Piercing the Darkness

by Frank E. Peretti

  “And then . . .” said Ben; he was figuring it out.

  Marshall verified his thought. “And then somebody comes along and tries to kill Sally Roe . . .”

  “The very same day my kids were taken!” said Tom.

  “And the very day before you got your summons.”

  “I love it,” said Corrigan. “But what does it really mean?”

  Marshall looked over all the notes one more time and answered, “I don’t know. We have molehills all over the place, and demons tunneling everywhere, maybe even across the country, but . . .” He sighed. “No case. We can theorize that Sally Roe’s so-called suicide has something to do with the lawsuit against the school, but . . . what? And so what? There just isn’t any visible connection—yet.”

  Ben turned away, frustrated. “We’ve got to find out who that woman was, the one we found dead in the goat shed!”

  “Parnell’s the one to talk to.”

  “Well, he wouldn’t talk to me! He and Mulligan are in this together, that’s obvious, and they’re looking out for each other.”

  “And I’ll guess somebody higher up is watching them closely, if you get my drift.”

  Corrigan piped right up. “I don’t get your drift.”

  “Humor an old reporter,” said Marshall. “I’m guessing they both belong to some kind of secret group, maybe a lodge, maybe something occult, who knows, something like LifeCircle, something tied closely to it, maybe even a part of it, but not nearly as nice. Hidden. Powerful. Something has a really short leash on those two.”

  “But you’re guessing,” said Corrigan.

  “Keep on guessing,” said Tom. “You’re a good guesser.”

  Marshall ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m in your camp, Wayne; a guess is only good if it pays off. We’ll just have to find some levers to pull, some way to squeeze these people. Oh, Kate, speaking of levers, forget waiting for Woodard to get you the curriculum. Go to the school board, those three people . . .” He checked his list again. “Uh . . . Jerry Mason, Betty Hanover, and John Kendall. Just see what they say, but don’t wait for them either. If they stall, write to Omega for it. I want to see that curriculum.”

  Corrigan rested his chin on his knuckles and stared at all the notes. “Man, where is Sally Roe?”

  Marshall said grimly, “I imagine somebody else is wondering that too.”

  A RUSTLING WENT through the demonic ranks surrounding the motel; black wings began to quiver, and red glowing blades appeared.

  Sally Roe was returning to the motel, walking briskly up the street, alone and unprotected.

  “Remain in place,” said Destroyer. “Don’t move.”

  Immediately there was a hissing and an agitation among the ranks. The officers on either side of Destroyer got fidgety.

  “She is ours!” said one.

  “Alone!” said another.

  “Remain in place,” said Destroyer.

  SALLY FELT NO anxiety, no fear. If she felt anything, it was a new kind of exhilaration. She still couldn’t believe the incredible recovery of that second ring. She considered herself extremely lucky, or fortunate . . . She wasn’t ready to say “blessed.”

  She rounded the corner, passed under the breezeway, and started up the stairs to Room 302.

  “WE SHOULD SATURATE the building!” said the monster at Destroyer’s right. “Khull and his men need our power!”

  “You must reinforce the demons of Broken Birch!” said the beast at Destroyer’s left.

  Destroyer watched, still silent, as his warriors fussed and hissed all around him, itching to get in on the kill.

  SALLY REACHED THE first landing and was starting up the second flight of stairs.

  Khull was in the room, waiting. One of his men, dressed as a repairman, remained near the soft drink machine at the other stairway, ready to block any escape that way. Another man, looking like a casual vacationer, took his post at the bottom of the stairs Sally had just taken.

  A third man, dressed in dark clothes and smoking a cigarette, started up the stairs after her, quietly, surreptitiously.

  SALLY WAS JUST on the second flight of stairs when she didn’t feel right about something.

  Tal was beside her. Stop, he said. Wait.

  She stopped. She’d seen that one man standing near the office door when she came around the corner, and now she was sure he was coming up the flight of stairs below her. When she stopped, he hesitated. Now it was ominously quiet.

  Tal remained beside her; Nathan stood at the top of the stairs, Armoth at the bottom. They were making themselves clearly visible.

  Tal drew his sword slowly and let its light flicker against the wall of the building for all to see. Nathan and Armoth did the same. Now they could see the demonic response: from rooftops all around the motel, the sky lit up with the red glow of enemy swords, and the air was filled with the clatter and rustling of black wings.

  There was a standoff.

  A taloned hand grabbed Destroyer’s arm.

  “Will you not attack? There are only three guarding her!” said the warrior. The demons all around squawked their eager agreement.

  “Only three?” Destroyer replied. “You mean you see only three.” He pointed his crooked finger at the warrior that had grabbed him, then at another whiner, and then at one more overly anxious fighter. “Very well. You, you, and you, attack! Do your worst!”

  They shrieked, raised their swords, and shot from the roof like skyrockets, swooping down toward the motel. They would give Broken Birch all the power they needed, and Sally Roe was as good as dead!

  Tal shot from the stairway in a brilliant explosion of wings, and met the three attackers over the parking lot. Two were instantly shredded; the third went careening and fluttering over the print shop, trailing red smoke from what was left of him. Back on the stairs, Nathan and Armoth closed in on Sally Roe, their wings outspread, their swords ready.

