Godless (20 page)

“Peaceful,” Paul said, completing Monica's thought.

“Right. Peaceful.”

Lancelot drew everyone's attention back to the digital board, where he had been writing feverishly. “How about this?” he asked, pointing to the potential slogan.

“Close,” Paul said, standing and approaching the board. He replaced the final word. “There. That's more like it.”

Julia read the final version with dismay.

“Perfect!” Blackbeard announced, voicing the clear consensus of the group.

Paul looked in Julia's direction with a wink.

“Terrific work, Jewel,” he said. “Absolutely terrific!”

Matthew pulled
the damp sheets from his bed and placed them in a bundle on the floor. Then he felt the pillowcase. Soaked with perspiration. Even worse than last time. When was that, a week ago? No, three days earlier. The nightmares had become more frequent and more real.

Drifting away from the shadowy form of a man.

Sinking beneath the surface.

A hideous laughter prompting a frantic effort to resurface.

Then, just before losing all hope, envisioning a way to thwart his own demise. Or at least delay it. Drowning panic became dreadful resolve. He could offer others in his place.

And now, something new. Something darker. In prior dreams the vague “others” had been murky phantoms flailing their arms and legs near the surface, nameless ghosts he could offer as substitutes for himself. But this time they had faces. And the faces appeared asymmetrical, a bit like religious icons he had seen of Jesus or the Virgin Mary. Only they weren't the faces of saviors or saints. They were the faces of Matthew's first three transition clients: Brianna Jackson, his befuddled first, followed by Saul Weinstein and Josephine Green.

Tossing the wet pillowcase onto the pile, Matthew tried to shake the images. The nightmares would pass, he told himself. After all, he wasn't the only person on the planet providing transition assistance. He just needed to give it more time. Three clients was only the beginning of what Ms. Winthrop had promised would prove to be a lucrative career in a growth industry. He believed it based upon the first three commissions already earning interest in his bank account.

Brianna Jackson, the befuddled junk collector, had been worth more than her pigpen of a home had suggested. Based upon the amount deposited into his account, 3 percent of Ms. Jackson's total estate, Matthew figured her brother Blake must have done quite well.

Matthew's second and third clients had had even larger estates, all contributing to the highest balance he had seen in his savings account since before the dark days. Matthew was finally getting back on his feet. He shouldn't let a few silly dreams ruin a good thing.

But he knew they weren't silly. They carried a message. Perhaps even a warning. Of what? He could only guess.

Was God trying to say something?
Don't be ridiculous
! Matthew scolded himself. He no longer believed in God. And even if he did admit a faint inkling of possibility, Matthew had no intention of listening to the one who had ruined his life.

What about the devil? A sadistic, bellowing laughter in the dream had curdled Matthew's blood like that of a trapped fly sensing a thirsty spider's approach. “Satan wants to devour your soul,” he had learned in catechism class. Fortunately Matthew no longer believed in such a person.

Perhaps his subconscious mind was trying to purge scenes it had been forced to endure. After all, Matthew had only ever seen one dead body in his life before taking this job.

Then he remembered. There had been four faces, not three. Janet Adams, Matthew's mother, had been the first. Her eyes had held the same gaze of hesitant trust he recalled from the waiting room at Aspen House Transition Services two years back. Moments before her disappearance into the watery darkness he had recognized a look of betrayal, then terror, on her descending face.

Matthew's pulse quickened from a fear deeper than the one that had drenched his bed. Could the message have come from his mother? Had she haunted his bedroom as Marley had haunted Scrooge? Was she saying now what she hadn't been able to say then?

I was afraid.

I didn't want to die.

He remembered the question he had posed to Professor Vincent shortly before his mom's transition. “Do you consider it suicide if someone volunteers to transition?”

Matthew had been trying to determine whether helping his mother to transition would cause her to commit a mortal sin. He had had enough religious education to know suicide carried some pretty stiff penalties in the afterlife.

“Remember, Mr. Adams,” the professor had said, “there's no such thing as a mortal sin. Just hard choices.”

He sensed a different answer ricochet from his mother's terror-stricken gaze.

You sent me to hell!

“No!” Matthew shouted.

