Piercing the Darkness (54 page)

DESTROYER AND HIS
warriors skimmed over the top of the Physical Sciences Building and dropped toward the street, closing in on the station wagon. Tal and Mota clung to the car’s roof, swords ready, wings covering the passengers inside. Then Guilo shot out from a side street, Nathan and Armoth whipped around a bank building, Scion dropped from an overpass, Chimon and Signa weaved among the cars only inches above the pavement, Si came up through a manhole, and they all pounced on the car, covering every square inch of it, their drawn swords making it look like a glowing porcupine.

This would be it, a direct, power-for-power battle!

But suddenly, surprisingly, Destroyer pulled out of his dive and followed only twenty feet above them, passing through the traffic lights, telephone lines, and street signs, keeping an eye on them, sizing them up. The sight of the small band of warriors clinging to the vehicle, swords drawn for a last stand, made him laugh. It made his henchmen laugh.

Finally he shouted to them, “Call it a victory, captain!
I
call it progress! You are weaker than ever now, and the next time will be ours.
The fruit will be ripe, and we will pluck it down with ease! And don’t concern yourself with hiding her. We will always know where she is!”

They climbed into the night sky and were just disappearing into the darkness when the car went into the tunnel.

“What now?” Chimon asked, holding his wounded shoulder.

“Name it, cap,” said Scion, holding his useless leg. “We’ll do it.”

“We are spent,” said Tal. “Even though we confused Khull’s men, Destroyer could have taken us, and it’s only by the hand of the Lord that he didn’t know it. It’s time we hid her in Ashton.”

“And let her hear of the Cross!” said Nathan.

“We’ll get her there and let the Spirit speak to her.” Then he added with an unabashed anger, “While we get back to Bacon’s Corner and root out this prayer blockage once and for all!”

“UH,” ASKED MARV,
“where you headed?”

Sally was gasping for breath, sick with terror, and dripping with sweat. She was not entirely rational. “I don’t care. Anywhere. Anywhere away from here.”

Claudia looked over her shoulder at the pitiful creature slumped over in the backseat, weeping, panting, dripping with sweat. “You poor dear!”

Marv looked at her through the rearview mirror and could see the fear in her eyes. The Lord spoke to his heart. Yep, it was no accident that he’d picked her up. “Well, you just take it easy and try to rest. We’ll get you far away from here. I know just the place.”

CHAPTER 29

LUCY BRANDON WAS
feeling weak and ill, but trying not to show it, even as she scribbled a forwarding address on still another letter from Sally Roe and slipped the letter into the bag of outgoing mail. She didn’t want to do it, but she could see no alternative. Her lawyers were pressuring her, her friends at LifeCircle were smiling and encouraging her, Sergeant Mulligan was watching her, the lawsuit was moving full speed ahead, and the momentum was overpowering, carrying her along like a runaway train.

But after no less than twenty of these letters, she’d seen enough. She was afraid, she was ignorant of legal strategy, and perhaps she was a little too trusting and gullible, but she wasn’t stupid. There was no question in her mind that Sally Roe was alive.

The more she thought about that, the more devastating it became. Gradually, just one small idea at a time, she was allowing herself to think the unthinkable: something more than a lawsuit was in progress and she was being lied to by someone, maybe everyone. If she was being lied to, she was probably breaking the law for all her friends and not for herself. If all that were true, then—she’d tried to bury this thought for weeks—she was being used.

She had no question that her daughter Amber was being used, if not by these legal eagles, then certainly by that once-cute little pony Amber had befriended in Miss Brewer’s fourth-grade class. The laughter,
the fun and games, the cartoon-character charm were all things of the past. Amethyst was no friend of any kind.

But now Lucy was in so deep, how could she back out? What direction could she turn? How—

The bell rang at the front desk. Debbie was on her break, so Lucy hurried to the front.

This big man looked familiar. She’d seen him around town, but he wasn’t from around here. She immediately felt uncomfortable.

“Can I help you?”

“Hi. I’m Marshall Hogan. I’m a friend of Tom Harris, and I just got a letter here from the Omega Center for Educational Studies in Fair-wood, Massachusetts . . .”

He acted like he was giving her a cue, but she didn’t catch whatever it was. “Yes? Is there a problem?”

“Well . . . I suppose you know that they’re the publishers of the
Finding the Real Me
curriculum that Miss Brewer uses at the elementary school?”

“I still don’t see your point.”

“Well, I wrote to the Omega Center to order a copy of the
Finding the Real Me
curriculum, and they tell me here in this letter that they only make that curriculum available to educational institutions, and not to the general public. Don’t you think that’s a little strange?”

Lucy knew she didn’t want to talk about this. “I’m not the Omega Center, sir, and I’m not responsible for their policies. Now unless you have some business with the Post Office . . .”

Marshall looked behind him. No one else was standing in line. “I’ll just be a second. Let’s talk about that local group, uh, LifeCircle. I understand that LifeCircle is a major force in education around here: three of the school board belong to it, the principal of the elementary school—Mr. Woodard—belongs to it, Miss Brewer belongs to it, and you belong to it. The school board adopted the Omega Center curriculum, Mr. Woodard implemented it, Miss Brewer’s teaching it, and your daughter Amber contacted her inner guide, Amethyst, because of it.”

Only a week ago Lucy would have felt invaded, and very angry. Today was different. “What about it?” She really wanted to know.

