Krioni and Triskal walked on either side of him; they had gotten some extra reserves to stay at the house and watch over Mary. They were wary and alert, and Triskal, still recovering from his recent encounter with Rafar, felt especially edgy when he considered where they were leading Hank.
Hank took a turn he had never taken before, down a street he had never looked at before, and finally stopped outside a business establishment he had only heard bad stories about but could never find. He stood outside the door, staring, amazed at the number of kids going in and out like bees. Finally he stepped inside.
Krioni and Triskal tried their very best to look meek and nonthreatening as they followed him.
The Cave was aptly named: the power it took to run the rows upon rows of flickering, beeping video games was made up for by the total absence of any other lights, except a little blue globe here and there in the black ceiling with an occasional watt meandering through it. There was more sound than light; heavy metal rock music pounded from speakers all around the room and clashed painfully with the myriads of electronic sounds tumbling out of the machines. One lone proprietor sat behind his little cash register in the corner, reading a girlie magazine whenever he wasn’t making change for the game players. Hank had never seen so many quarters in one place.
Here were kids of all ages, with few other places to go, congregating after school and all through the weekends to hang out, hang on, play games, pair up, wander off, do drugs, do sex, do whatever. Hank knew this place was a hell hole; it wasn’t the machines, or the decor, or the dimness—it was just the pungent spiritual stench of demons having their heyday. He felt sick to his stomach.
Krioni and Triskal could see hundreds of narrowing yellow eyes peering at them from the corners and dark hiding places of the room. Already they had heard several metallic rings as blades were drawn and made ready.
“Do I look harmless enough?” Triskal quietly asked.
“They do not think you are harmless anymore,” Krioni said dryly.
The two looked around at all the eyes looking back at them. They smiled in a trucelike way, raising their empty hands to show no intent of hostility. The demons made no reply, but several blades could be seen glowing in the dark.
“So where is Seth?” Triskal asked.
“On his way, I’m sure.”
Triskal tensed. Krioni followed his look to see a surly demon approaching them. The demon’s hand was on his sword; he hadn’t drawn it, but plenty of other swords were drawn behind him.
The black spirit looked the two angels up and down and hissed, “You are not welcome here! What is your business?”
Krioni answered quickly and politely, “We are watching over the man of God.”
The demon took one look at Hank and lost the better portion of his cockiness. “Busche!” he exclaimed nervously while those behind him backed away. “What is he doing here?”
“That’s nothing we wish to discuss,” said Triskal.
The demon only sneered. “Are you Triskal?”
“I am.”
The demon laughed, coughing up puffs of red and yellow. “You enjoy a fight, don’t you?” Several demons joined him in laughter.
Triskal had no intention of answering. The demon had no time to demand an answer. Suddenly all the mocking spirits grew tense and agitated. Their eyes darted about, and then like a flock of timid birds they backed away and huddled in the dark corners. At the same time Krioni and Triskal could feel a new strength coursing through them. They looked down at Hank.
He was praying.
“Dear Lord,” he said silently, “help us to reach these kids; help us to touch their lives.”
Hank was praying at a very good time, considering the commotion just coming in the backdoor. As demons slinked away from the entrance, three of their comrades came into the building wailing, hissing, and drooling, their arms and wings over their heads. They were chased and prodded along by a very tall and quite unshakable angelic warrior.
“Well,” said Triskal, “Seth has brought us Ron Forsythe and then some!”
“I was afraid of that,” said Krioni.
Triskal was referring to a young man barely visible under the three demons, a very confused and disoriented victim of their destructive influence. They clung to him like leeches, causing him to stagger to and fro as they fought to avoid the goading tip of the big warrior’s sword. Seth had them under very tight control, however, and he herded them right toward Hank Busche.
“Hey, Ron,” said some guys at a bombardier game.
“Hey …” was all Ron answered, giving them a slow, heavy wave of his hand. He did not seem very happy.
