Those who have gone before have said that it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of a god. It didn't matter that Brian didn't believe in supernatural beings. Nor did it matter that he thought archaic references to angels and demons had been replaced by modern psychology. When an angel and a demon showed up in his counseling office, there was no denying the terrifying and disruptive truths buried in the ancient warning.
In The Adversary, the third book in the Life in Many Voices series, Brian and Heather—the client he has been counseling—are thrown into a chaotic journey by the conflicting machinations of an angel and a demon. The demon seeks to destroy the unusual connection between Brian and his client, even as the angel reminds them that good options exist and they have not forfeited choice. The difficulty for Brian and Heather is that despite the angel's help, every choice brings them into a deeper and more widespread disintegration. What began as a simple counseling relationship morphed into a mythic struggle, one that threatened to destroy client and counselor even as it brought them closer together.
The Adversary traces the journey of two souls coming of age in a world steeped in trauma, mystery, and fragile grace. Each bears the wounds of abuse and the haunting pull of forces beyond understanding—mythic beings and invisible threads that weave their lives together.
“All we need is snow.”
Greg uttered the words so softly that Bridget didn’t stir, sedated by the haze of cigarettes, sweat, and late-morning sex. With a stream of bluish smoke, Greg sent the dust beam over the bed into a frenetic swirl. But the rest of his body remained motionless, the warmth of the sleeping woman holding him still. It’d be a long winter, the two of them locked away in this one-room, hole-in-thewall cabin. But if they stayed hidden, spring would bring clear roads. And when spring arrived, those searching for them would be long gone. He and Bridget would be free to leave. And they’d be rich.
The solitary window offered a scant vision of the landscape, but the cabin was hard to find unless one knew where to look. Nestled against a pocket of low hills and surrounded by trees, it was at the end of a rarely used, difficult road.
The nearest neighbors were in Springdale, Utah, a hamlet that mostly went to sleep when winter settled in. And though the network of casinos had spies stretched throughout California and Arizona, Greg hoped the Mormons of Utah were more resistant to Vegas’s greed. God’s country was the safest place to hide.
It’d been two years since Greg first stumbled across this cabin. He’d worked his way up the casino ladder in those two years, becoming a dealer and earning Jo-Jo’s trust. He’d learned the routines, watched the payouts and graft, and wondered why everyone was getting rich but him.
It took two full years for those fleeting thoughts to take root, grow, and come to fruition. Every careful step was mapped out, and now all he and Bridget had to do was wait. He felt like he was in a dream, lying beside a naked woman in a forgotten corner of Utah with a suitcase of money stashed beneath the bed. The final, perfect touch would be snow.
The embers in the fireplace waned, a sure sign this slumber was ending. But stacking firewood and stashing supplies would be the least of their winter tasks. Boredom and isolation were sure to become the heart of their struggle. But if they could stay hidden— and if Bridget could keep her penchant for risk in check—they might escape with more than their lives. They’d come this far with meticulous planning, and now their work was to wait.
“I know what you’re planning, pretty boy, and you’re not going to get away with it.”
The memory brought a smile to Greg, recalling the soft brush of Bridget’s lips as she whispered low and then made her way across the casino floor. More than a year had passed since the playful bounce of her short skirt had challenged the panic her words had created. Even now, with stacks of money lying beneath them, he wondered how she knew what he was thinking. Was the look on his face that transparent? What clue led her to surmise his scheme?
Until she’d whispered in his ear, Greg hadn’t paid much attention to the red-headed girl. In the hierarchy of casino life, Bridget was near the bottom, one of the many cigarette girls who teased men with promises that rarely came to fruition. It was one of Jo-Jo’s clearest rules: He ran a casino, not a whorehouse. What the girls did on their own time was their business, but in his establishment, flesh was an invitation, not the prize.
When Bridget put Greg’s secret into words, everything changed. From the dealer’s chair, he watched. Bridget wasn’t like the other girls. She played the teasing game with aplomb, as if she were in charge and everyone else was a potential mark. Be it the weekend influx of workers from the Boulder dam, the politicians, or the movie stars and other high-rollers, Bridget was always one step ahead, looking for a chance to score. But it was her uncanny ease with risk that most intrigued Greg, that left him wondering if she was wary of danger or attracted to it. Or both.
“Whatever you’re cooking up, you’d better take those two into account,” she whispered a month later, nodding at the lanky highway patrolman and his tag-along. Then, making her point crystal clear, she sauntered over to the cops and offered them a drink on the house. That was when Greg knew he needed her. Bridget saw things he missed.
It was so quiet outside the cabin that even the birds had stopped calling. Bridget stirred, took the cigarette from Greg’s lips, and sent the dust beam into another chaotic spin. Then, with a satisfied smile, she returned the smoke, closed her eyes, and nestled close.
As soon as he’d brought her into the plan, she’d proved her worth. For the most part, he was a loner, eschewing teamwork. But Bridget was an easy and eager companion. She bought supplies in incremental stages so no one would become suspicious. She went out of state to purchase a truck. And on the casino floor, she was friendly with all who might thwart their plans.
In early October, it all came together. President Roosevelt had dedicated the dam, and the workers were in a mood to celebrate, throwing money at the casino like there was no bottom in their pockets. On this Saturday night, Jo-Jo joined the party and, with too much drink under his belt, asked Greg to move the receipts into the safe at the end of his shift. All night, Bridget worked the floor and made sure the cops got extra stiff drinks. Then, in the wee hours, while those who should have been watching were sleeping, Greg and Bridget skipped town. They were out of Nevada before anyone knew the money was missing.
The crash of the cabin door startled Greg, collapsing his dream into a pinhead. Gun in hand, the outline of the tall cop blocked the morning sun.
“Well, well, what have we here?” The man stepped toward the bed as his partner slithered into the room. Bridget drew up the sheet to cover her breasts, and Greg caught the leer in the cop’s eyes. The eyes shifted, focused on Greg, and the grin hardened. Thunder shook the room, and Greg felt his chest explode.
He was puzzled that nothing hurt, only an unbearable weight that kept his breath in check. He pitched forward, searching for air, but there was nothing, only warm blood spilling over his arm. He was falling, fading, and dimly, as though far, far away, he heard the cop’s voice.
“Get that piece of shit out of here.”
