Pray for the Devil

By Richard R Van Doren

A small group of eccentric pilgrims, each with a story to tell, chases a demon with a horrifying history across the heartland of America. As they close in on their quarry, they face grave dangers and self-doubt. Their odyssey culminates in a confrontation of breath-taking suspense.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Van Doren
• Release date: Oct 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781087924373

Richard R Van Doren

Retired ordained minister in mainline Protestant denomination New Jersey born and raised, now living in Indiana M.Div. and M.Phil. in English Lit. Part-time college composition instructor

Book preview

Table of Contents

Part 1: The Strange Brains

Part 2: Freefall

Part 3: Monday, Monday

Epilogue: Over and Out

Author’s Note:

I wrote and copyrighted this novel in 2010. I say this out front lest anyone accuse me of exploiting a terrible, tragic event. Besides occasional grammatical tweaks since then, every detail of this novel is the same as when I wrote it. You can verify this claim by checking Registration Number TXu 1-711-463 at the Copyright Office. Given all that has happened since the end of 2012, I could wait no longer to find a book publisher. The prophetic nature and awful relevance of the theme urged me to rush Pray for the Devil into eBooks. Thanks to Smashwords for making this possible.

About the Author. As a Protestant minister for almost thirty years, I've come to accept the beliefs of old as closer to the truth than the practical, scientific ones of today, not necessarily as revealed in extravagant, entertaining works like The Exorcist, but in countless news stories of inexplicable and depraved violence. Why does one person, subjected to a lifetime of abuse, manage to rise above it and become a contributing member of society, while others, whose struggles could only be described as minor, resort to horrific behavior? Psychology has yet to pose a satisfying theory; only the influence of spiritual agents begins to.

Pray for the Devil

Part 1: The Strange Brains

1

He broke through the storm cloud into a brilliant sunlit afternoon and shouted for joy. The ominous gray mountain that seemed so threatening minutes ago turned out to be nothing more than a late spring snow squall - not a tornado, like the eyeless beasts he dodged five hundred miles past.

Clear skies ahead, he thought. Put on a happy face. In the theme of clichéd song titles another occurred to him. California, here I come. In fact, he sang a few notes. He glanced around his '99 Volvo Station Wagon as if to reconfirm his solitude. Only a small stash of belongings - a compact suitcase with five changes of clothes and toiletries, a twenty-two inch flat panel TV, a laptop and a sleeping bag - took up any other space. Nobody here but me and Blue Volvo, his oh-so-funny nickname for this navy tinted buggy.

He fought the current, but his thoughts stubbornly drifted to the playful banter that spawned silly nicknames like Blue Volvo - with the wife he left behind. Or the ex-wife he left behind.

Don't forget that. It was over for her too, he reassured himself. Maybe it was over for her before it was over for me, but who cares? It's over.

A sudden pang of melancholy gripped his heart, deepened by a glance in the rearview mirror at the indented, badly worn back seat where Rufus used to sleep. He could still smell the old boy, even though Lyme disease got him a little over two years ago, that gentle, stupid mix of Labrador and something else.

Rufus was gone, Kate was gone - and who knew what lay ahead? A new career in the Golden State, he hoped. Maybe he could break into movies or TV... The wave of emotion surprised him, the single tear he brushed quickly away even more so.

Time for some music, he muttered to himself. Unfortunately, the radio produced a continuous band of broken signals, which was to be expected in this sparsely populated, mountainous region of north central Utah. Thank God for the scenery, he thought. Otherwise he could well imagine awakening from a boredom induced slumber soaring over a cliff at eighty-five miles an hour.

Such was the inescapable risk for solitary drivers on westbound Interstate 80.

Finally, a clear signal blared, so strong it jolted him and prompted a frantic grab for the volume control - a single voice, belonging to an elderly man from the sound of it.

Andrew Farley, soon to be known as The Fugitive, listened with growing dismay to the rant of a preacher, or so it seemed, such was the chaotic message of God-fearing hatred.

"Look around you, children. The signs of disintegration and the coming wrath of the Almighty slap us in the face every second of every day. The signs of international faggotry pollute the airwaves, movies screens and printed pages in nearly every culture of the world, the lifestyle Moses called an abomination, whose only just sentence is stoning, as it is prescribed in the holiest of books. We are surrounded by a conspiracy that is luring our young ones to certain damnation, and even those bodies that call themselves Christian churches either ignore or condone the threat.

