“Hey listen,” she said, “we’ll make the donut bigger, and then make the coffee mug bigger, you know, show more steam coming out or something. The readers will grab right onto it. Sure they will!”
“Bernice!” Cheryl called through the glass. “You’re getting a fax!”
Bernice looked up at Cheryl. “What?”
Cheryl said something back, and all Bernice could hear through the glass was the word fax. The rest was meant for lipreaders.
A fax? From who? So far she was drawing a blank.
The phone squawked in her ear. She had to give a reply. “Oh, yeah. Well, think about it, will you, Eddy? I’ll give you a deal on it. Well, let me think about that. Okay, good-bye.”
Cheryl knocked at the door lightly, cracked it open, and tossed the sheet of paper in, hot off the fax machine.
Bernice grabbed it before it floated to the floor and gave it a once-over.
Oh! This was from Cliff Bingham, her contact in Washington, D.C.! She’d forgotten all about him. Well, well! He’d found the Finding the Real Me curriculum for fourth-graders at the Library of Congress and sent her the title page with a note scribbled at the top: “Bernice, is this the one you’re after?—Cliff.”
She smiled. Well, Cliff, you did all right, but Marshall’s seen the curriculum already; you’re too late. Thanks anyway.
She went to her Rolodex to find Cliff’s number, found it, and picked up the telephone. She punched in the number, and looked over the title page again as she waited for the ring and the answer.
Then she saw it. She slammed the phone down. She scanned the page again to make sure. She checked the publication date.
She picked up the phone and pounded out the number for the Cole residence in Bacon’s Corner.
“Hello?” It was Bev Cole.
“Hello, Bev. This is Bernice Krueger in Ashton.”
“Oh, hi! What do you know?”
“I’ve got to talk to Marshall right away!”
“Hooo, well he isn’t here, and I don’t know where he is.”
“I’ve got to—oh, nuts! Did he say when he’d be back?”
“No, he runs around so much I never know where he is, he and Ben.”
“Bev, listen, I’m going to fax him something. He should be able to pick it up at Judy’s, right?”
“Oh yeah, if she’s open.”
“I’m going to fax it to Judy’s Secretarial Service right now, and you tell him to get over there right away and pick it up, all right?”
“Okay, I’ll tell him. Hey, you sound excited.”
“Oh, I’m a little excitedseeyoulatergood-bye!”
She scrambled out of the office and made a beeline for the fax machine.
Marshall, where are you?
Lucy Brandon was going through the morning mail, sorting it, slipping it into all the Post Office boxes and assigning it to the four different carrier routes. She was ill, nervous, overwrought, and exhausted, and now she was beginning to hate her job, especially when letters came in from “S. B. Roe.”
Like this one, fresh out of the bag, no sooner thought of than in her hand! How many did this make? It had to be more than thirty. Thirty-plus envelopes, all stuffed with several thicknesses of the same lined notebook paper, all written in the same, fluid handwriting just visible through the envelope, and all addressed to Tom Harris.
So I guess when I forward this one, I’ll be violating federal law over thirty times. What a thought. What if I just delivered it to Tom Harris? What if I slipped it into his carrier’s box, just one of these letters, just once?
“Good morning, Lucy!”
She literally jumped, dropping the letter to the floor.
Sergeant Harold Mulligan!
“Sergeant! What are you doing back here? You scared me to death!”
He stooped and picked up the letter from the floor. “Ah, another one, eh?”
She tried to take it from him. “Yes, thank you kindly—”
He wouldn’t let go. “Naw, now just hold on, Lucy. I’ve got orders regarding any further mail from Miss You-know-who.”
She didn’t care. “I’ll take that letter back, sergeant! It’s United States mail!”
What? He actually grabbed her arm with painful force and pushed her against the wall! He hurt her, and she just couldn’t believe it!
He spoke to her in a low, threatening voice she’d never heard from him before. “And just what do you think you’re gonna do with it, huh, Lucy? Are you thinking you just might mail it where it’s supposed to go? Huh?”
