Piercing the Darkness

by Frank E. Peretti

  GUILO TURNED AT the sound of wings behind him. The captain had arrived.

  The cheers of the demons echoing out of the valley could only be for one reason. “They’ve brought her,” Guilo reported.

  Both he and Tal stayed low among the trees with their warriors. The swarm of demons below was nothing to tangle with before the right time.

  Guilo pointed. “There! That blue van just entering the Summit Institute!”

  They could see it only intermittently, as small as a grain of sand, appearing through the thinner parts of the demonic swarm and then disappearing again. It reappeared just long enough for them to watch it turn off the thin, gray ribbon of highway and slip out of sight under the mantle of spirits covering the Summit Institute.

  “Well, now she’s alone,” said Tal. “We can’t break through that.”

  “What about the fire you were going to start?” Guilo asked. “If ever we needed something to happen, it is now!”

  Tal shook his head. “It will be a day late. For now, all we can do is wait for Nathan’s signal and hope it comes soon.”

  The semiannual Global Consciousness Conference was getting underway; so the van’s driver had to drive up and down the large, black-topped parking lot several times before he could find an empty parking place. Sally spent that time observing the Summit Institute for Humanistic Studies. It reminded her a lot of the Omega Center, except that it was newer and the architecture more modern. Stone was an abundant building material around here, and so was used in the construction of the offices, lecture halls, walkways, and gardens. True to their religious devotion to Mother Earth, the designers of the campus did not supplant the natural environment, but let the campus merge with it, almost hiding it among the trees, rocks, and hilly terrain.

  The hour was still early, so there were no people out walking. How fortunate for Sally’s captors.

  Khull turned to Sally, holding up his knife as a reminder. “All they paid me to do is deliver you here. If you get cut up in the parking lot, it’s your fault and not my problem, understand?”

  She nodded.

  “Let’s get her into Goring’s place.”

  An observer standing at a distance would have thought an important dignitary had arrived and was now surrounded by Secret Service agents. Sally was barely visible within the tight cluster of bodies that formed outside the van’s side door and then began moving up the path toward Mr. Goring’s chalet.

  Sally made a concerted effort to see around the backs and shoulders of her escorts and study the layout of this place. Right now they were passing through an expansive, meticulously arranged herb garden with sculptured hedges, stone pathways, and eye-pleasing reflection pools. In the middle of a carpet of moss, one lone man sat almost naked in the early-morning cold, eyes shut, legs crossed in the lotus position, totally entranced.

  Leaving the herb garden, they rounded a corner, followed a narrow, natural stone stairway with tall evergreen hedges on either side, and then broke out into the open. To the right, the ground dropped away into a natural amphitheater, and beyond the amphitheater, a heart-stopping view of the mountains spread wider and higher than the eye could take in.

  In the center of the amphitheater, a sizable group of people stood in neat, concentric semicircles around a blazing firepit, chanting, droning, and tossing flowers, grain, and fruit into the fire. On a small platform at the head of the circle, gawking down into the fire as if mesmerized by it, seven stone deities received the offerings and worship of these adoring early-risers while a gaunt, white-haired woman in a yellow robe sang a haunting song in Sanskrit.

  Sally remembered the song and still knew some of the words, even though she hadn’t heard it in ten years. She couldn’t remember all the names of the seven little deities, but they were secondary gods anyway. This ceremony was to invoke the blessing of the Universal Mother first of all, and secondly to appease these seven dwarfs.

  Then she caught a glimpse of some of the faces as they lifted toward the morning sun. No! There was Mrs. Denning from the Omega Center, and two of the Omega faculty! And was that Mr. Blakely, her counselor at Bentmore Teacher’s College? She thought she recognized his face, and then his cracking, squawking chant identified him for sure. Close to the fire, her face washed with red light, was Krystalsong, a witch, scholar, and mother of four from the West Coast; she and Sally had worked together on a holistic preschool program.

