This Present Darkness (20 page)

Brummel had taken his jacket off, loosened his tie, and rolled up his sleeves. He was gathering a pile of small squares of paper, the ballots.

“Okay, this will be by secret ballot,” he said, handing the slips of paper to two quickly appointed ushers who passed them out. “Let’s just keep it simple. If you want to keep the pastor, say yes, and if you
want to find someone else, say no.”

Mota nudged Chimon. “Will Hank have enough votes?”

Chimon only shook his head. “We’re not sure.”

“You mean he could lose?”

“Let us hope someone is praying.”

“Where, oh where is Tal?”

Writing a simple yes or no didn’t take long, so almost immediately the ushers were passing the offering plates among the people.

Guilo stood still in his corner, glaring at as many demons as would look at him. Some of the smaller, harassing spirits flitted about the sanctuary trying to see what people were marking on their ballots, and grinning, scowling, cheering, or cursing accordingly. Guilo could envision three or four of their wiry little necks in his fists. Someday soon, little demons, someday soon.

Brummel took charge again. “All right, in the interest of fairness, let’s have representatives from the two different … uh … viewpoints come up and do the counting.”

After a bit of nervous chuckling John Coleman was selected by the yeas and Gordon Mayer by the nays to count the ballots. The two men took the offering plates full of ballots to a back pew. A flock of flapping, hissing demons converged on the scene, wanting to see the outcome.

Guilo stepped out too. It was only fair, he thought. Lucius swooped down from the ceiling in an instant and hissed, “Get back in your corner!”

“I wish to see the outcome.”

“Oh, don’t you now?” Lucius sneered. “And what if I decide to cut you open as I did your friend?”

Something about the way Guilo answered, “Try it,” may have caused Lucius to reconsider.

Guilo’s approach sent the little demons fluttering away like a flock of chickens. He bent over the two men to have a look. Gordon Mayer was counting first, silently, then handing the ballots to John Coleman. But he stealthily hid a few yea ballots in his palm. Guilo checked to see how closely the demons were watching, then made a stealthy move himself, touching the back of Mayer’s hand.

A demon saw it and struck Guilo’s hand with bared talons. Guilo jerked his hand away and came infinitely close to tearing the demon to
shreds, but he caught himself and honored Tal’s orders.

“What is your name?” Guilo wanted to know.

“Cheating,” the demon answered.

“Cheating,” Guilo rehearsed as he went back to his corner. “Cheating.”

But Guilo’s move had succeeded in foiling Mayer’s effort. The ballots dropped out of Mayer’s hand and John Coleman saw them.

“You dropped something there,” he said very sweetly.

Mayer couldn’t say anything. He just handed the ballots over.

The count was finished, but Mayer wanted to count again. They counted the ballots again. The count came out the same: a tie.

The two reported the result to Brummel, who told the congregation, which moaned quietly.

Alf Brummel could feel his hands getting very damp; he tried drying them on his handkerchief.

“Well, listen,” he said, “there may not be much chance that any of you will reconsider, but I’m sure none of us wants to prolong this thing past tonight. I tell you what, why don’t we take a short break and give some of you a chance to get up, stretch, use the restroom. Then we’ll regather and vote again.”

As Brummel spoke, the two demons posted around the church saw something very unsettling. Just about a block up the street were two old women, hobbling toward the church. One walked with the assistance of a cane and a helping hand from her friend. She did not look well at all, but her jaw was set and her eyes bright and determined. Her cane clacked out a syncopated rhythm with her footsteps. Her friend, in better health and stronger, kept up with her, holding her arm to support her and talking gently to her.

“The one with the cane is Duster,” said one demon.

“What went wrong?” the other wondered. “I thought she’d been taken care of.”

“Oh, she’s ill, all right, but she’s come anyway.”

“And who is the old woman with her?”

“Edith Duster has many friends. We should have known.”

The two ladies made their way up the church steps, each step a major task in itself, first one foot, then the other, then the cane placed on the next step, until they were finally up to the front door.

“There, look at that now!” cackled the stronger one. “I knew you could do it. The Lord’s gotten you this far, He’ll take care of you the rest of the way.”

“What Edith Duster needs is a stroke,” murmured a sickness demon, drawing his sword.

Perhaps it was simply luck, or incredible coincidence, but just as the demon lunged forward with great speed to slash at the arteries in Edith Duster’s brain, the other woman moved to open the door and stepped right in the way. The tip of the demon’s sword struck the woman in the shoulder, which could have been concrete; the sword stopped short. Sickness did not, but catapulted over the two women and fluttered like a fractured kite into the church yard as Edith Duster moved inside.

Sickness gathered himself up off the ground and screamed, “The host of heaven!”

The other demon guard stared at him blankly.

Brummel saw Edith Duster come in, alone. He cursed silently. This would be the vote to break the tie, but she would most certainly vote for Busche. The people were gathering again.

The messengers of God were elated. “Looks like Tal succeeded,” said Mota.

Chimon was concerned, however. “With such a heavy cover of the enemy, he most certainly had to show himself.”

Guilo chuckled. “Oh, I’m sure our captain was very discreet.”

A few of the demons were in fact wondering what had happened to Edith Duster’s companion between the front door and the sanctuary. Sickness continued insisting it had been a heavenly warrior, but where was she now?

Tal, Captain of the Host, joined Signa and the other sentries at their concealed position.

“You had
me
fooled, captain,” said Signa.

“You just might attempt it yourself sometime,” Tal replied.

On the platform, Brummel mentally groped for a trump card. He could just see the burning eyes of Langstrat if this vote went the wrong way.

