RECKONING
It had been a long time, more years than he could count, in fact, but he was drawn there, and he couldn't have explained why if he'd tried. Maybe it was inevitable, he didn't know. His feet were taking him inside, into the darkness, into the calm, and as it welcomed him he wondered why he hadn't done it sooner, but it just hadn't been right before.
As he made his way down the aisle he slipped into an empty pew and sat, not even noticing if there were others in the church. There were no sounds but it wasn't eerie. It was just – he couldn't think of a word. It was just – what he needed. Solitary. Silent. Solace.
"You're in pain." Jack had no idea how long the man had been standing there. When he looked up he saw that the man was wearing a minister's collar, and he was looking at him with concern. "Would you like to talk?"
Jack became aware of the tears rolling down his cheeks as he whispered, "Yes," and he rose, not knowing when he'd knelt down, the pain in his legs telling him that he'd been in that position for a long time. The minister silently led him to the rectory behind the church and showed him to the kitchen, where he turned to Jack. "I'm the Reverend Peter Tilson. Why don't you call me Pete?" He held out his hand.
"I'm Jack Bauer." He shook the minister's hand and they sat.
"Would you like some coffee, Jack? Or tea?"
"Coffee, please, Pete, if it's not too much trouble. I didn't realize how cold it is in the church."
"I think your mind was on other things, Jack," Pete said as he turned to the counter. "You were rather deep in thought."
Jack sighed. "I don't know what brought me to the church," he said after a pause. "I haven't been to one in quite awhile."
"Then perhaps it was time," Pete replied. "Sometimes we just know when we're ready."
He removed mugs from the cabinet and placed them on the table, along with milk and sugar, and sat opposite Jack.
Jack sat with his head down, not sure why he was there, or why he had accepted the invitation to talk. What the hell could he say? He didn't even know what he had been thinking. Everything was a jumble, a mess of thoughts and words and memories that were too painful to consider, to feel, to put in any order that he could make sense of, let alone make anyone else understand. How could he ever open up to this man, this stranger? What the hell was he doing here?
Pete saw all this in Jack's eyes, the horror, the confusion, the agony, and he knew that this was a tortured man who was crying out. He wondered at the depth of the pain that this man before him held inside, and whether he could help him let it out.
Pete got up to get the coffee, and he used the moment to compose himself. He knew that he would need all of his skill, all of his intuition and compassion if he was to reach the tormented soul before him.
As he started to fill the mugs Pete saw that Jack was crying, huge heaving sobs wracking his body, and he put the pot down to grasp Jack's hands, to let him know that another human being cared about him and that he didn't have to live through this alone.
Jack had never cried like this in his life, and it wasn't cathartic. It was the greatest pain he'd ever known, the feeling that every hair, every follicle was being pulled from his body, every nerve ending was being stabbed and filled with the salt from his tears. And each represented a life he'd taken, or a life that had been taken from him.
The sobs lasted forever, or so it seemed to them both, until finally they eased from Jack's exhaustion and he slumped in his chair, his head on his folded arms on the table, and Pete stood next to him, rubbing his shoulders, and Jack fell asleep.
He awoke several hours later, stiff and disoriented, and he stood, the upset returning. It was dark outside and he couldn't remember where he was or how he'd gotten there. Pete heard him and came into the kitchen.
"It's all right, Jack," he said softly. "You're safe here. It's all right."
Jack looked at him blankly until memory returned. "I'm – I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry, Pete. I – Nothing like that's ever – I'm sorry – I'll go now."
"Wait, Jack. I don't think you're in any condition to go yet. Sit for awhile first. I'll make fresh coffee."
Jack paused. Pete's tone was comforting, and he was right. He wasn't in any condition to go. Besides, he had nowhere to go to. Still, this wasn't right. He couldn't do this.
"I'm – I'm not sure why I'm here, Pete. I – I..." He was totally lost.
"Just sit down, Jack. We'll talk, if you want to. Otherwise, just relax for a bit."
