Anatomy of Evil (8 page)

“I'm not going to find anyone better looking,” said Gary. “I've got the layout all figured out in my head, the backdrops, the poses, we can design this thing together. It'll be fun. So after work, we'll go grab some drinks and…”

“I can't,” she said.

The words did not compute for Gary. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I have plans,” she said. “I'm going to a painting class tonight with my friend Sylvia. It's at the community college. It's something I've always wanted to…”

“Painting? Really?”

“Well, yes. I'm interested in art, it's kind of a hobby of mine…”

“Rain check,” said Gary firmly. “We'll take a rain check and do it some other time.”

“Okay,” smiled Tonya. “Sure.”

“Excellent,” said Gary. He looked into Tonya's eyes and gave her a wild grin. “It's good to be back!”

That evening, Gary headed alone to Boomerang, a popular bar in the Bucktown neighborhood. He drove his Gary's Game Day store van, which was decorated with a cartoon rendering of his smiling face on either side. Inside the van, he was not smiling. He was swearing behind the wheel.

“Fuck you, Tonya. Fuck you. Painting class? That's just bullshit.”

He parked and entered Boomerang, submersing himself in the dark, noisy din. He found an open chair at an empty table and sat down. He took off his sunglasses and waited to be recognized.

It used to happen instantly.

But in recent years, the attention took longer. It bothered him. He didn't look that different. His playing years weren't that long ago. He wasn't necessarily a legend, but he was a damn decent player in a town that loved its sports teams.

He ordered a drink from a cute woman who probably recognized him but was playing it cool. He had a Sharpie ready just in case anyone wanted an autograph.

After 35 minutes of drinking alone and emptying two bowls of popcorn, he grew angry.

Then, finally…
finally
…

“Hey, aren't you Gary Burton?”

The woman appeared to be middle-aged, but still in the attractive range. Gary wished the younger generation paid him this kind of respect, but they were probably only familiar with contemporary players.

Kids today have such short attention spans
, he thought to himself.
No wonder music groups no longer have the staying power of The Beatles or Rolling Stones…

Gary engaged in chitchat with the woman while trying to size up her aesthetics in the poor light. She had tell-tale signs of plumpness around the neck and wrists. He could see crow's feet at the eye corners and little wrinkles above the upper lip. When she mentioned she was at the bar with a group of girlfriends, celebrating a coworker's birthday, he perked up because that presented a broader pool to choose from.

Gary visited their table and met Barbara, the birthday girl. He wished her a happy birthday and then didn't leave. He injected himself into their conversation and bought everyone a drink. He eventually made it known he was single, a lie made more credible by the absence of a wedding ring. He had hooked the ring onto his keychain before entering the bar, out of sight and out of mind.

He kept the fresh drinks circulating at his expense. He told stories from his NFL career and dished up gossip on other players they knew. He asked the girls if he looked good for his age and flexed his arm muscles. He soaked in their enthusiasm and flattery like a rejuvenation drug. He inched closer to the cutest of the bunch, a dental hygienist named Emily.

An hour later, he was pulling off Emily's boots in the back of his van and fucking her on a bed of soccer netting and sports jerseys.

Afterwards, as they lay on their backs together, she held his hand on her chest. She suggested they return to the bar for one more drink and then find dinner together. He kissed her, agreed, and suggested she go first.

“We probably shouldn't be seen climbing out together,” he smiled. “Looks a little obvious, you know? You go first, then I'll follow a couple of minutes later and meet you inside.”

“It's a deal,” she said and she kissed him again.

He opened the back of the van a crack and she slipped out.

After two minutes, he exited the rear of the van. He circled to the front of the vehicle and climbed into the driver's seat.

Gary sped away, accelerating from Boomerang's parking lot with screeching tires and a burst of hearty laughter. As he raced from the scene, taking sharp turns, he could hear the sports equipment rumbling in the back—rolling baseball bats and loose basketballs.

