Piercing the Darkness

by Frank E. Peretti

  “Why the legs?” asked Corrigan.

  Marshall guessed, “Well, you can’t run far without them, and right now Sally Roe is running, I’m sure of that.”

  Tom’s wheels were turning rapidly. “So there are your moles again, Marshall! They’ve tried to put Sally Roe and us under the same curse; so even though we can’t see it yet, there has to be a connection: Sally Roe has something to do with our situation, with this case, and they know it.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  Corrigan clenched his fists and looked toward Heaven with mock drama. “Oh, if only we could prove all this! If only we knew who these weird people are!”

  “I don’t know about you, but I have some suspects,” said Marshall. “We would do well to take some careful second looks at Sergeant Mulligan and Joey Parnell. They’ve been close to this whole Sally Roe thing, and we know Parnell is scared spitless right now.”

  Ben was more blunt. “Parnell’s in it, no doubt.”

  “And I’ll even throw in Irene Bledsoe, the CPD lady, as a suspect. She’s working with the whole Brandon/ACFA camp, and she’s being anything but objective.”

  “Oh, man, I hope not!” said Tom.

  “How’re the kids?”

  “I saw them on Friday. They’re hanging in there. The foster home sounds pretty rough, but at least they’re not in Bledsoe’s daily care. A witch taking care of my kids, that’s all I need!”

  “And there might be still another suspect,” said Mark. They turned to hear who, but he fell silent and thoughtful, exchanging a look with Cathy. “How do we know that one of these witches, or Satanists, or whatever they are, hasn’t come right into this church? We’ve been having no end of trouble, and I’ve never seen so much division as long as I’ve pastored here.”

  Cathy added, “I feel that we do have some kind of poison working directly among us, no question.”

  “It does happen,” said Marshall. “They do infiltrate churches; they know all the Christian lingo, they know the Bible, they make it a serious business to pass for Christians and stir things up from the inside.”

  That stopped them all cold. Suddenly they found themselves looking at each other like all the suspects in a “whodunit.” It was a downright creepy feeling.

  Jack asked Mark and Cathy, “Any idea who?”

  Mark shook his head. Cathy answered, “No . . . but listen: we have one. We have a demonic mole in this church. I just feel that from the Lord.”

  Marshall nodded. “That’s a distinct possibility.”

  They pondered that for only a moment, and then, without a further word, Mark slid from his chair and sank to his knees right there. The others did the same. It was spontaneous. They knew what they had to do.

  “O Lord God, have mercy,” Mark prayed. “Where we have sinned, forgive us. Grant us wisdom to know what we’re doing wrong, and repentance from that wrong. Have mercy on us, Lord God, and restore us.”

  His prayer continued, and the others prayed right along with him. Tears started to flow, unbridled weeping before the Lord.

  Ben prayed, “Lord, help us to sort this whole thing out. Protect us from our enemies, and give us a victory for what’s right.”

  “We pray for all the children,” said Cathy. “This is their battle too, maybe even more than ours. Satan wants our kids, and we just can’t let him have them.”

  Mark declared, “We just pray now for a hedge of angelic warriors to surround this place and guard it. Surround Your people, Lord, and protect us all from any curses leveled against us. We plead the shed blood of Jesus over ourselves, our ministry, our children, the school . . .”

  “Protect Ruth and Josiah,” prayed Tom. “O Lord, please protect my kids.”

  “Bring an answer, Lord,” said Marshall. “We have enough hunches and theories to fill a warehouse, but we need an answer, something solid, something positive, and we need it fast. Please break through the walls the enemy has put up; break through, Lord God, and bring us an answer.”

  “And, Lord,” said Jack, “if there is an invader in our church, a demonic mole, we just put chains on that person right now, we bind the demons associated with him or her, and we ask, Lord, that this person be exposed.”

  OUTSIDE THE CHURCH, Nathan and Armoth set up the hedge, a regiment of the best warriors available for the job, all standing shoulder to shoulder around the church property, swords ready, alert, ready for a fight.

