Piercing the Darkness

by Frank Peretti

  The phone rang again. It was school board member John Kendall. “Betty, I’m calling to warn you—”

  “You’re too late,” she told him.

  School board member Jerry Mason called right after she hung up on John Kendall. He wanted to know what she knew about this Sally Roe/mail tampering/lawsuit/curriculum thing, and didn’t Sally Roe commit suicide a while back? She wanted to know what he knew, they both wanted to know what Claire Johanson knew, and both agreed that none of them knew a lot and that all of them wanted to know a lot more, especially what the feds knew.

  THE DEMONIC POWERS and authorities of Bacon’s Corner were scattered. Terga’s best warriors fled elsewhere to find a new home for their mischief; Terga, alone except for the deserters who joined him on the way, set out for the Omega Center. Perhaps there was time to warn Barquit, Omega’s prince. Maybe Barquit would have the strength to save them and stop this onslaught.

  FAR AWAY FROM it all, in the city of Westhaven, the Circuit Court of Appeals, with all parties oblivious to the spiritual racket steadily growing and spreading out of Bacon’s Corner, convened at two o’clock in the afternoon. Wayne Corrigan and Tom Harris took their places at the defendant’s table on the right side of the courtroom, while attorneys Ames and Jefferson took their seats on the left.

  “All rise,” said the bailiff, and they all rose, and in strode the three appellate judges, one younger man, one older man, and one sagging woman. They sat down, the three lawyers sat down, the clerk and bailiff sat down, and the court stenographer poised her fingers over the little keys.

  Tom looked around the courtroom. Apart from one reporter that had shown up looking a little bored with his assignment, the gallery was empty. Of course. The public was waiting for the real show, the trial.

  “Ah well,” Corrigan whispered, “it’s going to be a short day anyway.”

  “No earthshaking surprises?” asked Tom.

  “To be honest, I’m not expecting any.”

  The older judge put on his reading glasses and referred to his papers. “This is the case of Brandon v. the Good Shepherd Academy, the defendant appealing the lower court’s ruling as to compelling a child witness to be examined by defense’s experts and to testify in this case . . .”

  Corrigan sneaked a glance at Ames and Jefferson. They looked bored. Boy, now there was confidence!

  IN FAIRWOOD, MASSACHUSETTS, the Omega Center was in full swing, with classes in progress, fair weather on the campus, and—by their standards—nothing weird or unusual happening. A gang of young adults continued their good-hearted game of touch football on the playfield; on the Tai Chi plaza, two dozen practitioners moved in slow motion through time, space, and spirit; in the classrooms, high school kids, adults, and even senior citizens learned the latest westernized twist on Hindu mysticism; and in the quiet, cushioned meditation rooms, young transcendentalists watched with eyes closed as demons played cosmic movies in their brains.

  CREE AND SI, their armies in position, were ready and waiting. Any moment now . . .

  BARQUIT, PRINCE OF Omega, was troubled when he first heard the humming and whistling of frayed wings and then the anguished wails and laments of spirits far away. He took wing and hovered above the Omega Administration Building, peering westward until he saw the spirits from Bacon’s Corner approaching, screaming with alarm.

  Something was up. “Forces!”

  FWOOOM! He covered his head, blinded by brilliant light exploding on every side, obliterating the forests and hills, washing out the blue of the sky, bleaching out the colors of the Center. Spinning about in panic, he drew his sword, but it was struck away before he even saw his attacker.

  He fled into the sky, feeling the burning light of Heaven at his heels.

  TELEPHONES BEGAN TO ring in every room on the campus, and every teacher, group leader, and facilitator got the word: the football game was over, classes were canceled, and anyone out in astral travel would have to come in for a landing. Mr. Tisen, the head of the Omega faculty, had gotten an angry call from Betty Hanover, a threatening call from Claire Johanson, and last but not least a nosy and intimidating call from the FBI. He was clearing the campus, and that meant everyone.

