Full of pride, he had rebelled against God and been cast down from Heaven. But if the Devil was supposed to be stuck down in Hell, watching Adolf Hitler roast on a spit or whatever else the Lord of the Underworld did to occupy his spare time, what was he doing buying mansions in Hancock Park and driving me around in a car worth more than a quarter-million dollars? (I looked up that little fact, too…curiosity had compelled me to see just how extravagant that Bentley really was.)
A cold, sick feeling started to grow in my stomach. I’d already agreed to see him again, and even if I thought I could summon up the courage to call things off, I had no way of reaching him. At any rate, he didn’t strike me as the sort of person who would take no for an answer. He’d certainly maneuvered me easily enough into dinner and a promise to go out with him a second time.
All right, look at this logically, I told myself. So you’ve dug up some information about him that’s less than encouraging. It’s all secondhand data as far as you know. He could just be the victim of some really bad press.
Of course, that sort of thinking only made me sound as if I’d swung into serious Queen of Denial mode. Who was I to refute centuries — millennia, really — of folklore and religious beliefs? All I had to go on was the fact that he’d rescued me on my birthday, given me a much more pleasant evening than I could have expected, and then sent me flowers the next day. Not exactly the actions of the Ultimate Evil, but several of the entries I’d read about Lucifer mentioned that he was the father of deception. This could all just be a really big buildup to some kind of horrible fate.
Jesus — the art assistant — stuck his head in my office door. “Christa.”
I must have jumped about a foot.
“Geez, are you okay?”
“Fine,” I lied, forcing the air back into my lungs. “What’s up?”
He gave me a quizzical look. “You seem a little jumpy.”
“I guess I was thinking about something else.”
“Something a million miles away, it looked like.”
Maybe even farther than that, I thought. Who knows how far away Heaven and Hell really are?
“Michael wanted to know if you had the layout for the restaurant review in your office. He needs to swap out one of the images.”
I shook my head. “I haven’t gotten it back yet, so it must still be on Roger’s desk somewhere. Good luck finding it.”
Jesus sighed. “Great. If he’s lost another layout — ” And, still muttering to himself, he wandered off down the hallway toward Roger’s office.
Roger McKinley was the executive editor of the magazine. He knew his stuff, and he was a great writer, but he was probably the least organized person I had ever met. Filing systems lasted about five minutes in his office. Story envelopes, layouts, even complete contacts notebooks had been known to disappear into his domain, never to be seen again. The staff had started calling his office the “Bermuda Triangle.” Of course, since the workflow was mostly electronic, we could always print things out again if necessary. But that meant whatever markups the feature editors might have put on those layouts were lost and would have to be done all over again — not the sort of thing you want to be faced with at the end of the day when you’re just trying to get the hell out of Dodge. Still, somehow we managed to get the magazine out without killing Roger. If it weren’t that he was actually a fairly likable guy, he would have been marked for death after his first week on the job.
At least Jesus’ interruption had gotten my mind off whatever torments Luke might or might not have planned for me. In fact, somehow I managed to summon a sort of fatalistic approach to the whole thing. If he really had an inventive and cruel plot in place for my imminent demise, there probably wasn’t much I could do about it. Mortals tended to get the short end of the stick when going up against higher powers, no matter what the movies might say to the contrary.
On the other hand, I didn’t see anything wrong with trying to get a little divine help on my side….
Don’t ask me why I immediately thought of going to a Catholic church. Maybe it was just more influence from the movies; whenever you saw people fighting the Devil, they tended to be Catholic. I mean, the Exorcist sure wasn’t a Southern Baptist.
Danny happened to be a practicing Catholic, which was strike one against the Church in my book. In this day and age, he managed to be one of the few young men left on the planet who still believed that premarital sex was a quick ticket to Hell. That actually worked for me in a weird way, since if we’d gone to bed together I would have had an even tougher time writing him off. Frustrated libido or not, avoiding physical intimacy did keep a relationship on a certain level.
But because of Danny I knew there was a Catholic church not too far from where I worked, and also because of him I knew that it was open for confession between five and six on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. I didn’t know if having the Devil buy me dinner was grounds for confession, but if nothing else it would give me direct contact with a priest without having to make an appointment.
I felt more than a little strange pulling into the parking lot. After all, the only times in my life I’d even been in a church were at weddings and funerals, and not many of those, either. My mother was born in Southern California, so her family all still lived here, but my dad was originally from Baltimore, and we didn’t have much interaction with that side of the family.
At any rate, the last time I’d actually been inside a church was for my cousin Marissa’s wedding, and that had been almost two years ago. Since she and I were the same age, I’d been the recipient of numerous pitying stares and the ever-popular “so when are you going to get married?” questions. I’d ended up drinking way too much champagne to blot out the ignominy of the whole situation and finally barfed in the women’s bathroom. Luckily, no one had seen me, and I managed to escape without anyone knowing what I’d done, but I’d taken a dim view of weddings — and churches — ever since.
