Inside Lucifer's War (20 page)

The material is interesting, but the one that really catches my eye is the heading “New Recruits.” There, third on the list is my name, my picture, and a hyperlink. I click on it and see my bio. It lists my address, my job status, my written works, my class schedule, my Facebook and Twitter account information, my beliefs, my parents’ information (with birth and death dates), my extended family, and my friends—which prominently mentions Mike Fischer. Kinsley McKee is listed as my recruiter and manager. The first step is getting me to Dallas. The second is getting me to agree to work for the Principal. The description of my work is as vague as Kinsley recited it to me in person. Next is something I’m not prepared to read. Under “Key Contact and Insider” is the entry “Andrew Mayfield, $15,000.”

Stunned, I close the files, eject the flash drive, and put everything back in my briefcase. Andrew pulled me into the organization for fifteen thousand dollars. I wonder if he negotiated for a higher price. He must have known why the Principal recruited me. I wasn’t recruited for a single task. I was recruited to serve deep within the organization. I wonder if Andrew had any qualms about this or if the money was enough to assuage any guilt he had. My sympathy for him turns to anger, but why I’m angry is unclear. I feel betrayed by a friend, and yet I would have accepted joining this organization with or without Andrew.

C
HAPTER 19

Thursday

Tuesday and Wednesday disappear amid myriad activities, but Thursday lands hard and suddenly. So much is on my mind that I can hardly hold to a single line of thinking. Priorities are determined by the next thing that presses on me. In this case, my cell phone is vibrating.

“Hi, Mike. Thanks for calling.” As much as I want to let go of the Fischers, I need Mike’s help for at least a few more days. He and Stacie are the only people I can trust. With Ashley’s situation, I need their help one last time. “Were you able to make the booking?”

“Yes,” Mike replies. “Although, you’re going to have to explain to Therese why my credit card bill is going to show a one-way ticket to Italy for someone named Ashley.” He laughs. “Did you get this one pregnant?”

“That seems to be a consistent thought among your family lately,” I say. “No, I haven’t gotten anyone pregnant.”

“Okay, but you better not ask me to pick up her luggage and leave it at my place. That would definitely put us on the doorsteps of divorce court,” he says.

“Listen, Mike. I appreciate you doing this for me, and I very much appreciate you not asking too many questions about it. I’ll stop by tonight and give you the money.” Then I say something I hadn’t planned. It simply comes out. “Would you mind asking Stacie to drop by? I need to talk to her before I go. I don’t want to leave it the way I did. Sorry to drag you into this.” It’s the real reason I want to swing by his house tonight.

“I’ll see what I can do. I can’t promise anything,” he says before hanging up.

I notice I have an e-mail from Leslie with the subject line “Time and Location.” Unfortunately, I have other things to take care of as I head to the dean’s office to discuss my leave and transition. I will have to check the e-mail later. I make a mental note to look at it before lunch. It’s a mental note that will never make it to my pressing needs, though.

While I’m talking with the dean, my phone vibrates and sounds an alert. I look down to see a text message from the bank. I can tell the dean is annoyed by the interruption, but I don’t care. In a few days, he won’t be a concern to me. The wire transfer was successful from my investment fund. Twenty-five thousand dollars, soon to be Ashley’s, is now in my account.

I try to hurry the conversation along with the dean so I can get to the bank. Truth be told, I’m not listening much to what he has to say. I rarely cared what he had to say when he was my boss. I certainly don’t now. I always found him to be more interested in extolling his own virtues and accomplishments than actually providing anything of value to the department. He is decent at managing the department, though. My status is such in the political community that he cannot do much to enhance or harm my reputation.

As he talks, my mind races through other thoughts. If I can just make it through this week, everything should settle down. I ponder what I will tell the Fischer family this evening and, more specifically, what I will tell Stacie.

