This Present Darkness (13 page)

I can’t tell her, Marshall thought to himself. How could he explain the strange, hypnotic persuasion he was sure he got from Brummel, the spooky feelings he’d gotten from Sandy’s professor, the stark terror he’d felt that night? None of it made sense, and now, to top it off, Sandy was gone. All through these situations he had been horrified by his own inability to fight back. He had felt controlled. But he couldn’t tell Kate anything like that.

“Aw … it’s a long story,” he said finally. “All I know is, this whole
thing—our lifestyle, our schedule, our family, our religion, whatever it is—just isn’t working. Something’s got to change.”

“But you don’t think you want to talk to Pastor Young?”

“Aw, he’s a turkey …”

Just then, 1 A.M. or not, the phone rang.

“Sandy!” Kate exclaimed.

Marshall snatched up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Hello?” said a female voice. “You’re up!”

Marshall recognized the voice, with disappointment. It was Bernice.

“Oh, hi, Bernie,” he said, looking at Kate, whose face sank now with frustration.

“Don’t hang up! I’m sorry for calling at this late hour, but I had a date and I didn’t get home until late, but I wanted to develop that film … are you mad?”

“I’ll be mad tomorrow. Right now I’m too tired. What have you got?”

“Get this. I know the film in the camera had twelve pictures of the carnival, including the ones of Brummel, Young, and those three unknowns. Today I went home and shot the rest of the roll, twelve more frames—my cat, the neighbor lady with the big mole, the evening news, et cetera. Today’s pictures came out.”

There was a pause, and Marshall knew he would have to ask. “What about the other ones?”

“The emulsion was blacked out, totally exposed, the film scratched and fingerprinted in a few places. There’s nothing wrong with the camera.” Marshall said nothing for a long moment. “Marshall … hello?”

“That’s interesting,” he said.

“They’re up to something! It’s got me all excited. I’m wondering if I can trace those prints.” There was another long pause. “Hello?”

“What did the other woman look like, the blonde one?”

“Not too old, long blonde hair … kind of mean looking.”

“Heavy? Thin? In between?”

“She looked good.”

Marshall’s forehead crinkled a bit, and his eyes shifted about as he followed his ideas. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good-bye, and thanks for answering.”

Marshall hung up the phone. He stared at the tabletop, drumming his fingers.

“What was that all about?” Kate asked.

“Mmmmmm,” he said, still thinking. Then he answered, “Uh, newspaper stuff. No biggie. What was it we were talking about, anyway?”

“Well, if it still matters, we were just talking about whether or not you should talk to Pastor Young about our problem—”

“Young,” he said, and almost sounded angry.

“But if you don’t want to …” Marshall stared at the table while his warm milk got cold. Kate waited, then roused him with, “Would you rather talk about this in the morning?”

“I’ll talk to him,” Marshall said flatly. “I … I want to talk to him. You
bet
I’ll talk to him!”

“It couldn’t hurt.”

“No, it sure couldn’t.”

“I don’t know when he’d be able to see you, but—”

“One o’clock would be nice.” He scowled a bit. “One o’clock would be perfect.”

“Marshall …” Kate started, but she kept it back. There was something happening to her husband, and she picked it up in his voice, in his expression.

She had never really missed that fire in his eyes; perhaps she’d never known it was gone until this moment when, for the first time since they left New York, she saw it again. Some old, unpleasant feelings rose up within her, feelings she had no desire to cope with late at night with her daughter mysteriously missing.

“Marshall,” she said, sliding her chair out and picking up the plate of half-eaten toast, “let’s get some sleep.”

“I may not be able to sleep.”

“I know,” she said quietly.

All this time, Tal, Guilo, Nathan, and Armoth had stood in the room, carefully observing, and now Guilo began to chuckle in his gruff, quaking way.

Tal said with a smile, “No, Marshall Hogan. You never were much of a sleeper … and now Rafar has helped to awaken you again!”

ON TUESDAY MORNING
the sun was shining through the windows and Mary was busy beating the daylights out of some bread dough. Hank found the name and number in the church records: the Reverend James Farrel. He had never met Farrel, and all he knew was the tasteless and malicious gossip going around about the man who had been his predecessor and had since moved far away from Ashton.

