Chapter 68
Chapter 68
M aybe it was the hard granite or the damp echoes, but standing there in the darkness, I heard Bones’s whisper. I saw him in my mind’s eye hanging by a single line, suspended between this world and the next. Snow and granite.
“People in darkness don’t know they’re in darkness because it’s all they’ve ever known. It’s their world. They navigate primarily by bumping off things that are stronger. Immovable. They don’t know darkness is darkness until someone turns on a light. Only then does the darkness roll back like a scroll. It has to. Darkness can’t stand light. And it hasn’t. Not since God spoke it into existence. The problem comes when you turn on a light and find those in darkness who, having seen light, prefer the dark. Who retreat into the shadows to do their deeds in secret. They are the ashen-skinned, amber-eyed, fork-tongued servants of evil. Pawns who do the devil’s bidding. Who don’t think twice about ‘owning’ another person and who, without conscience, profit off another’s flesh. Time after time after time.
“They live convinced of their independence. Their power. Their lack of accountability. Truth is, they are. Accountable. From the beginning of time, light has shone into the darkness, and since that first spark, darkness—no matter how hard it tries, no matter what sword it wields or scheme it perpetrates—has not been able to overcome it. Ever. Which means, at the end of the day, there’s an overcoming. A reckoning. And if there’s a reckoning, then there’s a record. Those of us who stand in the light wonder sometimes, How much longer can it last? This onslaught. How much more can we take? This constancy. Those of us who walk in the light grow weary. Our hope wanes. Fades. Darkness rages and threatens to drown us. We look around and wonder what happened. Where’d it go? Where’s the light? ”
When Bones had spoken those words that would become my anchor, we were hanging off the side of a frozen granite face in a whiteout. The wind threatening to rip us off the face of the earth. He hung unfazed. Almost at ease. Like a window washer ninety stories up in downtown Manhattan. Somewhere in there, Bones had smiled and paused for a long minute, then he clicked on his headlamp and tapped me just below my heart. “You bring it with you.”
Now, leaning against the cold, hard granite in that underground labyrinth, I heard Bones’s echo: Bring it with you.
Maybe that was my last lesson. Maybe Bones had held on long enough to school me once more. I remembered being shaken from my thought as he coughed, gurgled, and spat. Dark red blood. Frothy. The clock was ticking faster and not in our favor. He had tapped me on the shoulder, then taken my right hand and placed it on the wall in front of me. With what little breath he had, he was pressing toward the light. How many had he saved? How many had he brought home? How many faces, blind and hopeless, had awakened one day to find him holding a flashlight, patching their wounds, beginning to mend their broken heart, and offering freedom? At no cost to them. He’d already paid it. How many children walked freely now? How many parents, once slaves who were afraid to hope past the next minute, now hoped for their child’s future? His skin bore the scars. Entry and exit holes. Bullets. Knives. Rebar.
Payment extracted. Payment made.
I stood there now, Gunner sitting at my feet in this dark stone world, and realized he’d taught me all of this. With his life, Bones had walked up beside me, clicked on the light in his chest, and showered me in it. Then he’d taught me how to read it. How to keep it. That it mattered. That it was the only thing that mattered.
Bones was the light keeper. He’d kept it all along. And his body bore the record.
From there we had walked into Frank’s office, so I pressed on the wall, the cavity gave way to a handle, and I pushed again, allowing colder air to blow through the crack. The last time I’d walked in here, the room was glowing from the yellow and blue light of multiple screens. Now the only light was the one I’d brought with me. Fitting , I thought. Frank’s kingdom lay in ruins. Cobwebs. The absence of light. And yet here I was, rolling away the darkness with nothing more than a headlamp. Strange how so small a light can pierce darkness.
Frank had been sitting in his chair. Surprised but not. A Glock 19 on his desk. I told him to stick it under his chin and pull the trigger. Frank was threatening to broadcast to the world that Murphy Shepherd was David Bishop. Populate the internet and answer all the theories. Rob me of my anonymity. Rob David of Murph. Frank was drawing on a cigar, the glow-plug end matching the color of his eyes. In my head I heard the clock ticking and knew Bones was fading. Walking a narrow ridge.
Finally, Bones gave Frank what he wanted. Actually, he’d given it to him years ago, but it was there in that room that he told him where he’d hidden it. The Storm on the Sea of Galilee . The painting had been stolen years ago and never recovered, and then had become one of the most valuable paintings in the world.
Bones had interrupted him. Almost a smile. “It’s more valuable than you think.”
That was about the time Frank had put all the pieces together. He walked around the painting, studied the frame and the canvas. Then he turned to Bones. “Because you knew I’d steal it back. You kept it safe... with me.”
Bones had nodded.
At the time, I’d missed it, but standing there in the memory, I heard it. Frank had muttered, “I guess I’m not the only one.” Frank broke the frame on the stone floor, then studied the canvas. Finally, he picked at one corner of the canvas, eventually peeling back a layer. A false canvas. When he’d peeled it halfway, a document emerged between the two. The real and the false. Frank’s eyes lit. He shook his head. “Genius.” Gently, he slid the paper from between the two. An envelope. Standing over Bones, he had read the inscription out loud: “‘This will not help you.’” He stared down at Bones. “How would you know? You abandoned me.”
Bones lay slumped on the couch. No response. I was losing Bones. But there in the memory, I saw it. Bones wasn’t done. He wasn’t in a hurry to save himself. His eyes were elsewhere.
Frank extracted the single page, read it, and then tore it in two. Then again. Then threw the pieces. He straddled Bones. “You knew and you didn’t tell me!”
Bones never opened his eyes. “It changes nothing.”