This Present Darkness

by Frank E. Peretti

  “That’s the part that hurts the most,” he said, and then started looking out through the bars instead of into Hank’s eyes. “It’s a whole other story in itself, and you don’t need to hear it. But I sure went over and over it this morning. It’s my fault, Hank. I let it happen.”

  He heaved a deep breath and wiped wetness from his eyes. “I could have lost everything; the paper, the house, the—the battle. I could have taken it if I only had them. But I lost them too …” Then he said the words, “And that’s how I ended up here,” and he stopped. Abruptly.

  Hank was weeping. He was weeping and smiling, raising his hands up to God, shaking his head in wonderment. To Marshall, it looked like he was having some kind of religious experience.

  “Marshall,” Hank said excitedly, unable to sit still, “this is of God! Our being here is no accident. Our enemies meant it for evil, but God meant it for good. He’s brought the two of us together just so we could meet, just so we could put the whole thing together. You haven’t heard my story yet, but guess what? It’s the same! We’ve both been coming up against the exact same problem from two different sides.”

  “Tell me, tell me, I want to cry too!”

  So Hank began telling how he suddenly found himself the pastor of a church that didn’t seem to want him …

  BETSY’S MOTORCYCLE FLEW like the wind up Highway 27, and Bernice held on tight, sitting behind her on the soft leather seat, watching all the scenery go by. The whole trip was exhilarating; it made her feel like a kid again, and the fact that both of them wore helmets with dark face shields made Bernice feel all the more safe from discovery.

  But Baker was coming up rapidly, and with it the risks and dangers and the big question of whether Susan Jacobson would even be there or not. Part of Bernice wanted to stay on the motorcycle with this sweet, likable kid and just keep right on going to … wherever. Any life had to be better than this one.

  The landmarks became familiar: the Coca-Cola sign, and that big lot full of firewood for sale. They were coming into Baker. Betsy let off the throttle and started whining down through the gears. Finally she pulled off the highway and bumped along to a stop in a gravel parking lot just in front of the aged Sunset Motel.

  “Will this do for you?” Betsy shouted through her face shield.

  Bernice could just make out The Evergreen up the highway. “Oh, yeah, this will do just fine.”

  She climbed off the motorcycle and struggled with the chin strap of her helmet.

  “Leave it on a while,” said Betsy.

  “What for?”

  Bernice’s eyes immediately gave her a good reason that she would know of: a squad car from the Ashton precinct just happened to drive by, slowing down as it entered Baker. Bernice watched as it then signaled left and pulled into the parking area in front of The Evergreen Tavern. Two officers got out and went inside. She looked down at Betsy. Did she know?

  She didn’t act like it. She pointed to a little diner attached to the motel. “That’s Rose Allen’s little cafe. It looks like a terrible place, but she makes the best homemade soup in the world and she sells it cheap. It’d be a great place to kill some time.”

  Bernice removed her helmet and set it on the bike.

  “Betsy,” she said, “I owe you a very great debt. Thank you so very much.”

  “You’re welcome.” Even through the face shield that smile shone brightly.

  Bernice looked at the little cafe. No, it didn’t look very nice. “The best soup in the world, eh?”

  She turned back to Betsy and stiffened. For a moment she felt she would stumble forward as if a wall had suddenly disappeared in front of her.

  Besty was gone. The motorcycle was gone.

  It was like awaking from a dream and needing time to adjust one’s mind to what was real and what was not. But Bernice knew it had not been a dream. The tracks of the motorcycle were still plainly visible in the gravel, leading from where it had left the highway to the spot directly in front of Bernice. There they ended.

  Bernice backed away, stunned and shaken. She looked up and down the highway, but knew even as she did that she would not see that girl on her motorcycle. As a matter of fact, as a few more seconds went by Bernice knew she would have been disappointed if she had. It would have been the end of a very beautiful something she had never felt before.

