Piercing the Darkness

by Frank E. Peretti

  “It feels funny not being in school anymore.”

  Tom agreed. “Yes, it sure does.”

  Then came an alarmed voice from down the aisle. “Jody! Come here!”

  It was Andrea Jessup, Jody’s mother, pushing her shopping cart with Jody’s younger brother Brian by her side. Tom was shocked and incredulous at the coldness in her eyes.

  He waved. “Hi, Andrea. Good to see you. Hi, Brian!”

  Andrea ignored him. “Jody! Come here right now! I don’t want you talking to Mr. Harris!” Jody hurried back to her mother. Andrea bent and barked the order directly into Jody’s face. “You stay with me now, and don’t talk to strangers!”

  Jody started to object, “But that’s Mr. Harris!”

  “Don’t argue with me!”

  And then they were gone around the corner; Tom could hear their conversation moving down the next aisle.

  “You stay away from that man,” she was saying. “Don’t you go anywhere near him! And that goes for you too, Brian!”

  Brian started asking questions, but Andrea hushed both her children and continued down the aisle.

  Tom’s life came to a halt, right there next to the breakfast cereal. The Jessups used to be such good friends, and so supportive. He’d shared dinner with them on several occasions, he’d played with their kids, they’d gone together on field trips with the whole school. Jody and Brian were—used to be—two of his best students.

  No more. Everything had changed. Tom tried to think of a good reason, but couldn’t. He tried to think of what he had to buy next, but he couldn’t think of that either.

  Lord, he finally prayed silently, I haven’t done anything! Why did Andrea treat me like that?

  Then he began to wonder how many more of his own brothers and sisters in the Lord felt the same way about him.

  Andrea kept pushing her cart along, grabbing pickles and relish off the shelf with hardly a glance, and moving on. She wanted to get out of the store before she saw that man again, before her children saw him again. She’d never been so upset at anyone in her life. The nerve of that man!

  A small spirit, Strife, followed Andrea. He had nervous, agitated wings that never stopped quivering and a blaring mouth that more than made up for his size. He ran along the tops of the jars and boxes, hurdling the Saltine crackers and leaping over the paper towels.

  He lied to you all along! he shouted to her. And you know, Pastor Mark is lying too, trying to protect him! You don’t know half of what went on in that school!

  On the other side of the aisle, rushing through the flour and sugar and somersaulting over the cooking oil, Gossip filled in all of Strife’s pauses. Sexual! He has problems with sex! It has to be sexual! You’d better ask around and see if anyone knows anything! You just never know about these people! Talk to Judy Waring! She might know!

  Andrea got more enraged, the more she thought about this whole Christian school scandal. That Tom Harris needs prayer, she thought.

  But she hadn’t done much praying.

  MULLIGAN’S EARS WERE so red they almost glowed.

  “Cole! You are just that far from being canned!”

  Mulligan towered over Ben’s desk like a rotting tree about to fall, and Ben felt he should stand up to keep from being crushed, except that Mulligan might interpret that move as aggressive.

  Mulligan pointed his finger—it seemed a bit red too—right in Ben’s face. “Were you out at the Potter place the other day?”

  “Wednesday afternoon, sir,” Ben replied, noting that he’d called Harold “sir.” Wow, I must be scared.

  “And just who ordered you to go out there?”

  “The visit was voluntary, sir. I had a little free time, so I—”

  “So you thought you’d snoop around without authorization, isn’t that right?”

  Ben drew a breath and then released it slowly before he said another word. He had to be careful now because he was upset. “I was not aware, sir, that the Potter residence was off-limits to a law officer, especially when his presence there was with the full invitation and welcome of Mrs. Potter herself.”

  “So how about that little visit out to the door factory? What about that?”

  “They were glad enough to have me there.”

  “And I say you misused your badge!”

  Now Ben did stand up, tall and straight. “You might be interested in what I’ve found out, Sergeant Mulligan, sir.”

  “If it’s about Sally Roe, forget it! That case is closed because I said so!”

