This Present Darkness

by Frank E. Peretti

  That was a letdown. Marshall grabbed at a hope. “Did he leave you any records, anything written down?”

  Strachan only shook his head. “If he did, those records were lost. Why do you think I’ve been sitting out here so silently? Listen, I even know Norm Mattily, the state attorney general, pretty well, and I thought of going to him and telling him what was going on. But let’s face it, those big folks at the top don’t give you the time of day unless you have some really substantial proof. It’s tough to get the authorities to stick their necks out. They just won’t do it.”

  “All right … so what was it that Ernie Johnson found?”

  “He came back horrified. According to his findings, monies from grants and tuitions were being reinvested at an alarming rate, but apparently there were no dividends or returns of any kind from whatever the investments were, as if the money had been poured down a bottomless well somewhere. The figures had been juggled to cover it up, accounts payable had been staggered so that other accounts could be dipped into to pay those due … it was just one colossal mess.”

  “A mess worth millions?”

  “At least. The college money had been leaking out in large amounts for years, with no clues as to where it was going. Somewhere out there was a money-hungry monster gobbling up all the college’s assets.”

  “And that’s when you called for the audit.”

  “And Eugene Baylor hit the ceiling. The whole thing went from professional to personal in an instant and we became intense enemies. And that convinced me all the more that the college was in big trouble and that Baylor had a lot to do with it. But of course there’s nothing Baylor does that all the others don’t know about. I’m sure they’re all aware of the problem, and it’s my feeling that their unanimous vote for my resignation was a common conspiracy.”

  “But to what end?” asked Bernice. “Why would they want to undermine the college’s financial base?”

  Strachan could only shake his head. “I don’t know what they’re trying to do, but unless there’s something else hidden somewhere to explain where these funds are going and how the losses are going to be made up, that college is most certainly headed for bankruptcy. Kuklinski must know that. As far as I know, he was in total agreement with the financial policies and with my resignation.”

  Marshall flipped to some other notes. “So just how does our kind Professor Langstrat figure into all this?”

  Strachan had to chuckle. “Ah, the dear professor …” He considered the question for a moment. “She was always a definite influence and mentor, to be sure, but … I don’t think she’s the ultimate center of things. It seemed to me that she had a lot to do with controlling the group while someone higher up had a lot to do with controlling her. I think—I think she’s answering to someone, some unseen authority.”

  “But you’ve no idea who?”

  Strachan shook his head.

  “So what else do you know about her?”

  Strachan searched his memory. “A graduate of UCLA … she taught at other universities before she came to Whitmore. She’s been on the faculty for at least six years. I do recall that she always had a strong interest in Eastern philosophy and occultism. She was once involved in some kind of neo-pagan religious group in California. But you know, I never realized until maybe three years ago that she was openly declaring her beliefs to her classes, and I was rather surprised to find that her teachings had aroused a lot of interest. Her beliefs and practices were not only spreading among the students, but also among the faculty.”

  “Who on the faculty?” Marshall asked.

  Strachan shook his head in disgust. “It started years before I was aware of it, in the Psychology Department, among Langstrat’s associates. Margaret Islander—you may know of her—”

  “I believe my friend Ruth Williams does,” said Bernice.

  “I think she was the first to be initiated into Langstrat’s group, but she’d always had an interest in psychics like Edgar Cayce, so she was a natural.”

  “Anyone else?” Marshall prodded.

  Strachan pulled out a hastily scrawled list and let Marshall have a look at it. “I’ve gone over and over this in the months since I left. Here. Here’s a list of most of the Psychology Department …” He pointed out a few names. “Trevor Corcoran is new on the staff this year. He even studied in India before he came here to teach. Juanita Janke replaced Kevin Ford … well, as a matter of fact, a lot of people were replaced over the past few years. We had a lot of turnover.”

  Marshall noted another portion of the list. “So who are these people?”

  “The Humanities Department, and then the Philosophy Department, and these down here are in the biology and pre-med programs. A lot of them are new as well. We had a lot of turnover.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve said that,” Bernice observed.

  Strachan stared at her. “What are you thinking?”

  Bernice took the list from Marshall and placed it in front of Strachan again. “Well, tell us now. How many of these people have come on staff during the last six years, during the time Langstrat’s been there?”

  Strachan took a second, more critical look at the list. “Jones … Conrad … Witherspoon … Epps …” An overwhelming percentage of the names were those of new faculty members, who had replaced former members who had resigned or whose contracts had simply not been renewed. “Well, isn’t that odd?”

  “I would say that’s odd,” Bernice agreed.

  Strachan was visibly shaken. “All the turnover … I was getting very concerned about it, but I never even considered … This would explain a lot of things. I knew there was some kind of common interest spreading among all these people; they all seemed to have a very unique and undefinable rapport with each other—their own lingo, their own inside secrets, their own ideas of reality—and it seemed no one person could do anything without everyone else knowing about it. I thought it was a fad, a sociological phase—” He looked up from the list with a new awareness in his eyes. “So it was more than that. Our campus was invaded and our faculty displaced by a—a madness!”