  CREE AND SI led their forces through the campus like a flash flood, whipping through and around the buildings, flushing demons out of the rooms, chasing them through the surrounding woods, cutting them down out of the sky. The demonic deceivers were swamped and confounded. They called for Barquit, their crafty leader, but he was long gone. They had little time to lament about it before they were gone as well.

  Barquit looked back only once, just long enough to know that Omega, his empire, had fallen.

  The Strongman! This is his blunder!

  “CLASSES ARE CANCELED,” said Tisen over the loudspeakers. “Everyone to your dorms. Get your belongings loaded on the buses and be ready to roll!”

  The classes ended so abruptly and the students were sent out so quickly that many thought it was a fire drill, or even an air raid. Some were still slipping on their coats as they hurried outside; others, still half-entranced, had to be led by the hand. The teachers were gathering up their coats, grabbing their briefcases, handouts, and curricula, shutting off the lights, locking up the rooms.

  The football game broke up, and the players jogged back toward their dormitories full of questions.

  Within an hour, the buses began to roll down the drive to the main road, carrying away faculty, students, even maintenance personnel, all chattering and wondering together just what in the world was going on.

  Only a few noticed the plain olive sedan parked in front of the Administration Building. It hadn’t been there long.

  “I’M SORRY,” TISEN told the two federal agents now standing in his office. “You’ve come at a hectic time. We’re just closing down for our midspring break. Hardly anyone is here now.”

  The two men exchanged glances.

  “Midspring break?” asked one.

  Tisen smiled. “We follow a rather unique calendar here, gentlemen.”

  “We’ll have a look at it.”

  The other agent noted, “We saw the buses pulling out. It looked like an evacuation.”

  Tisen grinned sheepishly. “Well, most of them have planes to catch . . .”

  The agents didn’t waste time. “Like I asked you over the phone, this is the same Omega Center that published the Finding the Real Me curriculum?”

  “Well . . . yes, it is.”

  “Then you must be familiar with the author, Sally Beth Roe?”

  “You mean me personally?”

  “I mean you personally or any other way.”

  “Well, of course I’m familiar with the name . . .”

  “Where can we contact her?”

  “Um . . . Well, I’m afraid she’s deceased.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Well, I—”

  One agent consulted some notes. “What about an instructor here, a lady named Sybil Denning? Is she still on the campus?”

  Tisen shook his head with just a little too much sadness. “No, I’m afraid she’s gone.”

  “Do you see much of Owen Bennett anymore?”

  Tisen looked shocked at that question. “Owen Bennett?”

  “He used to be on the Omega advisory board, right?”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “How about the director of this place . . . uh . . . Steele?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “The director’s gone?”

  “He’s away at a conference.”

  “What conference and where?”

  “Well, um . . . Do I really have to answer all these questions?”

  “Maybe now, for sure later. Suit yourself.”

  These guys were intimidating. “He’s . . . he and some other people on our faculty are at the Summit Institute.”

  The two men nodded to each other. Apparently they already knew about that place.

  GORING, STEELE, AND Santinelli
stood in a close cluster near the big fireplace, trying to lay a contingency plan. They paid little attention to Khull, who still sat at the top of the basement stairs trying to tape up his wound with gauze, cotton, and anything else he could find in Goring’s first aid kit. So far he was only making a mess.

  “You know what she said in those letters!” said Goring. “She didn’t leave out one thing!”

  Steele asked Santinelli, “How would our chances be in court?”

  Santinelli was grim but determined, and spoke in a low mutter. “There are many variables and contingencies. We should immediately inventory and eliminate any liabilities.” Goring and Steele couldn’t help a quick, sideways glance at Khull. Santinelli cleared his throat to correct them. “Any connections at all with the Bacon’s Corner case must be eradicated. I can call my office on that. As for material evidence . . .” He shot a glance at the coffee table. “I strongly suggest we burn these letters!”