“You let go of me!”
“You listen to me, little lady! Any more mail from Roe, you put it right in my hand, right here, see? You don’t mess with it, you don’t even think about it, or you are gonna have one big, ugly pack of troubles!”
She was getting scared. “I’m doing what I’m told, Harold, you know that. Please let go of me!”
“Just wanna make sure we’re clear on this—”
“Excuse me,” came a voice from the front.
It was Marshall Hogan.
Oh man, how much of this did he see? Mulligan immediately turned his aggressive posture into a teasing one and let Lucy go. “Okay, Lucy, take care!”
He went out the back way with the letter in his pocket.
Debbie stepped up to the counter to help the big, red-haired man. Lucy hurried forward. “I’ll take care of him.”
Debbie backed away, but could see Lucy was in no condition to help anyone. Too late, though. They couldn’t talk about such a thing in front of a customer. She went back to her sorting, but kept an eye on her boss.
“I’d like a book of stamps,” said Marshall gently.
She reached into the drawer under the counter. Her hands were visibly shaking, and she couldn’t look up.
“Are you in trouble?” Marshall asked.
“Please, I can’t talk to you,” she said on the verge of tears.
“Just sell me some stamps then,” he said. “Do that first.”
She finally found a book of stamps and set them on the counter.
He had something else on the counter as well. “This is County Coroner Joey Parnell’s report on the woman who committed suicide, supposedly Sally Beth Roe. See the description? Black hair, in her twenties. Here . . . look at this.” He set a photograph in front of her and continued to talk in quiet, gentle tones. “This is a police mug shot of her. She had a criminal record. Now I know you know what the real Sally Roe looks like; you identified a picture of her at your deposition. But this is the woman who was found dead. She was a member of a secret coven of witches who call themselves Broken Birch, and when she tried to kill Sally Roe, she was working for someone—she was carrying ten thousand dollars.”
Lucy looked down at the picture, still shaking but listening.
Marshall continued, “Now that cop who just roughed you up back there has done all he can to cover this up and make it look like a suicide, and we think we know why: he belongs to that coven; he’s in on the whole thing. As a matter of fact, that coven lays claim to some pretty big wheels in LifeCircle—some of your own friends, including Claire Johanson and Jon Schmidt.”
Marshall waited just a moment for that to sink in, and then concluded, “As for Sally Roe, we have good evidence that she’s still alive somewhere, probably hiding for her life. So the question I’d like you to consider is this: Why would the same friends who are helping you in this lawsuit want Sally Roe killed?”
Lucy didn’t say a word. She could only stand there stone-still, staring at the photographs as tears filled her eyes.
Marshall got his answer from her face. He took back the coroner’s report and photos and slipped a piece of paper to her. “This is where you can reach me, at Ben and Bev Cole’s house. Call me anytime.”
He paid for the book of stamps and walked out. Lucy still didn’t move, even as Marshall’s money for the stamps sat on the counter in front of her.
Debbie saw the whole thing. Now she was finished
with just watching. She was going to do something.
THE MAIL . . . I forgot the mail!
Bernice got into her Volkswagen Beetle and zipped over to the Ashton Post Office a little late this morning. In all the excitement, her daily mail pickup had slipped her mind.
She went into the lobby, said hello to Lou, the young mail clerk, and opened the Ashton Clarion’s Post Office box.
KRIONI STOOD BESIDE her, as interested in the morning mail as she was. He was looking for an important letter from Sally Roe.
BERNICE FLIPPED THROUGH the junk flyers, the bills, the letters to the editor . . . Ah, here were some checks in payment of advertising and want ads; those were always nice.
Nothing unusual, everything routine. She dropped all the mail into her large plastic shopping bag and headed out the door.
THIS WAS A horrendous development! Krioni shot through the roof of the Post Office and met Triskal high above.
