by Bill Myers
Stacey barked, “Be gone! This is not your fight. Now, GO!”
Sarina huffed, visibly shaken. As if on cue, she turned and marched to Demi. Sarina snatched up her coat, pulled it around her shoulders, and, seconds later, she disappeared through the door without saying another word.
Krissi dropped into a chair and buried her face in her hands. She started to cry. Julie and Rachael moved to stand near her, as if to share comfort in the confusion.
Becka turned and quickly studied the situation. Laura’s dad, Les, was still slumped in a pile on the floor. No help there. In the confusion, she couldn’t see exactly where Julie and Rachael were. Hopefully they’d head outside and away from danger.
Stacey’s blonde mane, matted with sweat and food particles, framed her enraged eyes. She stood motionless, her stare lingering on the spot where Sarina had just left. Her fingers squeezed deep into the flesh of Laura’s neck and showed no signs of easing up. If Becka didn’t act fast, Laura would surely pass out — or worse.
Stacey blinked. She turned and shot a blast of fire at Becka with her eyes before her gaze moved to the fireplace.
As Stacey appeared to study the flames, Becka tried to speak, but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She discovered that her throat was as parched as hot sand. Her pulse maxed out. She tried to calm herself with a slow, steady breath, but her lungs burned as if she’d just finished a marathon.
Stacey dragged the helpless, doll-like body of Laura toward the fireplace. She picked up the fire poker. Still clutching Laura, Stacey stoked the logs until the flames renewed their vigorous blaze.
Stacey looked directly at Becka, flinging her head back as her obscene laugh filled the air.
What’s taking the police so long? Didn’t anybody call for help yet? Becka thought. She managed to whisper, “Jesus . . .”
The laughing stopped. Cold.
Stacey dropped Laura’s body on the stone hearth of the open fireplace and spun around. The cut above her eye still bled, and her blackened eyes flared. “What . . . was . . . that? What did you say?”
Becka stood still. For a split second, a spark of doubt surfaced in her spirit. Who was she kidding? She was no match for this maniac. Every instinct told her to run. And fast. Becka silenced the restlessness with a verse she had memorized: “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”
Help me, Lord, she prayed. Be my strength.
Becka took a step forward. A piece of broken glass snapped underfoot. She cleared her throat. “By the power . . . and by the blood of Jesus the Christ,” Becka said, her voice growing stronger, “I command you to leave Stacey.”
Stacey’s eyelids twitched and fluttered like the wings of a butterfly. Her body convulsed as the voice within hissed. “I was summoned here,” the demon said through Stacey’s lips. “This is my vessel — leave me. Or must I destroy you too?”
Another bloodcurdling laugh pierced the air.
Becka stood her ground as the words of Romans 8 came to mind. “For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons . . . nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
Becka said, “You’re a liar . . . just like your father, the devil. By the authority of Jesus of Nazareth, be gone from her!”
The demon hesitated.
“Now!” Becka demanded.
With a tormented scream, Stacey collapsed to the floor like a puppet whose strings were suddenly cut. Becka quickly moved to Stacey’s side and knelt beside her still form. She felt for a pulse along Stacey’s neck. Finding a faint pulsation, Becka looked toward the kitchen and said, “She’s alive! Somebody call an ambulance. Hurry!”
Becka leaned close to Stacey’s ear. “Hang in there. Jesus loves you, Stacey. You’re gonna make it . . . I promise.”
“Becka!” Krissi screamed from across the room.
Becka’s head jerked around. She looked at Krissi, puzzled.
“Laura . . . she’s on fire!”
Becka looked over at Laura, who wasn’t making any effort to get away from the flames. Was she paralyzed? Had she blacked out? Couldn’t she feel the fire burning her legs?
Was she dead?
“Julie,” Becka said, “I could use a hand over here!”
Maybe Julie was in shock. Maybe she was scared. Whatever the reason, Julie bit her lip and didn’t make a move to help.
