This Present Darkness (53 page)

The van came to the summit and picked up more speed. The pursuing vehicles topped the summit only seconds behind it. As the van accelerated more and more, the bumps and curves in the roadway became one death-dealing jolt or one frame-bending wrench after another, and the van rocked, dancing on two and three wheels as it careened down the steep grade. The road went straight, then turned abruptly, then twisted back the other direction, then took a dip. The van wrestled the road as the rocks and guardrails blurred by. With each sharp curve it groaned and leaned heavily toward the outside, the big frame bottoming out the springs, the tires screeching in protest.

A very sharp left turn! The van’s heavy back end fishtailed into the guardrail with a loud grinding and a fiery shower of sparks. Down the road, another dip, the springs bottoming out, the frame crunching down on the axles, groaning and creaking.

The jeeps and the sports car followed behind, doing much better at negotiating the treacherous curves but getting the ride of their lives all the same. Two men in the lead jeep had high-powered rifles ready, but it was impossible to get any clear shot. They fired a few rounds anyway, if only to scare the Maidservant.

The van was headed right for a hairpin turn, with yellow signs everywhere screaming at it to slow down and be cautious. The four angels who had been behind the van pushing were now pressed up against its sides, trying to keep it on the road. Guilo himself swooped down, his sword flashing, hacking his way through demon interceptors until he could work his way to the van. It was only a fraction of a second from the guardrail and the sheer drop beyond it when Guilo slammed forcefully into its side, jolting the front wheels to the left with a sharp jerk. The van made the turn and rolled on. The pursuers in the other vehicles had to slow down or go right through the guardrail.

But the heavenly warriors trying to encircle the van were being steadily cut away. Guilo looked just in time to see one huge spirit pounce with bared talons on top of a warrior like a hawk on a sparrow, knocking the angel senseless, making it flutter down into the deep canyon below. Another dogfight high above and to the left ended in a cry of pain from another warrior who went into a crazy spin, one wing shredded, and disappeared inside the wall of a mountain. The ringing
clashes of blades echoed all around. There went a demon, disappearing in a trail of red smoke. Another angel fell toward the canyon floor, still holding his sword but listless and stunned, his demon pursuer right behind him.

The hideous warriors of hell finally began to break through and reach the van. One reached the warrior right behind Guilo and knocked him away. Guilo didn’t have time to think another thought before his own sword went up to fend off the incredibly powerful blow of a spirit at least equal to himself. Guilo returned the blow, their swords locked for a moment, arm against arm, and then Guilo made good use of his foot to cave in the demon’s face and sent it tumbling out over the canyon.

The van began to swerve wildly, the tires tiptoeing on the very edge of the chasm. Guilo pushed with all his might to get it back on course. The van lurched again and he realized a band of demons must be on the other side, pushing against him. He looked around for help and saw more fangs and yellow eyes than friends. A huge blade swept downward over his shoulder, and he parried it off. Another one thrust toward his midsection, and he struck that away. The van veered toward the cliff. He tried to push back, parry a blow, look for help, strike another demon, kick a face, push the van, cut a flank, parry a blow, guide the van …

A blow! He didn’t see it coming and had no idea who had struck it, but it stunned him. He lost his grip on the van, saw the canyon floor spinning far below, saw the earth, the sky, the earth, the sky. He was falling. He spread his wings and floated downward like a torn and fallen leaf. From up above he heard a bloodcurdling howl. He looked up. This must be the one who had struck him, a very large, bulb-eyed nightmare with reptilian skin and serrated wings.

“Come, come,” Guilo muttered, waiting for the thing to pounce.

It dove straight at him, its jaws gaping, its fangs glimmering, a wide, flat blade with keen edge flashing. Guilo waited. The thing raised its sword high and brought it down with a
woosh!
Guilo was suddenly three feet away from where he had been, and the blade continued on its way without their having met, the demon somersaulting wildly after it. Guilo made a blinding sweep with his own sword and dewinged the demon, then finished it.

The boiling trail of red smoke cleared away from Guilo’s eyes just in time for him to see the van crash through a guardrail and sail out over the precipice. The fall was so far, so very long and extended, that the van seemed to float for an eternity before folding and crushing on the rocks below, twisting, turning, bouncing like a pop can as chairs, desks, and cabinets tumbled out the back and papers upon papers fluttered through the air like snowflakes. About thirty demons hovered high above or roosted on the remaining guardrail to watch their work come to completion. After turning and rolling over and over, the van, no longer recognizable as anything, finally came to rest in a heap of scrap and glass at the base of the mountain. The three pursuing vehicles pulled to a stop, and the twelve security men got out to take a satisfied look.

Guilo rested on a rocky crag, setting his sword down and looking skyward. High above he could make out minute streaks of light heading in several different directions, each one followed by two or three streaks of red-accented black. His warriors—what was left of them—were scattering in all directions. Guilo thought it best to remain where he was until the skies cleared. He, Tal, and their warriors would all regroup in Ashton soon enough.

Rafar still sat in his big dead tree, watching over the town of Ashton as a master at chess would sit and look over a gameboard. He enjoyed watching the many pieces and pawns make their moves against each other.

When a demon messenger brought the welcome news from the Strongman’s Lair that the Maidservant, that traitorous wench, had come to a miserable end and the heavenly host had been routed, Rafar gloated and laughed. He had taken his opponent’s queen!

“And so shall it be for the rest,” Rafar said with diabolical glee. “The Strongman entrusted the preparation of the town to me. When he comes, he will find it unoccupied, swept, and put in order!”