It was a whim, a stab in the dark, Hank knew that. But he sat down on the couch, picked up the phone, and dialed the number.

“Hello?” a tired older man’s voice answered.

“Hello,” said Hank, trying to sound pleasant despite his tight nerves. “James Farrel?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“This is Hank Busche, pastor of the—” he heard Farrel give a drawn-out, knowledgeable sigh, “—Ashton Community Church. I guess you must know who I am.”

“Yes, Pastor Busche. So how are you?”

How do I answer that, Hank wondered. “Uhh … okay in some respects.”

“And not okay in other respects,” Farrel offered, completing Hank’s thought.

“Boy, you’ve really been keeping up on things.”

“Well, not actively. I do hear from some of the members from time
to time.” Then he added quickly, “I’m glad you called. What can I do for you?”

“Uh … talk to me, I guess.”

Farrel answered, “I’m sure there’s a lot I could say to you. I do hear there’s a congregational meeting this Friday. Is that true?”

“Yes, it is.”

“A vote of confidence, I understand.”

“That’s right.”

“Yes, I went through the same thing, you know. Brummel, Turner, Mayer, and Stanley were in charge of that one, too.”

“You gotta be kidding.”

“Oh, it’s strictly history repeating itself, Hank. Take it from me.”

“They drummed you out?”

“They decided they didn’t like what I was preaching and the direction of my ministry, so they stirred up the congregation against me and then managed to take it to a vote. I didn’t lose by much, but I did lose.”

“The same four guys!”

“The same four … but now, did I hear right? Did you really put Lou Stanley out of fellowship?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Now that is something. I can’t imagine Lou letting anyone do that to him.”

“Well, the other three made that a pivotal issue; they haven’t left me alone about it.”

“And how is the congregation leaning?”

“I don’t know. They could be pretty evenly divided.”

“So how are you standing up under all this?”

Hank could think of no better way to phrase it. He said, “I think I’m under attack—direct, spiritual attack.” Silence at the other end. “Hello?”

“Oh, I’m here.” Farrel talked slowly, falteringly, as if thinking hard while trying to converse. “What kind of spiritual attack?”

Hank stammered a bit. He could imagine how last night’s experience would sound to a stranger. “Well … I just think Satan is really involved here …”

Farrel was almost demanding, “Hank, what kind of spiritual attack?”

Hank began his account carefully, trying very hard to sound like a sane and responsible individual as he related the major points: the mania Brummel seemed to have for getting rid of him, the church division, the gossip, the angry church board, the slogan painted on his house, and then the spiritual wrestling match he had gone through last night. Farrel interrupted only to ask clarifying questions.

“I know it all sounds crazy …” Hank concluded.

All Farrel could do was let out a deep sigh and mutter, “Oh, blast it all!”

“Well, like you say, it’s just history repeating itself. No doubt you’ve encountered things like this, right? Or am
I
the one who has the real problem here?”

Farrel struggled with the words. “I am glad you called. I always struggled with whether or not I should call
you.
I don’t know if you’re going to like hearing this, but …” Farrel paused for new strength, then said, “Hank, are you sure you belong there?”

Uh-oh. Hank felt a defensiveness rising in him. “I do believe firmly in my heart that God called me here, yes.”

“Do you know you were chosen as pastor by accident?”

“Well, some are saying that, but—”

“It is true, Hank. You really should consider that. You see, the church ousted me; they had some other minister all picked out and ready to move in, some guy who had a wide and liberal enough religious philosophy to suit them. Hank, I really don’t know how you ended up with the job, but it was definitely some kind of organizational fluke. The one thing they did not want in there was another fundamentalist minister, not after they went to such great lengths to get rid of the one they had.”

“But they voted me in.”

“It was an
accident.
Brummel and the others were definitely not planning on it.”

“Well, that’s obvious now.”

“Okay, good, you can see that. So let me just get right down to some direct advice. Now, after Friday this may all be moot anyway, but if I were you, I’d get packing and start looking for a position elsewhere, no matter how the vote comes out.”

