“Yes,” Lao Shi responded.
Higgins nodded, solemnly. “I will do whatever you need me to do.”
Marla finally smiled. “I have faith. We’re all behind you, Liz.”
Elizabeth smiled, too. “Good. Now, we bring the fight to them.”
***
Jeremiah picked his phone up out of the center consul. Elizabeth was calling him.
“What does she want?” he asked no one in particular, as Dylan was sleeping soundly next to him. “Yes?” he answered.
“We have an idea, Jeremiah,” Liz responded.
“I’m listening.”
“We would like to help you with what you’re doing, but we need some information,” she explained.
“What do you mean, ‘help?’”
There was a short silence on the other end, then, “I don’t really want to discuss it over the phone, but we may be able to disrupt some of Metatron’s activities. And we’re working on a way to assist you in your hunt against the demons. If we coordinate, you might be able to do it faster and more efficiently.”
“No,” Jeremiah said. “I don’t want you getting involved. You’ll get people killed. I’ll take care of it.”
“You know,” she responded, “as much as I hate you, I have to admit that we need you. If you die, we’ll be seriously disadvantaged. Well, even more so than we already are. You aren’t going to change my mind, and we’re already working on some plans.”
“Okay,” Jeremiah conceded after a couple seconds of grinding his teeth. “What do you want from me?”
“I need to know what you know about Metatron’s resources. Then, I want you to tell me more about these demon-led cults you were telling me about. I also want you to keep me informed about your activities so I can get you some help.”
“It’s funny that you should mention it,” Jeremiah began, “because I’m on my way to Chicago right now to meet up with old acquaintances of mine.”
“To kill them?”
“Well, I don’t plan on dancing with them.”
“Okay, give me what I asked for. Then, tell me when, where, and what we should expect in Chicago.”
Jeremiah chuckled. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
“Very,” Elizabeth replied.
***
Dr. Abigail Martin threw her briefcase on the desk at the front of the room. She pulled out a red dry-erase marker and elegantly wrote her name and the class designation on the board.
“This is me,” she said. “This is where you are. If you believe you are in the wrong room, this would be a good time to find out where you’re supposed to be. Don’t ask me where you should go because I don’t know.” Everyone stared at her in awe, but no one moved. “Good. Then, we may continue.”
While she was taking roll, a few people decided that the free moment allowed them time to talk. That sentiment only lasted as long as it took for Abbie to make eye contact with them. After she had taken roll, she slid her glasses up on top of her head and peered across the classroom.
“For many of you,” she started, “this will be your first true experience with Psychology. And I’m not talking about the hogwash most of you were inundated with in high school. What you learned in high school needs to stay there. For all of you, this is your first experience with me. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that I am like any of your other teachers. I am,” she added with a smile, “one of a kind.”
She paused a moment for what she’d said to sink in. “Some of you are just entering the brave new world of college life, and I’m pleased that I can be a part of that chapter of your lives. You may have had teachers who told you that you could easily pass their classes if you show up and pay attention. I hate to burst your bubble, but that isn’t the case in this class. I demand effort and constant growth. If you do not think you can handle this, I suggest you find a different Psychology class while you still have time.
“In life, you will find that people are exceptional, average, and poor in different areas. Psychology is no different. Some of you will do very well, earning an exceptional grade—but not many. I expect that most of you are average, unless I have stumbled upon an anomaly. I hope you don’t feel discouraged if you earn a ‘C.’ In my opinion, no more than a quarter of this class should earn anything higher, and no more than that should earn anything lower. I could be wrong, but it has been my experience that this is how the grades look at the end of any semester.
“You will be expected to be in class on every regularly-scheduled day. I also expect you to be on time. If I can make it to every class on time, as busy as my schedule tends to be, then you can, too. As I draw information for the test directly from my lecture, it would be wise to take notes, but I will not drag you through this class. If you choose not to take notes, I hope your memory serves you well on test day
“I expect you to treat me and everyone else in this class with respect and civility. Trust me, I will return the favor. I am easy to get along with just as soon as you learn my rules and decide to adhere to them. Don’t talk while I’m talking; that really annoys me. As per school rules, there should be no food or drinks in this room. I’ll excuse the few of you who have already broken that rule today, but, in the future, I will dock you points for it and make you dispose of the offensive substance immediately. I never accept late work, and I don’t provide make-up tests or quizzes. Very few absences are excused, and the ones that could be are expressly outlined in your student handbook.
“If I ever catch anyone cheating, I will do everything in my power to make sure that person is dealt with severely. It is well within my rights to fail a cheater for whatever assignment he or she cheated on. And, in some cases, I am able to fail a cheater for the entire semester. Don’t give me the chance to fail you for cheating because I will jump on it. If I should ever catch you talking during a quiz or test, I will assume that you are cheating, and you will receive a zero—no questions asked, no rationalizing necessary. So, don’t talk during a quiz or test. Without fail, one student in every class doesn’t believe me. ‘But, Dr. Martin,’ they’ll say, ‘I wasn’t talking about the test.’ I don’t care. It doesn’t concern me what is being discussed during a test. I will consider it cheating, and the talker will receive no credit for the test.