  Khull pretended he didn’t hear anything.

  The telephone rang. Goring cursed, but decided to pick it up in the kitchen. He stepped out of the room.

  “Power in the right places will also be a crucial factor,” said Santinelli. “This will be a test of how much we really have.”

  “Mr. Steele!” Goring called. “It’s your faculty head, Mr. Tisen!”

  Steele motioned for Santinelli to follow him, and they joined Goring in the kitchen.

  “It sounds urgent,” Goring whispered.

  Khull saw his chance, and struggled to his feet.

  A SLEEK, BLUE sedan pulled into the parking lot, and three men in business suits got out, getting a good look at the place and acting just a little bewildered.

  “They’re going to think we’re crazy,” said one.

  “Let’s make this quick,” said another. “I want to get back in time to see the Broncos game.”

  They encountered a beautiful blonde woman just getting out of her Mercedes.

  “Pardon me, ma’am,” said the group’s leader. “We’re looking for . . . uh . . .” He lost his train of thought.

  The second man stepped in. “We need to talk to the people in charge of this place.”

  “Oh,” said the woman. “Why don’t you try Mr. Goring? His chalet is right over that way, beyond the herb garden, see?”

  She gave them just a few more pointers and then went her way. One man was ready to head for the chalet, but the other two just kept staring after the woman.

  “C’mon,” said the one, “let’s go.”

  “You know who that was?”

  “C’mon!”

  “That was . . . you know, What’s-her-name, from that TV show . . .”

  TAL’S BRUSHFIRE CONTINUED to rage.

  Far away, on the Bentmore University campus, there was quite a buzz about the School of Education closing down so suddenly. Information was scarce. There were isolated conversations here and there about the sudden death of Professor Samuel W. Lynch. No one seemed to know how he died, or at least no one was willing to talk about it. The only news being consistently repeated among the faculty and students was that he’d been found dead in his office and that the School of Education was suspending classes indefinitely. There were rumors, of course: Lynch may have been murdered, and there might be some kind of scandal afoot. There might be an investigation. Student reporters for the Bentmore Register were hoping for an exposé.

  CORRUPTER, THE BLOATED demon Prince of Bentmore University, was dethroned at last, and it was Chimon the European and his British friend Scion who batted him out of his position like a beach ball over a fence. The angelic forces had done their job quickly, and now homeless demons were aloft and wailing, most of them heading for Summit. Soon they would descend upon the Strongman along with all the other evicted and dethroned spirits, demanding rescue, answers, relief.

  IMMEDIATELY, WITH THE slamming down of the phone, Goring, Santinelli, and Steele came dashing around the corner and back into the living room with one goal in mind.

  And one huge shock waiting for them—an empty coffee table, and no Mr. Khull.

  “The letters!” cried Goring.

  “Khull!” said Steele.

  “That devil!” said Santinelli, dashing out the door.

  CHAPTER 44

  SALLY’S HEART POUNDED and ached in her chest as she scurried and stumbled over damp pine needles and patches of crusted snow, grappled and groped through prickly, dead branches, and tried with all her rapidly ebbing strength to stay ahead of the snappings, huffings, rustlings, and footfalls of the devils pursuing her.

  Two were directly below, but invisible behind limbs and thickets; a third was to her left, and she’d seen him twice, so close she could read the demons in his eyes. The fourth was silent and invisible except for his eerie, intermittent whistling to let the others know where he was.

  They were getting closer. O Lord Jesus, help me run!

  “Hey,” said one of the three visitors, “now who’s that?”

  His friends expected to see another celebrity. What they saw was a silver-haired man in a business suit running like a wild man across the herb garden.

  “Guys, I just have this feeling . . .”

  KHULL, HIS CHEST still reddened from his wound, had Goring’s briefcase full of Sally’s letters in one hand and the keys to the van in the other. He stood by the van, unable to find the right key to open it. He could see the key to the door, but it kept falling out of his fingers and dangling from the key ring.

