"Destroyer 001 - Created, the Destroyer.pdb" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williams Remo)

He spun around in his chair to look at the air conditioner pumping cool, fresh, clean air into his office.

CHAPTER THREE
Remo Williams lay on his back, his eyes shut, his fingers drumming silently on his stomach. What was death anyway? Like sleep? He liked to sleep. Most people liked to sleep. Why fear death?
If he opened his eyes, he would see the cell. But in his personal darkness, he was free for a moment, free from the jail and the men who would kill him, free from the gray bars and the harsh overhead light. Darkness was peaceful.
He heard the soft rhythm of feet padding along the corridor, louder, louder, louder. Then they stopped. Voices mumbled, clothes rustled, keys tingled and then with a clack, the cell door opened. Remo blinked in the yellow light. A brown-robed monk clutching a black cross with a silver Christ stood inside the cell door waiting. The dark cowl shaded the monk's eyes. He held the crucifix in his right hand, the left apparently tucked beneath the folds of his robe.
The guard, stepping back from the cell door, said to Remo: "The priest."
Remo sat up on the cot, bringing his legs in front of him. His back was to the wall. The monk stood motionless.
"You've got five minutes, Father," the guard said. The key clicked again in the lock.
The monk nodded. Remo motioned to the empty space beside him on the cot.
"Thank you," the monk said. Holding the crucifix like a test tube he was afraid to spill, he sat down. His face was hard and lined. His blue eyes seemed to be judging Remo for a punch instead of salvation. Droplets of perspiration on bis upper lip caught the light from the bulb.
"Do you want to be saved, my son?" he asked. It was rather loud for such a personal question.
"Sure," Remo said. "Who doesn't?"
"Good. Do you know how to examine your conscience, make an act of contrition?"
"Vaguely, Father. I..."
"I know, my son. God will help you."
"Yeah," Remo said without enthusiasm. If he got this over fast, maybe there'd be time for another cigarette.
"What are your sins?"
"I really don't know."
"We can start with violation of the Lord's commandment not to kill.".
"I've not killed."
"How many men?"
"Including Vietnam?"
"No, Vietnam doesn't count."
"That wasn't killing, huh?"
"In war, killing is not a mortal sin."
"How about peace, when the State says you did, but you didn't? How about that?"
"Are you talking about your conviction?"
"Yes." Remo stared at his knees. This might go on all night.
"Well, in that case..."
"All right, Father. I confess it. I killed the man," Remo lied. His trousers, fresh gray twill, hadn't even had a chance to get worn at the knees.
Remo noticed that the monk's cowl was perfectly clean, spotlessly new too. Was that a smile on his face?
"Coveted anyone's property?"
"No."
"Stolen?"
"No."
"Impure actions?"
"Sex?"
"Yes."
"Sure. In thought and deed."
"How many times?"
Remo almost attempted an estimate. "I don't know. Enough."
The monk nodded. "Blasphemy, anger, pride, jealousy, gluttony?"
"No," Remo said, rather loudly.
The monk leaned forward. Remo could see tobacco stains on his teeth. The light subtle smell of expensive aftershave lotion wafted into his nostrils. The monk whispered: "You're a goddam liar."
Remo jumped back. His legs hit the floor. His hands moved up almost as if to ward off a blow. The priest remained leaning forward, motionless. And he was grinning. The priest was grinning. The guards couldn't see it because of the cowl, but Remo could. The state was playing its final joke on him: a tobacco-stained, grinning, swearing monk.
"Shhh," said the brown-robed man.
"You're no priest," Remo said.
"And you're not Dick Tracy. Keep your voice down. You want to save your soul or your ass?"
Remo stared at the crucifix, the silver Christ on the black cross and the black button at the feet.