Free You and I, Me and You by MaryJanice Davidson Page A

Minneapolis’s sewer system.’”
    Jesus beamed. “Yes, I did tell you that. And much more. No one wants a Pepsi?”
    â€œRemind me to steal her notebook,” George muttered in my ear. “I’ve gotta catch up on her reading.”
    Jesus’s apartment, a studio on Hennepin Avenue (walking distance to BOFFO’s building, in fact), was a case of what you see is what you get. We could see nearly every inch of living space, so the three of us were confident we could arrest and detain Jesus without much trouble.
    â€œYes, well, the thing is, Jesus, they’re alive. Your apostles, uh…” Flip, flip through the notebook. “Floyd and Dabney. They’re totally fine. I got done interviewing them and confirming their identities a couple of hours ago.”
    â€œExactly!” Jesus was beaming, and—I’m sure it was a coincidence—at that moment a slash of sunlight fell into the apartment from the living room windows, right across his head, lighting up his dark-blond hair and making his eyes gleam. “I brought them back to life! Did I not say unto thee, Agent Thyme, ‘Floyd and Dabney are not dead. Their sickness will not end in death, for I am the resurrection and the life, so don’t worry about a thing’?”
    â€œAnyway, they’re alive, and this isn’t the first time you’ve accused your ex of murders that never happened. Once under oath last month, during your divorce trial.”
    â€œThey did happen. That skanky Jezebel is killing every bud of mine she can find. ‘The Son quickeneth whom He will.’ So you folks investigating murder can take a few years off. I’ve got this. I’ll just keep bringing ’em back to life.”
    â€œAnd as we discussed earlier—” Emma Jan continued with admirable doggedness.
    â€œOh, now it comes!” Jesus said gleefully.
    â€œâ€”you called the FBI and knowingly made false statements—”
    Either that or he’s a loon. Still, Jesus seemed like a nice guy, kind but not arrogant, firm in his convictions but not mega-pissy, secure in his divinity but not judgmental. Kind of how I’d want Jesus to be, come to think of it. And his apartment was beautiful, all gleaming wood floors and big windows and ferns and futons.
    â€œâ€”which is a crime and punishable by fine and/or imprisonment.” She took a breath. “Which, again, is why we’re here.”
    â€œWorry not, Agent Thyme. I shall ask my father to forgive you, for you know not what you do.”
    â€œI do know, actually.” Emma Jan was a tower of patience; it was pretty inspiring. Meanwhile, George was watching the scene like it was a play staged for his benefit, and I was starting to feel a little guilty about throwing Jesus in the clink. “And now we’ve got to place you under arrest.”
    â€œHa! ‘I never knew you. Depart from me, you workers of lawlessness.’ And don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”
    â€œNow, Jesus, I know you don’t mean that,” she chided.
    â€œIt’s true,” Jesus admitted. “And even if it wasn’t, it was disrespectful and I’m sorry. ‘He that is without sin among you,’ and all that. I want to go. I have things to tell people. All people. I can’t do it from in here.” He looked around his small, neat studio apartment, full of sunshine and cuddly quilts and issues of InStyle and Food Network Magazine. The place smelled like toast. “It’s getting harder to leave.”
    â€œI’ll help you. And I’ve found some special people for you to talk to,” she continued gently. “I think they can help you with your work.”
    â€œWell then! ‘Straighten up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near,’ Agent Thyme. I knew you’d want to hear the good news straight from me.” He glanced at George and me.