There wasn’t a second to lose. Rising, Becka sprinted to the fireplace and then pulled Laura by the arms away from the flames. Working as fast as she could, Becka yanked a tablecloth free from under a pile of broken plates, shook it out, and began to roll Laura in it.
Why weren’t the flames going out?
A siren sounded in the distance.
Becka glanced around the room and spotted a table several feet away with pitchers of iced tea. She bolted upright, grabbed as many pitchers as she could carry, and doused Laura’s body with the liquid. With the flames snuffed out, Becka dropped to her knees and cradled Laura’s head in her lap.
Without warning, an overwhelming sense of compassion flooded Becka’s heart. And for the first time since coming to Crescent Bay, Becka felt a spark of love for this adversary. As she stroked Laura’s hair, she couldn’t tell whether or not Laura would make it.
Becka started to pray. Not now, Jesus, not like this . . . please, let her live.
10
The full moon sent a gentle beam of dull light into the bedroom. With a squint, Becka looked at the radio alarm clock: 2:47. She yawned, stretched her back, and rolled onto her side. Although she, Julie, Krissi, and Rachael had stopped talking an hour earlier, Becka couldn’t sleep. How could she?
The events of the day remained painfully fresh in her mind. The chaos. The paramedics. The police.
Becka actually found dealing with the police quite amusing. How do you explain a completely trashed upscale restaurant, three wounded bodies, and a missing TV star to police when, at the center of the investigation, was demon possession?
Who could they arrest for the damages to the restaurant?
Even now, she pictured the team of paramedics as they raced into Caesar’s. Stacey had been the first to be carried out on a stretcher, while another team inserted a tube into Laura’s throat so she could breathe before they transported her to the hospital.
Les was the last to go. According to the phone call she made to the nurses’ station at the hospital before hitting the sack, Les had suffered a minor concussion and several scrapes. He had been treated and released. Becka figured he’d have a lot of explaining to do to his wife. She sure didn’t want to be in his shoes.
Becka was especially thankful to learn that the burns to Laura’s legs weren’t as bad as anticipated. True, there were first-degree burns over 20 percent of Laura’s legs, but that was minor compared to the damage to her vocal chords. Had Stacey’s grip, under the demonic influence, remained much longer, the doctor was certain Laura’s esophagus would have collapsed. Laura would be in the hospital at least several more days.
As of midnight, Stacey, however, remained in intensive care. Her situation was touch and go. Even after her vital signs stabilized, she’d have reconstructive work to undergo for the gash on her face. She’d most likely have to have psychiatric care, and she’d have to deal with the police as well.
Becka shuddered at the memory of Stacey’s face.
Becka herself suffered only minor scrapes. The gauze wrapped around her left hand was uncomfortable, but she’d handle it. She was just glad the day was finally over. And after finally catching a quick phone call with her mom, Becka was happy to know that her mom would be heading home from the retreat early Saturday morning. They’d hook up around lunch. To think that it all started with that note and picture of Sarina from Z.
At the thought of Sarina, Becka cracked open her tired eyelids and spied the moon through the window. She was still unsure what Z had wanted her to do about Sarina. It
wasn’t like the two sat down for a quiet chat. Quite the contrary. Whatever it was, Becka was fairly certain she’d never see Sarina again.
But, hey, that’s probably best, Becka thought.
She adjusted her pillow and closed her eyes.
Through the fog of exhaustion, Becka thought she heard a voice calling her name. There it was again. Closer now. Louder. Urgent. Pleading. Was she dreaming? Who would be calling? Didn’t they know she had been up half the night? Couldn’t it wait?
“Becka . . . telephone.”
“Huh?” Becka rolled over.
“The phone. It’s for you, Becka.”
The voice sure sounded like Julie’s. Becka blinked the bedroom into focus and noted its robin’s egg blue walls. She squinted against the brilliance of the morning sun.
“I’m . . . ,” Julie started to say. “Hey, I’m sorry to get you up, but it’s Demi. On the phone.” Julie, still wearing her pajamas, held out the cordless phone.
