He pulled back the heavy, flowered drapes. Cold, dark clouds was his answer to, “sunny and bright, warm and relaxing,” when he came to this remote island half a world away.
The stares and gossip from gawking ‘house maids,’ and staff followed him through the lobby and up the stairs to a second floor room.
“No wife or kids along.”
“Maybe just a tourist, or businessman on holiday.”
“Look at those blue eyes and…I wonder if he’s lonely.”
“You should be so lucky,” one said, laughing.
An assassin’s life is a dangerous one. He searched, he sought, and when he found his targets, he killed, for them. He kept the gun, but not the life. He just followed orders. But, it didn’t make him like himself any better. He was through. He knew they hunted for him. Wherever he went he left no trace, and eventually wound up here at, ‘The island in the sun,’ the brochure claimed. But, the sun refused to shine.
He rubbed the weariness from his eyes, but the eyes of his victims haunted him; their lives ended with his Beretta 92. When he’d unpacked, stored his luggage in a closet. and opened a drawer a Gideon’s Bible lay neatly beside a little complimentary tablet and pen. Pen and tablet he did not need. The Bible, he did not want, but it was there for those who did.
He picked up a paperback instead, but it didn’t look promising. His eyes went back to the drawer where the Bible lay. He pulled it out and thumbed through it until a passage fell open to John 3:16 & 17, “For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him.”
God, how can you love a sinner like me? I’m no better than the people I killed for, beyond hope and redemption. If I am worthy of saving, worthy of your mercy forgive me of all my sin. If you can do anything with my life it is yours. I believe in you and your son, Jesus Christ who died for me.
As if in answer to his prayer a sliver of light broke through the darkness. When he pulled open the drapes rays of sunlight pushed through low hanging clouds, and light poured in.
He made a call.
“Department of Justice, New York,” the voice answered.
“Yes…It’s…Nathan Diorazio…I…want to turn myself in. Alone?…Yes.”
When the FBI arrived, he was led out, in handcuffs. But, he felt free for the first time in his life.
Footnote: This is a work of fiction.
Joyce E. Johnson (2015)