  Quite a homecoming for us all, she thought.

  ON THE HIGHWAY to Ashton, the mail truck continued to roll along, right on schedule. The morning mail shipment would be at the Ashton Post Office the moment they opened the doors.

  “That has to be it!” said a spirit to his friends.

  They were whirring and rushing along above the highway, keeping pace with the truck and eyeing it curiously. The spirit leading them had been in a terrible fight; his wings were tattered, his flight was wobbly, and his face was misshapen.

  “This time,” he slurred, “we won’t let any heavenly warrior stop us!”

  “Destroyer will reward us!” said another.

  “We will stop the truck and get that letter!”

  They swept their wings tightly behind their shoulders and dropped like torpedoes toward the truck, cutting through the thin layers of morning mist, the wind whistling through their wings and whiskers. This should be easy enough. They could foul the engine, break the steering, flatten a tire. They could—

  LIGHT! SWORDS! WARRIORS! The truck was full of them!

  Nathan shot into the air and met the battered demon.

  “You again?” they both said.

  The demon dissolved into red smoke. Nathan spun to take out another one.

  Armoth tore three spirits apart with one sword swipe, and then spun in a blur to bash two more with his heel.

  A dozen warriors had burst out of the truck and now swirled around it, swatting and hacking.

  Their picnic ruined, the remaining spirits fled like flies and the truck kept rolling.

  CHAPTER 40

  THE SAINTS WERE on their knees. The division was fading. Mark had devoted multiplied hours of his time and large measures of his personal concern to healing and restoring the hurting and wounded among his flock, steadily, prayerfully undoing the tangled mess that Destroyer and his hordes had created in the church. It had taken some real breaking, some repenting, some forgiving on all sides, but it happened, and was still happening, one heart at a time.

  The Jessups were so hurt and dismayed that it took careful, loving appeals from the Walroths for them to come back into fellowship; Judy Waring was carrying a lot of bitterness against the likes of Donna Hemphile who had used her—and her mouth—to hurt God’s people. But she had to admit that it was, after all, her mouth and her heart, and she started her turnabout with those two areas of her life. Every one of them had to totally reevaluate their opinion of Tom Harris, and they were still in that process even as they prayed.

  It wasn’t an easy restoration for any of them, but in the face of their revealed enemy they had a clear choice: rejoin God’s army and fight the evil that was even now destroying them, their families, and their Christian faith, or . . . proceed with being destroyed.

  They rejoined the army—with a vengeance.

  THE ANGELS KEPT quiet, stayed low, and didn’t talk much as they secretly placed themselves at strategic points around the country, waiting for Tal’s “brushfire” to start.

  Mota the Polynesian and Signa the Oriental had many points to cover all around the Bacon’s Corner area, but they now had more than enough warriors, so carefully, methodically they covered them. Terga, the tender-egoed prince of the town, was getting edgy about the sudden tide of prayer coming from the reunited saints, but so far he did not sense the activity all that prayer was bringing about. Besides, he’d heard the news from the powers above him: the woman had been captured; the danger was over.

  CREE THE NATIVE American and Si the East Indian had returned once again to the Omega Center for Ed
ucational Studies, and were now planting angelic warriors like explosive charges in just the right places all around the campus. It was tedious, dangerous work, the greatest danger being discovery. While they crawled along or under the ground, moved under the surface of the lake, stole from tree to tree, or spent hours totally motionless under rocks, boats, or buildings to avoid discovery, they could always see Barquit, the Prince of Omega, soaring to and fro, his eyes everywhere, laughing and exulting in any progress made in the classes and workshops, then growling and spitting at any clumsy moves by his demons or by his puppet-people below. He was still very much in charge and ruling his demon hordes with an iron hand. Now that the woman was captured, he felt no fears or worries at all, and obviously planned on remaining at his post forever.

  ON THE SURFACE, Bentmore University looked like the same old red-brick, permanently established alma mater it had always been, and classes were in full swing as usual.