Hank heard the name and saw Ron Forsythe coming, and for a moment he didn’t know whether to remain where he was or get out of harm’s way. Ron was a tall, spindly youth with long, unkempt hair, dirty tee shirt and jeans, and eyes that seemed to be looking into some other universe. He staggered toward Hank, looking over his shoulder as if a flock of birds was chasing him and then forward as if he were one step from a cliff. Hank, watching him approach, decided to remain right where he was. If the Lord wanted the two of them to meet, well, it was about to happen.
Then Ron stopped short and leaned against a road-racing game. This man standing in front of him looked familiar.
The demons clinging to Ron were shaking and whimpering, shooting glances toward Seth behind them and Krioni and Triskal in front of them. As for the other demons in the room, they were itching for a fight. Their yellow eyes shifted about and their red blades clattered, but something held them back—that praying man.
“Hi there,” Hank said to the young man. “I’m Hank Busche.”
Ron’s glassy eyes widened. He stared at Hank and said with slurred speech, “I’ve seen you around. You’re that preacher my folks keep talking about.”
Hank was sure enough now to guess. “Ron? Ron Forsythe?”
Ron looked around and fidgeted as if he’d been caught doing something illegal. “Yeah …”
Hank stretched out his hand. “Well, God bless you, Ron, I’m glad to meet you.”
The three demons snarled at that, but the three warriors shifted their weight forward just a little and kept them under control.
“Divination,” said Triskal, identifying one of the demons.
Divination clung to Ron with needle-sharp talons and hissed, “And what is your business with us?”
“The lad,” said Krioni.
“You can’t tell us what to do!” another demon squawked, its fists stubbornly clenched.
“Rebellion?” Krioni asked.
The demon did not deny it. “He belongs to us.”
The spirits in the room were getting braver, moving in closer.
“Let’s get him out of here,” said Krioni.
Hank touched Ron on the shoulder and said, “Can we step outside where we can visit for a minute?”
Divination and Rebellion spoke together, “What for?”
Ron protested, “What for?”
Hank just led him gently, “Come on,” and they went out the backdoor. Triskal remained in the doorway, his hand on his sword. Only the demons attached to Ron were allowed outside, constantly corralled by Seth and Krioni.
Ron sank onto a nearby bench like a rag doll in slow motion. Hank put his hand on Ron’s shoulder and kept looking into those dazed eyes, wondering where to start.
“How are you feeling?” Hank finally asked.
The third demon enclosed Ron’s head in his bulky, slimy arms.
The boy’s head drooped toward his chest and he almost nodded off, oblivious to Hank’s words.
The tip of Seth’s sword got the demon’s attention.
“What?” it screeched.
“Sorcery?”
The spirit laughed drunkenly. “All the time, more and more. He’ll never give it up!”
Ron started to chuckle, feeling drugged and silly.
But Hank could feel something in his spirit, the same horrible presence
he had felt that one very frightening night. Evil spirits? In such a young boy? Lord, what can I do? What can I say?
The Lord answered, and Hank knew what he had to do. “Ron,” he said, whether Ron heard him or not, “can I pray for you?”
Only Ron’s eyes turned to look at Hank, and Ron actually pleaded, “Yeah. Pray for me, preacher.”
But the demons wanted no part of that. They all cried into Ron’s brain with one voice, “No, no, no! You don’t need that!”
Ron suddenly stirred, his head rocked back and forth, and he mumbled, “No, no … don’t pray … I don’t like that.”
Now Hank wondered what Ron really wanted. Or was it even Ron who was speaking?
“I would like to pray for you, okay?” Hank asked, just to check.
“No, don’t,” Ron said, and then pleaded, “Please pray, c’mon …”
“Do it,” Krioni prompted. “Pray!”
“No!” the demons cried. “You can’t make us leave him!”
“Pray,” said Krioni.
Hank knew he had better take charge of the situation and pray for this boy. He already had his hand on Ron, so he started praying very gently. “Lord Jesus, I pray for Ron; please touch him, Lord, and get through to his mind, and set him free from these spirits that are hanging on to him.”
