The Legend of Devil's Creek, page 26
It was a beautiful place, and just being there made him feel better. It was comforting. And not just because it offered shelter from the storm. No. He felt a more profound sense comfort, though he couldn’t say exactly why.
As he began to relax, he stared at the great wooden crucifix holding Christ that hung on the wall directly behind the altar. He looked at Christ’s sad, anguished face and, for whatever reason, began to reflect on the fact that his transfer to St. Jerome’s hadn’t been the easy remedy he’d hoped for. It certainly hadn’t cured him of his vague feelings of emptiness and urgency. His anxieties. No matter how he’d tried to reason himself free of them, no matter what he did, they remained. He was sick of them. He was sick of worrying about so much shit. What was the point? Where did it come from? Could it really all just be trickle-down from the fear of mortality they’d discussed in class? From the animal survival instinct, the will to live, the burning desire for immortality? He wasn’t sure he bought into that. But then what was he doing in here? Just taking shelter from the rain, or maybe, deep down, hoping for something more? Looking for someone to tell him that he didn’t need to be afraid anymore?
He stared at Christ’s face and wondered why Christ was made to suffer. That was one thing Riddley had never understood growing up in the Church. Why did Christ have to be crucified, his hands and feet nailed to a wooden cross, his body left to wilt in agony on a dry, dusty hilltop, so that everyone else could have eternal life? Why couldn’t God just snap his fingers and make it so—just give everyone immortality? Why did there have to be so much suffering, so much anxiety? What was the point of it?
He sat silent for a couple of minutes, breathing deeply, trying to calm his mind, maybe even hoping, deep down, that the answers to his questions would be revealed here. But no answers came. No magic voices spoke to him. Still, a sort of tranquility began to come over him. His shivering stopped, his body relaxed, and he felt, all at once, a deep sense of warmth. Perhaps it was just the pleasant, soft heat of the incense-scented air filling the deep recesses of his lungs, and working its way through his clothes to his skin, finally enveloping his whole body. Perhaps it was psychosomatic. Perhaps it was his imagination. Whatever the case, he felt a little bit better.
But it didn’t last. By the time he returned to his dorm room, after again braving the rainstorm, he was back to being shivering cold and wanting to hide under a rock.
*****
Thirty miles to the southwest, Officer Bruce Wainsboro sat in the dark, in an unmarked police car, heavy rain battering its roof and hood, surveilling Evan Beckwith’s run-down shack of a house on the heavily forested outskirts of Bremerton. He’d been sitting here for an hour and a half, ever since following Beckwith home from work. He wasn’t sure what this was all about—supposedly something to do with the crazy murders up on Aubrey Island. But whatever it was, it was hot enough for the duty sergeant to call him at home on his day off as soon as the request came in from County. Wainsboro was widely regarded as the best surveillance man on the force—a reputation he was obsessed with maintaining.
Yet whatever his skill, he didn’t like being out here solo. He was used to working in a team. But his sergeant said they didn’t have the resources for that right now. “Especially since this isn’t even our case.” Solo surveillance was difficult. It involved an exponentially higher risk of detection than did team surveillance. Wainsboro wouldn’t be surprised if Beckwith had already noticed him. If he had, he was sure playing it cool. In Wainsboro’s experience, that usually meant the target was up to no good.
He took another bite of his cold meatball sandwich, turned his windshield wipers on for one pass, and raised his binoculars for another look at the house. Three outdoor floodlights illuminated driving rain soaking the overgrown front and side yards. Inside the house, the kitchen light was on. But that was the only one Wainsboro could see, since the rest of the windows were blacked out with tinfoil. Fifteen minutes earlier, he’d seen Beckwith pass by the kitchen window. Since then, nothing.
