Epilogue

A harsh, terrible, long, long, brass-blasting, trumpeting sound startled Screwtape. A thousand Siberian winters chased through his hot, pumping arteries. He froze. All hot, fluid activity within his steaming body ceased. An Arctic chill penetrated to the marrow. He was transfixed with horror.
   The sound was unmistakable. He had never heard it, but he had been prepared for it through all the ages. He knew one day it would come, and that he could not fail to recognize it when it came. It was a clarion call to arms -- a challenge to the death. The ultimate struggle for survival against the Great Enemy.
   Desolated, Screwtape fixed upon the telephone for his salvation. An electronic blip on his computer modem might still come to his rescue.
   “Chief,” he croaked. “Where are you?”
   There was no answer. Screwtape's final battle had begun.

Chapter 118: End game

Screwtape slumped down in his big, plush leather chair. His shoulders drooped. He was weary of it all; the long arduous hours of toil, and the insignificant results. He was expected to build a mountain, one spoonful of dirt at a time. But the spoon was so heavy, that simply to raise it was a great victory. To actually fill it with dirt, a triumph. To carry it to the work site, a miracle. Dump. There's one spoonful of dirt on a broad, flat plain that stretches to infinity. And that one spoonful of dirt, so laboriously won, blows away to nothing in the dry desert air.
   Screwtape was bone-tired, bone-discouraged. He was faced with an impossible task, and the hardest part of all was the make-believe -- the self deception. He had to make himself believe the war was winnable. If the leader acknowledged defeat, how could he inspire his troops? The poor idiots. Boasting and bragging about their prodigious spoonfuls of dirt. And he had to pat them on the back, say, "good fellow," "well done;" "keep up the good work."
   It was disgusting.
   Screwtape found the secret compartment in his desk and opened it. He took out a voice recorder, mashed the button, and began to dictate.
   "It's hopeless. Why do I keep up this charade? Why not just pack it in -- surrender? -- Because I can't.
   “Because I’m afraid.
   “Because the struggle has its own momentum. It has to continue, go on until the end. The end. Any time now.
   "Hopelessly outmatched. Like a bunch of high school kids against the Super Bowl champions. It's fourth down and ninety-nine yards to go, with two seconds left on the clock. And the score? Hah! Don't even look. A hundred to nothing. A million to nothing. What does it matter?
   "But dammit, the struggle matters. It's a pride thing now. Don't let the Bully know he's got you down. Go down swinging. Make him earn every inch."
   It was too corny. Screwtape erased the message. He threw the recorder back in the drawer and snapped it shut. He got up and went over to the expansive window. Sunlight glinted on the waves rolling in steadily, steadily for thousands of miles. On the beach, some youngsters were playing volleyball.

Chapter 117: Revival

The national media picked up the story. All across the country, total strangers started hugging each other and offering forgiveness.

   TV networks were after Jerry to start a religious broadcast. He refused. "How can you hug a TV camera?" Jerry asked. "This is for people, one on one."

   In the streets, mugging victims forgave their attackers. Gangs of young blacks roamed the streets forgiving every white person. The most bitter political opponents forgave each other. Across the world, Christians, Jews, Muslims, Hindus and Buddhists hugged each other and shared God's forgiveness."

   Abortions ceased. The crime rate dropped to zero. War a distant memory.

Chapter 116: Spreading the message

Screwtape’s hotline phone rang.

   “WHAT IN MY NAME IS GOING ON?” The searing, rasping voice of the Chief clawed its way into Screwtape’s ears, shredding his viscera. “Under your very nose! Reports of my children MY CHILDREN! turning away from me! Turning away to the Enemy! Stop this calamity, or I will devour you!”

   Shaking, Screwtape put down the phone. It was true. Hardened criminals -- child murderers, rapists, drug dealers, blackmailers; all kinds of degenerates, were falling on their knees, weeping. A plague was sweeping maximum security installations, led by the prison ministry of Jerry Langston -- once the underworld’s greatest hope for ultimate victory. Jerry preached a message of forgiveness, and the message was running wild.

   "You all think you're miserable wretches, beyond the reach of God's forgiveness," Jerry repeated in sermon after sermon. "Well, you're wrong. I am the worst among you -- the worst -- a child killer. -- And yet, I found forgiveness. It is yours, too." Jerry was a spellbinding orator. But more than that. His simple, open style was the opposite of the slick productions of TV evangelists. He was frank and honest. Every service concluded with the hymn, "Amazing Grace." There was never a dry eye in his congregations of the toughest, most calloused characters.

----

   Jerry received early parole for his work in prisons. The culture of crime within prisons -- the hierarchy of cons, sexual abuse, drug running and phone scams had been miraculously wiped out. Wardens had become more like dorm mothers, since harsh discipline was no longer necessary.

   He went straight home. Mary, Joe and Alice met him at the door. Words were not needed. After a week, he told his mother, “I’ve got to go. I’ve got things to do.” Mary nodded.

