Page 80 of The Fourth Option
You lit the fuse. You knew the risks. You chose to act.
Next came the darker voice, the one shaped by years of reading Schopenhauer. The one whose internal voice was more whip than whisper. The old question of misguided actions from free will. Walker’s dissertation had argued that Schopenhauer’s will was not moral, not rational. It simply was. A blind, ceaseless force that drove all beings to act, to strive, to suffer. And if that was true, then what of guilt? What of responsibility?
If I am merely the puppet of a blind will, then am I not absolved?
But he didn’t believe that. Not really. Not anymore.
You knew what you were doing when you came here. You knew what would follow. You didn’t act blindly. You knew.
He exhaled sharply, frustration boiling over from the endless loop of philosophical self-condemnation.
Get it under control.
The guilt, the grief, the circular logic.
“Stop!” he barked.
Paladin’s ears perked. Belle’s mouth opened slightly.
Walker swallowed hard, embarrassed. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Sometimes I overthink things. I need some fresh air.”
He moved to the sliding door and pulled back on the handle.
“Put some clothes on. The mosquitos will eat you alive,” she said, grabbing a denim shirt from a pile of dirty clothes and throwing it at him as he stepped from the van.
“Thanks,” he said, slipping into the worn button-up.
“Now, build us a fire,” she said. “We need to plan.”
“You don’t take no for an answer often, do you.”
“I don’t even know what that means. Camping means a campfire. And it means bourbon. You have any bourbon in this relic?”
“Yeah, in the galley.”
“Okay, get a fire started.”
Maybe she was right. Maybe the only way to end this was to finishConnor’s story and expose the corruption. If not, anyone who knew about the journals remained a threat.
“And stop feeling sorry for yourself,” she added.
She was perceptive.
“Heir,” Walker called. Paladin bound from his seat.
“Hey, while you are out there, grab my leather jacket from my car.”
His eyes flicked to the Martin guitar in its ceiling rack. Belle caught him looking.
“I’ll even let you play for me.”
He pressed his lips together.
“I don’t really play for anyone but Paladin.”
“You are a strange character, Chris. Hot tip: when a girl asks you to play for her, play for her. Now, start a fire. I’m going to find that bottle.”
Perched on a hunk of driftwood, Walker gazed at the faint glow of the city beyond the swamp, where the haze blurred the stars and the skyline shimmered like a mirage. Belle poured two fingers of whiskey into the only two cups he kept in the van.
