Hail Mary (20 page)

We were both drinking decaf coffee.

Jack had listened quietly while I summarized the other night, about the two deaths, about the tape recorder that had captured it all, about how the police had all the evidence they needed to close my mother’s case, and the case of the murdered girlfriend in Anaheim.

I finished with something that had been on my mind since the incident at Irvine Lake. “I smelled my mother’s perfume,” I said. “It was like she was with me that night.”

Jack gripped his steaming coffee with both hands. There was a smudge of dirt on his chin, and his fingernails seemed especially dirty. But he didn’t seem to care about the dirt. And since he didn’t care, I sure as hell didn’t care. He looked at me for a good twenty seconds before speaking.

“
She was with you that night, Jim, as she’s with you every night and every day. She’s with you every time you think of her and often when you don’t.”

“
You mean in my heart.”

“
Not exactly, Jim. I mean, she stands with you, or sits next to you. Often she hugs you or holds your hand.”

I took in a deep, shuddering breath. A deep, deep breath. Talk about an emotional few months...and now this. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“
She’s with you in spirit, Jim.”

I shook my head. This wasn’t making sense. “She’s here now?”

“
She’s been with you every time you’ve sat with me.”

“
But I don’t see her.”

Jack smiled gently. “She’s sitting in the chair next to you, watching you, listening to you, laughing with you, and always sending you her love.”

“
I don’t know, Jack...”

“
You smelled her perfume, Jim.”

“
I was in the woods, for crissakes. There’re flowers everywhere.”

“
Flowers that smell like your mother’s perfume?”

Behind Jack, the McDonald’s staff was going about their various closing routines. The lights in the rear of the dining room turned off. The lights directly above us were still on.

“
You can see her,” I said.

Jack held my gaze. “Yes, Jim.”

“
Because you’re God.”

“
No, Jim. Because Mary’s sitting next to you.”

I looked at the seat in question. It was empty, of course. No shimmering mommy-shaped glow. No hovering ball of light. Just a yellow, metallic swivel chair with a smear of ketchup.

“
The seat’s empty.”

“
Do you feel her, Jim?”

“
I don’t know. We were talking about her. She’s in my thoughts...I don’t know.”

“
Close your eyes, Jim, and feel her.”

“
Do I have to?”

“
Just try it.”

I did as I was told, and with eyes now closed, I was acutely aware that I was sitting across from a bum in McDonald’s at closing time, looking like a fool. Beyond us, I could hear the sounds of trays being stacked, faucets running, orders being given to clean this or that. I smelled the golden hint of fries, the grease of burgers, and even ketchup.

“
Do you feel her, Jim?”

“
No.”

“
Keep your eyes closed.”

I kept them closed, feeling both ridiculous and oddly calm. It had been a helluva week. A helluva past few months. A helluva past two decades.

“
Good, Jim.”

“
But I don’t feel anything.”

“
Now look at your forearm, Jim.”

I looked, coming out of a semi-meditative state. My arm, I saw, was covered in gooseflesh. Just like the other night at the lake “What about it?” I said.

“
Do you feel anything, Jim?”

I thought about that. “A tingling in my arm.”

“
What do you think’s causing the tingling?”

“
A heart attack?”

Jack chuckled lightly. “Try again.”

“
My mother?”

The older man nodded. “Remember this feeling, Jim. Remember this sensation, and you will always know she is around, with you, touching you, loving you, remembering you.”

I took in a lot of air. My lungs ached with the effort. I closed my eyes again and couldn’t help but notice that the tingling along my arm had risen up to my shoulders and around my neck.

“
I think she’s...” But I couldn’t finish my sentence. It was too improbable, too crazy.

Crazier than talking to God at McDonald’s?

Jack said, “You think she’s what, Jim?”

Ah, screw it,
I thought.

“
I think, well...I think she’s hugging me.”

“
She is, Jim.”

“
And you can see her?”

“
I can see her.”

“
And you’re not messing with me?”

He smiled. “How do you feel, Jim?”

The hair on my neck stood on end. Same with the hair on my forearms. A sweet tingling coursed through my upper body.

“
I feel great,” I said.

Jack nodded, pleased. He paused, then said, “She wants to tell you something.”

I blinked. “Tell me what?”

Jack cocked his head slightly as if listening. “She wants you to know that she loves you more than you can know. She also wants to thank you for keeping her memory alive. She knows that not a day goes by that you don’t think of her.”

Now the tingling around my neck turned into something warm, something loving. The tingling, in fact, now came to me in waves. Warm and loving waves. I think some of the hair on my head was standing on end.

Jack went on, and as he spoke, I closed my eyes. “She says she’s happy. She says she’s in a good place, a peaceful place. She says it’s time for you to be happy, too, Jim. It’s time. No more sadness for her. She says you’re her little angel, who isn’t so little anymore. She says it’s time to move forward, Jim. It’s time to move on. She says it saddens her to see you so sad.”

I covered my eyes with one hand. I fought to control myself, but I couldn’t, and the warmth I was feeling was too real, too pure, too loving. After a moment, I let go, and wept into my hand, and now the warmth and tingling moved from my shoulders and surrounded my entire body, and Jack’s voice seemed to reach me from far, far away.

“
She says she loves you, Jim. And you will always be her little angel, no matter how damn big you’ve gotten.”

