Proof Through the Night

by Lt. Colonel Toby Quirk

  “Yes. And about that,” Luis said, “unfortunately you won’t have use of the house. Too complicated to get into. Family stuff. My son and his friend need their privacy. We have a mobile home just a few miles away that you can use. And when you come here for the boat, just drive right down to the boathouse and you can launch from there. I hope that’s okay.”

  “Sounds fine to us,” said Beto. “We will stay out of Luis Junior’s way, for sure. Thank you.”

  “Here is the key to the trailer in the View Point Campground, right off Route 1A about a mile from where our avenue intersects.”

  “Yes,” said Henry. “I remember seeing it on the way in. No problem. Thanks. I guess we should make our way over there now, if that’s all right.”

  “Sure,” said Luis. “You need to get bedded down so you can get up before the fish. Good seeing you, Beto. Next time we can spend more time catching up.”

  In a few minutes they were driving into the View Point Campground looking for lot number 19. They pulled into the gravel space next to the trailer and carried their bags inside, leaving the fishing gear in the SUV.

  As Beto took the last of their luggage out of the car, he turned around on the little porch under the trailer’s awning and noticed the guy across the street sitting on a lawn chair outside his trailer smoking a cigarette. It seemed to Beto that the man was watching him maybe just a little more intently than a temporary neighbor would watch. He also noticed Tobias hovering over the man’s trailer with a concerned look on his angelic face.

  “What are you grinning about?” Gabriella asked her granddaughter. Sandy walked into the kitchen of their cottage at Cielavista.

  “Nothing, really. I shouldn’t be feeling this way. I mean, I have serious concerns about us here without Henry, but I thought it was humorous, that’s all.”

  “What’s humorous?”

  “The bed’s unmade,” Sandy said, smiling.

  Gabriella chuckled. “And when’s the last time that happened?”

  “And my nightgown’s lying on top of the unmade bed. And the towel in the bathroom is lying on the floor. I guess I miss him, but the mess is very liberating.” Sandy laughed again.

  “Okay, my little piggy, get over here, have some breakfast. We have to talk.”

  Sandy made herself a bowl of oatmeal with honey, almonds, and milk, poured another cup of coffee, and sat at the dining table by the big bay window.

  Gabriella sat down next to her with a cup of tea.

  “I have seen the storm clouds of war looming on the horizon,” Gabriella started.

  Sandy ate and listened. “Storm clouds,” she repeated.

  “I have stymied the Directorate’s attempts at eliminating the people on their hit list. Did you know that since 2006, there have been more than 200 mass killings in the United States? Everyone has heard of the most famous incidents. Newtown, Aurora, and Virginia Tech captured the nation’s attention, but many more have happened at an alarming frequency and much less scrutiny.

  “Henry has examined FBI data. The Bureau defines a mass killing as four or more victims. He has combed local police records that record mass killings in America. They happen far more often than the government reports, and only a select few investigators know the circumstances of those killings—the people who commit them, the weapons they use, and the forces that motivate them.

  “There is a mass killing in America about every two weeks.”

  Sandy stopped eating and put down her spoon. She looked out the bay window into the afternoon sky, where high white clouds chased each other through the stratosphere.

  Gabriella was citing numbers from memory. “The FBI counted 172 cases of mass killings between 2006 and 2011. That does not include some large states such as Florida, for example. Poor reporting by police agencies to the FBI also means they left out a fair number of mass killings.

  “In March and April of 2009 mass murderers killed thirteen times, but the press reported only. Most mass killings are family oriented.”

  “Family mass shooting? What do you mean?” asked Sandy.

  “Breakups, estrangements, and family arguments make up the majority of family shootings. Sometimes innocent victims get caught in the crossfire.”

  “So how does all this relate to us? Our mission? How did God select you—and now all of us here at Cielavista—to combat these people?”

  “What the FBI and all our law enforcement people do not know is that the Directorate is behind all of these shootings, public, private, and whatever. Since the powers being used by the Directorate are paranormal, the government cannot understand it. They have to deal with what they can see and what they can evaluate.

