Piercing the Darkness

by Frank Peretti

  Those were, as I have said, days of madness. But I must REMEMBER, whatever it takes. There is still more to the story, and I must remember who these people are, where they are, and what they intend. I must remember who I am, and what I am—or was—to them.

  I’ll keep writing as often as I can.

  “Yeah, and some very hot places are going to freeze over before I’ll believe that! You heard me!”

  Wayne Corrigan slammed down the phone and fumed, “They won’t answer my interrogatories! They’re stalling, playing games!”

  “Surprise, surprise,” said Marshall.

  Corrigan, Marshall, Ben, and Tom were sitting in Corrigan’s office comparing notes and going over the case.

  “How many interrogatories did you send out?” asked Marshall, sitting on the other side of Corrigan’s desk, looking through a stack of copies.

  “Just the preliminaries, the basics,” said Corrigan. “But they won’t even answer those, they won’t return my phone calls, and even if I do get through, they stonewall it. You may have noticed the response I got from Brandon’s lawyer just now, that Jefferson character.”

  “I noticed the response he got from you.”

  “Well, I was upset.”

  Ben was leaning against the windowsill, just listening to the conversation. “You did just fine. They had it coming.”

  Marshall concurred. “They’re just looking out for their own behinds. It won’t hurt to go after them a bit, keep them off-balance.”

  Corrigan tried to explain his frustration. “But they keep saying their records are too personal and confidential, and then Jefferson told me they haven’t even assembled their discovery materials yet, and I think that’s baloney. On top of that, I think they’re stalling on taking depositions from our side. They want us to go first so they’ll have more ammunition. I can’t stall like that; we just don’t have the time.”

  “Looks like they aren’t going to give you anything without a court order.”

  “Yeah, tell me all about it.”

  “Hey, listen. Kate’s asking around about this Miss Brewer at the elementary school, and she’s already made an appointment to visit the class on Monday. Maybe when she gets back she’ll have some goods on this Miss Brewer, and you can use that in some depositions.”

  “Well, that’s what I need: more leads, more players in this thing. So far I’m in the dark about what the other side is up to.”

  Marshall tossed the interrogatories back on Corrigan’s desk. “Well, it’s bigger than it looks, I know that.”

  “Moles,” said Ben.

  “Huh?” said Tom.

  “Get Marshall to explain it to you sometime. It’s a great parallel.”

  Corrigan was ready for another topic. “So how about your kids, Tom? Are you going to be able to see them again?”

  Tom wasn’t happy about his answer. “Pretty soon, but I’m not sure when. It’s all up to this Irene Bledsoe lady, and she’s . . . well, she’s quite ruthless. I try not to think about it too much.”

  Corrigan shook his head and leaned back in his chair, making the springs squeak. For him, leaning back and examining the ceiling was a typical expression of frustration. “She’s feeling her oats, if you know what I mean. Tom, if you were rich and powerful, you’d probably have your kids back by now. But Bledsoe knows she has all the power she needs, and without some real pressure from people in important places, she can do whatever she wants. The laws are just vague enough to allow a lot of leeway from case to case.”

  “But she’s so unreasonable!” Tom moaned. “She’s guarding my kids like . . . like she’s afraid to let them out of her sight, like she wants to control them.”

  “She is and she does,” said Marshall.

  “But you heard about that bump on Ruth’s head, didn’t you?”

  Marshall was sitting in a swivel chair. With a simple kick he swiveled around to face Tom. “No. Tell me.”

  “Last time I visited the kids, Ruth had a big bump on her head, and both of them said she got it when Bledsoe just about got into a wreck driving them away from our house! Bledsoe’s trying to blame that bump on me, suggesting that I did it!”

  Marshall was hearing some shocking news, it seemed. “A near-wreck?”

  “Yes. You should have seen how Mrs. Bledsoe tried to keep the kids from saying anything about that, but Josiah told me about it anyway. He said she went through a stop sign and almost hit a blue pickup truck. She stopped too fast, the kids must not have been belted in, and Ruth—”

  Ben interrupted. “Wait a minute! Did you say a blue pickup truck?”

