Godless (21 page)

“Satan is in an all-out war against the image of God on earth. The Bible tells us he seeks to devour, like a ravenous lion. But he's smart. That's why his favorite weapon is deception.”

Frank's eyes invited further explanation.

“If you're oppressed, you know it. If you're tempted, you know it. But if you're deceived, you don't know it. If he can convince us of lies we will destroy ourselves. It makes his work easy.”

“What lies?”

“There are so many.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the lie that we are mere animals with no ultimate purpose. The man who sees himself as an animal will live like one. And he'll view other human beings as fellow animals. Or how about the lie that only the strong deserve to survive? Or that personal pleasure should trump personal responsibility? You get the idea. If we believe a lie we will live consistently with that lie.

“Evil is more real than we know,” Alex continued. “And it's personal. Our enemy is not some mythical cartoon in red tights carrying a pitchfork. Jesus called him a liar, and the father of lies.”

A brief silence lingered between them.

“But,” Alex added, “Jesus described himself as the truth. And if you know the truth, the truth will set you free.”

“Free from what?” Frank asked.

“From the power of deception. The only thing that can dispel darkness is the light. And, as it happens, light is Christ's other nickname.” Alex smiled at his own comment while making a mental note to include it in an upcoming sermon. Then he noticed a look of dread on Frank's face. “What is it?” he asked.

“You really believe all of this? About God, angels…the devil?”

“Of course.”

“So you think my nightmares are coming from hell?”

“I have no idea what's behind your dreams,” Alex confessed. “But I know that God exists and that evil is both real and personal.” He leaned forward to look Frank directly in the eyes. “Something tells me you know the same.”

The man looked away.

“That's what I meant when I said I don't want what happened to Ivan to happen to you.”

“Why? What happened to Ivan?”

“You didn't really read the whole novel, did you, Frank?”

His head shook weakly.

“Then you wouldn't know that Ivan went mad,” Alex continued. “Right after a bone-chilling conversation with the devil.”

Frank's terror seemed palpable.

“Listen, Frank,” Alex said grimly. “We either submit to the sanity of what's true or become ensnared by the madness of lies.”

The man stood abruptly. “I need to go.”

Alex rose with his guest. “What are you afraid of, Frank? Something has frightened you.”

“I'm not afraid of anything,” he said. “I just need to go.”

Alex placed a hand gently on the man's shoulder. “Please, let me pray for you before you leave.”

“No,” he snapped, appearing irritated, then embarrassed. “I mean, no, thank you, I don't have time.”

Alex removed his hand, releasing his guest to hurry toward the door.

“Thanks for
coming so late,” Matthew said while offering his guest the vacant leather chair.

Mori lit up a cigarette. “Don't mention it,” he said, then took a single drag before releasing the toxins along with his words. “I had nothing better to do. Peak and Brew closes at midnight.”

Matthew glanced at the clock and tried to make out the numbers through hazy vision. Woozy, probably from the third beer. Or was it the late hour? Either way, he wondered whether he could even carry on a coherent conversation at one or two o'clock in the morning. But he needed to talk to someone.

Mori glanced around the Spartan room. “Just move in?”

Matthew did his own assessment of the three pieces of furniture, adequate for a man living alone who never hosted a girlfriend. Or any friend. “A few months back,” he replied. Or had it been a few years? He struggled to orient himself.

“Love what you've done with the place.” Mori chuckled while settling himself into the chair. “So, what's on your mind, Matthew Adams?”

“I met with a minister today. Or rather yesterday.”

“Why on earth did you do that?”

Matthew offered a timid laugh in self-conscious rebuke. “I know. But I had questions.”

“Then why not talk to me?” Mori asked sternly. Then he softened. “I mean, I thought we were pals.”

Were they?

“Of course,” said Matthew contritely. “I should have called you first. I know that now.”

“He said something that upset you, didn't he?” asked Mori.

A single nod.

“Yep. I can sense it. You look like a tortured soul.”

A tortured soul
. Weren't those the same words Pastor Alex had used?

Matthew noticed a thin, condescending smile on Mori's lips, as if his diagnosis had been trite. Or amusing.

“Not tortured,” Matthew said defensively. “More like conflicted.”

“Conflicted, eh?” Mori exhaled another drag of smoke. “Over what?”

Matthew thought for a moment. “Over God, I guess.”

“Not the ‘I guess' nonsense again,” said Mori.

“Sorry. I mean, I don't know who to believe.”

“About what?”

“About God.”

A disdainful snicker. “Does it matter?”

“You said it does.”

“
I
said? When did I ever say such a thing? I told you, I don't believe in God.”

