The Veritas Conflict (65 page)

Claire’s eyelids flickered. The shimmering ribbon transformed again becoming a shining filament that illuminated the very corners of the room. She turned her head and exhaled in awe at the same great being standing at attention right by her closet.

“I bring a message from the Lord of hosts.”

“What is it?”

“The Lord says, ‘My child, you already have the answers that you need. The battle is joined, and the trumpet is sounding. Be not discouraged, nor be afraid, for the Lord your God will go before you. But you must stand. And when the time comes, you must speak. And the Lord will make the barren water clear and pure, and healing will begin.”

Claire’s heart ached for her Master. “What does it mean?”

But the great being vanished. Claire took a shuddering breath. The moon receded, the Lord’s words growing distant.

She reached out anxiously as the moonlit path grew faint, her heart yearning for her Home.

The answering thought was gentle, almost amused.
Not yet, little one, not yet
.

She turned on her side and snuggled deeper into her covers, her own thoughts growing as faint as the stream of moonlight through the curtains.

She spoke to the Voice in her mind.
May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be pleasing in Your sight, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer
.

Her eyes opened. The morning sunlight was creeping softly through the curtains.

She sat bolt upright in bed. Her gaze went directly to her book crates in the corner. She knew. Somehow she knew.

Shivering slightly with the chill of the morning, she got up, padded over to the corner, and pulled out her philosophy book. With eager fingers she slipped out the pages from Doug’s printer, each printed sheet bearing the data for one of the six recipients of the Pike Fellowship.

Sitting cross-legged on the bare floor by her window, she laid each of the six pages in a row. Murphy Barker and his classmates stared up at her.

She got up and grabbed a yellow highlighting pen off her desk, then sat back down. The floor was cold, but she didn’t even think about turning up the thermostat. Her eyes were riveted on two pages in front of her.

She used her highlighter to mark a line on Johanna Godfrey’s page and one on the page of Gregory Granville the third. Their second work numbers. She grinned briefly to herself. Mr. hotshot Granville came through for her this time.

The phone numbers were the same.

FIFTY-FOUR

C
LAIRE FIDDLED AROUND THE ROOM FOR A WHILE
. It was too early to call anyone. She took a shower, ate a breakfast of Pop-Tarts, and packed up a few things she needed for the barbecue that morning.

Then she stood in the middle of the room, wanting to go out, wanting to
do
something with what she’d found. She forced herself to walk over to her bed and sit down. She had maintained her commitment every day thus far, and now was not the time to let it lapse. She pulled out her journal.

Within moments she was deep in prayer, pouring out her heart, seeking direction.
She felt
His enveloping love this morning. A soft song of praise played on her lips, then another, and another.

After a time Claire raised her head, at peace. The impatience was gone. God was in control.

She looked at the clock. It was still a bit early on a Saturday morning to call Ian or Mansfield. She got up and aimlessly straightened her room. Then, on impulse, she picked up the phone and dialed Ian’s number.

She listened to the ringing, wincing as she pictured him being awakened from some much-needed sleep.

The phone clicked. “Hello, you’ve reached Ian Burke …”

She stared at the phone in surprise. Where was he? She collected her thoughts and left a message; she had figured out the answer but didn’t want to leave details on voice mail.

“You know what?” she continued in a rush. “I think I’m going to head back over to the resource director’s office to see if I can somehow get access to that terminal that has all the detailed alumni information on it and get some concrete evidence. Its not like I know what else to do. Its pretty early, but maybe the clerk will be there moving boxes. You never know.”

Ian slowed to a rapid walk, then stopped and bent over, taking in deep mouthfuls of air. After a few moments he straightened, walking again to work out the stitch in his side.

The air was cold and crisp, and puffy white clouds scudded across a light blue sky. It was going to be a beautiful day.

He rounded a corner and entered a now-familiar side street. The tree branches overhead still formed a graceful canopy, even bare of leaves. He approached the tall iron gates and, startled, heard them creaking open.