  Tal was pleased with this little bit of progress. “That should hold things together for a while. Now to root out that mole!”

  “It looks like we’ll be ready,” said Nathan, regarding the prayers from the people inside the church.

  “Of course,” said Tal. “And it was nice of Destroyer to get so reckless. He’s exposed the breach we needed!”

  CHAPTER 33

  IT WAS TUESDAY morning and the Ashton Clarion was out on the stands, in the grocery stores, and on the front porches all over town. That used to mean it would be a little calmer around the Clarion office; Cheryl the cub reporter could relax and catch up on advertising clients, Tom the paste-up man could go fishing or work at home in his yard, and George the typesetter could sleep in.

  Well, this Tuesday things were a little different. The Clarion’s tough, whip-cracking editor was gone on an assignment—he never was clear about its exact nature—but that didn’t mean there would be any vacation. Actually, because Marshall was such a hard worker, it meant more work than before, and Bernice Krueger, now filling Marshall’s shoes, could be just as tough, demanding, and efficient as her boss.

  So, Tuesday was rolling along at a brisk pace, everyone was there, hard at work, and Bernice never seemed to be in one room or chair for any more than two minutes at one time. With papers, galleys, or a cup of coffee in her hand, she was constantly running to the front to check a traffic revision story Cheryl was trying to get out of the county road crew, then charging to the back with more copy for George to typeset, then running into Marshall’s glass-enclosed office to answer phone calls, then running up to the front desk to wait on a customer because Cheryl was busy taking an ad over the phone.

  I am going to visit with Betty Smith, Bernice kept telling herself. So help me, when my lunch comes, or before that, or during break, or sometime, I’m going to sit down and visit with her; she must think I’m so rude, inviting her here just to ignore her!

  But so far “Betty Smith” was not feeling slighted or snubbed. She was sitting in the teletype room, watching the news stories come clattering in over the news wire. For the last half-hour it had been interesting—for the last few minutes it had been riveting. She now held a particular news story in her hand, and she was devouring the news.

  “WESTHAVEN—Federal District Judge Emily R. Fletcher today ruled that a ten-year-old child, key witness in the much publicized Good Shepherd Academy child abuse case, would not be required to testify or be examined by defense psychologists, agreeing with the plaintiff’s attorneys that such further questioning and examining of the child could prove harmful.

  “Citing expert evaluations offered by psychologist Dr. Alan Mandanhi, Judge Fletcher concluded that the mental state of the child is in such a tender and vulnerable state because of the alleged abuses that any further recounting of them would do even greater damage.

  “‘We are here to speak for the children,’ she said, ‘and protect them from abuse. We cannot justify even further abuse in the cause of preventing it.’”

  Several daily newspapers from around the country lay ready on the table for Bernice’s perusal when she got the chance. Sally reached for the one on the top of the stack, a large newspaper from the West Coast. She found nothing about the case on the front page, but the second page did carry a story, along with a nonflattering courtroom photograph of Tom Harris and his attorney. The description under the photograph identified them as “alleged child abuser Tom Harris and attorney Wayne Corrigan.”

  It was all bad news for the Good Shepherd Academy.

  She fou
nd an editorial in the second newspaper. The ACFA could not have written it better.

  “This will be a precedent-setting case, interpreting the Federal Day-care and Private Primary School Assistance Act, and defining whether the state may breach the wall of separation in order to protect innocent children from harm done in the name of religious freedom.

  “Freedom of religion is part of our heritage, but freedom of religion does not mean freedom to abuse. It is our hope that this case will establish once and for all a binding legal and social mandate that religious practice, though free, must never violate the laws of the state, but be subject to the state for the good of all.”

  It sounded so virtuous, so American, so right. But the writer had never met Amber Brandon. None of the journalists across the country had ever looked into those demon eyes and heard that mocking, accusing voice. They’d never been a victim of the wrath and ruination Sally’s former associates could dish out. Instead, as if on cue, they were writing, reporting, selecting, and interpreting the same ideas and opinions, as if the same instructor taught them all.

  I can’t stay here, Sally thought. I have to move on. I have to finish.