Pete made more coffee and they sat again at the table, but Jack wouldn't meet Pete's eyes. He didn't know what to say.
"Jack, do you want to talk? You're obviously very troubled, but it's up to you. Tell me this, though. Are you from around here? Do you have a place to stay tonight?"
"I'm staying at a motel," Jack replied. "Just down the road."
"Oh," Pete replied. "Then you're not from around here." It wasn't a question.
"No. I live in LA," Jack said. "I'm here on business."
"What kind of work do you do, Jack?" Pete asked in a conversational tone. He didn't want to sound like he was prying.
"I work for the government," Jack said, his usual vague answer, and he hoped Pete wouldn't ask for specifics. He was too tired to go into his ordinary 'I'm with the Transportation Department' bllsh!t.
Pete picked up Jack's vibes and dropped the subject. He noticed Jack wasn't wearing a wedding ring, so he wasn't going to go there. He went for a neutral topic. "What are your hobbies, Jack? Are you into sports?"
"Yeah," he replied. "I like hockey. I used to surf and race motorcycles."
"Active sports, physical stuff. I played ball when I was in college, I swim now. I grew up in Indiana, so I never surfed, obviously, and by the time I got out here I thought I'd look like an idiot so I never got a chance to try it. Looks like fun, though."
"Yeah, it was great. I surfed a lot before my daughter was born."
"Oh, you have a daughter? How old is she?"
"She's – she's – " The tears started before Jack could choke them back, and Pete leaned over the table, reaching for Jack's hands, grasping them to give him human contact, to show he was not alone in his anguish.
"What is it, Jack? Is it your daughter? Has something happened to her?"
"No, no, Kim is fine, thank God. It's not Kim, it's – it's..." He tried to breathe deeply, to hold back the sobs, and Pete could see how he was struggling.
"Jack, let it go. Let yourself go. Talk about it, it'll help. Let it out. Whatever it is, it's eating you alive. Talk to me. Let me help you."
A giant sob escaped from Jack and he pulled away, his head thrown back over the chair. "Pete, no one can help me, don't you understand? What I did, all the things I did – no one can help me. God forgive me, no one can help me. Even God. Even God." The tears poured down his cheeks but he was silent after that, his eyes closed, and Pete knew he'd never seen anyone in such pain.
Pete watched Jack as he cried soundlessly, the pain welling up and out from depths that the minister couldn't even guess at. Unfathomable, he thought, the word fits, the depths of our despair. What has this man gone through?
Finally Jack sat up and wiped his hand across his eyes and looked at Pete. "It's hopeless, don't you see?" he asked in a whisper. "Nothing can help. What I've done – it can't be undone. All the people..."
"'All the people' what, Jack?" Pete asked softly. "'All the people' what?"
"All the people I've killed, Pete. I'm a killer. A paid assassin." With the words Jack seemed to shrink.
More than the words, Pete heard a loathing in Jack's voice that he'd never heard before. A self-hate that explained everything the man was going through. But this man, this tormented man – a killer? No, no – not this man. Not this gentle man.
"Jack, I don't know you. Not yet. But what you're saying – it's wrong. You're not a killer. You're not – "
Jack cut him off angrily. "What the fck do you know? You don't know me! Who the fck do you think you are, telling me what I am? What the hell am I doing here? What the fck was I thinking?" He pushed away from the table, knocking over the chair behind him, and headed for the door.
"Jack, wait. Please. What I meant was that you have a conscience. Whatever you've done, whatever is in your past, you're not someone who killed for no reason. That doesn't make you evil. That's what I mean. Don't go. We need to talk. Just don't go."
It penetrated. Jack stopped in his rush for the door and turned back to Pete. "Do you think so? Do you think it's possible that I'm not evil?"
"Yes, I think it's possible. More than possible. There's a lot of conflict between good and evil, and I think we ought to talk about it. You said you work for the government, and I know that sometimes the government does things that the public doesn't know about. Things that the public would be horrified to know about, and people have to do those things. I bet you're one of those people. Am I right? Are you one of those people, Jack? The ones who do the things that save the rest of us?"