“Exactly. You
don't
believe in God, so you
do
believe everything is permissible.”

“Ah,” said Mori, “so the real conflict is over what you've done.”

The comment startled Matthew. Had he ever told Mori what he'd done?

“Feeling a tad guilty, are we, Matthew Adams?”

“About what?”

“How should I know? White lies. Dirty pictures. Illicit affairs. Unnatural acts. Whatever. I figure you've done something some minister considers sinful. So you called your old pal Mori to absolve you.” He waved his hand in the shape of an inverted cross like a drunken priest.

Matthew winced. Once upon a time, as a boy, he had sought absolution from his confessor, Father Tomberlin. It had been decades since his last confession. But he still reserved a veneer of reverence for the sacrament, prompting a pang of offense at the mockery.

“Oh, that bothers you?” asked Mori, his waving hand repeating the sacrilege. “I don't mean anything by it. I just find the gesture amusing.”

“You're doing it backwards,” said Matthew, touching his own forehead. “The cross starts here, not at the belly.”

Mori looked defiantly toward his host and repeated the inverted sequence. “I prefer it like this. And, as you said, I consider all things permissible.”

A tense silence lingered between them.

“Enough playing around,” Mori finally carried on. “Let's get started sorting out your conflict.”

“Right, my conflict,” Matthew said hesitantly.

“Let's go a round of devil's advocate. I'll be the devil.” Another thin smile crossed Mori's lips.

“I don't follow.”

Mori rolled his eyes. “Simple. You argue for the existence of naughtiness. I argue against.”

“Naughtiness?”

“Sin, then. You make a case for the reality of some divine list of do's and don'ts. I'll push back.”

“Why?”

“For Pete's sake! Have you never read Socrates? The best way to shoot holes in your assumptions is to carry them through to their logical conclusions.”

“Makes sense, I guess.”

“Again with the guessing! No more guessing. I'm gonna help you decide one way or the other. Right here. Right now.”

Matthew considered the offer. He actually had grown tired of riding the fence. It would be nice to get to beyond his internal impasse, to feel proud of his accomplishments rather than ashamed. To decide, once and for all, whether helping volunteers was a noble task or a reprehensible deed.

“I'm listening,” said Mori impatiently.

Matthew cleared his throat. “OK. The pastor I saw yesterday. He said that every person has sinned.” He paused to search his memory for the precise words. “That ‘we yearn for the good that God made us for even when drowning in the sea of our own sinfulness.'”

“Of course he did,” Mori said with a sneer. “Preachers need sinners like dentists need bad teeth.”

A polite chuckle. “I get that. But it makes sense, don't you think?”

“He said we yearn for good, did he?”

“Don't we? Don't you?”

“Depends. Good by whose definition?”

“I don't know. Your own?”

“Another guess?” Mori mocked.

“Your own sense of goodness, then.”

The man thought for a moment. Then he grinned. “I enjoy no-strings-attached sex with beautiful women. But your minister friend would call that fornication because, in his rigid ethic, only married partners can indulge in the pleasures of the flesh. Given a choice, which definition of goodness would you rather embrace, mine or his?”

“Yours, I guess…er…I mean…yours.”

“You're sure about that?”

Matthew scanned alluring images he had plastered onto the walls of his memory during decades of online lust. He nodded at the question. “Yes, I'm sure.”

“There you have it. Mori's ethic, one. Christian morality, zero. What else?”

Matthew reached for another example. “The pastor said my reaction to evil suggests that, deep down, I know God is good.”

“Oh, that's rich! So feeling irrational guilt over an occasional sexual tryst means you should believe in an almighty cosmic killjoy. Is that it?”

“That's not what we were talking about.”

Mori flicked a patch of ash from his cigarette onto the floor. “What were you talking about, then?”

“The boy and the dogs,” said Matthew, his eyes fixed on the glowing residue charring a small section of carpeting.

“The boy from
The Brothers Karamazov
?” asked Mori.

“That's right.”

“My favorite scene.”

Matthew looked back at his guest. “Not mine,” he said. “Made me sad.”

“Of course it made you sad! That's the whole point. Pushes your assumptions to their logical conclusion. If God is so good, why didn't he stop that landowner's cruelty?”

Matthew shrugged at the reminder of a question with no easy answer.

“Your minister friend believes in a God who allows little boys be torn to shreds by hunting dogs.” God's accuser paused, as if contemplating whether to say more. “And”—he hesitated—“and in a God who would strike an old woman with dementia, forcing her son to abandon his dream of becoming a college professor to spend his time cleaning her soiled laundry and sorting her daily meds.”