Becka pulled herself upright and then ran her fingers through her hair. The fog in her head started to lift. “What time is it?”
“Almost nine.”
“Uh, Demi who?”
Julie plopped down on the bed next to her. “She’s Sarina’s agent person or whatever.”
Becka took the phone and brought it to an ear. “Hello?”
“Becka? It’s Demi. We met last night.”
“Oh, right,” Becka said. “Hi there.”
“Listen, I’m sorry to call so early. I got Julie’s number from the guest list last night and — ”
“It’s okay.”
“Have you had breakfast?”
Becka chuckled. “I don’t think my stomach’s awake yet.”
Demi was all business. “Great. Then you must join Sarina for breakfast . . . we’re at the Ritz.”
“Me?”
“Just you, yes,” Demi said. “Can you be ready in thirty minutes?”
That got Becka’s attention. Suddenly awake, she felt her heart doing jumping jacks. “Sure thing, but — ”
“Perfect. I’ll send the limo around for you in half an hour.”
“Okay, but what’s this all about?” Becka said. “Hello?”
Becka and Julie exchanged a look.
“She hung up,” Becka said flatly.
Julie grabbed Becka’s arm. “Hey . . . Sarina wants to have breakfast with you?”
“Looks that way. Wild, huh?”
“Big time,” Julie said. She looked down at her hands. “I wish I were going.”
“Fine. You’re the birthday girl,” Becka said, falling back against her pillow. “Go instead of me . . . I’ll just take a little nap.”
“Yeah, in your dreams,” Julie said, swiping the pillow.
Becka sat up. “What do you think she wants from me?”
“I dunno.” Julie answered. “Maybe your autograph.”
“Right,” Becka said, stealing back the pillow and then hitting Julie with it.
Julie deflected the blow. “Yeah, well, she probably thinks you’re a better ghostbuster or something.” She paused for a moment before continuing. “Hey, Beck, I’m sorry for not helping you last night. I don’t know what happened to me. I guess I just got freaked out by the whole thing.”
Becka slowly smiled. “That’s okay. I was pretty scared too. Do you think Sarina heard what happened, you know, after she left?”
Julie nodded. “I’d say so.”
“How?”
“Hold on.” Julie got up and darted out of the room. She reappeared, holding a copy of the Crescent Bay Gazette . “Right there. On the front page,” she said with a point. “Looks like last night’s little adventure at Caesar’s is big news.”
Becka’s heart skipped a beat. A sharp pain flashed through her head. She never thought about the possibility of a reporter getting a hold of the story. Come to think of it, over the past year she and Scott had never attracted — nor did they want — any media attention whenever they were involved in spiritual warfare.
Not after the close call on Death Bridge.
Or the encounter at Hawthorne mansion.
But this was different. This involved Sarina Fox, a TV star in a town where stars didn’t usually visit. Of course the press would be crawling all over the place. Becka wondered how she had managed to miss that not-so-little detail. Then again, what could Becka have done differently? It wasn’t as if she wanted to confront a demon at an Italian restaurant. That’s just the way things worked out.
Becka took the paper and read the headline: “TV’s Favorite Wiccan No Match for the Devil.”
“Oh, that’s just great,” Becka said. Her temples started to throb. “No wonder she wants to meet.”
“Why is that?”
“Julie, don’t you see?” Becka said, searching her eyes. “Sarina probably thinks I somehow staged the whole thing last night . . . just to make her look bad.”
“Now I know you’re dreaming,” Julie said.
Becka gasped as a new thought jumped to mind.
“What’s wrong?” Julie said.
Becka’s eyes widened. “I’ve got nothing to wear!”
11
The limousine, a late-model Mercedes-Benz, stretched the length of a full city block. At least that’s the way it seemed to Becka as she slipped into the backseat. Once inside, the chauffeur closed the door, sealing out the outside world.
Becka’s eyes darted around the luxurious interior. A TV. A stereo. A refrigerator. A wet bar. A sunroof.
Nice. Very nice.
