Piercing the Darkness

by Frank E. Peretti

  Destroyer’s face was rock-hard, his spine straight. “Is she still mine?”

  There was a strange, cutting tone in the Strongman’s voice. “Do you still deserve her, Destroyer?”

  Destroyer didn’t seem to appreciate the question.

  The Strongman spoke clearly, threateningly. “I want you to remove her, so that she will never reappear again.” There was a slight tinge of doubt in the Strongman’s voice as he asked, “Can you do that?”

  The thing didn’t move for a moment.

  SLASH! Red flash! A sizzling sword cut through the air and divided space into burning segments. Black wings filled the room like smoke and rolled like thunder. The princes fell back against the walls; the Strongman actually flinched.

  The thing stood there motionless again, the eyes burning with anger, the black wings slowly settling, the glowing red sword steady in his hand.

  His low, sinister voice was seething with resentment. “Give me some real warriors, not Terga and his bungling, whining little imps of Bacon’s Corner! Turn over your best to my command and let them empower Broken Birch, and you will see what your servant can do!”

  The Strongman studied Destroyer’s face and without the slightest smile asked, “What about the rumors I hear?”

  Destroyer puffed a derisive laugh through his flaring nostrils. “They are rumors spread in fear by cowering spirits! If our opponent be this Tal, so much more the thrill of the challenge.”

  “He is mighty.”

  Destroyer countered, “He is clever. His strength is not in his own sword, but in the saints of God. The ranks have made a legend of his victory over us in Ashton, but they pay him too much respect. It was the prayers of the saints that defeated us, not this wily Captain of the Host.” Destroyer waved his sword slowly through the air, admiring the burning after-image that trailed behind its razor-sharp edge. “And so it was in this recent, minor setback. But I now have an advantage, Ba-al: I have tasted the enemy’s wiles, I have tested his strength, and I know the source of his power.”

  The Strongman was dubious. “And just how do you expect to thwart him where once you could not?”

  “I will go to the saints first. Already there is plenty in Bacon’s Corner for them to be upset about, plenty to divide them. I will keep them busy censuring and smiting each other, and then their hearts will be far from praying.” He held the sword high; its red glow lit up the room and his yellow eyes reflected the glow in bloodshot crimson. “I will pull Tal’s strength right out from under him!”

  The Strongman was impressed, at least for the moment. “I will commission my best to accompany you. Broken Birch is clumsy at times, but totally devoted to us. Use them at your pleasure. Now go!”

  BEN SAT AT his small desk in the front office of the police station and tried to get some paperwork cleared up before going out on patrol. It was a nice little office, with two small desks, a copy machine, some colorful traffic safety posters, and a low wood railing partition. Right now the morning sun was streaming in through the big windows, warming the place up. Under different circumstances he’d always enjoyed working here.

  But Ben was far from cheery this morning, and his mind was far from his paperwork. He’d seen Mulligan’s final report on the so-called suicide, and found it unbelievable. He couldn’t be sure, but the photographs of the body and of the surrounding conditions simply did not match what he remembered seeing. Suddenly there was a rope around the woman’s neck—last night Ben saw no rope around her neck, and even Mrs. Potter said the woman had the rope in her hand. The spilled goat feed had mysteriously vanished, and the straw around the body seemed undisturbed, not at all in the trampled, kicked-around mess it was in last night.

  Ben didn’t like the thought of it, but it was obvious that the scene—and the photographs of it—had been sanitized, as if Mulligan and Leonard had done away with all the evidence before taking the photographs and writing up the report.

  As if that wasn’t enough to stew about, there was also Mulligan’s deriding and accusing of Tom Harris, and in front of reporters. And what in the world was the press doing in the station anyway? A lot of things were looking suspicious to Ben right now.

  The Hampton County Star was lying on the corner of his desk. He had to go all through the paper before he could find even the slightest mention—and that’s all it was—of the death at the Potter farm. The article was more a space filler than any real news, as if the reporter dropped all the facts on the floor somewhere and forgot about them . . . or purposely ditched them there. The whole thing felt wrong, so wrong it turned Ben’s stomach.