  “Hey, Betty!” It was Bernice, standing in the doorway looking a bit frazzled. “I’m sorry it’s such a madhouse around here, but I think I’m caught up for the time being. Are you keeping yourself occupied?”

  Sally set the newspaper down. “Oh, I was reading the newspaper and the items coming in over the wire. It’s been interesting.”

  Bernice could tell she was bothered about something. “How are you doing?”

  Sally evaded the question. “I think there’s a bus leaving in an hour. I need to be on it.”

  “Moving on so soon?”

  “Could I have . . . Would it be okay if I had your address and telephone number? I’d like to be able to contact you later on.”

  “Sure thing.” Bernice wrote it down on a slip of paper.

  “Oh, and the Clarion’s address too?”

  Bernice wrote that down as well, and handed it to her. Then she looked for a moment at the trouble in Sally’s eyes. “Is there anything else I can do?”

  Sally thought for a moment with a timid smile on her face. “Well . . . you could pray for me. You never know, it might work.”

  Cheryl called from the front, “Bernice, it’s Jake’s Auto Repair on the phone . . .”

  “I’ll call them back.”

  “He’s leaving in ten minutes. He needs to talk to you now.”

  Bernice was obviously frustrated, and looked at Sally apologetically. “Listen, after this call we’ll just get out of here. I’ll take you to lunch, all right?”

  Sally smiled. That was all. “Um . . . is there a Post Office around here?”

  “Sure, just two blocks up the street on the right-hand side. It’s on the way to the bus station. I can drop you by there.”

  “Great.”

  “Give me a second, okay?”

  Bernice hurried into Marshall’s office and took the call from Jake’s Auto Repair. Jake could talk and talk about the same thing over and over as if he had nothing else to do with his time and no one else did either. “Okay, sure, we’ll change the ad in Saturday’s issue, all right?” He went back to the beginning and started the conversation all over again, and Bernice mouthed the words, “No, listen, you already told me that. We’ll take care of it for Friday.” He started squawking. “Well, that issue’s already out, it’s history, we can’t change that now.” She pounded the desk with her fist. This guy was impossible! “All right, listen, Jake, you know our deadlines just like everybody else; don’t give me that! You’ll get the change on Friday. Yes, that’s a guarantee. Hey, didn’t you tell Cheryl you had to leave in ten minutes? You’re late. Good-bye.”

  She hung up and bolted from the office, grabbing her coat. “Okay, Betty, let’s get out of here! Betty?”

  She went into the teletype room. Betty was gone. She stepped into the hall. “Cheryl?”

  “Yo!”

  “Where’s Betty?”

  “She left.”

  That stung. Bernice’s first question to herself was, What did I do? Oh brother, it’s what I didn’t do! That poor gal. I don’t blame her. I shouldn’t have invited her into this madhouse!

  She dashed out to the street, but Betty Smith was nowhere in sight. Bernice’s initial thought was to run after her, or get the car and try to find her, but then that thought melted away as a more practical one took its place: This is probably the way she wants it. It’s just the way she is, poor thing. Oh well. Maybe she’ll write or call sometime.

  Maybe. Bernice felt terrible.

  She went back inside.

  Tom came out from the back room. “Say, what about that ad for Jake? Cheryl says you talked to him.”

  “We’re rewording it. Cheryl has the new copy, so tell George to set it right away.”

  “All right. But what about that aluminum can drive? Are you sure you want that on page 3?”

  Bernice kept moving down the hall, her mind occupied. “Change Jake’s ad first, and then I’ll take a look at page 3.”

  “Well, I need to know—”

  “Just give me a second, will you?”

  Tom turned on his heels and headed toward the back again. Bernice ducked into the teletype room knowing she owed Tom an apology.

  She plopped into the chair Betty Smith had sat in, and took just a moment to pray. Lord, I could have done better. I could have given her my time. I should have done more to tell her about You . . . Doggone! What a lousy way for this to end!

  Her eye caught the wire copy lying on the table, an item from Westhaven . . .

