She didn’t elaborate.But the flicker in her eyes told Gabe there was something she wasn’t saying.
“So,” he said softly, “you’re using him.Tommy Rodrigues.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.The wordbaitis practically written on your forehead.”
She smiled without humour.“I can’t confirm or deny that.”
They let the waitress pour them both fresh coffee.Kate stirred hers absently, watching the surface tremble.
“You read the email,” she said finally.“About Green Gables.About my father.About the journal.”
“I did,” Gabe said.“And I’ve been thinking about it ever since.”
“Then maybe you can tell me what he’s doing.”
“Cox?”
She nodded.“It’s as if he’s… following me.Not just physically, but theologically.He takes fragments from my life and turns them into parables.He’s shaping me — I mean, I know now that he’s trying to make mebelievehe’s shaping me.But is there a precedent for that?Any theological basis for someone following another person’s life like a map?”
Gabe leaned back, fingers drumming lightly on the tabletop.“You’re describing something close to the Suffering Servant.”
“From the Bible?”
“Isaiah, chapter fifty-three.”His tone grew more professorial.“It’s one of the most argued-over passages in all of Scripture.Christians read it as prophecy — a foretelling of Christ’s suffering and death.He was wounded for our transgressions, bruised for our iniquities.The idea is that through one man’s pain, the world is redeemed.”
“And the Jewish interpretation?”
“To the Jews, the Suffering Servant isn’t an individual, but Israel Herself — a people chosen to endure, to be invaded, scattered, persecuted, yet still a light unto the nations.Their suffering reveals God’s purpose to the world.”
Kate turned that over slowly.“So in both cases, the suffering’s supposed to serve someone else.Either it redeems humanity, or it enlightens it.”
“Exactly.”
“And you think that’s what Cox believes he’s doing?”
Gabe hesitated.“Possibly.But there’s another layer.A much older one.”He leaned forward, lowering his voice.“Long before Christianity — even before the Hebrew prophets — there were rites that prefigured the scapegoat.You know the Levitical idea?One goat sacrificed to God, the other sent into the wilderness carrying the sins of the people?”
She nodded.
“In some Mediterranean and North African traditions, the goat wasn’t a goat at all.It was a man.Usually one who’d committed some offence — a thief, a blasphemer, a drunk.In Corsica and Sardinia, it would typically be a murderer, someone who’d taken life in a vendetta.Later on, it was fused with Christian traditions, so for example, the community would choose their scapegoat at the start of Holy Week.And on Good Friday, he'd be paraded through the streets, mocked, cursed, pelted with stones.Then they'd drag him to the sea, dunk him in the waves, and when he came out, the whole town was cleansed.All its sins washed away.”
Kate listened, expression unreadable.“So the man suffers so everyone else can start fresh.”
“Exactly.And he survives, usually.The humiliation is the sacrifice.The cleansing comes through his degradation.”
She sipped her coffee, the taste suddenly metallic.“So what — Cox thinks my pain absolves him?That by making me suffer, he’s scrubbing his own soul clean?”
Gabe shrugged gently.“His, or someone’s… or a whole community.It’s one interpretation.”
“It’s insane.”
“Yes,” he said simply.“But it’s also consistent.To someone like Cox, theology isn’t faith — it’s a system of control.He doesn’t believe in redemption; he believes indesign.Your suffering gives order to his world.I think that’s a big thing with him.Order, routine.I wouldn’t mind betting he ended up in a boys’ home or the military… even both.Somewhere where the structure was everything.”
Kate stared out of the window, watching the sleet thicken into snow.“Wouldn’t it just be easier not to murder people?”
“That presumes he wants ease,” Gabe said.“Cox wantsmeaning.Men like him are addicted to it.If there’s no meaning, they’ll manufacture one.”
