This Present Darkness
  By
  Frank E. Peretti
  Copyright 1986 by Frank E. Peretti.
All rights reserved. Crossway Books,
ISBN 0-8423-6171-5
  Ashton is just a typical small town. But when
reporter Marshall Hogan and pastor Hank
Busche begin to compare notes, they suddenly find
themselves fighting a hideous plot to subjugate the
townspeople-and eventually the entire human race.
  A fast-moving, riveting thriller, This Present
Darkness offers a fascinating glimpse into the unseen
world of spiritual warfare comandthe power of prayer.
  Frank E. Peretti is the best-selling
author of This Present Darkness, Piercing the
Darkness, Tilly, and The Cooper Kids
Adventure series. He and his wife, Barbara,
live in the Pacific Northwest.
  To Barbara Jean,
  wife and friend
  who loved me, and waited
  For we are not contending against flesh and blood, but
against the principalities, against the powers, against the
world rulers of this present darkness, against the spiritual
hosts of wickedness in the heavenly places.
  Ephesians 6:12 (Rsv)

  Late on a full-mooned Sunday night, the
two figures in work clothes appeared on Highway
27, just outside the small college town of
Ashton. They were tall, at least seven feet,
strongly built, perfectly proportioned. One was
dark-haired and sharp-featured, the other blond and
powerful. From a half mile away they looked toward
the town, regarding the cacophonic sounds of gaiety
from the storefronts, streets, and alleys within it.
They started walking.
  It was the time of the Ashton Summer Festival, the
town's yearly exercise in frivolity and chaos,
its way of saying thank you, come again, good
luck, and nice to have you to the eight hundred or so
college students at Whitmore College who
would be getting their long awaited summer break from
classes. Most would pack up and go home, but all
would definitely stay at least long enough to take in the
festivities, the street disco, the carnival
rides, the nickel movies, and whatever else could
be had, over or under the table, for kicks. It was a
wild time, a chance to get drunk, pregnant, beat
up, ripped off, and sick, all in the same night.
  In the middle of town a community-conscious landowner
had opened up a vacant lot and permitted a
traveling troupe of enterprising migrants to set
up their carnival with rides, booths, and
portapotties. The rides were best viewed in the
dark, an escapade in gaily lit rust, powered
by unmuffled tractor engines that competed with the wavering
carnival music which squawked loudly from somewhere in the
middle of it all. But on this warm summer night the
roaming, cottoncandied masses were out to enjoy,
enjoy, enjoy. A ferris wheel slowly turned,
hesitated for boarding, turned some more for unboarding,
then took a few full rotations to give its
passengers their money's worth; a merry-go-round
spun in a brightly lit, gaudy circle, the
peeling and dismembered horses still prancing to the
melody of the canned calliope; carnival-goers
threw baseballs at baskets, dimes at
ashtrays, darts at balloons, and money to the wind
along the hastily assembled, ramshackle midway
where the hawkers ranted the same try-yer-luck
chatter for each passerby.
  The two visitors stood tall and silent in the
middle of it all, wondering how a town of twelve
thousand people-including college students-could produce
such a vast, teeming crowd. The usually quiet
population had turned out in droves, augmented
by diversion-seekers from elsewhere, until the streets,
taverns, stores, alleys, and parking spots were
jammed, anything was allowed, and the illegal was
ignored. The police did have their hands full, but
each rowdy, vandal, drunk, or hooker in cuffs
only meant a dozen more still loose and roaming about the
town. The festival, reaching a crescendo now on
its last night, was like a terrible storm that couldn't be
stopped; one could only wait for it to blow over, and
there would be plenty to clean up afterward.
  The two visitors made their way slowly through the
people-packed carnival, listening to the talk, watching the
activity. They were inquisitive about this
town, so they took their time observing here and there, on
the right, on the left, before and behind. The milling throngs
were moving around them like swirling garments in a washing
machine, meandering from this side of the street to the other in
an unpredictable, never-ending cycle. The two
tall men kept eyeing the crowd. They were looking for
someone.
  "There," said the dark-haired man.
  They both saw her. She was young, very pretty, but
also very unsettled, looking this way and that, a camera
in her hands and a stifflipped expression on her
face.
  The two men hurried through the crowd and stood beside
her. She didn't notice them.
  "You know," the dark-haired one said to her, "you
might try looking over there."
  With that simple comment, he guided her by a hand on
her shoulder toward one particular booth on the
midway. She stepped through the grass and candy
wrappers, moving toward the booth where some teenagers
were egging each other on in popping balloons with
darts. None of that interested her, but then . . . some
shadows moving stealthily behind the booth did. She
held her camera ready, took a few more silent,
careful steps, and then quickly raised the
camera to her eye.
  The flash of the bulb lit up the trees behind the
booth as the two men hurried away to their next
appointment.
  They moved smoothly, unfalteringly, passing through
the main part of town at a brisk pace. Their final
destination was a mile past the center of town, right on
Poplar Street, and up to the top of Morgan
Hill about a half mile. Practically no time
at all had passed before they stood before the little white
church on its postage-stamp lot, with its
well-groomed lawn and dainty
Sunday-School-and-Service billboard. Across the
top of the little billboard was the name "Ashton
Community Church," and in black letters hastily
painted over whatever name used to be there it said,
"Henry L. Busche, Pastor."
  They looked back. From this lofty hill one could
look over the whole town and see it spread from city
limit to city limit. To the west sparkled the
caramel-colored carnival; to the east stood the
dignified and matronly Whitmore College
campus; along Highway 27, Main Street through
town, were the storefront offices, the
smalltown-sized Sears, a few gas
stations at war, a True Value Hardware, the
local newspaper, several small family
businesses. From here the town looked so typically
American-small, innocent, and harmless, like the
background for every Norman Rockwell painting.
  But the two visitors did not perceive with eyes
only. Even from this vantage point the true
substratum of Ashton weighed very heavily upon their
spirits and minds. They could feel it: restless, strong,
growing, very designed and purposeful ... a very
special kind of evil.
  It was not unlike either of them to ask questions, to study,
to probe. More often than not it came with their job. So
they naturally hesitated in their business, pausing
to wonder, Why here?
  But only for an instant. It could have been some
acute sensitivity, an instinct, a very faint but for
them discernible impression, but it was enough to make them both
instantly vanish around the corner of the church, melding
themselves against the beveled siding, almost invisible there in
the dark. They didn't speak, they didn't move,
but they watched with a piercing gaze as something
approached.
  The night scene of the quiet street was a
collage of stark blue moonlight and
bottomless shadows. But one shadow did not stir with the
wind as did the tree shadows, and neither did it stand still
as did the building shadows. It crawled, quivered,
moved along the street toward the church, while any
light it crossed seemed to sink into its blackness, as
if it were a breach torn in space. But this shadow had
a shape, an animated, creaturelike shape, and
as it neared the church sounds could be heard: the
scratching of claws along the ground, the faint
rustling of breeze-blown, membranous wings wafting
just above the creature's shoulders.
  It had arms and it had legs, but it seemed to move
without them, crossing the street and mounting the front
steps of the church. Its leering, bulbous eyes
reflected the stark blue light of the full moon with
their own jaundiced glow. The gnarled head
protruded from hunched shoulders, and wisps of
rancid red breath seethed in labored hisses through
rows of jagged fangs.
  It either laughed or it coughed-the wheezes puffing out
from deep within its throat could have been either. From its
crawling posture it reared up on its legs and
looked about the quiet neighborhood, the black,
leathery jowls pulling back into a hideous
death-mask grin. It moved toward the front
door. The black hand passed through the door like a
spear through liquid; the body hobbled forward and
penetrated the door, but only halfway.
  Suddenly, as if colliding with a speeding wall, the
creature was knocked backward and into a raging tumble
down the steps, the glowing red breath tracing a
corkscrew trail through the air. With an eerie cry
of rage and indignation, it gathered itself up off the
sidewalk and stared at the strange door that would not
let it pass through. Then the membranes on its
back began to billow, enfolding great bodies of
air, and it flew with a roar headlong at the door,
through the door, into the foyer-and into a cloud of white
hot light. The creature screamed and covered its
eyes, then felt itself being grabbed by a huge, powerful
vise of a hand. In an instant it was hurling through
space like a rag doll, outside again, forcefully
ousted.
  The wings hummed in a blur as it banked sharply
in a flying turn and headed for the door again, red
vapors chugging in dashes and streaks from its
nostrils, its talons bared and poised for attack,
a ghostly siren of a scream rising in its throat.
Like an arrow through a target, like a bullet through a
board, it streaked through the doorAnd instantly
felt its insides tearing loose.
  There was an explosion of suffocating vapor, one
final scream, and the flailing of withering arms and legs.
Then there was nothing at all except the ebbing stench of
sulfur and the two strangers, suddenly inside the
church.
  The big blond man replaced a shining sword as
the white light that surrounded him faded away.
  "A spirit of harassment?" he asked. "Or doubt
... or fear. Who knows?" "And that was one of the
smaller ones?" "I've not seen one smaller."
  "No indeed. And just how many would you say there are?"
"More, much more than we, and everywhere. Never idle."
"So I've seen," the big man sighed.
  "But what are they doing here? We've never seen
such concentration before, not here."
  "Oh, the reason won't be hidden for long." He
looked through the foyer doors and toward the sanctuary.
"Let's see this man of God."
  They turned from the door and walked through the small
foyer. The bulletin board on the wall carried
requests for groceries for a needy family, some
baby-sitting, and prayer for a sick missionary. A
large bill announced a congregational business
meeting for next Friday. On the other
wall, the record of weekly offerings indicated the
offerings were down from last week; so was the attendance, from
sixty-one to forty-two.
  Down the short and narrow aisle they went, past the
orderly ranks of dark-stained plank and slat
pews, toward the front of the sanctuary where one
small spotlight illumined a rustic
two-by-four cross hanging above the baptistry.
In the center of the worn-carpeted platform stood the
little sacred desk, the pulpit, with a Bible laid
open upon it. These were humble furnishings, functional
but not at all elaborate, revealing either humility
on the part of the people or neglect.
  Then the first sound was added to the picture: a soft,
muffled sobbing from the end of the right pew. There, kneeling
in earnest prayer, his head resting on the hard wooden
bench, and his hands clenched with fervency, was a young man,
very young, the blond man thought at first: young and
vulnerable. It all showed in his countenance, now the very
picture of pain, grief, and love. His lips
moved without sound as names, petitions, and praises
poured forth with passion and tears.
  The two couldn't help but just stand there for a moment,
watching, studying, pondering.
  "The little warrior," said the dark-haired
one. The big blond man formed the words himself in
silence, looking down at the contrite man in
prayer.
  "Yes," he observed, "this is the one. Even now
he's interceding, standing before the Lord for the sake of the people,
for the town . . ." "Almost every night he's here."
  At that remark, the big man smiled. "He's not
so insignificant." "But he's the only one.
He's alone."
  "No." The big man shook his head. "There are
others. There are always others. They just have to be found.
For now, his single, vigilant prayer is the
beginning."
  "He's going to be hurt, you know that." "And so will
the newspaperman. And so will we." "But will we win?"
  The big man's eyes seemed to burn with a
rekindled fire. "We will fight."
  "We will fight," his friend agreed.
  They stood over the kneeling warrior, on either
side; and at that moment, little by little, like the bloom of a
flower, white light began to fill the room. It
illumined the cross on the back wall, slowly
brought out the colors and grain in every plank of every
pew, and rose in intensity until the once plain and
humble sanctuary came alive with an
unearthly beauty. The walls glimmered, the worn
rugs glowed, the little pulpit stood tall and stark as
a sentinel backlit by the sun.
  And now the two men were brilliantly white, their
former clothing transfigured by garments that seemed
to burn with intensity. Their faces were bronzed and
glowing, their eyes shone like fire, and each man wore
a glistening golden belt from which hung a flashing
sword. They placed their hands upon the shoulders of the
young man and then, like a gracefully spreading
canopy, silken, shimmering, nearly transparent
membranes began to unfurl from their backs and
shoulders and rise to meet and overlap above their
heads, gently undulating in a spiritual wind.
  Together they ministered peace to their young charge, and his
many tears began to subside.
  The Ashton Clarion was a small-town,
grass-roots newspaper; it was little and quaint,
maybe just a touch unorganized at times,
unassuming. It was, in other words, the printed
expression of the town of Ashton. Its offices
occupied a small storefront space on Main
Street in the middle of town, just a one-story
affair with a large display window and a heavy,
toe-scuffed door with a mail slot. The
paper came out twice a week, on Tuesdays and
Fridays, and didn't make a lot of money. By the
appearance of the office and layout facilities, you
could tell it was a low-budget operation.
  In the front half of the building was the office and
newsroom area. It consisted of three desks, two
typewriters, two wastebaskets, two
telephones, one coffeemaker without a cord, and
what looked like all the scattered notes, papers,
stationery and office bric-a-brac in the world. An
old worn counter from a torn-down railroad station
formed a divider between the functioning office and the
reception area, and of course there was a small bell
above the door that jingled every time someone came in.
  Toward the back of this maze of small-scale
activity was one luxury that looked just a little too
big-town for this place: a glassed-in office for the
editor. It was, in fact, a new addition. The
new editorstowner was a former big city reporter and
having a glassed-in editor's office had been one
of his life's dreams.
  This new fellow was Marshall Hogan, a strong,
big-framed bustler hustler whom his staff-the
typesetter, the secretarystreporterstad girl, the
paste-up man, and the
reporterstcolumnist-lovingly referred to as
"Attila the Hogan." He had bought the paper a
few months ago, and the clash between his big-city
polish and their small-town easy-go still roused some
confrontations from time to time. Marshall wanted a
quality paper, one that ran efficiently and
smoothly and made its deadlines, with a place for
everything and everything in its place. But the transition
from the New York Times to the Ashton Clarion was
like jumping off a speeding train into a wall of
half-set jello. Things just didn't click as
fast in this little office, and the high-powered efficiency
Marshall was used to had to give way to such Ashton
Clarion quirks as saving all the coffee grounds
for the secretary's compost pile, and someone finally
turning in a long-awaited human interest story, but
with parakeet droppings on it.
  On Monday morning the traffic patterns were
hectic, with no time for any weekend hangovers.
The Tuesday edition was being brought forth in a rush,
and the entire staff was feeling the labor pains, dashing
back and forth between their desks in front and the paste-up
room in the back, squeezing past each other in the
narrow passage, carrying rough copy for articles and
ads to be typeset, finished typeset
galleys, and assorted shapes and sizes of
half-tones of photographs that would highlight the
news pages.
  In the back, amid bright lights, cluttered
worktables, and rapidly moving bodies, Marshall and
Tom the paste-up man bent over a large,
benchlike easel, assembling Tuesday's
Clarion out of bits and pieces that seemed to be
scattered everywhere. This goes here, this can't-so we have
to shove it somewhere else, this is too big, what will
we use to fill this? Marshall was getting miffed. Every
Monday and Thursday he got miffed.
  "Edie!" he hollered, and his secretary
answered, "Coming," and he told her for the umpteenth
time, "The galleys go in the trays over the table, not
on the table, not on the floor, not on the"
  "I didn't put any galleys on the
floor!" Edie protested as she hurried into the
paste-up room with more galleys in her hand. She was
a tough little woman of forty with just the right personality
to stand up to Marshall's brusqueness. She still knew
where to find things around the office better than anyone,
especially her new boss. "I've got them right in
your cute little trays where you want them."
  "So how'd these get here on the floor?"
  "Wind, Marshall, and don't make me tell you
where that came from!"
  "All right, Marshall," said tom, "that takes
care of pages three, four, six, seven . . .
what about one and two? What are we going to do with all
these empty slots?"
  "We are going to put in Bernie's coverage of the
Festival, with clever writing, dramatic
human-interest photos, the whole bit, as soon as
she gets her rear in here and gives them to us!
Edie!"
  "Yo!"
  "Bernie's an hour late, for crying out loud!
Call her again, will you?"
  "Just did. No answer."
  "Nuts."
  George, the small, retired typesetter who
still worked for the fun of it, swiveled his chair away from
the typesetting machine and offered, "How about the
Ladies Auxiliary Barbecue? I'm just finishing
that up, and the photo of Mrs. Marmaselle is
spicy enough for a lawsuit."
  "Yeah," Marshall groaned, "right on page
one. That's all I need, a good impression."
  "So what now?" Edie asked.
  "Anybody make it to the Festival?"
  "Went fishing," said George. "That
Festival's too wild for me."
  "My wife wouldn't let me," said tom.
  "I caught some of it," said Edie.
  "Start writing," said Marshall. "The biggest
townbuster of the year, and we've got to have something on
it."
  The phone rang.
  "Saved by the bell?" Edie chirped as she picked
up the back-room extension. "Good morning, the
Clarion." Suddenly she brightened. "Hey,
Bernice! Where are you?"
  "Where is she?" Marshall demanded at the same
time.
  Edie listened and her face filled with horror.
"Yes . . . well, calm down now. . . sure
. . . well don't worry, we'll get you out."
  Marshall spouted, "Well, where the heck is
she?"
  Edie gave him a scolding look and answered,
"In jail!"

  Marshall hurried into the basement of the Ashton
Police Station and immediately wished he could
disconnect his nose and ears. Beyond the heavily barred
gate to the cell block, the crammed jail cells
didn't smell or sound much different from the
carnival the night before. On his way here he had
noticed how quiet the streets were this morning. No
wonder-all the noise had moved inside to these
halfdozen peeling-painted cells set in cold,
echoing concrete. Here were all the dopers, vandals,
rowdies, drunks, and no-goods the police could
scrape off the face of the town, collected in what
amounted to an overcrowded zoo. Some were making a party
of it, playing poker for cigarettes with finger-smeared
cards and trying to outdo each other's tales of
illicit exploits. Toward the end of the cells a
gang of young bucks made obscene comments to a
cageful of prostitutes with no better place to be
locked up. Others just slumped in corners in a
drunken stew or a depressed slump or both.
The remainder glared at him from behind the bars, made
snide remarks, begged for peanuts. He was glad
he had left Kate upstairs.
  Jimmy Dunlop, the new deputy, was stationed
loyally at the guard desk, filling out forms and
drinking strong coffee.
  "Hey, Mr. Hogan," he said, "you
got right down here."
  "I couldn't wait . . . and I won't wait!"
he snapped. He wasn't feeling well. This had
been his first Festival, and that was bad enough, but he
never expected, never dreamed of such a prolonging of the
agony. He towered over the desk, his big frame
shifting forward to accentuate his impatience.
"Well?" he demanded.
  "Hmmm?"
  "I'm here to get my reporter out of the can."
  "Sure, I know that. Have you got a release?"
  "Listen. I just paid off those yo-yos upstairs.
They were supposed to call you down here."
  "Well ... I haven't heard a thing, and I have
to have authorization."
  "Jimmy"
  "Yeah?"
  "Your phone's off the hook."
  "Oh . . ."
  Marshall set the phone down right in front of him
with a firmness that made the phone jingle in pain.
  "Call 'em."
  Marshall straightened up, watched Jimmy dial
wrong, dial again, try to get through. He goes
well with the rest of the town, Marshall thought,
nervously running his fingers through his graying red hair.
Aw, it was a nice town, sure. Cute, maybe
a little dumb, kind of like a bumbling kid who always
got himself into jams. Things weren't really better in
the big city, he tried to remind himself.
  "Uh, Mr. Hogan," Jimmy asked, his hand
over the receiver, "who was it you talked to?"
  "Kinney."
  "Sergeant Kinney, please."
  Marshall was impatient. "Let's have the key for the
gate. I'll let her know I'm here."
  Jimmy gave him the key. He'd argued with
Marshall Hogan before.
  A whoop of mock welcome poured out from the
cells along with hurled cigarette butts and
whistled march tunes as he passed by. He lost
no time in finding the cell he wanted.
  "All right, Krueger, I know you're in there!"
  "Come and get me, Hogan," came the reply from
a desperate and somewhat outraged female voice
down near the end.
  "Well, stick out your arm, wave at me or
something!"
  A hand stuck out through the bodies and bars and gave
him a desperate wave. He got there,
gave the palm a slap, and found himself face to face
with Bernice Krueger, jailbird, his prize
columnist and reporter. She was a young,
attractive woman in her midtwenties, with
unkempt brown hair and large, wire-rimmed
glasses, now smudged. She had obviously had a
hard night and was presently keeping company with at
least a dozen women, some older, some shockingly
younger, mostly trucked-in prostitutes. Marshall
didn't know whether to laugh or spit.
  "I won't mince words-you look terrible," he
said.
  "Only in keeping with my vocation. I'm a
hooker now."
  "Yeah, yeah, one of us," a chunky girl sang
out.
  Marshall grimaced and shook his head. "What
kind of questions were you asking out there?"
  "Right now no joke is funny. No anecdote
of last night's events is funny. I'm not
laughing, I'm seething. The assignment was an
insult in the first place."
  "Look, somebody had to cover the carnival."
  "But we were quite right in our prognostication; there was
certainly nothing new under the sun, nor the
moon, as it were."
  "You got arrested," he offered.
  "For the sake of grabbing the reader with a scandalous
lead. What else was there to write about?"
  "So read it to me."
  A Spanish girl from the back of the cell offered,
"She tried to do business with the wrong trick," at which
the whole cell block guffawed and hooted.
  "I demand to be released!" Bernice fumed.
"And have you stepped in epoxy? Do something!"
  "Jimmy's on the phone with Kinney. I paid your
bail. We'll get you out of here."