I laughed a little, and so did Jack.

“
She has quite a sense of humor, your mother. She also says she wants a grandchild.”

I laughed again, but still couldn’t speak.

“
She says she’s not in pain anymore, and she’s happy. Very, very happy. But mostly she says she’s proud of you, Jim. So very proud of you.”

I wept quietly into my hands, feeling the loving tingle spread along my arms and neck and shoulders. I sat like that for a long, long time. And after a while, as the tingling began to fade, I finally said what I’d never been given a chance to say before.

I said, “Goodbye, Ma.”

The End

Jim Knighthorse will return.

Available now in ebookstores everywhere:

Plague of Coins

The Judas Chronicles #1

by

Aiden James

Created by J.R. Rain

(read on for a sample)

Chapter One

This looks promising....

It was late one evening, and I stood in the bowels of the Smithsonian Center for Materials Research. The staff had gone home for the night, and I was alone. Surrounded by lab equipment, computers, and stacks of dusty old books, this room could only be described as creepy.
Damned
creepy.

Then again, many would describe me as damned creepy, too. And maybe a little shady—at least if I ever get caught rummaging around in the basement. As a Smithsonian archivist, most of what I spend my days reviewing is upstairs or in other locales managed by the National Museum of History. Really, I rarely venture outside of the Anthropological Archives’ scope of responsibility. Just like a good, dependable archivist should be doing.

Oh, it ain’t so terrible, all cynicism aside. In my current vocation, I’ve been privileged to view some of the most ‘secret’ collections of field notes, photographs, and correspondence from the more significant scientific expeditions covering the past two centuries. Hell, that’s why the job appealed to me in the first place. My son, Dr. Alistair Wolfgang Barrow, the noted historian and professor at Georgetown, is the one who brought it to my attention. Yes, he’s the very same historian noted for his treatments concerning the Middle East and its volatile tensions. Tensions fueled by millennia of history and bad blood that will take decades if not centuries to cure, despite the latest diplomatic progress.

But I digress.

Upon the near-obsolete video screen, a collection of articles and photographs spanning nearly eighty years scrolled before my eyes. All of this information centered around one small village in Iran. Al-haroun is the name of the place.

I paused to sip my coffee while rubbing my eyes. Not so much from being tired as the damned viewer’s fuzziness. I’m spoiled by my MAC.

Yes, very promising...could be home to one small, priceless piece of silver....

I get a feel for things, you see. It’s something I’ve gotten better with over time. Call it honed experience, or perhaps it’s the mastery that comes with practice and carefully aged wisdom and acute perception.

Okay...I can almost hear the indignant silent questions out there. ‘And who in the hell are
you
, hot shot?’ That’s what
I’d
be wondering right about now, after re-reading the first two pages of my story.

Fair enough. My name is William. William J. Barrow, though I’m sure you already determined my last name from my son. I like the name ‘William’, actually better than any other moniker I’ve gone by since the Crusades ended. It makes it a lot easier for me to fit in without engendering questions about
who
I am or
where
I come from. I like it much better than any of the Apostle names like Peter, Paul, and Matthew. Although, pretending to be Bartholomew nearly two thousand years ago was a lot of fun.

That got you, I’m sure.

It would make me older than dirt. Right? Well, if we ever cross paths you won’t even notice me if it’s some ancient Methuselah you’re seeking. I don’t look a day over thirty—haven’t looked a day past the ‘prime of life’ since I wrote my own chapter on the most famous stage in modern history.

Back then my Hebrew name was ‘Yehuda’. I guess if history had left me hanging from some tree or tripping into a garden to where my guts squirted out of my condemned body, the world would be no wiser. My role in the ultimate betrayal long forgotten, maybe I’d be just a small footnote, and not the most reviled human being ever to walk this earth.

You can thank the Greeks and Romans for that honor, unfortunately. Or, I guess I can...at least credit goes to them. Born in Kenoth in the region of Judea, and falsely accused of being a member of the ‘Sicari’. Yes, these are all clues.... Give up?

The Greek for ‘Yehuda’ is ‘Yudas, and that name in Roman is ‘Judas’.

So there...that’s me. I’m Judas Iscariot.

But before you simply close this book in disgust, let me explain a few things. Things that could change your mind about the above claim, and take on a little of my perspective. In truth, I could literally give a rat’s ass if you believe I’m Judas or not. It’s not even the reason I’ve decided to write down my story. After all, if I don’t gain the final nine silver pieces needed for my restitution during my current ‘lifetime ruse’ as William Barrow, I’ll still be working on this project while you and everyone you care about has died and passed away. Perhaps all of you will land in the eternal Holy Mecca I so badly long for.... To be forgiven at long last and reunited with the ‘One’ I looked on as a mere prophet and wonderful teacher, instead of the Lord of Lords that He is.

How do I know the truth about Jesus now as compared to then? You’ll have to read on for that answer—and it comes in bits and pieces, really. No, it won’t be some pompous sermon. What I’ve learned these past two thousand years transcends anything and everything you’ve ever read in
any
book—including what is considered the standards for the Holy Scriptures—like the Bible, Koran, etc. You’d be surprised at the shenanigans I’ve witnessed that later became the accepted “truth from the very mouth of God Almighty.”