“Just be tough, that’s all.”
Kate thought for a moment. “Well, why don’t you get your robe on? I’ll warm you some milk, okay?”
“Yeah, great.”
IT WAS THE first time any demons had ever been actually confronted and rebuked by Hank Busche. They had certainly come with an arrogant brashness at first, descending on the house in the dead of night to raid and ravage, screaming and swooping through the rooms and leaping on Hank, trying to terrify him. But as Krioni, Triskal, and the others watched from their hiding place, confused and scattered flocks of demons suddenly came thundering and fluttering out of the house like bats, screaming, indignant, stopping their ears. There must have been close to a hundred, all the usual demonic pranksters and troublemakers Krioni had seen at work all over the town. No doubt the great Ba-al had sent them, and now that they had been routed there was no telling what Rafar’s reaction or his next plan would be. But Hank had proven himself very well.
In a moment the coast was clear, the trouble was over, and the warriors came out of hiding, breathing easier. Krioni and Triskal were impressed.
Krioni commented, “Tal was right. He’s not so insignificant.”
Triskal agreed. “Stern stuff, this Henry Busche.”
But as Hank and Mary sat trembling at their kitchen table, she preparing an icepack and he sporting a welt on his forehead and a great many bruises and scrapings on his arms and shins, neither one of them felt entirely stern, powerful, or victorious. Hank was thankful to have escaped with his life, and Mary was still in a mild state of shock and disbelief.
It was awkward, with neither of them wanting to relate his or her experience first for fear that the whole thing was nothing but an excess of pickles and pastrami before bedtime. But Hank’s welt kept growing, and he could only tell what he knew. Mary bought every word of it, scared as she was by the screams that had awakened her. As they shared their not-so-pleasant experiences, they were able to accept the fact that the whole night of madness had been very frighteningly real and not some nightmare.
“Demons,” Hank concluded.
Mary could only nod.
“But why?” Hank pleaded to know. “What was it for?”
Mary wasn’t ready to come up with any answers. She kept waiting for Hank to do that.
He muttered, “Like Lesson Number One in Frontlines Combat. I wasn’t a bit ready for it. I think I flunked.”
Mary gave him the icepack and he placed it against the welt, wincing at the pressure.
“What makes you think you flunked?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I just walked into it, I guess. I let them clobber me.” Then he prayed, “Lord God, help me to be ready next time. Give me the wisdom, the sensitivity to know what they’re up to.”
Mary squeezed his hand, said amen, and then commented, “You know, I might be wrong, but hasn’t the Lord already done that? I mean, how are you going to know how to fight Satan’s direct attacks unless you just … do it?”
That was what Hank needed to hear.
“Wow,” he mused. “I’m a veteran!”
“And I don’t think you flunked, either. They’re gone, aren’t they? And you’re still here, and you should have heard those screams.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t me?”
“Quite sure.”
Then came a long, troubled silence.
“So what now?” Mary finally asked.
“Uh … let’s pray,” said Hank. For him, that option was always easy to jump to.
And pray they did, clasping hands at the little kitchen table, having a conference with the Lord. They thanked Him for the experience of that night, for protecting them from danger, for showing them a very close glimpse of their enemy. Over an hour passed, and during that time the field of concern continued to grow outward; their own problems began to take a small place in a vastly wider perspective as Hank and Mary prayed for their church, the people in it, the town, the people that ran it, the state, the nation, the world. Through it all came the beautiful assurance that they had indeed connected with the throne of God and had conducted serious business with the Lord. Hank grew more determined to stay in the battle and give Satan a real run for his money. He was sure that was what God wanted.
THE WARM MILK and Kate’s company had a soothing effect on Marshall’s nerves. With each swallow and each additional minute of normalcy, he gained more and more assurance that the world would still go on, he would live, the sun would rise in the morning. He was amazed at how bleak things had looked just a little while ago.
“Feeling better?” Kate asked, buttering some fresh toast.
“Yeah,” he answered, noticing that his heart had retreated back into his chest and returned to its normal, everyday pace. “Boy, I don’t know what got into me.”
Kate placed the two slices of toast on a plate and set them on the table.
Marshall crunched off a bite of toast and asked, “So she’s not at Terry’s?”
Kate shook her head. “Do you want to talk about Sandy?”
Marshall was ready. “We probably need to talk about a lot of things.”
“I don’t know how to start—”
“You think it’s my fault?”
“Oh, Marshall …”
“C’mon, be honest now. I’ve been getting my behind whipped all day. I’ll listen.”
Her eyes met his and remained in place, denoting a sincerity and firm love.
“Categorically, no,” she said.
“I botched it today.”
“I think we’ve all botched it, and that includes Sandy. She’s made some choices too, remember.”
“Yeah, but maybe it was because we didn’t have anything better to give her.”
“What do you think of talking to Pastor Young?”
“Case in point.”
“Hmmmm?”
Hogan shook his head despondently. “Maybe … maybe Young’s just a little too cush, you know? He’s into all this family of man stuff, discovering yourself, saving the whales …”
Kate was a little surprised. “I thought you liked Pastor Young.”
