NOTE

Finally, I get back on and post the next two parts. Notice: TWO PARTS! Part five is under part six. I did that for two reasons. One, both were ready to go, and two, part six is so short I felt that if I published five and six separately, some might be disappointed by six's length.
Happy Thanksgiving. Part seven coming soon (and we all know what that means...)
As well as two others I am working on, including one concerning abortion and another dragon slayer that could take up four or five posts.
God Bless,
Arthur B Roberts

THE MEETING. PART SIX: PREACHING

Aimee couldn't shake what Deputy Bill Michaels had said. "They deserve it, don't they?" Aimee knew that Hynes deserved to die for his crimes. In fact, every man in that building had earned their punishment, hadn't they? Michaels sat there silently, letting his words sink in. Aimee didn't know how to respond.
"Of course they deserve it," she said finally.
"And Vincent Hynes deserves to die," Bill said.
"He does," she agreed.
"Then why is your husband in there right now?" he asked. "Surely your daughter's killer doesn't deserve forgiveness. Does he?"
Aimee didn't reply. Her intended response didn't sound very Christian to her.
Bill looked down at the Bible that Aimee had carried with her. Her finger was still holding the place where she had been reading when the reporters ambushed her.
"What were you reading when those guys found you?" he asked.
She glanced down at the book. "Luke fifteen," she said. "The parable of the prodigal son."
"Interesting," Bill said, looking back at the prison. "Tell me, did the prodigal son deserve to be forgiven?"
Aimee thought for a moment. "No. He didn't. He squandered everything he had been given and only went home when he had no where else to go."
"But his father forgave him."
"Yes, he did."
"Why?"
"I guess because he was his child," Aimee said. "He loved him. He wanted to forgive him."
"He was waiting to forgive him," Bill told her. "He sat there just waiting for the chance to go out and embrace his son again. He didn't care what the boy had done or where he'd been. He just wanted to love him."
Aimee looked down at the book again. The parable was so familiar to her. She had read and heard it more times than she could remember, but this was the first time it seemed to speak directly to her.
"And here we are," Bill went on, "outside of a building full of prodigal sons that Father is just waiting to embrace."
Aimee looked back at the stone walls and barred windows. Did one of those windows belong to her daughter's murderer? Was the Father waiting to embrace him? Aimee couldn't believe it, but the words of Jesus' parable told her that it was so.
Inside the visitation room Alex had just finished reading Luke fifteen to Vincent Hynes.
"I don't get it, Reverend," he said.
"Look what it says," Alex said. "There's rejoicing in heaven over a sinner who repents. Elsewhere Jesus says that He came to call sinners to repentance and that He didn't come to the world to condemn it, but to save it. He wants to save you, Vincent. Like the father in the parable, God's just waiting for you to come home."
"How could he?" Hynes asked. "How could He even stand to look at me?
"He can't," Alex said. "He couldn't look at me either before I repented. He cannot look upon sin. But it's because He loves you that He wants to save you. The Bible says that if you're in Christ, you're a new creation. He makes you new so that He can look at you!"
"What does that mean?" Hynes asked. "In Christ?"
"Oh boy," Alex said, looking at his watch. "I don't know if we have time to go into all that. It takes some people years to grasp that concept."
"I don't have years, Reverend," Hynes reminded him quietly.
"Right," Alex said, feeling stupid. "Well, being in Christ basically means being a Christian. Giving your life to Him, putting everything you are into His hands. He then cleanses you and makes you an entirely new creature, one He can fellowship with."
"But he sure can't do this with someone like me," Hynes said. "Can he?"
In response to that, Alex turned the pages in his Bible to the book of Romans and began to read some other Scriptures to him.
As he took Vincent Hynes through the "Roman Road" he thought to himself that it was actually going well. It was working. He had been able to detach himself from the fact that the man he was speaking with had murdered his little girl. Alex was just preaching another sermon, and he had been able to say the right words without thought to his own feelings ant motives for... well, for ten years.

THE MEETING. PART FIVE: CHARLIE

Charlie Woods was home alone. His classes had been cancelled that afternoon due to some sort of teacher training day or something. He didn't care. He wouldn't have gone to class that day anyway. He would have called in sick, even though he had no physical ailment. But he was feeling nauseous because of that he had just seen.
Charlie had been renting a house off campus with two friends for two years after a terrible two years of living in the dorm. The house wasn't all that nice; four bedrooms, one and a half baths, a small kitchen and a small front room, no garage or even much of a yard to speak of. The only thing he, Max, and C.J. prided themselves on was the big screen TV they had saved up for six months to buy. The entertainment center filled almost a third of the front room and had run them nearly five thousand dollars altogether, but even though this was their most prized possession, Charlie had to work to refrain from kicking in the TV screen.
He had been flipping through the channels when he happened to pause on one of the cable news stations and saw his sister's face. It was an old file photo of Jessica Woods, the one of her sitting in the park that Sunday. He had known that his father was visiting Vincent J. Hynes today, and he knew that the media had somehow found out about it, but it still didn't seem real until he saw Jessica on television.
The scene shifted from the file photo to a shot of his dad walking briskly into the prison, ignoring the dozens of reporters. There was a graphic at the bottom of the screen which read "Victim's father meets with killer." Then a reporter stood there with the prison as a backdrop and a microphone in her hand. Her nearly flawless face bore a somber expression, but Charlie knew she was far from somber. He remembered very distinctly from a decade earlier that when the cameras were off, the reporters were greedy, heartless, and overbearing. This pretty blond lady had gone to that prison for the sole purpose of exploiting Alex Woods, his grieving family, and his dead little girl. She didn't care about any of them, and neither did most of the people tuning in to the broadcast.
"Yes, Michelle," the reporter said, "Reverend Woods is inside the facility at this moment and we can only assume he is meeting with Vincent Hynes. His wife Aimee is here as well, but she did not go inside. We attempted to ask her a few questions about her husband's decision, but she declined to be interviewed. I'll be here when Reverend Woods comes back out and we'll see if we can get a statement from him."
Then the story was over and another one, this one about a skirmish in the Middle East, took precedent. Charlie and his friends received two other cable news networks and he checked them both only to see similar accounts of his father brushing off reporters and a promise of an update. One did a short revalidation of the Hynes case, focusing mainly on Jessica. When it was over, Charlie flipped off the TV and began to sob.
Why, after all these years, why did this have to be dug up and flung back at him? Why couldn't these people just let Jessica rest in peace? Why couldn't they leave the Woods family alone? And why didn't his father just burn that letter and say, "To Hell with Vincent Hynes!" That's where the monster was going anyway.
Charlie remembered the day Jessica went missing. The last things his sister had said to him was, "I'm going to kill you, you little brat!" Charlie had been more hurt than angry. After all, it was just a stupid picture and he was just having fun. It had haunted him for ten years that the last time he had seen his older sister they had fought. He never got to say good-bye to her and the last memory she would have of her little brother was of him saying, "I don't know what the big deal is. You look ugly in ever picture!"
But Jessica had not been ugly. Not ever. Charlie had loved her so much and had always thought that she was one of the prettiest girls he had ever known. He was just being a stupid little brother. He never meant to hurt her. If only he could just go back and tell her that.
He hadn't cried this hard since Jessica's funeral. He was glad that Max and C.J. weren't home, though he was sure that they would understand. He would much rather be alone.
He still remembered the day Jessica went missing like it had just happened. They hadn't told Charlie or his younger sister Chrissy until they had gotten home that afternoon. They had gotten off the bus to find a police car and three news vans. From that point on, they fell into the nightmare that the next year of mourning, trials, and media harassment became. Chrissy barely understood what had happened, but Charlie was old enough to understand rape, and to understand murder.
Charlie had always been a good kid. He had never been the typical minister's son. He wasn't a trouble maker and was well liked and respected by the church, his school, and the community. All that changed the day Jessica disappeared. He stayed home from the school the whole week after she was kidnapped and returned to class the following Monday only to be sent home before lunch with a five day suspension for fighting. He didn't remember what the fight was about, but it was so severe that the only reason he hadn't been expelled was the "extenuating circumstances" involved.
"My sister is not a circumstance!" he had screamed at his principal before his father took him home. At the time, his parents were so preoccupied with what had happened to Jessica that his behavior went mostly unnoticed, which only worked to encourage it. He became known as a "bad boy," always getting into fights, and by the end of that year he was smoking and drinking. The summer before eighth grade he was caught smoking pot by his father. That brought Alex back to reality long enough to deal with his son and with their ensuing talk, the punishment, and the assistance of the church's youth pastor, Pastor Larry, Charlie was able to get his act together before he ended up doing something really stupid.
His behavior improved, his grades, which had slumped, returned to their honor student levels, and he poured himself into church activities. But only Charlie knew that his motives behind the improvements weren't what everyone around him believed. He had originally tried to push out his emotional turmoil through his violence, drinking, and drug use, which would have gotten much worse had he not been caught. He was scared straight, that was sure, but now he was pushing away the turmoil with academics and church.
Not that he cared about God. He was furious with Him. God had allowed his big sister to die. He had sat back and watched as that sick pervert violated her and then strangled the life out of her. God hadn't done a single thing to stop it. Never once in his entire life had Charlie doubted the existence of God, but since Jessica's death, he hated Him. He would never say so to anybody and nobody was the wiser, but his facade of Christianity was simply that. The activities kept him busy and the appearance of righteousness kept people, especially his family, from bothering him.
He was even a leader in the Christian Student Association on campus and nobody involved in the CSA, not even Chrissy, who was a freshmen at the same school, even suspected that his faith was less than genuine.
Chrissy had been at the house a few months earlier when they had seen the first news story on television about Alex Woods' impending meeting with Vincent J. Hynes. The first thing that they did was call home and ask their father if it was true and if he was crazy.
Charlie's pretense of faith was so convincing even his father believed it. Alex asked him to keep the meeting in prayer, which he promised he would do, though if Charlie did happen to pray, it would be his first real prayer in nearly a decade.
Chrissy had prayed, and he had gone through the motions for her sake. He even said a few words out loud, all the time just burning with a rage and hatred with which he had burned for a decade.
And he had been silently burning with that rage since that phone call. Whatever his father was doing with Hynes at that moment was a waste of time, and even if, by some odd chance, God could actually forgive that evil monster, then he was the sort of God that Charlie wanted nothing to do with.
The phone rang. He didn't answer it. After four rings, the machine picked up the call. After the brief outgoing message, a familiar voice filled the room.
"Charlie? Are you there?" It was Chrissy. "Come on, Charlie, pick up. I need to talk to you. I want to know if I can come over. I just saw Jess on TV. Please, Charlie, if you're there, pick up the phone."
Reluctantly, he did.