Pete saw the recognition in Jack's eyes and knew that he had hit a home run. "Jack, sit down. I have the feeling there's a lot to talk about. And I think we can use something stronger than coffee. Scotch all right?"
They were settled on couches in the den, a fire lit and drinks in their hands before Jack started, and they talked through the night.
"I went into the army after college, and wound up in Special Forces," Jack began, "and I was trained to kill. And I had a real talent for it," he added bitterly. "A real skill." He took a deep drink from his glass.
"How did you feel about it?" Pete asked.
"Proud," Jack replied with more bitterness. "I felt proud."
"Proud of what?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, were you proud of your skill, or was there something more?"
"What more could there be?" Jack was annoyed.
"I'm sure there was a lot more, Jack," Pete said. "You weren't killing in a vacuum, you were doing it for a reason."
"I was doing it to accomplish the mission, Pete," Jack replied, exasperated. "Obviously."
"But what did you think of your missions? Did you approve of them?"
"Of course. They were to protect the country."
"So you were proud to be protecting the country, Jack, proud to be able to use your God-given talents to save the people of this country from harm. That's something to be proud of."
Jack saw where Pete was going, but he wasn't convinced. "'God-given,' Pete? God gave me a talent to kill? I mean, come on! Whatever happened to 'Thou Shalt Not Kill?'"
"Jack, our laws, both on earth and in heaven, say we can defend ourselves. It's in the Bible, Jack, God says we can, that we must, defend ourselves. An eye for an eye. You defended people who couldn't defend themselves. You were doing God's work, Jack."
Jack didn't respond and Pete paused for a moment. "Tell me, Jack, did you ever kill anyone when you didn't have to? When you just wanted to?"
A sick look crossed Jack's face, and Pete saw it. He was suddenly afraid of the answer.
The silence kept going and Pete was afraid he'd lost Jack, that he would bolt for the door or never talk again.
After minutes passed Jack struggled to answer. In a strangled voice he choked out the words, "I'm not sure." Pete didn't know what to make of it, and he just looked at Jack, waiting for more.
"There was a woman, a woman who killed my wife, and I killed her. I'm not sure, I've never been sure, whether I had to kill her or not. At least not when I did. I wanted to, God knows I wanted to, plenty of times, but when I did – she was injured, she'd been shot, I'd shot her, I'd had to to protect my daughter, but I didn't have to finish her, not then. I could have just kicked the gun out of the way. I'd have had to kill her eventually, I'm sure of that, she'd never have stopped, but not then. Not then, at least. She wasn't a danger to Kim any more."
It made perfect sense to Jack, but Pete couldn't follow it. He had no idea of how or why any of this had happened, why Jack would think he 'had' to kill this woman, why she would have had to be killed 'eventually;' all he had understood was that this woman had killed Jack's wife, and that part Jack had said so matter-of-factly that Pete was stunned.
He was at a loss as to what to say to comfort Jack; for all his training he'd never confronted anything like this. He knew intuitively that Jack was not evil, he knew that the man before him was good and decent, but how to reach him and convince him of this was something else entirely. One man, this one man represented the polar complexities of good and evil, practically a theological study, and Pete wished he had someone to consult, one of his learned professors, but he knew he had to face this himself, and he prayed for guidance. Failure would mean the loss of this man, of that Pete had no doubt, for Jack was clearly on the brink.
Pete was roused out of his pondering when he realized that Jack was looking at him, studying him for signs of revulsion, rejection, and he straightened in his chair. He carefully said, "Jack, I'm not going to pretend that I understood all of what you said, but from what I gathered this was a woman who murdered your wife and was a threat to you and your daughter. It sounds to me like you might have acted in self-defense. Tell me, were you prosecuted for this?"