He sang happy birthday in a loud shout and laughed some more.

Gary headed west across the city and returned to an old haunt from his playing days—a gentleman's club named The General.

He commanded a seat close to the action and peeled off a series of bills as the exotic dancers gave him extra attention and allowed his hands to roam.

He was thoroughly enjoying himself, which made the constant distraction of the vibrating cell phone in his pocket even more annoying.

Finally he pulled it out and snarled, “Shut up” at the inanimate object.

He discovered a series of text messages from Emma:

Where R U?

When are u coming home?

Why don't you answer. T says u left the store at 6.

Please respond. Where r u.

Are u ok? Where R U? Should I be worried?

Gary fired off a one-word text to respond:

BUSY.

Emma replied:
Busy doing WHAT?

He ignored her.

She texted:
Where R U? Busy doing what?

After repeated nagging, he answered her question with a photo. He snapped a cell phone picture of one of the exotic dancers in fishnet stockings, humping a pole and licking her cherry red lips.

Gary didn't have time to see Emma's response. A large security man with a little mustache promptly approached him.

“Sir, you can't take pictures of the girls here. I'm going to have to…” He reached for the phone.

Gary jumped up, pulling away and throwing aside his chair with a dramatic crash. “Get the fuck away from me!”

The aggressive response brought another bouncer into the mix, also a very big man. Gary erupted as they closed in.

He experienced a thrill that took him back to his football days, taking out opposing players with powerful tackles that brought them to the ground like big heaps of garbage.

Tables toppled, drinks spilled, customers scattered and strippers ran for cover.

Gary dashed for the exit, scooting around obstacles with superior agility, tackling one more bouncer with a ferocious body slam to clear an open path to the door.

Stumbling onto the sidewalk, still standing and undefeated, Gary plunged both fists into the air and let out a victory yell.

I still got it.

Chapter Fourteen

“Welcome, students.”

Sam Green stood at the door welcoming the young teens into his Tuesday night Religious Education class, wearing his traditional sweater vest, corduroy pants and brown loafers. The students greeted him in return, asking about his vacation and fishing success.

Sam began teaching precisely at 7:00 p.m. The scheduled topic was “Gifts of the Holy Spirit.”

But tonight he chose to improvise.

He felt something burning inside that needed to come out. He looked across the young, fresh faces and knew there was no better time to bring them out of the safe haven of childhood and into the cold hard truths of adulthood.

The real education was about to begin.

“Do you remember how old you were when you learned there was no Santa Claus?” he asked.

The students responded with a small murmur of amusement and some laughter. A few offered answers. “Ten.” “Seven.” “Eight.”

“You chuckle about it now, but I'm sure it was a huge letdown at the time. Your parents, who always told you never to lie, lied to you. They tricked you into believing in a mythical, supernatural being that rewarded the good children with presents and toys. That was their method to engage your young minds in Christmas, the birth of Christ, son of God.

“Today I am here to reveal the next level of the great deception. I am here to tell you there is no God. No son of God. This church, the Bible, all organized religion is just one big
ho ho ho
.”

A stunned hush fell over the students. One boy smirked, expecting a joke, but Sam's face remained grim and serious.

“There is no Almighty Lord,” said Sam. “He's not making a list and checking it twice to see who's been naughty and nice to get into heaven. There's no Disneyland waiting in the clouds, no second life of eternal bliss. Any rational human being knows it, but we still tell ourselves to behave like a saint so we can get through heaven's gates and cash in on our own good behavior. We tell stories about people with superpowers, characters who walk on water, part the sea, turn water into wine, come back from the dead. It sounds like something out of Marvel Comics. Give those superheroes a cape! To anyone who believes in any of this, I have one word—
Sucker
!”