  KAWOOOM! Bursting instantly out of hiding, at least a dozen warriors appeared all around the motel, their wings spreading to form an impenetrable wall.

  “OH, MRS. BISSELL!”

  It was the office lady. Sally was relieved to hear her voice. “Yes, I’m up here!”

  “Could I see you for a minute?”

  The man on the flight below dropped his cigarette and crushed it out with his toe. Then he hurried back down and ran across the parking lot. Sally went to the balcony railing and saw him ducking around the corner.

  “HMM,” SAID DESTROYER. “How many more warriors do you suppose he has hidden in there?”

  No demon would venture a guess.

  “Maybe none at all . . . maybe thousands! Would anyone like to find out?”

  THE LADY IN the office brought Sally’s travel bag out from behind the counter.

  “I hope you won’t think me too forward for doing this,” she said, “but before you go up to your room, you’d better know that there’s a man up there waiting for you. He said he was your husband.”

  Sally was horrified. “What?”

  “Is he?”

  Sally backed toward the door. “I don’t have a husband.”

  “Don’t go out there, not yet.”

  Sally stopped.

  “What about that other man, the one following you up the stairs?”

  Sally was amazed. She looked out the windows. “He’s . . . I saw him running away.” Then she backed away from the window, afraid of being seen.

  “I don’t know who you are, or who he is, but I ran a check and there’s no such thing as a ’79 Mustang with the license number you gave, and no such thing as a Buick Regal with the license number he gave. Maybe two people can be married and have different last names, but when you say you’re from Hawthorne, California, and he says you’re both from Las Vegas, I just don’t like the looks of it.”

  Sally didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.”

  “I got your bag out of the room when I let him in; I told him the previous tenant left it there. Is there some k
ind of trouble? I don’t want anything weird going on in my motel.”

  Sally took the bag. “Thank you.”

  “Should I call the police?”

  “Uh, no. No, I’ll just leave. Keep the rent money—it’s okay.”

  “What about ‘Mr. Rogers’ upstairs?”

  Sally was backing toward the door. She looked out the window to make sure he wasn’t lurking about. “Uh . . . yes, call the police.”

  DESTROYER AND HIS army could see Sally slip quickly out the front door and run down the street, completely surrounded by the angelic guards.

  A demon hissed and pointed. There went Khull, sneaking out of Room 302, hurrying down the back stairs with the “repairman.” The casual vacationer had also disappeared. Somehow they knew the jig was up. Perhaps it was that timely interruption by the lady in the office; maybe they’d felt Sally Roe’s great “psychic power” in the place. Perhaps they could feel their demonic escorts being stalled by the angelic guard. Whatever the case, things did not feel right, and they were calling it quits.

  Destroyer blew a stream of sulfur from his nostrils, “Remember,” he said to his warriors, “this Tal is a layer of traps, a setter of snares. No little human as dangerous to us as Sally Roe is going to walk down the street uncovered and alone. He was there. His warriors were ready.” He laughed. “But that will change.”

  He looked down the street in time to see Sally Roe disappear around a corner, still heavily guarded. “No, Captain of the Host! Not this time. You are still too strong, but time is on my side! I have your saints in my hands. This game will be ours. We will set the rules, we will pick the time.”

  JUDY WARING WASN’T spending as much time home schooling her son Charlie as she promised herself and everyone else she would. At the moment, her plucky little third-grader was doing whatever he wanted out in the yard while she tended to some pressing matters on the telephone.

  “Well, that’s what I heard,” she said. “He’s had sexual problems ever since Cindy passed away, and I think they were even having trouble in their marriage because of it. Did you ever notice the way he’d always stand so close to Cathy Howard? Maybe she was next on his list, I don’t know.”

  Then the other party talked for a while, and Judy kept busy snipping coupons out of the shopping news.

  Judy’s turn came again. “Well, that’s what I think too. I mean, how can we be sure what really went on in that classroom? Mrs. Fields is busy enough with all the kids in her class; she can’t possibly be watching Tom all the time.”

  Gossip sat on her shoulders, dangling his skinny fingers in her brain while Strife sat on the table and watched.

  “A marvelous idea!” said Strife.

  “You know,” said Gossip, “this woman will believe anything!”

  CHAPTER 24

  “HE WAS HARSH, belligerent, and frightened the children on many occasions,” said Irene Bledsoe, her face defiant, her spine straight as a rod.

  She was flanked by the two ACFA attorneys, Jefferson and Ames, sitting in a conference room adjacent to Wayne Corrigan’s office. Across the conference table from her sat Wayne Corrigan, Tom Harris, and Mark Howard. At the end of the table was the court reporter, taking down everything spoken.

  Wayne Corrigan scanned his notes. This lady was a tiger for sure, and he was wishing he had more to go on. With the little information he had so far, it was going to be a short deposition.

  “But this is based solely on the word of Amber Brandon, is it not?” he finally asked.

  “Yes, and she is a bright, truthful, and responsible little girl.”

  “But you yourself never saw Mr. Harris displaying any of this behavior?”