Why look at what happened only two days ago. An insane faggot walked into a schoolroom in Sacramento, California, and shot two six year-old children dead and wounded four others...

Farley hit the off button. If that was all the radio had to offer this day, he'd rather risk lingering death in a crumpled, smoldering heap. It's amazing what people call the gospel out here, he thought. Not only did the invective disgust him, he was equally put off by the speaker's twisted facts. The shooter had been married twice and fathered a child, so he was almost assuredly not homosexual. Farley knew enough psychology that even if the killer had been, sexuality rarely came into play in such a rampage.

The Riverside shooting was an unprovoked act of random violence, plain and simple. Harold Plains, the killer's name, had only one goal in mind - to cause as much heartache and despair as possible. It mattered little that none of the families knew him when the shooting commenced. They knew him now. Unfortunately for Harold, but what was called a miracle for everyone else, third grade teacher Lois McCrane was packing a loaded .38 Smith and Wesson in her top desk drawer in an adjacent classroom - illegally it should be noted, but no one was going to press that fact - and on hearing the first shots calmly reached into her desk, took hold of her weapon and strode into Mandy Gleason's first grade reading lesson, whereupon she lifted the revolver, bracing it with her left hand like they do on TV, and - just as he was preparing to fire a seventh shot - splattered Harold's brains all over Terry McMichael's and Brian Potter's desks and part of Nancy Dreyer's new T-shirt with the sequined Ariel emblazoned on the front.

It would probably be a long time before any of the kids in that room slept soundly again, but at least most of them were still alive.

In all the excitement no one noticed a sudden brief power surge in the Balboa Grammar School as Harold Plains' lifeless body slumped to the floor.

When asked by CNN why she kept a loaded gun in her desk McCrane responded simply, In case of an event just like this. The inevitable media dissection of the BGS Hero revealed another possible motive, however - an abusive, estranged husband with a restraining order.

Farley recalled the incident in such detail, because, as is always the case with stories like these, it continued to dominate the airwaves over two days later - and would probably do so for another week before the next horror story, or earthquake, or alien landing took its place.

Out of morbid curiosity he turned the radio back on just in time to hear the ranter identify himself. This is Rev. Morton Utah, KAOC, Army of Christ radio.

He even has the audacity to take the name of the whole state, Farley mused. And army of Christ? The phrase brought to mind the name of a fictitious splinter group of Campus Crusade, which he and a few sardonically witty friends planned to found at their little church affiliated college: Guns for Christ. But they were kidding. Rev. Utah clearly was not.

Better watch your speed, boy, Farley whispered as the needle briefly topped ninety.

In keeping with the sudden downturn of his mood, he spied a mangled carcass by the side of the freeway blanketed by what appeared to be vultures, which in unison flapped away from the body at the approach of - what? Were they dogs? Wolves? Whatever they were, there were quite a few. He thought he saw one's bared slavering jaw.

Almost immediately, an unseen force seemed to tug at his eyelids like the drawing of a window shade. He'd been through this before. The weariness, like a highway hypnosis, usually passed in a few minutes, held at bay by stretching, widening the eyes, and loud rock music. As he fumbled for a Led Zeppelin CD in the center console, he took his eyes off the road for a split second and almost missed the woman waving from the shoulder. As the Volvo zoomed by, a quick glance also revealed three men running up behind her. There was one other fact that left an imprint on his mind - the woman was by any standard stunningly beautiful.

He hit the brakes and coasted to a stop a hundred and fifty feet beyond. Immediately, an inner debate raged. If he ran to help her, could he overpower the three men? What if they were armed? He, Farley, was not.

He spun in the seat and studied them all standing by Interstate 80 awaiting his next move. No struggle ensued, like he had expected. They simply stood there together, not even touching. The woman did not seem to be in any distress, nor did the men seem intent on harming her.

Somewhat becalmed, he put Blue Volvo in reverse and backed up the shoulder. An eighteen wheeler roared by, blasting its horn in annoyance. As he drew closer this peculiar group came into clearer focus, and he was surprised to see that one of them, a thin, forty-something man of medium height with a rusty red beard, wore rabbinical garb: a prayer shawl and yarmulke. The other two men, also on the lean side, seemed somewhat younger, but were noteworthy for a different reason - the stark contrast in their height. The small man could not have been taller than five foot six, while the taller one stood at least six foot eight.