  “Yes, that’s what Josiah said.”

  “When was that?” Ben started thinking back.

  “I’m not sure . . .” Now Tom started recalling. “Evidently the evening when she came and took them away . . .”

  Ben brightened with recollection. “The same evening when we checked out that so-called ‘suicide’ at the Potter place! Listen: Cecilia Potter told me that Sally Roe drove a blue pickup truck—a ’65 Chevy, to be exact—and when I was there checking out the scene later on, the truck was gone. We were wondering about that.”

  “The truck was gone?” asked Marshall.

  Ben was getting excited. “Gone. Now listen. According to Mrs. Potter, Roe always drove that truck to work and came home in it every day. So if Sally Roe did commit suicide like Mulligan and the medical examiner said, who drove her truck away?”

  “Whoever Mrs. Bledsoe almost ran into, that’s who!” said Tom.

  Marshall was sitting up straight in his chair. “Did your kids see who was driving that truck?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose . . . somehow . . . I could ask them.”

  Marshall looked at Ben. “You ordered that criminal check, right?”

  “I’ve got Chuck Molsby working on that. He’s that friend of mine with the police in Westhaven.”

  “I hope we get a mug shot or something.”

  “I hope she’s a criminal,” said Tom.

  “Yeah,” said Marshall, “there is that little detail. But if we can get a photo of her, and if we can get it to the kids and have them identify her . . .”

  “The fur would hit the fan!” said Ben. “It would prove Sally Roe is still alive, that it wasn’t her suicide that we found!”

  Marshall stood to his feet. “Moles.”

  “There’s that word again,” said Tom.

  Corrigan straightened up in his chair and leaned over his desk. “Hey, guys, anytime you want to explain all this to me, I’d be glad to listen. I am supposed to be your lawyer, you know.”

  Marshall took a piece of scratch paper from Corrigan’s desk. “Just like a mole in your yard and somebody else’s yard . . . well, in three yards, actually. Three molehills, but all the same mole.” He took out his pen and drew a small circle. “Here’s the first molehill: the lawsuit against the Christian school, Lucy Brandon, the ACFA, that whole ball of wax.” He drew another circle. “Here’s the second molehill: The ACFA uses the child abuse hotline to report Tom and get the CPD into it. Irene Bledsoe gets the pickup order and takes the kids. That connects the two molehills . . . sort of.” He drew a connecting line between the two circles.

  “Maybe,” said Corrigan. “I mean, you know it and I know it, but proving it is another thing.”

  “That comes later,” said Marshall. “But now . . .” He drew a third circle. “Here’s the third molehill: the mysterious death of Sally Roe—or somebody else. Somehow, possibly, the real live Sally Roe crossed paths with Irene Bledsoe right after the point in time when she was supposed to be dead.” He drew another connecting line between the second and third circles. “Now you have two kids who might be—might be—witnesses to that, and so . . . possibly . . . Irene Bledsoe is withholding them, hiding them, dragging her feet all she can, to keep them quiet. Now she might just be protecting her own position, waiting for Ruth’s bump to heal, or for both kids to forget what happened. Or . . .”

  Ben took his own pe
n and connected the third circle with the first, forming a closed triangle. “Or she’s helping to cover up whatever happened at the Potter farm, which means this Sally Roe thing could be in some way connected with the attack on the Christian school, which we know is connected with the taking of Tom’s kids.”

  “None of which you can prove,” Corrigan reminded them again.

  “That comes later,” said Marshall again. He smiled. He felt good. “But that’s what’s happening. We’ve got moles—spiritual powers and human counterparts—under all this, and they’ve pushed their way to the surface in these three areas.”

  Tom stared at the three circles. “If you want to talk about underground spiritual activity . . . how about the mileage Satan’s gotten out of this whole CPD deal? They’ve got me branded as some kind of child abuser, and the whole church is falling apart over it. We can’t win any fight of any kind in the shape we’re in.”

