Piercing the Darkness (27 page)

The glass-enclosed office of the editor was still the same—still out of place in this cluttered, cramped building, and still a bit messy. On the wall above the desk was a small calendar indicating all the games in the upcoming season of the editor’s favorite football team, and on the desk, in a special corner undisturbed by any papers, galleys, photographs, or scribbled notes, were framed photographs of a lovely redheaded woman and what had to be her daughter, also lovely and also redheaded.

Just behind this enclosure was the teletype room. The messengers checked the recent news releases. They found just the right one, separated it neatly from the other wire copy, then carried it into the editor’s office and set it squarely in the center of his desk.

Then they waited. He was going to see it. They were there to make sure he did.

AT PRECISELY EIGHT
o’clock, a key worked in the front lock, the door opened, the little bell at the top of the door
ding-a-linged
, and the editor came in, switching on the lights, raising the thermostat, hanging up his coat, and heading for the coffeemaker. He poured in the grounds, filled it with water, and plugged it in, then stepped into his office.

The two messengers were there, watching his every move. He wasn’t looking at his desk yet, but instead started fumbling with some scribbled notes on the bulletin board above the filing cabinets, muttering some unintelligible words of frustration against someone who didn’t do what they were supposed to do when they said they were going to do it. He dropped some of the bulletin board pins, so he had to pick them up; and then, having removed some of the items from the bulletin board, he found he finally had enough pins to hold each item up there without doubling up the items, and that pleased him.

Then he went to the phone on his desk and picked up the receiver.
His eyes fell on the wire copy the messengers had placed there, but he didn’t take much notice of it.

The Lord spoke.

The messengers heard His voice clearly and wondered if the big, red-haired fellow had also. He wasn’t dialing the phone yet, but was holding the receiver next to his head and not moving. He stayed that way for just a moment.

He jerked his head a little—his way of shrugging that was smaller than a shrug—and then started to dial the phone.

The Lord spoke again.

He stopped in mid-dial and hung up the receiver. The messengers drew closer for a better look.

Yes, he was reading the news item. It was about the recent hearing in the city of Westhaven, and about the Christian school scandal that was rocking a tiny, obscure farming town called Bacon’s Corner.

The Lord spoke. The big man sat down at the desk and listened, holding the news item in his hand, reading it again slowly.

Finally, with a low, husky, morning-voice, he said, “Well, Lord . . . what do You want me to do?”

CHAPTER 16

NEAR THE EAST
Coast, up in the green hills above a picturesque river, people from all over the world had found a special place to gather; with devotion, vision, and sweat they had worked to convert an old YMCA camp into a special campus, a center for learning, personal enrichment, and community. The Omega Center for Educational Studies was now in its fourteenth year of existence and growing steadily every year, supported and enhanced by teachers, professionals, scholars, artists, intellectuals, and spiritual pilgrims from all walks of life and many nations of the world. Their binding, motivating spirit: a vision and hope for world peace and community; oneness with the rhythms of nature and the eternal expansiveness of the universe; the accepting of the impulse to change; the challenging of the unknown.

Among its neighbors, the Omega Center was described in many terms of varying shades, from such labels as “a real vanguard in human potential” to such accusations as “a Satanic cult.” The people who worked, lived, and studied at the Center took it all in stride. They knew not everyone would understand their mission and purpose right away, but they clung to the dream that, given time, the unity of all mankind would manifest itself. They were dedicated to seeing that happen.

It was early on a Friday morning. Cree, his wings spread and motionless like the wings of a gull, dropped over the tops of the bordering maples and glided just above the glass-smooth surface of Pauline’s
Lake, silently passing the small summer cottages, diving rafts, floating docks, and beached canoes. He would come up behind the Center, hopefully avoiding any spirits that might be on watch near the main Administration Building.

He slowed, rose from the lake, and drifted to a silent, stalled landing on the swimming beach. The sand was wet with dew, and a mist rose from the lake. Rowboats lay on racks belly-up; the roped swimming area reflected the boat dock like a flawless mirror. To one side, back among some trees, was the equipment shack. He ducked through its walls and found a hiding-place among the canoe paddles, volleyballs, and tennis rackets.

Then he listened. There was no sound. The timing was right; the Center was almost deserted now. It was a short time between two educational retreats. The weekday group had finished, packed up, and left Thursday night; the weekend group was due this evening.

Most importantly, the prince over this place was away, feeling lax and confident during the lull, probably on some errand of mischief along with the bulk of his demonic hordes. The prayers of those faithful few saints in faraway Bacon’s Corner were having their effect; the prayer cover was slight, still decaying, but enough for now, provided Cree and his warriors timed things just right.