  Bernice took a moment to simmer down and then
reported, "In answer to your questions, I was carrying
on spot interviews, trying to get some good
pictures, good quotes, good anything. I assume
that Nancy and Rosie here"-she looked toward two
young ladies who could have been twins, and they smiled
at Marshall-"wondered what I was doing, constantly
circumnavigating the carnival grounds looking
bewildered. They struck up a conversation that really
got us nowhere news-wise, but did get us all in
trouble when Nancy propositioned an undercover cop
and we all got busted together."
  "I think she'd be good at it," quipped
Nancy as Rosie gave her a playful hit.
  Marshall asked, "And you didn't show him your
I.d., your press card?"
  "He wouldn't give me a chance! I told him
who I was."
  "Well, did he hear you?" Marshall asked the
girls, "Did he hear her?"
  They only shrugged, but Bernice shifted her
voice into high gear and cried, "Is this voice loud
enough for you? I employed it last night while he
slapped the cuffs on me!"
  "Welcome to Ashton."
  "I'll have his badge!"
  "It'll only turn your chest green." Hogan
held up his hand to halt another outburst. "Hey,
listen, it isn't worth the trouble . . ."
  "There are different schools of thought!"
  "Bernie . . ."
  "I have some things I would love to print, four
columns wide, all about Supercop and that do-nothing
cretin of a chief! Where is he, anyway?"
  "Who, you mean Brummel?"
  "He has a very handy way of disappearing, you know
He knows who I am. Where is he?"
  "I don't know. I couldn't reach him this
morning."
  "And he turned his back last night!"
  "What are you talking about?"
  Suddenly she clammed up, but Marshall read her
face clear as a bell: Make sure you ask me
later.
  Just then the big gate opened and in came Jimmy
Dunlop.
  "We'll discuss it later," said Marshall.
"All set, Jimmy?"
  Jimmy was too intimidated by the yells,
demands, hoots, and jeers coming from the cages to answer
right away. But he did have the key to the cell in his
hand, and that said enough.
  "Step away from the door, please," he ordered.
  "Hey, when's your voice gonna change?" was
characteristic of the answers he got. They did move
away from the door. Jimmy opened it, Bernice
stepped out quickly, and he slammed it shut again behind
her.
  "Okay," he said, "you're free to leave on
bail. You'll be notified of the date for your
arraignment."
  "Just return my purse, my press card, my
notepad, and my camera!" Bernice
hissed, heading for the door.
  Kate Hogan, a slender, dignified redhead,
had tried to make good use of her time while waiting
upstairs in the courthouse lobby. There was much
to observe here after the Festival, although it certainly
wasn't pleasant: some woeful souls were escorted
and/or dragged in, struggling against their cuffs all the
way and spouting obscenities; many others were just now
being released after spending the night behind bars. It almost
looked like a change of shifts at some bizarre
factory, the first shift leaving, somewhat sheepishly,
their scant belongings still in little paper bags, and the
second shift coming in, all bound up and
indignant. Most of the police officers were
strangers from elsewhere, overtimers sent in to beef up
the very small Ashton staff, and they weren't being paid
to be kind or courteous.
  The heavily jowled lady at the main desk had
two cigarettes smoldering in her ashtray, but little
time to take a drag between processing papers on every
case coming in or going out. From Kate's viewpoint
the whole operation looked very hurried and slipshod.
There were a few cheap lawyers passing out their cards,
but one night in jail seemed to be the extent of
punishment any of these people would have to bear, and now
they only wanted to get out of town in peace.
  Kate unconsciously shook her head. To think
of poor Bernice being herded through this place like so much
rabble. She must be furious.
  She felt a strong but gentle arm around her, and
let herself sink into its embrace.
  "Mmmmmm," she said, "now there's a pleasant
change."
  "After what I had to look at downstairs I
need some healing up," Marshall told her.
  She put her arm around him and pulled him close.
  "Is it like this every year?" she asked.
  "No, I hear it gets worse each time."
Kate shook her head again, and Marshall added, "But
the Clarion will have something to say about it. Ashton could
use a change of direction; they should be able to see that
by now."
  "How is Bernice?"
  "She'll be one heck of an editorialist for a
while. She's okay. She'll live."
  "Are you going to talk to somebody about this?" "Alf
Brummel's not around. He's smart. But I'll
catch him later today and see what I can do. And I
wouldn't mind getting my twenty-five dollars
back."
  "Well, he must be busy. I'd hate to be the
police chief on a day like this."
  "Oh, he'll hate it even more if I can help
it."
  Bernice's return from a night of incarceration was
marked by an angry countenance and sharp, staccato
footsteps on the linoleum. She too was carrying a
paper bag, angrily rummaging through it to make
sure everything was there.
  Kate extended her arms to comgive Bernice a
comforting hug.
  "Bernice, how are you?"
  "Brummel's name will soon be mud, the mayor's
name will be dung, and I won't be able to print what that
cop's name will be. I'm indignant, I could be
constipated, and I desperately need a bath."
  "Well," said Marshall, "take it out on your
typewriter, swat some flies. I need that
Festival story for Tuesday's edition."
  Bernice immediately fumbled through her pockets and
retrieved a wad of crinkled toilet paper,
giving it to Marshall with forcefulness.
  "Your loyal reporter, always on the job," she
said. "What else was there to do in there besides watch the
paint peel and wait in line for the toilet?
I think you'll find the whole write-up very
descriptive, and I threw in an on-the-spot
interview with some jailed hookers for extra
flavor. Who knows? Maybe it'll make this town
wonder what it's coming to."
  "Any pictures?" Marshall asked.
  Bernice handed him a can of film. "You should find
something in there you can use. I've got some film still in
the camera, but that's of personal interest to me."
  Marshall smiled. He was impressed. "Take
the day off, on me. Things will look better tomorrow."
  "Perhaps by then I will have regained my professional
objectivity."
  "You'll smell better."
  "Marshall!" said Kate.
  "It's okay," said Bernice. "He hands me that
stuff all the time." By now she had recovered her
purse, press card, and camera and threw the wadded
paper bag spitefully into a trash can. "So what's
the car situation?"
  "Kate brought your car," Marshall explained.
"If you could take her home, that should work things out
best for me. I've got to get things salvaged at
the paper and then try to track down Brummel."
  Bernice's thoughts snapped into gear.
"Brummel, right! I've got to talk to you."
  She started pulling Marshall aside before he could
say yea or nay, and he could only give Kate
an apologetic glance before he and Bernice rounded
a corner and stood out of sight near the restrooms.
  Bernice spoke in lowered tones. "If you're
going to accost Chief Brummel today, I want you
to know what I know."
  "Besides the obvious?"
  "That he's a crumb, a coward, and a cretin?
Yes, besides that. It's pieces, disjointed
observations, but maybe they'll make sense someday.
You always said to have an eye for details. I think I
saw your pastor and him together at the carnival last
night."
  "Pastor Young?"
  "Ashton United Christian Church, right?
President of the local ministerial, endorses
religious tolerance and condemns cruelty
to animals."
  "Yeah, okay."
  "But Brummel doesn't even go to your church,
does he?"
  "No, he goes to that little dinky one."
  "They were off behind the dart throwing booth, in
the semidark with three other people, some blond woman,
some short, pudgy old fellow and a ghostly-looking
black-haired shrew in sunglasses.
Sunglasses at night!"
  Marshall wasn't impressed yet.
  She continued as if she was trying to sell him
something. "I think I committed a cardinal sin against
them: I snapped their picture, and from all
appearances they didn't want that. Brummel was quite
unnerved and stuttered at me. Young asked me in
firm tones to leave: 'This is a private
meeting." The pudgy fellow turned away, the
ghostly-looking woman just stared at me with her mouth
open."
  "Have you considered how this might all appear to you after
a good bath and a decent night's sleep?"
  "Just let me finish and then we'll find out, all
right? Now, right after that little incident was when Nancy and
Rosie latched onto me. I mean to say, I
did not approach them, they approached me, and soon
afterward, I was arrested and my camera confiscated."
  She could see she wasn't getting through to him. He
was looking around impatiently, shifting his weight
back toward the lobby.
  "All right, all right, one more thing," she
said, trying to hold him in place. "Brummel was
there, Marshall. He saw the whole thing."
  "What whole thing?"
  "My arrest! I was trying to explain who I was
to the cop, I was trying to show him my press card,
he only took my purse and camera away from me
and handcuffed me, and I looked over toward the dart
throwing booth again and I saw Brummel watching.
He ducked out of sight right away, but I swear I
saw him watching the whole thing! Marshall, I went
over this all last night, I replayed it and
replayed it, and I think . . . well, I don't
know what to think, but it has to mean something."
  "To continue the scenario," Marshall ventured, "the
film is gone from your camera."
  Bernice checked. "Oh, it's still in the camera,
but that means nothing."
  Hogan sighed and thought the thing over. "Okay, so
shoot up the rest of the roll, and try to get something
we can use, right? Then develop it and we'll see.
Can we go now?"
  "Have I ever made any impulsive,
imprudent, overassuming mistakes like this before?"
  "Sure you have."
  "Aw, c'mon, now! Extend me a little
grace just this once."
  "I'll try to close my eyes."
  "Your wife's waiting."
  "I know, I know."
  Marshall didn't quite know what to say to Kate when
they rejoined her.
  "Sorry about this . . ." he muttered.
  "Now then," Kate said, trying to pick up from where
they left off, "we were talking about vehicles.
Bernice, I had to drive your car here so you could have
it to get home. If you drop me off at our house
. . ." "Yes, right, right," said Bernice.
  "And, Marshall, I have a lot of things to do this
afternoon. Can you pick up Sandy after her psychology
class?"
  Marshall didn't say a word, but his face showed
a resounding no. Kate took a set of keys from
her purse and handed them to Bernice. "Your car is
right around the corner, next to ours in the press
space. Why don't you bring it around?"
  Bernice took her cue and went out the door.
Kate held Marshall with a loving arm and searched his
face for a moment. "Hey, c'mon. Try it. Just
once." "But cockfights are illegal in this
state." "If you ask me, she's just a chip
off the old block." "I don't know where I'll
start," he said.
  "Just being there to pick her up will mean something. Cash
in on it."
  As they started for the door, Marshall looked around
and let his gut senses feel things out.
  "Can you figure this town, Kate?" he said
finally. "It's like some kind of disease. Everybody's
got the same weird disease around here."
  A sunny morning always helps make the
previous night's problems seem less severe.
That is what Hank Busche thought as he pushed open
his front screen door and stepped out onto the
small concrete stoop. He lived in a low-rent,
one-bedroom house not far from the church, a little white
box settled in one corner, with beveled siding,
small hedged yard and mossy roof. It wasn't
much, and often seemed far less, but it was all he could
afford on his pastor's salary. Well, he
wasn't complaining. He and Mary were comfortable and
sheltered, and the morning was beautiful.
  This was their day to sleep in, and two quarts of
milk waited at the base of the steps. He snatched
them up, looking forward to a bowl of milk-sodden
Wheaties, a bit of distraction from his
trials and tribulations.
  He had known trouble before. His father had been a
pastor while Hank was growing up, and the two of them
had lived through a great many glories and hassles, the
kind that come with pioneering churches, pastoring,
itinerating. Hank knew from the time he was young that this was
the life he wanted for himself, the way he wanted
to serve the Lord. For him, the church had always been a
very exciting place to work, exciting helping his father out
in the earlier years, exciting going through Bible school
and seminary and then two years of pastoral
internship. It was exciting now too, but it resembled
the exhilaration the Texans must have felt at the
Alamo. Hank was just twenty-six, and usually
full of fire; but this pastorate, his very first, seemed
a difficult place to get the fire spread around.
Somebody had wetted down all the kindling, and he
didn't know what to make of it yet. For some reason
he had been voted in as pastor, which meant somebody
in the church wanted his kind of ministry, but then there were
all the others, the ones who . . . made it
exciting. They made it exciting whenever he preached
on repentance; they made it exciting whenever he
confronted sin in the fellowship; they made it
exciting whenever he brought up the cross of
Christ and the message of salvation. At this point, it
was more Hank's faith and assurance that he was where
God wanted him than any other factor that kept
him by his guns, standing steadfast while getting shot
at. Ah well, Hank thought to himself, at least
enjoy the morning. The Lord put it here just for you.
  Had he backed into the house again without turning, he
would have spared himself an outrage and kept his lightened
spirit. But he did turn to go back in, and immediately
confronted the huge, black, dripping letters
spray-painted on the front of the house: "YOU'RE
DEAD MEAT ." The last word was an obscenity.
His eyes saw it, then did a slow pan from one
side of the house to the other, taking it all in. It was
one of those things that take time to register. All he
could do was stand there for a moment, first wondering who could have
done it, then wondering why, then wondering if it would
ever come off. He looked closer, and touched it with his
finger. It had to have been done during the night; it was quite
dry.
  "Honey," came Mary's voice from inside,
"you're leaving the door open."
  "Mmmmm . . ." was all he said, having no
better words. He didn't really want her to know.
  He went back inside, closing the door
firmly, and joined young, beautiful, long-tressed
Mary over a bowl of Wheaties and some hot,
buttered toast.
  Here was the sunny spot in a cloudy sky for
Hank, this playful little wife with the melodic
giggle. She was a doll and she had real grit
too. Hank often regretted that she had to go through the
struggles they were now having-after all, she could have
married some stable, boring accountant or insurance
salesman-but she was a terrific support for him,
always there, always believing God for the best and always
believing in Hank too.
  "What's wrong?" she asked immediately.
  Rats! You do what you can to hide it, you try
to act normal, but she still picks it up, Hank
thought.
  "Ummmm . . ." he started to say.
  "Still bothered about the board meeting?"
  There's your out, Busche. "Sure, a little."
  "I didn't even hear you come home. Did the
meeting last real late?"
  "No. Alf Brummel had to take off for some
important meeting he wouldn't talk about and the others
just, you know, had their say and went home, just left me
to lick my wounds. I stuck around and prayed
for a while. I think that worked. I felt okay after
that." He brightened just a little. "As a matter of
fact, I really felt the Lord comforting me last
night."
  "I still think they picked a funny time to call a
board meeting, right during the Festival," she said.
  "And on Sunday night!" he said through his
flakes. "I no sooner give the altar call
than I get them calling a meeting."
  "About the same thing?"
  "Aw, I think they're just using Lou as an
excuse to make trouble."
  "Well, what did you tell them?"
  "The same thing, all over again. We did just what
the Bible says: I went to Lou, then John and I
went to Lou, and then we brought it before the rest of the
church, and then we, well, we removed him from
fellowship."
  "Well, it did seem to be what the congregation
decided. But why can't the board go along with it?"
  "They can't read. Don't the Ten Commandments have
something in there about adultery?"
  "I know, I know."
  Hank set down his spoon so he could gesture
better. "And they were mad at me last
night! They started giving me all this stuff about
judging not lest I be judged"
  "Who did?"
  "Oh, the same old Alf Brummel camp:
Alf, Sam Turner, Gordon Mayer . . . you
know, the Old Guard."
  "Well, don't just let them push you around!"
  "They won't change my mind, anyway.
Don't know what kind of job security that gives
me."
  Now Mary was getting indignant. "Well, what
on earth is wrong with Alf Brummel? Has he
got something against the Bible or the truth or what?
If it weren't this, it would certainly be something
else!"
  "Jesus loves him, Mary," Hank
cautioned.8It's just that he feels under heavy
conviction, he's guilty, he's a sinner, he knows
it, and guys like us will always bother guys like him. The
last pastor preached the Word and Alf didn't like it.
Now I'm preaching the Word and he still doesn't like it.
He pulls a lot of weight in that church, so I
guess he thinks he can dictate what comes across that
pulpit."
  "Well, he can't!"
  "Not in my case, anyway."
  "So why doesn't he just go somewhere else?"
  Hank pointed his finger dramatically. "That, dear
wife, is a good question! There seems to be a method
in his madness, like it's his mission in life to destroy
pastors."
  "It's just the picture they keep painting of you.
You're just not like that!"
  "Hmmmm . . . yes, painting. Are you ready?"
  "Ready for what?"
  Hank drew a breath, sighed it out, then looked
at her. "We had some visitors last night.
They-they painted a slogan on the front of the
house."
  "What? Our house?"
  "Well ... our landlord's house."
  She got up. "Where?" She went out the front
door, her fuzzy slippers scuffing on the front
walk.
  "Oh, no!"
  Hank joined her, and they drank in the view
together. It was still there, real as ever.
  "Now that makes me mad!" she declared, but now she
was crying. What d we ever do to anybody?"
  "I think we were just talking about it,"
Hank suggested. Mary didn't catch what he
said, but she had a theory of her own, the most obvious
one. "Maybe the Festival ... it always brings out
the worst in everyone."
  Hank had his own theory but said nothing. It had
to be someone in the church, he thought. He'd been
called a lot of things: a bigot, a
heel-dragger, an overly moral troublemaker. He
had even been accused of being a homosexual and of
beating his wife. Some angry church member could have
done this, perhaps a friend of Lou Stanley the adulterer,
perhaps Lou himself. He would probably never know, but that
was all right. God knew.

  Just a few miles east of town on Highway
27, a large black limousine raced through the
countryside. In the plush backseat, a plump
middle-aged man talked business with his secretary,
a tall and slender woman with long, jet-black
hair and a pale complexion. He talked crisply
and succinctly as she took fluid shorthand, laying
out some bigscale business deal. Then something
occurred to the man.
  "That reminds me," he said, and the secretary
looked up from her memo pad. "The
professor claims she sent me a package some
time ago, but I don't recall ever receiving it."
"What kind of package?" "A small book. A
personal item. Why not make a note to yourself
to check for it back at the ranch?"
  The secretary opened her portfolio and appeared
to make a note of it. Actually, she wrote
nothing.
  It was Marshall's second visit to Courthouse
Square in the same day. The first time was to get
Bernice bailed out, and now it was to pay a visit
to the very man Bernice wanted to string up: Alf
Brummel, the chief of police. After the Clarion
finally got to press, Marshall was about to call
Brummel, but Sara, Brummel's secretary,
called Marshall first and made an appointment for 2
o'clock that afternoon. That was a good move, Marshall thought.
Brummel was calling for a truce before the tanks
began to roll.
  He pulled his Buick into his reserved parking
space in front of the new courthouse complex and
paused beside his car to look up and down the street,
surveying the aftermath of the Festival's final
Sunday night death throes. Main Street was
trying to be the same old Main Street
again, but to Marshall's discerning eye the whole town
seemed to be walking with a limp, sort of tired,
sore, and sluggish. The usual little gagg'es of
half-hurried pedestrians were doing a lot of
pausing, looking, headshaking, regretting. For
generations Ashton had taken pride in its
grass-roots warmth and dignity and had striven to be
a good place for its children to grow up. But now there were
inner turmoils, anxieties, fears, as if some
kind of cancer was eating away at the town and
invisibly destroying it. On the exterior, there were
the store windows now replaced with unsightly
plywood, the many parking meters broken off, the
litter and broken glass up and down the street. But
even as the store owners and businessmen swept up the
debris, there seemed to be an unspoken sureness that
the inner problems would remain, the troubles would continue.
Crime was up, especially among the youth;
simple, common trust in one's neighbor was
diminishing; never had the town been so full of
rumors, scandals, and malicious gossip. In the
shadow of fear and suspicion, life here was
gradually losing its joy and simplicity, and no one
seemed to know why or how.
  Marshall headed into Courthouse Square.
The square consisted of two buildings, tastefully
garnished with willows and shrubs, facing a common
parking lot. On one side was the classy
two-story brick courthouse, which also housed the
town's police department and that somewhat decadent
basement cell block; one of the town's three
squad cars was parked outside. On the other side
was the two-story, glass-fronted town hall,
housing the mayor's office, the town council, and
other decision-makers. Marshall headed for the
courthouse.
  He went through the unimposing, plain doorway
marked "Police" and found the small reception area
empty. He could hear voices from down the hall and
behind some of the closed doors, but Sara, the
secretary, seemed temporarily out of the room.
  No-behind the receptionist's formica-topped counter
a huge file was slowly rocking back and forth, and
grunts and groans were coming up from below. Marshall
leaned over the counter to see a comical sight. Sara,
on her knees, dress or no dress, was in the
middle of a bluestreak struggle with a jammed file
drawer that had entangled itself with her desk.
Apparently the score was File Drawers 3,
Sara's Shins 0, and Sara was a poor
loser. So were her pantyhose.
  She let out an ill-timed curse just as her eye
caught him standing there, and by then it was too late
to rebuild her usual poised image.
  "Oh, hi, Marshall . . ."
  "Wear your Marine boots next time. They're
better for kicking things in."
  At least they knew each other, and Sara was glad
for that. Marshall had been in this place often enough
to become well-acquainted with most of the staff.
  "These," she said with the tone of an articulate tour
guide, "are the infamous file cabinets of Mr.
Alf Brummel, Chief of Police. He just
got some fancy new cabinets, so now I've
inherited these! Why I have to have them in my office is
beyond me, but upon his express orders, here they must
stay!"
  "They're too ugly to go in his office."
  "But khaki . . . it's him, you know? Oh
well, maybe a little decoupage would cheer them up.
If they must move in here, the least they can do is
smile."
  Just then the intercom buzzed. She pressed the
button and answered.
  "Yes sir?"
  Brummel's voice squawked out of the little box,
"Hey, my security alarm is flashing . . ."
  "Sorry, that was me. I was trying to get one of
your file drawers shut."
  "Yeah, right. Well, try to rearrange things, will
you?"
  "Marshall Hogan is here to see you."
  "Oh, right. Send him in."
  She looked up at Marshall and only shook her
head pathetically. "Got an opening for a
secretary?" she muttered. Marshall smiled. She
explained, "He's got these files right next to the
silent alarm button. Every time I open a drawer
the building's surrounded."
  With a good-bye wave, Marshall went to the nearest
office door and let himself into Brummel's office.
