Piercing the Darkness

by Frank Peretti

  “Okay, babe,” said Khull, “check and make sure.”

  The young woman went ahead of them, walking into the motel office.

  Khull and the other two just stood on the sidewalk, talking and looking casual.

  She came out again, and pointed discreetly at Number 14.

  “Let’s go,” said Khull.

  “OH, HI,” SAID Judy. “Been waiting long?”

  “No, not long,” said Marshall. “About ten minutes, I guess.” He’d seen the little note she’d taped in the window, “BACK IN TEN MINUTES.”

  “Had to get a new typewriter ribbon. I can hardly read my letters anymore.” She had a small sack in her hand, which meant her trip must have been successful.

  “I think I have a fax waiting for me.”

  “Oh yeah, you do.”

  Judy unlocked the door and let him in. “It came in not too long ago. I think I put it . . . Let me see, where did I put it?”

  THE YOUNG BLONDE knocked on the door to Number 14.

  Sally tensed, closed her eyes, and prayed a quick prayer. Then she rose from her chair and approached the door. “Yes?”

  “Maid,” said the woman.

  JUDY FINALLY FOUND the sheet of paper that had come out of the fax machine. “Oh, here you are.”

  Marshall took it and thanked her. Now this looked familiar. It was even disappointing. Hadn’t he told Bernice he’d already seen the curriculum? What was the big deal? All the way over here to Judy’s for this?

  But what was Bernice’s note at the top? She’d written it in bold marker pen.

  “OKAY, JUST A minute,” Sally said, and looked around the room one last time. She was ready. She went to the door and put her hand on the knob.

  “MARSHALL,” SAID BERNICE’S note, “have you seen this? Call me.”

  From the note, a huge arrow drawn with a wide-tipped marker pen bled down the page to a glaring circle at the bottom.

  Within that circle was the name of the curriculum’s author—its real author.

  Sally Beth Roe.

  WHAM! THE DOOR burst open and almost caught Sally across the face. Khull was all over her, then two more blurred figures. Arms grappled and grabbed, the room spun around her, she fell to the floor, her face smacking the worn carpet. A sharp knee gouged into her back, pinning her down so hard she thought her ribs would crack. They grabbed her arms and twisted them behind her until she cried out in pain, then bound them with loop upon loop of tight, cutting rope.

  AAW! Khull grabbed a fistful of her hair and wrenched her head up from the carpet. She couldn’t breathe. He held a glimmering, silver knife to her throat. “Make a sound, and this goes in.”

  She closed her mouth tightly, trying to contain the cries of pain and terror she just couldn’t help.

  The room was full of people, searching every corner, every drawer, under the mattress, dumping out her duffel bag, going through all her possessions.

  “You know what we’re looking for,” said Khull right into her ear. He grabbed one of her bound hands and forced her index finger open. “Tell us where the ring is and where those rosters are, or I start cutting.”

  “If I tell you, you’ll just run off with them yourself!” said Sally. The knife came against the base of her finger. She gushed the words out. “I’ll tell the people who sent you! Turn me over to them!”

  The knife remained in place.

  Sally blurted, “You want to get paid, don’t you?”

  The knife stayed where it was; Khull’s grip on her finger never loosened. She could feel the edge of that knife against her skin, and she prayed while an eternity passed.

  Destroyer stood in the room, not at all willing to lose the prize once he had found it.

  Take her to Summit, he said to Khull.

  Khull leaned over Sally, longing with every fiber of his being to run his knife through her heart. He hesitated, breathing hard.

  Destroyer put his hand on his sword. You will take her to Summit, to the Strongman, and you will do it now!

  After the longest, most agonizing moment, for no apparent reason, Khull took away the knife and let her finger go.

  Sally thought she would faint. She was close to vomiting.

  “Get her up!”

  She was snatched from the floor in an instant by no less than four huge thugs, and held tightly, unable to move. Now she could see Khull’s face leering at her, the eyes full of hate. Demon eyes.