  But she had to get off the highway, she kept telling herself. She was sticking out like a sore thumb. She tore herself away from that spot and hurried into Rose Allen’s little cafe.

  DINNER CAME THROUGH the bars at 6. Marshall was ready to eat the fried chicken and cooked carrots, but Hank was so much into his story that Marshall had to prompt him to eat.

  “I’m really getting to the good part!” Hank protested, and then he asked, “How are you keeping up with this?”

  “A lot of it is new,” Marshall admitted.

  “What were you again? Presbyterian?”

  “Hey, don’t blame them. I’m just me, that’s all, and I always thought that spooks only come out on Halloween.”

  “Well, you always wanted an explanation for Langstrat’s strange pull, and how the Network could have all that powerful influence on people, and what may have really been tormenting Ted Harmel, and especially who these spirit guides might be.”

  “You’re—you’re asking me to believe in evil spirits.”

  “Do you believe in God?”

  “Yes, I believe there’s a God.”

  “Do you believe in a devil?”

  Marshall had to think for a moment. He noticed that he’d gone through a change of opinion somewhere along the line. “I … well, yeah, I guess I do.”

  “Believing in angels and demons is simply the next step after that. It’s only logical.”

  Marshall shrugged and picked up a drumstick. “Just keep going. Let me hear the whole thing.”

  CHAPTER 34

  BERNICE KILLED ANOTHER hour and a half in Rose Allen’s cafe, buying a bowl of Rose’s soup—Betsy was right, it was good—and eating it very slowly. She kept her eye on Rose the whole time. Boy, if that woman made one move toward that telephone, Bernice was going to be out of there! But Rose didn’t appear to think a beat-up woman in her cafe was all that unusual, and nothing happened.

  When 7:30 rolled around, Bernice knew she would have to try for that meeting one way or another. She paid Rose for the soup out of the change in her pocket and stepped outside.

  It looked like that police car that had stopped at The Evergreen was gone now, but the light was getting poor and it was too far away for Bernice to tell for sure. She would just have to take it one step at a time.

  She walked along carefully, her eyes looking in all directions for police, stakeouts, suspicious vehicles, anything. The parking lot of The Evergreen was overflowing, and that was probably typical for a Saturday night. She kept her sunglasses on, but apart from that she looked every bit like the Bernice Krueger the police were searching for. What else could she do?

  As she approached the tavern, she looked here and there for any escape routes. She did notice a trail going back into the woods, but had no idea how far it went or where it eventually led. All in all, there didn’t seem to be too many places to run or hide.

  The back of The Evergreen Tavern was the one part of the building nobody seemed to care about at all; the three old cars, the forgotten refrigerators, the dented beer kegs, and the piles of delaminating tables and rusting, broken-through chairs were parted just enough to allow a narrow pathway to the back door.

  This door also scraped an arc in the linoleum. The music from the jukebox hit Bernice like a wave, as did the smoke from cigarettes and the sickeningly sweet smell of beer. She closed the door after her, and found herself in a dark cavern full of silhouettes. She cautiously looked over, under, and around her sunglasses, trying to see where she was and where everyone else was without taking the sunglasses off.

  There had to be someplace to sit in here. Most of the booths were full of loggers
and their girlfriends. There was one chair in the corner. She took it and settled in to survey the room.

  From this spot she could make out the front door and could see people coming in, but she could not distinguish their faces. She did recognize Dan behind the bar; he was pouring beers while trying to keep a bridle on things. Her ears verified that the shuffleboard game was in full swing, and two video games against a far wall were bleeping and burpling through the quarters.

  It was 7:50. Well, just sitting here wasn’t going to work; she felt too obvious, and she simply couldn’t see. She got up from her chair and tried to mingle with the crowd, staying close to the walls.

  She looked at Dan again. He was a little closer and he could have been looking back at her, but she didn’t know. He didn’t act like he recognized her, or cared if he did. Bernice tried to find an unobtrusive spot from which to look at the people at the front tables. She joined a small group around one of the video games. These people in the front were still silhouettes, but none of them could have been Susan.