  In the spirit realm, however, Corrupter, Bentmore’s rotund master of disinformation and fleshly indulgence, moved like a blimp over the campus, seeking out any damage the school may have incurred from that recent, violent exchange with Heaven’s warriors. Ha! Destroyer was nothing but a status-anxious worrywart! Damage? There was none to speak of. Professor Lynch had been a bit ill lately, but he was getting old anyway, and there were plenty more where he came from. With the woman captured, the future was wide open.

  Across the river, atop the North American Can Company, Chimon the European and Scion of the British Isles were back, hiding behind one of the factory’s many ventilator stacks. Things looked quiet at Bentmore right now, but when Tal’s brushfire started, there would be noise enough.

  Chimon and Scion were looking for hiding-places and sending troops to fill them. The warehouse by the river could hold a myriad or so; the wharf on the Bentmore side would also serve very well, being closer to the campus. The troops moved silently and quickly. One false move, one ill-timed glint of light, could endanger them all.

  AT EVERY POINT along Sally’s journey, at every stronghold of Satan, the angels moved into position and then waited for the signal.

  But they all knew they were waiting longer than expected.

  IN THE PEAKS above Summit, Tal and Guilo watched and listened for any hint of what might be happening inside. Behind them, a hidden army lay in waiting, ready.

  “Any time now,” Tal said more than once. “Any time.”

  IN PURELY A physical sense, Mr. Goring’s chalet was an inviting A-framed structure built with rough-hewn timbers and a full-height glass front that commanded a marvelous view of the mountains. It could have served so well as a ski lodge or mountain getaway.

  In a spiritual sense, it was a churning, frothing hornets’ nest of evil, and Sally could feel it even before her captors led her through the front door. She knew she was being watched from every direction; she could discern the oppressive, smothering hate that covered the place like a leaden fog.

  Destroyer was already in the chalet, shoving his way into the living room, brushing aside the Strongman’s demons and attendants with rude boldness. Into the Strongman’s lair he went, strutting down a narrow aisle formed by two straight lines of demon lords from all over the world, until finally he stood in the presence of the Strongman.

  “My Ba-al,” he said loudly, with a rather showy bow, “I bring to you Sally Beth Roe!”

  The Strongman had heard the demonic cloud in an uproar, and now he could see Khull and his party bringing Sally Roe to the front door. He nodded in carefully measured approval. “So you have. So you have.”

  The demon lords raised their swords to begin a cheer.

  The Strongman growled, his arms outstretched, “Hold!” They froze and stared at him. “First we will see if there is anything to cheer about.”

  THE HEAVY PLANK door closed behind Sally and her captors. They were standing in Mr. Goring’s spacious, comfortable living room. At one end was a massive stone fireplace; at the other end, a wall of glass brought in the mountains; the open-beam ceiling soared above them to the roof’s apex, and from the massive ridge beam, rustic iron chandeliers hung on long chains.

  Three men rose from their places by the fire. Sally recognized Mr. Steele, and it was obvious by his satisfied grin that he recognized her.

  It was Goring who ordered, “Bring her here and sit her down.”

  Khull was after some glory. He grabbed Sally’s arm and pulled her forward, keeping her constantly off-balance, then, with a cruel grip that bruised her arm, flung her down into a sofa. With just a few small gestures, he ordered his four thugs to stand guard around her.

  “Gentlemen,” he said arrogantly, “I bring to you Sally Beth Roe.”

  The three men stood before her, staring at her with great interest. The gray-haired man with the perfectly trimmed beard and the bone necklace looked at the tall, silver-haired executive type, and then both of them looked at Mr. Steele.

  “This is she,” said Steele. “Well done, Mr. Khull. We will settle our account with you immediately. However, if you are agreeable, we may still have need of your services.”

  Khull smiled, giving Sally a leering, sideways glance. “It would be my pleasure.”

