Memory's Door (A Well Spring Novel) (18 page)
He strode for the back door with a confidence he didn’t feel, because he chose to believe by the time he sat down at the table he would have a solution.
M
ARCUS SAT IN HIS DEN
,
CLENCHING HIS HANDS TOGETHER
tighter and tighter till the strain on his fingers grew into a sharp pain. He released his fingers and leaned forward, arms on his desk, and tried to stop sucking in breaths like he’d just completed a four-minute mile.
He’d come in from outside with confidence the Spirit would give him an answer, but his mind was clouded as if the Spirit was speaking but his ears were too clogged to hear. All he could consider was how impossible it would be to sit through a meal with Calen three feet away, using his allure to draw Abbie, Kat, and even Jayla into his dark pit of hell. That was not going to happen.
But what could he do? Calen—no, not Calen—Zennon, was right. If he kicked the thing out of his house, then Zennon would use the scene to play Abbie against him. If Marcus tried to tell his family right there at the table what Calen was they would shoot him down like a clay pigeon.
But he had to show up. He had to get down there now. He couldn’t stay up here and let his wife and daughters dine without him. He stood and walked toward the door of his den. He stopped and his gaze fell on two framed movie posters side by side.
One was of
The Matrix
, the other of
The Terminator
. What would it be like if Neo and the Terminator met in battle? If it was in the real world, Neo would be slaughtered just like Marcus had been
out on the back patio. But if it was inside the matrix, the outcome would be vastly different.
Of course. That was it. He’d been fighting in Zennon’s arena. An intellectual one where he could never beat the demon. Arguing with him was like a billy club going up against a lightsaber. He needed a nuclear bomb. What was that verse Reece continually quoted?
“For the weapons of our warfare are not of the flesh but have divine power to destroy strongholds.”
Marcus almost laughed. Hadn’t he learned anything over the past year? He clomped down the stairs knowing exactly what to do. As he stepped into the dining room, he recalled Isaiah 42:13,
“The L
ORD
will go forth like a warrior, He will arouse His zeal like a man of war. He will utter a shout, yes, He will raise a war cry. He will prevail against His enemies.” Be with me, Warrior God.
Chicken Dijon was stacked on a plate in the middle of the table. Thin wisps of steam rose from a bowl of mashed potatoes sitting next to a Caesar salad and next to it a bowl of corn on the cob. Norman Rockwell would be proud. Such a picturesque meal. One he was about to destroy.
“Nice of you to join us, honey.” Kat glared at him.
Marcus smiled as wide as he could, moved to the head of the table, and sat. Kat was to his left and Jayla was next to her. To his right sat Abbie and to her right was Calen.
Here we go.
“Forgive my slight delay. May it not hamper in any way the enjoyment of this fine dinner and the pleasure of having with us once again our stimulating guest, Calen.” Marcus took a deep breath through his nose and spread his napkin on his lap. “Calen and I had an extremely illuminating chat out on the back deck, and I feel like we truly had the chance to get to know each other intimately.” He stared at the demon and the irises of Calen’s brown eyes grew till they filled his pupils and turned to the color of a moonless night at 3:00 a.m.
“Now, before we begin, we have a tradition around the dinner
table in our family that I’m starting tonight, and I know all of us would love to have you participate in it, Calen.”
Abbie frowned at him. “What are you doing, Dad?”
Marcus held up his hand. “As you know, Calen, we are a family that follows Jesus and have surrendered our lives to him. Abbie told me that you have done the same, which is wonderful. And apparently you’re an integral part of the youth group at your church, so what we’re about to do will likely feel very comfortable to you.
“With that in mind, from this evening forward, we will go around the table and declare our commitment to the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit by saying the following: ‘I confess now before you, Lord, as well as before the friends and family now near me, that Jesus Christ is God come in the flesh, the King of kings, and all authority, all rulers, all principalities are under his feet.’”