The spirits clung to Ron like spoiled brats and whined at Hank’s prayer. Ron moaned and shook his head some more. He tried to get up, then he sat down again and held Hank’s arm.
The Lord spoke to Hank again, and Hank had a name. “Sorcery, let go of him in the name of Jesus.”
Ron squirmed on the bench and cried out as if stuck with a knife. Hank thought Ron would squeeze his arm off.
But Sorcery obeyed. He whined and hollered and spit, but he obeyed, fluttering away into the nearby trees.
Ron gave an anguished sigh and looked at Hank with eyes full of pain and desperation. “C’mon, c’mon, you’re doing it!”
Hank was amazed. He took hold of Ron’s hand just to assure him and kept looking into those eyes. They were clearer now. Hank could see an earnest, pleading soul looking back at him. What next? he asked the Lord.
The Lord answered, and Hank had another name. “Divination—”
Ron looked right at Hank, his eyes wild and his voice hoarse. “No, not me, never!”
But Hank didn’t stop; he looked right into Ron’s eyes and said, “Divination, in Jesus’ name, let go.”
“No!” Ron protested, but then said just as quickly, “Go on, Divination, get out! I don’t want you with me anymore!”
Divination grudgingly obeyed. Thanks to this praying man, oppressing Ron Forsythe wasn’t fun anymore.
Ron relaxed again, sniffing back some tears.
Seth poked the last little demon. “How about you, Rebellion?”
Rebellion was having trouble making up his mind.
Ron could feel it. “Spirit, please go. I’ve had it with you!”
Hank prayed the same thing. “Spirit, go. In the name of Jesus leave Ron alone.”
Rebellion considered Ron’s words, looked at Seth’s sword, looked at the praying man, and finally let go.
Ron twitched as if having a terrible cramp, but then he said, “Yeah, yeah, he’s out.”
Seth shooed the three demons away, and they fluttered back into The Cave where they would be welcome and unhampered.
Hank hung on to Ron’s hand and waited, watching and praying until he knew what else to do. This was all so incredible, so fascinating, so frightening, but so necessary. This must be the Lord’s Lesson Number Two in Spiritual Combat; Hank knew he was learning something he would have to know to win this battle.
Ron was changing before Hank’s very eyes, relaxing, breathing easier, his eyes returning to a normal, down-to-earth gaze.
Hank finally said a very soft “Amen,” and asked, “Are you okay, Ron?”
Ron answered right away, “Yeah, I feel better. Thanks.” He looked at Hank and smiled a weak, almost apologetic smile. “It’s funny. No, it’s neat. It was just today I was thinking I needed somebody to pray for me. I just couldn’t go on with all the stuff I’ve been into.”
Hank knew what had happened. “It was the Lord, I think, who set it up.”
“Nobody’s prayed for me before.”
“I know your folks do all the time.”
“Well, yeah, they do.”
“And the rest of us at the church, too. We’re all pulling for you.”
Ron took his first clear-eyed look at Hank. “So you’re my folks’ pastor, huh? I thought you were older than that.”
“Not too much older,” Hank quipped.
“Are the other people at the church like you?”
Hank chuckled. “We’re all just people; we have our good points and our bad points, but we all have Jesus, and He gives us a special love for each other.”
They talked. They talked about school, the town, Ron’s folks, drugs in general and particular, Hank’s church, the Christians who were around, and Jesus. Ron began to notice that no matter what the subject or the issue, Hank had a way of bringing Jesus into it. Ron didn’t mind. This wasn’t like a phony sales pitch; Hank Busche really believed that Jesus was the answer to everything.
So, after talking about everything else with Jesus brought into it, Ron let Hank talk about Jesus, just Jesus. It wasn’t dull. Hank could really get excited about Him.