If a good God like the one Father Tomberlin described did exist, he certainly wouldn't send a woman suffering from dementia to hell just because she had put an end to her miserable existence.

But deep down Matthew knew what he had refused to let himself believe. His mother hadn't made the choice. Not really. Sure, she had technically approved the procedure. The decision, however, had been his.

Another thought invaded. What if the fear in his mother's eyes had not been about her own demise, but about Matthew's fate?

“Nonsense!” he said. Helping one's aging mother with “hard choices” was part of a son's role. She hadn't been able to make such a decision on her own. She needed his help. And his courage.

The other faces came to mind. They, too, had needed his help. His courage.

You killed me, Son.

“No!” Even if he had nudged her toward volunteering he had done nothing illegal or, he told himself, immoral. He had simply freed her to thrive outside the prison of a decaying body.

Volunteers deserved honor, not eternal damnation. And those who helped them transition should be celebrated, not haunted. That's what he believed. And that's what he would tell whatever God, devil, or ghostly aberration was behind his nightmare.

So why, he wondered, did he still feel a rising sense of dread?

Alex sat
up with a start. He hadn't noticed Mrs. Mayhew's approach.

“I'm sorry,” he said while moving the tablet away from her snooping gaze. “Did you say something?”

She frowned. “Must be pretty interesting. I knocked twice.”

More like infuriating
, he thought. An updated summary from Phil Crawford explained that three more families had decided to make Christ Community Church a transition beneficiary.

“What is it, Mrs. Mayhew?” Alex asked, eyes tightly closed. He hoped it was nothing that required mental engagement.

“Your appointment.”

“Appointment?”

“The one I made for you this morning.”

“You didn't tell me about any…” He stopped. “Let me guess, you put a note on my door.”

“I did,” she said with a self-satisfied grin.

He tapped an icon on his tablet to find an empty calendar. “But you didn't enter it into my schedule?”

“I didn't,” she said just as proudly.

He pressed his eyes shut again. “May I ask why?”

“Because you told me to stick a note on your door whenever I scheduled a last-minute appointment.”

“Yes. In addition to placing it on my calendar, put a note on the door.”

She rolled her eyes. “That'd be redundant.”

“When did you make the appointment?”

“An hour ago.”

“I've been in my office for two.”

She smiled vacantly, clearly missing the point.

“Never mind,” he said. “Who am I seeing?”

“That young man who came before. Frank.” She began to whisper. “If you ask me, he looks like he needs one of those mood enhancement implants, the kind they gave my sister-in-law. Made a world of difference in her general demeanor and—”

“Thank you, Mrs. Mayhew,” Alex interrupted. “Please send him in.”

She remained a moment longer, grabbing a pen and piece of scratch paper from Alex's desk.

“Mrs. Mayhew,” he said.

She finished her scribbling. “Send him here,” she said, handing him the scrap of paper. It had a clinic name written on it. “It'll do him a world of good.”

Alex accepted the note while forcing a smile of gratitude.

“I'm glad to see you again, Frank,” the pastor said after inviting his guest to sit. “Although a bit surprised.”

The man shifted nervously in the chair. “Listen,” he said. “About last time, I shouldn't have left so abruptly. I apologize.”

“Accepted,” Alex replied with a wink. “So, what brings you back?”

The man leaned slowly forward. Alex matched his guest's posture. Their eyes met.

Something had changed in the week since he'd last seen the man. He appeared more haggard, as if he hadn't eaten or slept.

Frank finally spoke. “I came here because I don't have anyone else I can talk to about spiritual stuff.”

“Spiritual stuff?”

“Sorry,” he said. “I don't mean any disrespect. It's just that, well, I used to talk to my mother's priest. But he's no longer an option.”

“So you were Catholic?”

A single nod.

“What happened?”

Frank sat upright again. “I don't know. I guess I outgrew it or something.”

“I see.”

“Anyway, I can't talk to him anymore.”

“So you came to me.”

Another nod. Then silence.

“I'm listening,” Alex prodded.

The man glanced to each side of the room as if to confirm privacy. “Do you remember when I told you I had been having nightmares?”

“I do.”

“They've become worse,” Frank continued. “Darker.”

