Last Supper
Walking into the old man's room was like entering a hi-tech laboratory. Machines, monitors and every other form of state-of-the-art medical equipment surrounded the bed on which he lay. In an era where the average man had difficulty paying his bill at the pharmacy, Prescott Lofton could easily afford to have an entire hospital at his disposal.
"Sir?" Hollis Treadwell said softly as he looked down at the man on the bed.
Lofton was hooked up to so many IV tubes and electrodes that he resembled a surrealistic marionette, a Salvatore Dali version of Pinocchio. For a brief moment, Treadwell feared the old man was already dead and that the steady blip of the nearby monitor was in error. Then the rheumy brown eyes opened to narrow slits.
"What is it?" the former President of the United States asked in a voice made raspy by years of smoking and drinking.
"We found him, sir."
The former leader's reaction to his employee's words was immediate and intense. The eyes opened wide, the blip increased in speed and a smile spread across his face. For a second, he appeared as though he were still occupying the Oval Office, ready to butt heads with foreign leaders, the liberal media or the Democrats.
"Where?"
"In some small, poverty-ridden village in India."
"Get him."
Having issued his command, Prescott Lofton closed his eyes and returned to the world only made bearable by modern pharmacology.
"Yes, sir."
* * *
Kip Rossiter, a former Navy SEAL, was once recruited by Hollis Treadwell to head a private security team to augment Secret Service efforts during the Lofton administration. He remained in his job long after the president left the White House, only retiring when the old man's health started to fail and the multibillionaire industrialist and politician ceased to appear in public. For his years of service, Kip was paid well, allowing him to retire in comfort at the age of forty-five.
He was sitting in the living room of his Nantucket home, watching House of Cards on Netflix, and heard the doorbell ring. When he saw Hollis on his doorstep, he was surprised and a little apprehensive by the unexpected visit.
"I hope I'm not disturbing you," the former CIA operative said.
"No, not at all. I was just relaxing. Come on in and have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?"
"No, thanks."
"Have you ever seen House of Cards?" the former Navy man asked, pointing toward the large plasma television that hung on the wall above his fireplace mantel.
"I'm afraid I don't get to watch much television."
"You don't know what you're missing. This show was great! This is the fourth time I'm watching it. Keven Spacey is amazing! They can say what they want about him now, but damn! he played Frank Underwood to perfection. He kinda reminds me of you-know-who. Speaking of which, how is the old bastard doing? Is he still alive?"
"Barely. He never took care of himself. But you—God! Look at you. You've still got the body of a man in his twenties. You must spend your days at the gym."
A warning bell sounded in Kip's head. Compliments from Hollis meant only one thing: he wanted something.
"I run twenty miles every morning, but I'm sure you didn't come all this way to discuss my exercise regimen."
"True. I'll get right to the point. There's a job ...."
"Uh oh!" the former SEAL exclaimed. "Here it comes. I'm retired. Remember?"
"It'll be the last one. I promise."
"You've said that before."
"He's dying. In fact, for all I know, he might be dead already."
"One can only hope."
Rossiter was not a cruel or heartless man, but during his years in Washington, he witnessed firsthand the darker side of humanity; and it had left a bad taste in his mouth. By moving to the picturesque Massachusetts island, he hoped to cleanse himself of all the blood and filth.
"I know some of the things we asked you to do in the past ...."
Kip looked at Treadwell and wondered why—not for the first time—he remained devoted to a man like Prescott Lofton. Surely, it was not for the money! No, it was more like the blind devotion of a dog for its master. To use a House of Cards reference, Hollis Treadwell was the Doug Stamper to Prescott Lofton's Francis Underwood.
And what does that make me? he wondered. Agent Meechum? I hope not. Look what happened to him!
"Let's cut the crap," Kip said, pressing the power button on his remote to turn off the TV. "I've seen you in action before. I just never thought you'd use your tactics on me. Okay, you've tried step one. You've complimented me in hopes of softening the meat. That didn't work, so now you need to stick the knife in. Let me guess. You plan to blackmail me by threatening to expose the very acts you had me do for that malignant spider you call a boss."
"That's what I always liked about you," Treadwell admitted truthfully. "You're an honest man. No wonder you got the hell out of Washington."
Rossiter stared out his bay window at a boat peacefully bobbing along on the choppy surface of the Atlantic.
What I wouldn't give to be on that boat right now, he mused. To sail away to some far-off place where they would never find me.
"What's the job?" he uttered in defeat.
"We have to go to India, pick up a man and bring him to Washington."
"Dead or alive?"
"Alive, definitely! He won't be any good to anyone dead."
At least murder was not on the bill this time.
"Why do you need me then?"
"He may not come along willingly."
"So? Lofton has plenty of goons in his employ to kidnap someone."
"The one we seek is no ordinary man. I don't know how he'll react or exactly what he's capable of doing. If I'm about to enter unknown territory, I want you by my side. Well?"
"What choice have I got?"
"Great. I'll wait down in the car while you go pack a bag."
As Kip retrieved his firearm from the locked safe, he felt like Michael Corleone in Godfather III.
"Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in."
