The old man continued walking, weighing his response. “I’m going to give you an answer, but you won’t like it. Evil serves a purpose. It makes the choice of good possible. Without evil, there could be no transformation — transformation being the desire to change one’s nature from the selfish to the selfless.”
“What kind of esoteric bullshit is that? God, I actually thought you were tuned in. Is that what you’d tell a grieving mother whose kid was gunned down in the street?”
“No. It’s the response I’m offering the soldier who pulled the trigger.”
The road spun out from under him, a sudden vertigo that forced Patrick to his knees on the concrete ramp. His chest constricted. He fought to breathe. “Who… told… you? DeBorn?”
“Does it really matter?”
“The father was angry… he was running at me. The Farsi, I couldn’t remember what to say, I was trained to react. I didn’t want to kill him! I didn’t have a choice.”
“Do you honestly believe that?”
Shep shook his head. “I should have ended it right then… my life for the boy’s father. Instead… oh, God!” The dam burst, raking his body in convulsions, his anguish flowing into a night already heavy in despair.
“Suicide is not transformation, Patrick. It’s blasphemy.” Virgil sat down next to Shep and placed an arm around his shoulder. “The incident, it happened how long ago?”
“Eight years, three months.”
“And you anguish over these deaths to this day?”
“Yes.”
“Then there is some justice. What is lacking is transformation.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You asked me about evil, why God allows it to exist. The more important question is why does any of this exist? What is man’s true purpose? What if I told you that everything that surrounds us — this ramp, this city, the planet — everything you refer to as the physical universe represents a mere one percent of existence, created for one purpose… as a challenge.”
“A challenge for who? Man?”
“Man is just a vessel, designed to be fallible.” Virgil winced. “My back is stiffening, help me up.”
Shep slid his right arm around the older man’s thick waist, assisting him to his feet. With a grunt, the old man continued walking up the long, winding highway off-ramp.
“Every being possesses a soul, Patrick, and every soul is a spark of the Creator’s Light. God’s Light is pure, intended for only one purpose — to give. The soul is pure, intended for only one purpose — to receive the Light’s endless fulfillment. To receive the Light requires desire. To be more like the Creator, the soul desired to earn its endless fulfillment. That required a challenge. And here we are.”
“That’s your answer? Here we are?”
“There’s more to it than that, and I’ll tell you more when I think you are ready. For now, understand that man’s ego taints the soul’s desire to receive. Ego is the absence of Light. It leads to reactive behavior — violence, lust, greed, jealousy. The story you told me about the soldiers molesting that girl… it’s an example of what happens when the Light of God is cut off from the soul, allowing the negative forces to run amok.”
“You should have seen them. The look in their eyes… the anger.”
“Anger is the most dangerous trait of the human ego. It allows one to be taken over by the darker forces. Like lust, anger is an animal response. It can only be corrected through selfless acts that expand one’s vessel to receive more of God’s Light.”
“But people who have sinned… aren’t they forbidden from accessing the Light?”
“Not at all. Transformation is available to everyone, no matter how evil the deed. Unlike man, the Creator feels unconditional love for all His children.”
“Wait. So Hitler can exterminate six million Jews, but as long as he asks for forgiveness, then everything’s cool? Come on.”
“Transformation has nothing to do with asking for forgiveness or saying ten Hail Marys, or fasting. Transformation is an act of selflessness. What you did in Iraq, you’ll be judged for in Gehenom.”
“Gehenom is Hell, right?”
“It can be for some. Just remember, every act of kindness completed before your last breath can help ease the cleansing process after you move on.”
“So how do I transform?”
“For starters, stop being a victim. You weren’t created to be miserable. By wallowing in misery, you’re veiling God’s Light. Surely there must be something you desire?”
“Honestly, the only thing I desire is to see my family again.”
“There’s a reason you’re apart, Patrick. You need to resolve the cause to overcome the effect. Until you can do that…” The wind picked up, bringing with it a driving rain. The old man glanced up at the heavens, then ahead, where the ramp ended at a highway underpass. “There’s shelter up ahead.”
The ramp had brought them to Manhattanville. Ahead lay 158th Street, the deserted road cresting before them, running through a massive arch belonging to a highway overpass. Someone had spray-painted graffiti on its concrete wall, the red letters still dripping:
Welcome to Hell.
Abandon all hope upon entering.
Third Circle
Gluttons
“Huge hailstones, dirty water, and black snow pour from the dismal air to putrefy the putrid slush that waits them below. And they too howl like dogs in the freezing storm, turning and turning from it as if they thought one naked side could keep the other warm."
The rain became a driving sleet. Patrick and Virgil sought shelter beneath the concrete arch — the massive foundation supporting Riverside Drive. Situated within the underpass was a garage, part of a maintenance system run by New York’s Department of Transportation.
Entering the garage revealed a vast cavernous substratum formed by the roadway overhead. Steel girders framed a ceiling five stories high. A gravel access road disappeared into the dark recess before them. The wind howled through the tunnel, causing Shep to shiver uncontrollably, his rain-soaked sweater all but useless against the December cold front.
A small windowed office lay dark and vacant on their left. Virgil tried the door. Finding it unlocked, he entered, returning a moment later carrying a black ski parka. “Put this on.”
“Too small. I c-c-can’t get it over the p-p-prosthetic.”
Virgil stretched the jacket’s left sleeve in front of him. “Use your prosthetic blade. Cut the left sleeve, so your appendage can slip through the hole.”
With one downward swipe, Patrick slashed through the material at the elbow, sending goose down feathers flying.
Virgil held the altered garment for Patrick. Guiding the end of his deformed steel arm into the tailored left sleeve, Shep managed to work the alpine ski jacket over his shoulders, the old man helping him with the zipper. “Better?”
“Much better. Virgil, listen.”
The wind had died down, allowing them to hear a woman’s cry for help, the desperate plea echoing in the darkness.
“Come on!” Shoving the vaccine container inside his ski jacket, Patrick raced into the bowels of the underground structure, Virgil trailing behind.
The tunnel continued for several hundred yards, dead-ending where the ceiling tapered down to meet a concrete retaining wall and a descending stairwell, lit by a fading emergency light. Three rottweilers were bound by their leashes to the step’s iron rail, preventing anyone from using the exit. The animals’ chains had become entangled, pinning the vicious black-and-tan guard dogs side by side. Their lathered fangs remained out of reach of the woman.