He walked forward, pacing through the rows of desks as he spoke, all eyes locked on him. “There is no heaven. There is no God. These things have been invented to neutralize you. Lift the burden of the church, my friends, and you are liberated to engage in free will. Enter adulthood on your own terms. Worship one thing and one thing only…your deepest desires. Be fearless. Take control. Be truthful to your innermost impulses, those primal urges that prove you're alive.”

“Mr. Green.” Tommy, a thoughtful, straight A student in the back row, raised a hand.

Sam nodded for him to continue. “Yes, Tommy?”

“Mr. Green, isn't it possible that the Bible stories are not meant to be taken so literally. I mean, they're more like allegories, guidance, for living a good life and we're missing the point by trying to explain them in today's terms. The Scripture is old and open to so many interpretations…”

“Do you believe in God?” asked Sam.

“Yes,” said Tommy.

“Then you've taken this to its most literal extreme.”

Another student, clearly agitated, raised his hand and chimed in. “But…Mr. Green… Even if we can't prove God exists… You can't prove that he
doesn't
.”

Sam chuckled. “No?” He walked over to his desk. He picked up the newspaper he had been reading before the students arrived.

“Let's see what's happening in the world,” Sam said. “Oh look. A typhoon in the Philippines. Thousands dead, hundreds of thousands homeless.” He continued turning the pages, highlighting every tragedy. “A school fire in West Virginia, check out this photo of a fireman carrying a dead child. What else? Mall shooting in Texas. And over here… Lightning hits a small plane, no survivors.”

Sam put down the newspaper. “Clearly, if there is a God, he is on an extended vacation. Or maybe he's just powerless to stop the horrors taking place every day around the world—the oppressed, the starving, the diseased. If so, this would mean evil is the more dominant force. But maybe God isn't powerless. Maybe he chooses not to interfere and use his healing powers of good. If that's the case, I suggest we put him on trial for gross negligence. He is guilty of every act of terror on this planet.”

Tommy tried to interject a comment, but Sam shouted him down. “Shut up. You're young, you haven't lived, you don't know what you're talking about. If there is a God, he is responsible for the death of my wife. He is a murderer. She prayed to him every night for healing. She was a believer, she brought him followers, she committed her life to him. She loved him and he said ‘I don't care.' He allowed her to wither away, day by day, to drown in her own tears.”

Another boy tried to make a comment but Sam talked over him, continuing to describe the death of his wife, entering into gruesome medical details. His words became an endless, blurred stream of fury.

One by one, students began to slip out of the room. He barely noticed their departure. His eyes filled with flashes of red, returning him in glimpses to the storm off the coast of Kiritimati, the onslaught of evil, demonic faces descending like rain.

“Mr. Green.”

Sam snapped out of the hallucinations and faced the last student to remain in the room. His name was Scott, a notorious troublemaker, forced by his parents to become more involved in the church in hopes of steering him to a better path. Scott's background of academic apathy, ruthless bullying and scrapes with the law had presented Sam with his biggest challenge…until today.

“That was awesome, man,” said Scott, eyes lit up with excitement and wearing a big grin. “Right on.”

The next day, Sam sat with Jonathan Brisson, Director of Religious Studies, in Jonathan's small office at the church.

Jonathan informed Sam of his suspension from teaching confirmation class. Several students and parents of students had come forward to complain about the dark turn of direction during Tuesday night's class.

“Sam, we've known each other for a long time,” said Jonathan. “I know the church has no better friend than you. You have done so much good for us. But I also understand the stress you've been going through. We're here to help. We have grief counselors…”

“No,” said Sam.

“Or you may choose to see someone outside the church. There's nothing wrong with seeing a psychiatrist. My wife…”

“No,” said Sam.

“Listen, I fear—frankly, I fear you've had what I can only describe as a nervous breakdown. You're not yourself anymore. You don't look well.”

Sam said, “I have never felt better.”

Jonathan continued to study him, worried. “You recently took retirement, didn't you? Your job as a tax attorney.”