THE MEETING: Part Four: Face-to-Face

The ten minutes was indeed a long time for Alex Woods. Impatiently, he flipped through the pages of his Bible, but couldn't decide what passage to read. He felt like getting up and pacing, but didn't know if he should. Some prisons were so strict in their rules regarding visitors that even something as simple as getting out of the assigned chair could result in immediate termination of the visit. He wasn't sure of the rules of this prison, but he would rather have been safe than sorry.
Frustrated, he closed the Bible. He had the sudden urge just to get up and leave. He would simply tell everyone that he had changed his mind. No one would question such an action. He didn't want to be alone with the monster who had murdered his daughter. But he wasn't alone; he knew that. The Lord was with him. And he knew that there were hundreds, maybe thousands of people praying for him at that moment. He closed his eyes, took a deep, stomach calming breath, and joined them in prayer.
"Lord Jesus," he whispered, "please, please help me through this. I don't know if I can do it. I don't want to do it. Please, Lord, help me. Help me to forgive this man. Help me to love him as You love him. And, Lord, I know that You do love Vincent Hynes. Help him to know that. May there be another celebration in Heaven for him tonight. I pray for him, Lord. Be here today. Speak through me. And, Lord, please calm my nerves."
He ran out of words early, but kept on praying anyway. He knew that God didn't need his words to get his message. One word just kept repeating itself in his mind, and it summed it up perfectly: Help!
After a few minutes, the door to the visitation room opened and in walked Vincent J. Hynes, flanked by two uniformed officers who may as well have been transporting a dead dog by their expressions. Lt. Mark stood behind them with his arms folded across his chest and his face a mask of disgust.
As Hynes came in, Alex found himself surprised to see an actual human being. He had spent so long demonizing this man in his own mind that he had almost expected to see an apparition from Hell in a prison jumpsuit. But Hynes was just a man, not a monster. The face that had haunted his nightmares seemed to have aged twenty-five years in the past ten. His hair, which hung just past his shoulders, was more gray than brown and he had grown a very scruffy beard, but Alex still recognized the man from the mug shot. He wearing a dingy yellow jumpsuit, leg irons, and handcuffs that held his bound wrists in front of him.
The C.O.'s forced him forward and he shuffled towards the waiting chair.
"My officers will be standing outside the door," Mark said from the hallway. "All you have to do is call them and they'll be in in seconds. Do you have any questions?"
"No, sir," Alex said.
"Good," Mark said. "Then we'll leave you alone."
The two C.O.'s turned and walked out and the door shut behind them with a loud clank. Alex was left alone with Hynes. The two men sat across from each other for an excruciatingly long moment, neither one wanting to be the first to speak. Alex had often fantasized about the moment he would meet his daughter's killer and what he would do to the man. Very few of these fantasies involved prayer and Bible reading.
Say something! he silently told himself. You didn't just come here to stare at the man!
But it was Hynes who finally broke the silence.
"Thank you for coming, Reverend Woods," he said shyly. "I know you didn't have to."
"Yes," Alex said. "I did."
"How have you been?" As soon as the question was out, Alex could tell Hynes regretted it. It was such a stupid question to ask someone who had spent the last decade mourning his daughter; especially in you were the one who killed her.
Alex almost snapped at him, "How do you think I've been?" but thought the better of it. That was not how he wanted to start off this meeting.
"I'm doing well," he said instead. "Not great, but well. I won't ask you how you've been."
"I think that's pretty obvious," Hynes chuckled, raising his hands for emphasis.
How dare you laugh? Alex thought. My little girl will never laugh again thanks to you! How dare you?
"I was surprised by you letter, Mr. Hynes," Alex said. "I didn't expect to hear from you."
"I think I was more surprised by your letter, Reverend," Hynes replied. "I've never heard of anything like it in my whole life. If I were you and somebody killed my little girl, I don't think I could ever forgive them."
"Yeah, well..." Alex trailed off. He didn't want to lie to the man about having forgiven him. Not again. But he didn't want to admit to him that he hadn't. This whole meeting was based on the assumption that the forgiveness had taken place. If he admitted now that he never really did it, he might as well just get up and leave.
"I know it doesn't mean much right now," Hynes went on, "but I am very sorry. What I did was... awful. I didn't apologize ten years ago, but I'm apologizing now, for whatever it's worth."
"Believe me," Alex said, "it means a lot." And it actually did. It was easy to hate a man who showed no remorse. It wasn't as easy to hate one who was genuinely sorry.
"If I could tell all the other families I'm sorry, I would," Hynes said. "But you're the only one I knew how to contact. Besides, if they come next week to my execution... I'll say it then."
It was like torture trying to think of what to say to this man. Alex couldn't say what he wanted to say because he was here to help Hynes and himself. He couldn't say what he knew he needed to say because he thought that his mouth would betray him and he would end up blurting out what he was trying to hard to hide.
He sent up another prayer, quick and silent: God, help me. I don't know what to do!
* * *
Aimee and deputy Michaels, whom she found calling "Bill" to be quite easy, had taken a little walk. It was at Bill's insistence. He said he knew a place where they could sit, talk, and pray and the nosey reporters wouldn't dare follow after his little speech. They ended up sitting on a bench near the highway. It was on a pleasantly landscaped corner near the prison parking lot designed specifically for people to "escape the images of this awful place," as Bill put it. It faced the highway and the snow capped mountains beyond it, and away from the towers, walls, and barbed wire of the prison.
"Guards come here on their breaks sometimes," Bill explained. "It helps to get a new perspective on things. Staring at those walls and bars can be depressing, even if you get to go home at the end of the day."
"I fell sorry for the men who don't get to go home," Aimee remarked. She glanced back over her shoulder at the imposing structures of the prison. "I can't imagine living in that place... Or dying there."
"They deserve it, don't they?" Bill asked. He sounded amazingly cold, especially considering how friendly Aimee had thought he was. "They all earned their punishment."
"Yes, but..." Aimee trailed off. She was about to say, "but what about mercy," but something struck her so suddenly that she fell silent. For a moment, she had almost forgotten that her daughter's killer was behind those bars. Almost... She could feel sorry for an abstract number of men, most of them condemned to die in the place, either by lethal injection or the passing of their hundred or so year sentences. But then she thought about Hynes. She thought about how her daughter’s life had ended in that cold dark forest at that monster's hands and she thought that dying in this horrendous place was better than he deserved. "Victimless" crimes didn't receive a death penalty and very few of them garnered life sentences either. Every man in that prison had hurt someone or killed someone. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of people like her, forever trapped in a prison of loss and grief. The killers in the prison had earned their punishments.
* * *
They had sat there staring at each other for nearly a minute, neither of them speaking. It felt more like and hour and Alex began to wonder what he was really doing there. Hynes was looking expectantly at him.
"I think," Alex began, grasping desperately at straws, "we should begin with a prayer."
"A prayer?" Hynes repeated.
"Yes," Alex said. "We're here to talk about God, right? Let's start off by asking Him to be here with us."
"I know He'll listen to you," Hynes said, "but I doubt He'd pay much attention to me."
Alex thought about that for a moment. Would God heed Vincent Hynes's prayer? The Bible says that God doesn't hear the prayers of those who harbor sin in their hearts. If that was the case, had God even heard Alex's prayers for the past decade? Hadn't he been harboring the sin of unforgiveness?
Alex had even preached on that subject once. He had come to the conclusion that there was one prayer that the Lord heard no matter who uttered it. That was a prayer of repentance. It was a prayer of a man truly seeking God. After all, the conversion experience was invariably preceded by what was traditionally called "the sinner's prayer." If the two of them, both harboring sin for so long, honestly came together and asked the Lord to cleanse them of it, if they asked for His guidance and redemption, He would listen.
"Tell me one thing, Mr. Hynes," Alex said. "Are you truly willing to seek after God today?"
"Yes," Hynes said, "I am."
"Then He'll hear you." Then he added, more to himself then to Hynes, "He'll hear both of us."
"Okay, then," Hynes said. "Let's pray."
Vincent Hynes put his cuffed hands out on the table and opened them as best as he could. As difficult as it was to come here and see this man, it was much more so for Alex to reach across the table and grasp the hands that had choked the life out of his little girl. He did so, and he held them tightly. Hynes bowed his head and closed his eyes, but Alex did not.
"Lord," Alex began, "we pray that You be here with us today. We are here to seek Your will and to find Your forgiveness. Father, we ask that You guide us through this difficult meeting and that Your will be done. We ask that You help us to see the things in our lives that we need to repent of and that You enable us to do so. Let Your Holy Spirit be in this place today. We pray these things in Jesus' name. Amen."
"Amen," Hynes repeated. He released Alex's hands and Alex resisted the urge to wipe them on his pant legs.
"So," Alex said, "why don't we begin with why you decided to write to me after all these years?"
"I'm gonna die in a week," Hynes replied. "Something like that really makes a guy think, you know? It's easy when you're sure you got years left the forget about the state of your soul, but when it's down to months, or weeks, or days you begin to really think about it. Like I told you, I read your letter every day. I have it memorized. When I was notified six months ago that my execution date was set, the words you wrote seemed to mean so much more, and I knew I needed to talk to you."
"So you want redemption?"
"No," Hynes said. "I told you, I'm not worthy of it. I just wanted to make peace with you before I die. There's no chance of making peace with God."
"Don't say that," Alex told him. "There's always a chance."
"The Bible says, 'No murderer has eternal life abiding in him,'" Hynes said. "I'm a murderer."
"So, you've read the Bible," Alex said.
"Parts of it," Hynes replied. "I don't understand much of it, but that part was clear. There is no hope for me."
"Are you so sure of that?" Alex asked, knowing that he had his own doubts. "Remember Moses? David? Two great men of God right? I mean, they wrote huge chunks of the Bible!"
"So what's your point?"
"They were both murderers," Alex told him. "Moses killed an Egyptian. That's why he ran into the desert. David stole a man's wife and had him killed. Would you say there was no hope for them?"
"That's different," Hynes said. "They only killed one person. I've killed a lot more than that. And I did other things too."
"I stole a stick of gum from a grocery store when I was eight," Alex said.
"Yeah, and?"
"And for that, I deserve to burn in Hell for all eternity."
"For stealing gum?" Hynes looked doubtful.
"For sinning," Alex replied. "Every sin, no matter how minor it may seem to us, is enough to separate us from God. We are no different in His eyes. We are all sinners in desperate need of salvation. Nobody can say they aren't going to Hell because their neighbor is a worse sinner than they are."
"If God'll throw someone in Hell over a stick of gum, what hope is there for anyone?"
"Let's look at that," Alex said, opening his Bible. While the pain of his daughter's loss, his hatred for Hynes, his reluctance to be there, and his doubts that there was any hope for this man all remained, he had hit his stride and he found it easy to speak. He was a gifted preacher. As long as he could detach himself from the immediate situation, as long as he could "preach" at Hynes instead of talking to him, this might actually work.
"Let's look at Luke fifteen," Alex said.

