Piercing the Darkness

by Frank Peretti

  “We used to have eight kids, and now they’re gone, so we have all these rooms empty and ready for the right people,” she explained, showing Sally through the big house. “We’ve had mostly single women here; some have troubles at home and need to stay away, some are on their way somewhere else—you know, between things—and the two that are here right now are here for keeps until they get married, I suppose.”

  The living room was old, classic, with a high ceiling, finely milled wainscoting, inviting, comfortable, antique furniture, and even an old pump organ from Ashton’s first pioneer church. The dining room was large and well-suited for a big family, or for a houseful of boarders.

  “Now, we have a downstairs bathroom, but it’s being worked on . . .”

  They were in the central hallway just below the big staircase, and they could see a toolbox jutting into the hall through the bathroom door and hear the clunking and tinkering of work going on.

  Sara stepped around the toolbox and then out of the way, so Sally could look in. “When we get the plumbing fixed, things should be back to normal.”

  Sally looked into the bathroom. It was large, and during normal times it was probably very nice. Right now it was a mess; the carpet was rolled back, there were tools and pipe fittings on the floor, a glaring work light hanging from the vanity mirror, and, strangest of all, a young man in coveralls on his knees in front of the toilet—he seemed to be hollering down into the bowl.

  “No,” he shouted, “come back up! You’re going the wrong way!”

  A muffled voice—it was Floyd’s—came from below somewhere. “Who put all this stuff down here, anyway?”

  “You put it in, Floyd; don’t blame me!”

  Then the young man noticed Sally watching him. “Oh, hi there.”

  “Hi.”

  Sara leaned in. “Hank, this is Betty Smith, a new boarder. Betty, this is Hank Busche, our pastor.”

  He waved a wrench at her. “Pleased to meet you. I’ll be happy to shake your hand later.” It was clear to see that his hands were quite dirty at the moment.

  Sally was fascinated. This was a pastor? “Why are you yelling down the toilet?”

  He thought that was funny. “Well . . . that’s Floyd down there. Have you met Floyd?”

  Floyd’s voice came from under the floor. “Yeah. That’s Betty, right?”

  Hank hollered back. “Yeah.”

  “We’ve met.”

  “She’s here to inspect your bolting job.”

  “Oh, I’m in trouble now!”

  Hank explained, “Floyd used the wrong bolts to put this toilet in fifteen years ago, and now we can’t get the nuts loose underneath.”

  Sally’s smile was a weary smile, but it felt good.

  Sara said, “You’re tired. Come on upstairs and I’ll show you your room.”

  But Sally hesitated just a moment. “You don’t look like a pastor.”

  Hank smiled, brushing some hair away from his forehead with his forearm. “Thanks.”

  Why not go straight to the horse? Sally thought. “I suppose you know God?”

  “Sure, I know Him.”

  He was so matter-of-fact about it. He didn’t even hesitate with that answer. Sally tried a tougher question. “Can you prove He exists?”

  Hank sat back from the toilet and just looked at her for a moment. “Got a Bible?”

  Sally was about to say no, but Sara said, “There’s one up in her room.”

  Hank was thinking. He almost looked like he was listening. “Tell you what. Read Psalm 119, and just ask God to speak to your heart while you read it. See what happens.”

  “Psalm 119,” Sally repeated.

  “Right.”

  “Good luck with the toilet.”

  “Thanks. And nice to meet you.”

  Hank sat there a moment after Sally and Sara were gone. The Lord had spoken to him about this woman named Betty.

  Floyd’s voice came from below, “Psalm 119? What kind of Scripture is that for getting somebody saved?”

  Hank was puzzled himself. “I don’t know. It’s the Scripture the Lord told me to give her.”

  “The longest chapter in the Bible . . .” Floyd muttered.

  Hank prayed, right there. “Lord God, please make Yourself real to Betty Smith. Show her how much You love her.”

  “Amen,” said the voice under the toilet. “Now can you flush me a smaller wrench?”

  ATOP THE HOUSE, Tal consulted with the two angelic princes of Ashton, Krioni and Triskal.