“When Susanna got sick, I took early retirement to care for her,” said Sam.

“Have you thought about getting another job?”

“No.”

“It would get you out of the house, interacting with people again.” Then Jonathan chuckled. “You know what they say…an idle mind is the devil's playground.”

Sam did not smile. “I am financially secure. I have my savings. I have the income from my wife's life insurance. I have all that I need. I don't need to get another job.”

“Well,” sighed Jonathan. “We can't have you back teaching…until you sort through whatever it is that's troubling you.”

“I don't want to come back,” said Sam.

Jonathan sat up in his chair with surprise. “You…”

“That's right,” said Sam. “I resign.”

On Sunday, Sam entered the church and sat alone in a back pew. His body trembled. His skin felt cold. As he waited for the service to begin, he kneeled, bowed down and prayed.

“God, something's happening to me, I need your guidance. I can no longer control some of the things I say and do. Something is stealing your strength from me. I am ashamed and frightened, I don't know what to do. Please forgive me and make me right again. I feel sick. I feel poisoned.”

Sam held back tears. The church organ began to play. Slowly, the pews filled with parishioners. Several greeted him, but they looked upon him with worried looks.

After the service began, the bees invaded. An aggressive swarm of bees filled Sam's head, peppering his vision with spots and assaulting his ears with a frantic buzzing. He rubbed his eyes and twitched. He tried hard to focus on Father LeMay's sermon. He could only catch occasional words…gibberish at first…then a rising clarity breaking through the frenzied surface noise.

Hail Satan.

Sam couldn't believe it. Surely that's not what Father LeMay had said…

Almighty, all-powerful father of darkness…

Father LeMay spoke in a thick, unnatural voice like a recording slowed down and played underwater. Sam turned to the woman at his side to see her reaction. She faced him with a smile. Her eyes appeared yellow, like a cat. A serpent's tongue jutted out from between her thin lips. Sam turned away, facing the large stained-glass windows on the other side of the church. The colorful images of apostles had been replaced by grotesque gargoyles.

Sam faced the front again. He witnessed Father LeMay's face transform into an expression of evil. His eyes yellowed, his skin cracked with red scars and then, protruding from the thin wisps of grey hair on the top of his head, two horns emerged.

Sam watched in awe. Then he grinned. Exuberance bubbled inside of him. The bees faded.

Now Father LeMay stood at the podium in his natural state, no yellow eyes, horns or deep-voiced incantations.

He said, “Bless us oh Lord for that which we are about to receive in your name and honor. We pray to you, oh Lord.”

In the moment of silence that followed, Sam giggled.

Heads turned.

Sam continued to giggle, the only sound in the vast space.

Father LeMay stood motionless, shocked, searching for the source of the interruption.

Sam broke out into loud, hard laughter.

Father LeMay said, “Please restrain yourself and show some respect…”

Sam pulled out of the pew, stumbling into the aisle. He headed up the long carpet to the front of the church. As he moved forward, he stripped off items of clothing…his shoes, socks, shirt—and pants.

The crowd began to murmur, watching in stunned disbelief.

Sam climbed the steps toward the altar. Reaching the top, he turned and faced the congregation, completely naked, a red hexagon painted on his chest.

Several elderly ushers came at him and Sam pushed them away.

Sam began to shout, “I come to all of you as a disciple of Satan asking that you abandon this powerless teller of lies and seller of false security. Join me in the worship of the only deity who truly governs this earth, the ruler of your children, your children's children, and your forefathers,
Lucifer
!”

Several members of the church tackled him and brought him down. A choir member lent a robe and they covered Sam's naked body as he thrashed out at them.

It took six men to carry Sam out of the church.

When Father LeMay returned to the podium, he took a moment to gather himself. He was shaken not only by what he had seen and heard, but the source of the wicked diatribe, one of his oldest friends and supporters.

Finally, he spoke to the congregation in a tone of great sadness. “We must pray for him.”