did Thomas not believe when Jesus let him touch His wound?"
"What the fuck is going on here?" Harry demanded of his hosts.
"I'm glad you asked." Mrs. Robertson smiled like a teacher toward an attentive student. "Eric and I came to the realization many years ago that a man such as yourself—an atheist—would never truly appreciate the pain Jesus suffered for our sins…without suffering yourself. And you will suffer here tonight, Mr. Maitland. You'll suffer greatly."
The carol ended and the needle rose from the record.
Harry screamed to fill the silence.
Without missing a beat Mrs. Robertson fired the revolver at the ceiling. The bullet gouged a hole in the stucco above Harry's head and a sprinkle of plaster dust fell like snow on his face and chest.
"No one can hear you," Mr. Robertson said, slipping the old 78 back into its jacket. "Our closest neighbor is half a mile as the crow flies."
"It's just the three of us and God now," Mrs. Robertson agreed with a solemn nod. "And if He ignored the cries of His only begotten Son, I very much doubt He'll intervene for you. The next one's going in your chest," she added almost incidentally.
Harry had no doubt of the woman's sincerity. These people were lunatics. They were cuckoo for Christ. And if all they wanted was for him to believe in their Angry Man in the Sky, he had no qualms humoring them to save his own apostate ass.
No heretics would be burned at the stake tonight.
"Okay," Harry said, trying his damnedest to sound calmed. "Okay, you got me. I've just been pretending, okay?" He blinked a drop of sweat from his eye. "I love Jesus. Jesus is my dude, okay? Can I go now? That's what you want, right?"
A new record started with a fanfare of trumpets and cavalry drums. The chorus sang "Onward Christian Soldiers," and Mr. Robertson returned to his wife's side. They took each other by the hand and smiled beatifically down on Harry.
"Jesus Christ," Harry breathed, his teeth beginning to chatter. "You people are insane."
Mr. Robertson approached the chair and tore the tape off Harry's neck.
Harry screamed again. The first three layers of skin felt like they'd come off with the tape and he wouldn't be surprised to discover he was bleeding.
The pain cleared and he peered down at himself, at his hands taped around several times to the dark, rich wood arms of what looked like an antique chair to Harry's untrained eye, with plush red fabric and buttons. He figured if he couldn't break the tape he might be able to bust the chair itself.
But only if Mrs. Robertson was unarmed.
When he saw what lay to the left of the coffee table and the sofa under its clear plastic cover, all hope of escape blew away like chaff before the wind, and Harry began to shiver uncontrollably.
Two four-by-four inch slabs of pressure-treated lumber lay on the carpet by the supper table, fastened together to form a crude crucifix. At the foot of it were a mallet and railroad spikes, along with two lengths of bristly rope.
And even though Harry was an atheist, he had watched the torture scenes from The Passion on the internet.
He knew what came next.
"The people walking in darkness will see a great light," Mrs. Robertson said reverentially, gripping the pistol in both hands against her chest, like a holy man clutching the Good Book.
Mr. Robertson crossed to the hearth and drew an iron poker from the tool rack. He hefted its weight as he returned to Harry's side.
"Unfortunately we'll have to forgo the traditional flogging of Roman crucifixions," the man said, moving around behind Harry. "We wanted your experience to be as authentic as possible, but obviously we couldn't go into one of those awful stores—"
Mrs. Robertson shook her head, glaring at the floor.
"—and we couldn't have the postman thinking we'd ordered smut online," Mr. Robertson continued gravely. "So…we'll have to make do."
He searched the woman's eyes for mercy. Mrs. Robertson afforded Harry another pitying smile, and the poker came down across his back.
Cold hard metal slashed through skin and cracked the bone beneath. Harry's scream tore his throat raw, the taste of blood causing his stomach to rebel. When the pain finally lessened he found himself thanking God Mr. Robertson hadn't stuck the poker in the fire to heat it up, and the realization of what he'd done struck him as deeply as the poker had sunk into his flesh.
"I get it now!" Harry screamed as a chorus of horns filled the room. "No atheists in foxholes! That's what this is, right? Well, you win! Glory glory Hallelujah, I believe!" he shouted, and he would have thrown his hands toward the heavens in fraudulent jubilation had they not been taped to the chair.
The corners of Mrs. Robertson's smile turned down in doubt.
"I told you, Jean," Mr. Robertson said.
Harry twisted round as far as he could. "Shut the fuck up, Eric. You want me to pray? I'll pray. Please…" He imitated a booming parody of a preacher's voice. "God, please…forgive my wicked ways! Spare me from the rod of your righteous followers! I know not what I do, you see? I know that now!"
Mrs. Robertson nodded toward her husband.
Harry heard the whoosh of the poker a heartbeat before it cracked against his ribs. The air catapulted from his lungs and he hunched over himself, weeping and whimpering, an itchy stream of blood trickling onto his thighs.
"Please…" Every breath felt like a spear stabbing his lungs. "…I'm begging you, please stop this."
"'He who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ,'" Mrs. Robertson said, and she nodded to her husband again.
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