Piercing the Darkness (30 page)

The reaction wasn’t immediately affirmative. There was doubt all around, on every face.

Mark tried to explain. “It’s been tough because of the lawsuit, because of the accusations leveled at Tom. The people here today are all praying, but the church is really struggling with this whole thing, and there are a lot of very unhappy people. I’m still trying to get a handle on all the talk going around.”

“So they’re talking and not praying?”

Mark nodded. “That’s about it.”

Marshall thought about that and nodded. “Sounds like a smart move on Satan’s part. If he can divide the church and split you into camps, his job will be a picnic.”

“Well,” said Mark, “we can sure pray now, just us. I know
we’re
together on this thing.”

“Yeah, let’s do it,” said Ben.

They prayed, and took quite a bit of time at it. Marshall and Kate
joined them, and that meant a lot to everyone. There was definitely a unity here, a oneness of spirit. This big man from far away and his wife were not strangers at all, but fellow-combatants. This was the hand of God.

Not long after Mark said the final “Amen,” Marshall popped the final question. “So how does it sound to you? You want to deal us in, and see what develops?”

By now they were ready. Mark extended his hand, and he and Marshall shook on it. “We have fellowship, brother.”

“All right, then. I’ve got a few projects in mind already. Cathy, see what your friends can tell us about Miss Brewer, and then Kate will drop in and visit her in person. Bev, we’ll need to talk to Alice Buckmeier about that incident in the Post Office and hopefully get some more details from her; maybe then we can find out where Amber got this little horse friend and what we’re really dealing with. I’ll see if I can check out this LifeCircle bunch and find out who’s involved.”

It sounded good to them all.

The group began to break up. Cathy and Bev started clearing plates from the picnic table. Mark and Tom started folding up the furniture.

“Oh, Ben . . .” said Marshall, and Ben joined him by the back fence. Marshall leaned on the fence and looked out over a wide, green pasture bordering Tom’s yard. “You were a cop, huh?”

“Yes.
Was.
They let me go about two weeks ago.”

“Because you were getting too close to something they were trying to cover up?”

Ben smiled apologetically. “Well . . . in retrospect, I don’t know for sure. It just seemed fishy to me.”

“Let’s say you
were
onto something. Tell me what.”

Ben looked out at some Holsteins grazing lazily in the distance. “I’ve no idea, Marshall. It was simply that the deceased, a woman named Sally Roe, was killed quite violently—at least that’s how the evidence looked to me. There were signs of a struggle, a shirt stained with blood, some spilled goat feed—the body was found in a goat pen, the body itself was flung on the floor as if there had been a violent struggle. The medical examiner attributed the death to asphyxiation by hanging, the same as Sergeant Mulligan’s initial conclusion, but I don’t think that conclusion matched the situation found at the scene.
When the landlady, Mrs. Potter, found the body, it wasn’t hanging from the rafters; it didn’t have a rope around its neck, nor was any rope tied to the rafters. The deceased did have a rope in her hand. And the body was flung in the straw, just as we first found it. I’m also bothered by the fact that when the call first came in, Sergeant Mulligan referred to it as a suicide before we even drove out there, and I know I gave him no information at the time to that effect.

“Add to that a disturbing development that I uncovered by talking to some people who knew Roe before her death: the description they gave me of Sally Roe doesn’t match the description of the woman we found in that goat shed, which raises some frightening implications. The whole thing doesn’t make sense at all, and I’m still disturbed about it.”

“I see you have moles in this part of the country too,” said Marshall, pointing out some new molehills in the yard.

Ben was a little disappointed. Apparently his concerns were unimportant to this man who claimed to be so interested in the problems he and his friends were facing. “Well . . . yeah. They’re tough to get rid of. When they come up in my yard, I just keep scooping up the hills so they don’t kill the grass. It’s about all you can do.”

Brother
, thought Ben,
what a stupid conversation this is becoming.

“Looks like the neighbors have them too.” Marshall pointed at several molehills out in the pasture.

“Yeah, they get around,” said Ben, ready to end this letdown of a conversation, starting to look around.

“Two different pieces of property here,” said Marshall, looking up and down the fence. “Tom has a mole, and the farmer over there has a mole.” Then Marshall looked at Ben for a moment, waiting for Ben’s full attention. “How much you wanna bet that the molehills in this yard and the molehills in that pasture were made by the same mole?”

Ben stopped any other thoughts and paid attention. This guy was making a point that sounded interesting.

Marshall enhanced his point. “Ben, from up here on top of the ground, we think in terms of property lines, of separate domains. Tom has his yard, the farmer has his pasture, and the two domains are separated by this fence. But what about the mole? The fence doesn’t stop him; he just goes wherever he wants and pushes up his little hills, and
as far as he’s concerned, it’s just one big piece of ground.”

“Keep going,” said Ben.

Marshall smiled, his eyes squinting a bit in the sun, the breeze blowing his red hair. “The Good Shepherd Academy has a problem, and you have a problem. The Academy has a mole, and you have a mole. I’m suggesting that it might be the same mole. We’re talking spiritual warfare here; spirits don’t care about whose yard it is, or where our fences might be.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’ll feel a whole lot better if you and I can find out all we can about this Sally Roe.”

Ben felt better. “You know, I was hoping someone would see it this way.”

“I think Bev already did.”

Ben carefully considered that. “She sure did.” Then he dug up a buried idea. “I was going to run a criminal check on Roe before I got fired. I think I could still run a check; I have a friend with the police in Westhaven who could do it for me.”

Marshall looked at the molehills again. “Can’t wait to see it.”

