Piercing the Darkness (49 page)

“But it was my daughter . . .”

“But a different and separate personality, correct?”

Lucy stared at him. She was thinking about it. Corrigan could sense Ames and Jefferson getting more and more tense.

“Correct?” Corrigan asked again.

“Yes,” she said finally. “I think that’s correct.”

“So . . . if someone—even yourself—should ever confront Amethyst, they would actually be confronting a personality other than your daughter?”

“I guess so. Maybe.”

Ames and Jefferson did not like that answer. No doubt they would have quite a conference with Lucy Brandon when this was over.

Corrigan decided it was time for a provocative benediction. “So, does it seem so strange to you now that Mr. Harris might also have had a similar encounter, not with your daughter Amber, but with Amethyst,
a separate personality: a violent struggle, a wrestling match, a demonstrative confrontation? Can you imagine what it must have been like for him to have Amethyst behave in the classroom as she behaved in the Post Office lobby, screaming, hitting, and producing information that Amber—as Amber—could not possibly know? Can you understand now what conclusion a Biblical Christian would come to when confronted with a violent, uncontrollable, alternate personality in a young, innocent child?” He didn’t need an answer, and he didn’t wait for one. “Thank you, Mrs. Brandon. I know this has been difficult for you. That’s all for now.”

CHAPTER 27

BENTMORE UNIVERSITY WAS
nestled—almost hidden—within the tight, red-brick grid of a major metropolis. In every direction, it was just across the street from the noise, litter, traffic, and growing pains of the city. It had outlived the rise and fall of a low-income housing project on its north flank; on the west side, the delicatessens, tailors, and cleaners were now owned by third generations; on the east, the tugs still pulled their barges up and down the murky river, the rumble of their engines audible across the campus when the wind was right; on the south, several new apartments had become the only view in that direction, and now the streets down there were filled with big old cars driven by retired folks who drove slowly.

In the center of it all, Bentmore lived on, standing firm and steadfast in red brick and white stone, its halls, dormitories, libraries, and labs evenly dispersed on the lawned terrain, its patterned brick sidewalks radiating like spokes from every entryway, crisscrossing and networking like trade routes to every point on the campus.

To the human eye, Bentmore seemed an oasis of peace, reflection, and learning amid the hubbub of its surroundings; in the spiritual realm, the real trouble was within its borders, not outside them.

Guilo met with Tal and his top warriors on the roof of the old North American Can Company, located just across the river from the campus. Beneath their feet, soup cans, juice cans, fruit cans, and sardine
cans took shape and clattered by the windows in an endless, rolling parade; across the river, still veiled by the morning mist, old Bentmore was ominously quiet.

Guilo stood beside Tal to give his report. He was nervous, agitated, ready for a fight, his hand resting on the handle of his sword. “Some of their best are there. The great deceivers, the great builders of the Enemy’s coming kingdom, all supervised by a behemoth who calls himself Corrupter.”

“I’ve heard of him,” said Tal. “He has power and great deceptive ability, but not much speed or wit in battle.”

“An advantage, to be sure. If we remain stealthy, there is a lot we could do before he becomes aware of it.”

Nathan peered through the mist and thought he saw some hulking spirits gliding occasionally between the structures, but most of them were unseen. “They remain hidden, tucked away inside the buildings.”

“Very occupied,” said Armoth. “Classes are in session.”

“Corrupter is a bit comfortable at the moment, and off-guard,” said Guilo, “but Destroyer is going to be another problem. He is on his way now, with all his forces. Then old Bentmore will be like a hive of hornets at rest. Merely shake the tree, and . . .”

“They will overrun us,” said Tal. “Destroyer’s troublemakers in Bacon’s Corner are doing well at this point; our prayer cover is as weak as it’s ever been, and we’re left with seriously depleted numbers. Direct confrontations are going to be risky. We’ll have to lean heavily on stealth and strategy . . .”

Guilo allowed himself a quick, stifled chuckle as he eyed the campus. “I remind you all: they could eat us alive.”

THE BENCHES HERE
and there on the campus were still wet with dew and mist, but Sally found a comfortable desk hidden away in the stacks of the Research Library. So far she hadn’t seen library staff that she recognized, and that set her a little more at ease. Thanks to a small cleaning shop on the west side of the campus, her better clothes—slacks, blouse, dress jacket—were cleaned and pressed; she’d replaced her wayfaring-stranger ensemble with a more presentable outfit, and stashed her duffel bag, replacing it with a less obtrusive carry bag. She
could recall looking sharp and professional twelve years ago, with carefully coordinated outfits and her hair tightly pinned. Today the best she could look was casual and twelve years older, with tinted glasses and dye-blackened hair pinned up as best as she could arrange it. She just had to hope she looked different enough from the Sally Roe people would remember.

