Piercing the Darkness

by Frank Peretti

  Marshall looked around the barn. “What cracks did you and Billy look through to see all this?”

  Kyle pointed to the side of the barn. “Right over there.”

  The daylight was now plainly visible through two large spaces between some loose boards. Marshall went to where the cracks were, crouched down to their level, and looked back. He was satisfied—the cracks provided a wide, clear view of the area in question.

  “You say they had hoods on their heads?”

  “Yeah. Black robes and hoods, and they were barefoot.”

  “So how do you know who they were?”

  “’Cause some of them were facing this way. I could see their faces turned right at me.” Kyle was offended and edgy. “I don’t know why you don’t believe me!”

  Marshall held up his hand to calm the boy. “Hey, I didn’t say I didn’t believe you. But listen: you’ve got plenty of reason to get back at Mulligan, or any cop for that matter.”

  “Not to mention getting your job back,” said Abby.

  “I’m not making it up, man! I saw Mulligan. He was standing right here, with a robe and a hood on, and chanting just like all the others.”

  Ben was inspecting the spot where Kyle claimed an altar had stood. “Marshall.”

  Marshall joined him. Ben had scratched in the dirt with his finger and uncovered some brown stains. He was able to pick up some clumps of stained dirt in his fingers. “Could be blood. I’ll take a sample.”

  “See?” said Kyle.

  Marshall asked, “Tell me about that blood you saw. What were they doing with it?”

  “They were drinking it out of a big cup, a big silver cup. They were passing it around.”

  “How do you know it was blood?”

  “The lady said it was.”

  “What lady?”

  “Well, the leader, I guess. She was standing right there, and she said something about making some woman die and beating all the Christians. Uh . . . she said, ‘Defeat to the Christians!’ And she drank from the cup and passed it around, and they all drank from it.” Then Kyle remembered something else. “Oh yeah, man, get this: they had some animal legs right here in the middle of the circle.”

  Oh-oh. Kyle could tell he’d impressed them with that. Hogan and Cole were looking at him, dead serious and ready to hear more.

  “Tell me about the animal legs,” said Marshall.

  “They had to be goat legs. They were crossed right here, like an X.” He saw something. “Hey!”

  “Hold it!” said Marshall, touching Kyle to stop him from disturbing the dirt at his feet. “Ben.”

  Ben crouched for a close look. “Yeah. More blood. And here are some hairs.”

  “Goat hairs,” said Kyle. “That’s what they are.”

  “So they wanted to defeat the Christians, huh?” asked Marshall.

  “Yeah, they were really hollering about it.” Another memory. “Oh, and they were saying something about a courtroom, winning in a courtroom.”

  “And they were after some woman too?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did they say her name?”

  The name meant nothing to Kyle, but he remembered hearing it. “Uh, Sally on Death Row, or something like that.”

  He was batting a thousand now. He could see it all over their faces.

  Marshall dug into his jacket pocket. “Did you see any of the other people’s faces?”

  “Sure. The woman leader took her hood off, and I could see her.”

  Marshall produced some color photographs he’d taken with much care, stealth, and a telephoto lens. He showed Kyle a picture of Claire Johanson.

  “Yeah! Yeah, that was her!”

  “The woman who led this whole thing?”

  “Yeah.”

  Marshall showed Kyle a picture of Jon Schmidt.

  “Yeah! He was here too.”

  Marshall slipped in a picture of his sister.

  “No. I’ve never seen her before.”

  A photo of Irene Bledsoe.

  “Uh . . . no, I don’t think so.”

  Officer Leonard Jackson.

  “No.”

  Bruce Woodard, the elementary school principal.

  “Naw, not Mr. Woodard. Man, where’d you take all these?”

  Marshall put the pictures away. “Kyle, I think you’re giving it to us straight. Now listen, I’m not a cop, and whatever you tell me I’m not going to take it to the cops. I just need the information. It’s important. I want you to tell me the real truth: did you have any marijuana on the job at the Bergen Door Company?”