Still, as nice as the limo was with its black leather seats, tinted windows, and fancy wood-grain trim, to Becka it felt strangely like the inside of a coffin.
Padded. And deadly silent.
She swallowed as she looked out the window. While the car eased away from the curb, Becka’s emotions raced, especially now that the initial adrenaline rush gave way to reality. She was about to sit across the table from Sarina Fox, the Wiccan. A thousand questions crowded her already exhausted mind.
What was she getting into?
Why did Sarina want to see her — alone?
Would Sarina be mad? Probably. But how mad?
Becka had read stories about temperamental stars — how they’d yell and bark out orders to bleary-eyed assistants and then snap the heads off anyone who didn’t kiss the ground on which they walked. In the case of Sarina, Becka figured she’d be ten times worse, given the negative story in the paper.
How had the reporter put it? She thought back to the opening paragraph:
TV’s prime-time darling and star of The Hex, Sarina Fox, a self-proclaimed Wiccan, turned tail and fl ed in tears after a confrontation with an alleged manifestation of the spirit world. The altercation occurred at Caesar’s, an Italian restaurant in downtown Crescent Bay. According to one witness, it took the actions of a former teen missionary, Becka Williams, to silence the hellacious encounter.
Becka cringed at the memory. While it was kind of cool to see her name in the paper, she never intended to draw attention to herself and certainly not to the exorcism.
Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe she should ask the driver to take her back to the safety of Julie’s house. As she considered her options, Becka noticed a button on the overhead console marked CALL DRIVER. Fine. She’d just tell him she had a change of plans. Stuff like that happened all the time, right?
Becka started to reach for the button, then stopped.
Z.
There must be a reason Z had wanted her to connect with Sarina. But why? Whatever his reasons were, she was being handed another chance to reach out to her. Becka dropped her hand to her lap and turned toward the window. A moment later, she noticed a message on a signboard outside a church. It was one of those quasi-witty sayings pastors like to repeat. This one read “God Loves Knee-Mail.”
Cute. But true.
In the haste of the morning, Becka had forgotten to bring her concerns to God. She was about to pray when her cell phone started to pla
y Beethoven’s Fifth. She snatched it up and pushed the Talk button. “Hi, it’s Becka.”
“Becka?” She heard the caller say her name, but didn’t recognize his deep, somber voice.
“Yeah, it’s Becka.”
“The Becka Williams?” the caller said.
Her skin started to crawl at his ominous voice. “Yes. Who’s calling?” She looked at the phone number but didn’t recognize it.
“Aren’t you the witchbuster?” His tone darkened.
“Listen, buster,” she said, gripping the phone, “I’m in no mood for games. I’m hanging up.”
The voice changed. “Hey, chill out. It’s me. Your brother. Remember me?”
“Scott?” Becka said through clenched teeth. “You know you’re being a real pain, don’t you?”
“Isn’t that great?” he said. “Darryl’s got this new computer-based vocal harmonizer — ”
“I should hang up on you right this second — ”
“Okay, okay . . . call off the dogs. I was just playing with you,” Scott said with a warm chuckle. “So tell me, how are you? How was the party?”
She looked out the window. “I’m okay. Tired, mostly.”
“How’s that?”
She sighed. “Let’s just say it was a long night.”
“And . . . ?” Scott said, fishing for details.
Becka listened to the muted tones of the road noise through the thick leather padding of the limo as it cruised down the road. “Actually, can we talk later? I’ve got to — ”
“Oh, that’s right. I forgot,” Scott said, cutting her off. “You’re on your way to have breakfast with Sarina,” he said with a hint of sarcasm. “Or let me guess, it’s just ‘my buddy Sarina’?”
“How’d you know I was — ”
“I called Julie’s . . . they filled me in.”
“Well, yes. We’re gonna have breakfast.”
“Hmm. Now that you’re a big-time celebrity,” Scott said, “I bet you’re going to insist on driving everywhere in a limo.” He laughed. “So where are you?”
“You’ll never guess . . .”
“Try me.”