Jack gave a harsh laugh. "Prosecuted? No. CTU doesn't air its dirty laundry in public. There was an internal inquiry, and they cleared me 'cause they couldn't prove anything. I blocked the cameras, and so help me, I don't know if I did it deliberately. I honestly don't know. But they couldn't see if she was going for the gun or not, so they couldn't do anything. They demoted me, after all I did, but I didn't lose my job or anything." He laughed again, bitterly. "That was probably the worst thing that happened. Maybe if they'd fired me I'd have been better off."
Pete didn't understand this statement, either, although Jack clearly did. But he recognized 'CTU,' and started to put things together.
"Is that who you work for, Jack, CTU? The anti-terrorism agency?"
"Yeah," he replied. "The vaunted, hallowed CTU."
"You people have saved the country more than once. Countless times. The nuclear bomb, the virus, the melt-downs – all those things. In fact, wasn't there one agent in particular..." He saw the look on Jack's face, and everything came together. "My God, Jack – was that you? Are you that agent?"
The look and the silence that followed gave Pete the answer, and things fell into place. The horror that this man had seen, the things he'd had to do to get the results, all made sense to him now.
"I think I understand," Pete said slowly. "What you've done, what you've had to do to accomplish everything that was demanded of you – my God, Jack – and you blame yourself for that? For saving millions of lives? Don't you understand the good that you've done? You've done God's work, Jack. You've saved millions of innocents. Millions."
"Yeah," Jack said bitterly. "Millions. And it cost me my soul."
"It obviously cost you more than that, Jack. Your wife..."
"Yeah, my wife. And I don't know how many others."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't even know how many people I killed, Pete. 'In the line of duty.' I killed people whose names I'll never know. Dozens. Maybe more than a hundred. Yeah, definitely more than a hundred. At least some were innocents, they just got in the way. That was God's work, Pete? That was doing good? We call that 'collateral damage,' Pete. A nice, sanitized name for killing good, innocent people. So we can sleep at night. And you know what, Pete? Most nights I do sleep. I have nightmares sometimes, a lot of times, really, but I sleep. But these people sleep forever."
"Jack," Pete said after a pause, "were these deaths avoidable? I mean, could you have accomplished your missions otherwise?"
It was Jack's turn to stop and think about a question he'd always tried to dodge because he was afraid of the answer, but he knew he finally had to face it. "I don't know," he replied at last. "I just don't know."
"Tell me about some of them, Jack," Pete said. "Tell me about some of the ones that trouble you. Let me help you think them through." He thought that if he could help Jack confront them, possibly come to a conclusion about them, it would bring Jack some peace. If Jack could make peace with them, that is. If not...
A long silence followed, until Jack broke it. "There was a woman in Mexico, Claudia. I was undercover, working with the lowest of the low, drug dealers and terrorist wannabes, who were trying to get their hands on a lethal virus." Pete nodded his head knowingly. The incident with the Cordilla virus had been all over the news. Jack continued, "She was the mistress of one of the brothers in charge of the gang. I got involved with her. Romantically, I mean. I promised her I would get her out, her and her father and brother. She was killed. I couldn't protect her. I failed her."
"You didn't kill her," Pete said in response. "It sounds like she was caught in the middle of a bad situation, Jack, caught up in something you couldn't control. How was that your fault?"
"She was 'collateral damage,' Pete, one of the innocents. It was my job to protect her, to keep her safe, and I blew it. And I promised her. It was my fault. All my fault."
"No, Jack, it wasn't your fault. From everything I read it was a dangerous mission, that you weren't in control of, and you certainly couldn't control how everyone would act. How could you keep anyone safe? Your life was on the line, too, and yet you stopped the spread of the virus. It's sad, tragic, that the woman died, but you saved millions, Jack. I understand your sorrow, but not your guilt. There was nothing you could have done. Would getting yourself killed have saved her?"
"No," he answered slowly, "but still..." His voice trailed off.
They sat in silence for awhile, until Jack broke it. "There were others, men I killed without a thought. They were bad guys I shot, I stabbed, some I killed with martial arts, and I just did it automatically, without thinking, the way I'd been trained. Countless men. And I mean countless, Pete. I'm a trained killer. A paid, trained killer. And you can't convince me that was 'God's work,' Pete. I should have found another way, at least with some of them." The bitterness in his voice was overwhelming.