As he backed up further, the woman began waving excitedly, and was immediately joined by the tall man. The rabbi stood still with his hands folded before him. The shorter man kept his hands buried in a frayed gray hooded sweatshirt, clearly unhappy about something.

For the next minute, however, he could not take his eyes off the woman. She seemed like a model on a hair care commercial, long auburn tresses being wafted by a gentle breeze, a face so open, fresh and warm that make-up of which there was none, would have seemed a blight, liquid green eyes that literally sparkled, a patrician nose and a wide-full-lipped smile.

And a slender, perfect body to match, he thought. This is going to be interesting.

As he drew near, the woman and tall man approached the driver's side. Farley opened the automatic window but before he could speak the woman leaned in, smiling hopefully, and breathed, Could you help us?

He was about to say something stupid, like I'd be delighted, Beautiful, when the tall guy filled the other half of the window and added, We have a little problem.

It suddenly occurred to Farley that he had not seen any vehicles, and immediately wondered how these people got here. Then he recognized a rest area situated beyond the tree lined shoulder, which, had he been alert, he would have pulled into himself. There he saw a Winnebago and a pick-up truck with what seemed like a large satellite dish sitting in the bed.

I'm not much of a mechanic, I'm afraid. Out of an urgent need to impress the woman even a little bit, he added, I mean I can change the oil, and tires, and things like that. He expected the woman to roll her eyes at the feebleness of this remark, but she held her open, friendly smile.

Actually, we're out of gas, she said.

Out of gas? Farley tried unsuccessfully to hide his astonishment. Who runs out of gas these days? "Both of your vehicles are out of gas?"

Uhh, yeah, they are, the tall man answered haltingly. Farley glanced at the other two who held their positions about twenty feet away. They seemed to be hiding something, but they didn't seem threatening. Would you mind making a run for us? We have two five gallon gas cans. We'd be glad to pay you for your time.

Farley did a quick calculation. He recalled passing a sign about five miles back indicating the approach of Lumberville, twenty-two miles ahead. If he agreed to help, it would probably cost forty-five minutes to an hour of driving time, factoring in the distance there and back and whatever else was needed to find a station and gas up. He hated distractions when he had a destination and time table in mind. It was one of those personality quirks that chafed on Kate, who, after a long road trip often wanted to stop at the supermarket before returning home. He never agreed to it, and she learned never to ask again.

Sensing his hesitation, the woman suddenly reached in, opened the door and slid into the passenger's seat. I'll go with you, she said brightly. Her action caught all of them by surprise. The rabbi and the shorter man stepped forward in protest. The taller man backed away from the Volvo and stood upright, deep concern clearly etched on his face. Mother Mar... uh, Melanie, are you sure you want to do this?

That's a bad idea, the shorter man called out.

Again, a radiant smile arrested them all. I'll be fine, she assured them, I know a gentleman when I see one. She turned her gaze to Farley, still beaming. But he, despite the proximity of this gorgeous female, couldn't shake the wariness aroused by compulsive and careless behavior. What woman gets into a car with a total stranger, and what friends let her do it?

I don't know Melanie, Farley offered, You don't know me.

"Should I be afraid of you?" she asked innocently, the smile waning temporarily.

Well... no, but you don't even know my name.

OK, what's your name then? she asked holding out her hand for a shake.

Reeling from the suddenness and peculiarity of the situation, he almost forgot the answer. Uh, Andrew. Andrew Farley.

Well, hello, Andrew Farley. It's nice to meet you. She reached down and took his hand, which was resting on the center console. My name is Melanie Calloway.

By now the shorter man had approached the car. Melanie, he called in, Remember what we said about splitting up.

She turned to him, serious now, I know, Jeff. That's why we have to do it this way. We won't be long. I promise.

Wait. Farley furrowed his brow in confusion, You trust me enough to ride with me, but not that I'll bring the gas back if I go alone? By now the tall man had made his way through the trees, apparently to fetch the gas cans.

As if caught in a white lie, her smile diminished somewhat and she lowered her eyes. Just making sure, she said quietly.

The tall man approached with the five gallon gas cans, frowning. Should I put these in your trunk?

Yeah, sure... I guess, Farley replied.

For the last time, Mar... er, Melanie. I think you should stay here with us.

I'll be fine, Matthew. I have a sense of these things. I know he's safe. She looked away from Matthew back at Farley, and smiled again. Right?

He could feel her appraising his six foot frame, wavy, almost curly black hair and muscular physique, although not as muscular at forty five years old as it used to be.