“Finally, I realize that there is a notion that you live in a democracy, and, as such, you should be entitled to challenge things you don’t like—perhaps by voting. My classroom is definitely not a democracy. All rules are final and nonnegotiable. That said, I realize that I make mistakes from time to time. I am open to reproof and constructive criticism. However, I’m not open to whining, insults, irrational behavior, or backbiting. You can take that to the Dean of Academic Affairs; he’s paid more than I am to put up with such childish nonsense.”
She walked up to the front of each aisle and handed out a stack of papers. “This is the syllabus for your class. Everything I have said so far is in there somewhere. Further, you will find directions to my office, my phone number, and office hours. Please, feel free to approach me with any concerns you may have regarding me, the class, or your assignments during the allotted times. Anything else will require an appointment. After the syllabus, you will find a tentative class schedule. This has all of your assignments and brief explanations for them. For further explanations, you may consult me or my website, for which I have given you an address at the top of the page. Any questions?”
Everyone in the class looked stunned. Even Alex was rendered speechless by what Abbie had told them. She looked around the room for anyone who might have a question to ask or a comment to make, but it seemed as though they had chosen to stay quiet. One person finally worked up the courage to raise his hand.
“Yes,” Abbie acknowledged. “Tim, I think.”
“Yeah,” Tim began, surprised that she had remembered his name from the roll call. “Normally, teachers give their credentials on the first page of the syllabus, but you didn’t. I was wondering what yours are.”
Abbie presented mock surprise. “Mine? I don’t have any.”
Apparently, Tim didn’t pick up on the sarcasm in her voice. “Didn’t you go to college?”
“Oh, sure,” Abbie verified.
Tim looked around the room for a little support. “Where did you go?”
“As you seem curious,” Abbie replied, considering the question, “I have attended many colleges and universities. However, I received most of my early formal education from private tutors. My first degree was an honorary one from Oxford.”
Tim laughed. “Do you have a real degree?”
“Oh, yes,” Abbie replied. “Many.”
“Oxford?” one girl inquired. “That’s like England, right?”
“Yes, Katie,” Abbie responded. “Oxford is in England.”
“Why don’t you have an accent?”
Abbie cocked an eyebrow. “I have found that if I spend some time in England, my accent returns, but I have spent enough time in the United States that my accent dissipates over time.”
Tim didn’t seem like he was done. “So, you have a doctorate in Psychology?”
“Yes,” Abbie laughed, “I have a doctorate in Psychology—with an emphasis in human development. I also have doctorates in English, Philosophy, and History.”
Tim’s jaw dropped. “You have four doctorates?”
“Indeed,” Abbie replied. “I hope I have proven myself qualified to teach you. Now, so I don’t get drawn off target too much, I have a question for you. What is psychology?”
The class remained silent for a minute. Finally, Katie answered, “It’s like someone laying on a couch telling a shrink their problems.”
“What else?” Abbie prompted.
One brave young man said, “It’s crackpot theories like saying boys want to have sex with their moms.”
The class erupted in laughter and hushed conversation.
“I think,” Abbie said, drawing the class back to attention, “what you are referring to is called the Oedipus Complex. What else is psychology besides ‘crackpot theories’ and talking to shrinks?”
Tim said, “It’s what we use to try to understand crazy people.”
Abbie smiled. “The point is that we all have different understandings of what psychology is. It means different things to different people. Most of how we conceptualize psychology is based, largely, off of what we learn from the media—from entertainment. Psychology, simply put, is the study of the workings of the brain as well as human and animal behaviors and development. All too often, we think of psychology as a tool for understanding differences among people, when, in fact, psychology is a method by which we can better understand all people. That is to say that psychology is, in many ways, more descriptive than prescriptive.”
Abbie paused for a moment and then added, “Let’s talk about what psychology isn’t. Psychology is not the sum of one man’s work—for instance, Sigmund Freud. No psychological tenet can be applied to all people; therefore, no one person is completely predictable. But, we can rest relatively assured that most people exhibit many similar traits. Psychology is also not a series of guesses. Like other sciences, psychology thrives on a method of hypothesizing, testing, observation, retesting, and, finally, discovery. Application of psychological principles does not come about until a great deal of research has been done.
“The answers you have given me are indicative of misconceptions that many people have. I plan to work some of those misconceptions out of your system very quickly.” Abbie checked a watch on her wrist. “For our next meeting, you need to read the first chapter in your text book. I have been known to give pop quizzes, so it would benefit you to be prepared. We will continue to discuss what psychology is and is not on Thursday.”
Within seconds of her finishing that sentence, the bell rang. The students, very much exhausted by Abbie, shuffled out of the room and headed to their next assigned rooms. Abbie looked at Alex and smiled.
“Thomas, right?”
“Uh, yeah,” he responded.
“Would you be so kind as to accompany me to my office? There are some things I could use some help with. There are a few boxes I need to drag out to my car, and you look like a strapping young lad.”