  There was Dan again, leaning over one table and pulling the front windowshade half down. Some of the people nearby didn’t like it, but he gave them some explanation, and left it that way.

  She decided to go back to her chair and wait. She worked her way back to the shuffleboard game, then went slowly behind the crowd toward the back of the room.

  Then a thought hit her. She had seen that pulling-down-the-windowshade trick in some movie. A signal? She turned her head toward the front, and at that exact moment the front door opened. Two men in uniforms came in. Police! One pointed right at her. She moved as quickly as she could for the back door. It was nothing but dark in front of her. How in the world was she even going to find that door?

  She could hear a shout over the noise of the crowd. “Hey! Stop that woman! Police! You! Hold it!”

  The people around her began muttering, “Who? What woman? That woman?” One other voice out of the blackness said, “Hey, lady, I think he’s talking to you!”

  She didn’t look back, but she could hear the shuffling of chairs and feet. They were coming after her.

  Then she saw the green exit sign over the back door. Forget about keeping cool! She broke into a run toward that light.

  People were hollering everywhere, coming to help her, wanting to see what was going on. They got in the policemen’s way, and the police started hollering, “One side, please! Get out of the way! Stop her!”

  She couldn’t see the latch or knob or whatever that door had. Hoping it had a crash bar, she slammed her body against it. It didn’t have a crash bar, but she could hear something break and the door opened anyway.

  It was lighter out here than inside. She could make out the path through all the junk and raced through it, running for all she was worth just as she heard the backdoor crash open again. Then came the sound of their footsteps. Could she get out of sight before they got clear of all that junk?

  She tore off her sunglasses just in time to spot the trail through the woods, on the other side of the fence.

  It was amazing what a person could do when scared enough. Planting her hands on the top of the fence, she swung her body up and vaulted over it, tumbling down into the brush on the other side. Without stopping to congratulate herself, she scrambled up that trail into the woods like a scared rabbit, ducking to avoid the low-hanging branches she could see and being whipped in the face by the ones she couldn’t.

  The trail was soft and clear, and kept her footsteps quiet and muffled. It was darker in the woods, and at times she had to stop abruptly just to see where the trail led next. During those times she would also listen for her pursuers; she could hear some kind of yelling going on far behind her, but it seemed no one had thought of this trail.

  There was light up ahead. She came to a gravel back road, but hesitated in the trees long enough to look up and down that road for cars, cops, anyone. The road was quiet and deserted. She stepped out quickly, trying to decide which way to go.

  Suddenly, at an intersection a little way down the road, a car appeared, pulling onto this road and heading her way. They had to have seen her! There was nothing to do but keep running!

  Her lungs were laboring, her heart was aching and felt like it would pound itself apart, her legs felt like lead. She couldn’t help crying out in anguish and fear with each exhalation as she ran across a field toward a cluster of buildings in the distance. She looked back. A figure was after her, running swiftly in hot pursuit. No! No! Please don’t chase me, just let me go! I can’t go on like this!

  The buildings were getting closer. It looked like an old farm. She was no longer thinking, only running. She couldn’t see; her eyes were doubly blurred now with tears. She was gasping for breath, her mouth was dry, the pain from her rib cage shot up and down her whole side. The grass whipped against her legs, almost tripping her with every step. She could hear the footsteps of her pursuer swishing through the grass not far behind her. Oh, God, help me!

  Ahead was a large, dark building, a barn. She would go for it and try to hide. If they found her, they found her. She could run no further.

  She stumbled, trudged, dragged one foot after the other around one end, and found the big sliding door half open. She practically fell through it.

  Inside, she found herself in inky blackness. Now her eyes were useless to her. She stumbled ahead, her arms out in front of her. Her feet were shuffling through straw. Her arms bumped into boards. A stall. She went further. Another stall. She could hear the footsteps coming around the corner and through the door. She ducked into one of the stalls and tried to quell her gasping. She was on the verge of fainting.