THE MEETING Part Three: Deputy Michaels

Aimee Woods watched her husband disappear behind the prison doors. She silently cursed the reporters who were hounding him, those same reporters who had hounded them a decade before. Many of the names and the faces had changed, but the reporters had not. They didn't care about her or Alex or even Jessica. They cared only about selling newspapers and getting people to tune into their broadcasts. Maybe they would win an Emmy or a Pulitzer, or maybe they would get a promotion and a prime time special. If they had to further traumatize a few grieving people in the process, then so be it.
With a frustrated sigh, she looked away. She opened the tattered Bible that sat on her lap and tried to force herself to read. She opened up to Luke chapter fifteen. Aimee looked at the three parables there; the lost sheep, the lost coin, and the lost son. She wondered about Vincent J. Hynes and if he could possibly fit into any or all of those stories. She didn't know. The Bible said that there was much rejoicing in Heaven over a sinner who came to repentance. Alex used to say, "The angels are having a big ol' party now!" after an alter call. Well, if Hynes did repent, they may party in Heaven, but she probably wouldn't join them.
Because she was reading her Bible, and because her mind was quite literally an eternity away, she barely noticed the reporters. They, however, did notice her. Alex had purposely parked a good distance from the prison entrance so that he could approach mostly unnoticed. He didn't want his wife harassed while she waited for him. It almost worked, except for one reporter who had spent some time around the Woods home. He knew their car and when he saw Alex coming from the parking lot, he noticed the general direction from which he came. The reporter could tell by the look on Alex's face that he wouldn't give the vultures a thing, so while the rest of the reporters clamored around the dead girl's father, he headed off into the parking lot in search of the green sedan that probably held her mother.
Most average people might not have seen the young reporter and his camera man slip away, but these were reporters. It was their job to notice things, and they followed him. By the time Aimee had finished reading Luke 15, the car was surrounded by newsmen and women with video cameras and flash bulbs and note books and microphones. When she looked up and saw them she almost screamed.
Instinctively, she reached for the door locks, though she doubted that the reporters would actually stoop to forcing their way into her vehicle. They were knocking on the windows though, and pointing their cameras and microphones at her.
"Mrs. Woods!" the reporter who had first spotted her shouted, "A word please!"
The others joined him.
"Mrs. Woods, why didn't you accompany your husband?"
"Mrs. Woods, have you forgiven Vincent Hynes?"
"Can we please get a statement from you, Mrs. Woods?"
Aimee closed her eyes and tried to shut them out. It didn't work. She covered her ears, hoping the gesture would send a message to the reporters that she wished to be left alone. If they got the message, they ignored it. Why couldn't they just leave her alone? How could they be so calloused and uncaring?
Finally, a new voice, deep and authoritative, broke through the clamor.
"All right! All right! Break it up!" the newcomer barked. "Leave this woman alone or I'll have you all evicted from the premises!"
"This is a state prison!" one reporter replied. "That makes this parking lot public property!"
"You see this badge, Mister?" the newcomer said. "This makes me the man in charge. Now, leave this woman alone or I'll call my colleagues down at the police station and you won't like what they have to say!"
"What about the right to peaceful assembly?" a woman retorted.
"This doesn't look like a peaceful assembly to me, lady," the newcomer said. "This looks like harassment. I think my friends at the station would agree. Now, unless you want me to prove this to you, I suggest that you step away from this car now! If I so much as see one of you snap another picture of her, I'll have you arrested for harassment and we'll let the courts sort it out! Is that clear?"
Dozens of voices reluctantly agreed that the man had indeed been clear. Aimee, who had kept her eyes closed throughout the encounter opened hem to the welcome sight of reporters scurrying away. The newcomer turned out to be a large black man in a khaki sheriff's uniform. Large was an understatement; he was huge. He stood at least six foot five and must have weighed nearly three hundred pounds, mostly muscle. His back was turned to Aimee as he watched the reporters retreat back to their post by the prison's visitor entrance. Even from behind, Aimee could tell he was a man who meant business. So long as he remained, the reporters would not be back to bother her.
The cop turned to face her. For a moment, she saw the expression that must have frightened the reporters away. Then, the man's face softened into the warmest smile she had ever seen. He was handsome. His head was shaved and he wore on of those round, safari type hats that added three or four more inches to his already massive build. He looked about thirty.
Looking at him immediately put Aimee at ease. When he walked towards the car she realized that even though she had wanted to be left alone, this particular visitor was very welcome. The sun glinted off of something on his collar and as he got closer, she saw that it was a small golden cross pin. On his hat was another pin, this one an angel.
Aimee rolled down her window and the men bent over to speak to her.
"Are you okay, ma'am?"
"Yes, thank you, officer..."
"Michaels," he told her. "Deputy William Michaels. I'm here on a prisoner transport from Angeles County."
"Well, you came along just in time, Deputy Michaels," Aimee said.
"Just doing my job," he said. "I hate to see anybody harassed by those sharks in the media, Mrs. Woods."
"You know who I am?" Aimee asked.
"I do have a TV, you know," he said smiling. "I think it's just deplorable how the media will hound people who want to be left along just to get a story."
"Well, thanks for chasing them off, Mr. Michaels," Aimee said, "but I'm afraid that as soon as you're gone, they'll come right back out here."
"I guess I'll have to stay then, won't I?" Michaels said.
"Oh, you don't to do that."
"What does it say on this badge, Mrs. Woods?" The deputy pointed to the brass star pinned to his chest. "My job is to protect you and to serve you. Besides, my duties are done for the day and I have nothing to do today but drive back to Angeles County. I could use a little diversion. The department will understand. When does your husband come back?"
"In a couple of hours," she replied. "I promised him I'd stay out here and pray for him."
"Since I've been praying for you since I heard about you on the news this morning," Michaels said, "I'd love to join you. Would that be okay?"
With a genuine smile, Aimee said, "Yes. That would be more than okay, Deputy Michaels."
"Call me Bill," the deputy said.

Just a small one. If anyone besides Wanderer reads the comments, they will see his comments to me on the first part of the story. While those comments were all very interesting, and thought provoking, as well as the exact things that he knows push my buttons and get me going on one of my rants he so loves to tear apart, I decided to simply let the story play itself out over the coming weeks and see how many of his questions can be answered that way. After all, this story is here partly because of those very same questions. Hopefully, Steve, and everyone else curious, the answers to your queries will show up in the story before its conclusion. When I type the words "The End" on this one, I fully expect that to be the beginning of another one of our famous discussions. Until then, keep commenting, and keep asking. The story is far from over, even in my handwritten draft from which I am typing this. Who knows? One of your questions could end up leading this thing in a direction I cannot now foresee.
God Bless, Arthur B Roberts
Part Three to be posted soon, but I am going to be extremely busy for the next few weeks, so, as usual, no promises.

