by Glenn Cooper
“There’s a presidential finding in place authorizing your Apache pilots.”
The general nodded but then added, “Whatever happens, I think you and I are going to be spending the rest of our careers testifying before Congress.”
“The only thing I care about is getting through today,” Cuccio said.
The kitchen smelled of bacon. Jessie was slicing freshly baked bread; Sam was scrambling eggs. Steve was nervously looking out the windows at the sky—and Alex was sitting serenely at the table as if he had no cares.
“Good morning!” he said when Cyrus and Emily came in. “Sleep well?”
Cyrus silently nodded.
“Have some breakfast. I swear to you there’s no Bliss in it. That mission’s accomplished.”
They were hungry and thirsty but they refused. It was 7:55. They had quickly choreographed their plan while Cyrus dressed and now had precious short time to make it work. If it didn’t, Cyrus was determined to get Emily out before Cuccio and the army moved in.
“You enjoy manipulating people, don’t you?” Cyrus said.
Alex looked surprised. “I enjoy enlightening them. Weren’t you enlightened?”
“The truth?” Cyrus asked.
“Why not?”
“Yeah, I was.”
“So, once again, the end justifies—”
Cyrus cut him off. “That’s bullshit. You’re a manipulative self-serving son of a bitch.”
Steve stepped forward, his hand on the butt of one of the guns stuffed in his belt.
“It’s okay, Steve. Cyrus is just being his argumentative self. Bliss doesn’t make everyone see the light.”
“I want to say something to you,” Cyrus said, controlling his anger, “and I want your friends to listen carefully. Now that I’ve taken Bliss I understand you better. You’ve got an edge over other messiahs and prophets. Most of them are delusional or frauds. Bliss is real. And it’s made you so hopped up on a power trip that you’re willing to make decisions on other people’s lives. And today you want millions of people to honor your self-imposed status by killing themselves.”
“Who told him?” Alex asked sharply, surveying the room. Sam looked away. “It’s okay, Sam. It doesn’t matter now. Throughout the ages, prophets have always been attacked.”
“If I chose to appoint myself a prophet I’d be preaching a different message,” Cyrus said.
“And that would be?”
“That we’re here on earth for a purpose. What that purpose is, I don’t know. But when we’ve lived the best lives we could, we haven’t come to the end. Something follows, something good that’s going to answer all the questions we’ve been asking ourselves our whole lives.”
Alex scoffed. “That’s the same tired message that’s been dished out over the centuries by people who operated on the basis of faith rather than proof. Now that Bliss proves that the afterlife is real—and not only that, but that it’s glorious—there’s absolutely no reason to wait.”
Cuccio snapped his cell phone shut.
“General Kates, I’ve just received the authorization. I’m going to tell my people to proceed on the farm. You can do the same with yours.”
Kates nodded. “May God help us.”
“You wanted your proof,” Cyrus said softly. “There was nothing you wouldn’t do to find that proof, was there?”
Alex looked at him blankly.
“You murdered Thomas Quinn, didn’t you?”
“He committed suicide. I happened to be there. I’ve told everyone what happened.”
“Suicide? Did you tell them you caved his head in and stuck a needle in his brain?”
Jessie had been quiet, staring at her unfinished breakfast. “He was injured?” she asked, looking up.
“And did you tell them you picked up five innocent women on the street, five young prostitutes—a couple of them teenagers—whom you strangled and drilled their skulls while they were still alive?”
“Alex?” Jessie said.
Cyrus pressed. “That’s how you discovered Bliss, isn’t it? And you were going to do that to my little girl too, weren’t you?”
Jessie pushed her chair from the table and stood with a glassy, confused look. “Is it true, Alex? Did you kill Thomas? Did you kill those women?”
Alex stood up. “They’re all in a much better place than the one they came from. I helped them get there.”
Cyrus and Emily rose too. “Do you know how sick that sounds? Has there ever been a sorrier justification for murder?”
Alex flushed with anger. “Murder … suicide … accidents … disease … they all lead to the same place. And it’s a bloody amazing place.”
“Murder is different, man,” Sam said sadly.
Alex boiled over, his face beet red. “You want to call me a murderer, Cyrus?”
“I am calling you one.”
“And you want to punish me?”
“Yes.”
Alex pointed to Steve. “Give me your guns.”
“Why, Alex?” Steve asked.
“Just give them to me!” he screamed.
Alex took both and handed one to Cyrus. “Then punish me,” he said. “Go ahead and shoot me.”
Cyrus clicked off the safety. “I only want to arrest you.”
Alex was six feet away. He pointed his gun at Cyrus’s head.
Emily screamed, “No!”
Cyrus raised his gun in response, chest-level.
“I said shoot me! You don’t have a choice. I’m in control here,” he bellowed, “not you!”
“Alex, no!” Jessie yelled.
Cyrus held his arms out in firing posture. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I like my position because I can’t lose. Sam, when I’m gone, you have to take over. You know what you have to do.”
“Alex,” Sam moaned.
“Just do it, Sam. I’m going to count to five now, Cyrus. Then I’m going to kill you unless you kill me first.” He glanced at Jessie, mouthed I love you, then shouted, “One!”
Cyrus felt the weight of the gun, the hardness of the trigger against his finger.
“Two!”
Jessie began to cry.
“Three!”
“Please, Alex, don’t,” Emily said.
“Four!”
Cyrus lowered his aim and fired into Alex’s abdomen.
Alex groaned and doubled over then sank to his knees, letting the gun slip away.
Jessie ran to him.
