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Revelations(40)

By:Julie Lynn Hayes


For what little of our sake there may be left.

The jail where I’m being kept is a small one. Appropriately so, for a small town such as this. Kaplan runs it with the aid of one deputy. There are two barred jail cells, set next to one another, with a single small window set high upon the back wall of each cell. I’m alone in one, and I think the other is occupied as well, but I can’t be sure, my line of sight doesn’t extend that far. I’ve seen worse places, trust me. This one is actually rather homey, considering. There are two cots, each with a decently warm blanket and not too soft pillow, a chair, and a small table with a reading lamp beside it. Although there seems to be nothing to read. Not that I could concentrate on reading even if I had the material, to be honest.

I’ve been alone here for a few hours. At least I think that’s how long I’ve been here. I’m not sure my perception of time is accurate. They took my cell phone, and I don’t wear a watch. Kaplan seems busy enough, doing other things I imagine.

People have been coming in and out quite a bit. I get the impression the deputy is somewhat flustered at all the attention, at being a bit busier than usual—perhaps Kaplan sent him out to take a break. Some of the people that come and go seem familiar. If I’ve seen them before, I can’t place them. Yet. I imagine I’ll find out soon enough.

I fall to my knees beside the cot, leaning into it for support, my hands clasped against the softness of the blanket. I close my eyes, and begin to pray.

Father, please help me, give me strength, show me that this is your desire.

Explain to me just what it is you wish me to do. I wasn’t prepared, I’m sorry. I’m finding it hard to think at the moment. Please…

My prayers are interrupted by a discreet cough behind me. I turn my head to find Kaplan standing there. I assume he wishes to speak with me. I push myself up from my kneeling position and face him.

“Are those just for show?” he asks. For a moment I’m confused, thinking he means my prayers, but then I understand. The robes. Not standard apparel in this place or time, but they are comfortable, at least to me, and I have always explained them as being part of my act. As I remind him now.

“Will this be a problem?” I ask, wondering if there is some standard jail apparel he wishes to exchange for these. It doesn’t matter. They are just clothes, after all.

“No, no.” He shakes his head. “I was just wondering.” He stands there for a moment, hands buried in the pockets of his tan lawman’s trousers, brow furrowed thoughtfully as if he is formulating what he wishes to say next. I allow him the silence to do it in. “Mind if I come in to talk?”

“Of course not, Sheriff. It’s your jail.” My smile is polite but distant. As if we both know there is nothing else I can do; there’s no sense in being rude to him, either. That is not my way. I remain standing as he enters the close quarters of my cell; I hadn’t realized before that the door wasn’t locked. He motions to me to take a seat upon the bed, and he pulls up the lone chair so we’re across from one another. He leans forward, his hands upon his outspread legs, in a confidential pose. I have to assume he doesn’t consider me any sort of a flight risk, but his revolver is within easy reach; I can see it resting against his hip. My mind occupies itself with such minutiae in order not to think on the one thing I truly wish to think about. But worrying about Jude won’t make things any better. I sigh resignedly, as I wait for him to speak.

He gives me a quizzical look, but doesn’t ask.



“You’re a hard man to get a hold of, Mr. Stone,” he begins at last, “and your…

assistant…is a hard man to get around.”

I can’t help but hear the nuance in his voice when he speaks of Judas, as if he’s trying to ascertain our relationship for his own mind. I refuse to cooperate in that regard. I know he’s seen more than enough to formulate his own ideas. He doesn’t need my help with that. “He does his job and he does it well.”

“That he does,” Kaplan concedes with a nod, “that he does. Does that mean you’ve been avoiding me?”

“That means he’s protective toward me,” I reply, “especially when I have things to do.” I spread my hands wide, to encompass the cell in which we sit. “As you see, Sheriff Kaplan, I’m now a captive audience, you’re free to speak to me as much as you like.”

“Because he isn’t here.”

I see no reason to comment on his statement. There is no question there. I force myself to swallow the lump in my throat, otherwise I won’t be able to trust my voice.