  “Then please remain for a time, you and your staff. We’ll try to settle this business as quickly as we can.”

  “Take your time.”

  With Sally placed securely on the sofa and under capable guard, the three gentlemen relaxed and took their seats—the two older men in another sofa facing Sally, and Mr. Steele in a large easy chair between the two sofas, facing the fire.

  Steele opened the conversation. “Sally, let me introduce my two friends.” He indicated the man with the perfectly trimmed beard. “This is Mr. Emile Goring, presently Director of Finance of the Mannesville Association, an international humanitarian and environmental think tank and mobilizer of global projects. He’s a major stockholder and director in over forty global corporations dealing in oil, gas, transportation, exports, mining, and so forth.”

  Sally looked toward Goring, who nodded back at her with a grim but still fascinated expression.

  Steele wanted to be sure Sally was impressed. “Consequently, what Mr. Goring desires to do, he has the means to do. He and his associates are major contributors and underwriters for such endeavors as the Summit Institute; this institute is part of their vision, and it wouldn’t be here at all if not for their efforts.

  “The other gentleman is Mr. Carl Santinelli, Senior Partner at Evans, Santinelli, Farnsworth, and McCutcheon, one of the most powerful law firms in the country and, in a sense, the flagship of the ACFA. He is a man of great causes in law and jurisprudence, a legal activist of the highest order, and definitely not a man to be tampered with.”

  Sally looked at Santinelli, and got a cold, probing stare back.

  Then Mr. Steele turned to Goring and Santinelli. “Mr. Goring and Mr. Santinelli, I introduce to you Ms. Sally Beth Roe, former Director of Primary Curriculum Resources at the Omega Center for Educational Studies, convicted murderer, former convict, production worker at the Bergen Door Factory, and most recently, vagabond.”

  Goring and Santinelli continued to study her as if looking upon a real oddity.

  Steele relaxed in his chair and studied her himself. “It has been quite an adventure, hasn’t it?”

  “It has,” she answered.

  “I see your hair roots are beginning to grow out. I do miss seeing your fiery red hair. And since when do you wear tinted glasses?”

  She sighed and removed them, rubbing her tired eyes. “All a disguise, of course.” Then she bitterly admitted, “And quite futile.”

  “Quite futile,” Steele agreed. “But you do understand, don’t you, why we had to track you down?”

  The question angered her. “It is my impression, Mr. Steele, that you and your associates want me dead, and I would like to know why.”

  “Oh, come now!” said Santinelli. “A person of your brilliance and experience should have n
o trouble seeing how much you are in our way. As for that initial attempt on your life, we will not mince words. It was a blunder, an unfortunate fiasco perpetrated by some incompetents who thought they would please us. We were not pleased. Killing you in such a way was never our original intent.”

  “So what was your original intent?”

  Santinelli smiled. “Our original intent was the lawsuit against the Good Shepherd Academy in Bacon’s Corner, your current town of residence. Your stumbling into the middle of our project was a total surprise to all of us.”

  Sally needed to confirm what she thought. “You are the people ultimately responsible for the lawsuit against that Christian school?”

  Santinelli nodded. “Lucy Brandon first contacted our local ACFA affiliate, the affiliate contacted the state chapter, the state chapter contacted us, and we decided the case could prove profitable. We immediately put our strength and influence behind it.”

  “But not for the child Amber’s sake, of course?”

  Santinelli exchanged a glance with the others. This woman was as sharp as Steele had said she was. “Obviously you have no illusions about our concern for the safety, rights, and welfare of children, especially since the ACFA regularly defends the interests of child pornographers and molesters.” He sat back with his chin high, tapping his fingertips together, watching her eyes for a response.

  She forced one corner of her mouth to stretch upward and nodded.

  “As you may well imagine, the real object of that lawsuit is not the awarding of damages to the plaintiff, but legal precedent, the molding and shaping of law, even the rewriting of law, through an ideal test case.”