At least this building’s architecture was beautiful; as with so many other churches in Southern California, it was constructed in the Mediterranean style, with a red tile roof and clean white stucco exterior. Since by that time of day the sun had long since set, I could see the stained-glass windows lit up from within, glowing blue and red and gold in the dark. I welcomed the coming of evening because it made distinguishing facial features that much more difficult. I didn’t really expect to see anyone I knew, but anything that reduced my risk of discovery was all right by me.
Trying to move as if I actually knew what I was doing, I walked from the parking lot into the main church building. One other woman entered just ahead of me and made her way to a set of three dark wood cubicles off to one side. I assumed those must be the confession booths, and hung back to watch as she pushed the curtain on the center one aside and went in.
All right. That seemed simple enough. I chose the one to the left and then sat down on the little bench inside. It was close and dark and smelled faintly of incense; good thing I wasn’t claustrophobic.
I thought I heard movement on the other side of the little carved grille that separated priest and penitent, but since I had absolutely no idea what to do, I just sat there, waiting, until someone cleared his throat and said, “Bless you, my child. Are you here to confess?” His voice sounded quiet and kind, with a faint accent I couldn’t place.
Well, there was a good question. What did I actually have to confess? That I’d spoken with the Devil, allowed him to buy me dinner and apparently fill my gas tank? Were those mortal sins? I knew there was some sort of ritual involved here, and I racked my brains, trying to recall what I’d seen or read about confessions in the various films and books I’d absorbed over the years.
“Um….” I hedged. Finally some bits and pieces started to come back to me. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned….” I knew something else was supposed to come after that, but for the life of me I couldn’t recall what.
A few seconds of silence. Then the priest asked, “H
ow long has it been since your last confession?”
Oh, right. I should have remembered that. The only problem was that of course I’d never been to confession before. Would he throw me out if I told him I wasn’t even Catholic? “I don’t remember,” I replied, feeling more and more as if this had been a really stupid idea. “I actually came here to ask a question — to get some spiritual guidance.”
Again the priest didn’t say anything right away. I heard another throat clearing, and then he spoke. “What is it, my child?”
If I told him the truth he’d think I was completely nuts. I was fairly certain that whatever a priest heard during confession was completely confidential — sort of a holy attorney/client privilege — but I didn’t want to risk a visit to the rubber room, either. Just in case.
“I was just wondering whether — that is, I just wanted to know if you had any advice on dealing with the Devil.”
“Excuse me, my child?” The accent sounded a little more pronounced. Latin American of some sort, but it didn’t sound Mexican exactly. Maybe from somewhere in South America?
“Well, okay, I know there’s exorcism, but since I’m not actually possessed — ”
“The Devil represents temptation,” the priest said, sounding as if he were trying to latch onto the only thing I’d said that might have made sense. “Trust in God, and He will give you the strength to resist such temptation.”
I hadn’t paid much attention to God in my life. Somehow I’d always thought if He really did exist, He and I could work out any minor transgressions somewhere down the road. But I didn’t think a statement like that would go over too well with a priest, so I just asked, “So…you’re saying I should pray for help?”
“Prayer is your connection to the Holy Spirit,” he said promptly. “By praying, you open yourself to God. If you are filled with God’s love and his strength, then you can avoid the temptations of the Devil.”
The priest obviously had no idea I was speaking literally of the Devil, not the temptations that people thought led from him, but I decided the point wasn’t worth arguing.
Logic suggested that if there were a Devil, then there must be a God as well. And since Luke had actually spoken of some sort of rules, then it would follow that Someone must have set them. Did God know the Devil was here in Los Angeles, luring lonely females to their doom? Did He care? Or was there something else going on here that I simply hadn’t figured out yet?
I had no idea whether my case merited divine intervention. Then again, asking for help couldn’t hurt, either.
“Thank you, Father,” I said at last. “I’ll try that.”
There was a soft sound from behind the latticed grille, as if the priest had uneasily shifted his weight. “If you’re in some sort of trouble, child — ”
“I’m all right,” I said. “That helped a lot. Really.”
And before he could say anything else, I slid out of the booth and headed for the nearest exit in a clumsy run/walk. I didn’t want to risk him asking any other potentially awkward questions.
I’d never prayed before in my life, except for those rare moments when even agnostics send some sort of plea out into the universe. Please, God, let me get into UCLA even though I blew chunks on the math portion of my SAT. Please, God, let me sneak into the house at 3 a.m. without getting caught by my parents. Please, God, let that not be the sound of my transmission failing.
You know, that kind of thing.
Still, as I slid into the driver’s seat of my car and turned the key in the ignition, I did as the priest had instructed. I clenched the steering wheel and thought, Please, God, help me. Tell me what I should do.
Of course I got no reply.