“Well,” he said, “why don’t we come to order now and get ready for another vote?” The people settled in and quieted down. The yea side
was more than ready.

“Now that we’ve prayed and talked about it, maybe some of us will feel differently about the future of the church here. I … umm …” Come on, Alf, say something, but don’t make a fool of yourself. “I guess I could say a few words; I haven’t really shared my feelings. You know, Hank Busche
is
a little young …”

A middle-aged plumber on the yea side piped up, “Hey now, if you’re going to put in some negative input we’ve got to have equal time for some positive!”

The yeas all murmured in agreement while the nays sat in cold silence.

“No, listen,” Brummel stammered, his face bright red, “I had no intention of trying to sway the vote. I was just—”

“Let’s have the vote!” someone said.

“Yes, vote, and quick!” Mota whispered.

Just then the door opened. Oh no, thought Brummel, who’s coming in this time?

The silence fell like a shroud of death over the whole group. Lou Stanley had just come in. He grimly nodded greeting to them all and took a seat in a back pew. He looked old.

Gordon Mayer piped up, “Let’s have the vote!”

The ushers passed out the ballots while Brummel tried to plan a good escape route in case he had to throw up—his nerves were just about shot. He caught Lou Stanley’s attention. Lou looked at him and seemed to laugh nervously.

“Make sure Lou back there gets a ballot,” Brummel told one of the ushers. The usher made sure.

Chimon whispered to Guilo, “I think we’re ready for any tricks Lucius might have.”

“Any tie breakers, you mean,” Guilo answered.

“We may be in for a long night,” said Mota.

The ballots were collected, and Lucius kept his demons tightly around each offering plate and his eyes on every heavenly warrior.

Mayer and Coleman counted again as the tension in the air tightened. The demons watched. The angels watched. The people watched.

Mayer and Coleman kept a close eye on each other, silently mouthing as they counted. Mayer finished counting, waited for Coleman to
finish. Coleman finished, looked at Mayer and asked him if he wanted to count again. They counted again.

Then Mayer took his pen, wrote the result on a slip of paper, and carried it up to Brummel. Mayer and Coleman took their seats as Brummel unfolded the paper.

Visibly shaken, Brummel took a few moments to put on his relaxed, businesslike, public image.

“Well …” he began, trying to control the tone of his voice, “all right, then. The … pastor has been retained.”

One side of the room loosened up, tittered, and smiled. The other side gathered up coats and belongings to leave.

“Alf, what was the vote?” someone wanted to know.

“Uh … it doesn’t say.”

“Twenty-eight to twenty-six!” Gordon Mayer said accusingly, looking back toward Lou Stanley.

But Lou Stanley had left.

TAL, SIGNA, AND
the other sentries could see the explosion from where they stood. With cries and wails of rage, demons scattered everywhere, erupting through the roof and sides of the church like shrapnel and fanning out in all directions over the town. Their cries became a loud, echoing drone of savage fury that rang over the whole town like a thousand melancholy factory whistles, sirens, and horns.

“They will wreak havoc tonight,” said Tal.

Mota, Chimon, and Guilo were there to report.

“By two votes,” said Mota.

Tal smiled and said, “Very well, then.”

“But Lou Stanley!” Chimon exclaimed. “Was that really Lou Stanley?”

Tal caught the implication. “Yes, that was Mr. Stanley. I’ve been standing right here ever since I delivered Edith Duster.”

“I see the Spirit has been working!” Guilo chuckled.

“Let’s get Edith home safely and get a guard around her. Everyone to your posts. There will be angry spirits over the town tonight.”

That night the police were busy. Fights broke out in the local taverns, slogans were spray-painted on the courthouse, some cars were stolen and joy-ridden through the lawn and flowers in the park.

LATE INTO THE
night, Juleen Langstrat hovered in an inescapable trance, halfway between a tormented life on earth and the licking, searing flames of hell. She lay on her bed, tumbled to the floor, clawed her way up the wall to stand on her feet, staggered about the room, and fell to the floor again. Threatening voices, monsters, flames, and blood exploded and pounded with unimaginable force in her head; she thought her skull would burst. She could feel claws tearing at her throat, creatures squirming and biting inside her, chains around her arms and legs. She could hear the voices of spirits, see their eyes and fangs, smell their sulfurous breath.

The Masters were angry! “Failed, failed, failed, failed” pounded in her brain and paraded before her eyes. “Brummel has failed, you have failed, he will die, you will die …”

Did she really hold a knife in her hand, or was this too a vision from the higher planes? She could feel a yearning, a terribly strong impulse to be free of the torment, to break loose from the bodily shell, the prison of flesh that bound her.

“Join us, join us, join us,” said the voices. She felt the edge of the blade, and blood trickled down her finger.

The telephone rang. Time froze. The bedroom registered on her retinas. The telephone rang. She was in her bedroom. There was blood on the floor. The telephone rang. The knife fell from her hands. She could hear voices, angry voices. The telephone rang.

She was on her knees on the floor of her bedroom. She had cut her finger. The phone was still ringing. She called out hello, but it still rang.

“I won’t fail you,” she said to her visitors. “Leave me. I won’t fail you.”

The telephone rang.

Alf Brummel sat in his home, listening to the phone ringing on the other end. Juleen must not be home. He hung up, relieved, if only for the moment. She would not be happy about the vote. Another delay, still another delay in the Plan. He knew he could not avoid her, that she would find out, that he would be confronted and berated by the others.

He flopped down on his bed and contemplated resigning, escape, suicide.