The dusty, green El Camino pulled into the truck stop parking lot. Ackerman saw the lights of the interstate to his right and a sign next to the road on the left that read, Asherton: 13 Miles.
He had some decisions to make. Several possible paths stretched out before him, but he was uncertain of which road to take. His mind was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions—rage, hope, pain, redemption. He needed to seek guidance, and only one person in the world could give it to him. He lifted the payphone’s receiver, inserted his money, and dialed.
“Hello,” Father Joseph said.
“I let them go.”
The man on the other end of the line was silent.
“Did you hear me, Father? I let them go. The family … the mother and the two kids. I spared them.”
“That’s … that’s wonderful. It’s incredible. You have no idea how proud I am of you. This could be the first step.”
“Let’s not get too carried away, but I have been thinking a lot about our last conversation.”
“What about it?”
A trucker moved up behind him, apparently wanting to use the phone. The man hung back at a respectful distance and leaned against the hood of one of the cars. He gave the man a hateful look and then continued in a much lower voice. “About good and evil. About everything having an opposite and things happening for a reason. You see, I’ve come to realize that maybe I was born to be the villain.”
“Francis, that’s not—”
“Just let me finish. If things happen for a reason, then that would mean that everything I’ve endured was meant to serve a specific purpose. So I tried to think of what that purpose could be. I reasoned that if I’m the villain, then my purpose must involve a hero. That’s when I realized that, on some level, I’ve been searching for my opposite for quite a while now. I thought that I was just looking for someone to make the game interesting, but now I believe that it was my soul searching out my other half. It was the natural order of the universe, trying to balance the equation.”
“Can we hurry this up a bit, buddy?” the truck driver said.
Ackerman’s hand shook, and his knuckles turned white around the phone’s receiver. But he fought down the rage. “Wait your turn … buddy,” he said through clenched teeth.
He turned his back on the man and continued. “Earlier this evening, I met a man named Marcus. There was something about him that I can’t describe. A strange familiarity. Like being home. It was as if … I had known this man my whole life. But when I looked into his eyes, I felt overwhelmed with fear. It was like looking into the future and seeing my own death. His eyes reminded me of my father’s eyes. I’m afraid, Padre. I think that if I continue down this path, he’ll kill me. It’s his destiny, and the truly strange part is that, for the first time in my life, I don’t want to die. I’ve started to wonder what if. What if there is a hell? I hope for darkness in death, but maybe I’ll find a punishment like nothing I can imagine.”
“Hell isn’t punishment, Francis. It’s simply the alternative. God doesn’t send people to hell to punish them for their sins. They go to hell because they’ve chosen to live their lives here on Earth apart from Him. By making that choice, they also choose to be apart from Him in the afterlife. That’s why it’s never too late. No matter what you’ve done, if you ask Him into your heart and home in this world, then He will bring you into His home in the next.”
“I don’t know what to believe. All I know is that my father’s voice in my head has grown quieter lately. The hunger is still so strong, but for the first time, I wonder if maybe I can overcome it …”
“The first step toward redemption is seeing the need. The second is asking for it. You’ll need help, Francis.”
“I know.” He stared in the direction of the interstate. “I’ve also considered what you said about me being even more of a legend if I was able to turn things around. I think you might be right. I’m thinking about turning myself in, but I would need you to be there with—”
“YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!”
Ackerman’s brow furrowed, and he turned back to the truck driver. “What exactly is your problem … buddy?” He over-accentuated the last word.
The truck driver shook his head and snorted. “This is really good. Really something. You’re the one with the problem, freak.”
The rage boiled inside him. He tried to beat down the hunger, but his thoughts kept moving to the gun in the back of his jeans and the knife resting on the passenger seat of the El Camino. He considered all the things he could do to this man.
No. Not now.
“Excuse me in my ignorance,” he said, “but what the hell are you talking about?”
The truck driver reached past him and grabbed something on the side of the payphone. “I’m talking about this.” The man shook a bundle of wires at him. “I’m talking about me standing out here twiddlin’ my thumbs, waiting to talk on a phone that’s not connected. Not hooked to anything. You’re out here talking to yourself, moron. Thanks for wasting my time.” The truck driver shook his head and stormed off, mumbling something more under his breath.
Ackerman was dumbfounded. He grabbed the bundle of wires and examined them closely. He felt around the backside of the payphone. He checked for additional cables but found none. There has to be some explanation …
His breathing was short and erratic. His heart thundered.
He examined every inch of the payphone, and then he noticed a small slip of paper taped on top of the casing that must have been flipped up by the wind. With one finger, he flipped the little slip of paper down. It read, Out of Order.
What the hell is going on here?
He picked up the dangling receiver and placed it to his ear. “Hello,” he said in a whisper.
“I’m here, Francis,” the voice replied.
He dropped the receiver as if it was venomous and staggered backward away from the device. He almost fell as he tripped off the curb. Still walking backward and eyeing the receiver as if it would attack, he stumbled in front of a car pulling away from one of the pumps. The vehicle’s horn blared at him, and he fell forward. He crawled back to the curb and sat up. He pressed his palms against his temples.
This can’t be happening.
Father Joseph is a real person. He was certain of it. He searched his memories. The priest had been his only friend since he was a boy. The only friend he’d ever known. He has to be real. He has to be.
As his heart pounded against the walls of his chest and his breathing verged on hyperventilation, he rocked back and forth. No. No. No. This can’t be happening. The realization flooded over him. I’m not getting better. There’s no hope for me. No redemption.
He wept uncontrollably. His cries drew a few stares, but most people that noticed him steered clear. After a few moments, a voice echoed through his mind. His father’s voice, words spoken long ago.
It’s time to play a game, Francis … If you do as you’re told, the pain will stop … Kill...It’s what you are … You’re a monster …
He looked toward the road in front of the truck stop. A car’s headlights illuminated the road sign. Asherton: 13 Miles.
He dried the tears on his sleeve. “Okay, Father. Let’s play.”