"We'll leave your underwear here," she said. "I'll wash it tonight and hang it and it'll be dry by morning. Now, put your arm around my waist. I'll help you back to bed."
They swayed down the hall, into his room. She laid back the covers, removed the towel and when he had sat down and stretched out, covered him again.
"The laudanum," he muttered.
She uncapped and handed it to him, and he drank. "Bond, stay with me a bit," he begged. "Till the stuff works."
"All right."
She sat down in the armchair beside him. The only light was a faintness emanating from the bathroom through the open door. They could scarcely see each other's faces.
"Ah, God," he sighed after a time.
"Better now?"
"Yes."
So quiet was it in the room that she could hear the ticking of his watch on the library table.
"I have come to a sad state of affairs," he said abruptly. "Just last night I told myself I would not take pity from anybody. Now I take anything they will give."
The rag curlers occurred to her. She began to untie them. "John."
"What?"
"You are getting ready—to do something, aren't you?"
"What makes you think that?"
"Having your things cleaned. Taking a bath. Letting the laudanum run down."
"I wish I had met you years ago."
"Aren't you?"
"Yes."
"It would be useless for me to inquire what."
"It would."
"You frighten me. I suppose I'd be more frightened if I knew."
"I will say this much. My life has not amounted to a damn-all. Maybe my death will."
"I see. May I ask a favor of you?"
"You may ask."
"Before you—before you do whatever it is—will you see my minister for a few minutes?"
"Why?"
"It may be that—that he can give you some comfort, some understanding. Some peace."
"I doubt it."
"It's possible. Will you for my sake? I want to do everything I can for you."
"You have done enough."
Suddenly she slipped from the chair and knelt and laid her head beside him.
"Oh, John, I will mourn for you!" she whispered. "You believe no one will—but I will! I'll remember your strength and your goodness and courage! I'll remember always!"
She was crying. He moved his fingers in her hair. "I will talk with the reverend," he said. "Provided you do one more thing for me."
"Anything!"
"Day after tomorrow," he said. "When you see me then, in my Sunday duds, there will be no tears."
She thought of armed men coming through these windows into darkness, of explosions like blows upon the door of doom, of blood staining her carpet and, soon, her heart. She shuddered.
"No tears, Bond."
"I promise."
"Day after tomorrow."
Unshaven, shirtless, in clean underwear and trousers cleaned by dry process, seated on his crimson pillow, Books received them.
"This is the Reverend Henry New, Mr. Books," she said. "Reverend, J. B. Books."
They shook hands.
"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Books."
"Likewise."
"I'll leave you gentlemen now," Bond Rogers said. "It was kind of you to come, Reverend."
"It was my duty, Mrs. Rogers. Thank you for the opportunity."
When she had gone, Henry New took the straight chair. "How are you feeling today, Mr. Books?"
"As well as can be expected."
"I'm pleased to hear it. And I was sincere with Mrs. Rogers. I'm truly pleased to have an opportunity to meet a man of your—your distinction. A 'shootist'? I think that's the polite term."
"'Killer' usually."
"Well, now that's somewhat crude. I'm sure you prefer 'shootist.' It has an elegance."
Books was unresponsive.
"A fine woman, Mrs. Rogers."
Books made a church of his fingers.
"She tells me you are—very ill."
"I am dying."
"I see. I regret profoundly to hear it. But you are not a young man. We can at least rejoice that God has granted you a fairly full measure. Thou shalt come to thy grave in a full age, like as a shock of corn cometh in his season.'"
Books had expected an older man, a Bible-bouncer, a deacon who would rant and roar and stomp the floor and take an errant soul by the scruff of the neck and throw it through the Pearly Gates as though they were swinging doors. That was the kind of preacher with whom he could cope, and from whom he might indeed gain a brimstone solace. To his dismay, Bond Rogers had sent him a ringer—a man not a day over thirty-two or -three, a bright-eyed, apple-checked, razor-brained whippersnapper first in his class at divinity school who could draw from the Old Testament as fast as he, Books, could draw from his vest. He groaned inwardly. The last slug of laudanum was wearing off. He did not feel equal to the Reverend Henry New this morning.
"Do you believe in a life after death, Mr. Books?"
"I don't know."
"In a Heaven? In a Hell?"
"I don't know."
Henry New nodded. He seemed satisfied. "I confess to a certain perplexity in these matters myself. But of one thing I am positive. I know that God exists. I may not be a religionist, in the old-fashioned sense of the word, but I know, as surely as I know we sit here, that He exists, that I am His servant upon this earth, and that His wisdom is infinite. I prayed for you this morning, Mr. Books."
"Much obliged."
"As soon as Mrs. Rogers telephoned, I went to my study. I prayed, first, that God Our Father look with compassion upon His wayward son, John Bernard Books, and forgive his sins, and take him soon into that fold to which all men, great and small, aspire. That—"
"Sins?"
"I had reference to the killings."
"Hold on, Reverend. I have been in a tight or two, but they were not of my making."
His visitor raised a deprecatory hand. "Let us not debate the past, Mr. Books. My concern today is the future. I prayed this morning, second, for divine guidance. It struck me that with Mrs. Rogers' call I had been granted a unique opportunity. A man nearing his end, a man whose name was synonymous with profligacy and destruction—was there not some way his demise might be used for holy purposes? I prayed for vision, for a sign from Him. And suddenly the scales fell from my eyes! Eureka!" The minister's eyes burned like candles. "I went immediately to my desk, Mr. Books. I wrote as though Another's hand directed my pen!" From an inner pocket of his coat he whisked a folded paper. "Here!"
"What is it?"
"A statement from J. B. Books. To be read from every pulpit in the land. A testimonial to the mercy of Almighty God. Here, sir, read it."
Books would not take the paper. "No. You tell me the particulars."
An annoyed Henry New twisted in his chair. "Well, it's brief, and to the point and if I do say so myself, eloquently phrased. In the main, it—"
Books scowled. "The particulars."
"Very well. You repent your misdeeds. You beg the Lord's forgiveness." With each sentence he tapped the paper impatiently on a knee. "In the main, you address yourself to the younger generation of this country. You exhort them to profit by your example. To take the high road rather than the low. To practice continence, cultivate humility, love virtue. To turn the other cheek rather than resort to violence. To bear in mind that it is the meek, not the proud, who shall inherit the earth. Et cetera. Can you not appreciate how effective such a document might be among the younger, lawless element of our population?" He lowered his voice confidentially. "If a Gillom Rogers, for example, were to hear it, and to heed its lesson? I need go no further." He proffered the paper a second time. "I urge you to read and sign it, Mr. Books."
"No."
"What? You will not? Why not, sir?"
"Because it is a pile of shit."
Henry New's apple cheeks ripened. "I beg your pardon!"