And Jesus Wept

By Ripley King

Judas Iscariot, two-thousand-years cursed to walk among us for his betrayal of the Christ, is about to get his second chance. He receives for the second time in his long lonely life thirty silver coins. Thirty possibilities to save the living universe itself.

Judas must walk west, from New York to central Iowa, the small town of Eisais. At each stop along his journey he gives someone a coin. Thirty conscripts in the war to come. One coin, though, chooses its possessor. Lovely sixteen-year-old Tamera Ditters. Profoundly autistic Tamera, a little girl with the living universe in her head.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ripley King
• Release date: Jan 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301181056

Ripley King

I'm a storyteller, with many published credits. Now I do my own thing. Have fun.

Book preview

And Jesus Wept by Ripley King

Horror. The powerful stand-alone sequel to Burnt Offerings.

Judas Iscariot, two-thousand-years cursed to walk among us for his betrayal of the Christ, is about to get his second chance. He receives for the second time in his long lonely life thirty silver coins. Thirty possibilities to save the living universe itself.

Judas must walk west, from New York to central Iowa, the small town of Eisais. At each stop along his journey he gives someone a coin. Thirty conscripts in the war to come.

One coin, though, chooses its possessor. Lovely sixteen-year-old Tamera Ditters. Profoundly autistic Tamera, a little girl with the living universe in her head.

Novel and Cover Illustration Copyright © 2012 Ripley King All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or locals, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control over, and does not assume any responsibility for author or third party Web sites or their content.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the author is illegal. Please purchase only authorized editions. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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And Jesus Wept

Prologue

The cruelest lies are often told in silence. - Robert Louis Stevenson

In an age-worn diner, two men are meeting over a table in a side booth.

The diner itself is formal in appearance, which means it’s longer than it is wide, with oversized windows on two sides, tucked neatly between the cramped crossroads of two empty yet well-traveled streets. Two streets that have no names or numbers to designate their tangibility.

The diner, the corner the diner sits on, the streets, all endure somewhere between cold hard reality and extreme fantasy; somewhere between life and death; somewhere between Heaven and Hell.

Now to the business at hand.

A painting of this diner exists, and the painting’s perspective is from the outside, looking in. A dark, moonless, starless night. It is a very famous painting, and this one painting has been imitated many times from the serious to the satirical. Imitation, after all, is the sincerest form of flattery.

What is ‘the business at hand?’

The painting depicts a few lost lonely souls, sitting on stools around the spacious front counter, waiting to hear the words, Order up!

You’re asking the wrong question.

The lights over the counter drew these lost lonely souls inside to sit and drink a cup of the house special. Take their coats or jackets off, and warm their bones. Order toast and eggs, a few plump sausages on the side, or maybe some hash browns with bacon.

The wrong question?

Might be the order filled is as simple as a cinnamon raisin sweet roll; all fat, soft and gooey. Maybe the order is as complicated as a stout hamburger with the works, dill pickle and greasy fries on the side, with a large slice of sweet potato pie for dessert.

That’s what I said.

What they order and eat is of no real consequence. It’s not important. Nothing is important to them anymore. Once in the diner these lost lonely souls wait. For what, they don’t know. They just know the food is good.

The two men in the side booth, they know. Both men have a cup of hot coffee in front of them. One adds a cream with two sugars, the other drinks his black.

Did you find the answers you were looking for? asks the cream with two sugars.

That’s the right question, drinks his black replies. I found my answers. I didn’t like them, but I found them.

Cream with two sugars says, And they are?

Drinks his black takes a moment before he answers with, Another roll of the dice. I have to roll my dice one last time with you. You seem to be the center all I need revolves around.

A waitress who looks suspiciously like Marilyn Monroe—her peroxide blond mane swept up, held in place with too much hair spray, luscious red lipstick smeared and fading, long fingernails polished to perfection now chipped—stops by the table for one last, Would you like anything else, hon? The kitchen never closes, and the coffee is always fresh.

Embroidered on her tight-yet-stained uniform blouse, above one ample breast, is the name Norma Jean. Norma Jean’s voice is breathy, calming. Sweet on the ears.

Cream with two sugars shakes his head and says, I’m fine. Thanks.