A few more minutes went by before Wainsboro heard something. An engine starting. A motorcycle? Yes, a motorcycle. He rolled his window down to listen. The rain poured in. The sound was definitely coming from behind Beckwith’s house. Oh, shit. The engine revved, and the source of the sound shot down the back alley away from where Wainsboro sat. He started his car and took off after the motorcycle as fast as he thought he could go without attracting attention. He rounded the corner just in time to see the back end of a Suzuki crotch rocket disappearing as it turned up another street. He caught one more glance of it vanishing into the darkness as he turned the car up the same street, then pursued for three blocks before conceding he’d never be able to catch up. He rolled to a stop. Son of a bitch! Those little Japanese motorcycles were so damned fast and agile.
How could he have been so stupid as to not bother checking whether any other vehicles were registered to Beckwith? Well, now he knew. And he’d lost his target. Should he call it in? The first thing they’d ask is what the hell happened. The second thing they’d ask is whether he’d known about the motorcycle. He couldn’t let it get around that he’d made such a rookie mistake. If it did, they might quit calling him for these cherry overtime assignments. And he needed the extra money for the payments on his boat. No, he wouldn’t call it in. He’d just set up in a good spot and wait for the asshole to come home. And he’d hope like hell that nothing bad happened.
THIRTY-FIVE
A ballistic missile submarine rounded the point, silent, probably bound for a maintenance stop at Bremerton Naval Shipyard, its black length barely visible in the failing light. Along the beach, the St. Jerome’s winter solstice party was in full swing. The group was standing around a bonfire, discussing the intramural basketball tournament with Bacavi. But Riddley was disengaged. He’d been silently brooding over his recent setbacks when he spotted the submarine—a dark and menacing symbol of the constant possibility of nuclear holocaust. Seeing it drew his thoughts to some of the more troubling things they’d talked about in philosophy class over the semester, adding to the weight of his gloom. He was slouching, staring into the fire. At a pause in the group’s discussion, he muttered, “Sometimes it seems like there really is no hope.” There was such despair in his voice that everybody turned to look at him.
“For your basketball team?” Bacavi said. “No, I’m afraid you’re right. There is absolutely no hope. Not if you advance far enough to play the philosophy faculty team.“
“I mean for humanity.“
Bacavi’s eyebrows rose. “No hope for humanity?“
“I mean, from what we’ve talked about in class, it seems like the human race is doomed to incinerate itself in some sort of evil frenzy over death anxiety.”
“Holy hell, Riddley. Is it a hobby of yours to suck the cheer out of parties like this? Didn’t I tell you not to take the stuff we talked about in class too seriously? How did we jump from intramural basketball to Armageddon?”
“He had a rough week,“ Chapman said.
“Really though, is there any real way to fight evil?” Sandhurst asked, joining in.
“Hold on, hold on,“ Bacavi said. “I need my beer refilled if we’re going down this road.”
Chapman grabbed Bacavi’s empty cup, jogged off to refill it at the keg, and returned in a flash.
Bacavi scanned their faces. “I usually try to save my pedantic alter ego for the classroom since most people find it irritating. You really want to get into this right now?”
“Yes,” Riddley said.
“Why don’t you just sign up for Philosophy 102?” They weren’t having it. Bacavi took a long drink, then a deep breath. “Okay. Well, let’s see. Do we concur with Becker, that death anxiety is the ultimate source of so much of the world’s evil?
“Maybe,” Boyd said.
“Okay, so then what? How do you nip it in the bud, the evil caused by death anxiety?”
“By not being afraid of death?” Catherine asked.
“There you go.” Bacavi raised his beer cup to her, took a drink, then went silent.
“That’s it?” Chapman said after a moment. “That’s your whole formula for saving the world from evil?”
“Makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“In the abstract, maybe. But how the fuck do you get people to not fear death without having them revert to chasing after immortality using the mechanisms we’ve already decided are sources of evil in and of themselves?”
“More questions?”
“Come on.”
“Come on, what? Think about it.”
“Give us a hint. You’re the philosophy genius.”
