The Lights of Tenth Street (56 page)

“Still, I’m not sure I like the sounds of this,” Sherry said. “After all you’ve gone through—” Melanie’s snide comment came to mind, and she slapped the bedsheets with both hands. “Darn it, maybe the woman was
right!
”

“Huh?”

“Oh, Melanie practically accused me of sabotaging your healing by taking in a stripper.”

“And I bet that just burned your beans.”

“You could say that. But maybe she was right.”

“I don’t know. In the end, it comes down to what God wants us to do. We can make ourselves crazy with trying to figure out the pros and cons, so in the end we just need to pray for the Lord’s leading. It’ll be a moot point if Ronnie has no interest in changing her life. But if the Lord
wants
us to take her—or someone like her—into our home for a time, I just have to trust that He’ll give us wisdom and protect us from the traps. And if we’re not supposed to take her in at all, as long as we’re praying about it I have to assume that He’s able to warn us against it.”

“I guess.”

“Well, like I said, it might be a moot point. I’m even wondering if she’s really coming to dinner tomorrow.”

Two seconds after the doorbell rang, Sherry was there, yanking the door open. “Ronnie! Welcome back.”

Ronnie stood awkwardly just inside the door, then she shrugged. “Well, I couldn’t think of any excuse to cancel, if you want to know the truth.”

Sherry steered Ronnie into the living room, where the Woodwards waited. “I like your honesty, girl.” She looked on as Vance and Jo gave Ronnie warm hugs, then gestured her to a seat. “Well, sit down, sit down. Do you want some hot chocolate?”

Sherry watched Ronnie settle into a chair and begin talking with the Woodwards, then she moved into the kitchen to check on Doug—busy at the stove—and bring out the drinks. She breathed a prayer of thanks that the girl had indeed come and for the powerful peace that had settled over their home. She and Doug and the Woodwards had gathered an hour early to ask the Lord’s blessing and presence over this night, asking that no dark forces would prevail, asking that the Lord’s will be accomplished, that Ronnie would be touched by the Spirit. Somehow, Sherry could feel the results.

The room was packed with angels, radiant with the light of the Lord, the excitement and anticipation palpable as they waited for their orders. This was unquestionably the Lord’s territory, and the few demons that had been allowed in—for the moment, attached to Ronnie by legal right—were unable to do anything but cower in the presence of blazing holiness.

Caliel eyed the miserable demonic crew, counting the moments until they gave up and fled the scene. They hung on for longer than he expected, warring between their desires and their pain, but the end result was inevitable. With intense satisfaction he watched the dreadful creatures loose their holds on the young woman and retreat at speed.

Instantly, the heavenly host erected an impenetrable wall around the home—and around Ronnie—ensuring that the events of this critical night would be protected.

Caliel gathered his troops and handed out their assignments. As the members of the heavenly host sped to their tasks, their thoughts turned toward the hand of
the King. This time, this night, all heaven seemed to be poised, waiting.

Caliel prayed for the Lord’s will to be done. So many things hinged on this night, and on the few nights to come. He knew they would need more strength, more power, more understanding. He prayed, fervently, for the success of his team.

A cadre of great beings traveled at speed southwards, to a small town. The group split up, one heading to where a middle-aged woman sat alone at a kitchen table, eating dinner and reading a newsmagazine. Some unpacked boxes still adorned one side of the room, but her furniture was in place, pictures were on the wall, and it was finally beginning to look like home.

The angel dropped into the kitchen, his voice soft but urgent. The woman didn’t stir, all her attention on a feature story about the dam breach. The great messenger put a hand on her shoulder and spoke again … and again.

Linda Hanover looked up from her magazine. What was that? She turned in her chair. It was almost as if she had heard a voice calling her name. Her eyes scanned the small apartment. Nothing there, obviously. How odd.

She started to turn back to her dinner when she heard a crash across the room. She started from her chair to see a cluster of books sprawled on the floor, pages splayed. She’d suspected that stack wasn’t stable when she stopped unpacking to go fix dinner. Hopefully, none of the books were torn in the tumble.