THE MEETING part two: Reporters

"Reverend Woods! Reverend Woods! Do you expect an apology from your daughter's killer?"
"Mr. Woods, why are you doing this?"
"Who initiated the contact?"
"What do you think your daughter would say if she knew you were here today?"
And a thousand other questions, all being shouted at him, overlapping each other and making it extremely difficult for him to keep walking forward. The distance between him and the prison's visitor entrance was no more than fifteen feet, yet Alex wasn't sure he could make it.
The media had been obsessed with the case ever since Jessica had gone missing that Monday morning. There was a call from the school at 9:00 asking where Jessica was. Then, at 10:00, after a little girl reported seeing a pretty blond dragged from the city bus stop to a waiting car, a call from the police. By noon, Alex and Aimee Woods were making passionate pleas to the kidnapper on local news stations. The media ran reports throughout that excruciatingly long week, and when rumors sparked that Jessica's disappearance may have been connected to a recent string of killings in the area, the coverage increased.
Then, that Saturday afternoon, a search party came across Jessica's body buried in a shallow grave in a nearby forest and all hell broke loose. Not only had the killer left Jessica's body in a rather obvious place, he'd also left behind some rather crucial evidence, including a well preserved shoe print and, for the first time since the disappearance of Katlin Jones, whose decomposed body hadn't been found until two agonizing months later, he had left both fingerprints and DNA. That, along with a police sketch derived from the memory of the little girl who had witnessed Jessica's abduction, led the police to Vincent J. Hynes. Jessica, being the most recent known victim, became the case's poster child. The media was calling the Woods' house every day asking for interviews, pictures, even a prime time special on one of the major networks.
All that Alex and his family had wanted was to grieve for Jessica and to see her killer come to justice. Newspapers, TV shows, magazines, and news radio hosts ignored that. They wanted a story. When they realized that the Woods family wasn't going to allow their mourning to become a public spectacle, the pressure eased considerably. At least it did before Alex again made headlines with his act of forgiveness at sentencing. Then, they were back in full force. They weren't satisfied with his statement: "What I said was between Mr. Hynes, myself, and God. Thank you." But he would give them nothing else.
Now, all he wanted was to get into that prison and out again without being bombarded with questions. That wasn't going to happen. He braced himself, looked firmly at the door and the sign that read: "ALL VISITORS MUST CHECK IN AND BE APPROVED. NO EXCEPTIONS!"
And he was in. He checked in immediately. The receptionist said that they were expecting him. He glanced back outside the glass doors at the intruders with their cameras and tape recorders and note pads and said, "No kidding." She laughed a little at that and then flushed red, realizing that there wasn't much humor in this situation. She took down his name, had him sign in, and then told him to wait for his escort who was due any minute.
After a cursory search by a bored looking corrections officers Alex was led to the visitation room. Standing outside the gray metal door were two men. One was a short balding black man in a white uniform shirt. His badge identified him as Lt. R. Mark. Alex couldn't guess at the man's first name and he would probably never find out. Men like Lt. Mark, whose expression conveyed the opinion that everyone else on earth was put there just to irritate him, rarely offered personal information to someone unless it benefited him. The other man, looking strangely out of place in his gray slacks, blue shirt, and gray tie, was Chaplain Joseph O'Brien. Alex knew this not only by his I.D. badge, but by the large Catholic Bible under his right arm, his obviously Irish features, including a mop of bright red hair, and the look on his face. He was the first person Alex had seen since entering the facility who looked like he actually cared for the inmates held there. In all the times Alex had visited prisons and jails he quickly learned that look was usually reserved for Chaplains or other religious workers and volunteers. The C.O.'s, wardens, and other employees couldn't give a rip for their charges, especially those in this particular branch of the system where the inmates had been deemed unworthy to live.
The bored C.O. dropped Alex off outside the door and went about his business.
"Reverend Woods, I presume," Lt. Mark said gruffly.
"That's right," he said, extending his hand. "Call me 'Alex.'"
Mark took the hand and gave it a shake that wasn't meant as a greeting, but as a challenge. Alex could almost feel his finger bones cracking and tried not to wince. He then shook O'Brien's hand and found it warm and friendly, a handshake to match his aged face.
"Reverend Woods," Mark said, "I've been told to inform you of the dangers involved with meeting with Hynes."
"I'm well aware of the dangers, sir."
"Yes, Reverend Woods, I'm sure that you are." Mark cleared his throat. "You will be alone with him, as you requested, but there will be two guards posted outside the door. Should the inmate at any time make you feel threatened, call to these guards and they will restrain the inmate. The meeting will end immediately. If either guard or another officer senses that you are in danger, they will end the meeting. This will be at their discretion, not yours!"
There was an implied question in the officer's tone which Alex answered with a quiet, "I understand."
"Good," Mark went on. "The inmate will be in both hand cuffs and leg shackles at all times. You will sit at opposite ends of the table and remain seated at all times. You will have exactly two hours, not a second more. You will be informed when you have fifteen minutes remaining. Is all of this clear, Reverend Woods?"
"Perfectly, Lieutenant," Alex replied.
"Good," Mark said. "I'll leave you to talk with the Chaplain while I retrieve the inmate. We will return in less than fifteen minutes."
"Thank you, Lieutenant."
Mark simply nodded and went down the hallway. He disappeared around the next corner.
"I'm sorry about him," O'Brien said.
"Is he always like that?” Alex asked.
"Today's a good day," O'Brien said with a smile that made the sixty-year-old look ten years younger.
The Chaplain took a key chain from his belt and opened the large metal door with it. The door led to the small private visitation room where Alex would sit and meet with his daughter's killer. Normally, inmates kept in solitary confinement, especially dangerous ones, would only be allowed to meet with a visitor over a short telephone connection separated by wire mesh glass, but this was a special religious visit and they had been granted the room reserved for such visits. There was one table, bolted to the concrete floor, and two plastic green chairs. Besides the camera mounted in the corner, that was it. The cinderblock walls were painted a pale, institutional blue.
"Let's have a seat, shall we, Alex?" O'Brien suggested. "I think we would talk before they bring Hynes in."
They each sat in one of the green chairs, Alex facing the door through which they had come. He could tell that the chair would be comfortable for all of thirty seconds. Furniture in correctional facilities was not chosen for comfort any more than the food was chosen for taste.
"I must admit," O'Brien began, "I'm surprised that you actually came here today. I mean, considering the circumstances..."
"Mark 11:25 and 26, Chaplain," Alex replied. "Are you familiar with the passage?"
"Not off hand."
"'And whenever you stand praying, if you have anything against anyone, forgive him, that you Father in heaven may also forgive your trespasses. But, if you do not forgive, neither will your Father in heaven forgive your trespasses.'"
"So you're telling me that you've forgiven your daughter's killer?" Alex couldn't tell if O'Brien sounded surprised or impressed.
"Not exactly," Alex said. "In fact, I'm here because that's what I need to do. I've been praying at the altar with this in the way for far too long.”
"Well," O'Brien said, "in any case, you may find it a difficult afternoon, and not just because of Mr. Hynes' history with you. When he was first transferred here a year ago I tried meeting with him. I try meeting with all the new inmates. Something about coming to death row makes a person really look at their spiritual state."
"I can imagine."
"Hynes was... hostile, to put it mildly," the Chaplain went on. "I've had hostile inmates before, but few like this. He's a very angry person, and a lot of that anger is directed at God. Suffice it to say, one meeting was all we had and all that came of it was a black eye on my part."
"He hit you?"
"Yep. He told me to get the 'F' out of there. God hated him and I was wasting my time."
"But he requested this meeting," Alex reminded him.
"Something else which surprised me," O'Brien said. "I've been praying for him. Well, Saint Jude and I."
"The Patron Saint of Lost Causes?" Alex said smiling.
"It seemed appropriate," O'Brien replied. "I'm surprised that you know that. I thought you were Methodist."
"Free Methodist," Alex said, making a correction that had become habit. "But I do know a bit about my Catholic brothers."
"Well, just be prepared for hostility," O'Brien said, "and be prepared to duck."
"Thank you, Chaplain."
"Call me Joe," O'Brien said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some work to do. I hate to leave you alone right now-"
"That's okay," Alex said. "I need a few minutes to pray. And to calm my nerves."
O'Brien stood and turned for the door.
"Hey, Joe," Alex called. O'Brien turned back. "If you find time during your busy day, say a prayer for me, would ya'?"
"Of course."
O'Brien left the room with a smile and Alex was alone. Vincent J. Hynes would not arrive for another ten minutes. It would turn out to be a very long ten minutes.

warning

Warning! While this is a Christian oriented site, sometimes it isn't necessarily a family-friendly one. The following story contains some elements, including some violent imagery, that may not be appropriate for everyone. Please exercise discretion when reading it. Thanks.