  SLAP! His hand felt like iron across her jaw, cheek, and nose. She almost blacked out. Warm blood began to trickle from her nose and down over her mouth.

  Khull grabbed a fistful of her hair again and held his knife right under her nose. “We’re going to take you to our friends. They are going to get the whole package right in their laps, and listen to me now: you’d better give them everything they want when they want it, because I will be right there, and if they don’t get what they want, they are going to give you to me. To me, understand?”

  “I will cooperate.”

  “Not a sound from you!”

  “Not a sound.”

  Khull looked at her with all the lust and murderous intent of the Devil himself, and then gave the order: “Let’s go.”

  The young blonde woman stuffed everything Sally owned into Sally’s duffel bag, and a thug grabbed it up.

  In broad daylight, like a gruesome parade, Khull led his band of rogues and their captive, bound with rope and her nose still bleeding, out of Number 14 and to the street. Sally could see some curtains cracked open across the courtyard, but no one dared show their face. Even the owner of the place, an ugly, chain-smoking woman in her fifties, caught just a glimpse of them and then turned away, being careful to mind her own business.

  They took Sally to the first car, shoved her into the backseat between two men—one of them was the young knife-wielder she’d met at Bentmore—and drove away unhurried, unhampered, and unchallenged.

  THE CARAVAN MOTEL was almost invisible under a crawling, hissing swarm of evil spirits. Every person in every building was motivated by fear, self-interest, and even self-delusion. No, they didn’t see anything. It wasn’t what it looked like—it just seemed that way. It wasn’t their problem. A lot of that kind of thing happened around places like this; so what?

  Destroyer and his twelve key warriors flew just above the two automobiles, wary and braced for any angelic resistance. The resistance never came. They did see some heavenly warriors, but the warriors made no moves against them; they were intimidated by the great demonic numbers, no doubt.

  “Ha!” Destroyer laughed, elbowing his closest warrior. “What did I say? Their strength is gone! Tal has no more numbers to boast in, and . . .” He was delighted with his own craftiness. “. . . I do believe we have surprised them all! Before they could muster any new strength, we have snatched their new little saint right from under their noses!”

  AS THE TWO automobiles turned onto the main thoroughfare and sped away, many of Nathan’s prize warriors were on hand to watch, hiding in the shadows, crouching behind trees, parked cars, and houses. They kept a close watch, but they did not intervene. The word had spread quickly and clearly among them all: This was Destroyer’s moment, and Captain Tal’s biggest risk ever.

  OUT ON THE interstate, a U.S. Mail truck sped along, heading southward from Chicago toward the easy rolling hills of the Midwest and the quaint little college town of Ashton.

  On board, in a mailbag, just a little dirty and wrinkled by now, was that letter addressed to Bernice Krueger.

  CHAPTER 39

  MARSHALL WAS IMPATIENT, and that made him anxious, and that made him irritable. Ben Cole just kept pacing around the house trying to think of what else to do, Kate sat next to Marshall at the dining room table, flipping through all their accumulated files for any information Marshall might need, and Bev Cole just kept watching it all and praying softly, “Lord Jesus, we need You now!”

  Marshall was on the phone with John Harrigan, a friend and contact with the FBI. “Oh y
eah, she wrote it, all right. I got back to my reporter, and she’d already gotten back to this Cliff Bingham guy, and he verifies the edition he found was recent, published only two years ago.” Marshall rolled his eyes and gritted his teeth. This conversation wasn’t bringing results fast enough. “So that means the curriculum the school gave to us was doctored; Sally Roe’s name was deleted and substituted by two other names, and that fits right in with the cover-up I told you about. No, I don’t have a case yet. I thought you guys were the ones who are supposed to investigate these things. Well, I’m close, real close, and I do think it’s something for you guys to handle. The Omega Center’s in Fairwood, Massachusetts, and Sally Roe was almost murdered clear over here in Bacon’s Corner, for crying out loud! Now is that across state lines or what?” More talk from the other end. “All right, listen: can you give me a number where I can reach you anytime, I mean, right in the middle of the night if I have to? I won’t call unless I’ve got some real stuff for you, but when I do get it, time will be that much shorter for Sally Roe.” He got an objection. “Come on, I’ll owe you one. Just remember that lead I got you in that cocaine operation.” Marshall grabbed his pen. “Good man!”