“Well … I guess I do. But sometimes—no, a lot of the time, I don’t even feel like I’m going to church. I may as well be sitting at a lodge meeting or in one of Sandy’s weird classes.”
He checked her eyes. They were still steady. She was listening. “Kate, don’t you ever get the feeling that God’s got to be, you know, a little … bigger? Tougher? The God we get at that church, I feel like He isn’t even a real person, and if He is, He’s dumber than we are. I can’t expect Sandy to buy that stuff. I don’t even go for it myself.”
“I never knew you felt this way, Marshall.”
“Well, maybe I never did either. It’s just that this thing tonight … I’ve really got to think about it; there’s been so much of it going on lately.”
“What do you mean? What’s been going on?”
I can’t tell her, Marshall thought to himself. How could he explain the strange, hypnotic persuasion he was sure he got from Brummel, the spooky feelings he’d gotten from Sandy’s professor, the stark terror he’d felt that night? None of it made sense, and now, to top it off, Sandy was gone. All through these situations he had been horrified by his own inability to fight back. He had felt controlled. But he couldn’t tell Kate anything like that.
“Aw … it’s a long story,” he said finally. “All I know is, this whole thing—our lifestyle, our schedule, our family, our religion, whatever it is—just isn’t working. Something’s got to change.”
“But you don’t think you want to talk to Pastor Young?”
“Aw, he’s a turkey …”
Just then, 1 A.M. or not, the phone rang.
“Sandy!” Kate exclaimed.
Marshall snatched up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Hello?” said a female voice. “You’re up!”
Marshall recognized the voice, with disappointment. It was Bernice.
“Don’t hang up! I’m sorry for calling at this late hour, but I had a date and I didn’t get home until late, but I wanted to develop that film … are you mad?”
“I’ll be mad tomorrow. Right now I’m too tired. What have you got?”
“Get this. I know the film in the camera had twelve pictures of the carnival, including the ones of Brummel, Young, and those three unknowns. Today I went home and shot the rest of the roll, twelve more frames—my cat, the neighbor lady with the big mole, the evening news, et cetera. Today’s pictures came out.”
There was a pause, and Marshall knew he would have to ask. “What about the other ones?”
“The emulsion was blacked out, totally exposed, the film scratched and fingerprinted in a few places. There’s nothing wrong with the camera.” Marshall said nothing for a long moment. “Marshall … hello?”
“That’s interesting,” he said.
“They’re up to something! It’s got me all excited. I’m wondering if I can trace those prints.” There was another long pause. “Hello?”
“What did the other woman look like, the blonde one?”
“Not too old, long blonde hair … kind of mean looking.”
“Heavy? Thin? In between?”
“She looked good.”
Marshall’s forehead crinkled a bit, and his eyes shifted about as he followed his ideas. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Good-bye, and thanks for answering.”
Marshall hung up the phone. He stared at the tabletop, drumming his fingers.
“What was that all about?” Kate asked.
“Mmmmmm,” he said, still thinking. Then he answered, “Uh, newspaper stuff. No biggie. What was it we were talking about, anyway?”
“Well, if it still matters, we were just talking about whether or not you should talk to Pastor Young about our problem—”
“Young,” he said, and almost sounded angry.
“But if you don’t want to …” Marshall stared at the table while his warm milk got cold. Kate waited, then roused him with, “Would you rather talk about this in the morning?”
“I’ll talk to him,” Marshall said flatly. “I … I want to talk to him. You bet I’ll talk to him!”
“It couldn’t hurt.”
“No, it sure couldn’t.”
“I don’t know when he’d be able to see you, but—”
“One o’clock would be nice.” He scowled a bit. “One o’clock would be perfect.”
“Marshall …” Kate started, but she kept it back. There was something happening to her husband, and she picked it up in his voice, in his expression.
She had never really missed that fire in his eyes; perhaps she’d never known it was gone until this moment when, for the first time since they left New York, she saw it again. Some old, unpleasant feelings rose up within her, feelings she had no desire to cope with late at night with her daughter mysteriously missing.
“Marshall,” she said, sliding her chair out and picking up the plate of half-eaten toast, “let’s get some sleep.”
“I may not be able to sleep.”
“I know,” she said quietly.
All this time, Tal, Guilo, Nathan, and Armoth had stood in the room, carefully observing, and now Guilo began to chuckle in his gruff, quaking way.
Tal said with a smile, “No, Marshall Hogan. You never were much of a sleeper … and now Rafar has helped to awaken you again!”
CHAPTER 7
ON TUESDAY MORNING the sun was shining through the windows and Mary was busy beating the daylights out of some bread dough. Hank found the name and number in the church records: the Reverend James Farrel. He had never met Farrel, and all he knew was the tasteless and malicious gossip going around about the man who had been his predecessor and had since moved far away from Ashton.
It was a whim, a stab in the dark, Hank knew that. But he sat down on the couch, picked up the phone, and dialed the number.
“Hello?” a tired older man’s voice answered.
