“Yes. So … you’re saying that human rights are as subjective as any other set of rules?”
“Absolutely, and the subjectivity in question is the perspective of the most powerful. That is why when I kill for the Seven Kings I am not committing murder, nor am I participating in acts of terrorism. Those are subjective concepts, and our worldview is grand. It is our mandate from heaven. As a result, we are above all of that, yes?”
“Just because we say we are?”
“Yes. And because we have the power to enforce our own and particular set of rules.”
Toys looked for the hidden meanings in Santoro’s words, but the man was nearly impossible to read. On one hand, he appeared devious and multifaceted, and on the other, his intent seemed dreadfully straightforward. Toys decided to test the waters.
“What about the people who surround kings?”
“Which kings?”
“Oh,” Toys said casually, “take Jesus. King of the Jews. If laws don’t apply to kings, what’s the trickle-down effect? Do the laws of right and wrong apply, say, to Peter?”
“For betraying Christ?” Santoro gave an elaborate shrug. “He was weak, but he believed, and he recanted his weakness to the point of martyrdom.”
“And Judas?” He pitched it offhandedly, but Santoro’s face darkened.
“That was a betrayal because of personal fear—Judas betrayed Christ into torture and death. His was an unforgivable affront that cannot be redeemed. In my pride and sinfulness I have prayed that I could meet such a man and teach his cowardly flesh to sing songs of worship and praise.” As he said this he touched his wrist, and Toys knew that there was a knife hidden beneath the sleeve.
Santoro smiled and for the first time Toys could see the killer behind the saint. He looked into Santoro’s eyes and saw—nothing. No life, no spark of humanity, no genuine passion. There was absolutely nothing there. It was like looking into the eyes of a monster. A zombie. Or a demon.
Toys nodded as if agreeing to the sentiment, but inside he shivered. He found it curious that there was such a gap in beliefs between Santoro and the American. He’d suspected as much, hence his reference to Judas, but the Spaniard’s reaction was unexpectedly intense.
Not a confidant, then. Note to bloody self.
“What if Judas genuinely believed that Jesus was making a misstep?” he prodded. “I’ve heard a bunch of different theories. One is that Judas may have thought that Jesus was becoming a danger to his own cause and that Judas went through proper channels of the church—the Sanhedrin—to try and head him off at the pass before he got into worse trouble.”
Santoro said nothing. He listened, eyes narrowed, mouth pursed.
“Another theory is that Judas was a bit more ‘Old Testament’ than Jesus and he had him arrested in the hopes that once Jesus was in peril he would be forced to reveal all of his glory and power and kick Roman ass.”
The birds sang for a long time before Santoro answered. He studied Toys, but Toys was too practiced a hand at dissembling to allow anything that he felt to show on his face. He sipped his tea and waited.
Finally, Santoro said, “You ask troubling questions.”
“You asked me about Hitler.”
Santoro nodded, taking Toys’ point. “The question supposes that Jesus was fallible.”
“Are either of us that inflexible that we think that he wasn’t? Or couldn’t have been? After all, Jesus doubted. He lost his cool and trashed the moneylenders outside of the temple. Let’s face it—the whole point of his being here was to be human. To show that if he, locked in flesh and filled with the full roster of human emotions, can have faith and ultimately do the right thing, then so can we. That all falls down if he was infallible.”
Santoro nodded again. “Please do not be offended by this,” he said softly, “but you are smarter than you look.”
Toys gave him a charming smile. “Now why would I be offended at that?”
“I meant it as a compliment. You are deeper than you appear. People are often fooled by you, yes?”
Toys shrugged.
Then Santoro tried to blindside him. “Do you have doubts about what the King of Plagues is doing?”
Toys was expecting it and he kept his expression and body language casual, as if this were just another part of the same discussion.
“Sebastian is as fallible as any other man. I love and respect him, and I would kill anyone to keep harm from touching him. You understand that?”
“Of course.” Santoro’s eyes glittered.
“But I’m supposed to be his Conscience. His advisor. It’s not that I doubt Sebastian,” he lied. “It’s more that I need to make sure I’m doing my job in the way that best serves him and the Kings.”
“And the Goddess,” amended Santoro.
“Of course,” said Toys smoothly. “Sebastian loves her very much.”
“As do we all.”
“So … where does ‘conscience’ play into all this?”
Santoro relaxed slightly. “Conscience is what we choose to make it. The devil on your left shoulder and the angel on your right are slaves to your will.”
“Ah,” said Toys, as if he understood what that meant. And, with a sinking heart, he did. He stood and tossed the rest of the tea into the river. “This gives me a lot to think about, Rafael. Thanks … . I appreciate it.”
And may you have an aneurism next time you’re jerking off to a picture of the Goddess, you great freak.
Santoro inclined his head and sipped his tea.
Toys thrust his hands into his pockets, hunched his shoulders in what he hoped would convey a posture of thoughtful introspection, and headed along the path toward the castle.
As he walked, however, he weighed Santoro’s words against the weight of the conflict within his heart. The devil on your left shoulder and the angel on your right are slaves to your will.
The cries of the gulls overhead sounded like the screams of drowning children.
If we were subject to the same laws we would have to own guilt for what we do, but we do not acknowledge the laws of any land. We maintain the conqueror’s point of view, which is self-justifying.
“Yes,” Toys murmured aloud. “Too bloody right we do.”
Chapter Forty-two
Strauss & Strauss Pharmaceuticals
Jenkintown, Pennsylvania
December 19, 10:57 A.M. EST
Amber Taylor sat like a robot in her office. Her hands were folded in her lap, her fingers like sticks of wet ice. Inside her chest her heart was beating too loudly and without rhythm.
His voice, his words, still echoed in her mind. Do it, he’d said. Do it today or … or …
Today.
She was supposed to die today.
She was supposed to kill today.
She would never see her babies again.
She would have to trust that they would keep their word and leave her family alone. He promised they would. If she did what they said. If she became a murderer.