  “We are honored to see you again, captain,” said Krioni. “We’ll always remember the victory achieved here.”

  Tal scanned the horizon and could see the thick hedge of angelic warriors that surrounded the town, sealing it off from demonic invasion. They were there to serve the saints within, responding to their prayers, widening doors of opportunity to minister. The town was not perfect, not without problems; it still had its taverns and turmoils, its scrapes and its sins. But the Lord was working in Ashton, its saints were praying, and for Sally Beth Roe it was safe.

  “I leave her in your hands, Krioni. I see Hank is planting the right seeds already.”

  Triskal smiled. “The Spirit of God is continuing to draw her.”

  “Care for her in the meantime. Make sure she meets Bernice, but don’t let Bernice know who she is until the right time.”

  Krioni gave Tal a knowing look. “Once again you have a plan. How is it unfolding?”

  Tal looked grim. “Steadily, but miserably.”

  Krioni nodded. “You and the others are going to need some time to heal up, I see.”

  “Destroyer learned from what we did here. He got to the saints first. He and his demons are wreaking strife and division that church hasn’t seen in years, and every day our situation grows more precarious. I’m going back to Bacon’s Corner to stop that campaign. Nothing else can proceed until I do.”

  Triskal’s face wrinkled with concern. “But is there time, captain?”

  Tal answered simply, “No. We’ll just have to do what we can. If you can use this crisis to arouse specific prayer from the saints here, so much the better.”

  Triskal smiled. “Count on it. They will pray.”

  Krioni added, “But it sounds like Sally Roe is headed for even greater jeopardy.”

  Tal nodded, with regret. “We cannot bring the plan up short, or spare her every last step. We will win all . . . or we will lose all.”

  Krioni and Triskal embraced him. “Godspeed.”

  Tal drew his sword to rally his warriors, and they shot into the sky, bound for Bacon’s Corner.

  “LOST?” DESTROYER ROARED. “You dare to tell me you lost her?”

  Six loathsome spirits stood before him on the roof of Whitcombe Hall at Bentmore University. They’d locked their eyes on the thick, rolled roofing and refused to look up. They were silent, with no fitting words of explanation. Destroyer and Corrupter were not too far from shredding them this very moment.

  Destroyer wanted an explanation, and right now. He grabbed one demon by the hair and jerked his head upward so their eyes would meet. “I knew you would never lose her, but follow her to the ends of the earth so we could choose our time, taunt the Host of Heaven, pick the fruit when it was ripe, and now . . . you have lost her? Tell me how!”

  “We followed her,” the thing said.

  “And?”

  “She went west with the dairy farmer.”

  “And?”

  The spirit looked at his comrades. They wouldn’t even return his gaze, lest Destroyer think they knew something. “The farmer took her to Ashton.”

  Destroyer gave the demon’s hair a painful yank, twisting his neck backward. “Ashton?”

  The demon winced with pain. “We followed as long as we could, but we were turned back.”

  Destroyer’s eyes burned with fury. “The Host of Heaven?”

  The warrior was almost falling over, squirming in Destroyer’s iron grip. “They hold that territory, they
and the saints of God!”

  Destroyer released the demon’s hair and the warrior dropped to the roof, rotating the kinks out of his neck.

  Destroyer and Corrupter moved away to consult privately.

  Destroyer was turning the air yellow with his frantic, anxious panting. “That slimy, slippery, subtle Captain of the Host! I should have anticipated this! He is hiding her in a stronghold we cannot penetrate!”

  Corrupter muttered, “She is free, and alive, and now has both the ring and the rosters.”

  “The rosters are your fault!” Destroyer insisted.

  “And her disappearance? Is that not yours?”

  “If we lose track of her now . . .”

  “That is not an option.”

  “. . . the Strongman will take both our heads from our bodies with his bare hands!” Destroyer spit sulfur in a new burst of rage. “Never! The Captain of the Host will not defeat me! I will not be humbled by these feeble saints!”

  He screamed to his henchmen who stood guard nearby. They snapped to attention.