  Westhaven? She snatched up the wire copy and scanned it. Yes. It was the latest news on the Good Shepherd Academy case in Bacon’s Corner!

  THE WARRIOR TRISKAL stood in the teletype room with her, just watching. He had his orders, and now the time was right. He gently touched her eyes.

  Okay, Bernice. Time for you to see.

  BERNICE SAW THE newspaper opened to the editorial page. She saw the editorial. Good Shepherd Academy. Bacon’s Corner.

  Betty had been reading about that case! Is this why she seemed so troubled, so secretive? A lone woman, traveling, elusive . . .

  It was like a stab through the heart. Hadn’t Marshall told her about some woman they were trying to find?

  She bolted from the room and dashed into Marshall’s office.

  BEV COLE TURNED off her vacuum cleaner and answered the phone. “Hello?”

  Bernice was frantic. “Is this the Cole residence?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Is Marshall Hogan there? This is his assistant at the Ashton Clarion, Bernice Krueger.”

  “Oh, he’s out right now. I can have him call you.”

  “Well, who am I talking to?”

  “This is Bev Cole.”

  “Do you know anything about the Good Shepherd Academy case?”

  “Oh boy, do I!”

  “What about that woman that’s missing? Do you know anything about that?”

  “Oh, you mean Sally Roe?”

  Bernice recognized the name. “Yes! That’s the one! Do you know what she looks like?”

  Bev stumbled a bit on that one. “Well . . . we’ve never met her in person. All we have is a bunch of police and newspaper photos, and they aren’t very good . . .”

  “Does she have long, black hair?”

  “No, I think her hair’s red.”

  “What about her age?”

  “I think she’s about thirty-six now.”

  “Can you send me those pictures?”

  “You want me to mail them to you?”

  “Can you fax them? I need them right now.”

  Bev was getting flustered. “Well, the only fax machine is down at Judy’s Secretarial, and Ben’s gone with the car.”

  Bernice gave Bev the Clarion’s fax number. “Get them to me right away, as soon as you can, all right? Send me everything you have on
her. And have Marshall call me.”

  “Hey, what’s happening over there?”

  “I’ve got to go. Please get that stuff to me!”

  “Okay, you’ve got it.”

  Bernice hung up and then ran into the front office. “Cheryl, get your keys! We’ve got to find Betty!”

  Cheryl half-rose from her desk, still wondering what was going on. “What . . .”

  Bernice grabbed her purse and dug for her own keys. “You go down to the bus station and see if she’s there. I’ll check at the Post Office. If you find her, stall her and call my pager.”

  Cheryl got up and grabbed her coat. She had no idea what this was all about, but Bernice was so frantic, it had to be important.

  LUCY BRANDON UNLOCKED her front door and stood back to make sure Amber went inside. “Go ahead, Amber.” No response. “Amethyst, go inside, and quietly.”

  Amethyst complied, moving rather stiffly, a pout on her face. She went to the stairway in the front entry and sat down on the first step, her chin in her hands. Then she glared at Amber’s mother as Lucy closed the door and hung up her coat.

  “How dare you bring me home!” she said finally in a low, seething voice.

  Lucy was angry enough by now to directly face this creature. “I had to, and you know it! Miss Brewer refused to have you in the class anymore.”

  Amethyst bared Amber’s teeth in an animal-like snarl. “She knows not what she wants! First I was invited, and now I am rejected! Miss Brewer is a turncoat and a fool!”

  Lucy bent low over Amethyst and spoke directly to her. “And you are a filthy, destructive, disrespectful little imp!”

  Amethyst snarled at her.

  Lucy slapped her soundly across the face. “Don’t you snarl at me, you little monster!”

  But Amethyst began to laugh a fiendish laugh. “Why are you slapping your daughter?”

  Lucy wilted a little. She didn’t know what to do. “I want you to get out of my daughter. I want you to leave her alone!”

  Amethyst smiled haughtily. “Your daughter is mine. She invited me in, and now I have her. She is mine.” Then she pointed her finger right in Lucy’s face. “And you are mine as well! You will do as I say!”