IX. Pearls and Gold

Detective Paul Findhorn awoke from the nightmare to unfamiliar surroundings. The place looked like some sort of temple--marble floors, elaborate columns, the works. There were no visible lights or windows, but there were no shadows to be seen--it was if the structure itself was its own light source. He felt a compulsion to move toward something--he wasn't sure what.

Findhorn stumbled into a wide room with a dais at the far end. On the dais stood a podium with a hooded figure behind it, beckoning him closer. Findhorn felt the compulsion grow stronger. He approached the dais.

"Paul Findhorn." said the figure. The voice was firm, but calming. "Approach and judged."

Findhorn stepped onto the platform. "Judged for what?"

"For the doings of you life. You have died, Paul Findhorn, and you will be judged to decide your fate for eternity."

It all came back. He'd come home with the intention of protecting Margaret from the violence Briggs had warned him about. Instead, he'd found her in bed--the bed that they shared--with another man. Rage overwhelmed him, and he shot the lover twice in the head. Margaret's screams of horror had only deepened his anger--she was cheating on him with this scumbag, and now she was crying out for him. He'd teach her a thing or two about loyalty. Caught up in the passion of the moment, he shot her right in her two-timing heart.

Then it sank in. Briggs had told him his wife would be shot, and he should take his time getting home to avoid the violence. Briggs had somehow known what would happen. If Findhorn had stayed out, the lover would have been gone by the time he came home. His wife would still have been unfaithful, but she would have been alive.

And he wouldn't have just committed a double homicide.

Briggs was right again. He was a born killer. But Findhorn decided one thing--he'd be damned before he'd let this happen again. Findhorn gritted his teeth, put the gun to his temple, and fired the last bullet.

He woke up here, thinking it had all been a nightmare.

"So, you're Saint Peter, huh?"

The figure nodded. Findhorn noticed that there were a pair of gates in the hall. To his right was a gate made of silver, inset with pearls. To his left was another, made of wrought iron gilded with gold.

As Findhorn stood on the dais, a white light flashed over him three times, followed by a red light flashing twice.

"You have been judged three times by Heaven and failed each time. Hell has judged you twice and both times have accepted you. This gives you a choice; you may accept your punishment of damnation and spend eternity as a victim in Hell, or you may make a deal with Hell and be its servant until the end of time."

Findhorn hadn't expected this. "If I decide to be punished, do I get another chance?"

"It is the will of the Lord that each man has but one chance to live, one chance to live by His Commandments and join him in Heaven." said Saint Peter.

Findhorn sighed. "Then...I guess I'll make a deal."

Peter turned to face the iron gate. It slowly ground open of its own accord. "Go forth, Paul Findhorn, and accept your fate."

Seeing no alternative, he went. The gate closed behind him.