Chapter Four
Either God was occupied with more important things, or He had just decided my case didn’t warrant any direct help. I went home, nuked a Lean Cuisine for dinner, and watched TV because I was too stressed out to try to read or do anything else constructive. I’d halfway been expecting some other sign of Luke’s affections — a box of chocolates, more flowers, maybe my rent paid for the next year — but everything was as it should be, as far as I could tell. What I really should have done was put in a good hour at the gym, because I knew that too many more meals like the one I’d had on my birthday, and I could kiss my size-six jeans good-bye. However, when push came to shove (i.e., when I crossed the intersection where I should have turned right to go to 24-Hour Fitness), I just couldn’t do it. As far as I could tell, being in shape was highly overrated. It certainly hadn’t helped my love life any.
The next day passed without any flowers, or anything else out of the ordinary. Oh, there was some minor drama at work when the press passes for the fundraising gala at the Museum of Natural History went missing, but they eventually turned up — you guessed it — buried under the rubble on Roger’s desk. And so it went. I did whatever work crossed my desk, surfed the Internet, and posted another entry on my private blog about my adventures in Catholicism.
So I went to a priest for help, which even at the time I thought was really reaching, but I didn’t know what else to do. I should have known I wasn’t going to get any helpful advice. Maybe there are still some priests out there who believe in the Devil as a real entity, or at least a real force in the universe, rather than the inner voice of our lesser selves, but I didn’t get one of those today, that’s for sure. And of course I couldn’t be specific, couldn’t tell him what’s really going on.
Not that the priest would have believed me anyway. I have a hard time believing all this myself, and I’ve met Luke, heard him casually admit that he’s the Devil. I guess I figured a priest would have some insight on this sort of thing, and really, who else can I even talk to about this? Nina would think I’ve gone completely batshit crazy if I tried to tell her, and she’s the only person I would even try to confide in. Micaela’s so busy, she doesn’t need to hear about my problems, and Jennifer’s wrapped up in her wedding plans, and…
Oh, well. Looks like I’m flying solo on this one.
That day I did force myself to go to the gym, even though I crapped out after about thirty-five minutes. Still, thirty-five minutes was better than nothing, and I felt a little bit better about myself by the time I was done. I let myself in my apartment, listened to my one and only phone message (from Nina, trying to schedule a belated birthday dinner now that her sinuses had finally unclamped), and then opened up my laptop so I could check my email.
Mostly it was the usual junk, the stuff that gets through no matter how much your ISP beefs up the spam filters. A few daily logs from a couple of Yahoo groups I belonged to, mostly for writing critique circles to which I had never actually contributed anything. At one point I’d harbored a few random literary ambitions, but as time wore on and I didn’t write anything much beyond the entries in my blog, I realized those dreams were getting as stale as week-old bread.
Then, something from him. The email address was [email protected]. I didn’t know anyone else named Luke, and although he hadn’t given me a last name, this one seemed to fit.
So the Devil’s Italian? I thought, grinning despite myself. I clicked on the email to open it.
One line: Wear comfortable shoes. See you at seven tomorrow.
And that was it.
Comfortable shoes? What the hell? Was he taking me mountain climbing?
The more I thought about it, the more ominous it sounded. I mean, if he were taking me out for another decadent meal, he wouldn’t be worried about my footwear, would he?
Since most of the day had been spent in radio silence, I’d been harboring the vain hope that perhaps he’d decided I wasn’t sport enough and had moved on to bigger and better things. The email, however, shot down that idea pretty effectively. As far as I could tell, the date was definitely still on.
Okay, God, I thought. You can step in here whenever you like. Really.
No answer, of course. Maybe all my years of blissful agnosticism really had ticked Him off.
Nothing from Danny, either, despite his posturing about not giving me up without a fight. Typical. Not that I really wanted to hear from him, but a snotty email or a wounded message on my answering machine would have at least proved that he’d meant what he said.
Fine. I could handle this. After all, no matter what sort of game Luke was playing at, so far he’d done nothing that would have roused my suspicions if he were anyone other than the Devil. Maybe I should stop holding that against him. Maybe he had turned over a new leaf.
Maybe you ought to get your head examined, I told myself. Preferably by someone who’s not Freudian. I can only imagine the field day some shrinks would have with this.
Probably I would have had less contempt for the whole psychoanalysis industry if it weren’t that my father was a very successful psychologist. He certainly hadn’t been able to keep himself from making a mess of his own family. But that was a can of worms for another day.
In the meantime, I had to take stock of my closet and figure out what I had in the way of sensible shoes....
By the time Friday evening rolled around, I was pretty much a bundle of twitching nerves. I made some completely stupid mistakes at work, but luckily one of the editors caught them before I told the art department those articles were okay to go to press.
“Having a bad day?” the feature editor asked as he tossed the marked-up layouts onto my desk.
“Long week,” I said. I really didn’t feel like explaining to Brian Matthews (who was one of those people whose world always seemed perfectly ordered) that I was having some issues in my personal life. Besides, he had problems of his own to deal with. I knew he’d been hoping for the executive editor position and was mightily put out when Roger got it instead. It probably didn’t help that Roger was such a disorganized mess.
Sympathy for the Devil Page 6