Alf Brummel stood and extended his hand, his face
exploding in a wide, ivory smile. "Hey,
there's the man!" "Hey, Alf."
  They shook hands as Brummel ushered Marshall in
and closed the door. Brummel was a man somewhere in
his thirties, single, a one-time hotshot city cop
with a big buck lifestyle that belied his
policeman's salary. He always came on like a
likable guy, but Marshall never really
trusted him. Come to think of it, he didn't like him that
much either. Too much teeth showing for no reason.
  "Well," Brummel grinned, "have a seat, have a
seat." He was talking again before either man's cushion
could compress. "Looks like we made a laughable
mistake this weekend."
  Marshall recalled the sight of his reporter sharing
a cell with prostitutes. "Bernice didn't
laugh the whole night, and I'm out twenty-five
dollars."
  "Well," said Brummel, reaching into his top
desk drawer, "that's why we're having this meeting,
to clear this whole thing up. Here." He produced a
check and handed it to Marshall. "This is your refund
on that bail money, and I want you to know that
Bernice will be receiving an official signed
apology from myself and this office. But, Marshall,
please tell me what happened. If I had just
been there I could have put a stop to it."
  "Bernie says you were there."
  "I was? Where? I know I was in and out of the station
all night, but . . ."
  "No, she saw you there at the carnival."
  Brummel forced a wider grin. "Well, I
don't know who it was she saw in actuality,
but I wasn't at the carnival last night. I was
busy here."
  Marshall had too much momentum by now to back off.
"She saw you right at the time she was being arrested."
  Brummel didn't seem to hear that statement.
"But go on, tell me what happened. I need
to get to the bottom of this."
  Marshall halted his attack abruptly. He
didn't know why. Maybe it was out of courtesy.
Maybe it was out of intimidation. Whatever the reason,
he began to rattle the story off in neat, almost
news-copy form, much the way he heard it from
Bernice, but he cautiously left out the
implicating details she shared with him. As he
talked, his eyes studied Brummel, Brummel's
office, and any particular details in decor,
layout, agenda. It was mostly reflex. Over the
years he had developed the knack of observing and
gathering information without looking like he was doing it.
Maybe it was because he didn't trust this man, but
even if he did, once a reporter, always a
reporter. He could see that Brummel's office
belonged to a fastidious man, from the highly polished,
orderly desk right down to the pencils in the desk
caddy, every point honed to perfect sharpness.
  Along one wall, where the ugly filing cabinets
used to stand, stood a very attractive set of
shelves and cabinets of oil-rubbed oak, with glass
door panels and brass hardware.
  "Say, moving up on the world, huh, Alf?"
Marshall quipped, looking toward the cabinets.
  "Like them?"
  "Love them. What are they?"
  "A very attractive replacement for those old
filing cabinets. It just goes to show what you can do if
you save your pennies. I hated having those file
cabinets in here. I think an office should have a little
class, right?"
  "Eh, yeah, sure. Boy, you have your own copier
. . ."
  "Yes, and bookshelves, extra storage."
  "And another phone?"
  "A phone?"
  "What's that wire coming out of the wall?"
  Oh, that's for the coffeemaker. But where were we,
anyway?"
  "Yeah, yeah, what happened to Bernice . . ."
and Marshall continued his story. He was well
practiced in reading upside down, and while he
continued to talk he scanned Brummel's
desk calendar. Tuesday afternoons stuck out a little because
they were consistently blank, even though they were not
Brummel's day off. One Tuesday did have an
appointment written down: Rev. Oliver Young,
at 2 P.m.
  "Oh," he said conversationally, "gonna pay my
pastor a visit tomorrow?"
  He could tell right away that he had overstepped his
bounds;
  Brummel looked amazed and irritated at the
same time.
  Brummel forced a toothy grin and said, "Oh
yes, Oliver Young is your pastor, isn't he?"
  "You two know each other?"
  "Well, not really. We have met on an
occasional, professional basis, I suppose .
. ."
  "But don't you go to that other church, that little one?"
  "Yes, Ashton Community. But go on, let's
hear the rest of what happened."
  Marshall was impressed at how easy this guy was
to fluster, but he tried not to press his challenge any
further. Not yet, anyway. Instead, he picked
up his tale where he left off and brought it to a neat
finish, including Bernice's outrage. He
noticed that Brummel had found some important
paperwork to look over, papers that covered up the
desk calendar.
  Marshall asked, "Say, just who was this turkey
cop who wouldn't let Bernice identify herself?"
  "An outsider, not even on our force here. If
Bernice can get us the name or badge number, I
can see that he is confronted with his behavior. You
see, we had to bring some auxiliaries down from
Windsor to beef things up for the Festival. As for
our own men, they all know full well who Bernice
Krueger is." Brummel said that last line with a
slightly wolfish tone.
  "So why isn't she sitting here hearing all this
apologizing instead of me?"
  Brummel leaned forward and looked rather serious.
"I thought it best to talk to you, Marshall, rather than
cause her to parade through this office, already somewhat
stigmatized. I suppose you know what that girl's
been through."
  Okay, thought Marshall, I'll ask. "I'm
new in town, Alf."
  "She hasn't told you?"
  "And you'd love to?"
  It slipped out, and it stung. Brummel
sank back in his chair just a little and studied
Marshall's face.
  Marshall was just now thinking that he didn't regret
what he said. "I'm upset, in case you hadn't
noticed."
  Brummel started a new paragraph. "Marshall
... I wanted to see you personally today because I
wanted to ... heal this thing up."
  "So let's hear what you have to say about
Bernice." Brummel, you'd better choose your
words carefully, Marshall thought.
  "Well" Brummel stammered, suddenly put
on the spot. "I thought you might want to know about it
in case you might find the information helpful in dealing
with her. You see, it was several months before you took
over the paper that she herself came to Ashton. Just a
few weeks before that, her sister, who had been
attending the college, committed suicide.
Bernice came to Ashton with a fierce
vindictiveness trying to solve the mystery surrounding
her sister's death, but . . . we all knew it was just
one of those things for which there will never be an answer."
  Marshall was silent for a significant amount of
time. "I didn't know that."
  Brummel's voice was quiet and
mournful as he said, "She was positive it had to be
some kind of foul play. It was quite an aggressive
investigation she had going."
  "Well, she does have a reporter's nose."
  "Oh, that she does. But you see, Marshall . .
. her arrest, it was a mistake, a humiliating
one, quite frankly. I really didn't think she would
want to see the inside of this building for some time
to come. Do you understand now?"
  But Marshall wasn't sure he did. He
wasn't even sure he'd heard all of it. He
suddenly felt very weak, and he couldn't figure out
where his anger had gone so quickly. And what about his
suspicions? He knew he didn't buy everything
this guy was saying-or did he? He knew
Brummel had lied about not being at the carnival-or
had he?
  Or did I just hear him wrong? Or ... where were
we, anyway? C'mon, Hogan, didn't you get
enough sleep last night?
  "Marshall?"
  Marshall looked into Brummel's gazing gray
eyes, and he felt a little numb, like he was dreaming.
  "Marshall," Brummel said, "I hope you
understand. You do understand now, don't you?"
  Marshall had to force himself to think, and he found it
helped not to look Brummel in the eye for a moment.
  "Uh . . ." It was a stupid beginning, but it was
the best he could do. "Hey, yeah, Alf, I think
I see your point. You did the right thing, I
suppose."
  "But I do want to heal this whole thing up,
particularly between you and me."
  "Aw, don't worry about it. It's no big
deal." Even as Marshall said it, he was asking himself
if he really had.
  Brummel's big teeth reappeared. "I'm
really glad to hear that, Marshall."
  "But, say, listen, you might give her a call
at least. She was hurt in a Pretty personal
way, you know." "I'll do that, Marshall."
  Then Brummel leaned forward with a strange smile
on his face, his hands folded tightly on the desk
and his gray eyes giving Marshall that same numbing,
penetrating strangely pacifying gaze.
  "Marshall, let's talk about you and the rest of this
town. You know, we're really glad to have you here
to take over the Clarion. We knew your fresh
approach to journalism would be good for the community. I
can be straightforward in saying that the last
editor was . . . rather injurious to the mood of this town,
especially toward the end." Marshall felt himself
going right along with this pitch, but he could sense something
coming.
  Brummel continued. "We need your kind of
class, Marshall. You wield a great deal of power
through the press, and we all know it, but it takes the
right man to keep that power guided in the right direction,
for the common good. All of us in the offices of public
service are here to serve the best interests of the
community, of the human race when you get right down
to it. But so are you, Marshall. You're here for the sake
of the people, just like the rest of us." Brummel combed his
hair with his fingers a bit, a nervous gesture, then
asked, "Well, do you get what I'm saying?"
  "No."
  "Well . . ." Brummel groped for a new
opener. "I guess it's like you said, you're new in
town. Why don't I simply try the direct
approach?" Marshall shrugged a "why not?" and let
Brummel continue. "It's a small town, first of
all, and that means that one little problem, even between a
handful of people, is going to be felt and worried about
by almost everyone else. And you can't hide behind
anonymity because there simply is no such thing.
Now, the last editor didn't realize that and really
caused some problems that affected the whole population.
He was a pathological soap-boxer. He
destroyed the good faith of the people in their local
government, their public servants, each other, and
ultimately himself. That hurt. It was a wound in our
side, and it's taken time for all of us to heal up from
that. I'll cap it off by telling you, for your own
information, that that man finally had to leave this town in
disgrace. He'd molested a twelve-year-old
girl. I tried to get that case settled as
quietly as I could. But in this town it was really
awkward, difficult. I did what I felt would
cause the least amount of trouble and pain for the girl's
family and the people at large. I didn't press for
any legal proceedings against this man, provided he
leave Ashton and never show his face around here again.
He was agreeable to that. But I'll never forget the
impact it made, and I doubt that the town has ever
forgotten it.
  "Which brings us to you, and we, the public servants,
and also the citizens of this community. One of the greatest
reasons I regret this mixup with Bernice is that
I really desired a good relationship between this office
and the Clarion, between myself and you personally.
I'd hate to see anything ruin that. We need unity
around here, comradeship, a good community spirit." He
paused for effect. "Marshall, we'd like to know that
you'll be standing with us in working toward that goal."
  Then came the pause and the long, expectant
gaze. Marshall was on. He shifted around a little in
his chair, sorting his thoughts, probing his feelings,
almost avoiding those gazing gray eyes. Maybe this
guy was on the up and up, or maybe this whole little
speech was some sly diplomatic ploy to shy him
away from whatever Bernice may have stumbled upon.
  But Marshall couldn't think straight, or even
feel straight. His reporter had been arrested
falsely and thrown into a sleazy jail for the night, and
he didn't seem to care anymore; this
toothy-smiled police chief was making a liar out of
her, and Marshall was buying it. C'mon, Hogan,
remember why you came down here?
  But he just felt so tired. He kept recalling
why he had moved to Ashton in the first place. It was
supposed to be a change of lifestyle for him and his
family, a time to quit fighting and scratching the
big-city intrigues and just get down to the simpler
stories, things like high school paper drives and
cats up trees. Maybe it was just force of
habit from all those years at the Times that made him
think he had to take on Brummel like some kind of
inquisitor. For what? More hassles? For crying out
loud, how about a little peace and quiet for a change?
  Suddenly, and contrary to his better instincts, he
knew there was nothing at all to worry about;
Bernice's film would be just fine, and the pictures
would prove that Brummel was right and Bernice was
wrong. And Marshall really wanted it to be that way.
  But Brummel was still waiting for an answer, still
giving him that numbing gaze.
  "I . . ." Marshall began, and now he felt
stupidly awkward in trying to get started. "Listen,
I really am tired of fighting, Alf. Maybe I
was raised that way, maybe that's what made me good
at my job with the Times, but I did decide to move
here, and that's got to say something. I'm tired,
Alf, and not any younger. I need to heal up. I
need to learn what being human and living in a town with
other humans is really like."
  "Yes," said Brummel, "that's it. That's
exactly it."
  "So . . . don't worry. I'm here after some
peace and quiet just like everybody else. I don't
want any fights, I don't want any
trouble. You've got nothing to fear from me."
  Brummel was ecstatic, and shot out his hand to shake
on it. As Marshall took the hand and they shook, he
almost felt he had sold part of his soul. Did
Marshall Hogan really say all that? I must be
tired, he thought.
  Before he knew it, he was standing outside
Brummel's door. Apparently their meeting was
over.
  After Marshall was gone and the door was safely
closed, Alf Brummel sank into his chair with a
relieved sigh and just sat there for a while, staring
into space, recuperating, building up the nerve for his
next difficult assignment. Marshall Hogan was
just the warm-up as far as he was concerned. The real test
was coming up. He reached for his telephone, pulled it
a little closer, stared at it for a moment, and then dialed
the number.
  Hank was touching up his paint job on the front
of the house when the phone rang and Mary called,
"Hank, it's Alf Brummel!"
  Wow, Hank thought. And here I am with a loaded
paintbrush in my hand. I wish he was standing here.
  He confessed his sin to the Lord on his way in
to answer the phone.
  "Hi there," he said.
  In his office, Brummel turned his back to the
door to make it a private conversation even though he
was alone, and spoke in a lowered voice. "Hi,
Hank. This is Alf. I thought I should call you this
morning and see how you are . . . since last
night."
  "Oh . . ." said Hank, feeling like a mouse in
a cat's mouth. "I'm okay, I guess.
Better, maybe."
  "So you've given it some thought?"
  "Oh, sure, I've thought about it a lot.
I've prayed about it, rechecked the Word regarding
some questions"
  "Hmmm. Sounds like you haven't changed your
mind."
  "Well, if the Word of God would change then
I'd change, but I guess the Lord won't back
down from what He says, and you know where that leaves
me."
  "Hank, you know the congregational meeting is this
Friday."
  "I know that."
  "Hank, I'd really like to help you. I don't
want to see you destroy yourself. You've been
good for the church, I think, but-what can I say? The
division, the bickering . . . it's all about to tear that
church apart."
  "Who's bickering?"
  "Oh, come on . . ."
  "And for that matter, who called that congregational
meeting in the first place? Y. Sam. Gordon.
I have no doubt that Lou is still at work out there, as
well as whoever it was that painted on the front of my
house."
  "We're just concerned, that's all. You're, well,
you're fighting against what's best for the church."
  "That's funny. I thought I was fighting against you.
But did you hear me? I said someone painted on the
front of my house." "What? Painted what?"
Hank let him have it all.
  Brummel let out a groan. "Aw, Hank,
that's sick!" "And so is Mary, and so am I.
Put yourself in our position." "Hank, if I were in
your position, I'd reconsider. Can't you see
what's happening? Word's getting around now, and you're
setting the whole town against you. That also means the
whole town's going to be set against our church before
long, and we have to survive in this town, Hank!
We're here to help people, to reach out to them, not
drive a wedge between ourselves and the community."
  "I preach the gospel of Jesus Christ, and there
are plenty who appreciate it. Just where is this
wedge you're talking about?"
  Brummel was getting impatient. "Hank,
learn from the last pastor. He made the same
mistake. Look what happened to him."
  "I did learn from him. I learned that all I have
to do is give up, bag it, bury the truth in a
drawer somewhere so it won't offend anybody. Then
I'll be fine, everybody will like me, and we'll all
be one happy family again. Apparently Jesus was
misguided. He could have kept a lot of friends
by wilting and just playing politics."
  "But you want to be crucified!"
  "I want to save souls, I want to convict
sinners, I want to help newborn believers grow
up in the truth. If I don't do that, I'll have a
lot more to fear than you and the rest of the board."
  "I don't call that love, Hank."
  "I love you all, Alf. That's why I give
you your medicine, and that goes especially for Lou."
  Brummel pulled a big gun. "Hank, have you
considered that he could sue you?"
  There was a pause at the other end.
  Finally Hank answered, "No."
  "He could sue you for damages, slander, defamation
of character, mental anguish, who knows what else?"
  Hank drew a deep breath and called on the
Lord for patience and wisdom.
  "You see the problem?" he said finally. "Too many
people don't know-or don't want to know-what the truth
is anymore. We don't stand for something, so we
fall for anything, and now guys like Lou get themselves
into a fog where they can hurt their own families, start
their own gossip, ruin their own reputations, make
themselves miserable in their sin ... and then look for someone
else to blame! Just who's doing what to whom?"
  Brummel only sighed. "We'll talk it all
out Friday night. You will be there?"
  Yes, I will. I'll be counseling somebody and
then I'll go in for the meeting. Ever done any
counseling?"
  "No."
  It gives you a real respect for the truth when you
have to help clean up lives that have been based on a
lie. Think about it." "Hank, I have other people's
wishes to think about." Brummel hung up loudly and
wiped the sweat from his palms.
  4
  Could anyone have seen him, the initial impression
would not have been so much his reptilian, warted
appearance as the way his figure seemed to absorb
light and not return it, as if he were more a shadow
than an object, a strange, animated hole in
space. But this little spirit was invisible to the eyes of men,
unseen and immaterial, drifting over the town,
banking one way and then the other, guided by will and not
wind, his swirling wings quivering in a greyish blur
as they propelled him.
  He was like a high-strung little gargoyle, his hide
a slimy, bottomless black, his body thin and
spiderlike: half humanoid, half animal,
totally demon. Two huge yellow cat-eyes
bulged out of his face, darting to and fro, peering,
searching. His breath came in short, sulfurous
gasps, visible as glowing yellow vapor.
  He was carefully watching and following his charge, the
driver of a brown Buick moving through the streets of
Ashton far below.
  Marshall got out of the Clarion office just a little
early that day. After all the morning's confusion it was a
surprise to find Tuesday's Clarion already off
to the printer and the staff gearing up for Friday. A
small-town paper was just about the right pace .
. . perhaps he could get to know his daughter again.
  Sandy. Yes sir, a beautiful redhead, their
only child. She had nothing but potential, but had
spent most of her childhood with an overtime mother and a
hardly-there father. Marshall was successful in New
York, all right, at just about everything except being the
kind of father Sandy needed. She had always let him know
about it, too, but as Kate said, the two of them were
too much alike; her cries for love and attention
always came out like stabs, and Marshall gave her
attention all right, like dogs give to cats.
  No more fights, he kept telling himself, no more
picking and scratching and hurting. Let her talk,
let her spill how she feels, and don't be harsh
with her. Love her for who she is, let her be herself,
don't try to corral her.
  It was crazy how his love for her kept coming out like
spite, with anger and cutting words. He knew he was
only reaching for her, trying to bring her back. It just
never worked. Ah well, Hogan, try, try again,
and don't blow it this time.
  He made a left turn and could see the
college ahead. The Whitmore College
campus looked like most American
campuses-beautiful, with stately old
buildings that made you feel learned just to look at
them, wide, neatly-lawned plazas with walkways
in carefully laid patterns of brick and stone,
landscaping with rocks, greenery, statuary. It was
everything a good college should be, right down to the
fifteen-minute parking spaces. Marshall parked the
Buick and set out in search of Stewart Hall,
home of the Psychology Department and Sandy's last
class for the day.
  Whitmore was a privately-endowed college,
founded by some landholder as a memorial to himself back
in the early twenties. From old photos of the place
one could discover that some of the red-brick and
white-pillared lecture halls were as old as the
college itself: monuments of the past and supposedly
guardians of the future.
  The summertime campus was relatively quiet.
  Marshall got directions from a frisbee-throwing
sophomore and turned left down an elm-lined
street. At the end of the street he found Stewart
Hall, an imposing structure patterned after some
European cathedral with towers and archways. He
pulled open one of the big double doors and found himself
in a spacious, echoing hallway. The close of the
big door made such a reverberating thunder
off the vaulted ceiling and smooth walls that
Marshall thought he had disturbed every class on the
floor.
  But now he was lost. This place had three
floors and some thirty classrooms, and he had no
idea which one was Sandy's. He started walking down the
hall, trying to keep his heels from tapping too
loudly. You couldn't even get away with a burp in this
place.
  Sandy was a freshman this year. Their move
to Ashton had been just a little late, so she was
enrolled in summer classes to catch up, but all in
all it had been the right point of transition for her.
She was an undcld major for now, feeling her way
and taking prerequisites. Where a class in
"Psychology of Self" fit into all that Marshall
couldn't guess, but he and Kate weren't out to rush
her.
  From somewhere down the cavernous hall echoed the
indistinguishable but well-ordered words of a lecture
in progress, a woman's voice. He decided
to check it out. He moved past several classroom
doors, their little black numbers steadily
decreasing, then a drinking fountain, the restrooms,
and a ponderously ascending stone and iron
staircase. Finally he began to make out the words of the
lecture as he drew near Room 101.
  ... so if we settle for a simple
ontological formula, "I think, therefore I
am," that should be the end of the question. But being does not
presuppose meaning . . ."
  Yeah, here was more of that college stuff, that funny
conglomeration of sixty-four-dollar words which impress
people with your academic prowess but can't get you a
paying job. Marshall smirked to himself a little bit.
Psychology. If all those shrinks could just agree
for a change, it would help. First Sandy blamed her
snotty attitude on a violent birth
experience, and then what was it? Poor potty
training? Her new thing was self-knowledge, self-esteem,
identity; she already knew how to be hung up on
herself-now they were teaching it to her in college.
  He peeked in the door and saw a theater
arrangement, with rows of seats built in steadily
rising levels toward the back of the room, and the
small platform in front with the professor
lecturing against a massive blackboard
backdrop.
  "dis . . and meaning doesn't necessarily come from
thinking, for some have said that the Self is not the
Mind at all, and that the Mind actually denies the
Self and inhibits Self-K. . . ."
