This Present Darkness (24 page)

“Yes, here’s the write-up,” she said. “‘STRACHAN FIRED. Citing conflicts of interest and professional incompetency as their reasons, the Whitmore College board of regents today unanimously called for Dean Eldon Strachan’s resignation.’”

“Not a very long article,” Marshall commented.

“Ted put it in because he had to, but it’s obvious he held back any damaging details. He firmly believed Strachan’s cause was just.”

Marshall kept flipping through the pages. “Ehhh, what’s this one here? ‘WHITMORE COULD BE MILLIONS IN ARREARS, SAYS STRACHAN.’” Marshall read that one carefully. “Wait a minute here, he’s saying the college could be in big trouble, but he isn’t saying how he knows.”

“It kept coming out in bits and pieces. We just never got all of them before Strachan and Ted were silenced.”

“But millions … you’re talking real money here.”

“But you see all the connections?”

“Yeah. The regents, the judge, the police chief, Young, the comptroller, and who knows who else, all connected to Langstrat and very quiet about it.”

“And don’t forget Ted Harmel.”

“Yeah, he’s quiet about it too. I mean,
real
quiet. The guy’s scared out of his socks. But he wasn’t a very loyal member of the group if he sided with Strachan against the regents.”

“So they rubbed him out, so to speak, along with Strachan.”

“Maybe. So far we have just a theory, and it’s foggy.”

“But we do have a theory, and my being in jail fits the pattern.”

“Too nicely just yet,” Marshall thought aloud. “We need to realize what we’re saying here. We’re talking political corruption, abuse of process, racketeering, who knows what else? We’d better be really sure of ourselves.”

“What was that page there that dropped?”

“Huh?”

“The one you picked up.”

“Mm. It was out of order. It’s dated clear back in January.”

Bernice reached for the proper binder on the archive shelf. “I don’t want the archives all mixed up after—hey, what’d you fold it all up for?”

Marshall shrugged a little, gave her a very gentle look, and unfolded the page.

“There’s an article about your sister,” he said.

She took the page from him and looked at the news story. The headline read “KRUEGER DEATH RULED SUICIDE.” She put the page down quickly.

“I figured you wouldn’t want to be reminded,” he said.

“I’ve seen it before,” she said abruptly. “I have a copy at home.”

“I read the article just now.”

“I know.”

She pulled out another binder, opening it on the worktable.

“Marshall,” she said, “you may as well know everything about it.
It might come up again. The case is not resolved in my mind, and it’s been a very difficult battle for me.”

Marshall only sighed and said, “You started this, remember that now.”

Bernice kept her lips tight and her body straight. She was trying to be a detached machine.

She pointed to the first story, dated mid-January: “BRUTAL DEATH ON CAMPUS.”

Marshall read silently. He wasn’t prepared for the horrible details.

“The story isn’t entirely accurate,” Bernice commented in a very guarded tone of voice. “They didn’t find Pat in her own dorm room; she was down the hall in an unoccupied room. I guess some of the girls used that room to study by themselves if it got too noisy on the floor. No one knew where she was until someone spotted the blood running out under the door …” Her voice cracked, and she shut her mouth tightly.

Patricia Elizabeth Krueger, age nineteen, had been found in a dorm room, naked and very dead, her throat slashed. There was no sign of a struggle, the entire college was in a state of shock, there were no witnesses.

Bernice flipped to another page and another headline, “NO CLUES TO KRUEGER DEATH.” Marshall read it quickly, feeling more and more like he was invading a very sensitive area where he had no business to be. The article stated that no witnesses had come forth, no one had heard or seen anything, there was no clue to who the assailant might be.

“And you read the last one,” Bernice said. “They finally ruled it was a suicide. They decided that my sister had stripped herself and cut her own throat.”

Marshall was incredulous. “And that was that?”

“That was that.”

