James snapped his head back up. He had been falling asleep. Somehow his head had fallen down to his chest, listening to his own train of thought about . . . something, something about being happy. As he looked up, Simon was smiling at him still, standing there as if waiting . . .
Waiting for an answer.
James couldn’t remember the question.
“You and I both want to help people, we want to lead people, am I right?” Simon prompted.
“Yes,” said James.
“That’s what life is all about. It’s all really a popularity contest, isn’t it?”
This conversation had turned into an argument of sorts, and James wasn’t sure why. “I don’t think that’s what life is all about at all . . .”
Simon took a step toward him with his eyes were bright. “That’s precisely what it’s about, son. And I’m winning.”
“No, you’re not,” James said.
Simon gave a short snort. “No? Did you just say I’m not winning?”
“Yes.” James wasn’t sure what tug-of-war was going on here, but he needed to stay off Simon’s side of the field. “I said exactly that. Now, I’m not really sure what’s going on here, Simon, but I’ve got to leave now. I don’t usually allow people to hang out in the church when I’m not around. So, if you don’t mind . . .”
“You look here, priest,” Simon growled, raising a finger.
“Priests . . .” James started to say, only to have his voice crack. He cleared his throat and started over. “Priests are part of the Catholic church. I’m a pastor. You know that.”
Simon stopped, still with his hand in the air, mouth open to say something that never came out. Then he laughed. “Oh, you’re good. I haven’t had a challenge like you since I was down in Florida.”
James gaped at the man. “What are you talking about?”
“Little town called St. Joseph. Ever been there?”
Simon stood between James and the door, so he had no choice but to remain calm.
“No?” Simon continued. “I suppose not. Of course you’ve missed your chance now since everyone there is dead or moved on. The priest there, he thought he was winning too.” Simon laughed again, and it echoed around the wood-paneled walls of the room. “You amuse me. I appreciate a challenge. This is going to be fun.”
Clearly he was witnessing Simon having a mental breakdown of some sort. James’ hands started to shake. He shoved them into the pockets of his jeans to steady them just as Simon took a menacing step toward him. James held his ground. “I really don’t have time for games, Simon.”
“Yes, yes. You do. You have all the time in the world.” Simon shook his head. “And I have more than that.”
A dark, disturbing thought clouded James’ mind.
Simon read it in his face and smiled. “Ah, Reverend. You’ve figured it out. You know what I am. I mean, what I really am! There’s always one or two that can tell right off. But it took you a little longer . . .”
No. It couldn’t be.
“Sure it can,” Simon said as if he could hear James’ thoughts, standing there and tapping his foot with impatience. “Say it.”
James didn’t want to know, but he couldn’t erase the answer once it came to him. “You . . . you are . . .”
“Come on, now. Say my name. Say it.”
“You’re nuts, that is what you are,” James blurted out. “And I’m telling you to get out of my church right now.”
Simon laughed long, hard and mockingly, but began backing down the aisle toward the double door. “You know what I am, priest! I’m here and I’m going to challenge you for the souls of this town!”
With those final words Simon spun around, his long coat swirling behind him, threw open the double door and was gone.
James listened as the doors slammed together with a loud and empty thud that echoed through the now empty church.
His heart raced.
He turned toward the giant cross hanging at the other side of the room and sank to his knees. “Dear Lord, please give me the strength to help this man for he seems to be truly disturbed. Let me protect the good people of this parish from his intents whatever they may be.” James hesitated. “And, Lord, if he is who I think he may be . . .”
‘Say my name,’ Simon had said.
“Satan,” James breathed now. “Lord, if he truly is Satan . . . I beg You for all the strength you can give. Amen.”
Chapter Eleven
THE CLOCK ABOVE JAMES’ bedroom door ticked away the seconds.
He couldn’t sleep.
He shifted from one side to his back and then to the other side.
His mind wouldn’t let him sink into unconsciousness. How was he supposed to handle the situation with Simon? He had never dealt with someone under the influence of drugs or mentally ill and experiencing such delusions.
And the alternative—that Simon was telling the truth!
Was he out of his depth?
At five a.m., James finally gave up on sleep and took County Route 27 south about forty-five miles to a secluded spot where he liked to go when he needed to be alone. His head was cloudy from lack of sleep and a sandy scraping happened behind his eyelids every time he blinked.
As much as he loved his church and believed that fellowship and unity was the way to draw closer to God, sometimes he felt God’s presence stronger in nature. God was the only one who could help him now. He needed to talk to Him alone.
Just past the neighboring town of Oak Falls was a brown and yellow wooden sign that marked his destination—Oak Falls Wilderness Trail. He parked his Jetta in the gravel lot on the side of the road and stepped out into the cool dawn, breathing in the scent of pine, and reveling in the silence. No one else was here this early, and that pleased him. He swung his backpack over his shoulder and headed to the trailhead.