"Jack, only you know the circumstances, I won't deny that," he responded. "I'm not going to pretend otherwise. But I can't help but think that you're being too hard on yourself. I know you say that CTU won't air its dirty laundry in public, but surely if what you say is true word would have leaked out somehow, and there'd be a public outcry, a Congressional investigation, something. Someone would be held accountable if these deaths were unsupportable, unnecessary."
"There were investigations by Congress, Pete. Lots of them, but they were secret, by the Intelligence Committees. For once, there were no leaks. That was a miracle by itself. And I was cleared each time. Don't ask me how, but I was. I guess they blow things, too," he finished.
Pete pondered that, then decided to change the subject to what he was sure was something safer, something he knew Jack couldn't be responsible for.
"Tell me about your wife, Jack. Tell me how she died." Pete saw Jack's expression harden.
"I – I had an affair. With Nina, the woman who killed her. She was my number two, the woman under me at CTU. God, that's a hell of a way to put it, isn't it? Teri and I had separated – that was my fault, I had shut her out after a mission I had that went bad, and I couldn't cope with it. Anyway, we separated, and I had an affair with Nina. It turned out she was a mole, a double agent, and she was working for the people who wanted to kill Palmer." Pete remembered the day when there had been attempts to kill the Presidential candidate, but he hadn't known of Jack's involvement. Again things started to fall into place.
Jack continued, "Nina's cover was blown, and Teri happened to find her when she was trying to get away, and she killed her. I should have realized Nina was a mole. I trusted her, God, I slept with her, and she killed Teri. The woman I betrayed Teri with killed her, all because I ended the affair. Now you try to tell me that wasn't my fault."
Pete didn't take long to digest this. "Jack, you just contradicted yourself. You just said this Nina killed Teri because she found her when Nina was trying to get away, not because you ended the affair. It sounds like Nina would have killed anyone who found her, and it just happened that it was Teri. That certainly wasn't your fault. Why are you blaming yourself?"
Jack sighed. "Because it was. Because I cheated on her, betrayed her. I loved Teri, very, very much. More than my life. She and Kim were my life. That's why I shut them out – I had to protect them from me, from the awful man I was. From the awful things I did. So then I did something even worse – I cheated on her, I broke my vows, I betrayed her. The woman I loved. And she died because of it. Pete, don't you see? If I hadn't slept with Nina, if I hadn't broken it off like I did, she wouldn't have gone after Teri. She wouldn't have killed her. It was all my fault. That's why Teri died. I killed her. Nina just pulled the trigger." He sank back on the chair, exhausted, tired of talking. It was so obvious. Why didn't Pete see it? Why was he putting him through this?
But Pete was determined to get through to Jack. "You're blaming yourself for something that wasn't your fault, Jack. You said Nina's cover was blown. From the sound of it she was trying to save herself, and Teri got in the way. Am I right? Was Teri in the wrong place at the wrong time? Would Nina have shot anyone who was there? Would she, Jack?"
Jack had asked himself this a thousand times, a million times, and he always came up with the same answer. Yes. Still, if he hadn't had the affair. If he hadn't slept with Nina. If he hadn't betrayed Teri...
"It doesn't matter," he said finally, begrudgingly. "Maybe she'd have shot her anyway. Maybe she would have. But that doesn't change the fact that I cheated. I broke my vows to Teri. I loved her, Pete, and I hurt her in the worst possible way, and I never got to make it up to her. I don't know if I ever could have, and I never even got the chance. I know I hurt her, and she took me back anyway. She was a saint, Pete, she forgave me. She knew about the affair, but she never knew until the last day that it was Nina, that Nina was the one I slept with. I don't know if she forgave me knowing that it was Nina I cheated with. I never got to talk to her about it after that, but the last time we talked she told me she was pregnant. The baby died that day, too. Nina killed our baby, the one that would have meant a new start for us. She took that, too." He was crying again, the tears pouring down his cheeks at the memories, at the should-have-beens, and they were uncontrollable. "If I hadn't..." The sobs wracked him so, he couldn't continue.