----

   The receptionist at the abortion clinic looked at Jerry warily. “I forgive you,” he said. “May I see the doctor?”

   “The doctor is busy.”

   “I’ll wait.”

   Jerry sat patiently and waited for an hour. Then another hour. Then another hour. The receptionist eyed him suspiciously. Finally, she called the police. “There’s a person here I’m concerned about,” she said.

   An officer appeared and walked up to Jerry. “May I see your identification, sir?” he asked.

   “I forgive you,” Jerry said as he gave the officer his ID and a friendly, open smile.

   “Thank you,” the officer said. He checked his smart phone for any warrants. “How long have you been out of prison?” he asked Jerry.

   “One week.”

   “Come with me, please.”

   At the police station, Jerry forgave everyone he saw. Finally, the officer let him go, saying, “You know, with your record, you really shouldn’t be going to abortion clinics.”

   “I forgive you,” Jerry said with a grin.

   Over the next several weeks Jerry personally offered forgiveness to every abortion doctor and their staffs in the state, as well as everyone he met on the street.

   The strange sight of a young man walking down the street shaking the hand, hugging and forgiving every person he met soon attracted the attention of a local news reporter.

   "Hi there. What are you doing?" The reporter asked.

   "Just offering forgiveness," Jerry said.

   "Isn't that God's business?"

   "We're here to do God's business," Jerry answered. "People are hungry -- hungry for love. Hungry for a hug. Hungry for forgiveness. I'm just trying to lighten their load a little bit."

Chapter 115: Turning point

“I want to see my mother,” Jerry told the guard.

   She appeared on visiting day.

   “Please forgive me!” they both cried in unison. For the first time in years, Jerry hugged his mother.

Chapter 114: A visit

Jerry was dying. Slowly. Drip. Drip. Drip. Every minute an eternity. A crucifixion. Restful sleep seemed an impossible dream. While time dragged, his mind raced. His thoughts would not give him a minute's peace. The image of Joey's face haunted him waking and fitfully sleeping. He longed for peace from his diseased thoughts. [Why can't they just let me die? I deserve to die. Maybe they think death would be too merciful. They prefer to torture me.]

   "You've got a visitor," the guard said.

   "Again? Tell her to go away. I don't want to see her."

   "It's not your mother."

   "Then who?" Jerry asked.

   "Just come and see her. Warden wants you to."

   "The warden? What does he care who sees me?"

   "Just come."

   Jerry was led to the visitation room. He sat. He waited. At last the door opened and an attractive young woman walked in. Something about her seemed familiar.

   "I'm Caroline Stuyvesant," she said.

   Jerry racked his brain. The name came from a long forgotten, deep well of confused memories. "Stuyvesant,..." he repeated, hesitantly.

   "My husband is Carl Stuyvesant."

   The name hit him like a nuclear explosion. Dr. Carl Stuyvesant. His target. Jerry's soul was obliterated. He hung his head. He could not look at her.

   "I forgive you,” she said simply.

   Jerry couldn’t understand the words. He looked at her with a blank expression.

   “I forgive you,” she repeated.

   “But...how…?” Jerry stammered.

   “How can I forgive you?”

   “I...I murdered your baby.”

   “Because I received forgiveness, too.”

   “You?”

   “I prayed as I have never prayed before, for God to forgive me for aiding and abetting the slaughter of innocent lives. Then one day, my husband came to me. He said he couldn’t do it any longer. He gave up his practice of killing and went back to healing. We are free -- freed from our guilt. That’s when I knew I had to come to you. You must forgive yourself, because the Lord Jesus Christ has already forgiven you.”

   Jerry’s stomach shook and quivered. Sheets of tears ran down his face.

Chapter 113: Crime and punishment

Jerry’s victim, Caroline Stuyvesant, was hospitalized with her injuries for several months. The media had gone on to other news. Jerry’s case was again assigned to the public defender. He was to be charged with assault with a deadly weapon and attempted murder. Murder was off the table, because state law did not recognize a fetus as a person.

   “I want to be charged with murder,” Jerry told his attorney.

   “Out of the question,” was the answer. “State law won’t allow it, and anyway, I’m appointed to defend you, not prosecute.”

   Jerry was alone with his thoughts. Pure torture. [Too cruel. Let me die. If I could only die.]

   His thoughts were interrupted. “Someone to see you,” a jailer said.

   “Who is it?”

   “Your mother.”

   “Please forgive me, Jerry,” Mary said through the partition.

   “I should be dead. Not him,” Jerry said.

   “You have to forgive yourself,” Mary said.

   “How can I do that?”

----

   Jerry’s trial returned media attention to the case. It had all the sensational aspects necessary for ratings: Conjoined twin survives bomb blast that killed his brother, goes on to shoot abortion doctor’s wife. Jerry pled guilty. He requested the death penalty. He refused to allow his defender to enter a plea of insanity. He was sentenced to life with possibility of parole.