Edward Grindley’s eyes twinkled at him. “Right on time, young Ian.”

Ian stared at him in frank astonishment before walking over. “I’m convinced you have security cameras watching the neighborhood the way you always know I’m here.” He shook the old mans hand, chuckling. “What are you doing up so early?”

Edward put a hand on Ian’s back and steered him inside the gate. “My security camera is called the Holy Spirit. He wouldn’t let me sleep this morning, and now I know why.” He looked up at the young man. “How about some breakfast?”

Claire walked up to the building, her hands deep in the pockets of her parka. The campus was quiet, the early morning mist still rising off the grass.

And there was a small moving truck pulled up to the building’s door.

Her steps quickened with anticipation as she looked inside the empty truck—no one there—and then made her way up the stairs and down the echoing hallway. There was a flatbed outside the familiar door.

“Hello?” Claire called out. The receptionist’s station was vacant. She stepped through the doorway, looking around the deserted area. She could hear the faint sound of banging and grunting down the corridor. The sounds grew louder as she cautiously approached the glassed-in office at the end of the row.

Three moving men were trying to maneuver a very large crate onto a dolly. One of them dropped a corner on his foot and swore fluently.

Despite herself, Claire grinned. No angels this time.

When the crate finally rested on the outmatched dolly, she stepped to the door and rapped on it, clearing her throat. All heads turned to look at her. She hesitated as one man’s eyes traveled down her figure and up again.

“Um … I’m looking for the clerk.”

The mover with the wandering eye left his buddies and walked toward the doorway, his gaze intent. She held her breath, on the verge of retreat.

When he got just two feet away he stopped, looked over her shoulder toward the maze of cubicles, and hollered. “Hey, buddy! You got someone here to see you.” He leered down at her startled face and sauntered back to his work.

She turned to see a young man in khakis and a sweater fast approaching.

“Can I help you?”

“I hope so.”

Claire blurted out her story as quickly as she could—the needed research, the authorization, the long hours at the resource director’s computers, the aborted effort to finish. She gestured toward the rank of computers along the wall. “Is there any way you could let me back on? We have a sort of deadline that we have to meet, and I really need to look at—”

“Sorry. Your shenanigans got us into a lot of trouble the other day, and I don’t think anyone here is excited about helping you now.” He turned to go back to his cubicle.

“But we didn’t do anything wrong! I have my access letter right here. We even stopped by yesterday to—” She broke off, her heart sinking. “Didn’t the receptionist tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“That we stopped by to prove that we hadn’t lied about Ian Burke.”

“No, she didn’t, and since now I can’t be sure that you’re even telling the truth about
that
, I certainly can’t just accept your access letter.” He paused, and his tone moderated. “Look, I can see this is important to you, and I’d be willing to put my annoyance aside to help you. But since I wasn’t here yesterday …” He shrugged, turning back to his cubicle. “I’ve got a lot of work to do. I’m sorry.”

Dejected, Claire watched him walk back to his cube. He disappeared from sight, and Claire heard him tapping on his keyboard. She turned and walked back down the corridor. How were they ever going to—

“Claire?”

She stopped and looked behind her. The clerk was standing in his cubicle in the middle of the room, his head just visible over the partition.

“Come back here a minute.”

Claire found her way through the maze and to his cube.

“Yes?”

He gave her a bemused look, then crossed his arms. “I just checked my e-mail, and there’s a note from the receptionist. She says all the extra security work she’s got to do is a pain in the behind, but that you were very pleasant to deal with when you and the real Ian Burke showed up.” He made a good-natured gesture of exasperation. “Oh, come on then.” He stepped out of the cubicle and led Claire toward the resource room.

A host of gremlins peered over the tops of cubicles, boxes, and filing cabinets as the clerk ushered Claire into the big room and began logging her on to the computer. Through the window, the gremlins could see the two chatting, but they did not approach. The
presence of a nearby warrior forestalled any thought of eavesdropping.