  Kyle raised his hand as if taking an oath. “None, I swear. Hey, Cole knows I’ve had some here and there, but not on the job. My old man would kill me, and besides, I need the work bad.”

  Abby cut in. “So you’re saying that you were set up just to get you fired?”

  “You got it. I didn’t put that marijuana in my locker.”

  Marshall looked at Ben and could tell he was recalling a similar incident involving marijuana in a locker.

  “Any idea who put it there?”

  “Who do you think? I saw her here, and then opened my big mouth about it in the lunchroom, and so she must have found out about it. She gave me some pretty dirty looks after that, and then, bam! She’s the person who says they ought to search my locker, and then they find the pot. Real handy, you know?”

  Ben added sympathetically, “And considering your reputation, there wasn’t much point in denying it.”

  “You got it.”

  Abby objected, “But Donna’s been with Bergen almost as long as I have. I can’t believe she’d pull a stunt like this.”

  “She was here,” Kyle insisted. “She was standing right next to Mulligan. I saw her, and she knows it, and that’s why I got fired.” Kyle then recalled bitterly, “Then Mulligan comes down to the factory and tells me he’ll let it go this time if I behave myself and ‘make the right choices,’ he said. I know what he was doing. He was telling me to keep my mouth shut or he’d bust me for good.”

  Marshall reviewed it all in his mind. “So . . . looks like we might have a real club here: Claire Johanson, Jon Schmidt, Sergeant Mulligan, and . . .”

  Kyle resented Marshall’s hesitation. “She was here! I swear it!”

  Marshall completed the sentence. “Donna Hemphile, Kyle’s supervisor at the Bergen Door Company, and a member in good standing at the Good Shepherd Community Church!”

  THURSDAY AFTERNOON, OFFICER Leonard Jackson had some unwelcome visitors. He was sitting in his squad car, cleverly hidden in the trees at the west end of the Snyder River Bridge, just watching for speeders and having a pleasant day building up his citation quota, when suddenly, without prior notification of any kind, a big brown Buick swung off the road and into the trees, pulling right up alongside him.

  Now who in the world was this? Leonard felt invaded. This was a desecration of a sacred place.

  A handsome black man rolled down the window on the passenger side of the Buick. “Hey, Leonard, how’s it going?”

  Ben Cole.

  Leonard tried to be sociable. “Not bad, I suppose. What can I do for you?”

  Ben looked toward the driver of the Buick. “Have you met Marshall Hogan?”

  Leonard had seen him around town and never felt good about him. “No, we’ve never met.”

  Marshall called a greeting. “Hello, Officer Jackson.”

  “Hello.”

  Ben said, “We’d like to have a brief word with you.”

  “Well, I’m on duty . . .”

  “How’s your quota so far?”

  Leonard realized Ben would know everything about his job, so bluffing wasn’t going to be possible. “Well . . . I guess I’m doing all right. I’ve logged twelve so far.”

  Ben was impressed. “Hey, you’re way ahead of the game! How about taking a short break for a little conference?”

  “I promise you’ll find it interesting,” said Marshall.

  AT SUMMIT, FIVE demon
messengers gathered just outside the dark, musty, secret chambers of the Strongman, each with an urgent message for Destroyer.

  The first demon said to his fellows, “I bring word that Broken Birch has been breached!”

  The second demon nodded in acknowledgment and added, “I bring word that Hogan and Cole are about to corner Officer Jackson!”

  The third demon gasped at that news and growled his own. “I bring word that they will be seeing Joey Parnell again and may frighten him into talking!”

  The fourth said, “I bring word that Pastor Mark Howard is rooting out the division in his church even now, and the Enemy is healing all the damage we’ve done!”

  The fifth said, “I bring word that Sally Roe has—”

  Oh. The ground suddenly quivered with a roar that came from inside the Strongman’s lair. Apparently Destroyer and the Strongman already knew about that.