  “Apparently God designed my mind to operate differently than other peoples’. Since I was a little girl everyone thought I was strange. I horrified most of the people I grew up with, so they made fun of me. Then God opened my eyes. He showed me that this weird little girl was his specialized instrument. And now he wants to use you, Sandy.”

  “So this is genetic?” asked Sandy.

  “Yes and no,” Gabriella said. “Your father—God rest his soul—couldn’t seem to acknowledge the gift. He possessed it. I could tell because he had flashes of prophetic wisdom, but he lived his own busy, earthly life, so he could not experience his spiritual life. But I must admit he was a joyful guy, and he kept us all in stitches with his antics and his jokes.”

  “Okay, so now it appears that your granddaughter has the weird gene,” Sandy said. “A few days ago I saw Anna Stone heal Frances O’Donnelly’s fibromyalgia.”

  “I thought so,” Gabriella said. “Now we have to synergize our powers. Put some good walking shoes on and come with me.”

  Sandy followed Gabriella across the wide lawn and down the rocky steps. “I get the power up in the tower,” she tried to explain, but Gabriella ignored her.

  The two women—one tall and angular with short, white hair and the other tiny and petite with a mane of long black hair—stood at the near side of the wide crevice. The tide swelled high and the wind blew hard from the northeast. The waves crashed into the deep space between the rock where they stood and Gabriella’s praying rock. Sandy never realized the immense power emanating from this place. She was surprised at the width of the crevice and how deep and dangerous it looked. The crashing waves sent sprays of white foam into their faces.

  Without a word Gabriella took two steps back, then two quick, powerful running steps toward the edge and sailed over the crevice and landed on her flat granite outcropping.

  Sandy’s heart pounded.

  “Your angel’s name is Naomi. Tell her to sail under you,” Gabriella ordered.

  Sandy closed her eyes. The panic she felt was triggering her past traumas, paralyzing her.

  “Look at me,” Gabriella shouted over the roar of the churning water between them. “Hold your hand out toward me.”

  Sandy stretched her arm toward her grandmother. Gabriella pointed her extended fingers toward Sandy. “Listen to me. You have to agree with me as I say this. Tell me you agree.”

  Sandy’s feet were stuck as if locked in hardened concrete. She looked at Gabriella. A spit of salt foam from the chasm soaked Sandy’s shirt. It woke her up out of her panic-driven trance. “I am listening, Nonina. I will agree with you,” she said.

  Gabriella stretched out her hand at Sandy’s face and proclaimed, “God is reprograming the defective DNA in your mind. I speak wholeness, healing, and wellness to your soul. All the pathways that have been blocking your mental immune system from operating at peak performance, open wide! Open wide you pathways and allow the flow of healing stimulants to restore Sandy’s mind in accordance with God’s original design.”

  Sandy’s body shook, her arms flew involuntarily up into the air, and she shouted something unintelligible into the foam and mist. “Naomi, sail under my feet as I jump across this chasm,” she ordered.

  Sandy took two steps back and two running steps toward the edge. She felt her right leg fl
ex and push away from the rock like a steel spring. Her left leg extended outward and she seemed to hold there above the deep raging crevice, exhilarated, laughing, sailing in the air on an invisible pillow of energy. She felt the folds of her loose shirt flutter in the wind and her pants stretch out against her thighs. She felt the ball of her left foot fall soft on the far side of the crevice as if she were weightless. Her momentum carried her two more steps as she landed on Gabriella’s praying rock.

  Sandy stood amazed next to Gabriella. They didn’t say anything for several minutes—just looked at each other and at the ocean and the horizon beyond. Sandy’s mind finally came down to earth, catching up to her body.

  “So that’s how it’s done,” she said.

  Gabriella took Sandy’s hand and they stood side-by-side looking at the sky. “It’s called a leap of faith,” the old woman said. Sandy squeezed her hand.

  “The wind is warm for October,” Sandy observed.

