The Light at the End of the Tunnel (2 page)

What had he been thinking about? Before that
really stupid memory intruded? That’s how those memories came, out
of nowhere, not like normal memories where one thought led one to
another—No! These memories just bolted in and destroyed what he
wanted
to be thinking of!

Finally he remembered. He was thinking he
would have liked taking the needle right away—get it the hell over
with!

But hell no! His lawyers had demanded they
investigate every avenue of appeal. The system required the
endless, useless, appeals, but now they were down to just forty
minutes. In just forty minutes he would be back in the world and
ready to go again. He didn’t know of course if things would work
out quite that way, and quite that fast, and would he remember
anything of
this
life? Would he be able to go out and do
better what he did before? Or would it all be trial and error
again?

Mainly he wondered if he really would travel
the same path. He wanted to. He wanted nothing to do with a
goody-two-shoes life. He wanted to do the same as he did before,
but just better and that would require him to remember.
Everything
.

Except for those stupid and goofy memories
that weren’t even
his!

Chapter 2
Meet the Chaplain

Warden Miles remained at his desk. It
wouldn’t take that long to walk the short distance to the cell and
then to the chamber. He didn’t really want to have to deal with the
chaplain either, at least not before he absolutely had to. The
phone call that morning was simply too far off the wall. Way too
many new and totally unorthodox concepts and speculations, and
where in hell had the man gotten his information, anyway,
his…enlightenment?

Directly from the devil himself?

The idea of a man reincarnating not as a new
person but as the
same
person. But if he’s killed by the
system, the state’s death penalty, then he comes back as not only
the same person but even more evil. And how on earth could Les Paul
be
more
evil?

The clock said eleven-forty. Twenty minutes
remained. No word from the governor and no word from God Himself.
If the chaplain’s enlightenment of reincarnation was true, God
would know. God would hear of it and would change it. No way would
God allow an evil person to come back more evil then before. No
way!

He stood and glanced in his small wall
mirror. His tie was fine, his coat buttoned, his hair okay. He
looked all right.

He glanced out his small window. Lots of
lights. Torches. People with signs. Les Paul had no friends, no
family, but these executions always brought out the wackos of every
stripe and circle.

A knock. He glanced at the clock. Fifteen
minutes yet. Not time! Damn. Probably the chaplain with more
last-minute enlightenments.

The knock came again, more insistent.

The warden stood still for another moment,
then walked to the door, stood for about thirty more seconds, then
opened, “Chaplain, I was just coming to meet you.”

“Warden, we have
got
to stop this
execution.” The white-haired prison chaplain stood with his hands
clasped. Strange how a man as young as the chaplain had white hair,
a pure, white hair, like snow, a genetic mishap the man had once
said. What
was
he anyway? Thirty-four? Thirty-five?
Something like that he thought.

“Chaplain, it’s not up to me. You know
that.”

“Yes, I do know that. I also know that if you
are willing to give up your career, for the good of humanity, then
you will stop this execution. We
must
stop it.”

The warden stepped outside his office and
closed the door, “Who, exactly, told you about this…craziness, that
you are trying to convince me about?”

“God Himself, sir.”

“No, Chaplain. God does not speak to us
mortals. Maybe to the pope, and a few other top religious people
from various religions, but not to us regular mortals, so, I
repeat: Who told you?”

The chaplain rubbed his hands and looked
away, then looked right back, “It’s in a book I’ve came
across.”

“A book?!”

“Yes, Warden, a book. This might be our only
chance to get it right. We don’t want Les Paul, the
worst-of-the-worst, to come back as himself—Dear Lord, we
don’t.”

“We are not stopping the execution, Chaplain.
Show your book to the authorities. Wrap it around someone with some
real religious power. Not me.”

“Sir, right now,
you
are the
authority. This is directly the word of God.”

“The word of God from just a book.” The
warden released an exasperated breath, “Not even from the
Bible.”