“That’s true. Alright then, barring your figuring out some harmless way to actually connect with the spiritual plane, assuming there is one, to see for yourself that there’s something more, beyond death, out there waiting for us, then what would the modern, rational, scientific approach be?”
Silence.
“There’s no magic bullet here, is there? But what about using our power of reason? How about if we try to reason our way free of the fear.”
“How?”
“Rank, Becker, Burke, Pruyser, Kierkegaard, Freud. What do you think they might say, if they were in a circle here, as we are, drinking beer around a beach fire, thinking out loud? Maybe that we should, step one, acknowledge our great inner conflict—our awareness of mortality versus our will to live—and then think about how it maybe drives us to evil deeds? If we have the capacity to recognize the cause and effect, it seems to me it’s at least theoretically possible that we can also use our powers of reason to try to control our survival instincts.”
“Okay, again, how?” Chapman asked.
“Maybe, first, by reasoning that death might really be the absolute end of our existence. That there might not be any immortality out there to pursue. That it’s delusion. An imagined way out of the mortality fix we’re all in. If we can get that far, my friends, then all that’s left to do is convince ourselves that we have nothing to fear from oblivion. That oblivion holds no sorrow, no pain. And that maybe in the end, even if there is nothing else, well, maybe that’s okay. Maybe we can live with that.” Bacavi shrugged his shoulders and stared into the fire.
Maybe, maybe, maybe, Riddley thought.
“Probably a lot to ask of the average person,” Chapman said.
“Agreed, Mr. Chapman. If it were easy, we’d be living in a very peaceful world now, wouldn’t we? Which leads us to the ‘science of society’ idea Becker wrote of. If our powers of reason aren’t enough, and we find we still need some other mechanism for coping with death anxiety, for keeping ourselves sane, well then maybe we can create immortality for ourselves in undeniably good and nondestructive ways. Maybe by leaving behind a legacy of love. Love thy neighbor. Sound familiar? A very wise man once described that as the second greatest commandment, right there in Matthew 22, verses 36 to 40. Love thy enemies. Matthew 5:43. More of a challenge, perhaps. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Matthew 7:12. The ‘Golden Rule,’ right? Feed the hungry, shelter the homeless, comfort the sick, soothe the frightened, protect the weak. Love your fellow human beings without condition.”
“A legacy of love?” Boyd asked, incredulous.
“Bunch of hippie bullshit,” Lazko said.
“At any rate, it isn’t a complete solution, is it?” Bacavi said. “It wouldn’t necessarily purge the world of evil that is already there, that has already taken root. The evil already inside us. Anger. Hate. Built up over a lifetime. Over many lifetimes, handed down generation after generation. No. So how do you destroy the last of it? How do you finish evil off?”
They all stood waiting.
“What can you read between the lines of those verses from Matthew? ‘But I say unto you, love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you; That ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.’ Matthew 5:44 and 45, right?”
“If you say so,” Chapman said.
“What’s the big J.C. talking about there?” For a moment, nobody answered.
“Forgiveness,” Sandhurst muttered, staring into his beer.
“Forgiveness, indeed. I think he’s saying that forgiveness is the key to defeating evil already existing within ourselves. Forgiveness of those who’ve trespassed against us.”
Sure, Riddley thought. In a perfect world.
“And what’s the first and most important thing we need to move our hearts, our minds, our souls toward forgiveness?”
“Understanding,” Sandhurst said.
“My hat, Mr. Sandhurst. Understanding indeed. Understanding why people do terrible things to each other. Understanding where the evil comes from. And we’ve touched on that in class, haven’t we?” He rose up on his toes and raised his beer cup to the starry night sky. “So now you know. Now you know one of the greatest secrets of the universe. The way to defeat evil. May it ever guide you to goodness and light. And how appropriate, in your cases, that this secret should be revealed to you around a bonfire at a keg party. Cheers.” He drank the second half of his beer in one tip, then headed off for more.
THIRTY-SIX
Sandhurst and Chapman appeared in Riddley’s open dorm room doorway as he was tying his shoes. “There he is!” Chapman said. “The big man, ready for battle.”