CHAPTER 16
NATHAN AND ARMOTH flew high above the beautiful summer countryside, following the speeding Buick. Things were definitely quieter out here, away from strife-torn Ashton. Still, neither one felt entirely comfortable about the two passengers in the car below; although the heavenly escorts weren’t yet certain, they had a feeling that a covert plot on the part of Rafar and his guerrillas might be underway. Marshall and his good-looking young reporter were too critical a combination for those devils to pass up.
Former college dean Eldon Strachan lived on a quaint and unpretentious ten-acre farm an hour away from Ashton. He was not farming the place, just living there, and as Marshall and Bernice drove up the long gravel driveway they could tell his interests extended no further than the immediate yard of the white farmhouse. The lawn was small and manicured, the fruit trees pruned and bearing, the flower beds soft with freshly turned and weeded soil. Some chickens meandered about, pecking and scratching. A collie greeted their approach with furious barking.
“Wow, a normal human being to interview for once,” said Marshall.
“That’s why he moved out of Ashton,” said Bernice.
Strachan stepped onto his porch as the collie ran and barked beside him.
“Hi there!” he called to Marshall and Bernice as they got out of the car. “Quiet down now, Lady,” he added to the collie. Lady never obeyed such commands.
Strachan was a healthy, white-haired fellow who got plenty of exercise on this place, and showed it. He wore work clothes and still carried a pair of garden gloves in his hand.
Marshall extended his hand for a good firm handshake. So did Bernice. They exchanged introductions, and then Strachan invited them around the barking Lady and into the house.
“Doris,” Strachan called, “Mr. Hogan and Miss Krueger are here.”
Within minutes Doris, a sweet and rotund little grandma type, had set the coffee table with tea, coffee, rolls, and goodies, and they were having a pleasant conversation about the farm, the countryside, the weather, the neighbor’s wandering cow. They all knew it was obligatory and besides, the Strachans were very pleasant people to talk and visit with.
Finally Eldon Strachan introduced the transitional sentence: “Yes, I suppose things in Ashton aren’t quite this nice.”
Bernice got out her notepad as Marshall said, “Yeah, and I kind of hate to drag it all out here with us.”
Strachan smiled and said philosophically, “You can run but you can’t hide.” He looked out the window at the trees backed by endless blue sky and said, “I always have wondered if just leavin
g it all was the right thing. But what else could I do?”
Marshall doubled-checked his notes. “Let’s see now. You told me on the telephone when you left—”
“In late June, about a year ago.”
“And Ralph Kuklinski took your place.”
“And he’s still there, I understand.”
“Yes, still there. Was he in on any of this—this ‘Inner Circle’ stuff? I don’t know what else to call it.”
Strachan thought for a moment. “I don’t know for sure, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he was. He really had to be one of the group to be put in as dean.”
“So there really is some kind of ‘in group,’ so to speak?”
“Absolutely. That became pretty obvious after a while. All the regents were becoming like peas in a pod, like clones of each other. They all acted the same, talked the same …”
“Except for you?”
Strachan laughed a little. “I guess I just didn’t fit into the club very well. As a matter of fact I became a definite outsider, even an enemy, and I think that’s why they fired me.”
“I suppose you’re talking about that fracas over the college funds?”
“Exactly.” Strachan had to resift his memory. “I never suspected anything until we started having some unexplained disbursement delays. Our bills were being paid late, our payrolls were behind. It wasn’t even my job to be hounding after that sort of thing, but when I started getting some indirect complaints—you know, hearing others talking about it—I asked Baylor what the problem was. He never directly answered my questions, or at least I didn’t like the sound of his answers. That’s when I asked an independent accountant, a friend of a friend, to look into it and maybe do some quick scanning of what the accounting office was doing. I don’t know how he ever got access to the information, but he was a clever character and he found a way.”
Bernice was ready with a question. “Can we have his name?”
Strachan answered with a shrug. “Johnson. Ernie Johnson.”
“How do we reach him?”
“I’m afraid he’s dead.”
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