“Who?” Joshua asked.
“Father Ted, the high priest,” Sylvia said. “Surely you captured him. He is the ringleader.”
“I…, I don’t know,” Pete said. “I thought we had everyone we arrested identified, but…, I don’t have a Father Ted in my notes. Is it possible he goes by another name?”
“It’s possible, I guess,” Sylvia said. “If you saw him, he would be hard to miss.”
“What does he look like?”
“He is tall, probably around 6 foot 3, and maybe 185 lbs. He is quite handsome, dark longish hair, very striking — almost like a young Elvis. I am sure you would remember him. He is pretty hard to forget.”
“How old is he?”
“That is an amazingly good question,” Sylvia said as her eyes grew wide. “I don’t know how it is possible, but, he looks to be maybe 30? Not much older than that.”
“What do you mean by ‘that is an amazingly good question’?” Pete said.
“He can’t possibly still be 30…,” Sylvia muttered. “That was forty years ago! It just can’t be possible?”
Joshua looked at Pete and shrugged. Pete returned the shrug, and turned to Sylvia and said, “are you sure you are OK, Ma’am? I got your description. It is very distinctive. I am certain we didn’t arrest anyone who matches that description.”
“Oh, you have to be kidding,” Sylvia cried. “He must have gotten away. But how? He was leading the ceremony. You must have come after it was over.”
“No, we saw the ceremony, Ma’am. There was no Father Ted, or whatever his name is, here. I think you might be confused.”
“I think not,” Sylvia said as her face fell. “He must have escaped.”
“That would have been hard to do,” Joshua said. “We called the Floriston PD once we saw what was happening and had the whole place surrounded. I can assure you. No one got off this mountain. No one!”
Sylvia shivered. “No. He slipped away somehow. He is still out there!”
“If anyone got away, Ma’am, we’ll get them,” Pete said. “This sort of crime will not go unpunished.”
“I wish I had your faith, Officer,” Sylvia said. “It seems to me like evil always wins in the end.”
“Oh, you can’t believe that,” Pete said.
“Trust me, I do,” Sylvia said. “Evil reigns. My son, my husband and my brother were all taken from me and savagely murdered. Now that my mind is clear, and I can remember everything, it appears my entire life has been hostage to evil. There may be a God, I see that now, but it sure seems like Satan is running the show down here. How do we make sense of all of this? How can a good God allow such evil and suffering? How can we live with the horrors of our past?”
“It is hard, Ma’am. I know it is hard,” Pete said. “I saw many things on my tours in Iraq and Afghanistan I never want to see, or think about, again. Some things seen that can never be unseen. It is a struggle, but, I am a Christian and I trust God. We cannot begin to comprehend the providence of God or try and understand his grand design. We only need to trust him. There is an answer, but our ears cannot hear. There is a plan, but our eyes cannot see. There is a design, but our mind cannot grasp it.”
Sylvia’s eyes widened, and she said, “What did you say?”
“All things happen for purposes we can never truly know. But this does not mean we suffer in vain. Our troubles are not forgotten by God, he shares in our grief.”
“It all seems so senseless. There cannot be a reason for such evil. Maybe God doesn’t care what happens to us?”
“We may not know the reason,” Pete said. “But we do know the reason isn’t because God doesn’t care. He sent his only son to die for all of us, after all. An uncaring God would not do that.”
“But how will this be made right? How could it ever be made right?”
“I know when I get to Heaven,” Pete said. “I will learn more in the first five seconds than I would in a thousand lifetimes on earth. After all, once you have glanced into a blooming rose and seen the universe open wide. When you have gazed into the setting sun and heard whispers in the tide. When eternal bliss greets every day, and joy fills up your soul. When you have heard Angelic choirs sing out and know thy saintly role; only then when all death is gone, and love and joy reigns supreme, can your mind begin to understand eternal heavenly things.”