The heavenly troops were here to find one particular resident faculty member, a lady who lived in the faculty dorm.

Cree, in appearance a Native American, with powerful bronze arms and long, ebony hair down to his shoulders, had all the stealth and cunning of a skilled hunter. His sharp eyes peered through the window and out across the lake. He drew his sword and let just the tip shine through the window.

From trees nearby, from boats on the lake, from cottages and boathouses, from the thick woods across the lake, tiny points of light answered, the tips of hundreds of angelic blades.

All warriors were in place. They were ready.

Cree waved a quick little signal with his blade. A warrior appeared from behind a rowboat, skimmed across the water, zigzagged through the trees, and joined Cree in the shack. Another warrior emerged from a boathouse, shot across the water, ducked behind the swimming dock, then made it to the shack as well. Two more, darting from tree to tree
and flying low, completed the number Cree wanted. They remained for a moment in the shack, tight against the walls, listening, watching.

“She’ll be awakening soon,” said Cree. “She’ll have four guarding her. They aren’t strong, but they do have big mouths. Don’t let them cry out.”

They drew their swords and set out across the campus, working their way from building to building, tree to tree, smoothly, steadily.

“’COURSE NOW, THE
drones aren’t much good for anything after they’ve gone flying with the queen, so they just get thrown out of the hive with the garbage. Heh! I know a lot of men who are just like that, only good for eating and mating.”

Mr. Pomeroy, a jolly retiree in jeans, flannel shirt, and workboots, was talking about bees, his hobby and obsession, and Sally just let him talk; the more he talked, the less she would have to, and the less questions she would have to answer about herself.

They were riding in Mr. Pomeroy’s old Chevy pickup with the rack over the bed and the dented right side—he’d run over a stump trying to pull out another one and he told her all about it. He was just on his way up to a fellow-beekeeper’s house to check his hives when he spotted this lone, wandering gal out on the highway, dressed in jeans and an old blue jacket, a blue stocking cap on her head, and a large duffel bag over her shoulder. He was a neighborly sort and didn’t like to see a woman hitchhiking alone; so he pulled over, picked her up, gave her a short lecture about the dangers of hitchhiking, and then asked her where she was going.

“The Omega Center,” she said.

She almost expected a negative reaction from this local, traditional thinker, but apparently he’d grown used to the Center being around and had no hard feelings, just curiosity.

“Must be an interesting place up there,” he said.

“I don’t know. I haven’t been there in years.”

“Well . . . we’re all searching, aren’t we?”

Sally didn’t want to get into any deep discussions, but she answered anyway. “Yeah, we sure are.”

“You know, I’ve found the God of the Bible to be a terrific answer
to my questions. You ever thought about that?”

Sally noticed the bee helmet and veil behind the seat and used that to change the subject. “Hey, you take care of bees?”

And that was what got Mr. Pomeroy started about workers, drones, queens, hives, honey, extractors, and on and on. Sally was glad. It got them off the uncomfortable subjects and excused her from having to talk.

“That Center’s just up the road here a few more miles. I can drop you off right at the front gate . . . How about that?”

THE FACULTY DORM
was a new structure, two-storied, with twenty units. The dark-stained, grooved plywood siding and shake roof matched the general motif of the campus—rustic, woodsy, but functional. Cree and his warriors found plenty of places to hide in the thick shrubbery just beneath the rear windows.

At one end of the building, a dark, slick-hided arm hung through a closed window pane and dangled outside, the silver talons walking absentmindedly, playfully back and forth along the wall. Yes, there were enemy spirits about. This one must belong to another resident faculty member. That was his room.

The opposite end of the building was a blank wall, void of windows and flanked by some large trees. Cree appointed a sentry, and then, as the sentry watched from the bushes, the other four warriors ducked around that end of the building, floated up the wall, and disappeared into the attic space. Then the sentry followed.

They crouched just under the rafters, their feet in the pink fiberglass. Now they could hear a faint, whining sound, not unlike a violin in the hands of a beginner. It was coming from one of the rooms not too far from them. They moved forward, the roof bracing passing right through their chests as they walked. Now they were above the sound.

Cree pitched forward, sinking slowly through the fiberglass and ceiling joists until he could look into the room.

Yes. They’d found the room of Sybil Denning, a kind and matronly educator of many years, just dozing in her bed, not quite awake. She was apparently enjoying some half-dreams still playing in her head, and was not ready to open her eyes just yet.

Sitting beside her on the bed, a playful, elfin spirit moved his finger about in her brain as if stirring a bowl of soup, singing quietly to himself, giggling a little between his singsong, scratchy phrases as he painted pictures in her mind.