  For just a moment Marshall had a flashback, a quick, fleeting memory of his daughter Sandy saying, “People around here are starting to act weird. I think we’re being invaded by aliens.” That memory was immediately followed by Kate’s voice over the phone: “I’m concerned about Sandy … she just isn’t the same old Sandy anymore …”

  Marshall snapped out of it and began leafing through his materials. He finally found the old list Bernice had gotten from Albert Darr. “All right, what about these classes Langstrat was teaching: ‘Introduction to God and Goddess Consciousness and the Craft … The Sacred Medicine Wheel … Spells and Rituals … Pathways to Your Inner Light, Meet Your Own Spiritual Guides?’”

  Strachan nodded with recognition. “It all began as part of an alternative education program, purely a voluntary thing for any interested students, paid for by special tuitions. I just thought it was a study of folklore, myths, traditions—”

  “But I guess they were taking this stuff pretty seriously.”

  “Ehh, so it seems, and now we have a great percentage of the staff and the student body … bewitched.”

  “Including the regents?”

  Strachan did some fresh thinking. “Get ready for this. I think the same kind of upheaval happened on the board of regents as well. There are twelve regent positions altogether, and five, I think, have been suddenly and abruptly replaced in the last year and a half. How else could the vote for my resignation be unanimous? I used to have some very loyal friends on that board.”

  “What are their names, and where have they gone?”

  Bernice started writing the names down as Strachan recalled them, along with any other information he could provide about each person. Jake Abernathy had died, Morris James had gone bankrupt in a business and moved to another job, Fred Ainsworth, George Olson, and Rita Jacobson had all left Ashton with no word as to where they had gone.


  “And that,” said Strachan, “takes care of just about everyone. There are none left but initiates into this strange mystical group.”

  “Including Kuklinski, the new dean,” Bernice added.

  “And Dwight Brandon, the owner of the land.”

  “And what about Ted Harmel?” Marshall asked.

  Strachan tightened his lips, looked at the floor, and sighed. “Yes. He did try to back out, but by then they’d already entrusted too much information to him. When they found they couldn’t control him anymore—he has myself and our friendship to blame for that—they arranged to defame him and chase him out of town with that ridiculous scandal.”

  “Hmmmm,” said Bernice. “A conflict of interest.”

  “Of course. He kept telling me it was a fascinating new science of the human mind, and he claimed he was only after a story, but he just kept getting more and more wrapped up in it, and they wooed him, I’m sure. I heard him say that they had promised him great success with his newspaper because he had aligned himself with them …”

  Marshall had another flashback: he saw Brummel looking at him with those numbing gray eyes, saying sweetly, “Marshall, we’d like to know that you’ll be standing with us …”

  Strachan was still talking.

  Marshall woke up and said, “Uh, excuse me, what was that again?”

  “Oh,” said Strachan, “I was just saying that Ted became torn between two loyalties: first and foremost he was loyal to the truth and to his friends, and that included me. His other loyalty was to the Langstrat group and their philosophies and practices. I guess he thought that the truth was inviolable and the press would always be free, but, whatever the reason, he began to print stories about the financial problems. And that was definitely stepping over the line as far as the regents were concerned.”

  “Yes,” Bernice recalled. “Now I remember him saying they were trying to control him and dictate what he printed. He was really mad about it.”

  “Well of course,” said Strachan, “when it came down to principles, regardless of what so-called science or metaphysical philosophies he may have been interested in, Ted was still a newspaperman and would not be intimidated.” Strachan sighed and looked at the floor. “So, I’m afraid he got caught in the crossfire of my battle with the college regents. Consequently we both lost our positions, our good standing in the community, everything. I guess you could say I was well content to leave it all behind. It was impossible to fight it.”

  Marshall disliked that kind of talk. “Are they—is this thing—really that strong?”

  Strachan was deadly serious. “I don’t think I ever realized how vast and strong it really was, and I guess I’m still finding out. Mr. Hogan, I have no idea what the final goal of these people is, but I’m beginning to see that nothing standing in their way can escape being stamped out, eliminated. Even as we sit here I can look back over the years, and, not even considering our faculty turnover, I’m frightened to think of how many other people around Ashton have just dropped out of sight.”

  Joe, the supermarket owner, Marshall thought. And what about Edie?

  Strachan was looking a little pale now, and asked with obvious worry in his voice, “Just what do you people intend to do with this information?”

  Marshall had to be honest. “I don’t know yet. There are too many missing pieces, too many assumptions. I don’t have anything I can print.”

  “You do remember what happened to Ted? You are keeping that in mind?”

  Marshall didn’t want to think about that. He wanted to find out something else. “Ted wouldn’t talk to me.”

  “He’s scared.”

  “Scared of what?”

  “Of them, of the system that destroyed him. He knows more about their weird goings-on than I do; he knows enough to be a lot more afraid than I am, and I believe his fears are justified. I do believe there’s a genuine danger here.”

  “Well, does he ever talk to you?”

  “Sure, about anything besides what you’re after.”