  “The descriptions of Sally Roe that I got from Mrs. Potter and from Abby Grayson at the Bergen Door Company were consistent. Sally Roe was in her mid- to late-thirties, about five six, with long red hair.”

  “What of it?”

  “The woman we found in the goat shed was younger, and had black hair, probably shoulder-length, but no longer.”

  Mulligan smiled a smile of pity. He put his big hand on Ben’s shoulder and spoke condescendingly. “Cole . . . come on. It was dark in there. You only saw the body for a second. I don’t know what’s gotten into you.”

  “Harold . . . why was the house ransacked? Did you authorize that?”

  “Sure I did. We were looking for evidence.”

  “Evidence of what? You said it was a suicide.”

  “Standard procedure. Isn’t your shift about over?”

  “I do have a message for you from Mrs. Potter. She’d like to have that mess cleaned up by whoever it was that made it.”

  “That’s taken care of . . . Don’t worry your little head about it.”

  “And whatever happened to Sally Roe’s pickup?”

  Mulligan looked at him just a little funny. “What pickup?”

  “Sally Roe always drove a ’65 blue Chevy pickup. I let Mrs. Potter go through our vehicle ID book yesterday, and she pointed out the make and model to me. The truck’s nowhere around the property. Roe had to have driven it home from work the evening she allegedly killed herself. I was wondering if the same people who ransacked the house may have made off with her truck.”

  Mulligan looked a little worried. “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “And since we’re on the subject, I’m still wondering about that bloodstained shirt we found. Did the coroner ever check the blood type? That scene was full of signs of violence. And the body . . . That woman didn’t hang herself!”

  Mulligan turned his back on Ben, stomped into his office, and returned with some papers in his hand. He slapped them on Ben’s desk. “There! The county coroner’s report on the death of Sally Roe! Read it for yourself! Death by asphyxiation from hanging. Not murder, not a struggle, not anything! Now if you disagree with the coroner, why don’t you come up with another body for him to examine?”

  “There might be one.”

  Mulligan actually grabbed Ben’s shirt in his fist. His eyes were wild, and he hissed the words through jaws locked shut in anger. “Stop right there! Not another word!” Ben said nothing, but he didn’t back down either. Mulligan didn’t like that at all. “Your shift is over for today, Officer Cole, and if I hear one more word about this from you, your job is going to be over, you got that?”

  Mulligan let go of Ben’s uniform with a feisty little shove. Ben did what he could to straighten out the wrinkles. “I’ll be watching you, boy, I mean really watching you. You drop this Sally Roe thing, you hear? One more false step from you, and I’m going to have myself some real joy ripping that badge right off your chest!”

  CHAPTER 12

  WELL, THOSE GUYS mean business, I guess.

  Wayne Corrigan sat at his desk after-hours, drinking one last cup of coffee from his thermos and looking through several pages of notes Mark Howard, Tom Harris, and the church board had compiled in answer to the temporary injunction against the school.

  All the usual arguments for corporal punishment were clearly laid out—the Scriptures from Proverbs about the rod, of course, and a definitive procedure for spanking clearly outlined in th
e Student-Parent Handbook. Lucy Brandon’s signature on the enrollment agreement constituted her agreement with the handbook, so that wasn’t going to be hard to argue. It was obvious the church board had done their homework many times over in this area.

  As for their argument against any restraint from “further religious behavior which could prove harmful to the mental, emotional, or social welfare of the child, or any excessive religious instruction that could prove harmful,” they did a pretty good study on that, with Scripture after Scripture declaring the existence, purpose, behavior, and “casting out” of demons, as well as a general apologetic for the basic gospel message. This was definitely a matter of religious belief, supposedly protected by the Constitution, sure . . .

  But an exorcism perpetrated upon a ten-year-old child? A minor, with no parental consent? Where was that provided for in the hand-book? When did Mrs. Brandon agree to that kind of treatment for her daughter?

  He stopped cold. This case was too big and the stakes were too high. It was more than he could handle.