“I seem to recall you saying that you couldn't recall details from the dream,” said Alex. “Just the fear and anger.”

“That's why I wanted to talk to you. They've suddenly become more vivid. And they stay with me.”

“Do you want to tell me about them?”

Frank slowly shook his head. There was fear in his eyes, and in his voice. “I don't think I should do that.”

“But you said you wanted to talk about—”

“I want to ask some questions,” Frank interrupted. “Like I said, about spiritual stuff.”

“That's fine,” Alex said, somewhat puzzled. “What do you want to know?”

“What can you tell me about icons?”

The question surprised Alex. “I know a little. We don't use them at Christ Community, but they're pretty common in certain Christian traditions. Why do you ask?”

Frank hesitated as if wrestling with how much detail to share. Then he glanced around the room. His eyes landed on an image. He pointed. “I saw something like that.”

Alex's eyes tracked the man's finger until he spotted the book cover. “You saw Mary holding baby Jesus?”

“Not the actual image,” he said. “But I saw faces in that same style.”

Alex stood and approached the bookshelf. He picked up the large volume that had been a seminary graduation gift. “This is a book filled with Byzantine iconography,” Alex explained.

The man waited for more.

“Byzantine icons were characterized by vivid colors,” Alex continued while handing the book to his troubled guest. “Take a look.”

He did, flipping quickly from page to page. “Why are they like this?” he asked.

“Like what?”

“I don't know how to describe it. Unnatural? Off-kilter?”

“Oh, you mean disproportionate?”

He nodded while continuing to turn pages.

“Eastern icons like these give you the feeling the person depicted is floating.” Alex pointed to the jawline of a saint on the opened page. “And you'll notice they made the facial features longer than what we see in the present world.”

“Why is that?” asked Frank.

“As I understand it, to create the impression we're peering into the unseen realm. Pagan religions made idols that people worshipped as false gods on earth. Christians, in contrast, made icons to depict angels and saints who worship the one true God in heaven.”

Alex sensed Frank harden. “What is it?” he asked.

Frank closed the book and handed it back. “Nothing.”

“Something from your dream?”

“No,” he sighed. “Well, maybe.”

“Frank, everything you say will be held in strict confidence.”

He considered the offer.

“The faces I saw,” he began. “They looked like the faces in that book.”

“Do you mean the vivid colors?”

Frank shook his head.

“The floating sensation?”

He nodded. “And the disproportion.”

“I see,” said Alex. He offered the book again. “Which faces?”

“None of those.”

“People you know?” asked Alex.

Frank hardened again. “I…I couldn't say.” He began rubbing his hand.

Alex noticed the dark welt. “What happened there?”

The man quickly covered the bruise. “Just a clumsy accident.”

The pastor waited while his guest tried to decide how much to say about whatever had been preventing sleep and stealing his appetite. Alex finally spoke out of compassion for a troubled soul. “You look tortured.”

Frank appeared momentarily embarrassed, as if a weakness had been exposed. “I'm fine,” he said firmly.

“Then why are you here?”

Frank's brow furrowed. “Let's say God did exist. How would you know he's good instead of evil?”

Alex smiled. “Well, your question, for starters.”

A blank expression.

“You wouldn't ask that question,” Alex continued, “unless you had a deep sense that there is such a thing as good and evil. You expect God to be good, right?”

“Don't you?”

“Of course. That's why evil makes me angry.”

“Angry at God?” Frank asked.

“No. He hates evil more than I do.”

“Then why does he allow it?”

“That's the first question I plan to ask him when we meet,” Alex said with a smile. “But in the meantime, I know that something is wrong in our world. Something only a good God can fix.”

A brief delay before Frank spoke again.

“I met this guy last week, a college professor named Mori. An atheist.”

“A philosophy professor?” asked the pastor.

“Literature.”

“I see.”

“Anyway, he showed me a scene from this book called
Crime and Punishment
.”

“Must have been the same guy who had you read
The Brothers Karamazov
.”

Frank nodded. “He had me read the part about the Youth Initiative.”

The comment puzzled Alex. “Really? I must have missed that part.”

“Killing the useless old lady to use her money for the greater good.”