  I’ve got to get out of here, get out on patrol. I don’t want to talk to Mulligan, don’t even want to look at him.

  But Mulligan was hard to ignore—he liked it that way. He came up to the front, belched loudly, and sat behind the desk across the room like a load of grain landing on a wharf. He had the investigation report in his hand, and started flipping through it for one last look.

  “Well,” he said, his booming voice shattering the nerves, “that does it.”

  “Any next of kin we can notify?” Ben asked.

  Mulligan pulled a manila envelope out of a drawer. “There aren’t any. Roe was a nobody, a loner.” He slid the report, along with its accompanying sketches and photographs, into the envelope and folded it shut. “She pulled her own plug, and now it’s our job to plant her quietly and get on with business.”

  “I don’t suppose there will be a coroner’s report?”

  Ben knew he’d overstepped. Mulligan was getting steamed. “Of course there will. What about it?”

  Ben wanted to back off, but now he had to answer Mulligan’s question. “Well . . . with all due respect . . . the coroner might find some evidence to suggest another cause of death.”

  Mulligan didn’t have time for this. “Listen, Cole, if just being a plain, hard-working, clean-nosed cop isn’t enough for you . . . if you just don’t feel you have enough responsibility . . . I’m sure I can find you some more important jobs, something you can really take pride in. The place could use some sweeping, and I know you’d be thorough; you’d get that broom into every corner, you’d catch every cobweb, huh?”

  Ben knew he was glaring at Mulligan, but he made no effort to soften his expression. “I could be very thorough in checking the accuracy of last night’s investigation.”

  Mulligan yanked a file drawer open and tossed the envelope in. “You just concentrate on doing your job, Cole. I’m not paying you to be my conscience.”

  CHAPTER 5

  POSTMASTER LUCY BRANDON couldn’t keep her mind on her work. Debbie, the postal clerk, had already asked her three questions—one about the Route 2 driver, one about the cracked mailing trays, and one about . . . now she couldn’t remember the third question. She couldn’t answer any of them; she couldn’t recall the information; she just couldn’t think.

  “Hey,” Debbie said finally, “are you feeling okay?”

  Lucy removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. She was usually a strong person, tough enough. A tall brunette in her late thirties, she’d been through plenty of life’s little trials by this time: poverty, the early death of her parents, a wild and rebellious youth, a shaky marriage, picking up the pieces after a bitter divorce, and raising a young daughter alone—all in all, a well-rounded package of scrapes. So she’d learned to cope, usually; most troubles never really got her upset—as long as they didn’t touch her family.

  She looked around the small Post Office, and fortunately it was quiet right now. The midday rush was still a few hours away, the drivers had all left for their routes, the stack of work on her desk was growing, but she could catch up.

  She was determined to answer at least one question. “Well, no, not really.”

  Debbie was young, pretty, and compassionate. Maybe she hadn’t lived long enough to develop a tough exterior. She touched Lucy’s shoulder tenderly. “Anything I can do?”

  “Well . . .” Lucy checked the clock on
the wall. “I have an appointment coming up in just a few minutes. Think you and Tim can hold down the fort until I get back?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  A flash of reflected sunlight danced along the wall. A deep-blue fastback pulled up outside.

  “Oh, there’s my ride.”

  “You go ahead. Don’t worry about us.”

  THE DRIVER OF the car was Claire, a wonderful friend and counselor for not only Lucy, but many people of all walks of life around the town. She was a beautiful woman with blonde hair arranged neatly around her head and adorned with combs and pins that twinkled and shined. Her blouse and long skirt, both of beautifully woven natural fibers, draped about her like regal robes, and in Lucy’s eyes Claire was a real queen. She and her architect male friend Jon were the perfect couple, constantly growing together in self-realization and harmony and becoming an enduring example to all their friends.