Marcus turned and drilled Calen with his gaze. “As our guest, I’d be honored if you would do us the favor of going first.” The air seemed to freeze and no one spoke.
“Why are you doing this, Dad?”
Marcus looked at Abbie and narrowed his eyes. “I need you to be silent for a bit, Abbs. And I need you to trust me.”
“Marcus?” Kat laid her hand on his arm and squeezed hard. “Do you really want to create a scene at this moment?”
“It’s a good question, Mr. Amber,” Calen said. “Why are you doing this? I think your saying a short word of grace should suffice for the meal, but anything more will likely make your entire family as well as me quite uncomfortable.”
“I appreciate your opinion, Calen. But tonight that will not suffice.” Marcus turned to Kat. “Trust me that this is true.” He turned back to Calen. “We need to hear our guest tell us Jesus Christ has come in the flesh and that he is God. It’s not a difficult request for one who has surrendered to the Nazarene.”
Calen’s eyes went dark and his breathing grew shallow. He gripped the table and his fingers turned white. “I choose to respectfully decline.”
Marcus raised himself up to his full height, sitting in the chair ramrod straight. “I insist.”
He glanced at Abbie, whose eyes pleaded for him to stop, and then at Kat, who looked like she’d just swallowed a mouthful of gravel. He gave a slight nod to each of them, and the look in his eyes must have been like steel because they both dropped their gazes to the table and stayed silent.
Calen pulled his hands off the table and laughed. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Amber. I realize it’s not my place to say this, but I think you’re embarrassing your family and you’re making me feel a little awkward as well.” He motioned toward Kat. “Your beautiful wife has cooked a wonderful meal and it’s getting cold. And if I’m being totally candid, I’ve never been good at saying grace, and on top of that, I’ve forgotten the words you wanted me to say. Can you just say a word of thanks so we all can eat?”
“Please, Dad? Please?”
“Calen, humor me and take part in our new tradition. I’m not asking you to say grace. And there are no words for you to memorize. Simply in your own words tell us Jesus is the Son of God, and that he is God come in the flesh.”
Marcus waited a moment, then leaped to his feet, and as his chair smashed into the china hutch behind him, he shouted, “I command you by the blood of Jesus Christ to confess that Jesus is Lord.”
A shudder went across Calen’s shoulders and saliva bubbled onto his lips. His eyes narrowed and he leaned toward Marcus. “You don’t want to do this.”
Marcus stepped around the corner of the table. “By the blood of Jesus Christ, the power of his resurrection, and the power of his ascension, I command you to tell us who you are and what your true name is. I bind you with the blood of the Lamb. I command you to do this by the authority of Jesus Christ our Lord.”
Calen snarled and grabbed the table with both hands. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with. You’re in so far over your head, you’re looking up from the bottom of the seabed.”
“Tell us, Calen. I command you by the blood of the Lamb. Tell us who you are.”
The demon’s face distorted into that of an elderly woman, then to a middle-aged man, then back to the face of Calen. “You have no power over me.” His breathing came in gasps now and his hands slid across the table into the mashed potatoes, which slid between Kat and Jayla over the edge and smashed onto the floor.
“Tell us!” Marcus thundered.
“I am . . . I am . . . Zennon.” Calen stood, stumbled back, knocked over his chair, and pointed at Marcus. “You cannot stop us. I’m one of millions and we are not going to destroy you at some point in the future—we already have. And you don’t even know it.”
Marcus stood. “Get out! In the name of Jesus! Go!”
The demon spun and flung his hands at the mirror on the wall. The glass shattered and rained down on them like hail.
“Daddy!”
Calen staggered out of the dining room and came to a halt at the front door. He turned and stared at Marcus. “You’re going to lose this battle, Professor. You’ve already lost it. Just wait till you see what we’ve cooked up just for you. I worked on it personally. It’ll have you wishing you’d never gotten near the hornet’s nest. We’re coming for you. And for the others. And it won’t end till you’re dead.” He waved his finger at Abbie and Jayla. “And then they will join you.”