The early morning breeze was refreshing. The pent up energy that had built up overnight blew away in thin strands as he crunched his way along a pine-needled trail through the shrubbery that lined the sloping hill. Recycled railroad ties demarked the edges of the trail, and a distant roaring reverberation dampened the sounds of small animals and birds awakening in the forest.
At a brisk walk it took him fifteen minutes to get to his favorite spot on the side of a hill where a rock outcropping looked out on a forty-foot wide, shallow waterfall, slightly too tall to be treated as a rapids, but that didn’t stop the occasional daredevil from trying.
Vacant now, the waterfall was graceful and elegant—a determined strip of white and gray in an otherwise green countryside. It had a fairytale-like quality. But at the same time it wielded unfathomable strength, enduring time, wind and weather, crashing down without a doubt of its existence, without a question of its destination, into the water below.
It reminded James of his trust in God.
The rising sun warmed the skin on his face and thawed the solid block of fear that had lodged in his chest. The breeze caressed his skin, and the steady roar of the waterfall pounding against the rocks below was soothing.
From his backpack James pulled out a leather-bound journal that had somehow withstood the tests of time. He gently ran a hand over the front cover before he opened the book. It was smoothed over by the many other hands that had held it before him. Inside, the pages were old and yellowed, revealing a collection of prayers scribbled down in different handwriting styles.
His father had given it to him just before he was deployed to Kuwait to fight in Operation Dessert Storm. It had been in his family for generations, passed from father to son when the time was right, and it contained a prayer for almost any situation. James referred to it often. It was a gift to have the right words to turn to when he couldn’t find the words himself.
He paged through the journal, skimming across prayers until he found the one he was looking for and began to read. “Almighty and Merciful God, I come before You this early morning in the name of Jesus Christ, asking that You look upon me and hear me for His sake, fo
r I am not worthy to ask anything from You for my own sake. O glorious Captain of my salvation, arm me for my conflict with Satan—for he is too cunning for me. O Lord, teach me his devices—for he is too mighty for me. You have destroyed the devil and his works. I believe in Your victory. Make me strong in the grace that is in You so that I may not fear evil. Send me out against him armed with Your invincible armor. Strengthen me O Lord that I fail not through the length or sharpness of battle, and enable me to persevere till You discharge me from the war. Thus, in a constant dependence upon You, would I fight the good fight of faith—keep up communion with You—and in every battle grow more acquainted with my wants and more thankful for every supply. O Lord, I humbly pray You hear my prayers for Thy mercy’s sake. Amen.”
James sat in silence for a few moments and took in the serenity.
“Lord, please show me my path.”
He waited for an answer.
“Please, Lord. I’m not sure what to do.”
Still no answer.
“I know this is a test, Lord, but I could use a little help.”
As the sunlight broke through the trees and lit the waterfall like a sea of diamonds, it dawned on him. Why didn’t he think of that before?
“Of course! Thank you Lord.”
Chapter Twelve
BRANSON’S REACTION WAS CALM and thoughtful, much to James’ dismay. “Have you mentioned this to anyone else?”
“No.”
“Keep it that way, you hear me?”
James blinked and shook his head. “But we have to do something. We have to help this town!”
Branson pursed his lips and nodded gravely. “Listen, James. You and I, we can talk about these things. We are men of the church. We know that God is real and that the devil is real. We can both agree on that. But you start telling people that Satan himself is walking the streets of our little town . . . they’re going to think you’re crazy.”
“Maybe I am,” James said. He slumped against the table and toyed with his glass of lemonade. Branson was right. The world in general might like to think there was a God out there, somewhere, looking down to help things along and intervene when it came time to pick lottery numbers, but the devil had gone out of fashion years ago.
“Okay, I understand all that.” James set his glass aside and leaned in closer to his mentor. “But what do we do about this? This guy, this Simon Paradis, at the very least thinks he’s the devil. He has spent the last week making friends with everyone in my parish and now he’s going to go around trying to mess with people’s lives. We’ve got to do something.”
Branson leaned back in his chair. “Like what?”
James waved his hands helplessly. “What do you mean ‘Like what?’ We’ve got to warn people. We can’t just sit back and do nothing!”
“What do you propose doing, James? You want to go at him all crosses blazing and holy water spraying? What are you going to show the members of your church? That you’re a crazy man, that’s what. This Simon is most likely just some poor old soul who has a drug problem.”
“He didn’t seem high.”
“And you base that on what? Your years of experience with people with substance abuse issues?”
James looked at his friend and mentor, hurt. Branson’s words hit him in the chest like a fist.
“I’m sorry,” Branson quickly added when he realized what he’d implied. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
James held up his hand. “It’s okay.”
Nearly three years had passed, but the hysterical call from his mom asking him to come home was still fresh in his mind. When he rushed home from the university that night there were police cars in front of his house. Flashing red and blue lights painted the street in foreboding colors.
James ran inside and found his mother on the couch—her eyes were swollen and her face stained with mascara tears.
He still couldn’t remember the sequence of events clearly. Everything had seemed like a movie being played at the wrong speed.
Drugs, the police had said.
