Read Online Sweet Nothing by RICHARD LANGE - Free Book Online Page A

a man who’s killed eight men—outside of war, of course, where he’d likely be decorated for such slaughter—if a man who’s killed eight men deserves death for his crimes, a man who’s killed eight children surely deserves death twice over, or thrice, or eight times. Perhaps, in the glorious future we’re hurtling toward, some genius will discover a way to return the dead to life again and again, and we’ll have true justice at last, as we march our villains to the blade and drop their heads into the basket as many times as is necessary to square their accounts.
    I’m not the man for such math, though. I leave that bleak reckoning to the judges and priests, as I lack the certainty required for it. I’ve known the dark wind that scatters consoling scripture and common wisdom like so many dead leaves, revealing the barren ground beneath. I’ve wandered lost through a wilderness unbounded, where no law tempered rage and no morality constrained lust. It was violent and carnal and instantly familiar: my true heart, the true heart of man, and turning from it every time to return home was like tearing myself away from a looking glass.
    So, no, I’m not the one to set the sentences. I’ve seen through the eyes of a snake. I’ve seen through the eyes of a wolf. I’m too close to beastliness myself to pass judgment. Let me watch over your monsters instead, feeding them, changing the straw in their cells, until the hour comes for them to pay the price that the learned lay upon them.
      
    AT THE END of the first day of trial, the soldiers assigned to transport the prisoner to and from court returned him to his cell. He was bleeding from a cut on his forehead.
    “Did they beat you?” I said.
    “No,” he said. “It was a stone thrown from the crowd.”
    Hearing footsteps on the stairs, I quickly moved the lamp away from the door and closed the feeding slot. The commander appeared out of the shadows. I was expecting Pascal, the guard who watched over the prisoner at night.
    “Pascal is refusing his watch,” the commander said. “The details that came out at the trial have apparently enraged him. I need you to stay on until midnight, when I’ll relieve you myself.”
    “Fine, sir,” I said. “If someone would only go around and let my wife know.”
    “I’ll send a man right away, and also arrange for your dinner,” the commander said.
    “Thank you, sir,” I said.
    “We’ll be rid of this vermin soon enough,” the commander said. “Another week or two.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    A few hours later I heard someone else descending. This time it was Pascal, along with two other guards from another section of the prison. They carried clubs and breathed cheap brandy.
    “Step aside,” Pascal said. “We mean to take the bastard.”
    “By whose order?” I said.
    “By order of the citizens of Bordeaux,” Pascal said. “There are hundreds of them at the gates, demanding satisfaction.”
    “Satisfaction isn’t justice,” I said.
    “Unlock the door,” Pascal said.
    “I won’t,” I said. “And neither will you.”
    One of the other guards, a sadistic oaf called Dédé, sprang forward and brought his club down on my shoulder with all the strength of his drunken righteousness. The blow shook me to my toes and drove tears into my eyes, but I stood my ground. Dédé raised his club to strike me again and would have cracked my skull if Pascal hadn’t stopped him, saying, “Enough, man. He’s one of us, after all.”
    “No, he isn’t,” Dédé said. “He’s a damned coward.”
    The oaf backed away but looked as if he was waiting for any excuse to continue the beating.
    “This scum doesn’t deserve your mercy,” Pascal said to me.
    “I’m a guard, and he’s my prisoner,” I said. “It’s simply my duty to see that he comes to no harm.”
    Pascal blinked twice and squinted at me, then turned for the stairs. “Let’s go,” he called to the others. They followed reluctantly, Dédé muttering over