She knelt to gather the tomes into a neat stack. The top book leaped out at her, and she ran her hands over the cover. It was a historical novel Mrs. Dugan had given her, about a young frontier prostitute and a man who reached out to her in the love of Christ.

Her thoughts—as they always did—turned to her daughter, and then to the Lord. She gasped, clutching the book to her chest, her head spinning from the power of the sensation.

Pray. She had to pray. What was going on? Trembling, she said a quick prayer for her daughter, set the book on the floor, and started to go for the phone to call the Dugans.

No, child. PRAY

She fell back to her knees, her face to the carpet, words spilling from her lips.

“Dear Lord, what is going
on?
Lord, take care of my daughter. Lord, help me understand how to pray. God, save my baby!”

For what seemed like hours she clutched at the floor, tears staining her face, in
deeper intercession than she had yet known, groaning with this weight of prayer. She felt so small, so inadequate.

A pounding on the door roused her.

Linda levered herself to her feet and yanked open the door. The Dugans—parents and children—stood in the hallway, eyes wide.

“What’s going on?” Angela stepped inside the apartment, followed by her husband and in-laws. “We were having a family dinner and felt this urgency to come over here. Are you okay?”

“It’s Ronnie. I don’t know what’s wrong, but it’s Ronnie.” Crying, Linda blurted out all that she had felt in prayer—the danger, the need for salvation, for protection.

The Dugans guided her back to the sitting area. At Linda’s shaky direction, Angela dialed Ronnie’s phone number, then the number for the club, trying to find her. No luck.

As the Dugans talked and prayed with Linda, Angela’s attention kept being drawn to the phone. Finally, she rose to make some additional calls.

Most people were home, and said they would pray immediately. So many had joined Linda in her weekly trips to the altar, grieving and pleading with the Lord for her daughter, that they somehow felt like Ronnie was their girl, too.

A number of people—somehow sensing the same urgency—asked for directions, and within half an hour, the apartment was crowded. As the night marched on, the group sang, prayed, and read Scripture as the Lord led. The night grew late, but no one was inclined to leave. They were unsure exactly of what was going on but absolutely sure that this was where they needed to be.

T
yson stood in the high-tech command center, munching a stale sandwich and watching over the shoulder of a young underling who was finalizing the second Speed Shoes ad. It would also carry an embedded signal, but this one would do nothing but test, check for hitches, and confirm their capabilities for the real blow. It was a shame to let such an opportunity pass by—nearly as many people would be watching the ball drop on New Year’s Eve as would watch the Super Bowl—but it was just too risky. No use giving the authorities any chance to suspect something before the big day.

From time to time the underling would growl at some perceived mistake, barking out orders to the other underling working alongside. “Check the source code in the Hex Editor …

No, make sure it’s an MP3, not a WAV file.”

Tyson had no idea what they were talking about. He was just glad he had such people working for him.

The underling finished his task and swiveled in his chair, accepting kudos from the high-level managers in the room as his rightful due.

“Who wants CD copies of the final version?”

Everyone nodded, and Tyson watched as the kid popped a CD into his computer and downloaded the video clip, then downloaded a second file onto the same CD.

“Wait—what’re you doing?”

“Downloading the files, boss.” The underling looked up, puzzled. “You wanted copies, right?”

“What
files?
” Tyson gripped the kids arm, hard. “I thought it was just the video file. For the advertisement.”

“But I always put the code file in there, too, you know, so you have it on the same CD if you need it. This one’s the final version … an MP3 file, just like last time. You won’t hear much more than machine noise, but if you want you can play it using—”

Tyson tightened his grip. “You did this last time? You put the code onto the CD you made for me last time?”

“Yeah, sure, chief. That one was the MP3 file that piggybacked on the first
commercial, the one in mid-December—”

Tyson dropped his arm and made for the door, unaware of the looks of consternation that followed him out.