I’ll let you know when I need my cup topped, drinks his black says, looking into the tired woman’s pretty, kelly green eyes. Are you having a good night?

This job gets harder by the year, Norma Jean says with a studied Hollywood grace, but tonight is a good night, though my feet hurt. Then again my feet always hurt after a long shift. I’ll keep everyone here until morning. Don’t you worry about that.

She smiles a tired Hollywood smile, one that says she’s worn to the bone and then some, but the bills still need to be paid. She’ll do her job and be personable. A mutual understanding reached without words between waitress and customer. She nods, spins on her heels, and leaves the two men to themselves.

With me? cream with two sugars suddenly asks, absentmindedly stirring his cup for the third time. Roll your dice one last time with me?

Both men have entered forbidden territory, but drinks his black knows he must press forward and says, One last time with you.

Cream with two sugars takes a deep breath and holds it; then exhales slowly. He pulls the spoon out his cup and places it on the napkin provided. The white paper absorbs a few sweet tan drops.

Are you okay with that? drinks his black asks.

Cream with two sugars says, I don’t have a choice in this, do I.

In the normal sense of things a question was and wasn’t asked. Drinks his black understands that it was more a statement of fact, rather than an actual question. He says nothing, certain his answer is within the silence.

Cream with two sugars says, Where? When? Backward in time? Forward in time?

It’s not what you think, drinks his black says, lifting his cup to his lips. "When I said one last time, I meant it. When I said with you, I meant it. Probability can be stacked in my favor for a pleasant change. For me not to take advantage of this situation, I’d be a fool."

What does probability have to do with the current state of affairs?

Everything.

I understand possibility, we do possibility all the time, but you’re not talking possibility. I’m to be the subject of this little experiment?

"You’re the beginning and end to this little experiment. I’m taking you back to your Moment of Distinction. You have to start over."

Noooo . . . cream with two sugars whispers. The look of abject horror on his face is genuine. It’s never been done before.

Drinks his black knows this. He says, Two thousand plus years of human history, and now it all changes.

Cream with two sugars says, You’re talking two thousand years of my life lived down the tubes!

That’s the one option I wasn’t willing to face, my friend. The one option I couldn’t face. I have two options left before me, you see, and one of them is you.

Probability, possibility. As different from each other as darkest night and brightest day.

Possibility is what could happen, pushing the situation at hand one direction or another. Been there, done that. That isn’t what drinks his black needs.

What’s the other option? cream with two sugars asks.

Drinks his black has played the possibility game too many times, and has yet to win. Probability is whatever was meant to happen, will.

Drinks his black says, The universe and all in it dies. I have to rely on probability, not possibility. It’s that simple.

There has to be more options than that, cream with two sugars says.

"When you boil everything we know down to what is real, no. More options than that, that’s the delusion I was under. No more wishes, no more dreams. I take you back to your Moment of Distinction, or let the universe perish."

The ramifications of his decision will be felt for all time to come. Drinks his black knows this all too well. That doesn’t negate the gray feeling in his heart. He knows what it is he has to do, and he knows he is right.

That’s heartless, cream with two sugars says.

Drinks his black says, It is, isn’t it.

Another question that isn’t really a question, but a statement of fact. Drinks his black takes a sip from his cup and sets it down. He softly says, I can’t save them all. I’ve tried. Too many times I’ve tried. Too many times I’ve failed.

A healthy pause later, cream with two sugars says, You can save most of them. You know that’s true.

Drinks his black immediately responds with, You know as well as I the stakes in this game. Always the stalemate, never a victor, but they have the upper hand. And finally . . . finally they win. ‘It’s as much a test for them, as it is for us.’ Your words.

Only this isn’t a test.

That’s right. It’s not a test. It never has been. We’ve both crisscrossed space and time in our efforts to win this all-or-nothing war, manipulating possibilities where we both thought it would do the most good. One problem solved, only to spawn two more somewhere down the line. I finally asked myself why, and the answer wasn’t what I expected.

One real problem, one definitive solution. Drinks his black takes a moment to glance toward the counter at a very frail black man who seems to be dipping his toast in his egg, soaking up the yolk. In his other age-spotted hand is a strip of bacon.