  Guilo stood by him, flicking at the keys with the tip of his finger, making them dance, slip, flip, and turn every which way but where Khull wanted them.

  Tal swooped low over the parking lot with a message: “They’re on the way!”

  “Splendid!” said Guilo.

  SANTINELLI WAS GASPING for breath and about to collapse when he reached the parking lot, but the sight of Khull holding Goring’s briefcase fed his rage and his rage kept him going. He got to the van in mere seconds, pointing his shaking finger.

  “I’ll . . . take . . . those!” he gasped.

  Khull smiled mockingly. “Huh? You mean these?” It was a great joke to him.

  Santinelli was losing all semblance of dignity. “You devil! How dare you betray us!”

  Khull held up his hand. “Hey, just who was going to betray who? We’re all devils, right? You said so yourself. I’m taking these for insurance: number one, to make sure I get paid, and number two, to make sure you and I always remain close, trusting friends!”

  Santinelli had more rage than sense, and grabbed at the briefcase. Khull wasn’t about to let go of it.

  GUILO LET THEM go ahead and tangle. He was waiting for the right moment.

  All right. Good enough.

  With his huge hand, he batted the briefcase free. It struck the pavement, flipped twice, then flew open, throwing the letters everywhere.

  Santinelli—dignified, honorable, distinguished, high-powered attorney Santinelli—stooped to grab up the letters, but so did bloodthirsty, demonized, Satanist murderer Khull. They went to their knees, playing one on one, grabbing faster, grabbing more, shoving, jostling, grappling, ripping . . .

  Until they came to the feet. Three sets of feet. Nice shoes. Nice suits. Three men.

  One man held out his badge. FBI.

  DESTROYER BRACED HIMSELF, but the Strongman didn’t roar this time. He didn’t even slap Destroyer around the room. Instead, with defeat in his eyes, he looked above and all around, just watching his empire crumble.

  The cloud of demons was so hacked apart by this time that the light of Heaven was shining down on the Summit Institute in alarmingly large patches, turning the Global Consciousness Conference into a shambles. The psychics were unable to get any readings, the channelers’ spirit entities weren’t speaking, the tarot readers couldn’t remember what their cards were saying, and every “higher self” on campus was out to lunch and not answering.

  In the meantime, word was getting around the campus that three federal agents
had just arrested someone and were still checking around. Something big was going down, and few conferees had their minds on their own hidden potential and godhood, a shot in the arm the demons could have used.

  All this was distressing enough, but then the other spirits began to arrive from Bacon’s Corner, the Omega Center, Bentmore University, and other centers of demonic power disrupted by the spiritual shock waves. One by one, in various stages of dismemberment and injury, they tumbled into the basement of the chalet, screaming, scratching, clawing for rescue, for answers, for someone to blame.

  Terga, the Prince of Bacon’s Corner, was slowly withering, and pointed at the Strongman with his one good hand. “You brought this upon us! You and your ridiculous Plan!”

  Corrupter, only half his original size, rolled across the floor like a lame rat and spit out his accusation. “Have we built our empire at Bentmore only to feed it to Heaven’s Host?”

  Barquit kept his wings tightly wrapped around him, humiliated by his defeat and now swordless. “Your Plan! Always your Plan! Is this why I was never warned of the woman’s coming, or of this ambush laid against my principality?”

  Then from all around, from every fanged, drooling, spitting mouth, came the big question: “What have you done about the woman?”

  The Strongman had one simple answer for all the questions. He pointed to Destroyer. “There is your betrayer! If he had killed her when he should have, we would not be in this state today! It was his idea to capture her letters, and now her testimony is in writing and defeats us! He is the one whose harassments did not destroy her, but drove her to the Cross!”

  The Cross! That was all the spirits needed to hear. Swords appeared. “You will pay for this!”