It took several seconds for Matthew's mind to absorb the comment. “What did you just say?” he finally asked.

“You heard me right. I know the real reason you wanted to talk. You still feel guilty about what you did for your mom. Don't.”

Matthew felt rising anxiety. “How do you know about my mom?”

“And you've been worried about what happened with Reverend Grandpa, the old gasbag!”

Matthew's panic grew. He had never discussed his mom or Reverend Grandpa with Mori. Or had he?

“And when you freed Brianna Jackson from that trash bin of a prison she called home.”

“Who told you about—”

“Excellent work on that one,” he interrupted. “The old gal needed someone to push her past her confusion so she could finally do what was best for everyone.”

Matthew stared at Mori for a long moment. Something wasn't right.

He had never mentioned his first client, Brianna Jackson, to his drinking pal. Nor could he recall inviting him to his home. In fact, the two had never exchanged contact information. They had only met a few times in passing while drowning their respective sorrows at the local sports bar.

“How did you find my house?”

Mori took a slow, final drag from his cigarette. “You invited me over to chat.” He dropped the butt onto the floor and ground it into the carpeting with his shoe. “Don't you remember?”

“I didn't invite you…did I?”

“Why else would I be here?”

Matthew noticed a thin line of smoke rising from the crushed cigarette butt. “But you never gave me your number,” he said, still trying to decipher the moment. “I couldn't have contacted you if I wanted to.”

“You invited me nonetheless. Now, can we get back to the point of this conversation?”

“What is the point of this conversation?”

“I was about to absolve you, remember?” said Mori while waving his hand in another irreverent series of crosses. “All things are permissible, my son.”

His voice became deeper, raspier.

“All things are permissible.”

The pace of waving accelerated.

“All things are permissible. So go, and believe in sin no more!”

The man's voice broke into laughter that sounded like the low rumble of thunder mixed with a lion's threatening growl. Matthew felt the same streak of terror he'd last felt at his nightmare's cackling summons. His eyes darted to the clock, which was finally legible. It read 3:36 a.m. Then he glanced toward the leather chair. No Mori. Just vacant space formerly occupied by whatever phantom had invaded Matthew's dozing psyche.

He looked down at the bruise on his shaking hand. It hadn't faded. Nor, it seemed, had any of the jumbled memories and conversations that had formed themselves into a new, more troubling nightmare. What did it mean? Had his subconscious been trying to resolve needless remorse, or perhaps help him cut the religious strings that had been restraining his evolving scruples?

Or had the dream, if that's what it was, been a warning, as Pastor Alex had implied?

“It was just a dream!” Matthew shouted at the empty leather chair before whispering to himself, “It was just a stupid dream.”

Five minutes later Matthew found himself leaning against the kitchen counter washing down an oatmeal raisin cookie with a tall glass of milk, the perfect antidote to beer-enhanced nightmares. He had propped up his tablet and begun flipping through a series of pages summarizing hotel amenities. A quick trip to Reno was just what he needed to distract his anxious mind. And he could easily cover the cost out of his share of the Brianna Jackson estate. Just twelve restful hours in the AutoDrive lane could take him back to his favorite distractions; to pleasures that had anesthetized his pain during the dark days. But those trips dripped with caution and remorse. How would it be, he wondered, to try out his newfound realization? All things were, after all, permissible.

Before reserving a room Matthew decided to alert Serena Winthrop that he would be unavailable for a few days. He searched his foggy memory to retrieve the correct user identification name. Then he remembered: the name of a renowned transition pioneer and the number of clients he had served:
KEVORKIAN130
.

The page opened, prompting Matthew to curse at the sight of another assignment message from Ms. Winthrop, the last thing he wanted to see.

“No!” he said to the screen while typing a quick reply.

His finger lingered before tapping the send icon. How would Serena Winthrop react? Would she understand, recognizing that he needed a break after facilitating three transitions in his first week on the job? Pretty impressive, Matthew thought, for a rookie. But it had taken a toll.

Should he mention his anxiety? Had Ms. Winthrop encountered similar feelings among other new hires? Wouldn't it be wise to take a short break to avoid burnout from a process that, regardless of how lucrative or noble, included a healthy dose of stress?

Or would such a note suggest Matthew Adams was weak, unreliable, or perhaps squeamish?

I guess I could wait and go to Reno over the weekend
, he thought with a sigh.

He looked at the assignment more closely to grab the key details.

That's less than eight hours from now!

Nearly an hour's drive.

Matthew glanced back at the age. Someone must have made a mistake, put a two in place of a seven or an eight. Charity Randall, whoever she was, couldn't possibly be ten years his junior. Or could she? He continued reading the summary.