The short order cook appears at the window between the kitchen and the front counter, looking for all the world like Hunter S. Thompson. The cook waves a knowing wave at the black man, who, in turn, smiles and waves a knowing wave back, toast in hand. A kid that looks like Kurt Cobain busses a table toward the back of the diner. Drinks his black understands life’s ultimate irony.

And what is the answer? cream with two sugars finally asks.

His attention once again focused, drinks his black says, "In a roundabout way I wasn’t playing the game for the entire universe. I can’t do that anymore. It’s not just one planet, one species, but everyone, everything, everywhere, every when. It’s that simple. I’ll do whatever it takes."

Are you forgetting about Free Will?

"Free Will is paramount. I’m telling you I have no other option left but to send you back to your Moment of Distinction. You won’t know this time line existed. What I get out of this is a different here and now."

"Two thousand years of my life gone. And when I exercise my Free Will?"

Drinks his black knows what cream with two sugars is saying. That right now he can stand and walk out the door. He won’t, and drinks his black knows why. We wish each other luck, he says, do our best and fail.

Are you sure? cream with two sugars asks.

The bottom line is, some will live and some will die. I can’t save them from their deaths. Not this time.

Who will live?

Your guess is as good as mine. Probability defined. Things will take place as they were meant to. This time those meant to die, will die. Those meant to live, will live. Will you help me?

What went wrong? You owe me that much of an explanation, at the very least.

The most important question of all, what, has just been asked. A question that deserves an answer. Drinks his black finally has his answer. He slams down the rest of his coffee and sets his cup down. He leans in and says, Me. I went wrong.

Cream with two sugars says, I don’t understand.

I stepped in where I shouldn’t have. Possibility. I can’t save them all, I never could. I have to go back and let events play out as they should have, not as I wanted them. I tweaked possibility too many times, and never once bothered to trust probability.

What does that mean?

It means I don’t know what will happen this time. It means I’ll have to stumble through eternity, hoping for the best. It means I need to renew my faith. Probability will have to play itself out to the very bitter end.

What does faith have to do with any of this?

"Everything. I’m the janitor here. That’s my job, all I’m supposed to be, all I’m supposed to do. I clean up the mess after the party is over."

It sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself.

Ruthless is as good a word as any to describe what I’ve become. I have to be ruthless with myself. That’s all I have to do. I have to see one dead, and one saved, both without lifting a finger. Not intervening, trusting to fate, having faith. Events must take place as they were meant to. I’m alone in this. No choices left. No other options.

Alone, in the dark.

Drinks his black pushes his cup to the side of the table. He maneuvers himself out of the booth. A ten gets thrown on the table. The cost of two cups of coffee with one hell of a tip.

Alone in the dark, drinks his black echoes.

PART ONE

The voice of one crying in the wilderness, Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make his paths straight. - Mark 1:3

One

The bed wasn’t much different from all the rest he had spent his overlong life in at night, when he had a bed to sleep in. A simple metal frame, a stinky thin mattress, a used and sweetly scented whore in it asleep covered by whatever management provided. He turned to the whore, Mandy, who was snoring lightly, and nudged her.

And they swear they never snore.

Mandy was the brown-hair plump distraction from being alone at night. Alone, and lonely. It was the same for her. They had admitted as much to each other, though not with words. Words would have been a waste of time and breath. Words could have been used to form lies, and lies weren’t necessary, nor necessarily welcome. Instead their admissions had been made through their actions, their facial expressions, their hearts.

Their whole lives were lies, if the truth be told. One lie stalking another like an endless circle jerk, without an orgasmic conclusion. Lies they told themselves so they could live comfortably within their own skins.

Her room was down the hall next to the bathroom. A couple of weeks ago when she was through servicing her many regulars, she knocked at his door after noticing the light on from underneath. He opened the door and let her in. They fucked. The sex was outstanding. Hard and fast; then low and slow.

He slid the sheet from her supple frame and nudged her again. She tensed but never woke. He scootched up to sit at the head of the bed.

Wake up, sweet meat.

Umm?

I have something for you.

It’s early, she said, her eyes still closed. Go back to sleep.

I need you. I need you like no man has ever needed you.

That’s a lie and you know it. Just a little more sleep?

You can nap all you want, later.