“Nothing!” he said.
Triskal wasn’t ready for that report. “Nothing? No letter?”
They could see Bernice getting back into her little car, far too calm and unruffled.
“It didn’t get here,” said Krioni, agitated, frustrated, and thinking fast. “It’s lost . . . It’s misplaced . . . I don’t know! We’d better get word to Nathan and Armoth. If we don’t get the fire started in time, Sally Roe is as good as dead!”
SALLY’S LAST LETTER to Tom Harris lay open on Claire Johanson’s desk, and Claire was on the telephone.
“The Caravan Motel,” she said. “I think our magic worked after all; this is the first time Roe has ever revealed her whereabouts. Apparently she’ll be there for a while; she’s waiting for Tom Harris to contact her.” The party on the other end was elated. “Well, I’ll breathe easier when we have her, before she writes to anyone else. And I’ll breathe easiest of all when she’s dead.” More elated squawkings from the other end. “Yes, I’m sure Mr. Santinelli will be pleased. Give him our regards.”
Claire hung up, rested her chin on her knuckles, and smiled at Sergeant Harold Mulligan. “Harold, help yourself to a drink.”
NATHAN SHOT THROUGH the roof of the Post Office near Chicago and flew over the heads of the busy staff, looking this way and that, banking and swooping over the tables, counters, and carts, then ducking under the tables, flying just inches above the linoleum, his sharp eyes scrutinizing every scrap of paper, every piece of junk mail, every—
There! Just under the front counter, facedown, lay the lost letter to Bernice Krueger. It was going to take some special measures to get it to Ashton in time. He grabbed it, arched upward, and looked around the room for the right mailbag to put it in.
Snatch! The letter was gone from his hand! He spun about in time to see a brazen little imp holding the letter in his claws, grinning a toothy grin, hovering on blurred black wings.
“Ooo,” said the demon, “and what have we here?”
Nathan didn’t have time for this. His sword was instantly in his hand.
OOF! A kick from a black, clawed foot! Another spirit came at him from the side, sword ready!
Nathan dashed the demon’s sword aside with his own, then kicked the demon back, sending him through the wall of the building.
Another spirit dropped from above; Nathan shot sideways to dodge a plunging sword, then mowed the spirit in half.
Where was that imp? There! Hiding behind the sorting bench!
Two more spirits! They must have heard there was a fight in here. Nathan dove for the first, his sword raised, but the other spirit grabbed his ankle and jerked him backward. His sword cut through space, and that was all. The first demon was ready now with his own sword, laughing and drooling. The ankle-grabber was still pulling, his claws digging in.
Well, use what you have, Nathan figured. His wings roared with power, pulling him forward. With incredible strength and perfect timing, he swung his leg in a high, sweeping kick, giving the ankle-grabber a thrilling ride until Nathan brought him down with skull-crunching force on his partner. They were out.
There went the imp with the letter! Nathan shot sideways and caught him in the belly. The legs drifted to the floor while the imp dissolved. Nathan caught the letter, made a quick search, then slam-dunked it into the right mailbag. It would go out on the next truck.
As for the demons, Nathan knew there could be trouble—some of them had gotten away with the knowledge of this letter.
IN THE SEALED conference room at Evans, Santinelli, Farnsworth, and McCutcheon, Santinelli hung up his private line and looked across the table at the anxious Mr. Khull.
“Mr. Khull, I’ve just been given some good news. You’d better gather your choice personnel.”
THAT “GOOD NEWS” went out through the demonic ranks like a shock wave, and as Destroyer flew up through the roof of the law office building to gather his hordes, he suddenly found he had all the friends and yea-saying lackeys he needed to finish the job, especially the demons from Broken Birch. They were swarming in from every sector of the sky, whooping and hollering, wanting to be a part of this glorious moment.
“I knew it!” he gloated, and with no small measure of relief. “I knew it would work! Our Judas has come through at last, and now Sally Roe will have her Gethsemane! We will take her!” Then he added under his breath, “And I will throw her as a gift into the Strongman’s face!”
