Hellraiser: Judgment Page #4

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in there, no windows ain't a bad thing.

Shut the door when you leave.

What an incredible smell you've discovered.

Oh, this shouldn't take long.

This guy seems to have quite the right arm.

Doesn't really seem like the Preceptor type.

Speak of the devil.

Looks like it's typed

on an old manual typewriter.

Let's get that back to the lab.

- Uh-hm.

- Put out an ATL on Watkins.

In the meantime,

let's hit the usual suspects.

You go with David.

Anything?

Nope.

Done for the day?

Yeah.

I'm going to swing by Watkins'

apartment on the way home.

What's up?

Somethin's been buggin' me about it.

Give our regards to that

sweet-mouthed landlady for me.

I'll give her your number.

Thanks for turnin' the power on.

Excuse me. Detective Sean Carter.

Mr. Carter.

Mr. Carter. You're a man

of some interest to us.

What do you want to know?

- Excuse me?

- You obviously have questions.

Why would you say that?

Because if you wanted me dead,

I'd be dead already.

That's very true. What else?

If I had to guess, I've stumbled into

a painful, possibly fatal situation,

the agenda of which you'll soon tell me.

Ha!

What can you tell me about Carl Watkins?

A man of impeccable taste, apparently.

- What can you tell me about the Preceptor?

- I was about to ask you the same question.

What are those?

Well, since you've been good enough not

to waste our time with the usual drudgery

of who are you and save me, et cetera,

perhaps a reward is in order.

Dear God! Where am I?

You wanted to know about these.

They are a linking mechanism

between our world and yours.

They are judgment and redemption

to those who open them.

They are sensation,

rebirth... death,

lust... hate.

All manner of emotions.

They are a conduit to the unimaginable.

In a wooden box.

You'd be amazed what they can do when opened.

What on earth is this place?

It isn't.

So now what?

This is the beginning

of a process, an interview.

An audit of sorts.

And you want honest answers.

Absolutely.

So then let's just get on with it.

Hmmpf.

Tempus fugit after all.

Tell me, when was the first time

you hurt something?

Be honest, Mr. Carter.

The sooner you tell the truth,

the sooner you will be free.

Four.

We had a pet dog.

I hit it.

- Should I go on?

- March 31, 2004.

I was 25.

The bullet hit him in the throat.

I saw a fist-size chunk

blown out the back of his neck.

I stood over him and watched him die.

And after that?

Two kids.

Grenade.

It was the first time I'd ever

seen a body blown to pieces.

Skin stripped from muscle.

Flesh stripped from bone.

You were a man protecting his country.

You were permitted to carry out these acts,

but what were you permitted to feel?

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