Inside Lucifer's War (9 page)

She says nothing, but her eyes flash a quizzical look and her head turns slightly. This is a side of me she hasn’t seen. I didn’t want her to leave.

“I’m not sure you . . . I’m not sure anyone would understand. I’m not sure I understand,” I say, trailing off.

She slowly walks back, kneels beneath my stare to catch my downcast eyes, and slowly rises, pulling my eyes up with her. Clutching my left arm with a gentle but firm grip, she says softly, “Look, Thomas. Let me be honest with you. I don’t trust you. I’ve known men like you. Still, you are a dear friend to Mike and Therese, which makes you a friend to me. If you need to talk, I’ll listen. If you don’t want to talk here, Mike has my number. Call me anytime you need to talk.”

She stares a bit longer to make sure that I am going to be okay, and then she walks away. For the first time in my life, I
feel
love for a woman. It is a strange feeling, and it makes me nervous. I have known lust. I own lust. I can control my lust.
This
feeling I can’t control, and that scares me. Yet, as scary as it is, it is a feeling I hope will stay with me.

I smile to myself when I think of this conversation. She never gave me her number. She told me that Mike has her number. Meaning, if I really want to talk—talk, not hit on her—I need to get her number from her big brother.
Well played, Stacie,
I think to myself.

I want to slip out of the house, but decorum prevents that. And besides, I have a mission on my mind. I quietly find Therese, who fortunately is alone.

“Hi, Therese. I had a lovely evening. Thank you,” I say.

“Ah, you have to leave so soon? We loved having you,” she responds.

“Before I leave though, you don’t happen to have Stacie’s cell number, do you? I think the one I have is old. I would ask her, but I don’t want to interrupt their conversation.”

I lie, and Therese sees right through it.

“Thomas, dear. You know better than to fib to me. If you want her number, just ask me,” she says as she writes it down for me.

“Thanks,” I say. “Sorry about the pretense.”

“No worries. Just remember, I didn’t give you the number. And if you hurt her, you have me to deal with,” she remarks with furled eyebrows.

With that, I kiss her cheek and let myself out. Nothing major happened the rest of the night, save for the fact that I lie awake in bed like a schoolboy thinking about a girl and possibilities. I decide not to turn on any music for fear of what songs I might select. God forbid I complete the cliché.

C
HAPTER 9

Monday Morning Coffee

I wake early Monday morning and quickly go through my routine. By the time I sit down in my office, I have almost convinced myself that my run-in with the demonic world is attributable to a bad mix of pills and alcohol. I must have had an acute case of alcohol poisoning or somebody slipped something into my drink. Then I look at my left wrist. The mark is still there. I recall that people often find patterns where there are no patterns. Surely, there are no emblems or writing within the symbol. It must be a cigar burn. Nothing more.

My morning schedule is clear, which is a nice change. I’ve been too busy lately, and it is always a relief to have an open morning, especially a Monday morning. Actually, the rest of the day is relatively light. I have only one class, modern philosophy, from one to two thirty, and I need very little prep time for it. Today’s class is a review of some student essays. I earlier highlighted some of the essay material I think will be provocative. I jot down some questions for the class.

Soon other staff and administrators arrive. I go to shut my door, as I’m not interested in the usual Monday morning greetings. I hear someone say, “How was your weekend?” Luckily, another person answers, “Too short. Sure was hot.” But I don’t shut my door completely. This routine conversation is strangely welcoming for me. It brings a sense of peace that things are normal, that whatever happened this weekend, as real as it seemed, is in the past.

That thought shatters when I feel a push at my door. What follows crushes my feeling of peace.

Andrew Mayfield is a high-intellect professor with an even higher aptitude for political gamesmanship. He is an Ivy Leaguer from old money, though after listening to him, it sounds like his family has little to do with him, and he with his family, save for the money. If ever there was someone who found themselves on the winning team more than Andrew, I never heard of them. Democrat, Republican, liberal, conservative, or independent, Andrew is all of them and none of them. His politics fluctuate with the ups and downs of money and power. Eight years ago he was a staunch Republican with conservative principles, but after the last election, he presents himself as a progressive Democrat bordering on socialism. When I called him on his sudden about-face, he winked and said, “I was drafted by the winning team.” He has had a very successful career. He gained tenure at the university, and he has powerful friends in important places.

Andrew and I use each other, but we know it. There is a kind of comfort and trust in our unspoken agreement. There are no false expectations or let-downs. To be honest, I consider Andrew a friend, but not a good friend or one I could count on in a pinch. Still, I enjoy his company and the perks of knowing him. There are friends you have in good times and friends for the bad times. Andrew’s friendship falls in the good-time category.

“Good morning, Thomas,” he says.

“Morning, Andrew,” I reply.

“I’m meeting a few business acquaintances for coffee this morning, and I’d appreciate your company. These individuals are well placed and are very fond of your work. Strange, I know, but no less true. It would behoove you to accompany me.” His voice has a strange insistence.

Recent events slam against my mind. The episode plays over in my memory. Lucifer had specifically mentioned this to me: When you return to work on Monday, a colleague will ask if you would like to have coffee with him and a special guest. Accept the invitation. I feel sick to my stomach.

My shock is apparent to Andrew. “Thomas, did you hear me? I think you should clear your appointments this morning. We’re meeting at Starbucks on Twenty-fourth at ten. I’ll grab you at nine thirty. Okay?”

“That sounds fine,” I respond.

Andrew leaves me to my thoughts. I look at my clock: four minutes after nine. In twenty-six minutes I will begin the journey that apparently will change my life. This is a ride I will never be able to get off of, and it all starts at Starbucks at ten. The invitation is for fame, fortune, and pleasures I can’t begin to comprehend. All it takes is coffee with some of Andrew’s business partners. How easy it all sounds, and yet here I sit, more scared than I have ever been.