He called some of his warriors. “It’s time to clean house. While the heavenly host are weak and cannot stand against us, we should take care of the final obstacles. I would like Hogan and Busche put away like vanquished kings! Make use of the woman Carmen, and see to it that they are bound and helpless, a byword and a mockery! As for Kevin Weed …” The demon warlord’s eyes narrowed with disdain. “He
could never be a worthy prize for such as myself. See that he is killed, any way you wish; then bring me word.” The warriors departed to carry out his orders.

Rafar heaved a deep, half-mocking sigh. “Ah, dear Captain of the Host, perhaps I will see my battle won with no more than a raised finger, a casual order, the poison of my subtlety; your sky-rending trump of battle will be displaced by a pitiful whimper, and my victory will be won without my ever having seen your face, or your sword.” He looked over the town and broke into his fiendish grin, clicking his thumb talon across his other four.

“But do be sure of this: We shall meet, Tal! Do not think to hide behind your praying saints, for we can both see they have failed you. You and I shall meet!”

BERNICE KNEW IT
would be difficult, even dangerous, to drive without her glasses, but Marshall never answered his phone, so the meeting with Kevin Weed was entirely up to her and certainly worth the risk. So far, as she drove up Highway 27, the daylight was sufficient to make out the center line and the oncoming blobs, so she pressed on toward the big green bridge north of Baker.

Kevin Weed also had that bridge in mind as he sat at the bar at The Evergreen Tavern with his hands around a beer and his eyes on the big Lucky Lager clock. Somehow he felt safer here than at home by himself. He had buddies around, lots of noise, the ball game on television, the shuffleboard game going on behind him. His hands still shook, though, every time he let go of his beer mug; so most of the time he hung on to it and tried to act normal. The front door kept scraping the linoleum as more people came in.

The place was warming up, which was just fine. The more the merrier. Several loggers had beers to buy and stories to tell. There were bets going around on the shuffleboard game—tonight a long-standing rivalry would be settled once and for all. Kevin took time to smile and greet his friends and exchange a little jaw time. That helped him loosen up.

Two loggers came in. They were new, he figured; he’d never seen them before. But they fit right in with the rest of the bunch and were
quick to get everyone caught up on where they were working and for how long and how the weather had been good, bad, or indifferent.

They even came up and sat with him at the bar.

“Hey,” said one, extending his hand, “Mark Hansen.”

“Kevin Weed,” he said, shaking Mark’s hand.

Mark introduced Kevin to the other guy, Steve Drake. They hit it off fine, talking logging, baseball, deer hunts, and booze, and Kevin’s hands quit shaking. He even finished his beer.

“Want another beer?” Mark asked.

“Yeah, sure, thanks.”

Dan brought the beers, and the conversation kept rattling on.

A loud cheer went up from the shuffleboard championship-for-all-time, and the three of them spun around in their seats to see the winner shaking hands with the loser.

Mark was quick. When no one was looking, he emptied a small vial into Kevin’s beer.

The shuffleboard crowd began to congregate at the bar. Kevin checked the clock. It was time to go anyway. In all the hubbub and chatter he managed to say so long to his two new acquaintances, down his beer, and head for the door. Mark and Steve gave him a friendly wave as he went.

Kevin climbed in his old pickup and drove off. He figured he would even get to the bridge a little early. Just thinking about it made him start shaking again.

Mark and Steve wasted no time. Kevin had no sooner pulled out onto the highway than they were in their own pickup truck, following some distance behind. Steve checked his watch.

“It won’t be long now,” he said.

“So where do we dump him?” asked Mark.

“What’s wrong with the river? He’s heading there anyway.”

It must have been that last beer, Kevin was thinking to himself. He must have chugged it down too fast or something; his stomach was letting him know about it. On top of that, he had to go to the bathroom. On top of that, he was really getting sleepy. He spent a few miles debating what to do, but finally he figured he had better pull over before he just plain keeled over.

A garishly painted, sagging, low-overhead hamburger joint was just
ahead. He pulled off the highway and managed to bring the truck to a safe stop beside the building.

He didn’t notice the pickup truck that pulled off the highway and then waited some hundred yards behind him.

“Terrific!” said Mark angrily. “So what’s he going to do, keel over right in front of that hamburger place? I thought that stuff was supposed to hit hard and fast!”

Steve only shook his head. “Maybe he just has to go to the bathroom. We’ll have to wait and see.”

It looked like Steve was right. Kevin stumbled and staggered his way into the men’s restroom behind the building. For a minute or so they stared at the restroom door. Steve looked at his watch again. Time was getting short.

“If he comes out and gets back on the road, the stuff should hit him before he reaches the bridge.”

“If he even comes out!” Mark muttered. “What if we have to drag him out of there?”

No. Here he came, out the restroom door, looking a little better. As the two men watched, Kevin climbed back into his truck and pulled back out onto the highway. They followed him, waiting for something to happen.

It did. The truck began to swerve, first to the left, then back to the right.

“There he goes!” said Steve.

Up ahead was the Judd River Bridge, a steel span over a very deep chasm carved out by the Judd River. The little truck kept speeding along crazily, veering clear over into the left lane, then back again into the right lane, and then over onto the shoulder.

“He’s fighting it, trying to stay awake,” Steve observed.

“It’s probably watered down with too much beer.”

The truck went over onto the shoulder, and the tires began to wobble and dig into the soft gravel. The rear wheels spun and threw rocks, and the truck fishtailed along for several feet, heading for the bridge, but by now the driver had no control and seemed to have slipped into sleep with his foot on the gas pedal. The truck roared and accelerated, then shot across the road, roared across the wide turn-off just before the bridge, leaped upon a clump of alder saplings, and finally soared off
the rocky precipice and into the river canyon below.