Farley gave an insincere smile in return. Somehow safe didn't sound like a compliment. Besides, Mar... er, Melanie, are you safe?

As he pulled back onto the highway, he reminded himself to keep an eye on her hands. The clothes she wore hugged her form, betraying no suspicious bulges, only the good ones. But an experienced assassin or carjacker could easily conceal a hunting knife under a sweatshirt or straight-legged jeans. These troubling thoughts prompted an outburst that surprised even him. What the hell and I doing!?

What's the matter? she cried, her smile gone.

This is nuts. Every rule of the road ends with a warning never to pick up hitch-hikers or get into a car with a stranger, and yet here we are thumbing our noses at common sense.

I know, she sighed, relaxing again. It just feels ok, doesn't it? I know you have nothing to fear from me, and I sense I have nothing to fear from you.

Farley changed the subject to another that had been weighing on him for several minutes. How do two vehicles run out of gas at the same time?

They didn't. We lied. Winnie ran out. The pick-up still has a couple of gallons in it.

Farley shook his head in disbelief. Then why do you need me? Why didn't one of you just take the pick-up, drive the twenty miles or so to Lumberville and get the gas yourselves?

Because... and now she stared at him as if trying to decide how much to reveal, we all decided it was... safer not to be separated.

Safer!? But you're separated now... is it safer to get into a car with a stranger?

Slightly... yes. We didn't think we should separate the vehicles, either.

Why? Who's after you? Are you drug runners? Did you steal from the Mafia? What? What am I getting myself into, he wondered, and considered making a u-turn at the next highway patrol crossing.

Melanie tilted her head back against the seat, If you stay with us tonight, we'll explain everything. We're not criminals, I'll say that much.

That's comforting, Farley said sourly.

And we're not running from... anybody, either.

Well, I have an itinerary I like to stick to, and this little diversion has already put me well off schedule, so I'll help you get your gas, and then be on my way.

He heard her sniff and suddenly realized she was crying. Everybody's in such a hurry, she said. I thought you were the one. After a pause she added. We really need your help.

They rode the last ten minutes in silence and quickly found a gas station in the truck stop town of Lumberville. Farley topped off his own tank before filling the cans. When the credit card receipt dropped he thought of another question and tapped on her window. Um... do you have any money?

She bolted upright, Oh...no, she said sheepishly. But we do back at the rest stop. One of the boys will pay you.

Her words lacked sincerity, so Farley prepared himself to be stiffed. As he started the engine an attendant passed the car, looked in at Melanie and gave the thumbs up. Lucky man, he heard him say.

I can't thank you enough, she repeated as they neared their meeting point. You were very gracious to give your time for us. But her smile had disappeared, replaced by sadness.

I'm glad to be of some help, he muttered, as they whizzed past the rest stop to the next turn around about a mile beyond.

It's silly, I know, her voice trembled, but it hurts to say goodbye, even to someone I just met. I mean... once you leave we'll never see each other again.

Boy, she is good, he thought. If there were any promise of greater intimacy, he might reconsider. But then he quickly banished the impulse which had caused so many of his recent troubles. Besides, rather than a seductress, this sounded more like the cry of a little girl.

He must have lost track of his speed, because another eighteen wheeler pulled up to within a few feet of his rear bumper before sounding the horn and storming past in the left lane. For a second Farley braced for impact and what would surely be a spectacular gas-fed explosion. By the time they pulled into the rest stop, his soaring pulse had eased.

Relief covered the faces of the three men, who stood between the Winnebago and pick-up. They waved as the Volvo pulled alongside.

This should get you to Lumberville, at least, Farley announced, fighting the urge but surrendering to the view offered by Melanie as she swung open the door and rose from her seat.

Thank you, brother, Matthew said as he lifted the cans from the trunk. I wish we had some money to give you...

Shush! Melanie whispered.

You mean you don't have any money, either?

A long pause followed. None of them seemed to know what to say. Finally, Matthew spoke again, Nope. We're strapped of cash and our credit cards are charged to the max.

How far do you think you're going to get on ten gallons of gas?

We don't know. As far as the next rest stop, I guess.

All four of you are out of money?

Five, actually. There's another one in the trailer.

Please stay, Melanie leaned in suddenly. She had taken off her sweatshirt and unbuttoned the top of the flannel blouse beneath, revealing an enticing cleavage. But her expression read shame, embarrassment, as if she anticipated the effect, but did not approve of it. We'll tell you everything, if you stay with us.