CHAPTER 18

SYBIL DENNING WAS
a kind and sociable person, and she never seemed to be at a loss for words and topics. She and Sally spent the better part of the morning wandering about the grounds of the Omega Center for Educational Studies as Mrs. Denning pointed out all the buildings, their purpose, and what new projects were currently underway.

“This plaza should be ready in a few weeks,” she said, pointing to a large patio the size of a basketball court, but without any markings and bordered by newly planted hedges. “The Tai Chi Chuan program has gained such popularity that we thought it fitting to create an effective space for it.”

They walked further. “This is the performance theater. It seats about four hundred, and is our showcase for any performing arts such as music, movement, dance, poetry, drama, and so forth. Oh, and down here . . .” They came to a large stone-and-glass structure. “This is our healing arts center. We’ve had our various workshops in classrooms all over the campus, but since last year we’ve tried to consolidate the research in one building. We’re trying new holistic approaches to the immune system, as well as nutritional therapy, and then homeopathy, crystals, vibrational healing, even Tibetan medicine—that’s a course I plan to take while I’m here. Listen, are you hungry? It’s almost time for lunch, and I’m sure the Galvins will have something ready.”

“Lead on,” said Sally, alias Bethany Farrell.

THEY SAT DOWN
to a tasty vegetarian lunch. Sally ordered the rice and stir-fried vegetables; Mrs. Denning ordered a large green salad.

“Obviously,” Mrs. Denning continued, not skipping a beat from the entire morning’s lecture, “the goal of education, true education, is not simply teaching generation after generation the same amount of academic content as a preparation for life—just the same old basics, as they say. The human race is evolving too fast for that. What we are more concerned with in education is the facilitation of change. We need to change the upcoming generations to prepare them for a global community. That means a lot of stubborn old ideas about reality are going to have to be cast aside: such notions as nationalism, accountability to some Supreme Being, even the old Judeo-Christian dogma of absolute morality. In their place, we purpose to implant a new worldview, a global scheme of reality in which our children realize that all the earth, all nature, all forces, all consciousness are one huge, interconnected, and interdependent unity. And we’re no longer alone in that goal; even the National Coalition on Education has taken up the cause.”

She continued to munch on her salad like a happy rabbit. “So, we bring all wisdoms of the world to this place, all systems of belief, all mystical traditions, and we bar almost nothing. Through it all, the truth can be found by each person where he finds it.”

“Human potential,” said Sally.

“Oh, yes, that, and spiritual wholeness, universal consciousness, all of the above!” Mrs. Denning laughed with delight. “It’s been such a rewarding time for me . . . well, for many years of my life, actually. I used to teach high school English until six years ago when I came on staff here.”

Sally knew that. Though her memory of Mrs. Denning the English teacher went back nineteen years, she could see it as if it were just yesterday. A scene began playing in her mind. There stood a much younger Mrs. Denning, with more brown hair than gray, scowling at her, angry at being interrupted. Sally was much younger too, a junior in high school with a drab green sweater, a thigh-high skirt, and long, straight, red hair down to her waist.

“Who are you and why?” Mrs. Denning demanded. It was a stock question she always used; she must have thought it was clever. Sally thought it was rude.

Obviously, Mrs. Denning was not feeling well at the moment. She was trying to lead a remedial reading group, and most of the students were the shaggy, acid-dropping, spit-on-the-floor type who couldn’t read and didn’t care if they ever did. Mrs. Denning was definitely not in her element, much less in her best mood.

Sally wasn’t feeling well either. Her mother, whom she hadn’t seen in almost twelve years, had just died, a pitiful alcoholic. Sally felt no remorse, but the event did deepen some attitudes she’d been developing in that high school—attitudes of fatalism, cynicism, and gloom.

Now Sally was only doing her job as an office assistant during fourth period, and trying to bring Mrs. Denning a sign-up sheet on a clipboard, a typical list of participants in an upcoming volunteer whatever-it-was. She didn’t ask to be snapped at. Mrs. Denning’s question hit a lot of raw nerves.

Who am I and why? Good question.

She looked down at the teacher scowling up at her, and answered quite directly, “I don’t know, and you teachers have convinced me that I never will.”

Well, of course Mrs. Denning got irate. “Young lady, I don’t like your attitude!”

At this point in her life, Sally didn’t care what Mrs. Denning liked or didn’t like. “Mrs. Denning, I came into this classroom because Mrs. Bakke would like to get your signature on this sign-up sheet. I’m just doing my job, and I don’t deserve to be treated rudely.”

Mrs. Denning stood to her feet, ready to take up the challenge. “What is your name?”

“Roe. Sally Roe. That’s R-o- . . . Got a pencil?”

Mrs. Denning had a pencil.

“R-o-e. I’m sure you’ll remember it.”

“I’m surprised they let you work in the office. Mrs. Bakke is going to hear about this!”

Sally held the clipboard out. “Will Mrs. Bakke be able to count on you as a volunteer?”

Mrs. Denning grabbed the clipboard and hurriedly signed it. “Now
get out of here!”

“Thank you for your time.”

Sally was just reaching the door when Mrs. Denning had some parting words for her. “This
will
be counted against you, young lady!”

She stopped and looked back at this teacher, this figure of authority. “Well, you’re the teacher; you have the power. Right and wrong are situational and law derives from power, so I guess that makes you right.” Then Sally thought it best to footnote her comments. “Mr. Davis, Humanities 101, sixth period.”

Mrs. Denning meant to report Sally’s behavior, but never did. Something about that brief encounter stuck with her, and no, she did not forget Sally Roe’s name.

Sally’s mind returned to the present, and she chased a mushroom around her plate as Mrs. Denning continued to prattle. Sally had to smile at how different their conversation was compared to their first.