  Marshall nodded. “Exactly. Now you’re catching on.”

  Tom wanted to believe it. “But . . . I don’t see any direct connection between what happened to Sally Roe and what’s happening at the school. There’s nothing there.”

  “There is,” said Marshall.

  “There isn’t!” said Corrigan. “You can’t prove a bit of this!”

  “We will. Call me a fanatic, but I think God’s showing this to us. He’s giving us the outline; all we have to do is fill it in.”

  Ben was getting stirred up. “You’ve got something, Marshall!”

  “But nothing I can use!” said Corrigan.

  Marshall put his pen back in his pocket and just looked at that little diagram. “We’ll get you something, Wayne. I don’t know what, but we’ll get it.”

  THE MUSIC WAS soft, steady, compelling, with a relaxing rhythm and tone. Miss Brewer, a young and pretty teacher with a disarming smile, read from a script in a soothing, almost hypnotic voice.

  “Feel the breeze drifting through your hair, feel the warm sun on your skin, the firm, inviting earth under your body. You’re just a rag doll, totally limp, filled with sawdust . . .”

  Kate Hogan sat quietly in the back of the classroom, trying to surreptitiously jot down notes as she watched the twenty-three fourth-graders go through the exercise. The desks were arranged to provide floor space for an activity area at one end of the room, and now the children lay flat on their backs on the floor in that area on blankets, pillows, or coats, their eyes closed, their breathing slow and deep, their arms limp at their sides.

  “First the sawdust drains from your head . . . then from your neck . . . then from your chest . . . You just start sinking, sinking, sinking toward the ground . . .”

  Kate watched the clock on the wall. So far they’d been lying on the floor for ten minutes.

  The music kept playing. Miss Brewer came to the end of her soothing, lilting monologue. She paused, looked around the floor at every child, and then proceeded with some softly spoken instructions.

  “Do you hear a babbling?” Then she whispered, “Listen! Do you hear it?” She took a moment for the kids to listen. “It’s coming closer now, isn’t it? It’s your new friend, your wise person; they’ve come to talk to you. Let your friend appear on your mental screen. What is your friend’s name?”

  Kate scribbled just a few words to guide her memory. Most of the details of what she was now witnessing were familiar to her.

  “Pick a room for your friend; make up a room in your mind to be your new friend’s house. Make it something just right for them. Now talk to your friend, your very own wise person. Remember, your friend knows all about you . . . how you feel . . . what you like . . . what you don’t like . . . all your problems and hurts . . .”

  The exercise lasted another fifteen minutes or so, and the silence in the room was impressive for this age group. At last, after a predetermined amount of time, Miss Brewer counted to five slowly and then snapped her fingers. The children seemed to wake up from a trance, and sat up.

  “Very good! Now we’ll all take our seats and the monitors will pass out some paper. We’ll draw our new friends.”

  The children folded the blankets, put away the pillows, hung up the coats, then returned to their desks. One child from each row passed out drawing paper. Under Miss Brewer’s firm but kind guidance, the children got out their crayons and began to create portraits.

  Miss Brewer walked up and down the rows, surveying each child’s progress. “Oh, what a nice-looking friend! What’s that on his head? Stars? He must be a marvelous creature!”

  Kate took a short tour herself. The children were drawing ponies, dragons, princes and princesses, and some rather frightening monsters as well. They all received praise and compliments from Miss Brewer.

  One little fellow showed Kate his picture. “This is Longfoot,” he said. “I’m going to keep him in my mental basement.”

  The picture was typical fourth-grade artwork, but recognizable as a giant, lumbering figure with large feet.

  “Look at his huge feet,” Kate said playfully. “What does he do with those big feet?”

  “He stomps on my mom and dad and all the big kids.”

  “Oh my.”