* * *
When Rossiter heard his destination was India, his mind conjured up images of the Taj Mahal, Gandhi in his loincloth, women with veils and bindis on their foreheads, sitar music, food with curry and the guy he occasionally called for tech support on his Dell computer. He never imagined the cesspit of poverty, disease and despair he found in the small village where he and Hollis located their target. All the beauty and mystery of what was once considered to be the jewel in the English crown was absent. There was nothing but wretched beggars, living in squalor in a ghetto of hovels.
"Christ!" he exclaimed when he stepped out of the rental car and got a whiff of the stench. "This place smells like the armpit of the universe."
"What you smell is death."
The former SEAL turned at the sound of a voice that spoke English with no Hindi accent. Dressed in a hooded robe that hid his features, the man had the appearance of a medieval monk.
"Who are you?" Kip asked.
"People here call me the Holy One."
"We have come a long way to speak to you, Holy One," Hollis announced, immediately recognizing that the robed figure was the man he sought.
"I know why you've come, and the answer is no."
It was the answer Treadwell feared. He was glad he had brought Kip Rossiter along.
"The man I work for ...," he began to explain.
"I'm sure whoever he is has a great deal of money, and no doubt he's willing to offer me anything I want to comfort him during his final days. But, you see, these people need comfort, too. Look around you. They are all dying."
While the Holy One spoke, Kip caught a glimpse of his face—part of it, anyway. What he saw made him recoil with revulsion. He had never seen a leper before, but he assumed the open sores and dried scabs that covered his skin were an indication of the disease.
"Come with us to Washington, meet with my employer, and I will have you returned to your hospice immediately afterward. You shouldn't be gone for more than a day or two."
"Washington?" the Holy One asked, his curiosity piqued. "Who is this man for whom you work?"
"Prescott Lofton, former President of the United States, and one of the richest men in the world."
Probably the richest, Hollis thought, if you take into account all the money he has stashed in offshore accounts.
"Very well. I will see your employer."
Holy One, my ass! Kip thought cynically. He's no better than the rest of us, willing to be at Lofton's beck and call for the right price.
Having made up his mind to journey to America, the Holy One walked over to the rented car, opened the door and got into the back seat.
"Don't you want to bring along any luggage?" Hollis asked.
"I don't need any, for I carry no material belongings with me."
"There's a lot to be said for traveling light," Treadwell laughed.
Despite his associate's attempt at lighthearted humor, Kip remained alert and poised for action. The Holy One, he deduced, was a certified weirdo. This was evident from the man's words, attire and actions. He did not like weirdos; he did not trust them. And weirdos who cloaked themselves under a blanket of religion he trusted least of all. He would much rather tangle with political terrorists, drug lords and serial killers than with men like Jim Jones, David Koresh and that bug-eyed little whacko from Heaven's Gate with his shiny new Nikes.
During the drive to the Indira Gandhi Airport in New Delhi and on the flight back to Washington—travelling in style on Prescott Lofton's private jet—Kip kept his hand near his pistol, ready to shoot should the Holy One make a wrong move. They arrived at Dulles without incident, however. A limo was waiting at the airport to take them to the former president's mansion in neighboring Alexandria. Even as the three men mounted the grand staircase that led to the second-floor master bedroom, he remained vigilant.
Dr. Janney, Lofton's personal physician, was alone in the room with his patient.
"How is he?" Hollis asked.
"I'm afraid he won't live through the night."
"How can you tell?"
"Because he ordered it so."
"So, he can order death itself?" Kip asked, amused by the situation.
"Now that our guest is here," the doctor replied, nodding his head in the direction of the Holy One, "he claims he has no reason to live. If his body refuses to die, I have been ordered to step in and help it along."
Janney produced a hypodermic needle from his pocket, one that would painlessly—one hoped—pave the way for another state funeral and one less former president for the Secret Service to worry about.
"I don't get it," Kip cried in confusion. "What's Emperor Palpatine over there got to do with anything? Has the old man lost his mind and joined a cult since I retired?"
Hollis considered paying his "security adviser" for his time and sending him back to Nantucket but decided against it. The main event—so to speak—was yet to come, and who knew what could happen then. If Rossiter was to remain and see the evening through to the bitter end, he deserved an explanation. First things first, however. The Holy One must be fed. Treadwell took out his cell phone and called down to the kitchen on the ground floor.
"We're ready."
Several minutes later, a server wheeled in a cart covered with gourmet dishes and decadent desserts.
"Is that for us?" Kip asked, eyeing up the Peking duck.
"No. It's all for him."
"He must have a hell of an appetite."
A chair was provided for the Holy One; and after the server took his leave, the robed man sat down to eat. Meanwhile, Hollis took his associate aside so that they could speak in confidence.
"I needn't tell you what kind of man it is that is lying on death's door in that bed."
"He's a piece of shit, in plain English," Kip declared. "Not only is he a poor excuse for a human being, but he was an embarrassment to this country when he served as president. He ...."
"Yes, yes, I agree. There aren't enough adjectives to describe how loathsome he is, but we don't have all night. Suffice it to say, he's guilty of just about every sin known to man, and maybe he's invented a few new ones over the years. He was never what we call a religious man ...."