He punched in a cell-phone number, one he had memorized but never used. Until now. He waited, impatient through several rings, then he heard the familiar voice on the other end of the line, sounding distracted, busy.

“Jordan here.”

“I’m sorry, I must have the wrong number. I was calling for Mr. Proximus.”

The attention of the other party sharpened abruptly. “You do have the wrong number.”

“Sorry.” Tyson hung up and looked at his watch. The rendezvous would happen in twenty minutes. He would need to hurry.

“I’ve got to run to a meeting.” Jordan hurried out his office door, shrugging on a coat.

His secretary looked up, surprised. “But I thought you had this big deadline you wanted me to—”

“Shelve it.” Jordan pulled on some gloves. “Go home and have dinner with your family. This meeting just came up. We can finish the rest tomorrow.”

“Sure thing, chief!” She began closing out her computer, then frowned at something on the screen and turned back his direction. “What do you want me to do about—”

The hallway was empty. She hurried to put on her coat, grateful to have her night back. Thank goodness something else had come up.

“What is it?” Jordan looked around the empty hotel suite, his eyes not really seeing the luxurious trappings and trimmings. He was nervous meeting outside the building, without proper security precautions. He was almost sure he hadn’t been followed, but without the usual procedures he remained wary.

“Marco has the code.” Tyson explained as briefly as he could. “I don’t know if he even knows it, but he has it.”

“He didn’t call you to tell you there was an unfamiliar file on the CD?”

“No. So either he never saw it, or saw it and didn’t know what it was.”

“Or he saw it, knew what it was, and decided to keep it to himself. The code is insecure. I can’t believe this! Three weeks out, and the code is not secured.”

“I know. I accept full responsibility. I had no idea the programmers had put anything on that CD other than the commercials.”

“You should’ve checked.” Jordan’s voice was cold but matter-of-fact. “But that’s water under the bridge. What’s our going-forward plan?”

Tyson outlined what he had arranged by cell phone on the way over. “It’s ready to go as soon as you give the word.”

“Do it, then.” Jordan stood perfectly still, thinking. “And let me know immediately if there are any further developments. We’ll need to know immediately if the code has somehow spread farther.”

Tyson stared at Proxy’s angry face and decided not to mention that the code might be in the hands of not one but two people—one of them the woman who had arranged the Speed Shoes deal to begin with. He would keep that problem to himself and order his men to take care of it on the side.

Proxy was pacing the suite now. “If the code has gone beyond Marco’s hands, we may have to move everything up.”

“Can we even do that?”

“New Year’s Eve is tomorrow. We might be able to, but it’ll be tight. Otherwise, we’ll have to think about scrapping the whole plan.”

“Over just one internal slip-up? But—”

“Over just one internal slip-up.” Proxy bit out the words. “And I don’t have to tell you that our client won’t be pleased. But they would rather abort the plan than risk premature disclosure. After all, we can take the next month or two to investigate whether there has, in fact, been anything that would compromise the plan. And if not, we can always do it
next
year.”

“I can see how they wouldn’t be happy waiting a year.”

“No—not when the post—Super Bowl plans are ready. But none of it will matter if the primary event doesn’t come off. The client will not be pleased.”

Tyson straightened. “Well, chief, I personally think we’re okay. Just a few days ago you yourself pointed out how loyal Marco has been. I’m sure we’ll have containment once we remove the existing risk. I’ll give your go-ahead, and I’ll let you know if there’s any reason for further suspicion.”

Proxy nodded sharply. “Agreed. Get it done. Quickly. And it must look like an accident.” He stepped to the door. “Call me on the cell phone, as before. It’s not ideal, but we have no other choice. We cannot allow any further mistakes.” He gave Tyson one last meaningful look, and swept out.

Tyson made the calls from the privacy of the hotel suite, then traveled unhurriedly down to the main entrance and picked up his car from their loyal valet.

The boy smiled at the extra large tip. “Have a good night, sir.”