  Yeah. Those ACFA guys found just what they were looking for; the way they would handle the case, the Constitution would be just so much toilet paper when children were involved.

  Well, Corrigan, you did it again: you said yes too easily. Now the hearing’s in twelve days. Better do something.

  “Lord God,” he prayed, “I’m in over my head again. I need Your help to bail me out . . . to bail all of us out.”

  He started scribbling out a brief for the court, trying to cover the items in the complaint. Misuse of federal funds was easy to refute, and Discrimination and Harassment were basically a walk in the park, but then came the tricky stuff, and he began to pray in earnest as he wrote every line.

  On Monday morning, a week after Ruth and Josiah were first hauled from his home, Tom got a call from an unidentified lady at the Child Protection Department. Without consulting him, and with no prior notice other than this call, an appointment had been set for him to visit with his children for one hour under the supervision of a child welfare counselor. The appointment was for 11 that morning, at the courthouse in Claytonville.

  He barely made it in time, pulling into a visitor parking slot at the courthouse at 10:52. He doublechecked his appearance in the visor mirror, straightening his tie, smoothing down his hair, his hands trembling and his stomach queasy from the anticipation. He grabbed a brown bag of things for the kids, locked up the car, and bounded up the concrete steps of the old stone building.

  The inside hall was cold marble, tall, gray, and imposing. Every footstep echoed like a public announcement, and he felt naked in this place. Lawyers, clerks, and other just-plain folks passed him on every side, and he found it hard to look them in the eye. What if they had seen his face in the paper or on television? They probably wouldn’t want his autograph.

  The girl at the information desk took his name and offered him a seat on a hard wooden bench against the wall.

  “I’ll let them know you’re here,” she said.

  He sat there and slowly scratched his chin, looking down at the marble floor. He felt angry, but he knew he couldn’t let it show, he couldn’t let it come out, or he’d only make things worse.

  He prayed repeatedly, O Lord, what can I do? I don’t even know what to say . . .

  He naturally thought of Cindy, now gone for three years. Difficult times such as this reminded him of how much he always needed her, and how much he had lost. He’d recovered from the initial grief, yes, but sometimes, when life was at its darkest and the struggle was the most uphill, out of habit he would reach for her, think of her, rehearse the words to share his pain. But then would come that same, persistent reminder, the realization that she was gone, replaced by a closely following shadow of sorrow.

  Cindy, he thought, you just wouldn’t believe what’s happening down here. I guess it’s the persecution Jesus and the apostles warned us about. I guess it always seemed like something far away, maybe in Soviet Russia, or during Roman times, but not here, not now. I never thought it would actually happen to me, and I sure didn’t think it would happen to the kids.

  He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his tears away. He couldn’t let the kids see him like this—and what would the state people think?

  “Mr. Harris?”

  He sucked in a breath and immediately, even desperately, tried to compose himself. Tom, whatever you do, be cordial! Don’t give her anything to use against you!

  He was looking up at none other than Irene Bledsoe.

  “I’m sure you remember me?” she said, sitting near him on the bench.

  “Yes.” He figured that would be safe.

  “Before I take you upstairs to see your children, I need to remind you that this visitation is a privilege that can be revoked at any time. We expect you to remain on your best behavior and to comply with my instructions at all times. You are not to touch your children, but remain on your own side of the conference table. You cannot ask them anything about where they are staying. Any other questions that I may deem inappropriate will be disallowed, and the meeting can be terminated at any time if I find it necessary. Is all that clear to you?”

  “But . . . Mrs. Bledsoe, are we going to have a chance to talk this thing out? I want to get this whole mess cleared up and get my children back home with me where they belong.”

  “That won’t be possible at this time; our investigation is still in progress.”

  “What investigation? I haven’t heard a thing from anyone, and I haven’t even been able to get through to you.”

  “We have a very heavy caseload, Mr. Harris. You’ll just have to be patient.”