  “Gather your hordes! We return to Bacon’s Corner! We will finish this business and decimate the saints, silencing their prayers once and for all!”

  CLAIRE JOHNSON HUNG up the telephone in her office and then stared at it, motionless, deep in thought.

  Jon knew that look on her face. “What is it?”

  “That was Mr. Goring, from Summit. Sally Roe showed up at Bentmore. She was right in Samuel Lynch’s office.”

  Jon rose from his chair, anticipating an answer he would not like. “She didn’t get away?”

  Claire sighed, letting her hand fall to the desk with a slap. “She did. Khull and his men chased her all over the Bentmore campus, but she managed to hitch a ride with some stranger and they lost her.”

  Jon threw up his hands in anger. “Great. That’s just great! I’m really starting to wonder about this Khull. He’s had two chances now and came up empty both times!”

  Claire cautioned him, “Please keep your voice down. Some Life-Circlers are in the house.”

  Jon tried to calm himself, but couldn’t sit down or relax at all.

  “She has the rosters,” Claire added.

  Jon looked at her curiously. “What rosters?”

  “Professor Lynch’s membership rosters.”

  Jon stared at her blankly. He couldn’t bring himself to believe it. He shook his head. “Now that has to be a mistake. Somebody’s wrong. That isn’t true.”

  “It’s true.”

  He shook his head again, harder. “No, it is not true! It’s too unthinkable to be true!”

  “Lynch stepped out of the office to get his ring and contact Khull. She must have snatched them from his bookshelf while he was gone. He didn’t notice until after she left.”

  Jon shouted at that. “She left?”

  Claire shushed him, feeling defensive for Lynch. “He couldn’t have her killed right there in his office! Khull’s men were supposed to take care of her elsewhere, secretly.”

  Jon fumed and huffed and paced around the office. “Is Professor Lynch still alive?”

  “Of course he is.”

  “Why?”

  Claire looked away impatiently. “Jon, what would that solve?”

  Jon was having trouble keeping his voice down. “That old codger is a liability! He should be eliminated, and Khull as well!”

  Claire sighed and rested her chin in her hand. “Maybe they will be, I don’t know. I don’t control such things.”

  “So, when is that hearing?”

  “Nine o’clock Monday morning.”

  Jon cursed. “We should have known by now! There are other forces working on Roe’s behalf, directly opposing us. I can feel it. No doubt they’re working against this lawsuit as well. We could get a wrong ruling.”

  Claire was about to disagree, but then decided she couldn’t. “I believe that is a possibility.”

  Jon stopped to give Claire a good look in the eye. “If we lose in this hearing, and they can put Amber on the stand, or even depose her . . .”

  Claire agreed. “I’ll call the others.”

  “And Hemphile too. I want her in on this. We have to hit that church!”

  “We already have . . .”

  “I mean hit them harder! Something right up front!”

  Claire stood, her finger to her lips. “Someone might hear you.”

  He tried to quiet himself. They could hear a LifeCircle yoga class going on upstairs, right above their heads.

  Claire had another caution. “You know that with any overt action we’ll be risking exposure . . .”

  Jon chuckled at that. “Come on. They’re old-fashioned, fringe, fanatic Christians. Who’s going to believe them?”

  She acquiesced. “All right.”

  “We’ll curse the church, and we’ll curse Sally Roe. Can we get anything she owns?”

  “Well, I guess the rental house still has all her belongings in it.”

  “Anything alive?”

  Claire thought for a moment. “Oh, yes. As a matter of fact, I think she did have some animals.”

  Jon smiled and calmed a bit. “Good. Good.”

  CHAPTER 30

  IT WAS QUIET at Floyd and Sara Barker’s after dinner. Floyd and Sara were settling into the couch downstairs for some reading; Michelle, the young college girl, was in her room studying; Suzanne, a young attorney just new in town, was out meeting a prospective partner.

  Sally was fed, bathed, warm, and secure in her little corner bedroom, snuggled in the soft bed under one of Sara’s handmade comforters, her back supported by an ample supply of large pillows.