THE MEETING Part one: Pictures of Jessica

She was beautiful. She had such life in her big blue eyes and her perfect smile (a smile she was proudly displaying, her braces having come off a few weeks earlier) and it seemed that God had let a gorgeous blond haired angel out of Heaven. She wore a yellow dress, the sort of thing she used to romp around in as a little girl playing in the yard, and the dress, along with her youthful smile, created the illusion that she was still just a six year old girl running off to play with her friends and not the fifteen year old young woman she had become. She sat on a large rock under a tree posing for the camera as the wind blew through her long blond hair, forever frozen in the snap shot.
Alex flipped the little picture flap in his wallet over to the next photo. It was the yearbook picture from her sophomore year. It had been taken earlier that year, back when she still wore her braces. Though they didn't look too bad, she had been self-conscious and smiled with her lips tightly closed. She was still beautiful. She had picked the farmhouse background, which Alex always thought looked so fake. Why couldn't she just pick plain old blue like when he was a kid? he'd asked. Nowadays there were all sorts of different backgrounds. Her little brother Charlie had chosen a criss cross of red and green lasers and eight year old Chrissy had opted to be surrounded by pastel balloons. But those pictures weren't in Alex's wallet.
Opposite this shot was one taken about three weeks later which they had used for the Christmas card that year. Alex and his wife Aimee stood proudly behind their three children with a wintery background. Jessica stood between her younger siblings. All three of the kids had their mother's features, blond hair, blue eyes, high cheek bones. The only thing they'd inherited from Alex was their fair complexion. Like him, they wouldn't tan. They would burn and freckle. Chrissy was a younger version of Jessica, who was in turn a younger version of their mother. Even Charlie, who at twelve was just beginning to look more like a man than a boy, still very much resembled Aimee.
It was Charlie who had taken the next photo in the wallet. It was taken the morning after the one of Jessica at the park. The first picture was taken on a Sunday afternoon at a church picnic, and the roll of film had only two exposures left on it after the event. Aimee was planning on taking the film to be developed that Monday afternoon so she needed to fill up the roll. Charlie asked if he could take the last two pictures and Aimee let him. One picture was of Charlie's pet hamster Rex and other was a shot of Jessica as she groggily made her way to the bathroom from her bedroom that morning.
Jessica had been so mad at him. She chased him around the house for five minutes until Alex broke it up. He assured her that the picture would never be seen by anyone, that she could destroy it. The only reason Alex kept it now was because it was the last picture ever taken of his oldest daughter.
While she was alive, that is. There had been other pictures- People's exhibits B through G, and he remembered them all... all too clearly. He closed his eyes and tried to clear those images from his mind. As usual, he only succeeded in repressing them until they would come back again to haunt him.
He looked back at the photo in his wallet.
Even with her hair a mess and her unmade-up face a mask of surprised rage at her brother, Alex could see the life and joy that Jessica had been known for.
It was the life that was so brutally snuffed out by the man in the next picture. Alex wasn't quite sure he kept that other photograph. He told himself that it was to remind him to forgive. He was, after all, a pastor and he'd preached on the need for forgiveness many times. But that wasn't the reason. He kept the picture sometimes to have a focal point for his hate, sometimes to torture himself for somehow failing his precious little girl and allowing this monster to do what he did to her, and sometimes he just stared at it and pondered the words "Love your enemies" for hours.
It was an old newspaper clipping, faded with age and barely discernable anymore, but he didn't need to be able to see the picture to envision the man in it. He'd memorized the face years ago. It had been burned into his memory by a million nightmares. It was a black and white mug hot, barely an inch high, and the name below it ignited a rage in Alex's very soul that threatened to burst someday, proving to everybody that he had not actually done what he said. He hadn't really forgiven the man.
Vincent J. Hynes. Convicted in 1995 of raping and killing six women ranging in age from fourteen to twenty-seven. The youngest had been Kaitlin Jones, a girl from his church who used to sing like an angel and was scheduled to do a solo that Christmas that would never be sung. The oldest was a woman named Jenna Howard, mother of three and a preschool teacher. The last known victim was Jessica Woods. Hynes glared at the camera as they took his mugs hot. His left eye was swollen shut and he'd been dressed in a ratty old county jail uniform that was most likely orange.
The man, the murderous monster who had robbed at least six families of the daughters, sisters, and mothers, and was suspected in as many as ten more killings, had been convicted and sentenced to die for his crimes by lethal injection. After ten long years, that day was finally approaching, and now Alex sat outside the prison in the front seat of his car debating whether he would actually go in and see the man. This wasn't Hynes' execution day, that was still a week off. This was a visit that Alex himself had asked for ten years earlier.
Alex was pulled out of his thoughts by a choked sob from his wife, who sat in the passenger seat holding another photograph of Jessica. This was a baby photo. Nine month old Jessica was waving her chubby little arms at the camera and grinning as if she knew that moment would be forever frozen in time by the little black box with the flashing light on it. In a way, that was how he would always remember his daughter, as the little cherub with the big grin and curly blond locks.
Something else transposed itself on this picture and Alex tried to block it out, as he had tried to do unsuccessfully countless times over the past decade. It was another image of Jessica, one that plagued his nightmares even more often that Hynes' face. Alex saw her lying on that cold metal shelf in the morgue the day he and Aimee had been asked to come and identify her body. She was a sickly pale blue, the only other color being the red welts on her neck where Vincent Hynes had strangled the life out of her with his bare hands, and, of course, the blood. Her eyes were wide open and kind of bugged out of her head, her once beautiful blond hair was matted with mud and blood, and a look of sheer terror was forever frozen, like the baby picture, on her face.
He repressed the image as quickly as it came to him.
He placed a hand on his wife's knee and gave it a gentle squeeze.
"You okay?" he asked.
Aimee forced a smile. "No." She looked towards the prison. Barricaded behind razor wire and high cinderblock walls, her baby's killer awaited his punishment. "Are you sure about this?"
"I have to do this," he replied. "I don't blame you for not coming with me."
"I just can't see HIM again," she sobbed. "I can't go through that again!"
Aimee had only seen Hynes in person one time, at his sentencing. She couldn't bring herself to go to the trial, to hear the prosecutors describe what he had done to Jessica, or to any other the others, or to even look the man in the face. But she was at the sentencing, and she forced herself to get up and speak. She didn't get three words out before she completely broke down, crying there until Alex escorted her back to her seat. She had a whole speech prepared, but her tears said much more than her words ever could. She was a mother whose child had been stolen from her in the worst way, and her loss echoed through the silent courtroom and broke every heart there.
Every heart but one.
Vincent J. Hynes sat there like a cold stone statue, never moving, never speaking, never showing any sign of emotion. For over an hour, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, husbands, and friends told him how he had not only killed those women and girls, he had ruined the lives of all those who knew and loved them, but he didn't seem to care at all. Then Alex got up. He said only three words, but these three words finally brought a tear to the killer's eyes.
"I forgive you."
After he said this, he turned around, went back to his seat, and sat down next to his weeping wife. Forgiving Hynes was the Christian thing to do, and he was convinced it was the right thing to do. He had set an example for the other families and for his church. He did what Christ had said and offered forgiveness. He was reminded of the bracelet his daughter had worn on her left wrist. She was even buried with it. It was four little letters: W.W.J.D? "What would Jesus Do?" Well, he'd done just that. If Christ could forgive the men nailing Him to the cross, and if the Father could do the same, then surely Reverend Alex Woods could live up to His example.
