Piercing the Darkness (23 page)

One hulking spirit reminded Destroyer, “But the Strongman will not turn away from his Plan; he is committed to it.”

“An easy position for him to take,” Destroyer hissed spitefully, fingering the handle of his sword. “If the Plan should fail, it will not be his head that rolls, but ours. He will see to that. We must succeed.”

He stopped to think for a moment, his black talons pulling like hooks at the stiff hairs on his neck.

“I am learning more and more about this Tal; he is quite the strategist, a master of subtlety. Thus far the Host of Heaven have been effective and yet largely invisible. Tal is waiting, maneuvering. He is a layer of traps, a setter of snares.”

Another spirit, scarred and grotesque, growled, “I was there in Ashton. I saw the ambush.”

Destroyer spit sulfur and let his anger rise. “So you know that Tal waited until our forces could wait no longer and flew headlong into his patient trap, brash and unaware. We had only our confidence, but Tal was
ready.
We will not make that mistake again.”

Destroyer scanned the town from this rooftop perch. “If Tal is so subtle, we will be even more so. If he depends on the prayers of God’s people, then we will work all the harder to keep God’s people from praying.” He chuckled a sulfurous chuckle. “You don’t know about the little imps I requested from the Strongman: Strife, Division, Gossip, and a host of others flooding this town at this very moment! These humans are only of flesh, of mud, and I suggest there is one force stronger than their zeal for God: their own self-righteousness! We will make them proud, pure in their own eyes, vindictive, unjust judges over each other, and stir up such a noise among them that the simplest prayer will not be uttered!”

The warriors were impressed and muttered their awe and approval.

“In the meantime,” Destroyer continued, “let us not forget that
our
people are praying as well, devoting much time and worship to our lord, and he is responding with great favor toward us, sending more and more forces to bolster our ranks and confound our enemies! Time is on our side!” Then he stopped and grinned. “So, if Tal is a master of waiting, we will be the same! Though Tal may dangle Sally Roe like a carrot before our noses, we will not assault her too soon. We will not fly into another ambush.” Destroyer’s eyes narrowed with cunning. “We will wait, as Tal does. We will watch, we will follow, until our moment is right, until this mighty Captain of the Host is not so mighty, but is
confounded, stripped of his power by the saints of God themselves!

“And then sometime, somewhere, Sally Roe will have her Gethsemane. She will be alone. Her escorts will be unaware, unready, small in numbers. The moment will be ours to take her.”

“But how will we know?” asked a fourth demon.

“We will know, just as before, because a Judas will tell us. All we have to do is find him.” Destroyer hacked a hideous chuckle. “Such a marvelous thing, betrayal!”

CHAPTER 14

BEN WOULD BE
getting out of the station and out on patrol a little earlier this morning. He had plans to sit behind the trees at the west end of the Snyder River Bridge and nab speeders for a while, maybe get his citation quota up a bit.

But first . . . if he could do it quietly enough, he thought he’d use the police teletype to request a crime check on Sally Roe. It just might turn something up.

“Cole . . .”

It was Mulligan, and there was something strange about the tone in his voice.

“Yes, sir.”

Mulligan came out of his office and over to Ben’s desk. He leaned on it with his big fist and cut into Ben with his eyes.

Ben was ready to talk, but not to be stared at. “Something wrong, Harold?”

Mulligan was almost smiling. “You been snooping around again?”

“Snooping?”

“Leonard tells me you were bothering Joey Parnell, the coroner.”

Ben was a little stunned to hear that such a report had come from Leonard, of all people. “If Leonard told you I was
bothering
Mr. Parnell, I would have to disagree with his terms. I don’t think I was bothering Mr. Parnell at all. I sat next to him over at Don’s and just asked a few
questions. It was all very casual.”

“Didn’t I tell you to drop this Sally Roe thing? What’s wrong with your memory, Cole?”