  He got several numbers, said good-bye, and hung up.

  Everyone in the house converged on him. “Well? What did he say?”

  “He’ll be on call. I’ve got phone numbers to reach him at work, at home, at church, and I’ve also got his paging service, so he’s covered. But what he’s waiting for is some firm information to justify the FBI getting involved.”

  Ben was indignant. “What’s wrong with all that stuff you gave him?”

  “Eh, it was enough to make him interested, but not enough to make him stick his neck out.”

  “What about Wayne Corrigan?”

  Kate answered, “I left a message at his office. He’ll get what we have.”

  “O Lord Jesus, protect Sally Roe!” said Bev.

  GUILO HAD RETURNED to his post in the mountains above the picturesque town of Summit, and though the surroundings were as strikingly beautiful as ever, the invisible evil was even worse. Educators, statesmen, jurists, entertainers, corporate moguls, and financiers from all over the world were gathering just a mile up the valley from Summit at the Summit Institute for Humanistic Studies. Their semiannual conference was just getting underway, and as these global planners gathered, demon lords and warriors of the most conniving sort gathered with them, filling the valley with a swirling, sooty, steadily thickening cloud of spirits. The demons hovered, hooted, sparred, and jostled, more numerous, riotous, and cocky than ever before.

  “They are expecting a real party,” said Guilo.

  MR. SANTINELLI, KINGPIN of the law firm of Evans, Santinelli, Farnsworth, and McCutcheon, Mr. Goring, the lord and administrator of the Summit Institute for Humanistic Studies, and Mr. Steele, the ruthless ruler of the Omega Center for Educational Studies, were together again, enjoying a brandy by the fire in Mr. Goring’s rustic chalet on the Summit Institute campus. This meeting brought back the memory of their last meeting at Omega, when things were not so rosy; they could recall the indignation of having to endure the very presence of that most undesirable of personalities, Mr. Khull—and, of course, at that time Sally Roe was still at large.

  Now they clinked their glasses together in a toast of victory. Indeed, with the news that came in earlier today, things were definitely different.

  “To the future!” said Santinelli.

  “To the future!” echoed Goring and Steele.

  They sipped from their drinks, smacked their lips, and even allowed themselves a chuckle or two.

  As they relaxed into Goring’s soft couch and easy chair, Santinelli addressed the pressing matters before them. “I’ve sent our private jet to bring Mr. Khull and his personnel. They should arrive here with the prize in a matter of hours.”

  “Have you ever met her?” asked Steele.

  Goring and Santinelli exchanged glances.

  “Not I,” said Goring, “but I’m looking forward to it.”

  Santinelli agreed. “An outrageous fish story can never compare to actually seeing the fish hauled in. Actually, I’m impressed that Khull was able to restrain himself and deliver her to us alive.”

  Goring spoke with great anticipation. “I’ll be fascinated to meet her. I have many questions, to be sure.”

  “Oh,” said Santinelli, “we’ll all have questions for her—serious questions.”

  “Any word on the ring or the rosters?” asked Steele.

  “None. But with Sally Roe in our custody, I can’t imagine that will be a problem.”

  Goring cautioned, “But just remember, there are many delegates and visitors about. Our present business would be quite distasteful to most of them, I’m sure; so our guests must never know about it.”

  “Agreed. And I have instructed Khull to preserve Roe’s appearance, just in case she may be seen by someone.”

  “Now,” said Goring, “there is that other matter that we discussed . . .”

  “Of course,” said Santinelli, “the whole matter of Khull in particular and Broken Birch in general.”

  “Mm,” said Steele, nodding. “I’ve thought about that too. Now that they’re in bed with us, they won’t stop until they control the bed.”