I begin to wonder why Lucifer pulled me into his lair. Had he simply left me alone, I most likely would have accepted the invitation to coffee. I would most certainly have expounded my philosophy to important admirers of my work. Surely he had to know this would play to my ego and my talents. Why force the discussion with me?

I try to put all of the questions behind me and focus on my work, but it is useless. The weekend experience floods my mind.

I recall the broken wrist, nakedness, my face rotting before me, the terrible stench, the horrible creatures, and terrible noises. Mostly, though, I think of him and his voice—how it bored into my head. I can feel my chest tighten, panic sets in. And then I hear a familiar voice.

“Good morning, Dr. Fields. I put all of your references and documentation on your SharePoint site,” says Leslie Donovan, the staff administrator. She is a quiet, gentle, unassuming person who never fails to perform above expectations.

“What?” I ask.

“Those things we talked about on Thursday. I finished them. If you go onto your SharePoint, you will see them. Let me know if you want me to add anything,” she says.

I look blankly at her, which is probably confusing her. I imagine she is accustomed to my ignoring her with a grunt and a dismissive thanks, but my staring seems to have caught her off guard.

“Are you okay, Dr. Fields? Can I get you anything?” she asks with a caring sincerity that she shows every day.

I smile. “No, thank you, Leslie. But tell me something. Did I overhear you telling someone that your husband resigned his position as a director at Dell to study theology?”

“Yes sir. He’s in school now,” she grins.

“Why would he do such a thing? It sounds as if he had a promising career,” I say.

If she is offended by my question, she doesn’t show it. “The money or career was never that important to us. He left because he believed God called him to it. That’s probably something you don’t understand or would agree with right now.”

“Right now?” I ask.

“I would prefer not to talk about it, Dr. Fields. Although we realize that money is not what is most important, I really like my job and I would like to keep it,” she says with a half smile. “I wasn’t trying to offend you. I just know what you believe.”

“Leslie, there is nothing you can say to me that would put your job in jeopardy. Ask anyone. I am your biggest advocate,” I reassure her.

“I know, I know. I just know how you feel about religion,” she says.

“What do you mean about this being something I won’t understand right now?” I ask.

She takes a breath. “I once had a lovely, older Christian woman tell me how she prayed for a national news anchor, who constantly denigrated Christianity, to someday know Christ and be saved. Because she prayed for him every day, her heart changed. She began to really care about him. She refused to let anyone say anything bad about him. Let’s just say I don’t let anyone say anything bad about you around me.”

“So people say bad things about me?” I chuckle.

“You give them lots of reasons,” she says with a twinge of sadness. “Have a nice day, Dr. Fields. Let me know if you need any help with the files.”

“Thanks, L,” I say.

As she turns to walk away, something reminds me of Josephine and the vision I had seen in Lucifer’s lair. I tried to keep the memory from returning, but I couldn’t escape it. “Wait, Leslie. I do need a favor.”

“Sure. Name it,” she says in her typical eager tone.

“Um . . . never mind,” I say, wondering how I could ask her for this favor.

“What is it? I can tell something is bothering you.”

“This isn’t work related, so I’m hesitant to mention it to you. I thought if anyone could help, it would be you. Honestly, I’m not sure if there is anything you can do, but . . .” I pause again.

“Go ahead,” she encourages. “Look, I do personal things for the staff all the time.”

“I know. But this is different. You mentioned that I give people plenty of ammunition to say bad things about me. Well, do you remember Josephine?” I ask.

“Sure. She is one of those reasons I mentioned earlier,” Leslie says.

“Yeah. I don’t know what you can do or why I am even asking you, but let’s just say that she needs someone to talk to right now. She’s not in a good place,” I quietly say.

“What do you mean ‘not in a good place’?” she asks.

“No one in this office can know, and I can’t tell you how I know, but I think she may want to take her life,” I say in a whisper.

“Oh my, Thomas. That is serious. Have you called someone for help?” she asks, putting a hand to her mouth.

“I’m asking you now.”

“I’m not trained in stuff like this. She needs a professional.”

“Forget it,” I say, realizing I shouldn’t have brought it up.

“No. She needs help, and we can get it for her. All I’m saying is that we need to get her in touch with a professional. In your business, I would think you know a lot of them.”

I remain silent, watching her walk through her thoughts.

She says, “If you can make the arrangements with a psychiatrist or counselor, I’ll do my best to get her there. I’m assuming you still have her contact information. Right?”

“I have it. I’ll e-mail it to you. I can get the psychiatrist. Thanks,” I say. As I have most of my life, I’m able to put this problem onto someone else. Yes, I will have to pay out something for the psychiatrist, but my investment is minimized with the help of Leslie. I’ve become an expert at unloading my burdens. I walk into the office carrying a huge boulder, and after a three-minute conversation, I’ve passed that boulder to someone else. She didn’t have to accept it, but she did. Now she is as much involved, or more so, than I.

Leslie leaves without a word. No doubt she is trying to figure out how she can connect with Josephine and realizes the burden now on her shoulders. For a moment I feel sad for her, but I understand she is a better person to deal with this than I am. And I don’t have long to worry about it, as Andrew promptly arrives at my office at nine thirty. I grab my phone and wallet, and we are out the door, down the escalators, and out of the building.

Andrew talks while we walk, but his words don’t penetrate my thoughts. Though I politely comment and nod in agreement occasionally during the conversation, I don’t absorb anything he is saying. After what seems like a very short time, I see the coffee shop. I pause for a brief moment. This is it. This is the moment where everything changes.