Ben had been a wimp long enough. He stood to his feet and faced Mulligan eye to eye. “There is nothing wrong with my memory, Harold, Mr. Sergeant, sir! I have never been able to forget what I’ve seen pertaining to this case and the way it’s been handled. I’ve been bothered by it, I’ve lost sleep over it, and quite frankly I’ve been very disappointed by the incompetence I’ve seen on the part of some duly elected public servants who should know better. If we must discuss memories, I found that Mr. Parnell’s memory is not better than your eyesight in regard to the dead woman we found and her true identity. Forgive me for speaking so freely, sir.”

Mulligan leaned toward Ben so that their faces were only an inch apart. “I thought you and Leonard were supposed to be doing a drug bust at Don’s. I don’t see any contraband, Cole. Where is it?”

“Leonard took care of that, sir.”

Mulligan called, “Leonard?”

Leonard was doing something in the back. “Yeah?”

“Did you bring any contraband back from that drug bust?”

“Yeah. About a quarter kilo of marijuana. Ben took care of it.”

Ben made a face and smiled a bit at the mixup. “Leonard, you handled that whole case, remember? I was over talking to Parnell.”

Leonard came into the room, his face filled with astonishment. “Ben, have you slipped a gear? I gave that pot to you to file as evidence.”

Ben was incredulous. “No way!”

Mulligan looked back and forth at the two men. “Guys, we are missing some pot. Now where is it?”

“I gave it to Ben to file as evidence,” said Leonard.

“No,” said Ben. “Absolutely not!”

Mulligan smiled cunningly. “How’s about we just take a look in your locker, Cole?”

“Sure thing.”

But even as Ben said that, it occurred to him what might be happening. As they went down the hall to the lockers, he knew he wouldn’t be surprised if . . .

Mulligan threw open the locker. The plastic bag of marijuana fell
out and landed on the floor.

Mulligan raised an eyebrow. It was no secret that he was getting a kick out of this. “Looks like you filed it in the wrong place, Cole.”

Ben nodded with full knowledge of what was happening. “Yeah, right, right.” He looked at Leonard. “Next time I’ll have to get a lock on my locker instead of trusting the people I work with.”

Leonard countered quickly, “Careful what you say, Ben. This could be serious.”

“Serious? Guys, this is
pitiful
!” Ben reached for his chest. “Hey, how about it, Harold? I’ll bet you have a spicy report written up already. Don’t worry. You won’t need it. Guys, the game stops here. I’m not playing.” He removed his badge and held it out for Mulligan to take.

Mulligan took it. “Turn in your uniform by tomorrow.”

“You got it.”

Ben went quietly to his desk, removed his gun, radio, and other gear, and set them down. He opened the drawer, removed a New Testament and some other personal items, then slid it shut.

As he put on his jacket, he realized he had mixed feelings about what had happened—he felt sorrow and anxiety over losing his job, but at the same time elated and relieved. At least he was losing his job for the right reasons. Hopefully the Lord would bless him for that.

Mulligan and Leonard stood in the hall together, watching him go. He examined their faces for just a moment, and then went out the door.

THE TWO WEEKS
were up. The hearing convened on schedule, at nine o’clock in the morning, in the department of the Honorable Emily R. Fletcher of the Federal District Court, Room 412, the Federal Courthouse, in the city of Westhaven, some sixty miles south of Bacon’s Corner.

Tom and Ben rode with Mark and Cathy. They challenged the freeway, waited for the lights, made the correct turns, and arrived in Westhaven with just enough time to park in a multistoried concrete parking lot, get their parking stub, dash across the street to the courthouse, and catch a crowded elevator up to the fourth floor where they finally found Room 412.

Right away, they knew the whole experience was going to be imposing, foreign, frightening, and inscrutable. It was bad enough being in this vast building with heavy marble walls that seemed to close in on you. It was worse to know next to nothing about what was going to happen and how your fate was going to be decided by so many three-piece-suited professionals you’d never seen before. It was even worse than that to find no less than a hundred people crammed into the hall outside the courtroom trying to get in. Who
were
they, anyway?

