The effect of his beauty is slightly marred as he fairly growls at Kaplan. “What the fuck do you mean by holding him here without bail?” Chapter Twenty-Four: Judas
I do have to admit that I clean up rather well, don’t you think?
And yes, the cold water dousing had the desired affect, I have to give the woman credit where credit is due. Albeit grudgingly. But I’ve no time to worry about that now.
The new threads are not mine. I’d never spend the obscene amounts of money that these must cost, judging by the label. There are far better uses for such sums than adorning one’s body. They’re hers, and why she has them at all is beyond me.
But at the moment that is superfluous information, and the fact she does is simply fortuitous. No sense in looking a gift whore in the mouth, so to speak. Sorry, I’ll try to watch my tongue, be a tad more grateful. I perform the necessary ablutions and prepare myself for battle. Yes, I said battle. This is no longer a simple game, the stakes are far too high, it’s Jesus’ very life here—and I don’t intend to see him die again, no matter what I have to do.
First things first. The other apostles are milling aimlessly about the tent like bedraggled orphans, doing nothing useful, with the possible exception of Thomas, who’s trying to be helpful to me, while I’m trying to lose this headache that plagues me. And no, don’t tell me it’s my own fault for imbibing so much. I want the pain to go away before I go to face down that ridiculous lawman, so I send the lad off for something to take away the edge. Meanwhile, I attempt to organize this pathetic group, to give them some direction. Obviously we aren’t going on tonight, not without Jesus here. And when I do get him back—I still won’t allow him to go on, at least not before tomorrow. Maybe not then. Or ever. But they don’t seem inclined to listen to me, the miserable bastards. They just glare at me and mutter under their breaths, rather than acknowledge the fact I’m in charge for the moment.
It’s the only logical course of action, if they were only capable of listening to reason. I sense they blame me for what’s happened, but I’m not sure why. None of them has the balls to say anything directly to my face, but their nasty attitudes definitely show it.
Until Thomas sheepishly thrusts a special edition of some podunk press into my hands, disappearing almost immediately, and I realize where their enmity stems from. They know all about Jesus and me now—they’ve gotten quite an eyeful.
There’s a picture of us plastered on the front page (although the picture is tastefully obscured in all the right places, I still have to wonder how that fucking devil managed to get a picture, even amid the uproar of Jesus’ arrest). Well, doesn’t that take the fucking cake?
“Thomas!” I roar, aching to have those pills in my system, and then be on my way. But once again, it’s Mary M that answers my bellow. “Never mind the pills,” she insists as she leads me aside, away from the common herd, pushes me gently into a chair, and then proceeds to stand behind me, rubbing my temples softly. I hate to admit it, but her touch feels good, and it has a rather soothing effect.
“Judas, do what you need to do for Jesus, I’ll see what I can do with them,” she murmurs, “and for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
I think I must be having an out of body experience. This can’t be my body she’s touching so gently and it can’t be me she’s addressing without her usual caustic zings. This can’t be Mary Magdalene actually apologizing to me, so who have I become? My eyes reflect my confusion. She laughs.
“I know, right? Me and you? Me apologizing to you? Whodathunkit? But all kidding aside, I think I misjudged you, and I’m sorry. I think you truly love him, and he loves you, and I wish I could do something to help…” And then she does something I’d never have imagined if I lived for a million years—she leans down and kisses my forehead.
For once I have no nasty rebuttal, and the only words that cross my lips are,
“Thank you.”
The raging pain in my head is already subsiding, and I decide I’ve no more time to waste. The question now is how am I to get to the small burg where my Jesus is being held—and yes, I’m being very possessive about him, for he is mine, let there be no mistake about that. Mine first, anyway. After me, he can belong to the others. Selfish, I know, but after two thousand years of waiting, I really don’t care. The vehicles we use for basic transportation are currently in use, and I don’t have the time to sort that out. And once again I’m saved by Mary M—this is indeed a day for wonders—as she presses the keys to her rental Humvee into my hand. Perhaps that’s a sign of some kind. If she and I can actually get along and speak to one another in a civilized manner—and I would have bet a lot of money against that ever happening—then I should be able to save Jesus. Sounds simple, no?