She was trying to look strong and unshakable, but Marshall caught the curiosity in her eyes. “Let me ask you this: Why do you suppose
Miss Brewer couldn’t produce the curriculum when we asked to see it, and neither could Mr. Woodard, and neither could the school board, and now the Omega Center itself won’t allow me to order a copy of it? When I consider how all you people are connected, it sure makes me wonder if your lawsuit against the Good Shepherd Academy might have something to do with it. Do you suppose there’s something in that curriculum your friends don’t want us to see?”

Lucy didn’t answer for a long moment. She’d never thought about the question before. She wanted an answer herself. “I don’t know, Mr. . . .”

“Hogan. Marshall Hogan.”

“What are you, an investigator or something?”

“Sure, something like that. Mostly just a friend of your opponents in this lawsuit.”

“Well, obviously I can’t talk about any of this.”

“I understand. Thank you very much for your time.”

“You’re welcome.”

He left the building, and Lucy returned to her work, or at least tried to return to it. If she was pensive and troubled before her visit with this Mr. Hogan, now she was totally distracted. What else did that man know, and why didn’t she know it?

Marshall got back to Ben and Bev’s, and placed a collect long-distance call.

Back at his newspaper, a young, pretty, bespectacled brunette answered the phone from inside Marshall’s glass-enclosed office. “
Ashton Clarion
, Bernice Krueger speaking.”

“Hey, Bernice, this is Marshall.”

“Well, well!” She closed the office door against the outside clamor and plopped down at his desk, ready for the latest. “Can any good news come out of Bacon’s Corner?”

“Well . . . the walls of the fort are getting thin, but no break-throughs yet.”

“Keep digging.”

“That’s why I called. You remember I told you about that curriculum at the elementary school?”

“Right. The kids getting into alpha mind control and spirit-guides. Did you ever get a copy of it?”

“No dice. They’re stonewalling it, as far up the ladder as Omega itself. Are you still in touch with that guy in Washington, what’s-his-name . . . ?”

“Cliff Bingham. Sure. He got me some inside stuff on the last election.”

“I’m wondering if he couldn’t check with the Library of Congress and find an original copy of this thing.”

Bernice grabbed a pen and started writing herself a note. “I’ll call him. What exactly do you want?”

“
Finding the Real Me
, a curriculum for fourth-graders.”

She wrote it down. “Published by Omega Center . . .”

“Uh . . . Omega Center for Educational Studies, Fairwood, Massachusetts.”

“Any idea what year?”

“Beats me.”

“Okay. We will see what we will see.”

“Okay, now let’s talk about the Tuesday edition. Pull that malt shop story; John likes it, but his wife will have a fit . . .”

They talked business. Bernice took notes, pulled files, read copy over the phone, and got orders from her boss.

OUTSIDE, THE MIDWEEK,
midday business in the town of Ashton was in full swing; people, grocery carts, and vehicles were circulating through the parking lot at Carlucci’s Market; the fire fighters were hosing down the apron at Station Fifteen and shining up the pumper; Clyde Sodeberg and his sons were beating the still-green concrete off some forms over at the new Midwest Savings and Loan project.

Driving past it all, and then stopping at the second of four lights along Main Street, Marv and Claudia Simpson introduced Sally Beth Roe—they thought her name was Betty Smith—to their town.

“It’s a great place to live and do business,” said Marv. “At least it is now. We’ve had our share of trouble, but things have settled down quite a bit, and I think we’re having a turn for the better.”

The light turned green and Marv piloted the big station wagon further down the street, past the small stores, the True Value Hardware, the local newspaper . . .

“That’s the
Ashton Clarion
,” said Marv. “It comes out on Tuesdays and Fridays, and the editor’s a saint. I think he’s been out of town for a while; I don’t know what he’s been doing.”

They drove past the high school. It was new this year, because enrollment was up.

Marv turned left at the third light and drove up a gradually graded street into a quiet neighborhood with massive oak trees lining the street, small, garishly painted bicycles leaning against the oaks, and orange basketball hoops on every other garage. The lawns were neat, the sidewalks were clean, and the cars all seemed to know their proper parking places.

Marv turned left again and came to a row of large, turn-of-the-century homes with white, beveled siding, large chimneys, massive roofs, cozy dormers, and wide, roomy front porches. He pulled over and parked in front of the third house on the right, probably the most inviting house of all, with a perfectly manicured lawn, colorful planted borders, a pillared front porch, and an inviting porch swing. In front, just beside the walkway, was a small, unpretentious sign: Sara Barker’s Boarding House.

“Here’s the place I told you about,” said Marv.

“It’ll be just right, I think,” said Claudia. “You’ll have time to think things through and get your head clear.”

Sally took their hands and held them tightly. “You’ve done me a wonderful kindness. Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome,” said Marv. “We’ll have you out to the dairy sometime.”

“I’d love that.”

“Oh, here’s Sara now,” said Claudia.

“Sara’s a good gal; you’ll like her.”

Sara was, and Sally did. The house actually belonged to Sara and her husband Floyd, but they thought using just her name on the sign would be more charming. Floyd was a tall, thin man of few words who had recently retired from the grain business and was now trying his hand at being a writer when he wasn’t serving as the handyman for the boarding house—which he was at the moment. He was glad to meet her and shook her hand warmly. As for Sara, she impressed Sally as everyone’s idea of the perfect grandma, a short little woman
with close-cropped gray hair, little round glasses, and a cute story about most everything.