The demons were muttering, nodding, and rumbling their approval and admiration of Destroyer’s great wisdom as they came to rest on the roof, hovered overhead, buzzed in tight circles around the building, and even tripped over each other.
This motley, bloodthirsty swarm needed to be brought to order. Destroyer soared into the sky where every gleaming yellow eye could see him, and waved his glowing red sword in wide circles to get their attention. Most of them settled down and listened. The others were too busy hooting, hollering, and sparring.
“Forces!” Destroyer called.
His twelve captains converged immediately.
“We need to weed this garden and select the best! Choose warriors for our mission, and send the rabble to Summit. Let the Strongman put them to work!”
The captains soon had the spirits thoroughly sifted; the best warriors stood ready, swords gleaming. The pranksters, imps, and harassers were ordered to Summit, and left with much grumbling.
Destroyer was satisfied. He addressed the great horde. “We will prepare the way for Broken Birch! Death to the woman!”
“Death to the woman!” they shouted as one, and with an explosion of wings they rushed into the sky.
FROM MILES AWAY, Tal, Nathan, and Armoth saw the demons rise like a swarm of shrieking, whooping bats over Chicago, heading south. This was an armada of death for Sally Roe, a black cloud of doom.
Tal had received Nathan’s news about Sally’s last letter. “Then it’s going to be a day late. Our fire is delayed, and Sally will soon be in their hands!”
“Can we stop them?” asked Armoth.
Tal shook his head. “Everything is in motion now. We’re committed.”
“We do have warriors posted to monitor everything,” Nathan assured his captain.
“But Destroyer will take her,” Tal replied, his voice weakened with the pain of it. “And he will do what he wants with her . . .”
MARSHALL NO SOONER got back from his trip to the Post Office for stamps than he was out again, this time heading for Judy’s Secretarial Service, quite curious and adequately baited by Bernice and her maddening flair for suspense. To hear Bev Cole tell it, the fate of the world depended on Marshall picking up whatever Bernice was going to fax to him.
SALLY ROE REMAINED in her musty little room at the Caravan Motel, sitting in the only chair, reading from a Gideon Bible.
“Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?” she read. “. . . I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able
to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
She closed her eyes, gave thanks, and kept reading, just waiting hour by hour in her little room.
MARSHALL PULLED INTO the small parking area in front of Judy’s Secretarial. Well, was anybody there? The lights were on inside, but there was no sign of Judy. Hm. That looked like a note taped over the OPEN sign hanging in the window. He got out to have a look.
OUTSIDE CHICAGO, TWO cars turned off the main thoroughfare, came down one block, and slowed long enough for the people inside to get a good look at the Caravan Motel.
“Hm, so this is the Caravan,” said Mr. Khull, giving the old motel a quick once-over. “Roe isn’t operating on much of a budget.”
“What a dump,” said one of Khull’s three favorite killers, a young, wiry woman with long, blonde hair who could have passed for a college student.
The Caravan Motel was no joy to behold. Long ago, before the freeways diverted all the interstate traffic, this place probably did a profitable and respectable business in housing weary travelers for the night. Now times had changed, the fourteen little cabins were run down, the lawn had surrendered to weeds, and most of the business here was probably the disreputable kind.
“Which cabin is she in?” asked a tall, youthful-looking man. He’d gotten within a knife’s blade of Sally Roe on the Bentmore University campus. He still had his knife, and he was looking forward to a longer, more satisfying encounter.
“Fourteen,” said Khull, “right on the end near the road. We won’t have to pass any of the other rooms. She’s making it easy.”
Khull parked the car just past the motel, and the other car pulled in behind. Altogether, eight people got out of the two cars. Khull gave the four men from the second car a slight nod, and they scattered immediately up and down the street, covering every avenue of escape from the motel.
Piercing the Darkness Page 46