Except that even as he said it, he knew he didn't mean it. He hadn't forgiven Hynes. He didn't think he could. Every time he tried, he would see the man raping and killing his little girl and the hate would rise up within him again. He tried to hide it. He tried to put on the good-little-Christian face with joy and love and peace when inside he was really just a steaming, hate-filled hypocrite.
Not even his wife knew that. Not until six months ago when they'd received that letter in the mail from Hynes taking him up on an offer he'd made just after the sentencing. Alex had written a letter to him saying that he would like to see him. Alex had meant to sit down with the murderer and tell him about the love of Jesus and about the forgiveness that he could receive. Alex truly did want to forgive the man, and he thought that if he sat down with him with an open Bible between them and saw Hynes come to the Lord; it would somehow help him to do so. But Hynes never replied. There was no indication that he had even received the letter and Alex didn't try to contact him again.
But, less than a week after they had seen on TV that an execution date had finally been set, a letter arrived in the mail. The return address read "Vincent J. Hynes," followed by the man's prisoner I.D. number and the address of the prison. Alex almost didn't open it. His hands were trembling as he held the small white envelope with his address in the middle and his baby's killer's address in the top left hand corner, but in the end, after a lot of prayer and discussion with his wife, he opened the letter. It didn't occur to him until later that he used the letter opener that Jessica had bought for him on her last Christmas.
The letter slipped out of the envelope and onto the desk in his home office. He and Aimee just stood there staring at it as if picking it up would give them some strange disease.
After a very long couple of minutes, Alex picked up the single sheet of paper and read the handwritten message:
Dear Pastor Woods,
I don't know why I'm writing this and I wouldn't be surprised if you just threw it out and went on with your life. I wouldn't blame you. I deserve it.
10 years is a long time. I've spent all of that time in solitary and I've had a lot of time to think.
You wrote me 10 years ago. Do you remember? Of course you do. You don't forget a thing like writing to the man who... you know. Anyway, you said you wanted to meet me. You said you had something to tell me that might help me. I crumpled the letter and almost threw it away, but then I remembered what you said at my sentencing. "I forgive you" you said. I kept the letter and I read it every day.
Something you told me- God still loves you- I can't believe it. I'd like to, but I can't. How can God love a man like me? How can anyone? I'm a rapist and a killer. I murdered young girls. My own mother hasn't contacted me in over 8 years.
I want forgiveness. I really do. But I don't deserve it. I know I'm going to spend forever in Hell, burning for my sins. I don't want to, but I can't change it. I know that.
You said you could help me. Of all the mail I've gotten over the years, yours is the only one I kept. It's the only one that doesn't tell me I'm evil or describe how I should be executed (I'd tell you how they say, but you're a pastor and I might offend you.) You said you cared about me and could help me. I think I'm beyond help. But I don't want to be.
I want help. If there's any chance for me, I need to know. I know it's been a long time, but if you still want to see me, I would appreciate it. You don't have to. You can tear up my letter and in six months rest easy that I'm dead. Again, I wouldn't blame you.
I unclouded the paper you need to fill out if you want to be on my visiting list. There's no one on it right now. I've never had a visitor. I don't know if they'll even let me see you.
Whatever you decide, I'll understand.
And I am truly, very sorry for what I did.
V.J. Hynes.
The visitation form sat on the desk another week while Alex and Aimee argued about what to do. Alex knew when he read the letter that he needed to go. He didn't want to, but he had to. Aimee didn't understand. As far as she was concerned, Hynes could just go to hell and never hurt anybody again. It was during those arguments that they both realized that they had been living a lie for ten years. They had plastered smiles on their faces like the man in those commercials for "natural male enhancement" but underneath, they were both festering cesspools of bitterness. How could Alex get up and preach every Sunday if he was still holding onto unforgiveness?
"Jesus said that if we don't forgive," he had told Aimee, "then He won't forgive us of our sins. Well, I haven't forgiven Hynes, and that scares me!"
"I haven't either," she'd replied. "Does that mean I'm living in sin too?"
He didn't answer her question. No matter what he said, it would have sounded like an accusation. "Look, we need to forgive him. That's why I need to see him. Plus, God does still love him. He wants to forgive him too."
Aimee had kept up the argument for another hour after that, but she knew that Alex had made up his mind. He was going, not only to try and save Vincent Hynes, but also to save himself. And she realized that she too had to find a way to forgive the man. She would go with Alex, but not inside the prison. She would stay in the car and pray; for her husband, for Hynes, for all of the other families hurting the same way, and for herself.
After about three months of going back and forth with prison officials, Alex was finally added to Hynes' visiting list. It helped that he was a pastor and had been involved in local politics, but Alex mostly thought that it was the hand of the Lord which actually pushed him through. They had intended to keep the meeting a secret, not even telling Charlie and Chrissy, both grown and away at college, but somehow the media got wind of it and Alex woke up one morning to find an old file photo of himself on the front page of the local paper with the headline: KILLER SEEKS REDEMPTION FROM PREACHER WHOSE DAUGHTER HE KILLED.
Things went crazy from there. Alex actually had to turn away reporters from CNN looking for an interview. He spent the next two months dodging the media and had uttered, "No comment," or some variation of it more times than he could count. There were angry phone calls from other victims' families and even half of his church urged him not to go. But he ignored it all. God have given him a charge and he would go, no matter what anyone, including himself, thought.
Even now there were reporters camped outside the prison awaiting his arrival. He planned on hurrying past them and through the front door without so much as a glance in their direction. He wasn't visiting Hynes for publicity or to make a point to anyone.
While he was thinking this, his watche beeped twice. He didn't have to look at it to know what time it was. It was one o'clock The visit was scheduled for 1:30 and he had been told to arrive half an hour early so as to be ready in case of any complications and to be briefed by prison officials and Chaplain Joseph O'Brien, with whom he'd become fairly well acquainted through phone calls, e-mails, and written correspondence over the last six months. He had visited people in prison before, but never one as "dangerous", and never one a week away from his scheduled death.
He looked at his watch anyway. 1:00 in a black digital display against a green background, the seconds ticking soundlessly away (5, 6, 7, 8) and he knew that he had to get moving.
He saw his car keys still in the ignition, dangling there, tempting him just to start the car and drive away. It would be easy, much easier than getting out of the car and walking that long sidewalk lined with a gauntlet of reporters from every major news market waiting for a sound bite, and then stepping into the prison and actually sitting down with Vincent J. Hynes. Yes, leaving would be so easy, and there wasn't a soul on earth who would blame him. Hynes had said he would understand, and he probably would. His own mother had deemed him unworthy of forgiveness; couldn't the father of his victim get away with doing the same?
In the world's eyes, yes. But it wasn't the world Alex was doing this for. It seemed the only person in the world who understood why Alex Woods had to go into that visitation room was Alex Woods, and even he had a lot of doubts.
The clock read 1:01.
With a sigh and a deep breath to calm his nerves (which helped until he had to take another one), he closed his wallet, put it on the dashboard, since he couldn't take it into the prison, grabbed his Bible, and reached for the door handle.
"I guess it's time," he told his wife."
"I guess so."
"Will you be okay out here?"
"I'll be waiting for you," she replied. Her response gave nothing away. Had he not been pressed for time, he would have talked further to her. They had ridden the hour and a half to the prison in relative silence and had spent the last fifteen minutes parked outside of it in much the same way. Instead, he opened the door.
"I love you, Aimee," he said. He leaned in and kissed her cheek. It was only after Alex had closed the car door and was a good ten feet away before she mumbled quietly that she loved him too.
To Be Continued...