  “Here the wind is always warm, no matter what month it is,” explained Gabriella. “Watch the sky with me.”

  Time slipped by unnoticed. Sandy did not know what to call this experience. As strange as the sensation of timelessness was, as surreal as the swirling atmosphere around them was, it all seemed warm and comfortable. She realized that she had just crossed some kind of supernatural threshold that would change the course of her future.

  Then it appeared. In the sky. As real as a movie screen in the cinema, a scene projected onto the sky above the ocean played out before them. An overhead shot of a beautiful resort in the Berkshires came into focus. Then as if floating through the roof of a huge mansion, the scene became a suite where a woman sat alone.

  “Nonina, that’s Anna Stone. I’ve seen her before,” said Sandy.

  “Yes. She has opened her mind to receive information and energy from us,” said Gabriella. “I led her to accept Frances O’Donnelly’s invitation to join her at the Canyon Ranch where the Directorate is meeting. I have sent two of our angels to protect her. There is danger coming to that place.”

  Sandy turned to her grandmother. She said, “There is danger coming to this place too.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Anna Stone woke up before dawn, ordered coffee, and called her husband in Cabot, Arkansas. She padded out to the balcony off her bedroom and watched the morning star fade into the dawn light. She greeted the new forces at work in her spirit. They welled up somewhere in her mind—her soul? She was certain these forces took the form of information and strength.

  She concentrated on her morning meditations, finding comfort in familiar routines in these unfamiliar surroundings. She pushed the hassock out onto the balcony and took up the Burmese position—hands resting on her thighs, palms up. She closed her eyes, then opened them as the eastern sky made way for the rising sun. A thin layer of white clouds drifted nonchalantly from north to south.

  “What is that?” Anna heard herself say out loud. She watched unafraid, but curious as two shimmering shapes of air raced toward her from the east.

  An inner voice said, “Angels.”

  Anna smiled. She had heard of such visitations. She watched the transparent visible forms take humanlike form, hanging there in the air. She smiled.

  “You guys have names?” Anna asked, half expecting the whole hallucination to disappear.

  The voice of one said, “I’m Thomas. This is Joe. You can call for us to help you. We are here for Frances, too.”

  Anna closed her eyes and shook her head. Silently she prayed, God, I am fine believing in you and your son and the Holy Spirit, but I really need to know if this angel thing is real.

  The angel, Thomas said, “Yeah, we’re real. The Master sent several detachments of us creatures to combat this evil Directorate. Most of us are at FITO’s headquarters on the coast about one hundred fifty miles from here.”

  “More like one hundred sixty miles,” said Joe.

  “You clocked it?” asked Thomas.

  “I’m just very good at estimating these earthly measurements. Took us about four minutes to get here, so that means one hundred sixty miles. Trust me,” said Joe.

  Anna said, “So you heard me praying in my head? And what is FITO?”

  Thomas and Joe swooped down and stood on Anna’s balcony, human now, no wings. Thomas explained, “When you pray to the Master, we can hear all of it. Obviously you aren’t really part of this evil society called the Directorate. They’ve been orchestrating all these mass murders you’ve been reading and hearing about in the media. There’s a small cell of powerful prophets and spirit-warriors that have messed up the Directorate’s plans. The board of directors calls them FITO, for fly-in-the-ointment.”

  “‘Dead flies putrefy the perfumer’s ointment and cause it to give off a foul odor; so does a little folly to one respected for wisdom and honor,’” recited Anna from the Book of Ecclesiastes.

  “So this Directorate thinks they are morally superior to everyone, and they consider FITO some kind of dirty contamination. Man, are these people deluded.”

  “The people at FITO now understand about all the activities that the Directorate is involved with,” said Thomas who seemed to be the more senior angel. Joe busied himself exploring the hallways and rooms in the Bellefontaine Mansion.

  “You need to tell Frances that Akebe is planning to murder Andrew in plain sight of all the other board members during the first session this morning. Frances has to stop him.”

  A chill ran up Anna’s spine. “Murder! My God, what have I gotten into?”