  “I certainly did: the first time he came to visit his children. He violated the rules we had agreed upon, he was rude, and he was belligerent.”

  “Belligerent. You’ve used that word twice. Now, is that your word or Amber’s?”

  Jefferson spoke up. “What kind of a question is that?”

  Corrigan didn’t have to tell him, but he did. “I’m trying to figure out what Amber Brandon said and get around any embellishments from Miss Bledsoe.” He went to the next question. “So what about Amber’s testimony to you? What specifically did she say Mr. Harris did?”

  Bledsoe leaned forward just a little, but kept her spine straight. “Amber told me that Mr. Harris and the other children made fun of her, harassed her, and tried to impose their religious views on her.”

  “Could you be more specific? How did they make fun of her?”

  Bledsoe hesitated. “Well, they . . .”

  “Did they call her names?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Well, did they or didn’t they?”

  “Amber wouldn’t cite any specific names, but I’m sure if we asked her, she could tell us exactly.”

  “All right, we’ll do that.” Corrigan moved on. “Now what about harassment? How did Mr. Harris harass Amber?”

  Bledsoe laughed at that question. “Oh, how indeed! I suppose you consider it normal to be branded as demon-possessed, to be forbidden to play with the other children . . .”

  “Mr. Harris forbade Amber to play with the other children?”

  “Oh yes. She was forced to stay inside at recess and write a page from the Bible.”

  Corrigan made a note of it. “And did Amber say just what the reason was for that?”

  Bledsoe shrugged just a little. “Oh, apparently Mr. Harris wasn’t happy with her views in a particular matter, and so he decided she needed some more intense indoctrination.”

  “Are those the words Amber used?”

  “No . . .”

  “That’s just your interpretation?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “What exactly did Amber say?”

  “She said that Mr. Harris wouldn’t let her go out for recess, but made her stay inside and copy from the Bible.”

  “Did she suggest that she was being punished for an infraction of the school rules?”

  “I didn’t gather that from what she said.”

  “Did it happen once, for one recess, or was it a constant, daily practice?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “And again, you were not a direct witness to any of this?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Was anyone?”

  “Well, Mr. Harris, but . . .”

  “Mm-hm.” Corrigan flipped to another page of notes. “Let’s talk about Amethyst the pony. Is that the correct name of this . . . uh . . . alter ego?”

  “I don’t know. She does identify herself as Amethyst, and I understand she is a pony, a mythical character.”

  “So you’ve met Amethyst yourself?”

  Ames jumped in on that one. “Excuse me, Mr. Corrigan—I don’t think that question is very clear.”

  Corrigan asked Bledsoe, “Is the question clear to you?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever dealt with Amber when she was acting like Amethyst?”

  She shrugged, unruffled. “Of course.”

  “And nothing about it seemed strange to you?”

  “No, of course not. Children have been known to dissociate into alternate personalities, or make up imaginary friends in dealing with severe trauma. It’s very common.”

  “And what severe trauma are we talking about?”

  Miss Bledsoe tried to compose a clear answer. “There was severe trauma all through Amber’s experience at the Christian school: harassment, discrimination, stress, imposing of Christian dogma . . . It all led to Amber resorting to a false personality to cope with it. Mr. Harris could have responded properly and dealt with the real source of Amber’s trouble, but instead he compounded the trauma by branding Amber as demon-possessed, which I think is just horrendous.”

  “But you were not a direct witness to any of this?”

  “No.”

  “This is all according to what you learned from Amber?”

  “Yes.”

  Corrigan jotte
d some notes and went to a fresh page. “Let’s talk about the Harris kids. What first brought the situation in the Harris home to your attention?”

  She hesitated. “I believe . . . we received a complaint.”

  “You mean a hotline complaint?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you don’t know from whom?”

  “No.”

  “It was not from the attorneys for Mrs. Brandon?”

  Jefferson was right on top of that. “Objection!”

  Corrigan pointed his finger at Jefferson. “This isn’t a courtroom, and you aren’t the judge, Mr. Jefferson!”

  “I resent the question!”

  “Do you want to answer it?”

  “Don’t be impertinent!”

  Corrigan turned back to Miss Bledsoe. “Miss Bledsoe, to the best of your knowledge, did you receive the complaint from anyone connected with this lawsuit?”

  “Absolutely not!” she said with great indignity.

  “Not from any of the attorneys for Mrs. Brandon?”

  “No!”

  “How about Mrs. Brandon herself?”

  “No!”

  “All right. Now, I’m sure you’ve had abundant opportunity to talk to Ruth and Josiah?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Have they reported any abuse of any kind from their father?”

  “Yes, they have.”

  Tom looked up at that remark.

  Corrigan pressed it. “Okay. What abuse?”

  “Frequent spankings with a wooden spoon.”

  “I take it you had reason to believe that these spankings were not administered in a loving and controlled manner?”

  “They were administered, Mr. Corrigan, and that to me is abuse.”

  “All right. Any other abuse toward the children?”

  “He doesn’t let them watch television.”

  Corrigan remained deadpan, and scribbled that down. “Were you aware that Mr. Harris doesn’t even own a television set?”