  DESTROYER DARED NOT draw his sword—such an aggressive move would only worsen the Strongman’s fury. So he dashed to and fro, grabbing the air in violent, desperate wingfuls, his arms covering his head and face, as the Strongman came after him with flying blade and swinging fist, his mouth foaming with rage, his jowls flopping, his rancid breath turning the air yellow.

  “A reversal!” the Strongman screamed. “She was ours, and now you let them have her!”

  “I allowed no such thing!” Destroyer countered. “I was biding my time—”

  Contradicting the Strongman was a poor idea. It earned Destroyer a violent swat across his head from the flat of Strongman’s blade. “Lazy, unmoving, blind idiot!”

  “She is ours, my liege!” Destroyer shouted over Strongman’s roaring. “Tal and his hordes grow weaker by the day!” SMASH! A huge fist in the neck. “Soon they will fall away from her like overripe fruit—” A clawed, scaly foot to the rump. “—from a tree, and we will take her!” OOF! A knee to the stomach.

  “You were going to take away Tal’s prayer cover!” yelled the Strongman. “What became of that?”

  “As I’ve tried to tell you, we have been whittling it away!”

  “Whittling when you should have been chopping, dashing, shredding, slaughtering!”

  “You will see it!”

  “I wish to see her destroyed, bumbling spirit! Live up to your boastful name! Pierce through a chink in her armor! Let her own sins rot her away!”

  “Her sins are gone, my Ba-al! She has come to the Cross—”

  WHAM! A folded wing against the midsection. Destroyer tumbled and fluttered sideways across the room.

  “NOOO!” the Strongman screamed. “You will not mention that!”

  “But we can still take her . . .” Destroyer insisted, although rather weakly.

  “We will not . . . turn . . . back!” the Strongman roared, waving his sword in a fiery, rushing arc with each word. “I have a plan—I will see it unfold! Let the blood of the Lamb defeat the others—it will not defeat me! I will tread upon it, march around it, assail it and bury it, but I will not surrender to it!”

  “I know we will take her!” Destroyer insisted again.

  “YAAAA!” The Strongman brought his sword down with immeasurable fury, trailing a long, crimson streamer of light.

  Destroyer drew his own blade in an instant and blocked the razor edge with a shower of sparks. The power of the blow slammed him into the wall, and the Strongman held him there like a ton of fallen earth.

  Now they were eye to eye, the yellow, glowing orbs almost touching, their sulfurous breath mixing in a putrid cloud that obscured their faces. The Strongman’s arm did not weaken; he did not lessen the weight that held Destroyer motionless.

  “You will do it,” he said finally, his voice a low, panting wheeze, “or I will feed you to the angels myself—in tiny pieces!”

  With an explosion of arms, wings, and one blade that seemed like several, the Strongman cast Destroyer from the room, and he tumbled into the five demons still waiting for him outside. They bowed before him—as soon as they could crawl out from under him.

  “We bring word, Ba-al!” they said.

  “What word?” he asked.

  They told him.

  He cut them all to pieces.

  Tom, I am free. I could just see that Cross so clearly, just as it must have looked on that bare, forlorn hill two thousand years ago, and I was flat on my face before it, so weighed down with my wrongs, my boasts, my choices, my SELF that I couldn’t rise an inch. All I could do was lie there, admitting and confessing everything and reaching out to that rough-hewn piece of wood like a drowning man reaches for a lifeline, and grabbing hold for my very life.

  And how can I describe it? I apologize, but the words will not capture the experience: I had nothing to offer Him, no incentive at all for Him to forgive me, not the slightest item of value with which to barter or cajole. All I had was what I was.

  But he accepted me. I was so surprised, and then relieved, and then, with the steady realization of what had happened, ecstatic! My offering—nothing other than myself, Sally Beth Roe, pitiful, failing, and wayward—was accepted. I was what He always wanted in the first place, and He received me. He lifted the load from my heart, and I could feel it go; I could just sense it all drawn away from me and rushing up to that Cross. I felt so light, I thought I would be carried away by the slightest breeze.