  Whoosh! For some reason Marshall had expected
an older woman, skinny, her hair in a bun,
wearing horn-rimmed glasses with a little beady chain
looped around her neck. But this one was a startling
surprise, something right out of a lipstick or fashion
commercial: long blonde hair, trim figure,
deep, dark eyes that twitched a bit but certainly
needed no glasses, horn-rimmed or otherwise.
  Then Marshall caught the glint of deep red
hair, and he saw Sandy sitting toward the front
of the hall, listening intently and feverishly scrawling
notes. Bingo! That was easy. He decided to slip
in quietly and listen to the tail end of the lecture.
It might give him some idea of what Sandy was
learning and then they'd have something to talk about. He
stepped silently through the door, and took one of the
empty seats in the back.
  Then it happened. Some kind of radar in the
professor's head must have clicked on. She homed
in on Marshall sitting there and simply would not look
away from him. He had no desire to draw any
attention to himself-he was rapidly getting too much of
that anyway from the class-so he said nothing.
But the professor seemed to examine him, searching his
face as if it were familiar to her, as if she were
trying to remember someone she had known before. The look
that suddenly crossed her face gave Marshall a
chill: she gave him a knifelike gaze, like the
eyes of a treed cougar. He began to feel a
corresponding defense instinct twisting a knot in
his stomach.
  "Is there something you want?" the professor
demanded, and all Marshall could see were her two
piercing eyes.
  "I'm just waiting for my daughter," he answered
and his tone was courteous.
  "Would you like to wait outside?" she said, and it
wasn't a question.
  And he was out in the hall. He leaned against the
wall, staring at the linoleum, his mind spinning, his
senses scrambled, his heart pounding. He had no
understanding of why he was there, but he was out in the hall.
Just like that. How? What happened? Come on,
Hogan, stop shaking and think!
  He tried to replay it in his mind, but it came
back slowly, stubbornly, like recalling a bad
dream. That woman's eyes! The way they looked
told him she somehow knew who he was,
even though they had never met-and he had never seen or
felt such hate. But it wasn't just the eyes; it was
also the fear; the steadily rising, face-draining,
heart-pounding fear that had crept into him for no
reason, with no visible cause. He had been scared
half to death ... by nothing! It made no sense at
all. He had never run or backed down from anything
in his life. But now, for the first time in his life . . .
  For the first time? The image of Alf Brummel's
gazing gray eyes flashed across his mind, and the weakness
returned. He blinked the image away and took a
deep breath. Where was the old Hogan gut strength?
Had he left it back in Brummel's office?
  But he had no conclusions, no theories, no
explanations, only derision for himself. He
muttered, "So I gave in again, like a rotted
tree," and like a rotted tree he leaned against the
wall and waited.
  In a few minutes the door to the lecture hall
burst open and students began to fan outward like bees
from a hive. They ignored him so thoroughly that
Marshall felt invisible, but that was fine with him for
now.
  Then came Sandy. He straightened up, walked
toward her, started to say hello . . . and
she walked right by! She didn't pause, smile,
return his greeting, anything! He stood there
dumbly for a moment, watching her walk down the hall
toward the exit.
  Then he followed. He wasn't limping, but for
some reason he felt like he was. He wasn't
really dragging his feet, but they felt like lead
weights. He saw his daughter go out the door without
looking back. The clunk of the big door's closing
echoed through the huge hall with a ponderous, condemning
finality, like the crash of a huge gate dividing him
forever from the one he loved. He stopped there in the
broad hall, numb, helpless, even tottering a
little, his big frame looking very small. Unseen
by Marshall, small wisps of sulfurous breath
crept along the floor like slow water, along with an
unheard scraping and scratching over the tiles.
  Like a slimy black leech, the little demon
clung to him, its taloned fingers entwining
Marshall's legs like parasitic tendrils, holding
him back, poisoning his spirit. The yellow eyes
bulged out of the gnarled face, watching him, boring
into him.
  Marshall was feeling a deep and growing pain, and the
little spirit knew it. This man was getting hard
to hold down. As Marshall stood there in the big
empty hall, the hurt, the love, the desperation
began to build inside him; he could feel the tiniest
remaining ember of fight still burning. He started for the
door.
  Move, Hogan, move! That's your daughter!
  With each determined step, the demon was dragged
along the floor behind him, its hands still clinging to him, a
deeper rage and fury in its eyes and the sulfurous
vapors chugging out of its nostrils. The wings spread
in search of an anchor, any way to hold Marshall
back, but they found none.
  Sandy, Marshall thought, give your old man a
break. By the time he reached the end of the hall he was
nearly into a run. His big hands hit the crash bar
on the door and the door flung open, slamming into the
doorstop on the outside steps. He ran down the
stairs and out onto the pedestrian walkway shaded
by the elms. He looked up the street, across the
lawn in front of Stewart Hall, down the other
way, but she was gone.
  The demon gripped him tighter and began to climb
and slither upward. Marshall felt the first pangs of
despair as he stood there alone. "I'm over here,
Daddy."
  Immediately the demon lost its grip and fell
free, snorting with indignation. Marshall spun around
and saw Sandy, standing just beside the door he had just burst
through, apparently trying to hide from her classmates
among the camelia bushes and looking very much like she was
about to take him to task. Well, anything was better
than losing her, Marshall thought.
  "Well," he said before he considered, "pardon
me, but I get the distinct impression you disowned me
in there."
  Sandy tried to stand straight, to face him in her
hurt and anger, but she still could not look him squarely
in the eye. "It was-it was just too painful."
  "What was?"
  "You know. . . that whole thing in there."
  "Well, I like coming on with a real splash, you know.
Something people will remember..."
  "Daddy!"
  "So who stole all the "No Parents
Allowed" signs? How was I to know she didn't
want me in there? And just what's so all-fired
precious and secret that she doesn't want any
outsiders to hear it?"
  Now Sandy's anger rose above her hurt, and she
could look at him squarely. "Nothing!
Nothing at all. It was just a lecture."
  "So just what is her problem?"
  Sandy groped for an explanation. "I don't
know. I guess she must know who you are."
  "No way. I've never even seen her before." And
then a question automatically popped into Marshall's
mind, "What do you mean, she must know who I am?"
  Sandy looked cornered. "I mean . . . oh,
c'mon. Maybe she knows you're the editor of the
paper. Maybe she doesn't want reporters
snooping around."
  "Well, I hope I can tell you I wasn't
snooping. I was just looking for you."
  Sandy wanted to end the discussion. "All right,
Daddy, all right.
  "She just read you wrong, okay? I don't know
what her problem was. She has the right to choose her
audience, I suppose."
  "And I don't have the right to know what my daughter
is learning?"
  Sandy stopped a word halfway up her throat and
inferred a few things first. "You were snooping!"
  Even as it happened, Marshall knew good and
well that they were at it again, the old cats-and-dogs,
fighting roosters routine. It was crazy.
Part of him didn't want it to happen, but the rest of
him was too frustrated and angry to stop.
  As for the demon, it only cowered nearby, shying from
Marshall as if he were red hot. The demon
watched, waited, fretted.
  "In a pig's eye I was snooping!" Marshall
roared. "I'm here because I'm your loving father and I
wanted to pick you up after classes. Stewart
Hall, that's all I knew. I just happened to find
you, and . . ." He tried to brake himself. He
deflated a little, covered his eyes with his hand, and
sighed.
  "And you thought you'd keep an eye on me!" Sandy
suggested spitefully.
  "Got some law against that?"
  "Okay, I'll lay it all out for you. I'm a
human being, Daddy, and every human entity-I don't
care who he or she is-is ultimately subject
to a universal scheme and not to the will of any
specific individual. As for Professor
Langstrat, if she doesn't want you present
at her lecture, it's her prerogative to demand
that you leave!"
  "And just who's paying her salary, anyway?"
  She ignored the question. "And as for me, and
what I am learning, and what I am becoming, and where
I am going, and what I wish, I say you have no
right to infringe on my universe unless I personally
grant you that right!"
  Marshall's eyesight was getting blurred
by visions of Sandy turned over his knee. Enraged,
he had to lash out at somebody, but now he was trying
to steer his attacks away from Sandy. He pointed
back toward Stewart Hall and demanded,
"Did-did she teach you that?" "You don't need
to know." "I have a right to know!" "You waived that right,
Daddy, years ago." That punch sent him into the
ropes, and he couldn't fully recover before she
took off down the street, escaping him, escaping
their miserable, bullish battle. He hollered after
her, some stupid-sounding question about how she'd get
home, but she didn't even slow down. The demon
grabbed its chance and Marshall, and he felt his anger
and self-righteousness give way to sinking despair.
He'd blown it. The very thing he never wanted to do
again, he did. Why in the world was he wired up this
way? Why couldn't he just reach her, love her, win
her back? She was disappearing from sight even now,
becoming smaller and smaller as she hurried across the
campus, and she seemed so very far away,
farther than any loving arm could ever reach. He had
always tried to be strong, to stand tough through life and through
struggles, but right now the hurt was so bad he couldn't
keep that strength from crumbling away from him in
pitiful pieces. As he watched, Sandy disappeared
around a distant corner without looking back, and something
broke inside him. His soul felt like it would melt,
and at this moment there was no person on the face of the
earth he hated more than himself.
  The strength of his legs seemed to surrender under the
load of his sorrow, and he sank to the steps in
front of the old building, despondent.
  The demon's talons surrounded his heart and he
muttered in a quivering voice, "What's the use?"
  "YAHAAAAA!" came a thundering cry from the
nearby shrubs. A bluish-white light glimmered.
The demon released its grip on Marshall and
bolted like a terrified fly, landing some distance away
in a trembling, defensive stance, its huge yellow
eyes nearly popping out of its head and a
soot-black, barbed scimitar ready in its
quivering hand. But then there came an unexplainable
commotion behind those same bushes, some kind of struggle,
and the source of the light disappeared around the corner of
Stewart Hall.
  The demon did not stir, but waited, listened,
watched. No sound could be heard except the light
breeze. The demon stalked ever so cautiously
back to where Marshall still sat, went past him, and
peered through the shrubbery and around the corner of the
building.
  Nothing.
  As if held for this entire time, a long, slow
breath of yellow vapor curled in lacy wisps from
the demon's nostrils. Yes, it knew what it had
seen; there was no mistaking it. But why had they fled?

  A short distance across the campus, but enough distance
to be safe, two giant men descended to earth like
glimmering, bluish-white comets, held aloft
by rushing wings that swirled in a blur and burned like
lightning. One of them, a huge, burly,
black-bearded bull of a man, was quite angry and
indignant, bellowing and making fierce gestures with a
long, gleaming sword. The other was a little smaller and
kept looking about with great caution, trying to get his
associate to calm down.
  In a graceful, fiery spiral they drifted
down behind one of the college dormitories and came
to rest in the cover of some overhanging
willows. The moment their feet touched down, the light
from their clothes and bodies began to fade and the shimmering
wings gently subsided. Save for their towering
stature they appeared as two ordinary men, one
trim and blond, the other built like a tank, both
dressed in what looked like matching tan fatigues.
Golden belts had become like dark leather, their
scabbards were dull copper, and the glowing, bronze
bindings on their feet had become simple leather
sandals.
  The big fellow was ready for a discussion.
  "Triskal!" he growled, but at his friend's
desperate gestures he spoke just a little softer.
"What are you doing here?"
  Triskal kept his hands up to keep his friend
quiet.
  "Shh, Guilo! The Spirit brought me here, the
same as you. I arrived yesterday."
  "You know what that was? A demon of complacency
and despair if ever I saw one! If your arm
hadn't held me I could have struck him, and only
once!"
  "Oh, yes, Guilo, only once," his friend
agreed, "but it's a good thing I saw you and stopped you
in time. You've just arrived and you don't
understand"
  "What don't I understand?"
  Triskal tried to say it in a convincing manner.
"We . . . must not fight, Guilo. Not yet.
We must not resist."
  Guilo was sure his friend was mistaken. He took
firm hold of Triskal's shoulder and looked him
right in the eye.
  "Why should I go anywhere but to fight?" he stated.
"Here I was called. Here I will fight."
  "Yes," said Triskal, nodding furiously.
"Just not yet, that's all."
  "Then you must have orders! You do have orders?"
  Triskal paused for effect, then said, "Tal's
orders."
  Guilo s angry expression at once melted
into a mixture of shock and perplexity.
  Dusk was settling over Ashton, and the little white
church on Morgan Hill was washed with the warm,
rusty glow of the evening sun. Outside in the small
churchyard, the church's young pastor hurriedly mowed
the lawn, hoping to be finished before mealtime. Dogs were
barking in the neighborhood, people were arriving back
home from work, kids were being called in for supper.
  Unseen by these mortals, Guilo and
Triskal came hurriedly up the hill on
foot, secretive and unglorified but moving like the
wind nevertheless. As they arrived in front of the church,
Hank Busche came around the corner behind the roaring
lawn mower, and Guilo had to pause to look him
over.
  "Is he the one?" he asked Triskal. "Did
the call begin with him?" "Yes," Triskal
answered, "months ago. He's praying even now,
and often walks the streets of Ashton interceding for
it."
  "B.. . this place is so small. Why was I
called? No, no, why was Tal called?"
  Triskal only pulled at his arm. "Hurry
inside." They passed quickly through the walls of the
church and into the humble little sanctuary. Inside they
found a contingent of warriors already gathered, some
sitting in the pews, others standing around the platform, still
others acting as sentries, looking cautiously out the
stained glass windows. They were all dressed much as
Triskal and Guilo, in the same tan tunics and
breeches, but Guilo was immediately impressed by the
imposing stature of them all; these were the mighty
warriors, the powerful warriors, and more than he had
ever seen gathered in one place.
  He was also struck by the mood of the gathering. This
moment could have been a joyful reunion of old friends
except that everyone was strangely somber. As he
looked around the room he recognized many whom he
had fought alongside in times far past:
  Nathan, the towering Arabian who fought fiercely
and spoke little. It was he who had taken demons
by their ankles and used them as warclubs against their
fellows.
  Armoth, the big African whose war cry and
fierce countenance had often been enough to send the enemy
fleeing before he even assailed them. Guilo and
Armoth had once battled the demon lords of
villages in Brazil and personally guarded a
family of missionaries on their many long treks through
the jungles.
  Chimon, the meek European with the golden hair,
who bore on his forearms the marks of a fading
demon's last blows before Chimon banished him forever
into the abyss. Guilo had never met this one, but had
heard of his exploits and his ability to take blows
simply as a shield for others and then to rally himself
to defeat untold numbers alone. Then came the
greeting of the oldest and most cherished friend.
"Welcome, Guilo, the Strength of
Many!"
  Yes, it was indeed Tal, the Captain of the
Host. It was so strange to see this mighty warrior
standing in this humble little place. Guilo had seen him
near the throne room of Heaven itself, in conference with
none other than Michael. But here stood the same
impressive figure with golden hair and ruddy
complexion, intense golden eyes like fire and an
unchallengeable air of authority.
  Guilo approached his captain and the two of them
clasped hands.
  "And we are together again," said Guilo as a thousand
memories flooded his mind. No warrior Guilo
had ever seen could fight as Tal could; no demon could
outmaneuver or outspeed him, no sword could parry
a blow from the sword of Tal. Side by side,
Guilo and his captain had vanquished demonic
powers for as long as those rebels had existed and had
been companions in the Lord's service before there had
been any rebellion at all. "Greetings, my
dear captain!"
  Tal said by way of explanation, "It's a serious
business that brings us together again."
  Guilo searched Tal's face. Yes, there was
plenty of confidence there, and no timidity.
But there was definitely a strange grimness in the
eyes and mouth, and Guilo looked around the room
once again. Now he could feel it, that typically
silent and ominous prelude to the breaking of grim
news. Yes, they all knew something he didn't but
were waiting for the appointed person, most likely
Tal, to speak it.
  Guilo couldn't stand the silence, much less the
suspense. "Twenty-three," he counted, "of the very
best, the most gallant, the most undefeatable . .
. gathered now as though under siege, cowering in a
flimsy fortress from a dreaded enemy?" With a
dramatic flair, he drew his huge sword and
cradled the blade in his free hand. "Captain
Tal, who is this enemy?"
  Tal answered slowly and clearly, "Rafar, the
Prince of Babylon." All eyes were now on
Guilo's face, and his reaction was much like that of every
other warrior upon hearing the news: shock,
disbelief, an awkward pause to see if anyone
would laugh and verify that it was only a mistake.
There was no such reprieve from the truth. Everyone in
the room continued to look at Guilo with the same
deadly serious expression, driving the gravity of the
situation home mercilessly.
  Guilo looked down at his sword. Was it now
shaking in his hands? He made a point of holding it
still, but he couldn't help staring for a moment at the
blade, still gashed and discolored from the last time
Guilo and Tal had confronted this Ba-al-prince
from the ancient times. Guilo and Tal had struggled
against him twenty-three days before finally defeating him
on the eve of Babylon's fall. Guilo could still
remember the darkness, the shrieking and horror, the
fierce, terrible grappling while pain seared every inch
of his being. The evil of this would-be pagan god
seemed to envelop him and everything around him like thick
smoke, and half the time the two warriors had
to maneuver and strike blindly, each one not even knowing
if the other was still in the fight. To this day neither of them
even knew which one finally delivered the blow that sent
Rafar plummeting into the abyss. All they
remembered was his heaven-shaking scream as he fell
through a jagged rift in space, and then seeing each
other again when the great darkness that surrounded them cleared
like a melting fog.
  "I know you speak the truth," Guilo said at
last, "but . . . would such as Rafar come to this place?
He is a prince of nations, not mere hamlets.
What is this place? What interest could he
possibly have in it?"
  Tal only shook his head. "We don't know.
But it is Rafar, there's no question, and the stirrings in the
enemy's realm indicate something is in the making. The
Spirit wants us here. We must confront whatever it
is."
  "And we are not to fight, we are not to resist!"
Guilo exclaimed. "I will be most fascinated
to hear your next order, Tal. We cannot fight?"
  "Not yet. We're too few, and there's very little
prayer cover. There are to be no skirmishes, no
confrontations. We're not to show ourselves in any way as
aggressors. As long as we stay out of their way,
keep close to this place, and pose no threat to them,
our presence here will seem like normal watchcare over
a few, struggling saints." Then he added with a very
direct tone, "And it will be best if it not be spread
that I am here."
  Guilo now felt a little out of place still holding
his sword, and sheathed it with an air of disgust.
  "And," he prodded, "you do have a plan? We were not
called here to watch the town fall?"
  The lawn mower roared by the windows, and Tal
guided their attention to its operator.
  "It was Chimon's task to bring him here,"
he said, "to blind the eyes of his enemies and slip him
through ahead of the adversary's choice for the pastor of this
flock. Chimon succeeded, Hank was voted in,
to the surprise of many, and now he's here in Ashton,
praying every hour of every day. We were called here for his
sake, for the saints of God and for the Lamb."
  "For the saints of God and for the Lamb!" they all
echoed.
  Tal looked at a tall, dark-haired
warrior, the one who had taken him through the town the
night of the Festival, and smiled. "And you had him
win by just one vote?"
  The warrior shrugged. "The Lord wanted him here.
Chimon and I had to make sure he won, and not the
other man who has no fear of God."
  Tal introduced Guilo to this warrior.
"Guilo, this is Krioni, watchcarer of our
prayer warrior here and of the town of Ashton. Our
call began with Hank, but Hank's presence here
began with Krioni."
  Guilo and Krioni nodded silent greeting
to each other.
  Tal watched Hank finishing up the lawn and
praying out loud at the same time. "So now, as his
enemies in the congregation regroup and try
to find another way to oust him, he continues to pray for
Ashton. He's one of the last."
  "If not the last!" lamented Krioni.
  "No," cautioned Tal, "he's not alone.
There's still a Remnant of saints somewhere in this town.
There is always a Remnant."
  "There is always a Remnant," they all echoed.
  "Our conflict begins in this place. We'll
make this our location for now, hedge it in and work from
here." He spoke to a tall Oriental in the back
of the room. "Signa, take as your charge this
building, and choose two now to stand with you. This is our
rest point. Make it secure. No demon is
to approach it."
  Signa immediately found two volunteers to work with
him. They vanished to their posts.
  "Now, Triskal, I'll hear news of
Marshall Hogan."
  "I followed him up to my encounter with Guilo.
Though Krioni has reported a rather eventless
situation up to the time of the Festival, ever since then
Hogan has been hounded by a demon of complacency
and despair."
  Tal received that news with great interest. "Hm.
Could be he's beginning to stir. They're
covering him, trying to hold him in check."
  Krioni added, "I never thought I'd see it
happen. The Lord wanted him in charge of the
Clarion, and we took care of that too, but I've
never seen a more tired individual."
  "Tired, yes, but that will only make him more usable
in the Lord's hands. And I perceive that he is indeed
waking up, just as the Lord foreknew."
  "Though he could awaken only to be destroyed,"
said Triskal. "They must be watching him. They fear
what he could do in his influential position."
  "True," replied Tal. "So while they bait
our bear, we must be sure they stir him up and no more
than that. It's going to be a very critical
business."
  Now Tal was ready to move. He addressed the
whole group. "I expect Rafar to take power here
by nightfall; no doubt we'll all feel it when
he does. Be sure of this: he will immediately search out
the greatest threat to him and try to remove it."
  "Ah, Henry Busche," said Guilo.
  "Krioni and Triskal, you can be sure that a
troop of some kind will be sent to test Hank's spirit.
Select for yourselves four warriors and watch over
him." Tal touched Krioni's shoulder and
added, "Krioni, up until now you've done very
well in protecting Hank from any direct
onslaughts. I commend you."
  "Thank you, captain."
  "I ask you now to do a difficult thing. Tonight you
must stand by and keep watch. Do not let Hank's
life be touched, but aside from that prevent nothing. It
will be a test he must undergo."