After the dean dismisses me, I race to the faculty parking lot. I’m hungry but decide to go to the bank first. With a reckless right foot, I tear out of the parking lot and down the street. After I take a left onto Congress Avenue, I slam on my brakes, coming within an inch of hitting the car in front of me. The street is backed up for at least a mile. My face burns with frustration. What would cause a traffic jam at noon? It has to be a wreck or construction. I strain to see what’s ahead. I can make out some police cars. It looks like some officers are directing traffic.

I inch forward and see something that makes my blood boil and causes me to laugh at the same time. A person on the side of the road is holding a sign that reads “Occupy Austin. I’ll believe corporations are people when Texas executes one.”

My blood boils, not because I disagree with this movement, but because this protest is causing me to be late to the bank. I laugh for a couple of reasons. First, the sign is funny. Second, and of some irony to me, is the notion of how people within the movement and those outside of it misunderstood the movement. People outside the movement, typically conservatives or Tea Party members, misunderstand it as a Marxist revolt or people who are too lazy to work wanting free benefits from society. True, there may be some of those in the movement, but they aren’t the ones chiefly responsible for the movement. They are simply happy participants. Those in the movement think they are bringing reform by attacking the rich people on Wall Street or the mega banks. They believe their efforts will reform capitalism into a moral capitalism.

The truth, as I discovered while reading Andrew’s material, is that the movement is driven by the Principal. There is more money and power behind the Occupy group than anyone could imagine. It is part of a phase to destabilize global financial and government institutions. Controllable revolutions and protests are a fundamental design of the Principal. Ultimately, they need the public to not only buy into their vision and plans but to become active participants. With one hand, the Principal incites and funds these movements, and with the other, they provide plans to the people in power to eliminate these movements. In the end, they want both groups to turn to them for answers. It’s a brilliant strategy, but it requires an incredible amount of money and resources. Two things of which the Principal has plenty.

I decide to park and walk to the bank. It’s clear that no one is making it through the street. The protesters are marching or sitting in the middle of the street. The police are focused on keeping the peace, and traffic is being diverted to other roads. It’s impossible not to walk through the crowd. Some chant at me, some hurl insults, some try to recruit me, and some completely ignore me. It’s in that moment, though, that I realize the gift I’ve been given. But it may not be a gift at all. Perhaps it’s a curse.

As I look into the eyes of an eighteen to twenty-year-old woman with dirty hair, dirty clothes, and thin arms, I can tell that these aren’t her eyes but the eyes of something far more sinister. I’ve seen these eyes before. In Lucifer’s lair. In Danielle. Demon eyes. I realize that I can see when people are actively possessed by demons. The mark on my arm burns, but I hardly notice it.

I can’t pull my eyes from her as I walk. Not paying attention to where I’m walking, I bump into a large bald man. His shirt reads “Where’s the love, now?” I notice it because it’s about eye level with me. I bounce off of his chest and look up at him. His eyes are demon-possessed as well. He gives me an evil smile and steps toward me. At that moment, I realize Lucifer’s disciples are watching me. I wonder if that is what I saw in the lair when they dissolved into the walls. Were they going to inhabit someone? I quickly look away from the man. I’m being surveilled, and I don’t like it. I try to move quickly through the crowd, but it feels like the crowd is coming closer to me, surrounding me. I speed up, but only to find myself in more congested areas. I finally see an opening to the right and dart for it.

I have to stop to catch my breath. There’s a policeman on a horse, directing the crowd away from me. I’m thankful to be away from the crowd, but I know I’m still being watched. I rush into the bank, breathing heavily with anxiety. I’m sure the tellers think I’m frightened from the commotion outside, but the crowd poses no threat to me. It’s Lucifer that frightens me.

The process of getting that much cash is difficult, to say the least. Even though I had talked with the manager ahead of time, and even though I was assured everything would be in order, it still takes time and some paperwork to get the money. With the cash in hand, I leave the bank and take a roundabout way to get back to my car.

I decide to stop at a hole-in-the-wall bar and grill and have something to drink with my late lunch. The bourbon is awful, but the burger makes up for it.

