Revelations by Julie Lynn Hayes Read Free Book Online Page B

the truth has a nasty habit of coming out when you least expect it to. And then…then…
    Never mind what then, that is privileged information.
    “Is there a problem?” I ask, standing before them now, hands on hips, looking at them bleakly. They shake their collective heads—I can hear the rattle. Even so, they still look guilty. Whatever. I say something on the noncommittal side and turn away. I’m not completely convinced of their truthfulness, so I’m sure I’ll have to make the circuit again. I find myself rudely jostled by this unmannerly crowd as it begins to jockey for position nearer to the stage, surging up from the back of the tent, gawking and rubbernecking already. Damn. I receive an elbow to the kidney for my trouble, but of course there is no way of knowing who the culprit was, nor do I hear any sort of apology. These rubes have no manners whatsoever. I know if I chose to, I could step more directly into this century by wearing wireless headphones to keep in contact with everyone, thus eliminating the need for this personal intervention. And eliminate this unwanted body contact. But I’m old-fashioned in this regard, and I think my presence is more effective than my mere voice would be. Plus, it keeps me busy.
    Right. Like I wouldn’t be anyway…
    What was that? My head jerks up suddenly as I spy what appears to be a familiar dark head among the strangers. Can it possibly be Jesus? But how? Why?
    He never mingles with the audience beforehand, preferring to meditate in silence until it’s time for him to speak, and to sing. Is something wrong? Has something happened, something changed? Or…or can he be looking for me, wishing us to make amends for our former harsh words? My heart finding a home in my throat, I leave the two children to their electronics as I seek to follow his gliding form, but there are people swimming in between us, annoying bodies that I’d love to simply plow through and toss aside, but there they are, and he’s blocked to my view now.
    Dammit.
    No, wait, I catch sight of him again, as if I’m attuned to him somehow, homing in on his presence, and just as I change direction, setting a new course in which to intercept him, to ascertain that all is well—or not, as the case may be—my arm is caught up, arrested, taken hold of, and even as I glance in annoyance at the perpetrator, I recognize him. Dennis Kaplan. Local constabulary. The one I’ve had to deal with ever since our arrival. The fuzz. The law. The All-American boy, down to the sandy hair, freckles, and slightly gapped smile. How incredibly…
    wholesome. The one who has been incessantly attempting to speak to Jesus, gain access to him—which I have yet to allow—and which I will not allow, unless it’s on my own terms. And having said that, has he bypassed me somehow, achieved his goal despite my best efforts to keep that from happening, and is that why Jesus was/is out here? I refrain from frowning at him, waiting to see what sort of game he wishes to play with me now. Or what sort of demands he wishes to make.
    “Nice turnout, Mr. Jarvis,” he comments laconically, as he pulls me to the side, to a place where we’ll be relatively undisturbed and away from the maelstrom that eddies about us. What did you expect, we’d use our own names? Be serious.
    Surprisingly enough, Kaplan isn’t your typical small-town hick, even if he does resemble Howdy Doody. I suspect he’s a big city import, rather, cutting his teeth in the provinces before making his debut on Broadway, so to speak. And simply itching to do so. So what does that mean to us? We need to be careful. He may be looking for a quick path to fame, a fast way of seeing his name written in the bright lights, maybe at our expense. I see a lot of Pilate in him—young and eager, ambitious for more than a mere governorship in one of the distant outposts of the Roman empire, he possessed a strong desire to bask more closely in the glory that belonged to the