  There was a slight moment of surprise and
wonderment, but each warrior was ready to trust
Tal's judgment.
  Tal continued, "As for Marshall Hogan . . .
he's the only one I'm not sure about yet. Rafar
will give his lackeys incredible license with him, and
he could either collapse and retreat, or-as we all
hope-rouse himself and fight back. He'll be of
special interest to Rafar-and to me-tonight. Guilo,
select two warriors for yourself and two for me.
We'll watchcare over Marshall tonight and see how
he responds. The rest of you will search out the
Remnant."
  Tal drew his sword and held it high. The
others did the same and a forest of shining blades
appeared, held aloft in strong arms.
  "Rafar," Tal said in a low, musing
voice, "we meet again." Then, in the voice of a
Captain of the Host: "For the saints of God and for the
Lamb!"
  "For the saints of God and for the Lamb!" they echoed.
  Complacency unfurled his wings and drifted
into Stewart Hall, sinking down through the main floor
and into the catacombs of the basement level, the area
set aside for administration and the private offices
of the Psychology Department. In this dismal nether world
the ceiling was low and oppressive, and crawling with
water pipes and heat ducts that seemed like so many
huge snakes waiting to drop. Everything-walls,
ceiling, pipes, woodwork-was painted the same
dirty beige, and light was scarce, which suited
Complacency and his associates just fine. They
preferred the darkness, and Complacency noticed that there
seemed to be a touch more than usual. The others must
have arrived.
  He floated down a long burrow of a hallway
to a large door at the end marked "Conference
Room," and passed through the door into a cauldron of
living evil. The room was dark, but the darkness
seemed more of a presence than a physical condition;
it was a force, an atmosphere that drifted and crept
about the room. Out of that darkness glared many
pairs of dull yellow cat-eyes belonging to a
horrible gallery of grotesque faces. The
various shapes of Complacency's fellow workers were
outlined and backlit by a sourceless red glow.
Yellow vapor slithered in lacy wisps about the
room and filled the air with its stench as the many
apparitions carried on their hushed, gargling conversations
there in the dark.
  Complacency could sense their common disdain for him, but
the feeling was mutual enough. These belligerent
egotists would walk on anyone to exalt themselves, and
Complacency just happened to be the smallest, hence the
easiest to persecute.
  He approached two hulking forms in the middle of
some debate, and from their massive, spine-covered
arms and poisonous words he could tell they were
demons who specialized in hate-planting,
aggravating, and spreading it, using their crushing arms and
venomous quills to constrict and poison the love out
of anyone.
  Complacency asked them, "Where is Prince
Lucius?"
  "Find him yourself, lizard!" one of them growled.
  A demon of lust, a slithery creature with
darting and shifty eyes and slippery hide,
overheard and joined in, snatching Complacency with his
long, sharp talons.
  "And where have you been sleeping today?" it asked with a
sneer.
  "I do not sleep!" Complacency retorted. "I
cause people to sleep."
  "To lust and steal innocence is far better."
  "But someone must turn away the eyes of others."
  Lust thought that over and gave a smirk of
approval. He dropped Complacency rudely as
those who watched laughed.
  Complacency passed Deception, but didn't
bother to ask him anything. Deception was the proudest,
haughtiest demon of them all, very arrogant in his
supposedly superior knowledge of how to control men's
minds. His appearance was not even as gruesome as the
other demons; he almost looked human. His
weapon, he boasted, was always a compelling,
persuasive argument with lies ever so subtly woven
in.
  Many others were there: Murder, his talons still
dripping with blood; Lawlessness, his knuckles
honed into spikelike protrusions and his hide thick
and leathery; Jealousy, as suspicious and difficult
a demon to work with as any.
  But Complacency finally found Lucius, the
Prince of Ashton, the demon who held the highest
position of all of them. Lucius was in conference with a
tight huddle of other power holders, going over the
next strategies for controlling the town.
  He was unquestionably the demon in charge. Huge
to begin with, he always maintained an imposing posture
with his wings wrapped loosely around him to widen his
outline, his arms flexed, his fists clenched and ready
for blows. Many demons coveted his rank, and he
knew it; he had fought and banished many to get where he
was, and he had every intention of staying there. He
trusted no one and suspected everyone, and his black,
gnarled face and hawk-sharp eyes always carried the
message that even his associates were his enemies.
  Complacency was desperate and enraged enough
to violate Lucius's ideas of respect and
decorum. He shoved his way through the group and right
up to Lucius, who glared at him, surprised by the
rude interruption.
  "My Prince," Complacency pleaded, "I must
have a word with you."
  Lucius's eyes narrowed. Who was this little lizard
to interrupt him in the middle of a conference, to violate
decorum in front of these others?
  "Why aren't you with Hogan?" he growled.
  "I must speak with you!"
  "Dare you speak to me without my first speaking to you?"
  "It is vitally important. You're-you're
making a mistake. You're bothering Hogan's
daughter, and"
  Lucius immediately became a small volcano,
spewing forth horrible cursings and wrath. "You accuse
your prince of a mistake? You dare to question my
actions?"
  Complacency cowered, expecting a stinging blow any
moment, but he spoke anyway.
  "Hogan will do us no harm if you let him alone.
But you have only lit a fire within him, and he casts
me off!"
  The blow came, a walloping swat from the back of
Lucius's hand, and as Complacency tumbled across the
room he debated whether or not to speak another word.
When he came to rest and regathered himself, he looked
up to see every eye upon him, and he could feel their
mocking disdain.
  Lucius walked slowly toward him, and towered
over him like a giant tree. "Hogan casts you
off? Is it not you who releases him?"
  "Do not strike me! Only hear my
appeal!"
  Lucius's big fists clenched painfully around
handfuls of Complacency's flesh and snatched him up
so they were eye to eye. "He could stand in our way and
I won't have that! You know your duty. Perform it!"
  "Well I was, well I was!" Complacency
cried. "He was nothing to fear at all, a slug, a
lump of clay. I could have held him there forever."
  "So do it!"
  "Prince Lucius, please hear me! Give
him no enemy. Let him have no need to fight."
  Lucius dropped him on the floor in a
humiliated heap. The prince addressed the others in
the room.
  "We have given Hogan an enemy?"
  They all knew how to answer. "No indeed!"
  "Deception," Lucius called, and Deception
stepped forward, giving Lucius a formal bow.
"Complacency accuses his prince of bothering
Hogan's daughter. You would know about that."
  "You have ordered no attack on Sandy Hogan,
Prince," Deception answered.
  Complacency pointed his taloned finger and screamed,
"You have followed her! You and your lackeys! You have
spoken words to her mind, confused her!"
  Deception only raised his eyebrows in mild
indignation and answered sedately, "Only upon her
own invitation. We have only told her what she
prefers to know. That can hardly be called an
attack."
  Lucius seemed to take on some of Deception's
maddening haughtiness as he said, "Sandy Hogan is
one case, but certainly her father is quite another. She
poses no threat to us. He does. Shall we send
someone else to hold him in check?"
  Complacency had no answer, but added another
note of concern. "I ... I saw messengers of the
living God today!"
  That only brought laughter from the group.
  Lucius sneered, "Are you becoming that timid,
Complacency? We see messengers of the living God
every day."
  "But they were close! About to attack! They knew
my actions, I am sure."
  "You look all right to me. Though if I were one of
them, I would surely pick you as an easy prey."
More laughter from the group spurred Lucius on.
"A limp and easy target for mere sport ... a
lame demon with which a weak angel can prove his
strength!"
  Complacency cowered in shame. Lucius strode
about, addressing the group.
  "Do we fear the host of heaven?" he asked.
  "As you do not, we do not!" they all answered with
great polish.
  As the demons remained in their basement lair,
patting each other's backs and stabbing
Complacency's, they took no notice of the
strange, unnatural cold front outside. It
moved slowly over the town, bringing a harsh wind and
chilling rain. Though the evening had promised to be
bright and clear, it now grew dark under a low,
oppressive shroud, half natural, half spirit.
  Atop the little white church, Signa and his two
companions continued to stand guard as the darkness
descended over Ashton, deeper and colder with each
passing moment. All over the nearby neighborhood
dogs began to bark and howl. Here and there a quarrel
broke out among humans.
  "He's here," Signa said.
  In the meantime, Lucius's preoccupation with his own
glory kept him from noticing the little attention he was
now getting from his troops. All the other demons in
the room, large or small, were gripped by a
steadily rising fear and agitation. They could
all feel something horrible coming closer and closer.
They began to fidget, their eyes darting about, their
faces twisting with apprehension.
  Lucius gave Complacency a kick in the side
as he walked by and continued his boasting.
  "Complacency, you can be sure that we have things very much
in control here. No worker from our number has ever had
to sneak about or fear of attack. We roam this town
freely, doing our work unhampered, and we will succeed
in every place until the town is fully ours. YOU
listless, limp, little bungler! To fear is to fail!"
  Then it happened, and so very suddenly that none of them
could react with anything other than air-piercing
shrieks of terror. Lucius had hardly gotten the
word "fail" out of his mouth before a violent, boiling
cloud crashed and thundered into the room like a tidal
wave, a sudden avalanche of force that crushed like
iron. The demons were swept across the room like so
much debris in a raging tide, tumbling, screaming,
wrapping their wings tightly around themselves in
terror-all except for Lucius.
  As the demons recovered from the initial shock
wave of this new presence, they looked up and saw
Lucius's body, contorted like a broken toy, in
the grip of a huge, black hand. He
struggled, choked, gagged, cried for mercy, but the hand
only tightened its crushing grip, inflicting
punishment without mercy, descending down out of the darkness
like a cyclone from a thundercloud. Then the full
figure of a spirit appeared, carrying Lucius by the
throat and shaking him about like a rag doll. The thing was
bigger than any they had ever seen before, a giant
demon with a lion-like face, fiery eyes,
incredibly muscular body, and leathery wings that
filled the room.
  The voice gargled up from deep within the demon's
torso and sprayed out in clouds of fiery red
vapor.
  "You who have no fear-are you now afraid?" The spirit
angrily hurled Lucius across the room to join the
others, then stood like a mountain in the center of the
room, wielding a deadly, S-curved sword the
size of a door. His bared fangs glistened like the
jeweled chains around his neck and across his chest.
Obviously this prince of princes had been greatly
honored for past victories. His jet black
hair hung like a mane to his shoulders, and on each
wrist he wore a gold bracelet studded with
sparkling stones; his fingers displayed several rings, and a
ruby-red belt and scabbard adorned his
waist. The expansive black wings draped down
behind him now like the robe of a monarch.
  For an eternity he stood there, glaring at them with
sinister, smoldering eyes, studying them, and all they
could do was remain motionless in their terror like a
macabre tableau of frightened goblins.
  Finally the big voice echoed off the walls:
"Lucius, I feel I was not expected. You will
announce me. On your feet!"
  The sword moved across the room and the tip snagged
Lucius in the hide of his neck, jolting him to his
feet.
  Lucius knew he was being belittled in the sight of his
underlings, but he made every effort to hide his rising
bitterness and anger. His fear showed well enough
to adequately cover his other feelings.
  "Fellow workers . . ." he said, his voice
quivering despite every effort. "Baal Rafar, the
Prince of Babylon!"
  Automatically they all leaped to their feet,
partly out of fearful respect, mostly out of fear of the
tip of Rafar's sword, still waving slowly back and
forth, ready to move against any dawdlers.
  Rafar gave them all a quick looking over. Then
he inflicted another personal blow against
Lucius.
  "Lucius, you will stand with the others. I have come, and
only one prince is needed."
  Friction. Everyone could feel it immediately.
Lucius refused to move. His body was stiff, his
fists clenched as tightly as ever, and though he was
visibly trembling, he purposely returned the
glaring look of Rafar and stood his ground.
  "You . . . have not asked me to yield my
place!" he challenged.
  The others were not about to intervene or even get
close. They backed off, remembering that Rafar's
sword could probably sweep a very wide radius.
  The sword did move, but so quickly that the very first
thing anyone perceived was a scream of pain from Lucius
as he coiled into a twisted knot on the floor.
Lucius's sword and scabbard lay on the floor,
skillfully cut away by one swift slash from
Rafar. Again the sword moved, and this time the flat
of the blade clamped Lucius to the floor by his
hair.
  Rafar leaned over him, blood-red breath spewing
from his mouth and nostrils as he spoke.
  "I perceive you wish to challenge for my position."
Lucius said nothing. "ANSWER!"
  "No!" Lucius cried. "I yield."
  "Up! Get up!"
  Lucius struggled to his feet, and Rafar's
strong arm stood him with the others. By now Lucius was
a most pitiful sight, totally humiliated.
Rafar reached down with his sword andwiththe barbed tip
picked up Lucius's sword and scabbard. The
sword swung like a huge crane and deposited
Lucius's weapons in the deposed demon's hands.
"Listen well, all of you," Rafar addressed them.
"Lucius, who fears not the hosts of heaven, has
shown fear. He is a liar and a worm and is not to be
heeded. I say to you, fear the hosts of heaven. They
are your enemies, and they are intent on defeating you.
As they are ignored, as they are given place, so
they shall overcome you."
  Rafar walked with heavy, ponderous steps up and
down the line of demons, giving them all a closer
look. When he came to Complacency, he drew
close and Complacency fell backwards. Rafar
caught him around the back of the neck with one finger and
pulled him up straight.
  "Tell me, little lizard, what did you see
today?" Complacency was suffering from a sudden memory
lapse. Rafar prodded him. "Messengers
of the living God, you said?" Complacency nodded.
"Where?"
  "Just outside this building."
  "What were they doing?"
  "I . . . I . . ."
  "Did they attack you?"
  "No."
  "Was there a flash of light?"
  That seemed to register with Complacency. He
nodded.
  "When a messenger of God attacks, there is
always light." Rafar addressed all of them
angrily. "And you let it slip by! You laughed!
You mocked! A near attack from the enemy and you
ignored it!"
  Now Rafar returned to grill Lucius some more.
  "Tell me, deposed prince, how stands the town
of Ashton? Is it ready?"
  Lucius was quick to say, "Yes, Ba-al
Rafar."
  "Oh, then you have taken care of this praying Busche
and this sleeping troublemaker Hogan."
  Lucius was silent.
  "You have not! First you allow them to come into places we
reserved for our own special
appointments"
  "It was a mistake, Ba-al Rafar!"
Lucius blurted. "The Clarion editor was
eliminated according to our orders, but ... no one knows
where this Hogan came from. He bought the paper before
anything could be done."
  "And Busche? It was my understanding that he fled from
your attacks."
  "That . . . that was another man of God. The first
one. He did flee."
  "And?"
  "This younger man sprung up in his place. From
nowhere."
  A long, foul sigh hissed out through Rafar's
fangs.
  "The host of heaven," he said. "While you have
taken them for granted, they have moved in the Lord's
chosen right under your noses! It is no secret that
Henry Busche is a man who prays. Do you fear
that?"
  Lucius nodded. "Yes, of course, more than
anything. We have been attacking him, trying to drive
him out."
  "And how has he responded?"
  "He ... he ..."
  "Speak up!"
  "He prays."
  Rafar shook his head. "Yes, yes, he is a
man of God. And what about Hogan? What have you
done about him?"
  "We-we have attacked his daughter."
Complacency's ears perked up at that.
  "His daughter?"
  But Complacency couldn't contain himself. "I told
them it wouldn't work! It would only make Hogan more
aggressive and wake him from his lethargy!"
  Lucius grabbed for Rafar's attention. "If
my lord would allow me to explain . . ."
  "Explain," Rafar instructed Lucius while
warily eyeing Complacency.
  Lucius quickly formulated a plan in his mind.
"Sometimes a direct attack is not wise, so ...
we found a weakness in his daughter and felt we could
divert his energies toward her, perhaps destroy him at
home and disintegrate his family. It seemed to work
on the former editor. It was at least a start."
  "It will fail," cried Complacency. "He was
harmless until they tampered with his sense of well-being
and comfort. Now I fear I won't be able to hold him
back. He is"
  A quick, threatening gesture from Rafar's
outstretched hand stifled Complacency's wailings.
  "I do not want Hogan held back," Rafar
said. "I want him destroyed. Yes, take his
daughter. Take anything else that can be corrupted.
A risk is best removed, not tolerated."
  "But" cried Complacency, but Rafar quickly
took hold of him and spoke with noxious fumings right
into his face.
  "Discourage him. Surely you can do that."
  "Well . . ."
  But Rafar was in no mood to wait for an answer.
With a powerful spin of his wrist he hurled
Complacency out of the room and back to work.
  "We will destroy him, assault him on every side
until he has no solid ground left from which
to fight. As for this new man of God who has
sprung up, I'm sure an adequate trap can
be laid. But concerning our enemies: how strong are
they?"
  "Not strong at all," answered Lucius, trying
to recover his competency rating.
  "But cunning enough to make you think they are weak. A
fatal mistake, Lucius." He addressed all
of them. "You are to no longer take the enemy
for granted. Watch him. Count his numbers. Know his
whereabouts, his skill, his name. No mission was ever
undertaken that was not challenged by the hosts of heaven, and this
mission is nothing small. Our lord has very
important plans for this town, he has sent me
to fulfill them, and that is enough to draw the very hordes
of the enemy down upon our heads. Be fearful of that, and
give place nowhere! And as for these two thorns in
our hoof, these two implanted barriers . . . tonight
we will see what they are made of."

  It was a dark, rainy night, and the raindrops
pelting against the old single-pane windows made
sleep difficult for Hank and Mary. She
dropped off eventually, but Hank, already troubled in
spirit, found it much harder to relax. It had been a
lousy day anyway; he had worked on painting that
slogan off the front of the house and tried to figure
out who in the world would write such a thing against him. His
ears were still ringing with the conversation he'd had with Alf
Brummel, and his mind was still playing over and over the
bitter comments from the board meeting. Now he could add
to his apprehensions the congregational meeting on
Friday, and he prayed to the Lord in desperate,
hushed whispers as he lay there in the dark.
  Funny how every lump in the mattress seems so
much more lumpy when you're upset. Hank began
to worry that he would keep Mary awake with all his
tossing and turning. He lay on his back, his
side, his other side, put his arms under his pillow,
over his pillow; he grabbed a Kleenex and blew his
nose. He looked over at the clock: 12:20.
They had turned in at 10.
  But sleep finally does come, usually in such an
unannounced way that you don't even know you're out
until you wake up. Sometime that night Hank dozed
off.
  But after a few hours his dreams began to go sour.
They were the usual silly thing at first, like driving a
car through his living room and then flying in the car as it
turned into an airplane. But then the images began
to rush and riot through his head, growing frantic and
chaotic. He started running from dangers. He could
hear screams; there was the sensation of falling and the sight
and taste of blood. Images went from bright and
colorful to monochromatic and dismal. He was
constantly fighting, struggling for his life; innumerable
dangers and enemies surrounded him, closing in.
None of it made any sense, but one thing was very
definite throughout: stark terror. He
wanted desperately to scream but didn't have time between
fighting off enemies, monsters, unseen forces. His
pulse began to pound in his ears. The whole world was "
reeling and throbbing. The horrible conflict rushing in his
head began to push its way to the surface of the
conscious, everyday Hank. He stirred in the bed,
rolled over on his back, drew a deep waking-up
breath. His eyes half opened, not focused on
anything. He was in that strange state of stupor
halfway between sleep and consciousness.
  Did he really see it? It was an eerie
projection in midair, a glowing painting on black
velvet. Right above the bed, so close he could
smell sulfurous breath, a hideous mask of a
face hovered, contorting in grotesque movements as
it spit out vicious words he couldn't understand.
  Hank's eyes opened like a sprung trap. He
thought he could still see the face, just fading away, but
instantly he felt like he'd been struck by a very
heavy blow to his chest; his heart began to race and
pound like it would burst through his ribs. He could feel his
pajamas and the bedsheets sticking to him, drenched in
sweat. He lay there panting for breath, waiting for his
heart to calm down, for the stark terror to go away, but
nothing changed and he couldn't make it
change.
  You're just having a nightmare, he kept telling
himself, but he couldn't seem to wake up. He
purposely opened his eyes wide and looked around the
darkened room, even though part of him wanted
to regress back to childhood and just hide under the
covers until the ghosts and monsters and burglars
went away
  He saw nothing in the room out of the ordinary. A
goblin in the corner was nothing but his shirt hanging on
a chair, and the strange halo of light on the wall
was only the streetlight reflecting off the crystal
of his watch.
  But he had been severely frightened, and he was still
scared. He could feel himself shaking as he
desperately tried to sort hallucination from reality.
He watched, listened. Even the silence seemed
sinister. He found no comfort in it, only the dread that
something evil hid behind it an intruder or a demon,
waiting, watching for the right moment.
  What was that? A creak in the house? Footsteps?
No, he told himself, just the wind against the windows.
The rain had stopped.
  Another noise, this time a rustling in the living
room. He had never heard that noise at
night before. I gotta wake up, I gotta wake
up. Come on, heart, quiet down so I can hear.
  He forced himself to sit up in bed, even though it
made him feel more vulnerable, and he remained there for
several minutes, trying to stifle his heart's pounding
with his hand over his chest. The pounding finally settled
back a little, but the rate remained rapid. Hank
could feel the sweat turning cold against his skin.
To get up or go back to sleep? Sleep was
definitely out. He decided to get up, look
around, walk it off.
  A clatter this time, in the kitchen. Now Hank
started praying.
  Marshall had had the same kind of dreams and
felt the same heartpounding fear. Voices. It
sure sounded like voices somewhere. Sandy? Maybe a
radio.
  But who knows? he thought to himself. This town is going
crazy anyway, and now the sickies are in my
house. He slid stealthily out of bed, put on his
slippers, and moved over to the closet to procure a
baseball bat. Just like back home, he thought.