  As Lucy climbed in, Claire leaned over and gave her a hug. “And how are you, Lucy?”

  “Oh . . . coping,” she answered, finding her seat belt.

  Claire pulled out of the Post Office parking lot and headed down Front Street.

  “And how is Amber?” she asked.

  “She’s doing all right. I didn’t tell her we’d be coming by today. I didn’t want to cause any alarm before we had to.”

  “Fine, fine.”

  “I’m going to take her back to the elementary school on Monday and see if I can get her worked into her classes there again. Miss Brewer doesn’t think she’ll have too much trouble catching up and just finishing out the year.”

  “Oh, no, not Amber, and it’s so close to the end of the year anyway.”

  They drove through town and then turned onto 187th, commonly called Pond Road because it passed by a large and popular cattailed pond some two miles west. Along with the street sign naming the road was another sign pointing the direction to the Good Shepherd Community Church and the Good Shepherd Academy.

  “I think John and Paula will be there today,” said Claire. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “I guess not. I haven’t even met them yet.”

  “Well, you’ll find they’re wonderful people. I’m glad we’ll be working with them on this thing. Reporters aren’t always as courteous as they are.”

  Lucy was quiet for a moment, just watching the farmlands and small forests go by.

  Finally she said, “Why did we have to bring in the press?”

  “Oh, it’s very simple. In a case like this, public opinion is important. It’s the public mind that eventually creates the laws we all have to live by. You see, we fight our battles at two levels: in the courts and in the public arena. A lot of the cases we win today came about because of public opinion that was molded years ago. What we do now to mold public opinion will have a positive effect on legal cases that arise in the future. It’s a process.”

  “I just don’t know if Amber can go through it.”

  Claire smiled with confidence. “Oh, Amber’s a strong little soldier. She can do it. I was impressed with how she spoke right up and told everything to our staff, and Dr. Mandanhi, and even Mrs. Bledsoe.”

  Lucy was bitter. “Amber? You mean ‘Amethyst,’ don’t you?”

  Claire smiled and nodded. “Yes, you’re right. But that doesn’t matter. It’s still Amber, really. Amethyst is a good friend for Amber because she bears the burden of what happened and speaks so freely, something Amber could never do as herself.”

  Lucy smiled a nervous smile. “But you know . . . I don’t think I like Amethyst.”

  Claire laughed.

  Lucy laughed too, hoping that statement would not be taken as seriously as she meant it. “I mean . . . Amethyst is just so brash and disrespectful . . . And I think Amber’s getting away with a lot by blaming it on Amethyst.”

  “Well, you should put a stop to that, of course.”

  “But you see what I’m worried about? I think I would trust Amber to tell the truth . . . and I would know what she was thinking and feeling. But I just don’t know about Amethyst. I never know what she’ll say next!” Lucy shook her head to think she was even having such a conversation. “I need a set of reins for that little critter!”

  Claire only laughed again. “Oh, don’t be afraid of Amethyst. Inner guides are always trustworthy, and Amber needs that support and fellowship for what’s ahead.”

  “Oh, I can see that.”

  But Lucy didn’t feel any better, and Claire noticed.

  “What else?” Claire asked.

  “Since we’re talking about Amethyst . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you see that other article in the paper, about Sally Roe?”

  Claire knew about it. “Lucy, really that’s no concern of yours. You shouldn’t even think such a thing!”

  Lucy was close to tears. “But how can I help it?”

  Claire stole several looks at Lucy as she drove. “Listen to me. It’s not Amber’s fault. I had some friends check out Sally Roe the moment you told me what happened in the Post Office. From what I’ve heard, Sally Roe was a deeply disturbed individual. She was tormented with self-doubt and guilt, and she could never break through . . . She was a karmic mess! Amber had nothing to do with her killing herself. She would have done it anyway.”

  Lucy shook her head and stared out the window. “But if you could have been there . . . if you could have seen that woman’s face when . . . when Amethyst just tore into her. And I couldn’t get her to stop. Amber just wouldn’t snap out of it.”