Marshall closed the binder quietly. He had never seen Bernice looking so vulnerable. The feisty little reporter who could hold her own in a jail cell full of hookers had one part of her still laid bare and wounded beyond healing. He put his hands gently on her shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s why I came here, you know.” She wiped her eyes with her fingers,
reached for a nearby tissue to wipe her nose. “I … I just couldn’t leave it at that. I knew Pat. I knew her better than anyone. She just wasn’t the type to do such a thing. She was happy, well-adjusted, she liked college. She sounded just fine in her letters.”

“Why … why don’t we just pack it up for the night?”

Bernice didn’t acknowledge his suggestion. “I checked the dorm layout, the room where she died, the roster for the names of every girl living in that building; I talked to all of them. I checked the police reports, the coroner’s report, I went through all of Pat’s personal effects. I tried to track down Pat’s roommate, but she’d left. I still can’t remember her name. I only met her once when I was here for a visit.

“I finally decided just to stick around, get a job, wait and see. I had some newspaper background, the job here was easy enough to land.”

Marshall put his arm around her shoulders. “Well, listen. I’ll help you out, any way I can. You don’t have to carry this whole thing by yourself.”

She relaxed a bit, leaning into him just enough to acknowledge his embracing arm. “I don’t want to bother you.”

“You’re not bothering me. Listen, as soon as you’re ready, we can go over it, recheck everything. There might still be some leads somewhere.”

Bernice shook her two fists and whimpered, “If I could just be more objective about it!”

Marshall gave her a gentle, comforting chuckle and a friendly squeeze. “Well, maybe I can handle that end of it. You’re doing a good job, Bernie. Just hang in there.”

She was a nice kid, Marshall thought, and as far as he could remember this was the first time he’d ever touched her.

For obvious reasons the congregation of Ashton Community Church was much smaller and fragmented this Sunday morning, but Hank had to admit that the whole atmosphere was more peaceful. As he stood behind the old pulpit to open the service, he could see the smiling faces of his supporters peppered throughout the small crowd: yes, there were the Colemans sitting in their usual spot. Grandma Duster was there too, in much better health, praise the Lord, and there were the Coopers, the Harrises, and Ben Squires, the mailman. Alf Brummel hadn’t made it, but Gordon Mayer and his wife were there, and so were Sam and Helen Turner. Some of the not-so-actives were there for their usual once-a-month drop-in, and Hank gave them special glances and smiles to let them know they were noticed.

As Mary banged out “All Hail the Power of Jesus’ Name” on the piano and Hank led the singing, another couple came in the back door and took a seat near the rear, as new folks usually did. Hank didn’t recognize them at all.

Scion remained near the back door, watching Andy and June Forsythe take their seats. Then he looked up toward the platform and gave Krioni and Triskal a friendly salute. They smiled and saluted back. A few demons had come in with the humans, and they were not happy to see this new heavenly stranger even lurking about, let alone bringing new people into the church. But Scion backed nonthreateningly out
the door.

Hank couldn’t explain why he felt as joyful as he did this morning. Maybe it was having Grandma Duster there, and the Colemans, and the new couple. And then there was that other new fellow, the big blond guy sitting in the back. He had to be a football lineman or something.

Hank kept remembering what Grandma had said to him, “We need to pray that the Lord will gather them in …”

He got to the sermon and opened his Bible to Isaiah 55.

“‘Seek the Lord while He may be found; call upon Him while He is near. Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts; and let him return to the Lord, and He will have compassion on him; and to our God, for He will abundantly pardon … For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways My ways, declares the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts. For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return there without watering the earth, and making it bear and sprout, and furnishing seed to the sower and bread to the eater; so shall my word be which goes forth from my mouth; it shall not return to Me empty, without accomplishing what I desire, and without succeeding in the matter for which I sent it. For you will go out with joy, and be led forth with peace; the mountains and the hills will break forth into shouts of joy before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands.’”

Hank loved that passage, and he couldn’t help smiling as he began to explain it. Some people simply stared at him, listening out of obligation. But others even leaned forward in their seats, hanging on every word. The new couple sitting in the back kept nodding their heads with very intent expressions. The big blond man smiled, nodded his head, even shouted out an “Amen!”