Oh, I must have been so proud of my calling as an educator! As I sit here and observe the graduate students around this place, working toward their Master’s degrees just like I did, I can see the same pride in their faces, I can sense the same highbrow demeanor. To be honest, I see myself as I was back then. The old Bentmore mold has not broken. I can guess what they’re thinking: they are world conquerors, missionaries for a bold message of global change.

And I would say they are correct. Bentmore is still turning out great educators, great agents of change. They will be the teachers, the administrators, the principals, the authors, the lobbyists. A nation will follow them; they will restructure an entire culture.

Sally checked her watch. It was after 9 in the morning; someone should be in Professor Lynch’s office by now, either his secretary or Lynch himself. This would be the greatest risk of all, but she must contact him. Of all people, he should have some of the answers she needed.

She’d checked for his name and number in the campus directory, and surprising as it was, after twelve years Samuel W. Lynch was still head of the School of Education. As she remembered him, he was definitely fit for the position, always an imposing man of great knowledge, stature, and strength.

A tall, athletic undergrad had just finished using the pay phone on the wall behind her. She grabbed the opportunity. She would try to get an appointment with Lynch, perhaps during his office hours. All she could hope was that the man was not as brilliant as she remembered him to be; perhaps he wouldn’t recall who she was.

WAYNE CORRIGAN AND
Gordon Jefferson, the ACFA attorney, were never going to be good friends, that was readily apparent.

“Mr. Jefferson, I’m simply saying that we have the right to confront our accuser!” Corrigan was feeling very forceful, and had his mouth so close to the receiver that Jefferson heard a roar every time Corrigan pronounced an
s
or an
f.

Jefferson came back just as firm, and even a little snide. “Your accuser, Mr. Corrigan, is Lucy Brandon, not Amber, and you have already deposed Mrs. Brandon in such a harsh manner as to cause her terrible distress! We wouldn’t think of putting Amber in the same situation.”

“We do not wish to cause Amber any grief—none at all! We’ll work within restrictions, we’ll be gentle. But so far everything we’ve heard, all the testimony, all the grievances, have come through either Lucy Brandon or Dr. Mandanhi. The real complainant in this case is neither of these people, but Amber herself.”

“Amber is not going to testify or be forced to go through a deposition. We will fight that, sir!”

“We must have Amber’s direct testimony concerning the complaints brought against my clients.”

“It would be too traumatic for her. She’s already so deeply wounded by these unfortunate events, we simply cannot allow her to be traumatized further by being put through the stress and pain of a deposition and a trial!”

“Then we want our psychologist to examine her. At least then we would have our own expert testimony to balance the testimony of Dr. Mandanhi.”

“Absolutely not! Amber is not to be involved in this case in any way. She must be kept separate from it; she must be protected from any further abuse and intimidation!”

Corrigan sighed and looked across his desk at Marshall, who was closely listening and watching Corrigan’s side of the conversation. Marshall made a wringing motion with his hands as if twisting an invisible arm and whispered, “You stick it to ’em!”

“I’m afraid we can’t back down in this matter,” Corrigan told Jefferson. “If you won’t change your mind, then we’ll ask the court to compel her availability and testimony.”

“We’re prepared for that,” said Jefferson.

“Very well, then.”

Corrigan hung up, and then he thought for a moment. “Maybe I pushed Lucy Brandon too hard. Now they’re hiding Amber under a bushel.”

Marshall nodded an emphatic nod. “Sure. Irene Bledsoe, and Lucy Brandon, and this Dr. Mandanhi character can say all they want, but Amber’s the key to this whole thing. As long as Amethyst is doing her—its—stuff, Amber’s going to be a real risk.”

“Sure, if we can just get her on that stand, or get our own expert to examine her. I mean, if we can just get Amethyst to manifest once, we could build an argument that Tom’s behavior in confronting Amethyst was justified.” He smiled. “Wouldn’t it be great if we could get Amethyst to tear up the courtroom? We could
win
this case!”

“They know that.”

“Well, we
do
know what happened in the Post Office, and that has them scared. We need to beef up that defense; we have Alice Buckmeier’s eyewitness account, but another witness would sure be nice, especially if Lucy decides to squirrel out of her deposed testimony somehow.”

Marshall answered, “Well, there’s still that other gal, Debbie, who works at the Post Office with Brandon. Alice says she was there, but I’m wondering where her loyalties might lie.”

“We’ll just hand her a subpoena and find out.”

“And then there’s the victim of Amethyst’s attack.”

Corrigan nodded. “Our greatest unsolved mystery. She’s like a ghost, you know? We have pictures of her, eyewitness accounts of her, facts and information about her, but as far as what she has to do with this case, she’s like a mirage, she simply isn’t there.”

“So push this Amber thing. Go ahead and ask for a hearing. The ACFA could use a dose of their own medicine. If it doesn’t do anything else for us, it’ll buy us time. You never know when something big will break.”

Corrigan was captivated by the thought. “Amber, we’ve got to get you on that stand!”