Pete waited, letting Jack get some of the pain out, knowing there was lots more to come. The torment this man had kept bottled up for so long was endless. How he had endured, functioned, survived, was beyond ken.
"Jack, Jack," he said finally, softly. "You're beating yourself up, and what good is it doing? Can you change the past? From everything you've told me Teri was a wonderful woman. Was she excited about the baby? You said it was going to be a fresh start for you. Did she say that? You both wanted it, right? A fresh start? That means she forgave you, she wanted to build a new life with you, start over again with the baby, and with Kim. That means she forgave you, Jack, even knowing about Nina. And that means you have to forgive yourself." He paused. "You have to let go, Jack. You have to stop beating yourself up. You have to forgive yourself." His voice was almost a prayer.
The sob that escaped from Jack was indescribable, almost a primeval wail, and it made Pete shiver. It was a keening, the involuntary sound of an animal that lost its mate, and Jack wasn't even aware that he'd uttered it. But Pete recognized it as the noise of a heart breaking, and he mourned for Jack's lost sanity. He saw the utter despair in his eyes, the surrender, the lack of will to go on. He knew Jack was a step from madness, and that no mere words could bring him back.
"Will you join me in prayer, Jack?" Pete asked. "Something brought you to the church today, and I think praying might help you heal."
"Nothing will help, Pete. Don't you see? I don't deserve help. I don't deserve to live."
"Jack, everyone deserves to live. Only God can decide otherwise."
The laugh that escaped Jack's lips was more bitter than any that had come before. "Square that with what you said earlier about 'an eye for an eye,' Pete. And "Thou shalt not kill.' What you said about all the good I did by killing all those people. I decided who should die. Not God. Or are you saying I was doing God's work?"
"We're back where we started, Jack," Pete replied earnestly. "With the skills and the abilities that God gave you. You used them for good, to save people. That you had to do horrible things, that God tested you – God asked a great deal from you, Jack, far more than He asks of most people. It doesn't seem fair. I don't know why God tested you like that, but you passed the test, although at tremendous cost to yourself. You're paying the price now, a terrible price, but that doesn't mean you should give up. You have no right to give up, Jack, because that would mean giving up on God, and whatever else He has in mind for you." He paused. "Are you thinking about suicide?"
Jack looked at him and answered quietly, "I think that's why I went to the church today. I have been thinking about it. Maybe I'm a coward. I just don't know. But I can't live like this, not any more." He stopped, and Pete waited for him to continue. "I can't go on like this."
"Have you seen a psychiatrist, Jack? Have you spoken to anyone?"
"In my line of work that isn't possible. Not when you work with guns and explosives and other people's lives. Not if they think you're unstable. Which I probably am," he added grimly.
"Have you thought of quitting, Jack? CTU, I mean."
"Yeah, I've thought of it. But what else is there for me? Eating my gun? Some agents do, you know. I wouldn't be the first. It gets to a lot of us, burn-out, or whatever you want to call it. Occupational hazard, I guess. No one wants to think of himself as a paid assassin, but that's what we are, and it builds up. All the deaths, all the destruction. All the 'collateral damage.' So suicide doesn't look so bad after awhile."
It was Pete's turn to be silent as he collected his thoughts, tried to think of a way to reach Jack. He wondered whether to call the police, to try to have Jack committed to a hospital, but he thought better of it. He couldn't betray his trust. It wasn't a matter of the sanctity of a confessional; it was the idea that perhaps Jack had opened to him as he had to no one else, and might never again. No, he couldn't let this opportunity pass.
"Jack, what about prayer? Why don't we give it a try? It can bring peace, consolation, comfort. You said you came to the church for a reason. Why not let God take some of the load He put on you?"