  Claire patted Lucy’s hand. “Let it go. Sally Roe is gone, fulfilling her own path wherever it takes her. You have your own, and so does Amber. You need to be thinking about that.”

  Lucy finally nodded. They were getting close to the Christian school, and she was feeling nervous. “I just hope this whole thing goes all right. I hope we know what we’re doing.”

  Claire was firm. “I think it’s something we must do. Religious bigotry is everyone’s enemy. I think we would be denying our responsibility not to do anything.”

  There wasn’t time to say any more. Claire was slowing the car down and signaling for a turn. There, on the left, stood the Good Shepherd Community Church, a simple brick building with gabled roof, traditional arched windows, and a bell tower. It was a landmark around Bacon’s Corner, the home of several different congregations over the years; some had died out, some had moved on and new groups had come in, but it remained through it all for almost a century, a steadfast monument to tenacious Christianity. This latest congregation seemed to be setting a new record for endurance; it had been there in the church for almost fifteen years, and the current pastor had hung on for at least eight.

  Claire pulled into the parking lot between the church and the Good Shepherd Academy, a simple, shed-roofed portable sitting on posts and piers. There were four vehicles parked in the lot at the moment. Two must have belonged to the school staff; the station wagon belonged to John Ziegler and Paula the photographer, and the large white van was clearly marked, “KBZT Channel Seven News.”

  “A television crew?” asked Lucy in surprise.

  “Oh, right,” said Claire. “I didn’t tell you about that. The people from Channel Seven thought this would make a good news story.”

  The two men from Channel Seven were already prepared for Claire and Lucy’s arrival, and bolted from the van as soon as their car pulled in. The cameraman set the camera on his shoulder and started watching the news with one eye. The other man, a young, athletic sort with suit and tie above the waist and jeans below, stepped up and greeted Claire as she got out of the car.

  “Hey, right on time!” he said, shaking her hand.

  “Hi, Chad. Good to see you again.”

  “This is Roberto.”

  “Hi.”

  Roberto smiled back, looking at her through the camera.

  Lucy got out of the car a little hesitantly.

  Claire introduced her. “Chad and Roberto, this is Lucy Brandon, the
mother.”

  “Hi there. Chad Davis. This is Roberto Gutierrez.”

  “Are they going to take my picture?”

  “Do you mind?” asked Chad.

  “It’ll be all right,” Claire assured her.

  Lucy just shrugged.

  John Ziegler and Paula were there, ready to go. Claire greeted them, and Lucy just smiled.

  The door to the portable opened, and a man looked out. At the sight of this band of people gathered in the parking lot, his face went pale; he looked sick.

  He was, of course, Tom Harris.

  Claire raised her hand in greeting, said, “Oh, hello there,” and started walking toward the portable, the others following close behind.

  No, Lord, no . . .

  If I could just close this door and never come out, Tom thought. If I could just call down fire from Heaven to clear these people out of my life, to make them go away . . . Haven’t they done enough to me?

  Tom had been on the telephone most of the morning, riding the carousel of state bureaucracy while trying to teach his classes, and he still had not found his children. The last word he got was from the CPD, and they were emphatically refusing to tell him of the children’s whereabouts. Pastor Howard still wasn’t back, everyone else was at work, and nothing was happening fast enough.

  Lord, I just wish these people would go away. I wish this day would end.

  Tom looked back inside. Two kids, one third-grade, one fourth, were getting curious.

  “Hey . . . TV!” said the little girl.

  Tom was being recorded on camera this very moment. At least addressing the child would give him a chance to turn his back.

  “Sammie, go sit down—this is none of your concern. Clay, are you finished? Well, put it on my desk and start the next page. I’ll check it right after lunch, all right?”

  “Mr. Harris?” said Claire, coming up the wooden steps.

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Claire Johanson. I’m a legal assistant for Ames, Jefferson, and Morris. I’m here representing Mrs. Lucy Brandon, whom you know. May we speak with you briefly?”