“We must report this!” one hissed. “Krolech himself will want to know.”

Several others shook their heads, and a fierce—if quiet—argument began.

“She was not supposed to get access!”

“She may not find anything.”

“And what happens if she
does
find something, and we have not reported it?”

The argument grew louder. One of their number slunk unnoticed out of sight and sped away. A few minutes later the arguing group suddenly quieted. A senior demon advanced and stood before them, his face hard.

“Report.”

After some hemming and hawing, the gremlins explained the quandary. He turned and looked into the room where the meddling girl was now tapping away at the keyboard. The clerk and the moving men were nowhere in sight, but she was not alone.

The senior demon leveled a hostile stare at her giant guardian. The guardian stared calmly back.

“For now,” the senior demon said, “keep an eye on her. I will consider who should be told. We must find a way to learn what she knows. If necessary, one of you will go in and take a look at the terminal. Report to me on a regular basis as long as she is in this office.”

As he glided away one of the gremlins let out an invective-filled complaint under his breath. The others—their disagreements temporarily forgotten—growled in one accord. No way were any of them venturing into that office.

They were going to have to make other arrangements.

“Kick out crusaders! Kick out crusaders!”

Brad stared sourly at the ten protesters not five feet from his grill.

The Fellowship had worked all morning to set up half a dozen picnic tables and four grills on the open lawn between Mem Hall and the Science Center. They had bought hundreds of hot dogs and hamburgers, procured fruit, cheese, and crackers by the bucketful, and set up tables laden with free soda. The Lord had provided them with a perfect Indian summer day.

And these stupid protesters were keeping everyone away.

Alison had left at a run to try to get the promised security help from the administration—who, after all, had authorized their barbecue. Brad had finally offered to cook each of his coworkers a hamburger. He could at least do that while they waited.

Several of the protestors were purposeful, intent. But others had the grins of
cheerleaders at a pep rally. From time to time, they would look over at Brad cooking his hamburgers and smirk.

Brad momentarily wondered if his sharp tongs could be put to another use.

Stefan yawned, locking the door behind him. Sherry would probably wake up soon, but she could find her own way back to her dorm room after her irritating behavior last night.

He was half surprised that she’d agreed to stay over, but of course took full advantage of that indecision without meaning much by it.

He had awoken right on time and had showered and dressed.

His stomach rumbled as he headed across campus toward Loker Commons. If he was going to have to wait a while, as ordered, he might as well have breakfast doing it.

With a feeling of complete unreality, Claire printed page after page from the Pike Fellowships database, and the proprietary alumni contact database.

It had taken a while, but she had checked Pike Fellowship recipients from ten randomly selected years, and at least six or seven of them had the same second work number as Johanna Godfrey and Gregory Granville III. Those individuals must have called in at some time from that number, and it became listed—unbeknownst to them—in this proprietary database.

She pulled each page off the printer, carefully highlighting the telltale line, although, she had to admit, she still didn’t know what it was saying.

The movers rattled around in the background, but she hardly noticed.

FIFTY-FIVE

I
AN HURRIED DOWN
M
ASSACHUSETTS
A
VENUE
toward the meeting spot, enjoying the clear air. What a great day for the HCF barbecue. He followed a path away from the road and toward the open area in front of the Science Center and Mem Hall.

Even from this distance, the location of the barbecue was obvious. A small group of sign-waving protestors paraded near the HCF tables.

Rather than approaching directly, he walked down the path in front of the Science Center, a little off to the side, and stood near the sharp corner of Oxford and Kirkland.

“Ian.”

He turned quickly. Mansfield was climbing out of his car, stopped in a temporary spot on the side of the road. Ian could see a folding table and a few barbecue tools in the backseat.

The two men greeted each other warmly, then Mansfield turned toward the drama on the lawn beside Mem Hall.

Ian crossed his arms, tense. “I spoke with Edward Grindley this morning. He woke up this morning with an urgent need to pray. He wants us to call him later today.”