Now somebody's gonna have mush for brains.
  He looked out his bedroom door, up and down the
hallway. No lights were on anywhere, no
flashlight beams played about. But his guts were doing
a square dance under his ribs, and there had to be some
reason for it. He reached for the hallway light and
flipped the switch. Nuts! The bulb was burnt
out. Since when he didn't know, but he stood in the
dark and felt his courage deflated just that much more.
  He gripped the bat more tightly and moved down the
hall, staying close to the wall, looking ahead,
looking behind, listening. He thought he could hear a
quiet rustling somewhere, something moving.
  At the archway that led into the living room his eyes
caught something, and he pressed himself against the wall for
concealment. The front door was open. Now his heart
really started pounding, thudding rudely in his ears. In
a strange, jungle way he felt better; at
least there was indication of a real enemy. It was this lousy
fear without any reason that was spooking him. He had
already been through that sort of thing once today.
  With that thought came a strange idea: That
professor lady must be in the house.
  He moved down the hall to check Sandy's room
and make sure she was all right. He wanted to stay
between Kate and Sandy and whatever was out there in the rest
of the house. Sandy's bedroom door was open, and that was
unusual; it made him all the more
cautious. He inched along the wall toward the
doorway and then, bat ready in his hands, he peered
into the room.
  Something was up. Sandy was, at least-her bed was
empty and she was gone. He flicked on her
bedroom light. The bed had been slept in, but now
the covers were thrown back hastily and the room was in
disarray.
  As Marshall moved cautiously down the darkened
hallway, it did occur to him that Sandy might just be
up getting a drink, using the bathroom, reading. But
such simple logic weakened against the horrible feeling
that something was dreadfully wrong. He took deep
breaths, trying with his greatest effort to hold himself
steady while all the time he felt an insidious,
unearthly terror as if he were inches from the crushing
teeth of some monster he couldn't see.
  The bathroom was cold and dark. He turned on
the light, dreading what he thought he might see.
He saw nothing out of the ordinary. He left that
light on and headed back toward the living room.
  He peered like some kind of stalking fugitive through
the archway. There was that rustling sound again. He
flipped on the lights. Ah. The cold night air
was coming in through the front door, rustling the
drapes. No, Sandy was nowhere to be seen, not in the
living room, not anywhere in or near the kitchen.
Perhaps she was right outside.
  But he had undeniable qualms about crossing the
living room to the front door, walking past all the
furniture that could hide an assailant. He
gripped the bat tightly, keeping it up and ready.
He kept his back to the wall as he made his way
around the perimeter of the room, stepping around the sofa
after checking behind it, hurriedly maneuvering around the
stereo, and finally reaching the door.
  He went out onto the porch, into the cool night
air, and for some reason suddenly felt safer. The
town was still quiet this time of night. Everyone else was
certainly asleep right now, not sneaking around their
houses with baseball bats. He took a moment
to regather himself and then went back inside.
  Locking the door behind him was just like shutting himself in
a dark closet with a couple of hundred vipers. The
fear returned and he tightened his grip on the bat.
With his back against the door, he looked around the
room again. Why was it so dark? The lights were on, but
every bulb seemed so dim, as if there were some kind of
brown-out. Hogan, he thought to himself, either you've
really lost a screw or you're in big,
big trouble. He remained frozen there by the door,
motionless, looking and listening. There had to be somebody
or something in the house. He couldn't hear them or
see them, but he could certainly feel them.
  Outside the house, lying low in the evergreens and
hedges, Tal and his company watched as demons-at
least forty according to Tal's count-played havoc with
Marshall's mind and spirit. They swooped like deadly
black swallows in and out of the house, through the rooms,
around and around Marshall, screaming taunts and
blasphemies, and playing withand ever increasing his
fears. Tal kept careful watch for the dreaded
Rafar, but the Ba-al wasn't among this wild
group. There could be no doubt, however, that Rafar had
sent them.
  Tal and the others agonized, feeling Marshall's
pain. One demon, an ugly little imp with bristling,
needle-sharp quills all over his body, leaped upon
Marshall's shoulders and beat upon his head, screaming,
"You're going to die, Hogan! You're going to die!
Your daughter is dead and you are going to die!"
  Guilo could hardly control himself. His big
sword slipped with a metallic ring from its sheath, but
Tal's strong arm held him back.
  "Please, captain!" Guilo pleaded.
"Never before have I only watched this happen!"
  "Bridle yourself, dear warrior," Tal
cautioned.
  "I will strike them only once!"
  Guilo could see that even Tal was severely
pained by his own order: "Forbear. Forbear. He must
go through it."
  Hank had the lights on in the house, but he thought
his eyes must have been playing tricks on him because the
rooms still looked very dark, the shadows deep.
Sometimes he couldn't tell if it was himself moving or
the shadows in the room; a strange, undulating
motion in the light and shadows made the depths in the
house shift back and forth like the slow, steady motion of
breathing.
  Hank stood in the doorway between kitchen and living
room, watching and listening. He thought he could feel
a wind moving through the house, but not a cold one from
outside. It was like hot, sticky breath laden with
repulsive odors, close and oppressive.
  He had discovered that the clatter in the kitchen was
due to a spatula sliding off the drainboard and
onto the floor. That should have calmed his nerves right
down, but he still felt terrified.
  He knew he would sooner or later comh
to move into the living room to have a look. He took
his first step out of the doorway and into the room.
  It was like falling into a bottomless well of
blackness and terror. The hairs on his neck
bristled as if with static electricity. His lips
started spilling out a frantic prayer.
  He went down. Before he even knew what was
happening, his body pitched forward and slammed into the
floor. He became a trapped animal,
instinctively struggling, trying to get loose from the
unseen crushing weight that held him. His arms and
legs were smacking into furniture and knocking things
over, but in his terror and shock he felt no pain.
He squirmed, twisted, gasped for breath, and lashed
out at whatever it was, feeling resistance against the
motion of his arms like stroking through water. The room
seemed filled with smoke.
  Blackness like blindness, a loss of hearing, a loss
of contact with the real world, time standing still. He could feel
himself dying. An image, a hallucination, a vision
or a real sight broke through for an instant: two
ghastly yellow eyes full of hate. His throat
began to compress, squeezing shut.
  "Jesus!" he heard his mind cry out, "help
me!" His next thought, a tiny, instant
flash, must have come from the Lord: "Rebuke it! You have
the authority."
  Hank spoke the words though he couldn't hear the
sound of them: "I rebuke you in Jesus" name!"
  The crushing weight upon him lifted so quickly
Hank felt he would sail upward from the floor.
He filled his lungs with air and noticed he was now
struggling against nothing. But the terror was still there, the
black, sinister presence.
  He sat up halfway, drew another breath, and
spoke it clearly and loudly. "In the Name of
Jesus I command you to get out of this house!" Mary
awoke with a jerk, startled and then terrified by the sound
of a multitude screaming in anguish and pain. The
cries were deafening at first, but they faded as if moving
off into the unseen distance. "Hank!" she screamed.
  Marshall roared like a savage and raised the bat
high to strike down his attacker. The attacker
screamed also, out of stark terror.
  It was Kate. They had unknowingly backed into each
other in the dark hallway.
  "Marshall!" she exclaimed, and her voice
quivered. She was close to tears and angry at the
same time. "What on earth are you doing out here?"
  "Kate..." Marshall sighed, feeling
himself shrink like a punctured inner tube. "What are
you trying to do, get yourself killed?"
  "What's wrong?" She was looking at the
baseball bat and knew something was up. She clung
to him in fear. "Is there someone in the house?"
  "No . . ." he muttered in a combination of
relief and disgust. "Nobody. I looked."
  "What happened? Who was it?"
  "Nobody, I said."
  "But I thought you were talking to someone."
  He looked at her with the utmost impatience and said
with steadily building volume, "Do I look like
I've been having a friendly chat with someone?"
  Kate shook her head. "I must have been dreaming.
But it was the voices that woke me up."
  "What voices?"
  "Marshall, it sounded like a New Year's Eve
party in there. Come on, who was it?"
  "Nobody. There wasn't anybody here. I
looked."
  Kate was very flustered. "I know I was awake."
  "You heard ghosts."
  He could feel her hand squeezing the blood out of
his arm. "Don't talk like that!"
  "Sandy's gone."
  "What do you mean, gone? Gone where?"
  "She's gone. Her room's empty, she's not in
the house. She's poof! Gone!"
  Kate hurried down the hall and looked in
Sandy's room. Marshall followed her and observed
from the doorway as Kate checked the room over,
looking through the closet and some of the drawers.
  She reported with alarm, "Some of her clothes are
gone. Her schoolbooks are missing." She looked
at him helplessly. "Marshall-she's left
home!"
  He looked back at her for a long moment, then
around the room, then rested his head against the doorjamb
with a quiet thud.
  "Nuts, "he said.
  "I knew she wasn't herself tonight. I should have found
out what was wrong."
  "We didn't hit it off too well today..."
  "Well, that was obvious. You came home without
her."
  "How'd she get home, anyway?"
  "Her girlfriend Terry brought her."
  "Maybe she went over to Terry's for the night."
  "Should we call and find out?"
  "I dunno..."
  "You don't know!?"
  Marshall closed his eyes and tried to think.
"Naw. It's late. Either she's there or she
isn't. If she isn't, we'll be getting them out
of bed for nothing, and if she is, well, she's okay
anyway."
  Kate seemed a little panicked. "I'm going
to call."
  Marshall held up his hand and leaned his head against
the doorjamb again as he said, "Hey, don't get
all spooked now, all right? Gimme a minute."
  "I just want to see if she's there"
  "All right, all right..."
  But Kate could see something was very wrong with
Marshall. He was pale, weak, shaken.
  "What's the matter, Marshall?"
  "Gimme a minute..."
  She put her arm around him, concerned. "What is
it?"
  He had quite a struggle getting it out. "I'm
scared." Trembling a bit, his eyes closed, his
head resting against the doorjamb, he said again, "I'm
really scared and I don't know why."
  That scared Kate. "Marshall..."
  "Don't get upset, will you? Keep it
level."
  "Can I do anything?"
  "Just be tough, that's all."
  Kate thought for a moment. "Well, why don't you
get your robe on? I'll warm you some milk,
okay?"
  "Yeah, great."
  It was the first time any demons had ever been
actually confronted and rebuked by Hank Busche.
They had certainly come with an arrogant brashness at
first, descending on the house in the dead of night
to raid and ravage, screaming and swooping through the
rooms and leaping on Hank, trying to terrify him.
But as Krioni, Triskal, and the others watched from
their hiding place, confused and scattered flocks of
demons suddenly came thundering and fluttering out of the
house like bats, screaming, indignant, stopping their
ears. There must have been close to a hundred, all the
usual demonic pranksters and troublemakers
Krioni had seen at work all over the town. No
doubt the great Ba-al had sent them, and now that they
had been routed there was no telling what Rafar's
reaction or his next plan would be. But Hank had
proven himself very well.
  In a moment the coast was clear, the trouble
was over, and the warriors came out of hiding, breathing
easier. Krioni and Triskal were impressed.
  Krioni commented, "Tal was right. He's not so
insignificant." Triskal agreed. "Stern
stuff, this Henry Busche." But as Hank and Mary
sat trembling at their kitchen table, she preparing
an icepack and he sporting a welt on his forehead
and a great many bruises and scrapings on his arms and
shins, neither one of them felt entirely stern,
powerful, or victorious. Hank was thankful to have
escaped with his life, and Mary was still in a mild
state of shock and disbelief. It was awkward, with
neither of them wanting to relate his or her experience
first for fear that the whole thing was nothing but an excess
of pickles and pastrami before bedtime. But Hank's
welt kept growing, and he could only tell what he
knew. Mary bought every word of it, scared as she was by the
screams that had awakened her. As they shared their
not-so-pleasant experiences, they were able to accept the
fact that the whole night of madness had been very
frighteningly real and not some nightmare. "Demons,"
Hank concluded. Mary could only nod. "But why?"
Hank pleaded to know. "What was it for?" Mary
wasn't ready to come up with any answers. She
kept waiting for Hank to do that.
  He muttered, "Like Lesson Number One in
Frontlines Combat. I wasn't a bit ready for
it. I think I flunked."
  Mary gave him the icepack and he placed it
against the welt, wincing at the pressure.
  "What makes you think you flunked?" she asked.
  "I don't know. I just walked into it, I
guess. I let them clobber me." Then he
prayed, "Lord God, help me to be ready next
time. Give me the wisdom, the sensitivity to know
what they're up to."
  Mary squeezed his hand, said amen, and then commented,
"You know, I might be wrong, but hasn't the Lord
already done that? I mean, how are you going to know how
to fight Satan's direct attacks unless you
just... do it?"
  That was what Hank needed to hear.
  "Wow," he mused. "I'm a veteran!"
  "And I don't think you flunked, either. They're
gone, aren't they? And you're still here, and you should have
heard those screams."
  "Are you sure it wasn't me?"
  "Quite sure."
  Then came a long, troubled silence.
  "So what now?" Mary finally asked.
  "Uh... let's pray," said Hank. For him,
that option was always easy to jump to.
  And pray they did, clasping hands at the little
kitchen table, having a conference with the Lord. They
thanked Him for the experience of that night, for
protecting them from danger, for showing them a very close
glimpse of their enemy. Over an hour passed, and
during that time the field of concern continued to grow
outward; their own problems began to take a small
place in a vastly wider perspective as Hank
and Mary prayed for their church, the people in it, the town,
the people that ran it, the state, the nation, the world. Through it
all came the beautiful assurance that they had indeed
connected with the throne of God and had conducted serious
business with the Lord. Hank grew more determined to stay
in the battle and give Satan a real run for his
money. He was sure that was what God wanted.
  The warm milk and Kate's company had a soothing
effect on Marshall's nerves. With each swallow
and each additional minute of normalcy, he gained
more and more assurance that the world would still go on, he would
live, the sun would rise in the morning. He was
amazed at how bleak things had looked just a little
while ago.
  "Feeling better?" Kate asked,
buttering some fresh toast.
  "Yeah," he answered, noticing that his heart had
retreated back into his chest and returned to its
normal, everyday pace. "Boy, I don't know
what got into me."
  Kate placed the two slices of toast on a
plate and set them on the table.
  Marshall crunched off a bite of toast and
asked, "So she's not at Terry's?"
  Kate shook her head. "Do you want to talk about
Sandy?"
  Marshall was ready. "We probably need
to talk about a lot of things."
  "I don't know how to start"
  "You think it's my fault?"
  "Oh, Marshall..."
  "C'mon, be honest now. I've been getting my
behind whipped all day. I'll listen."
  Her eyes met his and remained in place,
denoting a sincerity and firm love.
  "Categorically, no," she said.
  "I botched it today."
  "I think we've all botched it, and that includes
Sandy. She's made some choices too,
remember."
  "Yeah, but maybe it was because we didn't have
anything better to give her."
  "What do you think of talking to Pastor Young?"
  "Case in point."
  "Hmmmm?"
  Hogan shook his head despondently.
"Maybe... maybe Young's just a little too cush, you
know? He's into all this family of man stuff,
discovering yourself, saving the whales
  Kate was a little surprised. "I thought you liked
Pastor Young."
  "Well... I guess I do. But sometimes-no,
a lot of the time, I don't even feel like I'm
going to church. I may as well be sitting at a
lodge meeting or in one of Sandy's weird
classes."
  He checked her eyes. They were still steady. She was
listening. "Kate, don't you ever get the feeling that
God's got to be, you know, a little... bigger?
Tougher? The God we get at that church, I feel
like He isn't even a real person, and if He
is, He's dumber than we are. I can't expect
Sandy to buy that stuff. I don't even go for it
myself."
  "I never knew you felt this way,
Marshall."
  "Well, maybe I never did either. It's just that
this thing tonight... I've really got to think about it;
there's been so much of it going on lately."
  What do you mean? What's been going on?"
  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, Bemie," 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, "comAshton 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.
  So when do we win, Hank answered the Lord. Do
You know how long I've been sweating and praying over
this place? Just once I'd like to hear my little pebble
make a splash; I'd like to see this dead dog
twitch when I poke it.
  It was amazing how well the demons could hide,
even behind the doubts he sometimes felt about their very
existence.
  "I know you're out there," he said quietly, gazing
carefully over the blankly staring faces
of the buildings, the concrete, the brick, the glass,
the trash. The spirits were teasing him. They could descend
on him in a moment, terrorize and choke him, and then
vanish, slipping back into the hiding places behind the
facade of the town, snickering, hide-and-seeking,
watching him grope about like a blind fool.
  He sat down on a sidewalk bench feeling
miffed.
  "I'm here, Satan," he said. "I can't see
you, and maybe you can move faster than I can, but
I'm still here, and by the grace of God and the power of the
Holy Spirit I intend to be a thorn in your side
until one of us has had enough!"
  Hank looked across the street at the
impressive structure of the Ashton United
Christian Church. Hank had known some terrific
Christians who belonged to that denomination, but this
particular bunch in Ashton were different, liberal,
even bizarre. He had met Pastor Oliver Young
a few times and could never get very close to him; Young
seemed rather cold and aloof, and Hank could never
figure out why.
  As Hank sat there, watching a brown Buick
pull into the church parking lot, Triskal and
Krioni stood beside the bench, also watching the
car come to a stop. Only the two of them could see the
car's special passengers: sitting on the roof were
two big warriors, the Arabian and the African,
Nathan and Armoth. No swords were visible. They
were taking a passive, noncombatant posture according
to Tal's orders, just like the rest.
  Marshall had seen Bernice's film. He had
seen the minute scratches from some kind of mishandling:
he had seen the clumsy fingerprints at regular
intervals that could very well have been placed there by a hand
pulling the film out of the camera, unrolling it in the
light.
  Marshall had gotten his appointment with Young for 1
o'clock. He pulled into the vast, blacktop parking
lot at 12:45, still downing a deluxe
cheeseburger and large coffee.
  Ashton United Christian was one of the large,
stately-looking edifices around town, constructed in
the traditional style with heavy stone, stained glass,
towering lines, majestic steeple. The front door
fit the motif: large, solid, even a little
intimidating, especially when you tried to heave it
open all by yourself. The church was located near the
center of town, and the carillon in the tower chimed each
hour and gave a short concert of hymns at
noon. It was a respected establishment, Young was a
respected minister, the people who attended the church were
respected members of the community. Marshall had
often thought that respect and status just might be a
prerequisite for membership.
  He engaged the big front door in a short
Indian arm wrestle and finally got inside. No,
this congregation had never spared the expense, that was for
sure. The floors of the foyer, stairs, and
sanctuary were covered with thick red carpeting, the
woodwork was all deep finished oak and walnut.
On top of that was all the brass: brass door
handles, coat hooks, stairway railing, window
latches. The windows, of course, were stained glass;
and all the ceilings were lofty, with great hanging
chandeliers and delicate scrollwork.
  Marshall entered the sanctuary through another
ponderous door and walked down the long center
aisle toward the front. This room was a cross between
an opera house and a cavern: the platform was big, the
pulpit was big, the choir loft was big. Of course
the choir was big, too.
  Pastor Young's big office, just to the side of the
sanctuary, afforded a very visible access to the
platform and pulpit, and Pastor Young's
entrance through the big oak door each Sunday morning
was a traditional part of the ceremonies.
  Marshall pushed that big door open and stepped
into the reception office. The pretty secretary
greeted him, but didn't know who he was. He
told her, she checked the appointment book and
verified it. Marshall checked the book too, reading
upside down again. The 2 o'clock hour was marked A.
Brummel.
  "Well, Marshall," Young said with a cordial,
businesslike smile and handshake, "come in, come
in."
  Marshall followed Young into his plush office.
Young, a large-framed man in his sixties with a
roundish face, wirerimmed glasses, and thin,
well-oiled hair, seemed to enjoy his position both
in the church and in the community. His darkpaneled
walls sported many plaques from community and
charitable organizations. Along with those were several
framed photographs of him posing with the governor,
a few popular evangelists, some authors, and a
senator.
  Behind his impressive desk Young created a
perfect picture of the successful professional.
The high-backed leather chair became a
throne, and his own reflection in the desk top made
him all the more scenic and impressive, like a mountain
reflected in an alpine lake.
  He motioned Marshall to a chair, and Marshall
sat down, noticing that he sank to an eye level
quite below Young's. He began to feel a familiar tinge
of intimidation; this whole office seemed designed for
it. "Nice office," he commented. "Thank you very
much," said Young with a smile that shoved his cheeks
into piles against his ears. He leaned back in his
chair, his fingers interlaced and wiggling on the edge of
his desk. "I enjoy it, am thankful for it, and I
rather appreciate the warmth, the atmosphere of the
place. It sets one at ease."
  Sets you at ease, thought Marshall. "Yeah
... yeah."
  "So how is the Clarion these days?"
  "Oh, pulling itself together. Did you get today's?"
  "Yes, it was very good. Very neat, stylish. You've
brought some of that big-city class here with you, I
see."
  "Mm-hmmm." Marshall suddenly didn't feel
too talkative.
  "I'm glad you're with us, Marshall. We're
looking forward to a very good relationship."
  "Well yeah, thanks."
  "So what's on your mind?"
  Marshall fidgeted just a little, then jumped to his
feet; that chair made him feel too much like a
microbe under a microscope. Next time I'll
bring my own big desk, he thought. He walked
around the office, trying to look casual.
  "We've got a lot to cover in an hour," he
began.
  "We can always have more meetings."
  "Yeah, sure. Well, first of all, Sandy-that's
my daughter-ran off last night. We haven't
heard anything, we don't know where she is..." He
gave Young a quick synopsis of the problem and its
history, and Young listened intently with no
interruptions.
