Part 1 – Upon The Rock
Part 2 – In The Upper Room
Part 3 – The Lord of Hosts
Part 4 – The Uninvited Guest
Part 5 – The Gift
Part 6 – The Truth About Soldiers
Part 7 – The Loss
Part 8 – The Messenger Revealed
Part 9 – A Game of Eight Ball
Dillon walked quickly back to his apartment. He was never quite certain about the passage of time when he encountered Caleb. Their conversations seemed to take place outside of the normal flow of history. What seemed like hours of discourse could be accomplished in a few minutes; sometimes it felt as if the opposite was also true.
Once he was inside, he checked his answering machine and cell phone for messages: nothing. He checked the time and was surprised that he had only spent a half-hour with Caleb. He still had enough time to shower before meeting Mark at the tea room.
Stepping into the shower, Dillon tried to cultivate a peace about his defeat against the Legatus. He felt certain that Caleb had been toying with him a little as they fought, being capable of ending the exchange at any time. Caleb was a prince among angels, a general; something not unlike the Joint Chiefs. Fencing against Dillon had required very little of him and yet, Dillon recalled, there was some Enemy out there that had very recently held Caleb at bay for almost a month.
Dillon reached for a towel and began to dry himself. He considered the question of his intellectual faith. Caleb had implied that it was virtually synonymous with having little faith at all.
“Jesus,” he said aloud, “help my little faith.”
Almost immediately, the phone rang. Dillon wrapped the towel around his waist and headed for the living room. By the time he arrived, the answering machine had already picked up the call. He heard Mark’s voice, “Hey, I drove by the tea room and it’s packed. Can we just play pool at your apartment club tonight?”
Dillon picked up the phone and interrupted, “Hey, man.”
“Screening your calls?”
“No, you caught me getting out of the shower and the machine picked up before I could get to the phone. Are you on your way here now?” he asked.
“I could be,” Mark answered. “Do you need time to get decent?”
“No,” Dillon replied, “If we’re not going out, I’m just going to throw on some sweats and meet you downstairs.”
“Sounds good. I’ll see you in a few.”
Dillon hung up the phone and got dressed. He put his running shoes back on and tousled his still-damp hair into something that resembled a short brown mop. Leaving his apartment, he was careful to look for unseen guests or signs of another crossover before he turned to lock the door. He slipped quietly down the stairs and out into a small courtyard with a walkway that connected his building with the community club center which housed a fitness center, billiard room and swimming pool.
The billiard room was unoccupied, as was often the case on Friday night. The chic co-inhabitants of his suburban oasis had better things to do than play pool at home. Dillon was happy to avoid the weekend crowd at Mark’s favorite tea room. A quiet game of eight ball, followed by meaningful conversation seemed a great way to start his weekend.
He grabbed a cue and tried some practice shots. Unlike his dismal training exercise with Caleb, shooting pool with Mark was an even match. If he was on top of his game tonight, he might actually win. That, he decided, would feel really good.
He made a fairly difficult bank-shot and was reveling in it when he heard a familiar voice from the doorway.
“Playing alone again?”
He stood up and looked his Flesh in the eye. “Company’s coming,” he said. “And didn’t I tell you to get lost?”
“You did,” his double conceded, “but I couldn’t help but notice that you need me again.”
“Need you?” Dillon laughed. “Why on earth would I need you tonight?”
Flesh propped his hip on the corner of the table and made a show of chalking the cue stick he was holding. “To help you beat Mark, of course. You need a little victory in your life. You’ve been feeling like a loser and I’ve got what you need to turn that around.”
“I’m not going to make some Faustian deal with you and trade my soul to beat Mark at pool,” Dillon said contemptuously.
“Your soul, my soul, we’re the same person, Dillon,” Flesh approached him casually, still carrying the cue. “We’ve only got one soul between us and you’re monopolizing it.” He sat on the table beside Dillon and dusted Dillon’s shoulder with his free hand. “You’re still smarting from that display in the park. I’ve got the confidence to win tonight. You don’t and you know it.”
“I can win,” Dillon protested.
“Prove it.” Flesh grabbed the rack and began gathering the balls into it. “I’ll play you right now. Winner takes on Mark, if he ever gets here.”
Dillon’s reason was screaming that playing pool against his own Flesh for control was absolute madness. However, an unbidden thought floated to the top of his churning conscious: You have what it takes to beat him.
Reaching into his pocket, Dillon produced a single quarter. “You’re on.” He flipped the coin into the air, caught it and slapped it against the back of his hand.”
“Heads.” Flesh said without looking up from the rack.
Dillon uncovered the coin. “Heads it is. You break.”
“With pleasure.” Flesh lined up and shot with such power that the balls seemed to explode in all directions. When the dust cleared, he had sunk three balls. His next shot pocketed the six, a bright green blur into the corner pocket. He beamed, “I’ll shoot solids then.”
Dillon nodded and watched his Flesh pocket three more balls with the same power, but on the third shot, the cue ball rolled casually into the side pocket right in front of Dillon.
He picked the cue ball from the pocket. “I guess it’s my turn then.” He took his time lining up his shots and began closing the gap. He continued until he only had one object standing between him and a shot at the eight ball. He paced around the table trying to line up a good shot but there just wasn’t one. He lined up the most likely bank and heard his own voice whisper in his ear, “Don’t choke.” Holding his breath, he took the shot. For a moment, everything seemed to be happening in slow motion until the ball dropped neatly into the corner pocket.
After that, it was elementary. “Side pocket,” he called, pointing. Easy shot and game over. His Flesh looked stricken.
Dillon took the cue stick from his double. “Maybe pool isn’t your game. Now, get out of here.”
Flesh, his face reddening, looked Dillon in the eye and spoke in a derisive and menacing tone. “This isn’t over, Dillon. The time is coming when we’ll play on my terms in my realm. You don’t stand a chance.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
Flesh vanished.
From behind him, Dillon heard the door open. “Did you start without me?”
“Just some practice shots,” Dillon said, turning to face Mark. “I’ve got plenty of game left to beat you.”
“So, you think you’ve got what it takes tonight?” Mark scoffed.
“Oh, I know I do.”
.
