"The Devil"

Truth was a strange commodity. It could be bargained with or traded for, used as a salve for guilt or pain, abused as a means of terror or defiance.

John found himself at odds with it more often than not these days. He knew right from wrong, his mother had taught him that nothing but evil comes from lying. Yet here he stood by his Rover and waited for Greg Stillson to pull himself together after one of the nastiest lies to ever cross his lips.

“Miranda is dead.”

An omission, a fabrication-nay a blatant lie to protect the innocent. At least that’s what he told himself as Greg meandered over to the fence and stood staring up into the clouded sky.

But who’s innocence: Miranda’s, his, some small withered part of Greg’s black heart?

Miranda was running and he made a play to buy them both time. As Greg turned from the fence and started towards the car John drew a ragged breath and tasted ashes on his lips. Truth would come full circle, it always did. Then what?

“Let’s go.”

Greg’s voice was weak, broken in a way John had never heard. For a moment he was sorry for the fresh pain and he regretted the bitter glint in Greg’s eyes as the man slid into the seat and stared fixedly through the windshield. The feeling slipped away as darkness clouded the congressman’s boyish features. The fine mouth twisted and iron control descended like a curtain. He turned hollow eyes on John. “Well?”

“Put on your seatbelt,” John answered stonily. Stillson was a man possessed by passions he could neither understand nor control, not unlike John himself. The similarity forced an involuntary shiver and he covered it with a shrug.

“Stillson is the devil.”

That was truth.