"I can believe that!"
"But once he knew he was dying, he began to worry about his immortal soul. After all, he can rig an election, but he wasn't so sure he could get out of eternal damnation so easily. Like many men of means, he hoped to buy his way into heaven by donating to the church."
"Wait. If he wasn't religious, why worry about heaven and hell in the first place?"
"Because there is always the chance he could be wrong."
"Hedging his bets, huh?" Kip laughed. "That sounds like him."
"He felt in his case, more drastic steps should be taken," Hollis explained. "So, he decided to seek the services of a sin eater."
"A what?"
"A sin eater is one who consumes a ritual meal in order to spiritually take on the sins of someone on the point of death, thus absolving the soul of the dying person."
"You mean the weirdo we brought from India is going to feast on Prescott Lofton's sins along with the pheasant under glass and lobster thermidor?"
"That's the theory, at least. Once the Holy One is finished eating, the former president ought to be given a clean slate. He can then die free of sin and enter heaven—if there is one."
"And the sin eater?"
"As a consequence of his actions, he is doomed to carry the sins of all the people whose sins he has eaten."
Kip's eyes went to the Holy One. Although his face was still covered by the hood, his hands were visible. As he ate, sores formed, grew and broke open on his skin. These were not the lesions of a leper; they were the physical manifestation of human sin. The former Navy SEAL had seen all manner of death, some of which he himself was the cause, but this was the only time it made him feel physically ill.
"That's what he was doing in India, isn't it?" he asked. "Eating the sins of all those dying wretches."
Hollis nodded his head and mused, "Imagine what his soul must be like."
For nearly an hour, there was no conversation. Three men waited silently as the Holy One ate. The only sounds in the room were that of the machines monitoring Lofton's vital signs and the scraping of a sterling silver fork against the fine China plates.
When the feast came to an end, the sin eater rose and dramatically lowered his hood. Both Hollis and Kip vomited at the sight of his face. Every inch of his skin, even the lips and eyelids, was covered with pus-oozing sores that pulsated like tiny beating hearts. Yet despite his hideous appearance, he carried himself with dignity as he crossed the room to Prescott Lofton's bed.
"So much food," he uttered with obvious discomfort. "So many sins."
As he looked down at the dying man, the Holy One stretched out his hand. When he opened it, there was a crust of bread on his palm.
"As Christ said to his disciples at the last supper, 'This is my body given to you.'"
Neither Hollis nor Kip made any attempt to interfere with the bizarre eucharist. Along with Dr. Janney, they remained speechless and motionless, staring at the curious holy communion playing out in front of them.
When the sin eater opened Lofton's lips and placed the bread on his tongue, the former president's eyes opened wide in horror. Immediately, his face began to change, his skin crawling as though thousands of insects were fighting beneath his epidermis, trying to get out. The old man shrieked in agony as the pustules formed and increased in size.
Dr. Janney, who had grown accustomed to deathbed scenes, finally shook off his stupor-like sense of awe and took action. He reached into his pocket for the hypodermic and plunged it into Prescott Lofton's arm. Within moments, the former president died as a result of the lethal injection.
"You killed him!" Kip exclaimed with surprise.
"It's what he would have wanted me to do."
"But he wanted to die with a clean slate and free from sin," Hollis said.
The three men then turned to the Holy One, whose appearance had changed as drastically as the former president's had. There was no sign of disease or sin on his comely countenance. On the contrary, he was as beautiful as an angel.
"Why did you do it?" Hollis asked.
"I have been eating mankind's sins for centuries," the Holy One explained. "I am like a spiritual trashcan, taking in the refuse of human souls. When a trashcan is full, it has to be emptied."
"But why him? You were brought here to save him."
"Some people are beyond being saved. He was one of them."
The sin eater then walked out and vanished into the night, and no one made an attempt to stop him.
* * *
"Going back to Nantucket?" Hollis asked after attending the former president's funeral—by necessity, one with a closed casket.
"For now," Kip replied. "But only to put the place up for sale."
"What do you plan on doing after that?"
"I thought I might devote my life to doing charity work. I figure maybe if I spend the rest of my days doing good, I can get rid of some of that trash I've been collecting in my soul."
"Good luck to you. Here's the money I promised you," he added, handing over a check for a sizable amount of tax-free money.
"Keep it. I've already been paid for my services."
Hollis stared at him, perplexed by his statement.
"Some things are more important than money," Kip explained. "I never was much of a believer in anything, but I am now. I also know beyond the shadow of a doubt that Prescott Lofton, by taking on the sins of the sin eater, is condemned to spend eternity paying for not only his own sins but for those of countless others as well. I call that divine justice."
"You still hate the old man, do you? What about your intentions to be more charitable?"
"When it comes to my contempt for the former commander in chief, I'm afraid that's one piece of trash I'll have to keep carting around."
Disclaimer: Any resemblance between the characters in this story and actual people is unintended and purely coincidental—or is it?
Salem and his feline friends held a Last Supper dinner party. As usual, Salem couldn't wait for dessert.