author's note

During one of Wanderer and my's back and forths, this one on another blog, about forgiveness, I said that I should probably write a story dealing with the subject. Forgiveness is one of the basic tenants of the Christian faith, and it is also one of the hardest to both understand and practice. I wanted to explain this in story form, which is easier than argument form, though not by much. In my brainstorming to figure out exactly how to do this, it occurred to me that I already had a story about forgiveness sitting abandoned and half finished in a composition book. Instead of trying to write a new story, I would simply pull out the old one, revise it, finish it, and type it up so I could post it here on Dawn. Well, I've revised it and typed it, but haven't quite finished it yet. Although, I do have thirty five pages done, so it will be weeks before I get stuck like I did with "Johnny". (Log on May 20th for my excuses as to why this one isn't done yet!)
This was/is a hard story to write, and I expect it will also be a hard one to read. Wanting to tackle forgiveness head on, I picked a sin that most people, even those within the Church who agree in principle with Christ's teachings on forgiveness (Matthew 18:21-35, Matthew 6:14,15, Luke 6:37, 38, Luke 15, Luke 17:3,4, John 6:37, among others), would find simply unforgivable. How could a loving God forgive one such as Vincent J. Hynes? Isn't there an exception to even this rule? If there was, a man such as Hynes would be it. But God makes it clear that He accepts and forgives ANYONE who truly repents, and that He wants us to do the same, NO MATTER WHAT! Sorry if that bothers you, but it's Scripture, not just the ramblings of Arthur B Roberts.
In the coming weeks the meeting between Alex Woods and Vincent J. Hynes will be played out here on this blog and hopefully everyone reading this (hi, Steve!) will learn something new, if not the hows and whys and whos of forgiveness, at least the Biblical principles of it. I know that writing this story is teaching me new things.
Does this story fit my self ascribed genres? It's not Science Fiction or Fantasy, and though there are some elements of Horror in it, it doesn't really qualify there either. But even the great Stephen King (whom I have mentioned on my site more than once) write outside of the genres that everyone tries to pin him in. Anyone who has read "The Body" or "Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption" or the book Dolores Claiborne knows that stories sometimes defy genre. I am certainly not comparing myself to Stephen King, though if I did it would be similar to comparing an etch-a-sketch drawing to the works of Da Vinci. But, there is no other writer who has taught me more about the craft than King, and I hope that I can move as flawlessly from genre to genre as he does someday. Until then, please enjoy my ramblings, and leave comments letting me know what you think. I think that this story should spark some discussion, and I would like that discussion to be more than me and Wanderer.
God Bless, ABR
And, a side note to those of you faithful readers who are always looking for reasons to pray: Please pray for my friend Martha, who recently discovered that she has M.S. Please keep her in your thoughts, and even more so in your prayers. Thanks.

commentary?

Just a little note to everyone. I know that there are regular readers of this blog. I know this because Wanderer cannot have possibly been here 745 times. Well maybe, but he does have a life. But it seems that Wanderer is the only one who leaves comments (Besides the spammers). Either nobody cares about what I have to say here, or I write so well that you are all so awestruck by my talent, wit, and personal charm that you have nothing to say. Okay, it's probably somewhere in between. But I must note that some of the most interesting things said on this blog are said on the comment pages. Wanderer and I have been arguing on one of these for the last week. Not really an argument, but the things we have written there are actually longer than most of the posts on his blog and the last one on mine. I encourage all of you regular readers to check out the comment pages and join in. It's fun! While I honestly would like some support on the "Christian" side of the "argument", I also wouldn't mind a few dissenting remarks.
Commenting on blogs is the best part of visiting them. Plus, when I write a story, I'd like some input on it. Was it good? Was it lousy? What should I have said? What shouldn't I have said? Something more than someone who just happens to be my best-friend-in-law telling me they liked it. Not that I doubt his honesty. One look at the comment pages will tell you that he can be brutally honest. But having a good friend say, "hey, that was pretty good," is almost the same as having your mother say she liked it. By the way, my mother happens to be my biggest fan, but that's beside the point.
God Bless, Arthur B Roberts.

PS. If you check out the comments you may notice something mean that I said about Leonardo DiCaprio concerning a certain scene in Titanic involving an Axe. If nothing else, please comment on that.