Tom cringed. Many were reporters. They weren’t allowed to bring their cameras in, praise the Lord, but they were certainly gawking at him and muttering, swapping information, scribbling in their notepads. Some artists were there, easels and chalk ready to sketch a quick portrait of these strange Christians from an obscure little town.

Where was Wayne Corrigan? He said he would meet them here. Oh, there was his hand, waving in the air above a tight circle of reporters. He elbowed his way out of the circle and hurried up to meet them, the reporters following him as if connected to his body with string.

“Let’s get inside,” he said, sounding desperate. “It’s a zoo out here.”

They pressed forward into the crowd, and somehow, one step at a time, they made it to the big wooden doors and pushed through.

Now they were in a cavernous courtroom, with deeply stained woodwork, a thick green carpet, tall, draped windows, and a bench that rose like a mountain in front. The gallery was almost full.

Corrigan showed Tom and Mark to the defendant’s table; Ben sat with Cathy in the front row of the gallery. Mrs. Fields was already seated there and doing some cross-stitch. Three board members, Jack and Doug Parmenter and Bob Heely, were ready to testify as well.

Corrigan spoke to Tom and Mark in muffled tones. “The judge may not take any oral testimony, but it’s good to be ready in case. It’s a real circus, let me tell you. The ACFA is here in full force, and the press, and I think some people from the National Coalition on Education. We’re in the hot seat. It’s—”

Lucy Brandon entered the courtroom, wearing a blue dress and looking very formal. She was flanked by the blonde Claire Johanson and a tall, youthful-looking man, obviously her attorney.

“That’s Gordon Jefferson, Brandon’s attorney. He’s ACFA.”

In came an older attorney, his chin high, holding a black briefcase
in front of his stomach.

“Wendell Ames, Brandon’s other attorney, senior partner at Ames, Jefferson, and Morris. His father was the state founder of the ACFA back in the thirties.”

The four sat at the plaintiff’s table without looking their way.

“
Two
attorneys?” Tom asked.

“They’re out to win. What can I say? I did the best I could with the brief. It only came to twelve pages. The affidavits—the sworn statements of yourselves and Mrs. Fields—seem effective enough, but our Scriptural arguments are going to have trouble standing up against psychological reports. They’ve hired a shrink, you know, some child psychologist named Mandanhi. That’s him sitting in the second row over there.”

They looked and saw a balding, dark-skinned man of apparent East Indian descent.

“What did he have to say?” asked Mark.

“What do you think? He has Amber diagnosed as a sick and traumatized little girl, and it’s all your fault, naturally.”

“Naturally,” muttered Tom.

“We’ll see how we do, guys. Just remember, it’s only the first battle, not the entire war.”

A door to the left of the bench swung open.

The bailiff stood to her feet and declared, “All rise.”

They all rose.

“Court is now in session, the Honorable Emily R. Fletcher presiding.”

Judge Fletcher was a dignified woman in her fifties with close-cropped blonde hair and a pleasant facial expression. She took her place behind the bench and spoke in clear tones. “Thank you. Please be seated.”

They sat.

“The case is
Brandon v. The Good Shepherd Academy.
Today is a hearing on a temporary injunction issued by this court two weeks ago restraining The Good Shepherd Academy from . . .” She perched her reading glasses on her nose and referred to the documents before her. “‘Outrageous Religious Behavior Against a Child, Physical Abuse by Spanking, Excessive Religious Instruction Harmful to the Child, Harassment,
Discrimination, and Religious Indoctrination Using Federal Funds.’ Are counsel ready to proceed?”

She looked toward Lucy Brandon and her two attorneys.

Ames stood to his feet. “Yes, Your Honor.”

She looked toward Tom, Mark, and Wayne Corrigan. “And the defendants . . . are you ready?”