Sylvia stood up and cried, “WHAT? Where did you hear that? Who told that to you? I must know where you heard—”
Pete smiled and said, “—Back in High School, Father Morales told me an interesting story when I had the same questions you are asking now. I too was troubled by the overwhelming amount of evil in the world. Trust me, being a combat marine, and then a cop, has not given me any rose-colored glasses about the ways of the world since.”
“I would guess not,” Sylvia said.
“It’s pretty messed up. But, Father Morales said we cannot ever know how everything fits together. Only the all-knowing God sees the whole picture. Have you ever heard the Chinese parable ‘We’ll See’?”
“No, I haven’t,” Sylvia said.
“It’s good, you’ll like it,” Pete said. “Once upon a time, there was an old farmer who had worked his crops for many years. One day his horse ran away. Upon hearing the news, his neighbors came to visit. ’Such bad luck,’ they said sympathetically, ’you must be so sad.’”
“‘We’ll see,’ the farmer replied.”
“The next morning the horse returned, bringing with it two other wild horses. ‘How wonderful,’ the neighbors exclaimed! ’Not only did your horse return, but you received two more. What great fortune you have!’”
“‘We’ll see,’ answered the farmer.”
The following day, his son tried to ride one of the untamed horses, was thrown, and broke his leg. The neighbors again came to offer their sympathy on his misfortune. ’Now your son cannot help you with your farming,’ they said. ’What terrible luck you have!’”
“‘We’ll see,’ replied the old farmer.”
“The following week, military officials came to the village to conscript young men into the army. Seeing that the son’s leg was broken, they passed him by. The neighbors congratulated the farmer on how well things had turned out. ‘Such great news. You must be so happy!’”
“The man smiled to himself and said once again. ‘We’ll see,’”
Pete paused and said, “We cannot always see the ending of the story from our perspective. But God, who sees all, and knows how everything that exists in the universe affects everything else, does. To presume we can even begin to fathom this infinite complexity is above our paygrade.”
“But what about Satan?” Sylvia said. “It sure seems like he is triumphant over the world.”
“Satan has already been defeated,” Pete said. “The first strike against the nail in the palm of Christ’s hand, on Good Friday, sealed Satan’s doom forever. He is finished. And in the spirit of eternal spite that infects his diabolical being, Satan tries to hurt God the only way he can, by tormenting those whom God loves — us. It is for naught. Every evil inflicted on us on earth will be redeemed a thousand-fold, in glorious joy, in Heaven.”
“But what can we do about it here? How can we fight back against Satan on this side of eternity?”
“Ah, that is the question, isn’t it?” Pete said. “Here, Sister Margaret was most instructive. An exceptional woman, she certainly takes no guff from anyone. Not from a bunch of rowdy, misbehaving, hormonally-charged boys, like I was, and certainly not from some defeated, pitiful Devil.”
Pete unbuttoned his top shirt button and pulled out a small silver medallion hanging from a chain. “Sister Margaret gave this to me when I graduated from the Police Academy. She made me promise to always wear it and pray the prayer daily.”
Joshua, standing nearby, pulled out a similar medallion and said, “She gave me one too.”
“What is it?” Sylvia asked.
“It’s a Saint Michael’s Medallion. He is the pa
tron saint of police officers.”
“What is the prayer?”
“Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle, be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil; may God rebuke him, we humbly pray; and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God, cast into hell Satan and all the evil spirits who prowl through the world seeking the ruin of souls.
“So, you see,” Pete said. “Satan may cause all sorts of troubles in this world, but his days are numbered. Soon, he will be sent into Hell where he belongs, along with the rest of the evil spirits who prowl the world seeking the ruin of souls.”
Sylvia was quiet. She finished her coffee and looked down.
Pete opened his thermos and refilled her cup. He said, “Why don’t you come with me to St. Sebastian’s for Mass this coming Sunday? After the service, you can join my wife and me for breakfast at Millie’s Diner. It’ll be great, and we’d love to have you. What do you say?”
“Will you be having donuts for breakfast?”
