There is a theory in ancient Egyptian philosophy known as the "Eternal Return". It says that the universe and all of its existence has occurred, will occur, and continue to reoccur an infinite amount of times. That is to say, our lives as we know them, have already happened an unknown amount of times on a repeat cycle. And we are destined to live them over and over throughout eternity.
Now, one could say, "Well, I'm not Egyptian and I really don't believe that." Well, you would be right and wrong. Ecclesiastes 1:9 states "What has been, will be again. What has been done, will be done again. There is nothing new under the sun." It is then repeated in Chapter 3, verse 15.
The dilemma this leaves us in, should this be true, is are we destined to make the same mistakes, fall victim to the same tragedies, and die repeatedly as we will in this life? Can we influence or effect the past in the same way that we think we can affect our futures. Or are we merely just a hamster on a wheel spinning against time, in a stationary position?
If we are, what could change that? What could be the stick in the spoke that jolts us to a stop, hurtling us into space? The answer....an element of chaos.
We are all affected by the past, and then in turn affect our future. And on it rolls like an unstoppable boulder. In 1993, where our story left off, the town of Zwolle was left reeling from a string of murders.
Beyond the thick layer of pine trees, separating the town from the rest of the world, Sabine Parish lives on quietly. Continuing to piece together its past.......and its future.
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Sabine Parish Sheriff's Department
6:53 pm
1998
A small styrofoam cup filled a third of the way with thick, brown tobacco juice, sat on a metal table. On one side of it were seated two uniformed deputies. They were dressed down in their matching khaki. On the other side, a dark green military jacket riddled with holes and tears had the long, dark unkempt hair of a Native American man resting on its shoulders. The man stared expressionless under a bandana that covered his disfigured scalp.
The deputy with the thick black mustache leaned forward to pick up the small cup centered between them. The coarse hairs on his lip scratched against the styrofoam as he let the brown spit slide into its receiver. He shifted the tobacco leaves in his mouth and returned the cup to its spot on the table. He sniffed loudly, then cleared his throat.
"You've lived somewhat of a storied life."
A blank stare was the only return. The second deputy looked down slightly, a bit uncomfortable, and then up at the other deputy to await his next move.
"You were in the service?"
Redman nodded.
"See any action?"
"Grenada.....'83"
"Hell, that was a vacation wasn't it? Shootin' fish in a barrel."
"Didn't see you there."
The indian spoke back in a condescending tone and brushed the arm of his coat off with the other hand, never making eye contact.
"I can see you're a hard man.", the deputy spat back sarcastically.
"Hard ain't got nothin' to do with it."
"Then what are ya?"
"Tired mostly, tired of this skin. It's worn out, I've overstayed my welcome in it."
The deputies looked at each other confused. The mustached officer, Richard Wendell, sat and stared at the weathered man for a few moments. Pulling a sheet of paper from inside a manilla folder that had been sitting on his lap, he lay it on the table. On it were pictures of a crime scene from years before. A bedroom covered in blood, and a body. He also clicked his pen open and prepared to take notes.
"You made a phone call five years ago. Reported a disturbance that by our figurin' hadn't even taken place yet. In fact, it didn't appear to start until our units arrived on the scene."
Redman stared back blankly. Wendell continued.
"What'doya call that deputy Rivers? Telekenetics?"
"No sir, I believe that's when you can move stuff with your mind, like bending a spoon. I think what you're lookin' for is ESP."
Wendell gave him a stern look.
"Sorry sir. I seen a program on it."
As the two men conversed, a trickle of bright red blood made it's way from beneath the cuff of Redman's jacket and continued to roll down his hand. The red droplet dangled from the tip of his dirty finger. It trembled in the breeze of the air conditioning, until finally it fell onto the linoleum floor.
Redman placed the toe of his boot on top of the spot so that it could not be seen. He decided to speak.
"Everything I had to say about that, I said back then. I just as soon let the dead rest."
****
With the sun slipping below the top of the courthouse, where the sheriff's department's offices were located, a man waited a block down the street. Smoke rolled out of the window on the driver's side, and dissipated into the evening air. A cigarette was held by a steady hand.
The driver wore a pair of black dress shoes that were shined to perfection. Black slacks that led up to a short sleeve black button down shirt. Resting inside the collar of the shirt was a white band, signifying a priest. Tattooed arms extended out from beneath the shirt.
The man's eyes stared toward the doors that led to the back of courthouse, until finally they opened. He leaned forward, and with his left hand twisted a knob. His headlights flashed on, and then off again.
He continued watching as reman hobbled down the street. He held his right arm as he walked, wincing in pain. The driver flicked the half burned cigarette out onto the pavement and rolled the window back up. The passenger door groaned open, and Redman slid down into the bucket seats of the car. The driver glanced over.
"New cock on the walk. Tryin' to shake loose some dust off old memories."
"He get any?"
"Not a grain."
The old car drove steadily down a tree lined road that led from one town to the next. Redman stared out of the passenger window as the headlamps whipped along the road. A few minutes later, they began to slow as it had made it's way halfway back to the town of Zwolle.
A grey building with blacked out windows sat along side the highway. Neon signs flashed through the tint and out into the darkness of the night. Trucks and motorcycles were parked in no particular pattern out front.
As the car pulled up, the headlights illuminated the bar's name painted on the wall facing the road. "The Silver Bullet" was a local pool hall. One of the many such places peppered across the parish, where people could unwind under the dim lights and loud music after pretending to be upstanding citizens all week.
With one leg propped up on the side of the building, a man squinted and held his hand in front of his eyes until the preacher turned the car off and the lights shut off. By the time his eyes adjusted to the change, the preacher and his accomplice were already out of the car. The man met them near the trunk and peered from beneath a camouflage hooded hunting jacket.
"I don't want no trouble."
The preacher's eyes narrowed.
"Don't want no trouble? Boy, you started the trouble. My man here took a screwdriver to the ribs. Now you don't want no trouble?"
"It was a mistake. Your feather head over there crossed a line."
In one solid movement the preacher lifted the man off his feet by his collar and slammed him against the car.
"Let's make one thing perfectly fuckin' clear. I MAKE the lines around here."
Slowly, he lowered the man back to the ground. The preacher adjusted his collar and cracked his neck.
"Now, we have a business to operate. An exchange was agreed to. It seems when my man came to follow up on that exchange, you boys gave him a bit of a problem. Problems are no good for me...."
The preacher reached deep into his pocket and pulled the keys to the car out. A slight grin crawled across his face as he put them into the trunk's lock and turned them. As he lifted the lid open, the neon lights from the bar revealed a man laying inside.
Around the man's wrists and legs was packaging tape, and another strip around his mouth. He lay still, shallowly breathing. His eyes looked up at the men begging. Through his neck protruded the handle of a screwdriver. Blood dripped down onto the carpeted bottom of the trunk. A wheezing noise filled the air with each breathe the man took.
"You mother fu......"
The man leaped forward to grab the screwdriver and attempt to pull it from his brother's neck. Before he could, the preachers hand grabbed hold of him.
"Compassion is man's greatest weakness. Today I have revealed a weakness to you, brother. The next time you don't have my money, you will not see it again.
Your brother is not dead yet, but you pull that screwdriver from his neck and he'll bleed out before you make it out of Zwolle.
Put him in your car and take him to the hospital in the next town. It appears he has had an accident."