Hank deflated a little. This conversation was turning sour; he just
couldn’t buy it. All he could do was sigh into the phone.

Farrel was forceful. “Hank, I’ve been there, I’ve been through it, I know what you’re going through, and I know what you have yet to go through. Believe me, it isn’t worth it. Let them have that church, let them have the whole town; just don’t sacrifice yourself.”

“But I can’t leave …”

“Yeah, right, you have a calling from God. Hank, so did I. I was ready to go into battle, to make a real stand in that town for God. You know, it cost me my home, my reputation, my health, it almost cost me my marriage. I left Ashton literally planning on changing my name. You have no idea of who you’re really dealing with. There are forces at work in that town—”

“What kind of forces?”

“Well, political, social … spiritual too, of course.”

“Oh yeah, you never did answer my question: what about what happened to me last night? What do you think about that?”

Farrel hesitated, then said, “Hank … I don’t know why, but it’s very difficult for me to talk about such things. All I can say to you is get out of that place while you can. Just drop it. The church doesn’t want you there, the town doesn’t want you there.”

“I can’t leave, I told you that.”

Farrel paused for a long time. Hank was almost afraid he had hung up. But then he said, “All right, Hank. I’ll tell you, and you listen. What you went through last night, well, I think I may have had similar experiences, but I can assure you, whatever it was, it was only the beginning.”

“Pastor Farrel—”

“I’m not a pastor. Call me Jim.”

“That’s what the gospel is all about, fighting Satan, shining the light of the gospel into the darkness …”

“Hank, all the nice homilies you can dig up won’t help you there. Now I don’t know how equipped or ready you are, but to be perfectly honest, if you come through it all with even your life I’ll be surprised. I’m serious!”

Hank had no other answer he could give. “Jim … I’ll let you know how it turns out. Maybe I’ll win, maybe I won’t come out alive. But God didn’t tell me I’d come out alive; He just told me to stay and fight.
You’ve made one thing clear to me: Satan does want this town. I can’t let him have it.”

Hank replaced the receiver and felt he would cry.

“Lord God,” he prayed, “Lord God, what shall I do?”

The Lord gave no immediate answer, and Hank sat there on the couch for several minutes trying to regather his strength and confidence. Mary was still busy in the kitchen. That was good. He couldn’t talk to her right now; there were too many thoughts and feelings to be sorted out.

Then a verse came to his mind: “Arise, walk through the land in the length of it and in the breadth of it; for I will give it unto thee.”

Well, it sure beat sitting home just fussing and fuming and not really doing anything. So on went his sneakers and out the door he went.

Krioni and Triskal were outside waiting for their charge. Invisibly they joined Hank, one on each side, and walked with him down Morgan Hill toward the center of town. Hank was not a man of great stature anyway, but between these two giants he looked even smaller. He did, however, appear very, very safe.

Triskal kept a wary eye open, saying, “What’s he up to, anyway?”

Krioni knew Hank pretty well by now. “I don’t think he even knows. The Spirit is driving him. He’s giving action to a burden in his heart.”

“Oh, we’ll have action, all right!”

“Just don’t be a threat. So far it’s the best way to survive in this town.”

“So tell that to the little pastor here.”

As Hank neared the main business district he paused on a corner to look up and down the street, watching old cars, new cars, vans and four-by-fours, shoppers, walkers, joggers, and bicyclers stream in four and more directions, regarding the orders of the traffic light as mere suggestions.

So where was the evil? How could it be so vivid last night and a distant, dubious memory today? No demons or devils lurked in the office windows or reached out of the storm drains; the people were the same, simple, ordinary folks he had always seen, still ignoring him and passing by.

Yes, this was the town he prayed for night and day with deep
groanings of the heart because of a burden he couldn’t explain, and now it was taxing his patience, unsettling him.

“Well, are you in trouble or aren’t you, or don’t you even care?” he said aloud.

Nobody listened. No deep, sinister voices answered back with a threat.

But the Spirit of the Lord inside him wouldn’t leave him alone.
Pray, Hank. Pray for these people. Don’t let them escape your heart. The pain is there, the fear is there, the danger is there.