  "So," Young finally asked, "you think she has
turned her back on your traditional values and that
disturbs you?"
  "Hey, I'm not a deeply religious person,
you know what I mean? But some things have to be right, and
some things have to be wrong, and I have trouble with Sandy
just-just jumping over the fence from one to the other like she
does."
  Young rose majestically from his desk and
walked toward Marshall with the air of an understanding father.
He put his hand on Marshall's shoulder and said,
"Do you think she's happy, Marshall?"
  "I never see her happy, but that's probably
because she's around me every time I see her."
  "And that could be because you find it hard to understand the
direction she's now choosing for her life.
Obviously you project a definite displeasure
toward her philosophies ..."
  "Yeah, and toward that professor lady who
dumps all those philosophies on her. You ever
met that, what's her name, Professor
Langstrat, out at the college?"
  Young thought, then shook his head.
  "I think Sandy's taken a couple of courses from
her now, and every quarter I find my daughter more out of
touch with reality."
  Young chuckled a bit. "Marshall, it sounds like
she's just exploring, just trying to find out about the world,
about the universe she lives in. Don't you
remember growing up? So many things just weren't true
until you could prove them yourself. That's probably the
way it is right now with Sandy. She's a very bright
girl. I'm sure she just needs to explore, to find
herself."
  "Well, whenever she finds out where she is I
hope she calls."
  "Marshall, I'm sure she would feel much more
free to call if she could find understanding hearts at
home. It's not for us to determine what another
person must do with himself, or think about his place in the
cosmos. Each person must find his own way, his own
truth. If we're ever going to get along like any
kind of civilized family on this earth, we're
going to have to learn to respect the other man's right
to his own views."
  Marshall felt a flash of deja vu, as if a
recording from Sandy's brain had been plugged
into Young's. He couldn't help but ask, "You sure
you never met Professor Langstrat?"
  "Quite sure," Young answered with a smile.
  "How about Alf Brummel?"
  "Who?"
  "Alf Brummel, the police chief."
  Marshall watched his face. Was he struggling for
an answer?
  Young finally said, "I may have met him on
occasion... I was just trying to match the name with the
face."
  "Well, he thinks the way you do.
Talks a lot about getting along and being peaceful.
How he got to be a cop, I'll never know."
  "But weren't we talking about Sandy?"
  "Yeah, okay. Speak on."
  Young spoke on. "All the questions you're struggling
with, the matters of right and wrong, or what truth is,
or our different views of these issues... so many of
these things are unknowable, save in the heart. We all
feel the truth, like a common heartbeat in each of us.
Every human has the natural capacity for good, for
love, for expecting and striving for the best interests of
himself and his neighbor."
  "I guess you weren't here for the Festival."
  Young chuckled. "I'll admit we humans can
certainly misdirect our better inclinations."
  "Say, did you make the Festival, by the way?"
  "Yes, some parts of it. Most of it was of little
interest to me, I'm afraid."
  "So you didn't drop by the carnival, eh?"
  "Certainly not. It's a waste of money. But about
Sandy..."
  "Yeah, we were talking about what's true, and
everyone's view... like the whole subject of God,
for example. She can't seem to find Him, I'm just
trying to pin Him down, we can't agree on
our religion, and so far you haven't helped much."
  Young smiled thoughtfully. Marshall could feel a very
lofty homily coming.
  "Your God," said Young, "is where you find Him,
and to find Him, we need only to open our eyes and
realize that He is truly within all of us. We've
never been without Him at all, Marshall; it's just that
we've been blinded by our ignorance, and that has
kept us from the love, security, and meaning that we
all desire. Jesus revealed our problem on the
cross, remember? He said, "Father, forgive them,
for they know not ..." So His example to us is
to search for knowledge, wherever we may find it. That's what you
are doing, and I'm convinced that's what Sandy is
doing. The source of your problem is a narrow
perspective, Marshall. You must be open-minded.
You must search, and Sandy must search."
  "So," Marshall said thoughtfully, "you're saying
it's all a matter of how we look at things?"
  "That would be part of it, yes."
  "And if I might perceive something a certain way,
that doesn't mean everybody's going to see it that
way, right?"
  "Yes, that's right!" Young seemed very pleased with his
student.
  "So... let me see if I've got this right.
If my reporter, Bernice Krueger, perceived that
you, Brummel, and three other people were having some kind
of little meeting behind the dart throwing booth at the
carnival... well, that was just her perception of
reality?"
  Young smiled with an odd
what-are-you-trying-to-pull grin, and answered, "I
suppose so, Marshall. I guess that would be a
case in point. I was nowhere near the carnival, and
I told you that. I abhor that kind of event."
  "You weren't there with Alf Brummel?"
  "No, not at all. So you see, Ms. Krueger
had quite an incorrect perception of someone else."
"Of both of you, I suppose." Young smiled and
shrugged.
  Marshall pressed a little. "What do you suppose
the odds are of that happening?"
  Young kept smiling, but his face got a little red.
"Marshall, what do you wish me to do? Argue with you?
Certainly you didn't come here for that sort of thing."
  Marshall took a real stab at whatever it might
catch. "She even took some pictures of you."
  Young sighed and looked for a moment at the floor.
Then he said coolly, "Then why don't you
bring those photographs next time, and then we can
discuss it?" The little smile on Young's face hit
Marshall like spittle.
  "Okay," Marshall muttered, not dropping his
eyes.
  "Marge will set another appointment for you."
"Thanks a lot."
  Marshall checked his watch, went to the door, and
opened it. "Come on in, Alf."
  Alf Brummel had been sitting in the reception
area. At the sight of Marshall he jumped
awkwardly to his feet. He looked the way one
might a split second before being hit by a train.
Marshall grabbed Alf by the hand and shook that hand
excitedly. "Hey, buddy! Say, seeing as how the
two of you don't seem to know each other very well,
let me introduce you. Alf Brummel, this is
Reverend Oliver Young. Reverend Young, Alf
Brummel, chief of police!"
  Brummel didn't seem to appreciate
Marshall's cordiality at all, but Young did.
He stepped forward, grabbed Brummel's hand,
shook it, and then pulled Brummel quickly into his
office, saying over his shoulder, "Marge, make
another appointment for Mr. Hogan."
  But Mr. Hogan had left.

  Sandy Hogan sat dismally at a small lunch
table in a campus plaza shaded by an expansive
grape arbor. She was staring at a slowly cooling,
microwaved, packaged hamburger and a slowly
warming half-pint carton of milk. She had made
her classes that morning, but they had all slipped
by her, mostly unabsorbed. Her mind was too much
on herself, her family, and her belligerent father.
Besides, it had been a horrible way to spend the
night, walking clear across town and sitting all
night in the Ashton bus depot reading from her
psychology textbook. After her last class of the
day she tried to take a nap out on the lawn in the
sculpture garden and had managed to doze for a short
time. When she awoke, her world was no better and she
had only two impressions: hunger and loneliness.
  Now, sitting at this little table with a machine-vended
lunch, her loneliness was stealing away her hunger and
she was on the brink of tears.
  "Why, Daddy?" she whispered in very soft tones,
dabbling her straw in her carton of milk. "Why
can't you just love me for what I am?"
  How could he have so much against her when he
hardly even knew her? How could he be so adamant
against her thoughts and philosophies when he couldn't
even understand them? They were living in two different
worlds, and each disdained the other's.
  Last night she and her father had not said a word to each
other the whole evening, and Sandy had gone to bed
depressed and angry. Even as she lay there listening
to her folks turning out the lights, brushing their
teeth, and turning in for the night, they seemed half a
world away. She wanted to call them into her room and
reach out to them, but she knew it wouldn't work; Daddy
would make demands and place conditions on their
relationship instead of loving her, just loving her.
  She still didn't know what had terrified her in the
pit of the night. All she could remember was waking
up plagued by every fear she had ever known-fear of dying,
fear of failure, fear of loneliness. She had
to get out of the house. She knew, even as she
hastily dressed and ran out the door, that it was
foolish and pointless, but the feelings were greater than
any common sense she could muster.
  Now she felt very much like some poor animal shot
into space with no means of returning, floating
listlessly, waiting for nothing in particular and with nothing
to look forward to.
  "Oh, Daddy," she whimpered, and then she began
to cry.
  She let her red hair fall down like soft blinds
on either side of her face and the tears dropped one
by one to the tabletop. She could hear people passing, but they
chose to live in their own world and left her alone in
hers. She tried to cry softly, which was hard to do when
her emotions wanted to rush out of her like the cascade
from a broken dam.
  "Uh..." came a soft and hesitant voice,
"Excuse me"
  Sandy looked up and saw a young man, blond,
slightly thin, with big brown eyes full of
compassion.
  The young man said, "Please forgive me for
intruding... but... is there anything I can do
to help?"
  It was dark in the living room of Professor
Juleen Langstrat's apartment, and very, very quiet.
One candle on the coffee table cast a dull yellow
light on the ceiling-high bookcases, the strange
oriental masks, the neatly arranged furniture,
and the faces of two people who sat opposite each
other, the candle between them. One of the people was the
professor, her head resting against the back
of her chair, her eyes closed, her arms
outstretched in front of her, her hands making gentle
sweeping motions as if she were treading water.
  The man sitting opposite her was Brummel,
also with eyes closed, but not mirroring Langstrat's
expression and actions very well. He looked stiff
and uncomfortable. At short intervals, and for a split
second, he would crack his eyes open just enough to see
what Langstrat was doing.
  Then she began to moan and her face registered
pain and displeasure. She opened her eyes and sat
upright. Brummel looked back at her.
  "You don't feel well today, do you?" she asked.
  He shrugged and looked at the floor. "Ehhh,
I'm okay. Just tired."
  She shook her head, not satisfied with his answer.
"No, no, it's the energy I feel from you. You're
very disturbed."
  Brummel had no answer.
  "Did you talk to Oliver today?" she probed.
  He hesitated, and finally said, "Yeah, sure."
  "And you went to talk to him about our relationship."
  That got a reaction. "No! That's"
  "Don't lie to me."
  He wilted a little and let out a
frustrated sigh. "Yeah, sure, we talked about
it. We talked about other things too, though."
  Langstrat probed him with her eyes as if doing
some kind of X-ray scan. Her hands opened and
began to wave in the air just slightly. Brummel
tried to sink out of sight into his chair.
  "Hey, listen," he said shakily, "it's no
big deal"
  She began to speak as if reading off a note
pinned on his chest. "You're... frightened, you feel
cornered, you went to tell Oliver... you also feel
controlled..." She looked at his face.
"Controlled? By whom?"
  "I don't feel controlled!"
  She laughed a little to put him at ease.
"Well, of course you do. I just read it."
  Brummel looked for a split second toward the
telephone on the end table. "Did Young call you?"
  She smiled with amusement. "There was no need to.
Oliver is very close to the Universal Mind.
I'm beginning to meld with his thoughts now." Her
expression hardened. "Alf, I really wish you were
doing as well."
  Brummel sighed again, his face behind his hands, then
finally blurted, "Hey, listen, I can't
tackle everything at once! There's just too much
to learn!"
  She put her hand on his comfortingly. "Well then,
let's deal with these things one at a time. Alf?"
He looked up at her. "You're frightened, aren't
you? What are you frightened of?" "You tell me," and it
was almost a dare. "I'm giving you a chance to speak
first."
  "Well then, I'm not frightened." At least not
until this very second, when Langstrat's eyes
narrowed and began to bore into him.
  "You are indeed frightened," she said sternly. "You
are frightened because we were photographed the other night
by that reporter from the Clarion. Isn't that right?"
  Brummel pointed his finger at her angrily.
"See, now that's exactly one of the things Young and I
talked about! He called you! He had to have called
you!"
  She nodded, unabashed. "Yes, of course he
called me. He withholds nothing from me. None of us
withholds truth from all the others, you know that."
  Brummel knew he might as well open up.
"I'm concerned about the Plan. We're getting too
big, too big to hide anymore; we're risking
exposure in too many places. I think
we were careless to meet out in public like that."
  "But it's all been taken care of. There's nothing
to worry about."
  "Oh no? Hogan's on our scent! I
suppose you know he was asking Oliver some very
delicate questions?"
  "Oliver can handle himself."
  "So how do we handle Hogan?"
  "The same way we handle anyone else. Are you
aware that he talked to Oliver about problems he's
having with his daughter? You should find that interesting."
  "What kind of problems?"
  "She's run away from home... and yet she still
had the desire to be in my class today. I like the
sound of that."
  "So how do we use it?"
  She smiled her cunning smile. "All in good
time, Alf. We can't rush things."
  Brummel got up and began to pace. "With
Hogan I'm not so sure. He may not be the
pushover that Harmel was. Maybe having Krueger
arrested was the wrong thing to do."
  "But you got access to the film; you had it
destroyed."
  He turned to face her. "And what did
that get us? Before that they weren't asking any questions, and
now they are! Come on, I know what I'd think if
I got my camera back and the film was ruined.
Hogan and Krueger just aren't that gullible."
  Langstrat spoke soothingly, putting her arms
around him like the tendrils of a vine. "Ah, but they are
vulnerable, first to you, and ultimately to me."
  "Just like everybody," he muttered.
  He should have expected her reaction. She grew very
cold and frightening and looked right into his eyes.
  "And that," she said, "is another topic you
discussed with Oliver today."
  "He tells you everything!"
  "The Masters would tell me even if he
didn't."
  Brummel tried to turn his eyes away from her.
He couldn't stand whatever it was that made such beauty so
immensely hideous.
  "Look at me!" she insisted, and Brummel
obeyed. "If you are not happy with our relationship,
I can always have it terminated."
  He looked down, stuttered a bit. "It's-it's
okay..."
  "What?"
  "I mean I'm happy with our
relationship."
  "Truly happy?"
  He felt desperate to appease her, to get her
to let go of him. "I... I just don't want things
to get out of control..."
  She gave him a slow, vampirish kiss. "You
are the one who needs more control. Haven't I always
taught you that?"
  She was cutting him to pieces and he knew it, but
she had him. He belonged to her.
  He still had a concern he couldn't shake. "But how
many adversaries can we continue to remove? It
seems like every time we get rid of one, bingo, another
pops up in his place. Harmel went out, in came
Hogan..."
  She completed the thought for him. "You took care of
Farrel, and in came Henry Busche."
  "It can't go on. The odds are against us."
  "Busche is as good as gone. Isn't there a
confidence vote this Friday?"
  "The congregation is getting good and upset.
But..."
  "Yes?"
  "You know he removed Lou Stanley from the church
for adultery?"
  "Ah, yes. That should help the congregation
decide."
  "A lot of them agreed with that move!" She
backed away in order to gaze at him better,
freezing his blood with her eyes. "Are you afraid
of Henry Busche?"
  "Listen, he still has a lot of support in the
church, more than I thought he did."
  "You are afraid of him!"
  "Somebody's on his side, I don't know who.
And what if he finds out about the Plan?"
  "He will never find out anything!" If she had
fangs, they would have been showing. "He will be destroyed
as a minister long before then. You will see to that, won't
you?"
  "I'm working on it."
  "Do not bow to this Henry Busche! He bows to you,
and you bow to me!"
  "I'm working on it, I said!"
  She relaxed and smiled. "Next Tuesday,
then?"
  "Ehh..."
  "We'll celebrate Busche's Friday
demise. You can tell me about it."
  "What about Hogan?"
  "Hogan is a limp and weakened fool. Don't
worry about him. He's not your responsibility."
  Before Brummel knew it, he was standing outside
her back door.
  Langstrat watched him through her window until he
drove off, taking the usual alley route where he
would not be seen. She opened the drapes to let some
light in, extinguished the candle on the coffee table,
then took a folder from her desk drawer.
  Soon she had arranged in neat piles the life
histories, personality profiles, and current
photographs of Marshall, Kate, and Sandy
Hogan. When her eyes fell on the photograph
of Sandy, they glinted maliciously.
  Hovering invisibly over Langstrat's shoulder
was a huge black hand adorned with jeweled rings and
bracelets of gold. A deep and seductive
voice spoke thoughts to her mind.
  Tuesday afternoon at the Clarion resembled a
battlefield after everyone is either dead or
retreated. The place was deathly quiet.
George, the typesetter, usually took the day after
publishing off to recover from the wild deadline race.
Tom, the paste-up man, was out covering a local
story.
  As for Edie, the secretarystreporterstad girl,
she had resigned and walked off the job last night.
Marshall had not known that she once was happily
married, but gradually became unhappily married,
and finally got a little thing going with a trucker that
resulted in a very recent blow-up at home, with
pieces of marriage flying everywhere and spouses
fleeing abruptly in opposite directions. Now
she was gone, and Marshall could feel the sudden void.
  Bernice and he sat alone in the glass-enclosed
office at the back of the little newsroomstad
roomstfront office. From his secondhand,
ten-dollar desk Marshall could look through the glass
and survey the three desks, two typewriters,
two wastebaskets, two telephones, and one
coffeemaker. Everything looked cluttered and busy,
with papers and copy lying everywhere, but absolutely
nothing was happening.
  "I don't suppose you know where everything is?"
he asked Bernice.
  Bernice was sitting up on the worktable adjacent
to Marshall's desk, her back against the wall,
stirring a personalized mug of hot chocolate.
  "Aw, we'll find it all," she answered. "I
know where she kept the books, and I'm
sure her Rolodex has all the addresses and
phone numbers."
  "What about the cord to the coffeemaker?"
  "Why do you think I'm drinking hot chocolate?"
  "Nuts. I wish somebody would've told me."
  "I don't think anybody really knew."
  "We'd better get an ad in for a new
secretary this week. Edie carried more than her
weight around here."
  "I guess it was a bad blow-up. She's leaving
town for good, before her husband's black eyes heal
up and he can see to find her."
  "Affairs. Nothing good ever comes of'em."
  "So have you heard the latest about Alf
Brummel?" Marshall looked up at her. She
perched on the worktable like some coy bird, trying
to look more interested in her hot chocolate than in the
spicy news.
  "Under the circumstances," he said, "I'm dying
to hear it."
  "I had lunch with Sara, his secretary, today.
Guess he's gone for several hours every Tuesday
afternoon and never says where, but Sara knows. Guess our
friend Alf has a special girlfriend."
  "Yeah, Juleen Langstrat,
psychology prof out at the college."
  That ruined it for Bernice. "How did you know?"
  "The blonde woman you saw that night,
remember? The day after one of my reporters gets
busted for taking the wrong pictures at the
carnival, Langstrat kicks me out of her
class. Add to that Oliver Young's ears getting
all red when he told me he didn't know her."
  "You're brilliant, Hogan."
  "Just a good guesser."
  "She and Brummel do have something going. He
calls it therapy, but I think he enjoys it, if you
get my drift."
  "So what's Young's connection to either of them?"
  Bernice didn't hear his question. "Too bad
Brummel isn't already married. I could have done more
with it."
  "Hey, reset your frequency, will you? We've
got a little club here, and all three of these people are
members."
  "Sorry."
  "What we're really after is whatever it is they
don't want us to know, especially if-and I mean
IF'-IT'S worth trumping up a false arrest
to cover up."
  "And destroying my film."
  "I wonder if any of those fingerprints on the
film would tell us something?"
  "Not much. They're not on file."
  Marshall twisted in his chair to face her more
directly. "All right, who do you know?"
  Bernice was smug. "I have an uncle who's very
close to Justin Parker's office."
  "The county prosecutor?"
  "Sure. He does just about anything for me."
  "Hey, don't bring them into this, not yet..."
  Bernice raised her hands as if he were pointing a
gun at her and assured him, "Not yet, not yet."
  "But I'm not saying they won't come in handy."
  "Don't think I haven't thought of that"
  "So tell me this: did Brummel ever
apologize?"
  "After you bowed to him the way you did, are you
kidding?"
  "No official, signed apology from him and his
office?"
  "Is that what he told you?"
  Marshall had to sneer. "Aw, both Brummel and
Young told me all kinds of things-how they hardly
knew each other, how they were never anywhere
near the carnival... boy, I just wish we had those
pictures."
  Bernice was offended. "Hey, you can believe me,
Hogan. You really can!"
  Marshall looked into space for a second or
two, musing. "Brummel and Langstrat.
Therapy. I guess that makes sense now..."
  "C'mon, let's get all the pieces out on the
table."
  What pieces? Marshall thought. How do you lay
out vague feelings, strange experiences, vibes?
  He finally said, "Uh... this Brummel and
Langstrat... they're both into the same kind of
thing. I can tell."
  "What kind of thing?"
  Marshall felt cornered. "How about...
whammies?"
  Bernice looked puzzled. Oh, c'mon,
Krueger, don't make me have to explain it.
  She said, "You'll have to explain that to me."
  Oh, boy, here we go, Marshall thought.
"Well... now it's gonna sound crazy, but when
I talked to each of them-and you ought to try it
sometime-each of them had this weird, gooney-eyed thing
they did... kind of like they were hypnotizing
me or something..."
  Bernice started to crack up.
  "Ehhh, go ahead, laugh."
  "What are you saying? That they're all into some kind
of Svengali trip?"
  "I don't know how to label it yet, but yeah.
Brummel's not nearly as good at it as
Langstrat. He smiles too much. Young might be
into it too, but he uses words. Lots of words."
  Bernice studied his face for just the slightest
moment and then said, "I think you need a good, stiff
drink. Would a hot chocolate do?"
  "Sure, get me one. Please."
  Bernice returned with another personalized
mug-Edie's-full of hot chocolate. "Hope
it's strong enough," she said, and hopped back onto
the table.
  "So why do those three try to look
unconnected..." Marshall mused. "And what about
the other two unknowns, Pudgy and the Ghost? You've
never seen them before?"