Jack made a face. "I don't know that I believe in God, Pete. The worst thing I ever did was to murder my boss. I was ordered to do it by the President, when we were trying to stop the virus. The madman behind it demanded it, and I did it. I asked God to forgive me, but I doubt God even exists, or He wouldn't have put me in that position." He was studying Pete closely, and the expected look of revulsion was there. Pete couldn't hide it. No one could. Jack saw his self-loathing mirrored in the man's eyes.
"Jack, Jack," Pete whispered, "no one should have to live with that. That man – your boss – he was an innocent. I see what you mean, what you're trying to deal with. But you did what you had to do, it saved millions. What a horrible, obscene thing to have to do. Why God would demand that of you – I can't explain it, Jack. No one could. But it happened, and you have to forgive yourself. You have to go on. Nothing will bring this man back, including your death. It would end your pain, but it wouldn't bring this man back."
The tears were flowing again, and Pete saw that this, more than anything, was the worst thing that Jack lived with, and again he wondered how he survived the burden that had been placed on him. The strength that Jack possessed amazed the minister.
"I believe in God, Jack. I believe, although hearing what you've gone through makes me wonder why He would let things like this happen. But I still believe, although I don't understand. You know we say that God works in mysterious ways, and this is one of those mysteries that we'll never solve. It's like you're one of God's messengers, Jack, and He's given you a terrible message to deliver, but you've done the job God's given you."
"I asked you if you're proud of your accomplishments, Jack, and you hesitated. I understand why, now. What you did, what you accomplished – it's hard to see some of them in a positive light. But yes – you did God's work, for the good of the many. You put the lives of millions ahead of your own good. You've paid – you're paying – a terrible price for being God's messenger. But you did God's work."
Jack was sitting with his head in his hands, not wanting to talk anymore, not wanting to listen. He was tired of the conversation, of the introspection it demanded, and he wanted it to be over. He wanted everything to be over.
"Jack, let's pray," Pete urged. "We don't have to go to the church. Join me here. Let's just talk to God."
"I told you, I don't believe in God," Jack said angrily. "I don't believe in something that would make a world like this, that would make someone like me, a monster like me. I just – I just happened. Evil like me isn't created by a Higher Power, Pete. I wasn't 'created.' I don't know where the hell I came from, but it wasn't God. The devil, maybe. Yeah, I believe in the devil. That's where I'm going. To the devil. To hell. Straight to hell."
"I don't believe it, Jack. I believe we're all created in God's image, and that includes you. I don't believe in predestination, that our paths are laid out from birth to death, but I do believe that God asks things of us along the way, and God asked terrible things of you. That's why I believe that God is waiting for you to talk to Him, so He can comfort you, to tell you that you did what He asked of you. He's waiting for you, so he can give you solace. This is your day of reckoning, Jack. It's the day God has been waiting for you to reach." He paused. "What have you got to lose?"
There was one final spark in Jack, and Pete's last question lit it. Silently he fell to his knees, tears coursing down his cheeks. With his eyes clenched he opened his thoughts to God.
He stayed that way, silent, for a long time, the events of his lifetime passing through his mind. In his memories he laughed and he cried, he loved and he lost, he killed, he saved. He knew moments of glory, and times of despair. He marveled at Kim's birth, and mourned Teri's death. He railed at God's demands, and thanked Him for his survival. And he prayed for forgiveness.
Pete joined him in prayer, asking God to relieve Jack from his torment, and to give him the strength he needed to live out his life. He also prayed for the wisdom to help his new friend to find a path to inner peace. And he prayed that Jack's day of reckoning would give him the absolution he needed to survive.
Finally Jack stood. Wordlessly he hugged Pete and walked to the door. Before Pete could stop him, he was gone.
He walked for miles, down to the beach and then along the surf. He didn't notice the stars overhead, or the moon when it rose and then set. He just kept walking and crying, never noticing the spray when the waves of the incoming tide broke closer to him.
As the sun rose he sat on the sand, staring out over the Pacific, exhausted and spent. In one fluid motion he drew his gun and fired.