  A little girl turned to join the conversation, holding up her drawing for Kate to see. “See my friend? He’s a dragon, but he doesn’t breathe fire. He spits out jawbreakers!”

  “Oh, and did you meet him today?”

  She shook her head a little sadly. “No. He already lives in my head; he’s been there a long time, and we’re friends. I couldn’t see my new friend today. I heard him, but I couldn’t see him.”

  “Look at my picture!” said another little girl.

  Kate walked over to take a look. Then she took a longer look.

  The child had drawn a big-eyed, chubby-cheeked pony. The drawing was exceptional.

  “This is Ponderey,” she said. “He’s my inner guide.”

  “A pony . . .” said Kate in wonder. She smiled. “That’s a wonderful picture, honey. You draw very well.”

  “Ponderey helps me. He loves to draw.”

  Kate took her seat again in the back of the classroom and jotted down a few more notes, even though her hand was a little unsteady. She was so upset, she feared losing her quiet, professional manner.

  Before long it was time for recess; the children filed out in a neat line until they reached the door to the playground. Then they abandoned the building like sailors from a sinking ship.

  Miss Brewer sank into her chair at her desk and sighed with a big smile. “Well, that much of the day is over!”

  Kate approached her and found a chair nearby. “They’re a wonderful group.”

  “Aren’t they, though? This is a great year for me; the kids in this town are really special!”

  “The creative exercise was something special too; it evoked a lot of response.”

  Miss Brewer laughed out of pleasure and pride. “It’s an adventure every time. Kids can be so creative, and there’s just such wisdom and insight locked up in each one of them. You never know what they’ll uncover.”

  “And what do you call this? Isn’t it like Whole Brain Learning?”

  “Sure. That’s part of it. But most of the concepts and exercises are from the Finding the Real Me curriculum. It’s a tried and tested program, and it includes the best of the proven theories now in use. It’s very comprehensive.”

  “Well, what’s the underlying principle to all this?”

  Miss Brewer smiled. “You’re not a parent, are you?”

  “No, just a curious citizen. Like I said on the phone, I’ve heard a lot about what you’re doing here, and I thought it would be interesting to watch.”

  “Sure. Well, of course our perspective is that each child should be free to achieve his or her own highest potential, and that takes a certain measure of creative and intuitive freedom. Too often an educator can stifle that potential by imposing a particular rule of behavior or truth upon the learner when the learner should be experiencing his own rea
lities, creating his own concept of the world.

  “We’ve found that relaxation and visualization exercises are a real key to untying each child, setting him free to start his own process of becoming. Human consciousness, even in a child, carries an incredible wealth of knowledge that no traditional classroom could ever cover even in a lifetime. That knowledge is available to each child from his own inner wisdom. We don’t teach the child how to feel or how to perceive truth. All we have to do is show him how to unlock his own wisdom and intuition, and the rest just happens.”

  “And that’s what you were doing today?”

  “Well sure, exactly. We only use about two percent of our brain anyway. When we teach the children how to tap into the vast resources hidden in the rest of their brain, the sky’s the limit.”

  “So where do these ‘inner guides’ and ‘wise persons’ come into all this?”

  Miss Brewer let her eyes search the heavens as she formulated an answer. “To put it simply, there is a vast storehouse of knowledge locked up in our own hidden consciousness, and one of the ways to access it is to personify it, dress it up as a person, a character familiar to us. So, say I’m a little girl with fears about big people, grown-ups, maybe my own parents. Actually, I already have within myself all the knowledge I need to cope with whatever situation I encounter. I only need to learn it from myself. So, to facilitate that, I relax, let my mind go, and imagine—visualize—a favorite image, a character, a friend. Did you notice the pictures the children drew? Every one of those drawings was the child’s expression of an inner friend, an inner guide, a personification of their own wisdom with which they feel free, unhampered, and comfortable. Once they create this image, it takes on a life of its own, and can talk to them and give them the advice and counsel they need for whatever they’re having to deal with. In essence, they are learning from themselves, from their own buried consciousness.”