While I’m eating, a Hispanic man in slacks and a polo sits at a table across from me. I glimpse his eyes and I know. Lucifer’s minions have tracked me down. I try to ignore it by having another bourbon and Coke. When I’m done eating, I walk by the man and say, “I know what you’re doing here.”

“What’s your problem?” he says as I walk out the door.

I wasn’t talking to him, though, and the thing I was talking to knows what my problem is.

I decide to take an even longer walk to allow the alcohol to wear off. When I finally get back to my car, I drive to my apartment. Inside, I walk past the kitchen counter, set down my phone, keys, and wallet, walk straight into the bedroom, flop down on the bed, and go to sleep. By the time I wake up, it’s five thirty, an hour before I’m to be at the Fischers’ home.

I drive with one eye on my rearview mirror. To make sure no one is following me, I go down some side roads where I can’t see any traffic for miles. Once I’m convinced no one is around, I drive to the Fischers’ house.

Therese opens the door and flashes a wonderful, inviting smile. I kiss her cheek and think how lucky Mike is. “Let me go get Mike. Have a seat in the living room,” she says. As she starts walking away, though, she pauses and says, “Thomas, I’m afraid for you. Whatever is going on, it isn’t sitting well with me.”

I flash her a smile. “I appreciate your concern. I know you care. I wish you could convert that concern into confidence in me, though.”

She stares at me briefly and walks down the hall, returning with Mike behind her. “I’ll let you two talk. I’m going into the kitchen to practice converting concern into confidence,” she says with a smile walking out of the room.

Mike walks to the bar, grabs the flight information, and hands it to me. “Here you go,” he says.

“Thanks again, Mike. I really appreciate you doing this.” I hand him some cash to cover the ticket. He takes it without protest, which I appreciate.

Mike says, “Listen, Stacie couldn’t make it tonight.” Sensing my disappointment, he says, “She wanted to, but she had something to take care of. She asked if we could stop by your apartment on Saturday morning.”

“We?” I ask.

“Yeah, we,” he says. “I think she’s uncomfortable with everything. Don’t worry. I’ll find a time to slip away and let the two of you talk. Will Saturday morning work?”

I can’t resist the opportunity for one last conversation with her. “Yes, that’ll be fine. I need to get this ticket to Ashley, but I can make it work. Maybe the two of you can come over to my place before I meet Ashley. Can you be at my place by nine?”

Mike and I talk for a few minutes. He gently questions me about what’s going on. Finally, he relents. But then he gets sentimental on me, which I’m not prepared to handle.

“Tom, it’s been a pleasure to be your friend. I hope you know that. I hope you also know that if you ever find yourself in a bind, you can call on me day or night. I hope you don’t completely cut us off.”

But I know that I must cut them off. “Thanks, Mike. You’re a good friend. All that I would ask of you now is that you take care of your family. They should be your primary concern.”

“You’re also my family,” he says.

I can’t take anymore. I thank him and tell him I’m looking forward to Saturday, and then I walk out of the door for what I know will be the last time. Before I go, Mike hands me a piece of paper. The only thing written on it is “Revelation 12:7–12.”

“Just read it,” he says.

Stepping onto the front porch of the Fischers’ home, I again have a strange sensation that I’m under surveillance. It’s a dark night with no moon visible through the clouds. The air is cool and the breeze has picked up. There will be a storm tonight. I peer into the darkness, not knowing what I expect to see. I try to convince myself that it’s nothing more than my imagination, but I know better.

I quickly get into the car and check the backseat. For much of my life, I’ve been haunted by a scene from a movie in which a woman drives her car on a dark night and suddenly sees in her rearview mirror a killer in the backseat. I’m determined not to make that mistake, regardless of how remote the possibility. There is no one in the backseat. I breathe a little easier.

I’m driving on a winding road when I feel the scar on my arm begin to burn. I try to ignore it and concentrate on my driving. A few large drops of water hit the windshield. The pain becomes more intense, and I know he is near, calling me. I look down at the scar and see that it’s turning bright red.