  The steps slowed. The pursuer was encountering the same darkness and trying to feel his way along. But he was coming closer.

  Bernice backed further into the stall, wondering if there might be some way to hide herself. Her hand encountered some kind of handle. She felt downward. A pitchfork. She took it in her hands. Could she really use this thing in cold blood?

  The footsteps moved ahead methodically; the pursuer was checking each stall, working his way through the barn. Now Bernice could see a small beam of light sweeping here and there.

  She held the pitchfork high as her cracked rib punished her in protest. You’re going to be very sorry you ever chased me, she thought. She was playing by jungle rules now.

  The footsteps were very close now. The little beam of light was just outside the opening. She was ready. The light shined in her eyes. There was a slight gasp. Come on, Bernice! Throw the pitchfork! Her arms would not move.

  “Bernice Krueger?” asked a muffled, female voice.

  Bernice still didn’t move. She held the pitchfork high, still panting for air, the little shaft of light illuminating her crazed, blackened eyes and her terrified face.

  Whoever it was stepped back abruptly at the sight of her and whispered, “Bernice, no! Don’t throw it!”

  That made Bernice want all the more to throw that thing. She was whimpering and gasping, trying to get her arms to move. They would not.

  “Bernice,” came the voice, “it’s Susan Jacobson! I’m alone!”

  Bernice still did not put down the pitchfork. For the moment she was beyond rationality, and words meant nothing.

  “Do you hear me?” came the voice. “Please, put the fork down. I won’t hurt you. I’m not the police, I promise you.”

  “Who are you?” Bernice asked finally, her voice gasping and quivering.

  “Susan Jacobson, Bernice.” She said it again slowly. “Susan Jacobson, your sister Pat’s old roommate. We had an appointment.”

  It was as if Bernice suddenly recovered from a hallucination or a sleepwalking nightmare. The name sank into her mind at last and awoke her.

  “You …” she panted. “You gotta be kidding!”

  “I’m not. It’s me.”

  Susan shone her little penlight on her own face. The black hair and pale complexion were unmistakable, even though the black c
lothes were replaced now with jeans and a blue jacket.

  Bernice lowered the pitchfork. Then she dropped it and let out a muffled wail, putting her hand over her mouth. She suddenly realized she was in terrible pain. She sank to her knees in the straw, her arms around her rib cage.

  “Are you all right?” Susan asked.

  “Turn out that light before they see you,” was all Bernice would say.

  The light clicked off. Bernice could feel Susan’s hand touching her.

  “You’re hurt!” Susan said.

  “I … I try to keep everything in perspective,” Bernice gasped. “I’m still alive, I’ve found the real live Susan Jacobson, I haven’t had to kill anybody, the police haven’t found me … and I have a cracked rib! Oooooohhh …”

  Susan put her arms around Bernice to comfort her.

  “Gently, gently!” Bernice cautioned. “Where in the world did you come from? How did you find me?”

  “I was watching the tavern from across the street, waiting to see if you or Kevin would show up. I saw the police go in, and you running out the back, and I knew it was you right away. We college kids used to hang around here a lot, so I knew about that trail you took, and I knew how it emptied out onto that road out there. I drove around, thinking I could head you off and let you jump into my car, but you were too far ahead of me and you took off running.”

  Bernice let her head drop a bit. She could feel herself getting emotional again. “I used to think I’d never seen a miracle, but now I don’t know.”

  HANK FINISHED HIS whole story and, with Marshall’s prodding, had also put away most of his dinner. Marshall began to ask questions, which Hank answered from his knowledge of the Scriptures.

  “So,” Marshall asked and mused at the same time, “when the Gospels talk about Jesus and His disciples casting out unclean spirits, that’s what they were really doing?”

  “That’s what they were doing,” Hank answered.