“Hey, guys.”
“Pop your B vitamins or whatever you need because this is a big one.”
“Yeah?”
“Fuck yeah. This team’s been together three years now, and they’re the only other undefeated team in our division. So if we beat them, we definitely go to the playoffs.”
“What are they called?”
“Capital Punishment. Criminal justice majors. Bunch of frat boy jerk offs think they’re gonna be FBI agents or something.”
It was an unusually cold day, and the vapor of their breath was visible as they huffed and puffed their way across campus toward the intramural courts. Riddley thought about how unpleasant it would be to take off his coat and sweat pants, exposing so much bare skin to the frigid air. The chill added an extra sharpness to his usual pre-game nerves.
As they approached the court, Riddley could see Boyd and Lazko already warming up, taking shots with a third person he didn’t recognize.
“What’s up, fellas?” Chapman asked as they arrived. “How’s it going Tommy?” he asked the third guy.
“Tom said he could play some forward for us today,” Boyd said. “He can rotate in with Riddley.”
“What are you talking about?” Chapman asked.
“He was all-county his senior year at Brayburn. I asked him to help us out.”
Riddley went rigid, his greatest fear with respect to this ongoing basketball nightmare now realized: his own teammates were letting him know, beyond any doubt, that he stunk, and were actually challenging the value of his participation altogether. But to his surprise, after a couple of seconds, the familiar sting of humiliation subsided, and he was gripped not just by the usual debilitating anxiety, but also by rage. His whole body felt hot. His face burned bright red.
Chapman stood scowling for a moment, then said, “Tom, with all due respect, we’ve been practicing and playing with the same lineup for three weeks now, you know? I appreciate your offer, but our roster is set.”
“Chapman, we have to win today to get to the playoffs,” Boyd said. “These guys are undefeated.”
“This sort of thing is a team decision.”
“Well, why don’t we put it to a vote then?” Lazko said.
“Our roster is set,” Sandhurst said to Lazko, locking eyes with him, his arms bent slightly, his shoulders squared as if he were ready to shove him, though they stood six feet apart.
“Look, fellas,” Tom said. “I’ll just catch you all later, alright? No worries.” With that, he shagged his own ball, grabbed his sweatshirt and left the courts.
Riddley watched a frowning Chapman glare at Lazko and Boyd for another moment. He appreciated Sandhurst and Chapman’s gestures of solidarity, but it did little to quell his fury.
As they started to warm-up, Riddley felt his usual pre-game urge to piss, so he made his way over to the permanently urine-smelling cement restroom next to the court. His feelings an unfamiliar mix of both fear and anger, he stared down at his piss stream, watching it spray apart as it hit the hockey puck-shaped pink brick of urinal deodorizer. At that moment, standing there with his fly open in front of the urinal, he felt himself perched on a fulcrum, as though either emotion—fear or anger—could seize absolute hold of him. He was used to the fear. He expected it to win out, as it always had before. But he was fed up, and as he finished and stood staring at the pink deodorizer puck, the fear didn’t take him. It was there, to be sure, but it stayed in the background. It was the anger that came to the forefront. And the more he thought about its cause, the stronger it grew. He felt his heart pounding in his chest, the heat of his own blood radiating from all parts of his body. Those sons of bitches. Those fucking sons of bitches. A rotten idea crossed his mind and made him smile.
He zipped up, pulled a wad of paper towels from the dispenser, and used them to grab the piss-soaked deodorizer puck from the urinal catch basin, carrying it with him as he exited the bathroom, holding it down at his side to hide it. As he approached his team, he called out, “Boyd, is this yours?” and underhand lobbed the puck, in a gentle arc, in Boyd’s direction. And just as Riddley predicted, Boyd instinctively reached out to catch the flying object with his bare hands. Holding it, it took Boyd only a moment to realize what it was, and his eyes popped wide.