  Tom felt an anger, even a hunger for revenge rising inside him, something totally un-Christian, he knew, but it was irrepressible. He just couldn’t think of any words that would be civil.

  Irene Bledsoe asked him again, more firmly, “Is all that I have said clear to you?”

  All he could do was give her the right answer. “Yes.”

  “What is this package?”

  Tom opened it for her to see. “I brought some things for the kids. They don’t have their Bibles, so I brought them, and some pens and stationery.”

  “Fine.” She took the bag. “Come with me.”

  She took off at a hurried, efficient pace, the pock, pock, pock of her heels telling everyone on the floor she was passing by. Tom just tried to step quietly; this kind of attention he didn’t need.

  She led him up the winding marble staircase to the second floor, along the balcony overlooking the front entry, and through a heavy, uninviting door with big brass hinges and a knob that had to weigh twenty pounds. They passed through a cold and bare antechamber with one tall window letting in grayish light. A security guard stood by an archway to the right, looking just a little bored, but manning his post. Tom followed Mrs. Bledsoe past the guard and through the archway.

  Tom’s heart leaped into his throat, and tears flooded his eyes.

  There, seated on the other side of a large table, were Ruth and Josiah. They were on their feet in an instant at the sight of him, crying “Daddy,” their voices shrill with excitement. They ran for him.

  Irene Bledsoe stood in their way and blocked them with her arms. “Sit down! Sit down at the table!”

  “I want to see my dad!” Josiah cried.

  “Daddy!” was all Ruth could say, her hands outstretched.

  He couldn’t take them in his arms. He couldn’t touch them. All he could do was cry. “Sit down now. Do like Mrs. Bledsoe says.”

  Ruth began sobbing, almost wailing. “Daddy . . .”

  “I love you, Ruth! Daddy loves you. Go ahead. Sit down. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  Irene Bledsoe encouraged the children to sit down with a firm hand on their arms.

  “Mr. Harris, you may sit in this chair facing your children. Let me remind you of what we discussed downstairs.”

  We didn’t “discuss” anything, Tom thought. You gave
the orders, I sat there and listened.

  He slowly slid the chair out and sat down. He couldn’t waste this time crying. He tried to sober up, and pulled out his handkerchief to wipe his eyes again.

  “How are you two?”

  “I wanna go home, Daddy,” said Ruth, still sobbing.

  Josiah was trying to be brave, and wiped his eyes like his father. “We miss you.”

  “Is Mrs. Bledsoe taking good care of you?”

  Mrs. Bledsoe answered that one. “Your children are in very good hands, Mr. Harris, and I think that should be the last of that sort of question.”

  Tom glared at her. He couldn’t hide his anger. “Then I’d like to ask you some questions afterward.”

  She smiled pleasantly in the children’s presence. “We can discuss that later.”

  Tom noticed the bump on Ruth’s head the moment he saw her. Now he was ready to ask about it. “What happened to your head, Ruth?”

  Bledsoe cut right in on that question, even rising a little from her chair. “We can’t discuss that! I’m sure you understand!”

  “I bumped it in the car,” said Ruth.

  “Ruth! Don’t you talk about that or I’ll take you away!”

  She started crying in anger now. “How come?”

  “It’s all right, Ruth,” said Tom. “We don’t have to talk about it.” He turned to Josiah. “So . . . uh . . . what have you guys been doing?”

  Josiah was unhappy and made no attempt to hide it. “Nothing. We sit around and watch TV.”

  Tom was unhappy to hear that, but he didn’t show it. “Oh, does Mrs. Bledsoe let you watch TV?”

  “No, Mrs. Henley does . . .”

  Irene Bledsoe was right on top of that. “Josiah, we can’t talk about who our foster parents are. That’s a secret.”

  Tom tried to get the conversation back into safe territory. “So . . . how about reading? Have you read any good books?”

  “No,” said Ruth.

  “They have some video games,” Josiah volunteered. “Those are kind of fun.”

  “So . . . are there other kids around to play with?” Tom cringed even as he asked the question, but Irene Bledsoe let that one go.