“Yes, a book. It was in the basement, in a
wall locker. A locker that I think has never been opened…before I
opened it.” The chaplain looked away again, rubbed his hands again,
more vigorously, “In fact, I’ve never before even noticed that
locker.”

“So you’re saying God told you to look in
that locker that you’ve never seen before—was it locked?”

“No. I…had a dream.” The chaplain finally
lined his eyes solidly with the warden, “God didn’t exactly speak
to me in that dream, although I
did
receive instructions.
And I was shown the location of the locker. I woke up, dressed,
drove to the prison here last night at about midnight, went to the
chapel basement, and there it was. I would have brought the book to
your office, but, well, it’s not in the best of condition—“ He
glanced away again and said mainly to himself, “Who knows how long
it’s been hidden away?” then continued in his normal voice, “I just
didn’t feel right about removing it from that room…and that wall
locker. That’s why I called you early this morning, and I have been
trying all day to locate important religious figures…seems
everybody is out to lunch, or something, or just not answering
their phone.”

The warden shook his head and rolled his
eyes, “Come on, it’s time. You may continue this…this, story as we
walk.”

“I laid the book on the table and opened it
immediately,” the chaplain explained, “I didn’t plan anything, just
opened it, and there it was. A scripture I have never seen:
‘If
a criminal is killed by the state, he, or she, will come back as
the same person only far more evil. The worst criminals must be
allowed to die a natural death. A natural death includes death by
other criminals.’
”

“What about just bad criminals—
not
the
worst-of-the-worst? Or actually innocent people who just haven’t
been proven innocent? How are we to figure out which criminals will
actually come back—how do we draw that…line?”

“I don’t know, Warden. Maybe this message
from God is just plain to stop capital punishment, even though—I
guess—I do, personally, believe in capital punishment.”

“Us right here on the east coast, far out in
the country away from that tiny city of Bradleyville, should begin
a wholly new procedure which, hopefully, all the other states and
the whole world will soon adopt.”

“Yes, Warden, and soon all the worst
criminals will die of natural causes…and that will be the end of
it.” The chaplain’s face said he absolutely believed it.

“My God.”

“So you believe me? You’ll stop the
execution?”

The warden stopped and turned to the
chaplain, “No, I will not. And you, sir, will speak to Les Paul
tonight just as you have to the dozen or so other criminals we have
executed since you’ve been here.”

The chaplain shook his head.

“You will, or I will replace you, with
myself, if need be. I’m not a man of God and I don’t claim to be,
but I can read a Bible verse to that vermin just as well as
you.”

The chaplain again lined his eyes with the
warden, “I will do it, and may God have mercy on your soul.”

The warden blinked. He had not planned on
hearing anything like his own last rites. But it didn’t matter. It
was up to society to change the rules, not preachers who claimed
talking to God. He stared at the chaplain, then put his hand on the
man’s elbow and directed them onward.

No more words exchanged as they walked to the
cell of Les Paul, where two guard-orderlies were wrapping the man
in chains and shackles. The warden’s stomach tightened. He had
never liked this part. The man was going nowhere but to the
chamber. He could see no need for the bindings, even for a monster
like Les Paul.

The warden’s eyes finally moved to Les Paul,
who was looking back,
the bastard, always wearing that smirk!
Well, it will soon end.

Chapter 3
It’s Time

Les Paul lay on a flat steel table. No
swayback spring this time. They must want him to stay refreshed and
awake. He retained his smirk right up until the needle prick, then
suddenly felt cool, especially on his forehead. A buzz began in his
head. Sensations that felt vaguely familiar. He didn’t watch as
they taped the two tubes that joined into one, then led to the one
tube and needle in his arm, his cocktail of death. He saw a
white-haired man dressed in black, like a minister, enter. His mind
returned to the idea of reincarnation…would it work? The
minister-looking guy appeared at his side, “Les Paul,” the man
said, “Are you ready to meet your Lord?

Les Paul turned his head and made
eye-contact, “I want to be reincarnated.”

