This Present Darkness (58 page)

Marshall looked up at that silly grinning face and said, “To use a cliché, you’ll never get away with this, Brummel. You don’t own the whole court system. Sooner or later this thing’s going to go beyond your reach; it’s going to get bigger than you are.”

Brummel only smiled a smile that Marshall longed to kick into oblivion and said, “Marshall, a lower court decision is all we need, and I’m sure we can manage that. Let’s face it. You’re nothing but a liar and a third-rate burglar, not to mention a child molester and a possible murderer. We have witnesses, Marshall: fine, upstanding citizens of this community. We’ll see to it that you have the fairest of trials, so you would have no grounds for appeal. It could go very hard for you. The judge might give you a break, but … I don’t know.”

“You mean Baker, the wheeler-dealer?”

“I understand he can be a very compassionate person … under the right circumstances.”

“So don’t tell me. You’re going to book Bernice on charges of prostitution? Maybe you can dig up those hookers again, that bogus cop again, set the whole thing up.”

Brummel chuckled mockingly. “That all depends on the evidence at hand, I guess. We can book her for burglary, you know, and the two of you set that one up yourselves.”

“So what about the laws against illegal wiretaps?”

Langstrat answered that one. “We know of no wiretaps. We don’t do that sort of thing.” She paused for effect, then added, “And they wouldn’t find anything even if they did believe you.” Then something occurred to her. “Oh, and I can sense what you’re thinking. Don’t put your hopes in Susan Jacobson. We’ve received the sad news today that she was killed in a terrible motor vehicle accident. The only people Ms. Krueger can expect to meet at The Evergreen Tavern will be the police.”

BERNICE FELT FAINT.
Her rib cage felt like it was shattered; her bruises throbbed without mercy. For the better part of an hour she didn’t have the strength or the nerves to get up from where she lay in the brambles. She tried to think what to do next. Every wisp of wind through the trees was an approaching policeman to her; every sound brought new horror. She looked at her watch. It was going on 3 in the morning. Soon it would be day, and there would be no more sneaking around. She had to get moving, and she knew it.

She slowly struggled to her feet, then stood there, slightly crouched, under the low hanging branches of a vine-tangled madrona, waiting for enough blood to circulate through her brain for her to stay standing.

She took a step, then another. She gained confidence and started moving ahead, feeling her way through the trees and underbrush, trying to fend off the scratching branches.

Back out on the street, it was quiet and dark. The dogs were no longer barking. She began to plot her course for her apartment, about a mile across town, making the trip in quick dashes from tree to hedge to tree. Only once did a vehicle drive by, but it was not a squad car;
Bernice hid behind a large maple tree until it had passed.

She could not distinguish her physical pain and sickness from her emotional exhaustion and despair. A few times she got confused and lost her bearings and couldn’t make out any of the street signs, and it was then that she almost cried, slumping against a fence or a wall.

But she remembered Marshall throwing himself into the jaws of those lions for her sake, and she couldn’t let him down. She had to make it. She had to get out of town, get free, meet Susan, get help, do
something.

For nearly an hour, block by block, step by step, she worked her way along and finally approached her apartment building. She cautiously followed a circuitous route around it, wanting to check it from all sides. Finally, from behind a neighbor’s station wagon, she thought she could make out the telltale rack of lights atop one car parked at the end of the block. From that position, the occupants of that car would have a perfect view of anyone trying to get into any apartment. So that was out.

The back of the building was much easier to sneak into; there were small parking stalls along a dark, narrow alley, the lighting was poor, the parking stalls could not be seen from ground level up above. It was a terrible place to park a car in terms of security, but perfect for Bernice tonight.

She darted across the street a block away and out of view of that squad car, then doubled back and slipped into the alley, staying close to the dank, concrete retaining wall as the alley dipped down below the grade. She reached her Toyota, removed the little magnetic key box from under the bumper, and used those emergency keys to open the door.

Oh, so near and yet so far! There was no way she could start her car and get away without being heard on this very still night. But there were some things she could make very good use of. She clambered in as quickly as she could and closed the door after her enough to extinguish the dome light. Then she opened the ashtray in the front console and emptied the quarters, dimes, and nickels into her pocket. Just a couple of bucks, but it would have to do. In the glovebox she found her prescription sunglasses; now she could see better and use them to conceal her black eyes.

There was nothing else to do but get out of town, maybe get some sleep somewhere, somehow, and then, one way or another, get out to Baker and The Evergreen Tavern by 8 that coming night. That was all, but it was enough. She strained to think of anyone she knew that
they
would not know, any friend who could still aid and abet a fugitive from the law, without questions.

Her mental list of names was too short and too doubtful. She started walking, making her way toward Highway 27 while searching her mind for any other ideas.