Alex blushed.
When they got to Abbie’s office, she shut the door behind them and pulled out a strange-looking metal wand.
“It should let me know if there are any bugs in the room,” she explained. After she seemed confident that there were none, she sat down at her desk. “I do that every time I walk into this damned room. Since Patheus popped in here, I can’t feel overly-confident with my privacy. Have a drink, won’t you?”
She pulled out a soda from the refrigerator by her desk. Alex sat down at the table and popped the can open.
She moved the mouse on the computer to take it out of sleep mode and said, “Matt was needed elsewhere, so Liz asked me if I could watch over you for a few hours. I told her I would be delighted.”
“Was there a problem?” Alex asked.
“I don’t know,” Abbie replied. “Generally, they don’t give me any information unless I’m needed for something. In this case, I suppose I wasn’t. I’m actually relieved; I have a lot to do, anyway.”
“Am I in your way? I’m sure I would be all right at the apartment.”
“No, you’re fine. Besides, you are my most important project at the moment. I have no intention of letting you out of my sight until I’m sure you’ll be safe. And there aren’t that many people I trust with the task of keeping you safe. Matt, though, does a good job.”
Alex looked out of Abbie’s window for answers. “I just wish I knew what he’s doing.”
***
“Sir?”
“Yes,” Patheus responded, looking up from his desk.
“Something’s wrong,” his personal secretary explained, peevishly.
“Get to the point,” Patheus growled.
The woman fidgeted with some papers in her hands. “Did you liquidate some of the offshore accounts?”
“Of course I didn’t. Why?”
She looked around the room, as if there would be someone else who might be able to answer the question. “Well, three of them are gone. The bank just contacted me, asking if we were displeased with the service.”
Patheus sighed. “How much did we lose?”
“A little under seventy million,” the secretary whispered.
“What happened to it?” Patheus asked, patiently.
Then, the phone began to ring. The woman stood and looked at Patheus for guidance. He looked to her desk, just outside of his office and looked back to her. Finally, he motioned with his hand to get the phone. She walked briskly out the door. She was speaking quietly to whoever was on the other end, and, frankly, Patheus didn’t care. He had to find out what had happened to that money.
His secretary rushed back into the room. “Sir, there’s a problem in Chicago.”
***
Jeremiah watched as six men repelled from a helicopter onto the roof of a mansion. The two men on the ground, next to the door, were scrambling. They pointed their handguns into the sky in hopes of bringing down the helicopter.
“Do it,” Jeremiah commanded.
Two men with sniper rifles took simultaneous shots. Jeremiah’s keen eyes saw the two guards at the door fall in unison.
“Very nice,” the demon noted. “Now, Matt, you’re going to take the second wave in through the back door. Be very careful. I can sense them; therefore, they can sense us. Make a sweep toward the front door; we’ll meet halfway.” Jeremiah pointed to the green shirt on one of the elite gunmen who were crouched next to him. “Remember, the good guys are wearing green shirts. We need to make sure that there isn’t any friendly fire going on.”
“Okay,” Matt agreed as he signaled the five men who were with him to follow closely. They stayed low to the ground, with guns drawn, and they made their way around the side of the house.
Jeremiah, Dylan, an
d two armed men waited until Matt and his crew vanished out of sight. Then, they began walking toward the front door.
“You know, Jeremiah,” Dylan said, “I’m really more of a lover than a fighter.”
Jeremiah laughed. “You shouldn’t need to do any fighting, and I plan to leave you at the front door until I’m sure that everyone who is carrying a gun in that house is on my payroll. Still, you might be helpful when we get to the demons. There are three of them, and one of them is a very old and cranky demon. He and I go way back. So, I know what he’ll do when Metatron inevitably calls in backup.”
“He’ll cause us problems,” Dylan finished. “And, if Elizabeth hadn’t called, you would have gone after this bastard by yourself?”
“Of course not,” Jeremiah responded. “I had you, too.”
Dylan rolled his eyes. “Great. And how would the two of us have managed three demons and a house full of security?”
“I admit, it would have been difficult, but it all worked out, so we don’t have to worry about it.”
“Well, if it’s all the same to you, I’m going to keep worrying.”
At this point, the four of them had made it to the front door, and they heard gunfire inside.
“You wait here,” Jeremiah told Dylan. “I’ll be back to get you in a few minutes.”
“And if the demons come out here looking for a way out while you’re in there?”
Jeremiah laughed. “Keep them occupied.”
Jeremiah pulled out two handguns and kicked in the door. Immediately, he and the other two gunmen saw armed guards running toward them. Between Jeremiah’s uncanny accuracy and his guards’ automatic weapons, the group of soldiers fell rapidly. Jeremiah stepped over the bodies, and the two men with him followed. They walked into a hallway, and, from around a corner, three men with sub-machine guns made an entrance. Jeremiah gunned them down before his escorts even had a chance to react.
“Throw a grenade down that hallway,” Jeremiah instructed as they approached the junction that those three guards had just come out of.
Demonic Designs (To Absolve the Fallen) Page 30