The pastor thought for a moment. “Oh, yes,” he finally said. “You must mean the part where the killer overhears the students' conversation in the bar.” He paused while retrieving the scene from his long-term memory. “I guess I see a connection now that you mention it.”

“So you agree?” Frank asked.

“Agree with what?”

“Transitions are for the greater good.”

“Absolutely not!” Alex said with alarm.

“But you said Dostoyevsky was one of your favorites.”

“Frank, have you read the book?”

“Some of it.”

“Then you don't know the context of that scene?”

Frank seemed reluctant to admit ignorance.

“The author, Dostoyevsky, is saying exactly the opposite. He put the rationale for evil in the mouth of one character to help another character justify a wicked deed. Vintage Dostoyevsky. He did something similar in
The Brothers Karamazov
.” Alex suddenly realized the conversation had taken a rabbit trail. He steered them back. “Tell me, why so much interest in the problem of evil?”

Frank shrugged.

“What did your friend, the professor, say about it?”

“I told you, he's an atheist.”

“And if there's no God, then nothing can be called evil?”

Frank reacted with surprise. “That's almost exactly what he said.”

“Of course it is.” Alex smiled. “I imagine Mori sees himself as a modern Ivan.”

“How'd you know?”

“Ivan Karamazov considered himself a brilliant philosopher brave enough to solve the problem of evil by killing God.”

“I don't follow,” said Frank. “How can killing God eliminate evil?”

“It can't,” Alex answered. “That's why your earlier question points to the reality of a good God. We can only recognize what ought
not
be if we sense what ought
to
be. We know ourselves to be made for the true, the good, and the beautiful. Pain, suffering, hatred, ugliness, death, sorrow, these things are the opposite of what our deepest desires tell us ought to be. Like I said during your last visit, when we reject the good that God is, all that remains is the evil that he isn't.”

The man sat quietly for a moment.

“Why don't you tell me what's really bothering you, Frank?”

The man appeared to fight back rising emotion. Then he put his head in his hands. “I killed them,” he muttered.

Alex sat up with a start. What is a pastor supposed to do with a confession of murder? “Killed who?”

“The faces in my dream,” Frank said to Alex's relief.

“You killed the faces?”

“I don't understand,” he began. “I don't believe in God anymore. But if there's no God, why do I wake up from these dreams feeling like I did something, I don't know, something unholy?”

“Because there is a God,” Alex answered. “And because you have done something unholy. We all have. The Bible tells us all have sinned. All have fallen short of the glory of God. In other words, we yearn for the good that God made us for even when drowning in the sea of our own sinfulness.”

Frank looked up, distressed. “Did you say drowning?”

“The Apostle Paul wrote a letter to the church at Rome in which he said that the good he ought to do got repeatedly crowded out by the bad he shouldn't. It's like the undercurrent of our fallen nature keeps pulling us back into the deep water of wickedness.”

“So you think the guy killing the worthless old woman was wicked?” Frank asked.

“The guy in
Crime and Punishment
?”

“Yes. Was that part of his drowning?”

“His. And ours. Every time we snuff out another human life we diminish the dignity of our own. We destroy something sacred.”

“Like the icons?”

“I suppose,” Alex said, suddenly making the possible connection. “Human beings were created to depict the image and likeness of God. That makes every one of us a living, breathing icon.” He met the man's fretful eyes. “Frank,” he said, “is there something more you want to tell me about your dreams?”

Frank blinked once. Then he pressed his eyes shut as if to summon courage. “Do you think…” He paused. “Do you believe dreams carry messages?”

Odd
, thought Alex.
The very question Julia asked
.

“Yes,” he answered, “sometimes.”

“Warnings?”

“Perhaps.”

The answer seemed to deepen Frank's unease.

“From the dead?”

“No. God doesn't send the dead to deliver messages. That's the job of angels.”

“Angels?”

“Like the one who appeared to Joseph in a dream telling him to flee Bethlehem to protect Mary and Jesus.”

“Always angels?”

“Not necessarily,” Alex said. “Demons are fallen angels. I imagine they still carry messages, only from a very different source.”

“The devil?”

“Among other names. I prefer
Father of Lies
because it captures the nature of our battle.”

“What battle is that?”