Created, the Destroyer

CHAPTER THREE

Remo Williams lay on his back, his eyes shut, his fingers drumming silently on his stomach. What was death anyway? Like sleep? He liked to sleep. Most people liked to sleep. Why fear death?

If he opened his eyes, he would see the cell. But in his personal darkness, he was free for a moment, free from the jail and the men who would kill him, free from the gray bars and the harsh overhead light. Darkness was peaceful.

He heard the soft rhythm of feet padding along the corridor, louder, louder, louder. Then they stopped. Voices mumbled, clothes rustled, keys tingled and then with a clack, the cell door opened. Remo blinked in the yellow light. A brown-robed monk clutching a black cross with a silver Christ stood inside the cell door waiting. The dark cowl shaded the monk's eyes. He held the crucifix in his right hand, the left apparently tucked beneath the folds of his robe.

The guard, stepping back from the cell door, said to Remo: «The priest.»

Remo sat up on the cot, bringing his legs in front of him. His back was to the wall. The monk stood motionless.

«You've got five minutes, Father,» the guard said. The key clicked again in the lock.

The monk nodded. Remo motioned to the empty space beside him on the cot.

«Thank you,» the monk said. Holding the crucifix like a test tube he was afraid to spill, he sat down. His face was hard and lined. His blue eyes seemed to be judging Remo for a punch instead of salvation. Droplets of perspiration on bis upper lip caught the light from the bulb.

«Do you want to be saved, my son?» he asked. It was rather loud for such a personal question.

«Sure,» Remo said. «Who doesn't?»

«Good. Do you know how to examine your conscience, make an act of contrition?»

«Vaguely, Father. I…»

«I know, my son. God will help you.»

«Yeah,» Remo said without enthusiasm. If he got this over fast, maybe there'd be time for another cigarette.

«What are your sins?»

«I really don't know.»

«We can start with violation of the Lord's commandment not to kill.».

«I've not killed.»

«How many men?»

«Including Vietnam?»

«No, Vietnam doesn't count.»

«That wasn't killing, huh?»

«In war, killing is not a mortal sin.»

«How about peace, when the State says you did, but you didn't? How about that?»

«Are you talking about your conviction?»

«Yes.» Remo stared at his knees. This might go on all night.

«Well, in that case…»

«All right, Father. I confess it. I killed the man,» Remo lied. His trousers, fresh gray twill, hadn't even had a chance to get worn at the knees.

Remo noticed that the monk's cowl was perfectly clean, spotlessly new too. Was that a smile on his face?

«Coveted anyone's property?»

«No.»

«Stolen?»

«No.»

«Impure actions?»

«Sex?»

«Yes.»

«Sure. In thought and deed.»

«How many times?»

Remo almost attempted an estimate. «I don't know. Enough.»

The monk nodded. «Blasphemy, anger, pride, jealousy, gluttony?»

«No,» Remo said, rather loudly.

The monk leaned forward. Remo could see tobacco stains on his teeth. The light subtle smell of expensive aftershave lotion wafted into his nostrils. The monk whispered: «You're a goddam liar.»

Remo jumped back. His legs hit the floor. His hands moved up almost as if to ward off a blow. The priest remained leaning forward, motionless. And he was grinning. The priest was grinning. The guards couldn't see it because of the cowl, but Remo could. The state was playing its final joke on him: a tobacco-stained, grinning, swearing monk.

«Shhh,» said the brown-robed man.

«You're no priest,» Remo said.

«And you're not Dick Tracy. Keep your voice down. You want to save your soul or your ass?»

Remo stared at the crucifix, the silver Christ on the black cross and the black button at the feet.

A black button?

«Listen. We don't have much time,» the man in the robe said. «You want to live?»

The word seemed to float from Remo's soul. «Sure.»

«Get on your knees.»

Remo went to the floor in one smooth motion. The cot level was at his chest, his chin before the robe's angular folds that indicated knees.

The crucifix came toward his head. He looked up at the silvery feet pierced by a silver nail. The man's hand was around Christ's gut.

«Pretend to kiss the feet. Yes. Closer. There's a black pill. Ease it off with your teeth. Go ahead, but don't bite into it.»

Remo opened his mouth and closed his teeth around the black button beneath the silver feet. He saw the robes swirl as the man got up to block the guard's view. The pill came off. It was hard, probably plastic.

«Don't break the shell. Don't break the shell,» the man hissed. «Stick it in the corner of your mouth. When they strap the helmet around your head so you can't move, bite into the pill hard and swallow the whole thing. Not before. Do you hear?»

Remo held the pill on his tongue. The man was no longer smiling.

Remo glared at him. Why were all the big decisions in his life forced on him when he didn't have time to think? He tongued the pill. Poison? No point in that. Spit it out? Then what?

Nothing to lose. Lose? He wasn't winning. Remo tried to taste the pill without letting it touch his teeth. No taste. The monk hovered over him. Remo nestled the pill under his tongue and said a very fast and very sincere prayer. «Okay,» he said.

«Time's up,» the guard's voice boomed.

«God bless you my son,» the monk said loudly, making the sign of the cross with the crucifix. Then, in a whisper, «See you later.»

He padded from the cell, his head bowed, the crucifix before him and his left hand flinting steel. Steel? It was a hook.

Remo placed his right hand on the cot and got to his feet. The saliva seemed to gush into his mouth. He wanted to swallow bad. Hold down the pill. Under the tongue. Right where it is. Okay, now swallow… carefully.

«All right, Remo,» the guard said. «Time to go.»

The cell door was open, with one guard on each side. A large, blond man and the regular prison chaplain waited in the center of Death Row. The monk was gone. Remo swallowed once more, very carefully, clamped his tongue down over the pill and walked out to meet them.