Suicide.
His baby sister was dead.
What really struck him then, and to this day, was the realization that the last time he’d seen Julia, he hadn’t even made an effort to say good-bye properly. She’d been getting ready for a party and was upset that he wouldn’t give her any money. They’d argued briefly—an increasingly common occurrence in their relationship the last few months, and he’d waved a hand at her dismissively and left.
If only he’d taken the time to notice that she hadn’t been okay. If only he’d recognized that something was wrong, that she was depressed, he might have been able to help her.
That was the moment he decided to follow in Branson’s footsteps and become a pastor. He wouldn’t let another life slip through his fingers again. He wasn’t strong enough to do it by himself, but through the Word of God he could help those who still had a chance.
That year James finished his last semester at the University of San Diego and graduated with a heavy weight on his shoulders. Heavier than any young man at the start of his life should bear.
The San Diego County Crushers, Triple-A baseball team had offered him a two-year contract in the Pacific Coast Minor Leagues, but that kind of life, those kinds of dreams, suddenly seemed small. He wouldn’t be able to make a difference playing baseball. He turned down the offer, moved to New York, and enrolled in Bible College.
James shook his head and tried to snap back to the present, to the problem at hand. “I’m telling you there’s something not right about this guy.”
“Son, I’m sure there is. But do you really think this guy might really be Satan? Ol’ Scratch himself? Come to our little town in the middle of nowhere to do just what exactly? Mess with your mind? What did you do to attract that kind of attention?”
James turned his glass of lemonade, watching the condensation drops from the cool glass puddle on the table.
Branson leaned forward. “Listen son, the world is full of people who are messed up for all kinds of reasons. It is all part of the free will God gave us. Some of us follow His Word, some of us worship another—like drugs or money, or fame. Some of us are unbalanced and can’t think right for some reason or another. Those are the ones that need our help. I think this Simon may be one of those. Help him, James. Don’t fear him. You think this guy needs to be stopped? Then you stop him. But you do it quietly. No need to involve other folks in this.”
“So how do I do that?”
Branson shrugged. “I’m sure we can figure it out, you and me. Let’s start with this. Where’s this guy staying?”
“I’m not sure . . . But he said he was going to dinner tonight at the Larsons . . .”
He glanced at the time on his phone. Just after five o’clock. Which meant Simon was probably there with Sally and Ben right now.
He looked at Branson, panicked. “I need to go . . .”
PART TWO
Be alert and of sober mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.
— 1 Peter 5:8 (NIV)
Chapter Thirteen
JAMES STOOD ON THE white washed porch and knocked repeatedly on the Larson’s front door, trying to get a look in through the diamond shaped window.
“Just a moment,” Sally Larson called out.
He released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
When the door opened, Sally stood there, smiling blankly. Her graying hair was neat as usual and she was dressed nicely. “Hello, Reverend Buchman. How are you tonight?” she asked. Her words were flat with no inflection in them. Her eyes looked at James but did not focus on him.
“I’m . . . fine, Sally. Thank you for asking. May I come in?”
“I’m really busy, Reverend,” she said immediately, in the same disinterested tone. “I have a lot to do for our guest. He’s going to be renting our upstairs room. Isn’t that wonderful? You have a good night now.” And she started to shut the
door.
“Sally, wait . . .” James said.
To his surprise she did wait, a hesitation that seemed to stretch her muscles as she tried shutting the door and holding it open at the same time.
“Uh, how is Ben?”
“Ben?” Sally asked, looking confused.
“Yes, Ben. Your husband.”
“My husband?” Sally blinked and her eyes came into focus. “Oh, my, Reverend Buchman! When did you get here?”
He smiled, relief flushing through him. “Just now, Sally. Just now. May I come in?”
“Of course! It’s so good to see you. What brings you by? Please, won’t you come in?”
He stepped through the door, feeling he had won some small victory in a game whose rules he still didn’t understand.
Sally led him inside to their living room. The space had always spoken to him of warmth and home. The two couches had red floral designs on them that matched the curtains. The fireplace was made of white bricks and was stacked with a few ceramic logs, meant for decoration and not for use. The rug was white and walls were a faint green. It was an inviting place to be.
The only blemish on the whole place was Simon, relaxing on one couch with his feet up on the Larson’s coffee table and that same infuriating smile on his face.
“Hello, Reverend,” Simon smiled smugly at him. “We certainly weren’t expecting to see you here. I’m not sure if there’s enough for dinner, is there Sally?”
Simon turned his gaze to Sally, who blinked as if she’d been touched by an unseen hand. Simon waited for her to say something.
So did James.
“Now, Mr. Paradis, I don’t think it’s very kind of you to speak to the Reverend like that,” Sally said at last.
The look of pure surprise on Simon’s face filled James with glee he was barely able to hide.
“And why do you have your feet on my coffee table?” Sally went on sternly. “Please, put your feet down. If you’re going to stay here with us, you might want to show some proper manners!”
The Devil's Game Page 4