“Of course!” Pete said with a laugh.
“Thank you. I think I would like that,” Sylvia said. “I think I would like that very much.”
Chapter 37
May 1st, 2017 - I-80 East - 15 miles east of Fernley, Nevada - 3:33 AM
In 1956 America was at war, albeit, a cold one. Communism was on the march in Europe, the Warsaw Pact had just been established, and the fledgling Hungarian Revolution had recently been crushed by Khrushchev. In those fevered days, with the Red Bear on the loose, President Dwight D. Eisenhower, the savior of Western Europe, the author of the miraculous D-Day landings, and overall national hero of the country, proposed to build a true Interstate Highway System to enhance the defense of a nuclear-war frightened nation. It was built, and a big part of that system was Interstate Highway I-80.
Covering nearly 3,000 miles, and spanning the entire country, I-80 is a true modern marvel. Starting on the Pacific coast in San Francisco, it winds its way east, over soaring mountains and across scorching deserts, before coming to its final destination in Teaneck New Jersey.
For much of its continent-wide trek, there isn’t much to see, and there sure is a lot of it. Countless indistinct towns rush by the endless repetitive landscape. A never-ending parade of artery-clogging fast food restaurants, along with a cavalcade of motels, hotels, and no-tells for every conceivable desire and budget lay just off every exit ramp. A giant slog traversed by an army of long-range truckers, from sea to shining sea.
Fifty miles east of Floriston, California, just outside the town of Fernley Nevada, I-80 crosses into a patch of pure desolation — the Great Basin Desert. For one hundred miles, it is a drive of absolute, nothingness. Just miles and miles of brown desert with no sign of human life to be found — a total and complete blank on the map. No doubt, if the moon had a highway on it, it would look like this.
Driving into this void is for the adventurous only. In the summer, it’s a nightmarish hellscape in the day, where temperatures easily top 115. At night, it may be cooler, but, those headlights better be working. It is dark with the kind of darkness rarely seen elsewhere in the country. The complete black that only can come from the lack of any artificial light. There can, of course, be beauty in the desolation, a serene sense of awe emanating from the void. On some nights, if the clouds are light, the glories of the milky way can be seen in the big open sky. On others, when the moon is full, the highway itself can be breathtaking. The lunar rays dance over the specks of reflective material in the asphalt, looking like a great shimmering river of silver flowing through an ebony slash of nothing. But tonight, there was none of that. There was a new moon. Tonight, it was just miles and miles of utter gloom.
There are no other vehicles on the road. Not surprising, actually, as even road-hardened truckers avoid driving this stretch of I-80 on a moonless night. No, there is only one car on the road this early morning, a 2015 jet black BMW convertible, heading east, with a sole occupant. The driver is a handsome man, as attractive as his car. As he passes mile marker 77, and the last ‘Check your gauges’ billboard fades into the distance behind him, and nothing but inky darkness stretches out in front of him, he smiles. On a beautiful chilly spring night like this, he is driving with the top down. His longish black hair whips backward in the fury of the wind. It is silent inside the BMW, a deathly quiet except for the lion’s roar of air from the drive.
He reaches over to the dashboard, all glowing green from the lights on the display panel and turns on his MP3 player. Over the howling wind, the first strums of the guitar riff rings out, followed by the soulful sound of the singer’s voice.
“I…, am a man of constant sorrow. I’ve seen trouble…, all my days.”
About the Author
Paul Creasy was born in Radford, Virginia, the only child of Victor (Gene) and Marla Creasy. He grew up in the small town of Bluefield, West Virginia before moving to Richmond, Virginia where he graduated from Virginia Commonwealth University.
He continues to reside in Richmond today, with his lovely wife Mary and their rambunctious puppy Truffle. Apart from writing, Paul enjoys old horror movies, obscure documentaries, new books, Christian apologetics, ballroom dancing with his wife, and traveling extensively.
Further information can be found at www.paulcreasy.com
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