  “Actually you haven’t gotten yourself into this. The master called you, and you answered the call,” explained Thomas.

  “So what is Frances’ role in all this? She seems to be a decent person. I can’t imagine her involved in arranging mass murders. That’s horrible.”

  “Well, here’s the way their twisted logic goes: America is being led by people who don’t know what they are doing, so the members of the Directorate have to take control. They use a combination of long-distance telekinesis, hypnosis, and brainwashing to manipulate the minds of key leaders in every area of American culture. They use this same paranormal power, enhanced with high-tech energy-producing equipment, to mentally coerce unsuspecting people to murder those whom they can’t brainwash. They lay down smokescreens, making the mass killings look like crimes of passion, accidents, the work of religious fanatics or mentally impaired people, or disgruntled employees. But the Directorate masterminds all of them. Their perverted logic stems from a delusional form of patriotism that trumps any kind of moral discernment. Their definition of the ends—an improved America under their control—justifies the means—killing off anyone who doesn’t accept the inducements of American consumerism and liberal education and the institutions that control them.”

  “Wow,” said Anna. “I suppose Frances could be seduced by such logic. Her father’s decline and death fractured her soul. To assuage her emotional pain, she envisioned herself rescuing America and extinguishing those who want to bring the country down.”

  “You might be right,” replied Thomas. “Something happened to Frances O’Donnelly when she went to see you in Arkansas. Your love for her in the form of healing opened up a seam in her psychological defenses that allowed the power from FITO to enter her soul. You may recall that you were led by some mysterious force to access her hotel room with that room service cart, and she accepted your friendship. Well, the folks at FITO influenced you and Frances to make all that happen. Their power is stronger than the Directorate’s. It’s different than theirs because the source of it comes from the Master through his Spirit.”

  “Okay, my brain is busting right now. Any more information and I’ll have to wrap my head in duct tape.

  “My job right now is to tell Frances that Akebe—whoever he is—is planning to murder Andrew—whoever he is—at the first session today. And she is supposed to stop him. See you guys around.”

  “That’s one nice big boat,” said Henry as they wal
ked through the boathouse to the slip on Neddick Harbor. “I mean you have your nice boats, not necessarily big. And you have your big boats, not necessarily nice. But this is a nice big boat.”

  “It’s a sixty-two-foot Cape Dory trawler,” said Beto. “I knew you’d love it because Luis obsesses over neatness like you. By the way, thanks for making my bed this morning.”

  “Luis is my kind of guy,” said Henry. “This trawler shines.” Henry ran his hand over the fiberglass surfaces on the rear deck and the aluminum steps to the cabin.

  “Have you been down here in the cabin?” he shouted up to Beto. “The interior is all mahogany. It’s spotless.” Henry ran his fingers over the shelves and dining table like a drill instructor in boot camp.

  “Let’s cast off and fire this baby up,” said Beto. “Luis keeps all the fishing tackle we’ll ever need onboard. “I’ll stow our food in the refrigerator in the galley below.”

  They chugged the Water Walker slowly out of Neddick. The twin 490-horsepower John Deer diesel engines hummed smoothly in the boat’s belly. Henry and Beto sat in the comfortable seats in the helm above the main deck. The sweet morning air charmed Henry’s heavy heart.

  “We’re living free now, brother,” said Beto. He poured two cups of hot black coffee from his Thermos.

  “Thanks, Beto,” said Henry. He took a sip. “Hey, something just occurred to me.” They had cleared the mouth of Neddick Harbor and he gave the engines more gas, taking the boat up to twenty knots.

  “What’s that, Skipper?”

  “This angel of mine—your uncle Carlos said his name is Tobias. And you can see him, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t suppose he can find a nice big school of stripers for us,” Henry said, smiling.

  “Why don’t you just ask him?”

  A rush of excitement sliced open his veil of skepticism. “Hey, Tobias, are you there?”

  A spout of water flushed up from the surface of the ocean off their starboard side. “That’s him,” said Beto.