The Devil's Dream: A Nightmare by David Beers Page B

old. Nearing sixty now and my blind spots are worse even than what they were four years ago,” he had told Jake. “Right there, you saw one of them, and Goddamn, it was a big one. That’s why you’re here. No other reason. That’s why I didn’t say shit when you spoke up in there. You’re going to get a lot of responsibility and really fast. You get to keep it as long as you don’t fuck up.”
    The kid said okay and then Art said he was going to pray.
    “You curse a lot to be going to pray.”
    “That’s why I need to go,” Art said and left Jake in his office.
    He walked outside of his building into the DC heat. People in Texas didn’t appreciate this heat. It might not be as hot as South Texas or Florida, but people weren’t walking around in three-piece suits every day in those places. They did in DC, so the lack of temperature was more than made up for by the added clothing. Art wiped at his forehead a few feet out onto the sidewalk but kept walking.
    It took him about ten minutes, but he arrived, his suit jacket draped over his arm and the back of his neck dripping sweat down into his shirt. He didn’t exactly love coming out in the middle of the day to pray, but sometimes it just couldn’t be avoided. Most of the time he would say something quietly at his desk, or maybe head to the john for a few minutes of silence. Today, though, none of those options would work.
    He opened the door to the massive cathedral, stepping into the atrium, feeling small immediately. That’s what Catholic churches did to people, and Art thought it good. The human race was nothing. All of their problems, all of their issues, all of their contrived self-importance was insignificant. The world had existed long before them and God long before that. In the end, they were all here because of God’s grace, and stepping into buildings like this helped remind Art of that. He walked through the atrium and into the actual cathedral, where he dutifully formed the sign of the cross, and then walked over to a pew midway through.
    The lights were dimmed as they always were at this time of the day. Art appreciated that as much as he did anything about this place, because it gave a sense of reverence and allowed him to focus easier. He bowed his head and closed his eyes, trying to find the place where he always spoke to God and sometimes God spoke back. Not often, but sometimes, if Art listened close enough.

    * * *
    G od .
    I’m scared pretty much shitless right now. Why did you create this man? I can’t even begin to understand how he’s running around in someone else’s body. It’s beyond me and yet you’ve put him in my way for the third time. The first time I hunted him to a cabin in the woods, the second time, to a warehouse, and now he’s here again. He’s here and he’s threatening to destroy everything you’ve created.
    I’m old. I’m not ready to retire exactly but I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know if I can face this man down, if he’s even a man. I know Jesus asked for you to take the cup from his lips, that he didn’t want to drink from it. I don’t want to drink from it either, Lord. I don’t want anything to do with this and yet I’m not sure who else I can pass it too. There are other people in the Bureau, sure, but none that were there the last two times. I’m more scared at what failure means this time. It seems that no one is really considering that. The whole conversation with Gyle felt like we were talking about possibilities, but there wasn’t any real worry that we wouldn’t find him. That I wouldn’t find him. And what if I don’t?
    Am I responsible for the death of your world?
    Is that the weight which is actually being put on me right now?

    * * *
    A rt paused , letting his thoughts sink in. He didn’t open his eyes, but concentrated on whatever feeble connection he was making with God. The weight of the world was slowly descending on him in this cathedral—the realization that