The minister’s eyes widened briefly before he
answered, “I have no power to give you such a wish as
reincarnation. We mortals don’t really know what lies on The Other
Side.”

“What power do you have?”

“I have no power. I’m here only to give
you…,” the minister hesitated again; his eyes widened again, and
his brow rose, slightly. Les Paul wondered if he had touched some
sort of nerve in the man. The minister finally continued, “…to,
administer a final prayer for you.”

“But you can ask, can’t you?”

Again the chaplain’s eyes widened very
briefly, then he blinked, twice, then he laid his hand on his
chest, and patted, “That’s a request I cannot make. Now, are you
ready to meet your Lord?”

“Sure, what-the-fuck?” Les Paul turned his
head back and gazed at the ceiling. The chaplain began reading a
Bible verse. Les Paul heard but did not listen to the words until
the end: “May God have mercy on your soul. Amen.”

He barely mouthed his response, “Sure,
whatever-the-fuck-ever.” Through peripheral vision he saw the
warden nod.
Here it comes
. He smiled, and felt the drugs
entering him, and felt his world speeding up. Like a jet
plane—
what a ride!—
plastering him against the seat. The
buzzing in his head grew louder and faster…

For a few seconds he felt himself rising from
the table. He looked back. His unmoving body was there. His eyes
were open…
where am I…?
He felt like he was moving, leaving
the prison—
Good! I’m going somewhere!
But, not, really. He
felt himself being squeezed, like, from a tube, except he wasn’t
leaving the tube, he was entering, becoming smaller, and smaller,
and smaller, and sma…

His awareness left him.

Interlude

The execution took place without incident.
The warden would continue his duties and look forward to his
approaching retirement, when he could spend more quality time with
his son and daughters and grandchildren. The chaplain returned to
the chapel basement intending to look again at the book—to satisfy
himself that he really had seen and read such a thing—before
approaching another religious authority.

The wall was as plain and empty as it always
had been. No locker and no book. For a few seconds the chaplain
felt his blood run cold. It felt like a huge goosepimple had filled
his entire body. If his hair could have turned another shade
whiter, it would have.

My Lord, that surely was Your true
word
.

Chapter 4
First Evil Act

Three months went by. Les Paul was swimming
in a warm pool of amniotic fluid, but quite often found he didn’t
have as much room as he would like. In his growing new brain,
though, it took him another three months to realize
why
he
didn’t have enough room. He was not alone.

The other presence was larger and softer, and
rarely moved. Les Paul had nothing even close to functioning
thoughts and emotions, but his hands somehow knew he had to get rid
of the other presence. With the tiny amount of sensation he had,
his hands realized they both had an appendage on their stomach. The
other presence was so close. Without cognizant thought he grasped
the other appendage and wrapped it around the neck of the other
presence, and pulled it tight.

The other presence struggled. Its arms and
legs jerked and kicked but made no serious attempt to fight, and
soon was still, but continued taking too much room. Les Paul was—of
course—not yet developed enough to feel emotion, so often his body
just did what was necessary. He seized the other’s appendage and
bit it and jerked it and pulled, until it parted and began spewing
another liquid. He grabbed the end spewing and put it into his
mouth.

Then his whole pool began jerking and quaking
and a loud noise began. A noise that in his previous lives his
brain began to comprehend, to even—almost—remember, as screaming.
He held the other’s appendage and began to kick and push the other
presence, and the other presence began to move away, and the
screaming continued and grew louder. He kept the other’s appendage
in his mouth, feeding and doubling his nourishment and kept kicking
the other presence as the screaming grew louder and louder. He
listened and listened and fed and fed and sensed memories and
gloried in himself.

Suddenly, a very, very, tiny, blast, of light
came…and then ended. Then the other presence was gone, and some of
the fluid in his pool was gone, but just some. Les Paul relaxed,
and firmly attached his mouth to the other appendage and continued
feeding, and settled back in repose, and slept.