step in all these many years on this planet?” pressed Jessica, defending with her own verbal joust. “There've been tremendous strides in psychotherapy alone.”
Luc Sante cut himself a thick slice of cheese that had been brought to the table. He chewed and spoke all at once. “Oh, we in the brain factory have indeed progressed, so true, now that we're through bandying about Freudian terms and have at very least begun to convince people to acknowledge the existence of the sun- conscious-sorry, sub-subconscious mind and its power.”
“I agree, but-”
“God smile upon us,” he interrupted her again, “we've even got people taking responsibility for their unconscious minds these days!”
Jessica laughed at his runaway enthusiasm, so rare in the aged, even more rare in the young these days, she thought.
“You laugh, but this taking of responsibility for our dual nature, it may well be the portal to the way of true salvation for this race of ours, Doctor. Listen to Beethoven.” He stopped to let the music waft over them. “There lived a man who instinctively knew. Perhaps due to his own personal dualism, his deafness, and his obsession with harmony, sound, reverberation.”
'Taking responsibility for our dual nature? Really? Through educating the masses about their own unconscious minds, you mean?”
“Think of it, a return to intellectual responsibility-all this time, the seed to our salvation turns out to be our own damned subconscious minds.” He giggled at his own summation of the origin and end of the problems of the world.
“The blossoming interest in the subconscious will lead us back to God? Is that what I'm hearing?” she asked. “Absolutely.”
“Why didn't this revelation play a part in your book?”
“It will, in the sequel, you see. My thinking is ever evolving, never static; besides it's not The God but the godliness within us.”
“You've only recendy come to this conclusion?”
He shrugged. “It has been as elusive as the smallest of butterflies, yet there before my eyes the entire way. Think of it. Dreams are gifts of God, our subconscious is the voice of God working through us. We don't always recognize the voice or understand the symbols, but there you have it.”
“Interesting notion.”
“Nothing new, really. Nothing new under the sun, really. The fact of it will, however, form the core of the sequel to Twisted Faiths.”
Again she smiled at his enthusiasm.
“I already have it titled: God's Signature, the book I'm currently writing. Of course no publisher will touch it, so I will have to self-publish as with the previous title, but my practice allows me to indulge this passion. I wrote Twisted Faiths well before I formulated my conclusion on the true nature of man's subconscious mind. I tell you, man's own inner workings, his mind, if created in the image of God, imagine the complexities handed us, yet the instrument remains directly wired as a telegraph to the Almighty to-”
“Really, Dr. Luc Sante? I've never looked at it quite that way.”
“It's just that some of us-most of us-have cut the wires, and often the optic fibers.”
“So, when can I see your new work?”
“Soon. The wheels are always turning, you see.” He winked and pointed conspiratorially at his forehead.
“Interesting premise.”
He nodded. “Yes, indeed. You see, the interest and acceptance of the source of our darkest selves, our prejudices, hidden hostilities, irrational fears-”
“Perceptual blind spots,” she added, “mental ruts…”
“Mental rats” he exploded, “Scourging and scouring our psyche for morsels of meanness. The Devil at play on the switchboard, all that. Add to the predatory nature of our earliest ancestors, the primitive 'fight or flight' mechanism of the primordial brain which, by the way, still resides within our thick-skulled heads and-”
“And the ever-present resistance to growth.”
“Exacdy!” he shouted, arms waving. “The fear of change and evolution and awareness itself-well, I tell you, it's that first step on the joumey of a thousand miles that Buddha spoke of.”
Jessica considered his words with care and muttered, “The start of an evolutionary leap.”
“English history, nay, world history, provides us with untold examples of hideous behavior and hedonism, murder and cruelty on a grand scale. Perhaps one day mankind will reach a level of mind in which one can perform the business of existence without hatred, fear, prejudice, mayhem, mass murder, but at the moment mankind slaughters mankind on the basis of a religious principle that says, 'You must obey the One God, and that is my God, whatever or whomever that god may be. Oh, and by the way, thou shalt not kill.' Are we getting mixed signals from God, or the lesser gods of our limited minds? And if so, how do we sift out the voice of God from the voice of selfishness and indulgence always at work in the human psyche, and if God created the human psyche, isn't He partially responsible for our nature? Or are we responsible for our nature and the outcomes we create, and does the answer necessarily come from another source, say as from Christ?”
“Christ? I had thought your diatribe would end with the Antichrist. I'll never live to see the day, but in a sense, it's what every caring human being is striving toward, to evolve into a Chrisdike figure.”
“And who do we know who is striving hardest to attain that goal?”
It dawned on her that his entire discussion led her about in a full circle to one rhetorical truth. Her eyes widened and she bit down hard on her lower lip, waiting for his reply, which was slow in coming.
“Isn't that what our killer, the Crucifier, wants?”
Jessica realized that she had been had by the old man, whose exercise in logic and syllogistic wisdom came clear: Socratic method, pretending ignorance on the subject, asking questions of her, so she might arrive at the conclusion on her own, once again the shaman of psychotherapy and religion opened her eyes. After a most pleasant dinner, he insisted she return with him to the church. “Strand is there late tonight with his alcoholism group. We won't be alone altogether, so you needn't worry about an old priest making any improper advances.” He laughed fully and with glee at the thought of it. “You must know how very striking you are, my dear Dr. Coran.”
“Thank you, Father. I'll take that as a compliment coming from you, but I am rather tired and would-”
“But there are some things back at St. Albans I must show you, relating to the case. I would not urge it upon you if it were not pressing, you must believe.”
She wondered if anyone had ever said no to this man. She smiled. Standing in her full-length white gown, which she'd facetiously told the mirror looked virginal when she put it on for dinner, thinking it appropriate for her night with the ancient minister, she now nodded and said, “All right, but I must be home before the carriage turns into a pumpkin.”
“Absolutely,” he agreed, his smile radiating love, tenderness, and caring, even as the candlelight flickered across his countenance, cutting deep lines. “We both know one truth in this world undeniably.”
“And what is that?”
“It's a procreating world we live in.” He smiled, the wine allowing him license to go on. “Think of it. The sun procreates with the Earth by day, the moon takes her turn at night, the stars and the faraway planets, too, procreate with Earth, and she in turn procreates with all the known universe. Indeed, it is what you cops call an effing world.”
She took only a moment to realize he was making fun of her, the known universe, perhaps even God. She laughed uproariously at his conclusion, garnering stares from other tables, and realized only now that they'd been getting stares all along, all night long.
“Shall we return me to my quarters at St. Albans?”
“Do you sleep at St. Albans as well?”
“Expect to be buried in the nearby cemetery, my dear. No, not often do I sleep over, but it's some distance to Hampton where I maintain a flat. So when I am late in the City, I stay at my room at St. Albans.”
They stood, and many people in the room obviously recognizing Father Luc Sante, giving Jessica further explanation for all the stares. Luc Sante appeared to be a local legend.