  I was able to raise my head, and then saw the closing of our transaction: a trickle of blood running down the wood and puddling on the ground. The payment. Such a gruesome sight, such a discomforting thought, but really, to be honest, quite appropriate considering what Jesus, the Son of God, had just purchased.

  I am free. I am ransomed. I’ve never felt this way before, like a slave set free who was born a slave and never knew what freedom was like.

  I want to get to know this Jesus who has ransomed me. We’ve only just met.

  Sally lay her pen down on the small motel room desk, and wiped some tears from her eyes. She was still shaking. Just beside her notebook, a Gideon Bible lay open to the Gospel of Matthew, chapter 11:

  “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

  CHAPTER 36

  THAT NIGHT, MARSHALL and Ben found County Coroner Joey Parnell at his home in Westhaven. As usual, he wasn’t glad to see them, nor was he willing to chat.

  “Now get out of here and don’t come back!” he ordered through his barely cracked front door.

  “Mulligan’s controlling you, isn’t he?” said Marshall. “He knows about that hit and run, and he’s been hanging it over your head.”

  The door didn’t close. “Who told you about that?”

  “A source close to the Bacon’s Corner Police Department. You struck a deal with Mulligan, and he’s owned you ever since.” The door started to close. Marshall talked fast. “You hit a high school girl named . . . uh . . . Kelly Otis, and Mulligan tracked you down, and you were just then working on a case of suspected homicide, some female transient, and Mulligan made you a deal: falsify the cause of death of this female transient, and he’d let the hit and run slip by. Am I right so far?”

  The door cracked open a little more. “Just what do you want from me?”

  Marshall tried to sound compassionate despite the urgency that kept making his voice tense. “How much longer do you want this to go on? You can be their puppet for the rest of your life, or you can help us put a stop to it.”

  Parnell was silent for a moment. Then he opened the door wide enough to pass through. “Come inside before somebody sees you.”

  Parnell’s wife was beside him. She was dark-haired, stout, and looking as troubled as he was. “This is Carol. We can talk freely in front of her; I’ve told her everything.”

  “Would you like some coffee?” she said quite mechanically. It was clear she didn’t know what else to do.

  “Yes, thank y
ou,” said Marshall, and Ben accepted as well.

  “We’ll sit in the dining room,” said Parnell, leading them through the house.

  They sat around a large table under a dimly glowing chandelier. The low, somber lighting seemed to match Parnell’s mood; he looked worn, tired, at the end of his strength.

  Without cue or question, he started talking as if he’d saved this story for years. “The transient was a thirty-two-year-old woman named Louise Barnes—she was homeless, a scavenger, no family. She was found dead in the woods along the Snyder River, about six miles north of Bacon’s Corner. I remember the details perfectly because I want so much to forget them.” He paused to gather his thoughts and control his emotions, then continued. “Her body was found hanging by the ankles from a tree limb, the blood drained. There were abundant signs of bizarre, ritualistic murder that I won’t go into. The hunters who found her had apparently startled the killers, who fled before they could dispose of the body altogether.

  “I received the remains and finished the autopsy. I found the cause of death to be homicide, of course. But then . . . as you have already heard, I did get into a mishap near the high school on my way home. I didn’t see the girl, Kelly Otis, until she stepped from behind a tree and into the street, and . . . and I hit her. I slowed just enough to look, to see that she was still alive though injured. Some other people were running to help her. I . . . I just couldn’t let the incident damage my career. I’d just gotten the coroner’s job, and you know how the political world is, how fragile a reputation can be. I fled.

  “Sergeant Mulligan came to my office the next day, and we met in private. I expected him to question me about the hit and run, but he immediately asked me about the body of Louise Barnes and what my findings were. I told him, and that’s when he made the offer to let the hit-and-run incident pass, just bury it, if I would alter my findings and not report the real cause of death.” Parnell just stared at the table, his face etched with pain. “I accepted his offer, filed the cause of death as accidental, and it was the worst decision of my life.