DOWN BELOW THE
courthouse, alone in a cell at the end of the dismal cellblock, Hank lay on his cot, asleep at last.

It had not been the most enjoyable of evenings: they had stripped him, searched him, fingerprinted him, photographed him, and then stuck him in this cell with no blanket to keep warm. He had asked for a Bible, but they wouldn’t allow him to have one. The drunk in the next cell had thrown up during the night, the writer of phony checks in the cell after that had a very dirty mouth, and the mugger in the next cell turned out to be a very vociferous, opinionated Marxist.

Oh well, he thought, Jesus died for them and they need His love. He tried to be kind and share some of God’s love with them, but someone had told them that he was an accused rapist, which put somewhat of a damper on his testimony.

So he had lain down, identifying with Paul and Silas and Peter and James and every other Christian who had ever spent time in a forlorn prison even though innocent. He wondered how long his ministry would survive, now that his reputation had been so blasted. Would he still be able to hang on in his already shaky pastorate? Brummel and his buddies were sure going to make full use of this. For all he knew, they had been the ones who set it up. Ah well, it was in the Lord’s hands; God knew what was best.

He prayed for Mary and for all his new, motley sheep, and mentally recited memorized Scripture to himself until he dropped off to sleep.

In the very early hours of the morning Hank was awakened by footsteps coming down the cellblock and the jingle of the guard’s jail keys. Oh no. The guard was opening his cell door. Now Hank would
have to share the cell with … a drunk, a mugger, a
real
rapist? He pretended he was still asleep, but he opened one eye just a little to have a look. Oh brother! This hoodlum was big and grim looking, and from the bandage and bruise on his head it looked like he had just been in a brawl. He was muttering something about having to be stuck in a cell with a rapist. Hank started praying for the Lord’s protection. This big character had to weigh twice as much as he did, and he looked violent.

The new guy flopped down on the other cot and breathed that heavy kind of breath one associates with bears, dragons, and monsters.

Lord, please deliver me!

RAFAR STRUTTED BACK
and forth on his hilltop overlooking the town, allowing his wings to trail and wave like a regal cape behind him. Demon messengers had been bringing him regular reports of how his final preparations of the town were going. So far it had been nothing but good news.

“Lucius,” Rafar called with the tone one would use in calling a child, “Lucius, come here, won’t you?”

Lucius stepped forward with all the dignity he could muster, trying to get his wings to wave and undulate like Rafar’s.

“Yes, Ba-al Rafar?”

Rafar looked down at him gloatingly, a wry smile on his face, and said, “I trust you have learned from this experience. As you have so clearly seen, what you could not do in years, I have accomplished in days.”

“Perhaps.” That was all Lucius would give him.

Rafar thought that was funny. “And you disagree?”

“One could think, Ba-al, that your work was merely the capstone on the years of my labor wrought before your coming.”

“Years of labor nearly undone by your blundering, you mean!” Rafar retorted. “Which does give one pause. Having won the town for the Strongman, do I dare now leave it in the hands of one who nearly lost it before?”

Lucius did not like the sound of that at all. “Rafar, for years this town has been my principality.
I
am the rightful Prince of Ashton!”

“You
were.
But honors, Lucius, reward deeds, and in deeds I do find
you lacking.”

Lucius was indignant, but he controlled himself in the presence of this giant power. “You have not seen my deeds because you have not chosen to look. Your will was set against me from the beginning.”

Lucius had said too much. Immediately he was snatched from the ground by Rafar’s burly fist around his throat, and now Rafar held him up and looked him straight in the eye.

“I,” said Rafar slowly and fiercely, “and only I, am the judge of that!”

“Let the Strongman judge!” Lucius responded very brazenly. “Where is this Tal, this adversary whom you were to vanquish, whose little pieces you were to hurl across the sky as your victory banner?”

Rafar allowed a slight smile to cross his face, even though his eyes kept their fire. “Busche, the praying man, is defeated and his name sullied. Hogan, the once tenacious hound, is now a worthless and defeated wretch. The traitorous Maidservant is destroyed, and her scum of a friend is also eliminated. All others have fled.”

Rafar waved his hand over the town. “Look, Lucius! Do you see the fiery hosts of heaven descending over the town? Do you see their flashing and polished swords? Do you see their numberless guard posted around about?”

He sneered at Lucius and Tal at the same time. “This Tal, this Captain of the Host, now commands a stricken and debilitated army, and he is afraid to show his face. Again and again I have defied him to confront me, to stop me, and he has not appeared. But don’t worry. As I have spoken, so shall I do. When these other pressing matters are settled, Tal and I
will
meet, and you will see it take place … just before I vanquish
you!
”