“One more thing.” Zennon opened the door and pointed at Kat. “If you don’t tell her soon, we will. And she’ll know what you did to him. She’ll know the catastrophic secret you’ve kept hidden from her forever.”
Marcus screamed and sprinted toward the front door, but before he could reach Zennon, the door slammed shut and Marcus thumped against it hard. Adrenaline pumped through him and the back of his shirt was damp with perspiration.
After three deep breaths with his eyes closed he opened them and turned to his family. Abbie sat on the floor curled up in a ball in a corner of the dining room, her body shaking. Jayla was still at the
table, eyes wide, face the color of copy paper. Kat’s arms were spread wide, one in the direction of each girl, and her head darted back and forth as if she couldn’t decide which of their daughters to go to first.
Marcus strode back into the dining room, slid down beside Abbie, and motioned Kat and Jayla to join them.
“It’s okay. We won. He’s gone. He’s gone.” Marcus prayed, stopped after a few minutes, then prayed again. Three or four minutes went by and he prayed a third time.
“I think I’m going to be sick.” Abbie squeezed Marcus’s hand. “I . . . I kissed him, Daddy.”
“I’m so sorry, Abbs.” He pulled her tighter into his chest. “I should have seen it. I should have warned you.”
“You did. And I wouldn’t listen.”
“It’s okay.”
The four of them sat in silence for what seemed like a half hour. He finally looked at Kat, who stroked Jayla’s hair in between kissing the top of her head. She looked up at him, tears in her eyes but also peace.
“You’re right, Marcus. It’s not going to be easy. But it’s going to be okay.”
Marcus lay in bed that night pretending he didn’t know the secret Zennon had spoken of. Of Layne’s death. Of how Marcus could have prevented their son from dying.
Marcus turned over, his back to Kat, and tried to push the memory from his mind. If she knew the truth it could destroy everything. It was a door he thought he’d successfully locked and bolted shut. But if Zennon had his way it would be flung wide open and Kat would be standing there when it was.
A
S
B
RANDON CLIPPED TOWARD THE STAGE IN
O
REGON
on Sunday evening he popped three cherry-flavored throat lozenges into his mouth and prayed they would get him through the concert. In the back of his mind he knew he had more than a sore throat going on.
His voice strength had been waning for the past three weeks and he’d never had a sore throat hang on this long. But with everything going on at Well Spring and with Warriors Riding, plus a concert schedule that never seemed to slow down, there was little time to think about it, let alone get to a doctor. And if he told anyone about it they’d force him to go see someone, which would be a waste of time.
His voice was just tired. It needed a little rest. So did he. Another month and he’d get some. His last concert before a two-week break would be in his backyard, at Marymoor Park in Redmond, Washington. It was a prime spot to end the tour, in front of friends and family.
Brandon stepped onto the stage and the lights fired up and bathed the band and him in their brilliant yellows, reds, and blues. “Hello, Portland! Do you want to live with freedom?”
The crowd roared their answer and Brandon grinned, then turned to the band. “Slight change in the song order. I want to kick things off with ‘Final Race,’ okay?”
The band ran through their first set as tight as they’d ever been. God was there and the Spirit moved through the music to bring people into deep worship.
As Brandon started into their second set and reached to hit his falsetto on the chorus, a sliver of pain shot down his throat. Then another and his voice faded. He glanced at Anthony, his bass player, who gave a questioning look. Brandon tapped his throat and shook his head, then mouthed the words,
Voice is gone
. He pointed at Anthony, then his microphone. Anthony picked up the hint and finished the song.
“Sorry, folks,” Brandon rasped out. “I’ve been fighting a sore throat lately and it looks like it just won. My voice is shot as you can hear, so Anthony is going to carry this concert the rest of the way home.”
Anthony’s solid voice boomed through the speakers out over the crowd and the concert ended strong. Afterward Brandon went out into the crowd and tried to greet the people, but he couldn’t speak in more than a whisper.