Andrew Farley, soon to be known as The Fugitive, turned off his engine with a sigh. No other options promised as interesting an evening as this.

2

They gassed up the Winnebago and pulled onto Interstate 80, a convoy of three vehicles with Winnie leading the way. Soon, they filled all the tanks at the same service station in Lumberville, Farley reluctantly paying the tab.

I'm on a very tight budget, he announced, then immediately regretted rubbing their faces in their financial woes.

We'll pay you back, Matthew answered without conviction.

From an attendant, who reclined languidly in front of a dilapidated mini-mart, they ascertained the location of a campground only four miles to the north off Route 167.

Why don't we just rent a couple of motel rooms? Farley suggested, eyeing the somewhat better kept lodging nearby called the Even Better Western Inn, although its dark blue and grey paint seemed to eat up the late afternoon sunshine.

It's cheaper this way. Besides, it's not safe... Matthew broke away in mid-sentence and hurried to the pick-up where his passenger Jeff slumped in obvious impatience. To Farley's surprise Melanie drove the Winnebago with the Rabbi serving as navigator. Their secretive fifth had not yet appeared.

As they trundled north under the Route 80 overpass, Farley fought the urge to break away and zoom up the west bound entrance ramp. He wondered how many in the party ahead expected him to do just that.

But he did not, and for the rest of his life he’d revisit this critical moment.

They found the Smokey Bear Camping Grounds easily enough. The familiar cartoon icon pointed the way on a vivid, freshly painted sign. Turning onto a winding drive bounded by majestic pine trees, they soon came to a modest rental office. There they, that is Farley paid the surprisingly reasonable $30 dollar fee. Good timing, the amiable manager offered, Next week the rates double. With that they wormed their way a quarter of a mile over a rutted dirt road to a small opening in the darkening forest, this time with Blue Volvo in the lead.

I was hoping to take a shower tonight, Farley muttered to himself, then saw, almost hidden by the trees, what appeared to be a clubhouse with the words Rest Rooms and Showers painted above the door. At least he wouldn't stink himself out of his sleeping bag tonight, he thought reassuringly, although the Volvo's trunk bed could not substitute for a soft mattress.

They parked in a horseshoe pattern around a small grill. Immediately, Matt and Jeff climbed from the pick-up with what appeared to be familiar duties in mind. The Rabbi, then Melanie stepped down from the Winnebago moments later. Still no sign of the mysterious fifth person.

Matt and Jeff reached behind the pick-up's seat and pulled out a bag of charcoal and then a large picnic cooler, which they placed beside the grill, saying nothing. Melanie and the Rabbi looked into the open door of the Winnebago and appeared to be beckoning someone out, but to no avail. Slowly, Melanie closed the door behind them. She looked over at Farley who had yet to leave his car, and once again smiled, this time with a wave and a mouthing of the words come on out. Just as he was about to open the door, he caught a glimpse of Jeff shooting a look of utter hatred in his direction. Hope that guy's not armed, he thought.

How do you like your burger, Andrew? Matt asked with a smile.

Cooked, he answered lightly.

Good man, Matt continued, I worry about people who eat it raw.

As the men are preparing our evening meal, allow me to introduce myself. The Rabbi approached with his hand extended. I am Rabbi Josef ben Fidek of the Congregation Beth Shalom in Winslow, Pennsylvania.

Farley shook his hand, Pleased to meet you, Rabbi.

I'm sure this must all seem rather mysterious to you, he continued.

Indeed it does... and expensive.

Yes, well... I hope we have the chance to make it up to you. He didn't offer any suggestions how, which Farley found revealing. We are on a most interesting quest. Perhaps interesting is too weak a word. 'Urgent' would be better, even 'desperate.' If you are to join us you should know everything. If not, then at least you should know what your money has gone to.

You have my attention, Rabbi. On closer look the rabbi was younger than he seemed from a distance, maybe early thirties. The scraggly red beard made him look older. Farley scanned his memory to determine where, if ever, he had met a red-headed Jew. He could think of none.

By now a cone of charcoal briquettes blazed in the charred, partly rusted grill and the other three had unwrapped several hamburger patties and placed them on a small tray nearby. They seemed to be waiting for the Rabbi to join them. As if sensing this, he turned. "Well, we have plenty of time before sleep. Let us