The words kept coming to Hank’s heart and mind. It had to be the Lord’s anointing. He stopped by the pulpit from time to time to look at his notes, but most of the time he was all over the platform, feeling like he was somewhere between heaven and earth, speaking forth the Word of God.

The few little demons lurking about could only cower and sneer. Some did manage to stop the ears of the people they owned, but the
onslaught this morning was particularly severe and painful. To them, Hank’s preaching had all the soothing effect of a buzz saw.

On top of the church, Signa and his warriors refused to bend or back down. Lucius dropped by with a sizable flock of demons just in time for the service, but Signa would not step aside.

“You know better than to tamper with me!” Lucius threatened.

Signa was sickeningly polite. “I’m sorry, we cannot allow any more demons into the church this morning.”

Lucius must have had more important things for his demons to do that morning than try to hack their way through a wall of obstinate angels. He delivered a few choice insults and then the whole bunch roared off into the air, bound for some other mischief.

When the service ended, some people made a beeline for the door. Others made a beeline for Hank.

“Pastor, my name is Andy Forsythe, and this is my wife June.”

“Hello, hello,” Hank said, and he could feel a wide smile stretching his face.

“That was great,” Andy said, shaking his head in amazement and still shaking Hank’s hand. “It was … boy, it was really great!”

They made small talk for a few minutes, finding out about each other. Andy owned and ran the lumberyard just on the outskirts of town; June was a legal secretary. They had a son, Ron, who was in trouble with drugs and needed the Lord.

“Well,” said Andy, “we haven’t been saved too long ourselves. We used to go to the Ashton United Christian …” His voice trailed off.

June was less inhibited. “We were starving there. We couldn’t wait to get out.”

Andy cut back in, “Yeah, that’s right. We heard about this church; well, actually we heard about you; we heard you were in a bit of trouble for being such a stickler with the Word of God, and we just thought to ourselves, ‘We ought to check that guy out.’ Now I’m glad we did.

“Pastor,” he continued, “I want you to know there are a lot of hungry people out there. We have some friends who love the Lord and have no place to go. It’s been really strange the last few years. One by one the churches around here have kind of died. Oh, they’re still there, all right, and they have the people and the bucks, but … you know what I mean.”

Hank wasn’t sure that he did. “What
do
you mean?”

Andy shook his head. “Satan’s really playing games with this town, I guess. Ashton never used to be this way, with so much weird stuff going on. Hey, you may have trouble believing this, but we have friends who have dropped out of three, no,
four
of the local churches.”

June exchanged glances with Andy as she went through a mental list of names. “Greg and Eva Smith, the Bartons, the Jennings, Clint Neal …”

“Yeah, right, right,” said Andy. “Like I said, there are a lot of hungry people out there, sheep without a shepherd. The churches around here just don’t cut it. They don’t preach the gospel.”

Just then Mary walked up, all smiles. Hank happily introduced her.

Then Mary said, “Hank, I’d like you to meet—” And she turned toward the empty room. Whoever was supposed to be there wasn’t. “Well … he’s gone!”

“Who was it?” Hank asked.

“Oh, you remember that big guy sitting in the back?”

“The big blond guy?”

“Yes. I got a chance to talk to him. He told me to tell you that,” Mary deepened her voice to mimic him, “‘the Lord is with you, keep praying and keep listening.’”

“Well, that was nice. Did you get his name?”

“Uh … no, I don’t think he ever told me.”

Andy asked, “Who was this?”

“Oh,” said Hank, “you know, that big guy in the back. He was sitting right next to you.”

Andy looked at June, and her eyes got wide. Andy started smiling, then he started laughing, and then he started clapping his hands and practically dancing.

“Praise the Lord!” he exclaimed, and Hank hadn’t seen such enthusiasm in a long time. “Praise the Lord, there was nobody there. Pastor, we didn’t see a soul!”

Mary’s mouth dropped open, and she covered it with her fingers.