“Hello,” said Hank, trying to sound pleasant despite his tight nerves. “James Farrel?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“This is Hank Busche, pastor of the—” he heard Farrel give a drawn-out, knowledgeable sigh, “—Ashton Community Church. I guess you must know who I am.”
“Yes, Pastor Busche. So how are you?”
How do I answer that, Hank wondered. “Uhh … okay in some respects.”
“And not okay in other respects,” Farrel offered, completing Hank’s thought.
“Boy, you’ve really been keeping up on things.”
“Well, not actively. I do hear from some of the members from time to time.” Then he added quickly, “I’m glad you called. What can I do for you?”
“Uh … talk to me, I guess.”
Farrel answered, “I’m sure there’s a lot I could say to you. I do hear there’s a congregational meeting this Friday. Is that true?”
“Yes, it is.”
“A vote of confidence, I understand.”
“That’s right.”
“Yes, I went through the same thing, you know. Brummel, Turner, Mayer, and Stanley were in charge of that one, too.”
“You gotta be kidding.”
“Oh, it’s strictly history repeating itself, Hank. Take it from me.”
“They drummed you out?”
“They decided they didn’t like what I was preaching and the direction of my ministry, so they stirred up the congregation against me and then managed to take it to a vote. I didn’t lose by much, but I did lose.”
“The same four guys!”
“The same four … but now, did I hear right? Did you really put Lou Stanley out of fellowship?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Now that is something. I can’t imagine Lou letting anyone do that to him.”
“Well, the other three made that a pivotal issue; they haven’t left me alone about it.”
“And how is the congregation leaning?”
“I don’t know. They could be pretty evenly divided.”
“So how are you standing up under all this?”
Hank could think of no better way to phrase it. He said, “I think I’m under attack—direct, spiritual attack.” Silence at the other end. “Hello?”
“Oh, I’m here.” Farrel talked slowly, falteringly, as if thinking hard while trying to converse. “What kind of spiritual attack?”
Hank stammered a bit. He could imagine how last night’s experience would sound to a stranger. “Well … I just think Satan is really involved here …”
Farrel was almost demanding, “Hank, what kind of spiritual attack?”
Hank began his account carefully, trying very hard to sound like a sane and responsible individual as he related the major points: the mania Brummel seemed to have for getting rid of him, the church division, the gossip, the angry church board, the slogan painted on his house, and then the spiritual wrestling match he had gone through last night. Farrel interrupted only to ask clarifying questions.
“I know it all sounds crazy …” Hank concluded.
All Farrel could do was let out a deep sigh and mutter, “Oh, blast it all!”
“Well, like you say, it’s just history repeating itself. No doubt you’ve encountered things like this, right? Or am I the one who has the real problem here?”
Farrel struggled with the words. “I am glad you called. I always struggled with whether or not I should call you. I don’t know if you’re going to like hearing this, but …” Farrel paused for new strength, then said, “Hank, are you sure you belong there?”
Uh-oh. Hank felt a defensiveness rising in him. “I do believe firmly in my heart that God called me here, yes.”
“Do you know you were chosen as pastor by accident?”
“Well, some are saying that, but—”
“It is true, Hank. You really shoul
d consider that. You see, the church ousted me; they had some other minister all picked out and ready to move in, some guy who had a wide and liberal enough religious philosophy to suit them. Hank, I really don’t know how you ended up with the job, but it was definitely some kind of organizational fluke. The one thing they did not want in there was another fundamentalist minister, not after they went to such great lengths to get rid of the one they had.”
“But they voted me in.”
“It was an accident. Brummel and the others were definitely not planning on it.”
“Well, that’s obvious now.”
“Okay, good, you can see that. So let me just get right down to some direct advice. Now, after Friday this may all be moot anyway, but if I were you, I’d get packing and start looking for a position elsewhere, no matter how the vote comes out.”
Hank deflated a little. This conversation was turning sour; he just couldn’t buy it. All he could do was sigh into the phone.
Farrel was forceful. “Hank, I’ve been there, I’ve been through it, I know what you’re going through, and I know what you have yet to go through. Believe me, it isn’t worth it. Let them have that church, let them have the whole town; just don’t sacrifice yourself.”
“But I can’t leave …”
“Yeah, right, you have a calling from God. Hank, so did I. I was ready to go into battle, to make a real stand in that town for God. You know, it cost me my home, my reputation, my health, it almost cost me my marriage. I left Ashton literally planning on changing my name. You have no idea of who you’re really dealing with. There are forces at work in that town—”
“What kind of forces?”
“Well, political, social … spiritual too, of course.”
“Oh yeah, you never did answer my question: what about what happened to me last night? What do you think about that?”
Farrel hesitated, then said, “Hank … I don’t know why, but it’s very difficult for me to talk about such things. All I can say to you is get out of that place while you can. Just drop it. The church doesn’t want you there, the town doesn’t want you there.”
“I can’t leave, I told you that.”
Farrel paused for a long time. Hank was almost afraid he had hung up. But then he said, “All right, Hank. I’ll tell you, and you listen. What you went through last night, well, I think I may have had similar experiences, but I can assure you, whatever it was, it was only the beginning.”
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