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

“Oh, but I’m being rude! Hello. You work with Agent Thyme? I notice you’re not wearing white coats and carrying hypos.” He turned back to her. “I know what ‘special people’ is code for, Agent Thyme. I’m not crazy, but it’s okay if you think I am. ‘The end of all things is at hand; therefore be self-controlled and sober-minded for the sake of your prayers.’”
    â€œâ€˜Above all, keep loving one another earnestly,’” George added, “‘since love covers a multitude of sins.’” He met my gape with a glare. “What? I read.”
    â€œI—I—I—” Shiro’s gonna be so furious to have missed this! “I— George, you—?”
    â€œOh, shut up, Cadence.”
    â€œNow, now,” Jesus scolded. “Love your neighbor as yourself. Right now, young man.”
    â€œYoung man” was interesting; Jesus didn’t look to be even ten years older than we were, maybe mid-thirties? Wasn’t Jesus thirty-three when he died on the cross? Uh-oh.
    Emma Jan had been mentioning the case to us for the last few days; she didn’t know how old he was because he had no birth certificate on file. No nothing on file. Jesus was off the grid.
    He had blond hair but almond-shaped eyes. His skin was a beautiful golden brown, and his hair tried to fluff itself into an Afro though it grew past his collar. He was a glorious mix of races, and obviously pretty intelligent. In the right environment, with the right—or wrong—brain chemistry, I could see how he could come to believe he was Jesus returned. I always figured Jesus would get his own reality show in order to put the good word out to the masses, but this was an interesting way to go, too. False statements on purpose? Deliberately bringing down federal heat? Was he trying for federal lockup without the murder, theft, and/or terrorism that usually led to such accommodations?
    Who are you?
    â€œI am a thief,” he replied, startling me since I was 90 percent sure I hadn’t said that out loud. “I’m a liar. I am … an inveterate troublemaker. I’m all of those and none of those. You know, like Mudd on Star Trek. He never told the truth, so when he said he was lying, the android had a nervous breakdown.”
    â€œI don’t know what inveterate means,” I confessed.
    â€œChronic. Incurable.”
    â€œLike epilepsy?”
    â€œLike diabetes.”
    â€œOh. I didn’t say ‘Who are you’ out loud, right? Right.”
    He smiled at me; I could not recall ever seeing a kinder expression on a human face. “‘A sword shall pierce through thy own soul also, that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed,’ my daughter. And you have many hearts. Don’t you?”
    â€œUm, okay,” I replied. If not for the smile, I would have decided to get extremely terrified. “Thanks, I guess.”
    â€œFear not for me, my child. My father watcheth over me.” He held out his arms (Christ-like! All he needed was a cross.) and slowly turned until his back was to us.
    â€œWhoa.”
    His entire back, from the nape of his neck all the way to the waist of his pants, was covered with a tattoo of a stern-yet-loving God, complete with long white robe, long white hair and beard, and kind yet stern eyes.
    â€œGod!” I exclaimed, as weirded out as I was dazzled. It was a beautiful tattoo. And … were God’s eyes following me? It seemed like they were following me. “That’s … God.”
    â€œYup.”
    â€œHe’s got your back?” George guessed.
    â€œHe’s absolutely got my back.”
    â€œSo what’s it like, being insane?”
    â€œIt’s working for me,” Jesus replied comfortably.
    â€œYou’re one to talk,” I muttered, but George only shrugged, dazzled.
    After that there wasn’t much to do but read Jesus his rights