  “But the two of you are in touch?”

  “Yes. We fish, we hunt, we meet for lunch. He isn’t far from here.”

  “Could you call him?”

  “You mean, call him and put in a plug for you?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  Strachan answered cautiously, “Hey, he may not want to talk, and I can’t push him.”

  “But will you just call him, see if he’ll talk to me one more time?”

  “I’ll … I’ll think about it, but that’s all I can promise you.”

  “I’d appreciate even that.”

  “But, Mr. Hogan …” Strachan reached over and grabbed Marshall’s arm. He looked at both Marshall and Bernice and said very quietly, “You people watch out for yourselves. You’re not invincible. None of the rest of us were, and I believe it’s possible to lose everything if you make just one wrong move or take just one wrong step. Please, please be sure at every moment you know exactly what you’re doing.”

  AT THE CLARION, Tom, the paste-up man, was getting the usual ads, fillers, and completed galleys into the Tuesday edition when the bell over the front door jingled. He had better things to do than deal with callers, but with Hogan and Bernice out on their mysterious mission of intrigue, he was the only remaining fort-holder-downer. Boy, he wished Edie had stuck around. The paper got to be more of a shambles every day and, whatever wild goose chase Hogan and Bernice were on, it took their attention away from the many tasks piling up around the place.

  “Hello?” called a woman’s sweet voice.

  Tom grabbed a shop cloth to wipe his hands and hollered back, “Hold on, I’m coming.”

  He scurried up the narrow passage to the front office and saw a very attractive and neatly dressed young woman standing at the counter. She smiled when she saw him. Ah yes, thought Tom, if I were only young again.

  “Hello there,” he said, still wiping his hands on the shop cloth. “What can I do for you?”

  The young lady said, “I read your ad for a secretary and general office manager. I’ve come to apply.”

  It had to be an angel, Tom thought. “Boy, if you can cut it, let me tell you, there’s sure a job to be had around here!”

  “Well, I’m ready to start,” she said with a bright smile.

  Tom made sure his hand was clean enough and then extended it. “Tom McBride, paste-up man and general worrier.”

  She shook his hand firmly and said her name, “Carmen.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Carmen. Uh … Carmen who?”

  She laughed at her lapse of mind and said, “Oh, Carmen Fraser. I get so used to just going by my first name.”

  Tom swung the little gate open at the end of the counter and Carmen followed him into the office area.

  “Let me show you what the devil’s going on here,” he said.

  CHAPTER 17

  IN THE FARAWAY secluded valley, in the little cluster of unlabeled buildings hidden by rocky crags, a hurried transition was in full swing.

  In the office complex, sitting at desks and worktables, scurrying up and down the aisles, dashing in and out the doors, running up and down the stairways, over two hundred people of all ages, descriptions, and nationalities were typing letters, going through files, checking records, balancing accounts, chattering on telephones in different languages. Maintenance people in blue coveralls brought in large stacks of boxes and crates on handtrucks, and the office workers meticulously began to fill the boxes with the contents of the file cabinets, with any office paraphernalia not immediately needed, with other books and records.

  Outside, trucks were being loaded with the crates as more maintenance people driving little grounds tractors went about the complex, shutting down various hookups and utilities and boarding up any buildings no longer occupied.

  Nearby, on the porch of the big stone house at the edge of the grounds, a woman stood watching. She was tall and slender, with long, jet-black hair; she wore
black, loose-fitting clothes, and she clutched her shoulder bag close to her side with pale, trembling hands. She looked this way and that, evidently trying to relax herself. She took a few deep breaths. She reached into her bag and brought out a pair of dark sunglasses with which she covered her eyes. Then she stepped down from the porch and started across the plaza toward the office building.

  Her steps were firm and deliberate, her eyes remained straight ahead. A few office personnel passed and saluted her, pressing their palms together in front of their chins and bowing slightly. She nodded at them and kept walking.

  The office staff saluted her in the same way as she entered and she smiled at them, not speaking a word. Upon receiving her smile, they returned to their feverish work. The office manager, a well-dressed woman with tightly pinned hair, stepped up, gave a slight bow and said, “Good morning. What does the Maidservant require?”

  The Maidservant smiled and said, “I’d like to run off some copies.”

  “I can do it immediately.”

  “Thank you. I’d like to run them off myself.”

  “Certainly. I’ll warm up the machine for you.”

  The woman scurried toward a small room off to the side, and the Maidservant followed. Several accountants and filing clerks, some Oriental, some East Indian, some European, bowed as she passed and then went back to their consultations with each other.

  The office manager had the copier ready in less than a minute.

  “Thank you, you may go now,” said the Maidservant.

  “Certainly,” answered the woman. “I am at your disposal if you have any problems or questions.”

  “Thank you.”

  The manager left and the Maidservant closed the door behind her, shutting out the rest of the office and any intrusions. Then, quickly, the Maidservant reached into her bag and brought out a small book. She leafed through it, skimming over the handwritten pages until she found what she was looking for. Then, laying the book open and face down on the copier, she started pressing the buttons and copying page after page.