CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE LITTLE GUEST house had a country-cottage feel. Without being asked, I sat in a blue wingback chair, like the invited guest I wasn’t.
“Where’d you find this place?” I asked.
“Someone at my church recommended it to me,” Lindsay said, sitting on the sofa. “She knew Mr. Laguzza, I came to see him, and we hit it off.”
“He’s handy with a gun.”
“Emil Laguzza believes in the Second Amendment.”
“It must get pretty exciting when Jehovah’s Witnesses come calling. Did you know Jehovah’s Witnesses are merging with the Optimist Club? They’re gonna knock on your door and tell you everything’s okay.”
Lindsay didn’t laugh.
I cleared my throat. “I talked to Howie earlier, and he got very disturbed again about the devil. Started shouting, going crazy, just like in court. Says he willed for Rae to die and that’s how the devil accomplished his purpose. You know anything about this?”
She leaned back and sighed. “Howie has had visions of the devil before.”
“Why didn’t you mention anything about this?”
“I didn’t see any connection before. Then today, when he tried to run out of court, it all came back.”
“What came back?”
“Howie’s had nightmares his whole life. Terrible nightmares. Waking up screaming in the middle of the night. When he was little, the doctors told Mom and Dad it was just night terrors, something kids get from time to time. They said he’d outgrow them.”
“Only he didn’t.”
“That’s right.”
“And he would tell you about these dreams?”
“They always came back to the same thing. The devil was out to get him.”
I rubbed my eyes, which by this time must have been a nice shade of red. “I never knew that about Howie. I don’t remember him ever talking to me about it.”
“He was scared to talk about it, except to me.”
“That’s rough. I’ve had some doozie nightmares myself, but not my whole life. Why do you think he dreamed about the devil?”
“Because,” Lindsay said matter-of-factly, “I think he saw him.”
My addled brain was beginning to mellow out, but I still had trouble believing what Lindsay Patino just said. My stare must have been enough because she felt compelled to explain. “Maybe not Satan himself, but a demon, which he has come to feel represents Satan.”
Shaking my head, I said, “You actually believe this?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a little hard for me to swallow, Lindsay.”
“It is for most people. We are all so certain and sophisticated.”
“Yeah, but demons?”
”Yeah, but electricity? Yeah, but black holes?”
“You don’t strike me as someone who’d believe demons are everywhere.”
“I believe we have to avoid two extremes. If your car doesn’t start in the morning or you burn your toast, that doesn’t mean a demon is behind it.”
“I’ll give you that much.”
“But there’s another extreme, and that is not believing at all. Our culture has become totally naturalistic. It rules out supernatural phenomena, but it has absolutely no reason to do so.”
We were quiet for a moment, and I tried to put all this into some perspective. Here was a well-spoken, well-educated woman, someone who could have been a success at just about anything she chose, telling me she believed in actual devils and demons. I was incredulous. The only other person I remember talking to me about the devil with such certainty was a guy downtown who had wine breath and lived out of a shopping cart.
Lindsay Patino did not fit that profile. I wasn’t at all leaning toward believing her, but I admit, I was getting intrigued. “Howie said something about a lion devouring him. What’s that all about?”
“There’s a passage in the Bible. It says to be alert, because the devil is prowling around like a roaring lion, looking for people to devour.”
The image was striking, and I could almost relate. There were times when I’d felt like there was a hot breath on the back of my neck. Usually that feeling came when I was falling into bed after a binge. I always chalked it up to inebriated paranoia.
Lindsay said, “Why do we think we know so much more than the ancients? Maybe we know less. Sure, we can measure better than they can, but is that all life is based on, measuring things?”
“How else do we know?”
“Experience, wisdom, intuition. A materialist sucks all the juice out of life and leaves a dry husk.”
“Where did you get all this? Materialist?”
“Am I not supposed to know that word?”
“No, I—“
“Look, on that shelf over there. What do you see?”
“You mean books?”
“They’re the latest thing.”
“Okay, maybe I deserved that.”
“The point is, I don’t think we’re any wiser for being materialists. I think we’re more foolish than ever.”
“I’ll give you an example. Our church helps support a missionary couple in Kenya. These people are the most levelheaded people you’ll ever meet. The husband used to be a marketing executive, and his wife was a consultant. They dropped everything to train and to work with people of a very ancient culture.”
I wondered what might have driven a couple to make that sort of irrational decision, but I listened closely.
“There is no separation over there between the natural and the supernatural. Spiritual activity is seen as normal and inevitable. This couple has confronted actual demon possession, talked directly to demons, and cast them out of people. But in our Western culture, we have created an artificial distinction, and then we rule out the supernatural.”
She was so sure about what she was saying that it was disconcerting. Suddenly I felt like a lawyer arguing a case and came back with, “Maybe they buy that in Africa. But we’re a bit more advanced, you know? We have explanations for phenomena. We don’t need to believe in devils.”
“I know it’s difficult for you to believe,” Lindsay said, “because you haven’t looked into it before.”
I bristled but couldn’t protest because she was right. I started thinking what a good lawyer she would have made.
“So you think Howie is dealing with some sort of demon -possession?”
“I think it’s better to call it demon oppression.”
“Okay, why would a demon or the devil be so interested in Howie? He never did anything to anybody.”
Lindsay took a long, slow breath. She leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees. The room seemed to get smaller. “I’m going to tell you why,” she said. “Will you listen?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I answered.
“All right, then,” she said. “It was when my parents first moved to Orlando . . .”