Cyrus didn’t see Steve coming. The big man charged like an enraged bull and knocked him flat, then violently stripped the gun from his hand, aiming it at his head.
“Don’t kill him,” Alex said, through gritted teeth. Jessie was pressing her hand against his wound, trying to staunch the bleeding. “He did what I wanted him to do. Sam, push the button.”
Sam’s laptop was on the counter near the stove.
His finger hovered over the Enter key.
Emily’s voice rose over Jessie’s sobs. “Sam, this is extremely important. Pushing that button will kill countless impressionable but good people: people who shouldn’t die today.”
Alex was struggling to talk. “Don’t listen to her. Push it.”
“You have a mother, Sam. She loves you. She needs you.”
“What about my father?”
“Carry your love for him inside you. When your time comes, he’ll be there. You know he will.”
Sam began to sob uncontrollably. He slowly closed the laptop until it snapped shut and then he sank to the floor.
Cyrus was looking into the gaping barrel of a pistol. “Steve, it’s over. You’re not a bad guy. Your girlfriend’s going to need you. Put the gun down.”
Steve looked to Alex, who was on his side, breathing hard, his eyes staring ahead. Blood was oozing from his mouth. Steve began to blubber like a child, his big chest heaving. He lowered the gun and gave it to Cyrus.
Cyrus got on his feet. “Sam, I need you to go online and send out a message
that the countdown’s been canceled: that Alex had a change of heart, that he just wants people to live good, full lives. Something like that, okay? Then get on your bullhorn and tell all these people to go home peacefully. Can you do that, Sam?”
“Yeah, I can,” he said numbly.
“Then do it now. Hurry.” It was 8:10. “And for Christ’s sake, someone give me a phone.”
Bob Cuccio’s mobile rang. He didn’t recognize the number.
“Bob, it’s Cyrus! It’s over. I shot Weller. You’ve got to stand down! You’ve got to abort!”
Cuccio looked at the clock and rubbed his eyes. “Thank God.” Then he began to yell orders at his people like a man possessed.
Emily knelt beside Alex, checking his pulse. It was weak. His shirt was soaked through. “I’m sorry, Jessie,” she said. “I don’t think he can be saved in time.” Alex’s lips were moving. Jessie leaned over and put her ear close. His chest stopped moving.
Jessie slumped onto her rump, her jeans staining with Alex’s blood.
“What did he say?” Emily asked.
Jessie looked at Emily, her voice pitifully tiny. “He said, come with me”—and before anyone could react, she picked up the gun near his body and shot herself through the temple.
Alex felt himself floating like a wisp of a feather on an air current. The kitchen was bloody … but the sight of his and Jessie’s bodies wasn’t disturbing; all that was over now. He was ready for the journey.
And when it began it was as wonderful as always. Even better.
The tunnel seemed blacker, the sparkles of light more intense, the light ahead the purest white imaginable.
He was running with childhood abandon to the green horizon. When it came into sight the luminous river looked more beautiful and sounded sweeter than ever before. He wept.
His father seemed mad with joy to see him: his arms waving so hard Alex thought they’d fly off.
He was halfway across, easily navigating the steppingstones.
“You’ve made it!” Dickie shouted. “You’re here for good!”
He pushed off the last stepping-stone onto the bank and threw his arms around his father’s neck, felt the man’s stubble against his cheek. “Hello, boy,” Dickie sobbed.
Then came the moment Alex had been waiting for most of his life. He felt his father’s strong arms around his shoulders, felt his chest being crushed in a loving embrace.
“Dad.”
“My Alex.”
“I’ve missed you.”
“I know you have. Come on. Let’s walk together.”
The green plain was vast, the horizon, unbounded. Alex felt an unalloyed, powerful force out there that filled him with exultation. They followed a path, darker green than the rest of the plain, reminding Alex of trodden grass.
They walked, hand in hand, as they’d done when he was little.
Then Dickie slowed and came to a halt.
“Why are we stopping?” Alex asked.
Dickie said nothing but his eyes looked sad.
When Alex looked ahead he saw it.
They’d come to a fork. The path split in two, each branch running its own course toward the infinite horizon.
Epilogue
Crocuses pushed up from the rich mound of dirt in front of Tara’s grave. Spring was coming.
Cyrus brought her a stuffed bear. Emily had a bouquet of spring flowers.
Emily started to cry first and that set him off. They both placed their offerings against her headstone and sat down on the black granite meditation bench Cyrus had installed.
“God, I miss her.”
The bench was small and Emily was pressed against him. She took a pack of Kleenex from her purse, dabbed her eyes and handed him one.
He took it and said, “I’m going to be with her again.”
“I know you will. But my job’s to remind you every day why you should keep on living. I love you too much to lose you. And you’re too stubborn to let Alex Weller win, aren’t you?”
He put his arm around her. “You’re right. I am.”
They went back to Emily’s apartment. Her roommate was on duty and they had the place to themselves. They made love and afterward lay on top of the bed holding hands. She got a text message. One of her patients had been readmitted and the parents wanted her to come. She dressed and told him she’d be back by dinner and kissed his forehead.
When she was gone, Cyrus put his clothes on and poked around her living room. Thanks to him she had a small collection of Shakespeare in the bookcase.
He knew exactly what he wanted and went straight for a passage in Macbeth.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow …
He left the book on his lap and felt inside his pocket.
There was a single stick of Bliss.
He untwisted one end and let the crystals fall onto his tongue, where they melted like the final snowflakes of the season falling onto warming ground.