It's Holy Week, so I'll complain about ALIENS!

Hey, everybody.
I'm sorry it's been a while since I have posted anything on the blog. I'd like to say I have been busy, but that's not true. I have been lazy. But I'm back. Hopefully I'll be a little more faithful from now on, but I know that if I were to promise to write more regularly, I would find excuses not to, so I guess I'll just start writing and see what happens. I have a story in mind that I plan on starting as soon as I am done with this thing, and (no promises) I'll try to get the first part of it up this weekend.
Anyway, now to the thing that inspired me to finally get back behind the keyboard:
This weekend I caught a showing of the movie Aliens, the second in the Alien series. Although the movie doesn't provide much in the way of spiritual edification (unless you’re one of those guys who likes to tear apart every frame looking for the tiniest hidden message that was hidden so well even the writers didn't know about it), but I recommend it as a good movie. The special effects are amazing for the late 80's, the acting and the writing are excellent and it is a thoroughly enjoyable picture. That is, unless you've seen Alien 3. Let me explain. I like that movie too, but there was something about it that had bothered me ever since I first saw it. If you've seen Aliens, you know that a major part of the story is Ripley's relationship with the little girl named Newt. The writers do a great job making you like Newt's character. She is tough, but cute, able to survive alone on the planet for weeks with the aliens, but still vulnerable and even though she likes to act like she can handle anything, she is still a very scared little girl. I read a MAD MAGAZINE spoof on Jurassic Park 2 once that explained why Dr. Malcom's daughter showed up on the island. It was said that audiences like to see children in danger. That's true, as long as they survive in the end, which, of course, Newt does. In the end, Ripley is faced with a choice: get off the planet safely, which she could easily do, or go and rescue Newt, who has been captured by the aliens. She goes to save Newt in one of those countdown moments where the audience is one the edge of their seats knowing that they all get away, but still unsure how. But the writer's aren't completely heartless. They have Ripley save the child, herself, the only other character you really like, and even the android who is in pieces and barely operating, but manages to reach out and save Newt from being sucked into space. In the end, they all go into their stasis chambers to sleep until they get home to safety. A very nice and satisfying ending.
Then comes Alien 3 and in the first few minutes, a stowaway alien kills Newt! Remember how I said that the writer's weren't completely heartless? Well, it seems they were! They spend two hours making you fall in love with this helpless little character, and they make you hold your breath for the last half hour of the movie waiting to see if she survives, and then they make you sigh a huge sigh of relief when she does, only to kill her off in the first scene of the sequel! What is the point? I know there were certain plot points in part three that wouldn't have worked with a child running around the prison, and of course the actress would have been years older, but Newt's death seemed like a big let down. Why, you find yourself asking, would Ripley risk her own life and the lives of the others on the ship to save this little girl if she's just going to die anyway?
This reminds me of another movie series that did practically the same thing. This one has bothered me ever since I was a little boy. Anyone old enough to remember the Ewok movies that followed Return of the Jedi knows what I am talking about. It's been a while since I have seen these and the only character whose name I can remember is Wicket, but I'll tell you the jist of it. In the first movie, The Ewok Adventure, there are two human children whose family's star cruiser crashes on Endor and while the kids are taken in by the kind and gentle Ewoks (those teddy bear things from Jedi who help Han Solo and the others blow up the shield generator), the parents are taken by a gigantic monster who wants to eat them. So the Ewoks and the children spend the entire movie on a quest to save the parents, which they do in the end and everyone is happy. Until, of course, the second movie called The Battle for Endor or something like that. In the first scene of this movie, both of the parents and the older child are killed in a battle. I remember watching this movie as a child and getting very upset that the parents died. It made the whole first movie seem pointless.
Another example of pointless rescue is Titanic where Rose goes back down into the ship to save Jack and the two of them end up going down with the ship. Yeah, you can see how Jack saved Rose and saw her through the crisis, even finding something for her to float on while he freezes to death in the water, but if Rose hadn't gone back down in the ship, Jack would have died anyway (probably a much easier death too) and she would have been safe on a life boat. And don't tell me she would have ended up marrying that horrible other guy because she had learned so much from Jack during their two day relationship that she wouldn't have succumbed to the marriage. But, because I happen to despise Leonardo DiCaprio (okay, I know that's not Christian, and it's not the person I hate, but the concept behind the person. He's the Backstreet Boys of movie stars) I won't complain about this one.
My point is, why do writers do that? Why do they spend so much time in one movie making you care about a character and then kill them off in the first few minutes of the sequel, or even in the end of the movie itself? What if there was a sequel to Man on Fire where Pita gets hit by a bus in the first scene? It's like all of the hero's actions were for naught! It nullifies everything that the first movie accomplished! As a writer, I can't conceive of doing something like that unless I wanted to really tick off my readers.
But I have another point. For those of you who have sat and read this rant of mine waiting for whatever it is you know I'll eventually get to, here it is, and I'm going to warn you know, I know it's kind of tacky, predictable, and almost clichéd, but it was something that occurred to me while watching Aliens and I needed to write something to get back into the swing of things and to make sure that I could still produce a coherent thought after nearly six weeks of nothing.
What occurred to me was this: As Christians, we believe that Jesus came down to earth to die for our sins and to give us salvation. In essence, He came to rescue us. He not only risked His life, He gave it up for us. Yet, by our own actions, we nullify His heroic rescue. By recognizing what Jesus did for us and still going our own way, it's not much different then the pointless killing of Newt or the Parents in the Ewok movies. The real difference is that while those are just movies and those characters don't really matter in the long run, our lives, nay our souls, are infinitely more important.
This week, around the world, there are presentations of the Passion Play, which is the dramatic portrayal of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, mostly focusing on the death. I remember as a child growing up in Rochester, NY that it was a yearly tradition for our family to walk the Via Dolorosa, which a local church put on every year on the city streets. All I remember from that was watching a man dressed as Jesus walking down the street with a fake looking cross on his back while two other men dressed as Roman soldiers periodically hit the cross with short ropes that were meant to be whips. There were other people in costumes crying and hundreds of people turned up every year to watch. But, since I was so young and had yet to fully realize the significance of Christ's sacrifice, my main memories are walking around with my friends and looking for "treasures" on the street.
But later, especially after participating in a local production of a Passion Play for four years, it became more real, more personal, and more important. I realized that I couldn't just go on living in sin when that kind of sacrifice had been made for me. Of course that didn't stop me from sinning altogether, but whenever I begin to slip into my old life, I remember the image of Christ on the cross, His sacrifice, and His passion for my soul and I remind myself that if I continue in sin, I nullify that sacrifice. Although I know that nothing I can do can truly nullify it, in my life, it's like He never came to save me in the first place. I might as well have stayed in my sin. In my wallet I carry a thorn I found that is about two inches long. I imagine that this thorn is about the size of the thorns pressed into Jesus’ skull in the crown He was so cruelly forced to wear. The thorn is a reminder to me, as is the Crucifix I wear. I don't want to forget the price He paid to save me, because when I consider that, my sin becomes even less appealing to me. He died to save me, so I should live in such a way as to honor that sacrifice.
This week there will be many chances for you to witness the Crucifixion in one way or another. Whether you watch one of the many movies made about it (King of Kings, The Passion of the Christ, or even Jesus Christ Superstar) or go to see a dramatic presentation on stage (check and see if there's a Passion Play in your area. I recommend He’s Alive! the one that's currently going on in the Four Corners, Denver, and Las Vegas, among other places) please look at it as a hero sacrificing it all to rescue you. (Michael Tait's rock opera was aptly named Hero. Check that one out too) Then think about your own life. Are you living in such a way as to honor that sacrifice? Are you honoring His precious gift, or living as if it never happened?
That's all I wanted to say about this. I'll try to get a story up this weekend (next weekend by the latest. I promise!!!) Happy Easter. (yeah, Wanderer I know, but since this week is Passover, it is also the anniversary of Christ's death and resurrection, so it can be both!) But now, it's time to make the donuts.
Arthur B Roberts