Mandy Edgerton opened her dark eyes, peering at him in a way that spoke of the sadness in her life. A born victim. She was more than willing to make others feel good at her own expense.

Okay, she said. Do you love me?

And the cost?

I haven’t known you long enough to say that with conviction, he returned. I love what you do.

The cost was high.

And what do I do? she finally asked. A hint of disappointment in her voice he needed to later smooth if he was to continue enjoying her fine moist company.

You treat me like a man, he said truthfully. You make me feel like a man. I need to feel like a man.

You’re more of a man than anybody I’ve ever known, she reassuringly said. And those beautiful but sad eyes studied his for a moment before she bent toward him and took his tool in her mouth and choked it down, spit it out, and sucked him deep again before he slid out with her cheeks pulled in from the brute force.

Damn, girl, you’re good.

Nothing like a little noggin first thing in the morning.

That’s it, he said, his excitement rising. Right to the root—

But his heart . . . it seemed to skip a beat . . . and his chest . . . it hurt. A deep stabbing pain centered on his heart that caused him to forcibly exhale. His efforts to immediately inhale were unsuccessful.

Some . . . place . . . in his mind shifted, touching a part of him he lost. A part that had only been complete in the presence of someone he knew long ago as special. An outside influence that directed itself toward the emptiness of a man without a soul.

He had lived for more years than he cared to count, and had died, yet his first death became the invocation that was his conspiratorial and personal nightmare.

He was a haunted man. Mercifully allowed to forget his torment one moment, only to be reminded of his greatest sin the next.

His mind shifted again. Every instant of his long-ago past greeted him.

The door was rough on his knuckles, but he pounded the rough-hewn wood hard to wake the man within.

A gravelly bassoon voice hollered, I’m coming! A man can’t get a moment of rest!

Behind the closed door he could hear the big man’s wife and two of their younger children ask questions the big man had no answers for. They were unceremoniously shooed to the back of the tiny house with a short but stern warning not to leave the room.

Who is breaking— When the big man opened his door with a start, the anger displayed on his face instantly turned to surprise. What is it that brings you to my door with a sadness so profound it is written in your eyes?

I was wrong, friend Jacob. I was wrong, and made a mistake that will surely cost him his life.

Come in, come in. The hens around here have more than enough to cluck over without you adding to the din.

He offered a plea to Jacob with those sad eyes, and entered the man’s house in utter defeat. Jacob led him to the thick wood table by a small cooking fire, sat him down, and poured him a large mug of stout wine.

Here, Jacob said. Drink this and tell me what is wrong.

I sent a man to his death this evening, he said.

Your dagger?

No weapons were used. I kissed his cheek and they led him away. Jacob, I have sinned the greatest of sins, against my rabbi, no less.

From what I hear among the stalls in the market, the authorities only wish to question your master.

Ask him a question or two was how they talked me into this betrayal, though I admit they had little convincing to do. I cannot grieve with a lie on my lips. What I thought was wrong, not as right as I believed a few short hours ago. They will have their way with him. No, more than that, I’m sure his death is near. I’m so sorry. I’m a fool.

You can speak to the temple elders, but I would wait until the morning. They will listen to you. Tell them your doubts.

All this is because of them listening to me! My speech too persuasive! Do you not see? A fool stands before you. A simpleton not fit for the air I breathe!

A little extreme, my friend.

My life for his! If it is not too late, my life for his.

No! You know not the outcome of their questioning. He can talk his way across the land, has done so numerous times, he can certainly talk some sense into a few dotardly fools. His words fill me with hope and love. Would not his words fill them with truth?

You do not understand, Jacob. They are all blinded to the truth. My life for his. The only thing I can think of.

A rescue? Can you plead for his life?

Useless, and you know that as truth.

But to sacrifice yourself?

Is that not what he taught us?

Another cup of wine, and then another after that.

No amount of wine will blunt my determination. I’ve a rope by the door, and require the use of your shed. I will plead for his life once dead.

You take me for a fool, my good friend? I cannot, will not, allow you to use your rope. Especially in my shed.

Please, Jacob. Leave me to my death.

I refuse to be a party to this action.

"I chose the many over the one. Everything I believe, was taught to believe in by God, if you are to believe in me, and I misunderstood it all. I was wrong! Arrogance