  For the first time in so many years Sally had trouble calculating the number—she finally figured it had to be about twenty-five—she held in her hands a volume she had blamed for the world’s woes, belittled as an overrated anthology of myths, resented for its narrow views of morality, condemned as oppressive and authoritarian, and ignored as an outmoded, stagnating lead weight around the intellectual ankle of mankind.

  It was one of Sara Barker’s Bibles.

  She found the book of Psalms immediately. It was in the middle of the Bible.

  “Just open your Bibles right to the middle,” came a voice from her past. “Psalms is right there in the middle.”

  What was that woman’s name? Oh, Mrs. Gunderson, that’s right. She was an older lady. She was old as long as Sally ever knew her, as if she’d hit a peak in years and just stayed there. Every Sunday morning, Sally would clump down the church stairs with all the other seven-and eight-year-olds and gather in Mrs. Gunderson’s Sunday school class in that cold church basement, in that small, echoing classroom with the hard wooden chairs and the chalkboard that still bore the unerasable traces of lessons from weeks ago.

  Then Mrs. Gunderson would tell them a story, placing paper Bible characters on the same green-grass-and-blue-sky flannel background. Even now, as Sally lay in the bed with the Bible in her lap, she could remember those stories: the wee little man who climbed the sycamore tree, the fishermen who fished all night but caught no fish, the disciple—she thought it was Peter—who walked on the water to meet Jesus, the man named Lazarus whom Jesus raised from the dead, Moses, Noah, and of course Jonah who was swallowed by the fish.

  Strange. She’d put those stories out of her mind as far back as junior high school, but now, at thirty-six, she remembered not only those stories, but also the deep feelings of conviction and morality she always had after every Sunday school: I want to be good. I want to do good things and love God. I want Jesus to come into my heart.

  Such old memories, such long ago feelings. But the memories were pleasant, and the feelings they evoked were warm and comforting, which caused her to pause and reflect. How many pleasant memories did she really have? Not too many. Maybe these, some of her oldest, were her happiest.

  Psalm 119. Hmm. It was a long chapter. She read the first verse.

  “Blessed are they whose ways are blameless, who wal
k according to the law of the Lord.”

  That first verse was enough to grab her attention, and she read on.

  Verse 3 said, “They do nothing wrong; they walk in his ways.”

  Verses 4, 5, and 6 continued the same theme: “You have laid down precepts that are to be fully obeyed. Oh, that my ways were steadfast in obeying your decrees! Then I would not be put to shame when I consider all your commands.”

  How did that pastor know? She’d asked him the toughest question she could think of, but he came back with the answer she needed, the one perfect for her situation, right here and now, the very next step in her musings.

  She continued to read, and the words spoke to her over and over again about something she’d fled from for years, denied, fought against, and finally lost . . . but perhaps needed most of all.

  Absolutes. A genuine right and a genuine wrong. A fence, a point of reference, a way to know something for sure.

  She couldn’t let these ideas get away from her. She hopped out of bed and hurried to the closet for her duffel bag. The few clothes she had were in the laundry at the moment, so the bag was a lot emptier, containing a still frightening amount of freshly minted cash, her notebook, which she set aside, and . . . the rosters from Professor Lynch’s office.

  She felt sick at the sight of them, as if there was an evil attached to them, as if an invisible, poisonous stowaway had come along to haunt her. They frightened her; they gave her the same stomach-turning fear and disgust one feels while waiting for something horrible to jump out in a late-night horror movie.

  UNSEEN BY SALLY, though she could sense them, the same little quartet of demons still lurked about, watching her, looking for opportunities. They had followed her everywhere she went, and could pass through any angelic hedge because she carried them with her. Despair was enjoying his job less and less; the more Sally continued in her quest, the less of his poison he could sow in her mind. Fear had had much to do and a lot of fun doing it, and was glad to have those rosters along, but Death and Insanity were getting frustrated. Sally had found some new purpose somewhere; Death was no longer welcome in her thoughts, and her thoughts were becoming too clear and rational for Insanity to scramble.