  “I’ve consulted with Mr. Evans and Mr. Farnsworth, and they have some of their best people looking into it. If we move carefully, and lay a thoroughly thought-out plan, we could accumulate some damning evidence against Broken Birch while keeping ourselves clean. Evans and Farnsworth are quite sure that the whole lot of them can be arrested for crimes totally unrelated to our enterprise.”

  Goring smiled and nodded. “Excellent. I’ve already consulted with my board, and they think such a plan would be feasible. We’ll be able to call in some favors from our corporate and governmental resources, and I’m sure they’ll be most willing to see what we want them to see and to look the other way when it would be . . . worthwhile.”

  “Then we must proceed on this without delay,” said Santinelli. “Khull and Broken Birch have finally done their job, but upon delivery of Sally Roe we must erase any association with them.”

  Goring added, “Any memory of them in any circles, if we can help it!”

  Santinelli raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that!”

  And so they did.

  THE VAN HAD been driving along the winding, climbing, meandering highway for what seemed hours, and Sally finally nodded off, her chin on her chest, sitting between two of the four surly, burly escorts that came with Khull and herself on the plane. The flight had lasted several hours, the driving even longer, and now it was night.

  She looked a little better. At least Khull figured she couldn’t escape from a flying jet plane, and, reciting Santinelli’s order to “preserve Roe’s appearance,” untied her and let her use the cramped little washroom to wash the dried, caked blood from her mouth and chin, change from her bloodstained shirt to a clean but sadly wrinkled blouse, and brush out her hair. She looked a little better—for a totally exhausted, manhandled, soon-to-die fugitive.

  They were heading into the mountains, through tall forests of pine and fir that became monotonous after a while. Sally slept fitfully, jolting awake every few moments, but only long enough to see more trees going by the window, and then she would nod off again.

  Some time later—she didn’t know how much later—she awoke to morning light. The van was slowing down; Khull and his cohorts were looking around, trying to get their bearings. They were entering a village.

  Khull, sitting in the front passenger seat, turned around to tell here, “Welcome to Summit.”

  Sally rubbed the sleep from her eyes and looked out the windows at a quaint-looking little town surrounded on all sides by snow-covered, sawtoothed peaks and thick, unblemished forests. Out the left window, just above the A-framed roofs of some ski lodges, the morning sun turned a distant waterfall into golden tinsel; out the right window, through a gap i
n the small inns and storefronts, the mountainside dropped sharply away to a flower-strewn alpine meadow. Patches of snow still remained everywhere, dripping and glistening in the low-angled sunlight.

  Why have we come here? Sally wondered. It hardly seemed the setting for such gruesome business, and people like Khull and his bunch just didn’t fit at all.

  But then again, maybe they did. Sally began to notice some of the establishments and institutions in this village; she began to read some of the signs.

  Taoist Retreat Center. Valley Tibetan Project and Monastery. Temple of Ananta. Library and Archives of Ancient Wisdom. Native American School of Traditional Medicine. Karma Triyana Dharmachakra. The Temple of Imbetu Agobo. Babaji Ashram. Mother’s Temple Shrine of Shiva. The Children of Diana. Temple to the Divine Universal Mother. The House of Bel. The Sacred and Royal Order of the Nation.

  She leaned toward the window. The big escort put his ham-sized palm in her chest and shoved her back. She twisted and looked out the rear windows as the building passed.

  The Sacred and Royal Order of the Nation. The little gargoyle snarled at her from the front door of the black stone temple and from the building’s facade. She could just hear it screeching, Welcome to Summit!

  DESTROYER HAD FOLLOWED the hunting party clear from Chicago, and now, as the van came through the valley and entered the village, he was going to milk this moment for all it was worth. He dropped from the sky, alighted on the roof of the van, and stood there, his sword held high in victory, his wings trailing like banners behind him, his twelve captains forming his honor guard. Driving under the thick mantle of spirits was like entering a dark tunnel under a towering mountain; on every side, and thousands of feet above, demons cheered and waved their swords in a thunderous display of admiration.