  "Never. They could have been out-of-towners."
Marshall sighed. "It's a dead end."
  "Maybe not yet. Brummel does go to that little
white church, Ashton Community, and I
heard somebody just got kicked out of there for shacking
up or something..."
  "Bernice, that's gossip!"
  "What would you say, then, to my talking to a friend on
the Whitmore faculty who might be able to tell me
something about this mysterious professor lady?"
  Marshall looked doubtful. "Please don't
make any more problems for me. I have enough as it is."
  "Sandy?"
  Back to the really tough subjects. "We
haven't heard a thing yet, but we're still calling
around, checking with relatives and friends. We're
sure she'll come home sooner or later."
  "Isn't she in Langstrat's class?"
  Marshall answered with some bitterness, "She's
been in several of Langstrat's classes" Then
he paused. "Don't you think we might be blurring
the line between unbiased journalism and ... personal
vengeance?"
  Bernice shrugged. "I'll only find what's
really there, and it'll be news or it won't be. In
the meantime, I thought perhaps you'd appreciate a little
background."
  Marshall couldn't shake off the memory of his
encounter with the fiery Juleen Langstrat, and
he hurt more deeply every time he recalled the
professor's ideas coming at him through the mouth of his
own daughter.
  "If it's a stone, turn it over," he said
finally.
  "On my time or the Clarion's?"
  "Just turn it over," he said, and started pounding his
typewriter.

  That evening Marshall and Kate set three
places at the dinner table. It was an act of
faith, trusting that Sandy would be there just as she always had
been. They had called everyone they knew, but no one
had seen Sandy anywhere. The police hadn't turned
up anything. They had called the college to check
whether or not Sandy had been to her classes that day,
but so far none of her professors or teaching
assistants could be reached for a definite answer.
  Marshall sat at the table, staring at Sandy's
empty chair. Kate sat across from him, silent,
waiting for the rice to steam.
  "Marshall," she said, "don't torture yourself."
  "I blew it. I'm a wash-out!"
  "Oh, stop it!"
  "And the problem is, now that I know I
blew it, there isn't much chance of a retake."
  Kate reached across the table and took his hand. "There
certainly is. She'll come back. She's old enough
to be reasonable and take care of herself. I mean, just
look at how much she took with her. She can't be
planning on being gone indefinitely."
  Just then the doorbell rang. They both jumped a
little.
  "Yeah," said Marshall, "go ahead, be the
mailman, or a Girl Scout selling cookies,
or a Jehovah's Witness...!"
  "Well, Sandy wouldn't ring the doorbell
anyway."
  Kate got up to answer the door, but Marshall
hurried ahead of her. They both reached the door at
about the same time and Marshall opened it.
  Neither of them expected a young man, blond and
neat, college material. He carried no
leaflets or religious propaganda and seemed shy.
  "Mr. Hogan?" he asked.
  "Yeah," said Marshall. "Who are you?"
  The young man was quiet but assertive enough to do
business. "My name is Shawn Ormsby. I'm a
junior at Whitmore and a friend of your daughter
Sandy."
  Kate started to say, "Well, please come in,"
but Marshall interrupted with, "Do you know where she
is?"
  Shawn paused, then answered carefully, "Yes.
Yes, I do." "Well?" said Marshall. "May
I come in?" he asked politely. Kate nodded
graciously, stepping aside and almost pushing
Marshall aside. "Yes, please do."
  They showed him into the living room and let him have a
seat. Kate held Marshall's hand just long enough
to get him into a chair and silently remind him
to control himself. "Thankyou very much for coming," Kate
said. "We've been very concerned."
  Marshall's voice was controlled as he said,
"What've you got?"
  Shawn was visibly uncomfortable. "I... I
met her on campus yesterday." "She went
to school yesterday?" Marshall blurted, startled.
"Let him talk, Marshall," Kate reminded
him. "Well," said Shawn, "yes. Yes, she
did. But I met her in Jones Plaza, an
outdoor eating area. She was by herself and so visibly
upset that, well, I just felt I had to get
involved."
  Marshall was sitting on pins and
needles. "What do you mean, visibly upset?
Is she okay?"
  "Oh, yes! She's perfectly all right. That
is, she hasn't come to any harm. But... I'm here
on her behalf." This time both parents were listening
without interrupting, so Shawn continued. "We talked
for quite a while and she told me her side of the story.
She really does want to come home; I should tell
you that first."
  "But?" Marshall prompted.
  "Well, Mr. Hogan, that's the first thing I
tried to persuade her to do, but... if you can accept
this, she feels afraid to come back, and I think a
little ashamed." "Because of me?" Shawn was walking on
some very thin ice. "Can you... are you able to accept that?"
  Marshall was ready to be tough on himself. "Yeah,
I can accept that, all right. I've been asking for it
for years. I had it coming."
  Shawn looked relieved. "Well, that's what
I'm trying, in my own weak, limited way,
to accomplish. I'm no professional-my major's
geology-but I'd just like to see this family together
again."
  Kate said humbly, "We would too."
  "Yeah," said Marshall, "we really
want to work on it. Listen, Shawn, you get to know
me and you'll realize I came out of a pretty bent
mold and I'm really tough to straighten out..."
  "No, you didn't!" Kate protested.
  "Yeah, yeah, I did. But I'm learning all
the time. I want to keep on learning." He leaned
forward in his chair. "Say... I take it Sandy
sent you here to see us?"
  Shawn looked out the window. "She's out in the car
right now."
  Kate was on her feet immediately. Marshall
grabbed her hand and settled her back into her seat.
  "Hey," he said, "who's being overanxious now?"
He turned to Shawn. "How is she? Is she still
afraid? Does she think I'm going to jump on
her?"
  Shawn nodded meekly.
  "Well," said Marshall, feeling emotions he
really didn't want anyone to see, "listen, tell
her I won't jump on her. I won't yell,
I won't accuse, I won't get sly or
nasty. I just... well, I..."
  "He loves her," Kate said for him. "He
really does."
  "Do you, sir?" Shawn asked.
  Marshall nodded.
  "Tell me," said Shawn. "Say it."
  Marshall looked right in his eyes. "I love
her, Shawn. She's my kid, my daughter. I
love her and I want her back."
  Shawn smiled and rose from his seat. "I'll bring
her in."
  That evening there were four place settings at the
table.
  The Friday edition of the Clarion was on the
streets, and the usual postpublication lull around the
office gave Bernice the chance she needed to do some
hoofing. She had been waiting eagerly for a chance
to get over to Whitmore College to talk to some people.
A few phone calls had landed her an important
lunch appointment.
  The North Campus Cafeteria was a new
addition, a modern red-brick structure with
floor-to-ceiling blue-tinted windows and carefully
kept flower gardens. One could eat inside at a
small two- or four-person table, or sit on the
patio in the sunshine. The format was buffet, and the
food wasn't bad.
  Bernice stepped onto the patio carrying a
tray with coffee and a light salad.
Alongside her was Ruth Williams, a cheerful
middle-aged professor in economics, carrying a
taco salad.
  They chose a secluded table in the semishade.
For the first half of their meal they indulged in small
talk and general catching up.
  But Williams knew Bernice pretty well
by now. "Bernice," she said at last, "I can tell
you have something on your mind."
  Bernice was able to be honest with her friend. "Ruth,
it's something unprofessional and distasteful."
  "Do you mean to say you've uncovered something new?"
"Oh, no, not about Pat. No, that subject's
been dormant for quite some time. You can be sure it will
reawaken if anything new comes up, though."
Bernice looked at Williams for a long moment.
"You don't think I'll ever find anything, do you?"
  "Bernice, you know that I support you in your
efforts one hundred percent, but with that support I
must add my sincere doubts that your efforts will ever
uncover anything. It was just so.... futile. So
tragic."
  Bernice shrugged. "Well, that's why I'm
trying to focus my efforts only where they'll do some
good. Which brings me to the uncomfortable
subject for the day. Did you know I was arrested and
jailed Sunday night?"
  Williams was, of course, incredulous.
"Jailed? Whatever for?"
  "Soliciting an undercover cop for an act of
prostitution." That brought the right response from
Williams. Bernice went on to tell her as much
of the indignities as she could remember.
  "I can't believe it!" Williams kept
saying. "That is disgusting! I can't believe it!"
  "Well, anyway," Bernice said, bringing in the
punch line, "I feel I have good cause to question
Mr. Brummel's motives. Mind you, I only
have theory and speculation, but I want to chase these
things to their end to see if anything really lies behind
them."
  "Well, I can understand that. And what could I
possibly know that would help you?"
  "Have you ever met Professor Juleen
Langstrat, over in the Psychology Department?"
  "Oh... once or twice. We shared a table
at a faculty luncheon."
  Bernice caught a glint of distaste in
William's expression. "Hmmmm. Something wrong
with her?"
  "Well, to each his own," said Williams,
stirring her salad absentmindedly with her fork. "But
I found her very difficult to relate to. It was
next to impossible to start any coherent conversation."
  "How does she carry herself? Is she forceful,
retiring, assertive, obnoxious... ?"
  "Aloof, for one thing, and I guess mysterious,
although I use that word for lack of one better. I
got the impression that people are nothing but a bore to her.
Her academic interests are very esoteric and
metaphysical, and she seems to prefer them to bland
reality."
  "What kind of company does she keep?"
  "I wouldn't know. I'd almost be surprised to find
her consorting with anyone at all."
  "So you've never seen her in the company of Alf
Brummel?"
  "Oh, and this must be the ultimate goal of your
questions. No, never at all." "But I guess you
don't see her much anyway."
  "She's not very social, so no. But listen, I
really try to mind my own business, if you catch my
meaning. I would definitely like to help you in any
way I can to satisfy yourself concerning Pat's death,
but what you're after this time is
"Unprofessional and distasteful."
  "Yes, you were certainly right on that score. But,
accompanied with my own advice to disengage yourself from this
thing, let me, as a friend, refer you to someone who might
know more. Have your pencil ready? His name is Albert
Darr, and he's in the Psychology Department. From
what I've heard, mostly from him, he rubs
shoulders with Langstrat every day, doesn't like her at
all, and loves to gossip. I'll even go so far as
to call him for you."
  Albert Darr, a baby-faced young professor
with stylish clothes and a certain penchant for ladies,
just happened to be in his office grading papers. He
had time to talk, especially to the lovely reporter
from the Clarion.
  "Well, hello, hello," he said as Bernice
came in the door. "Well, hello hello yourself,"
she responded. "Bernice Krueger, the friend of
Ruth Williams."
  "Uh..." He looked to and fro for an empty
chair, and finally moved a pile of reference books.
"Have a seat. Pardon the mess." He sat down
on another pile of books and papers that might have
had a chair under it. "What can I do for you?"
  "Well, this isn't really an official
visit, Professor Darr"
  "Albert."
  "Thank you, Albert. I'm actually here on a
personal matter, but if my theories are right, it
could be important in a newsworthy sense." She
paused to indicate a new paragraph and a
difficult question. "Now, Ruth tells me you know
Juleen Langstrat"
  Darr suddenly smiled broadly, leaned back in
his piled-up chair, and rested his hands behind his neck.
This was going to be an enjoyable subject for him, it
seemed.
  "Ahhhh," he said gleefully, "so you dare
to infringe on sacred ground! "Darr looked around the
room in mock suspicion, searching for imaginary
eavesdroppers, then leaned forward and said in a lowered
voice, "Listen, there are certain things no one is
supposed to know, not even myself." Then he brightened up
again and said, "But our dear professor has had many
an occasion to hurt and slight me and therefore I feel
indebted to her not in the least. I'm dying to answer your
questions." Evidently Bernice could just dive right in;
this guy didn't seem to need formalities.
  "Okay, to begin with," she said, readying her pen and
pad, "I'm really trying to find out about
Alf Brummel, the chief of police. I've
been informed that he and Langstrat see a lot of
each other. Can you verify that?"
  "Oh, definitely."
  "So... they do have something going?"
  "What do you mean, "something"?"
  "You fill in the blank."
  "If you mean a romantic fling..." He
smiled and shook his head. "Oh dear. I don't
know if you'll like this answer, but no, I don't think
anything like that is going on."
  "But he does see her quite regularly."
  "Oh yes, but a lot of people do. She gives
consultations in her off hours. Tell me now,
doesn't Brummel see her on a weekly
basis?" With ebbing spirit Bernice answered, "Yes,
every Tuesday. On the dot."
  "Well, there, you see? He goes to her for
regular weekly sessions."
  "But why won't he tell anybody? He's very
secretive about it."
  He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Everything
Langstrat does is a deep, dark secret! The
Inner Circle, Bernice. No one is even
supposed to know about these so-called
consultations, no one but the privileged, the elite,
the powerful, the many special patrons that go to her.
That's the way she is."
  "But what's she up to?"
  "Mind you now," he said with a mischievous glint in
his eye, "this is privileged information, and I might
also caution you that it is not entirely reliable. I
know very little of this from direct observation; most of it
I've just managed to pick up around the department here.
Fortunately, Professor Langstrat has
made enough enemies that few of the staff feel any
commitment or loyalty to her." He repositioned
himself into an eye-to-eye posture. "Bernice,
Professor Langstrat is, how should I say it?
Not a... ground level person. Her areas of study
go beyond anything the rest of us have had any desire
to tamper with: the Source, the Universal Mind, the
Ascended Planes..."
  "I'm afraid I don't know what you're
talking about."
  "Oh, none of us know what she's talking about either.
Some of us are very concerned; we don't know if she's
very brilliant and making some real breakthroughs, or if
she's somewhat deranged."
  "Well, what is all this stuff, this
Source, and this Mind?"
  "All right. Uh ... as nearly as we can tell,
she derives it from the Eastern religions, the old
mystic cults and writings, things I know nothing about
and don't want to know anything about. As far as I'm
concerned, her studies in these areas have caused her
to lose all contact with reality. As a matter of
fact, I may even be mocked and maligned among
my peers for saying this, but I don't see
Langstrat's advances in these areas as anything other
than foolish, neo-pagan witchcraft. I think
she's desperately confused!"
  Bernice now recalled to mind Marshall's
strange descriptions of Langstrat. "I've
heard she does strange things to people"
  "Foolishness. Sheer foolishness. I think she
believes she can read my mind, control me, put
spells on me, whatever. I simply dismiss it and
try very hard to be elsewhere."
  "But does any of it have credence?"
  "Absolutely not. The only people she can control
or affect are the poor dupes in the Inner
Circle who are stupid and gullible enough to"
  "The Inner Circle ... you used that term
before..."
  He held up his hand to caution her. "No
facts, no facts. I coined that title myself.
All I have is a two here and a two there, which make
a very persuasive four. I've heard her admit that
she counsels these people who come to her, and I've
noticed that some of them are quite important. But how
could a counselor with such warped ideas possibly
straighten out anyone else? Then again ..."
  "Yes?"
  "I would expect her to ... claim a
special advantage in such a situation. Who
knows, maybe she holds seances and mind-reading
sessions. Maybe she cooks slug tails and
newt's eyes and serves them with breaded spider
legs to evoke some answer from the supernatural...
but now I'm getting facetious."
  "But you do see this as a possibility?"
  "Well not nearly as bizarre as I've
described, but yes, something along those lines, in
keeping with her occult interests."
  "And these people in the Inner Circle see her
regularly?"
  "As far as I know. I really have no idea how
it's set up or why people even go. What on earth could
they be getting out of it?"
  "Can you give me some for-instances?"
  "Well..." He thought for a moment. "Of course,
we've already mentioned and verified your Mr.
Brummel. Oh, and you might know of Ted
Harmel?"
  Bernice just about dropped her pen. "Ted?"
  "Yes, the former editor of the Clarion."
  "I worked for him, before he left and Hogan bought
the paper."
  "Uh, the way I understand it, Mr. Harmel
didn't just leave."
  "No, he fled. But who else?"
  "Mrs. Pinckston, a trustee on the board of
regents."
  "Ah, so it's not just men."
  "Oh, certainly not." Bernice kept writing.
"Go on, go on."
  "Oh dear, who else? Uh, I think Dwight
Brandon..."
  "Who's Dwight Brandon?"
  Dan looked at her condescendingly. "He only
owns the property the college is built on."
  "Ohhhh..." She wrote the name down with a bold
lettered explanation.
  "Oh, and then there's Eugene Baylor.
He's general treasurer, a very influential man
on the board of regents, I understand. It seems
he's been needled just a little about whatever it is he
and the professor do in their sessions together, but he
remains self-righteous and steadfast in his convictions."
  "Hmm."
  "Ah, and there's also that reverend fellow, that...
uh..."
  "Oliver Young."
  "How did you know?"
  Bernice only smiled. "A lucky guess.
Carry on."

  On Friday evening Hank couldn't get the
upcoming business meeting off his mind, which was
probably to his advantage considering the young lady
sitting across from him in his little office corner of the
house. He had asked Mary to stick closely around
and act very loving and wifely. This young lady-Carmen
was the only name she gave-was quite a case load.
The way she dressed and carried herself, Hank made
sure that it was Mary who answered her knock at the
door and let her in. But as far as Hank could
tell, Carmen wasn't trying to put on a
facade; she seemed real enough, just
sincerely overdone. And as for her reasons for wanting
counseling ...
  "I think," she began, "I think I'm just very
lonely, and that's why I keep hearing voices..."
  Immediately she examined their faces for their reaction.
But after their recent experiences nothing sounded too far
out to Hank and Mary.
  Hank asked, "What kind of voices? What
kind of things do they say?"
  She thought for a moment, searching the ceiling with big,
overly innocent blue eyes.
  "What I'm experiencing is legitimate," she
said. "I'm not crazy."
  "No problem there," Hank said. "But tell us
about these voices. When do they talk to you?"
  "When I'm alone, especially. Like last night,
I was lying in bed and..." She related the words the
voice spoke to her, and it could have been a perfect
script for an obscene phone call.
  Mary didn't know what to say; this was becoming
heavy. To Hank it sounded kind of familiar, and
though he felt very cautious about Carmen and her
motives, he still remained open to the possibility that
she was encountering some of the same demonic forces he'd
been dealing with.
  "Carmen," he asked, "do these voices ever say
who they are?"
  She thought for a moment. "I think one of them was
Spanish or Italian. He had an accent, and his
name was Amano, or Amanzo, or something like that.
He always spoke very soothingly and always said he
wanted to make love to me..."
  Just then the phone rang. Mary quickly got up
to answer it.
  "Hurry back," said Hank.
  She hurried away, that was for sure. Hank was
watching her go when he felt Carmen touching his hand.
  "You don't think I'm crazy, do you?" she
asked with pleading eyes.
  "Uh..." Hank withdrew his hand to scratch a
nonexistent itch. "No, Carmen, I'm not-I
mean I don't. But I do want to know where these
voices came from. When did you first start hearing
them?"
  "When I came to Ashton. My husband left
me and I came here to start over, but... I get so
lonely."
  "You first started hearing them when you came
to Ashton?"
  "I think it was because I was lonely. And
I still am lonely."
  "What was it they said at first? How did they
introduce themselves?"
  "I was alone, and lonely, I'd just moved here, and
I thought I heard Jim's voice. You know, my
husband..."
  "Go on."
  "I really thought it was him. I didn't even think
about how he could talk to me without being there, but I
talked back and he told me how much he missed
me, and how he thought it would be better this way, and he
spent the rest of the night with me." She began to shed
some tears. "It was beautiful."
  Hank didn't know what to make of this.
"Incredible," was all he could say.
  She looked at him with those big pleading eyes again
and said through her tears, "I knew you'd believe me.
I've heard about you. They say you're a very
compassionate man, and very understanding..."
  Depends on who you listen to, Hank thought, but
then her hand was touching his again. Time to call a
recess, Hank thought.
  "Uh," he said, trying to be comforting, sincere, and
nonjudgmental. "Listen, I think it's been a
fruitful hour..."
  "Oh, yes!"
  "Would you like to come again, next week sometime?"
  "Oh, I'd love to!" she exclaimed, as if
Hank had asked her for a date. "I've so much more
to tell you!"
  "Well, okay, I think next Friday will be
fine for me if it's fine for you."
  Oh, it was, it was, and Hank stood up
to give her the hint that the session was over for now. They
hadn't covered much ground, but as far as Hank was
concerned, boy, was it enough.
  "Now let's both take some time to think about these
things. After a week they may be a little clearer to us.
They might make more sense." Where, oh where was
Mary?
  Ah, she came back into the room. "Oh, leaving
so soon?"
  "It was wonderful!" Carmen sighed, but at least
she had let go of Hank's hand.
  Getting Carmen out the door was easier than
Hank had expected. Good old Mary. What a
lifesaver.
  Hank closed the door and leaned against it.
  "Whew!" was all he could say.
  "Hank," Mary said in a very hushed
voice, "I don't think I like this!"
  "She's ... she's a real hot one, she is."
  "What do you think of what she said?"
  "Ehhhhh, I'll wait and see. Who was that on
the phone?"
  "Just wait until you hear this! It was some lady from
the Clarion wanting to know if it was Alf Brummel
we disfellowshipped from the church!"
  Hank suddenly looked like an inflatable toy that
had sprung a leak.
  A little disappointed, Bernice walked
into Marshall's office.
  Marshall was at his desk, going over some new
advertising copy for Tuesday's edition.
  "So what'd they say?" he asked her without
looking up.
  "Nope, it isn't Brummel, and I guess it
wasn't a very tactful question. I talked to the
pastor's wife, and by her tone of voice I can infer
that the whole subject is very touchy."
  "Yeah, I've heard talk at the barbershop.
Some guy was saying they're going to vote the pastor out
tonight."
  "Ah, so they do have troubles."
  "But totally unrelated to ours, and I'm
glad. It's gone far enough." Marshall looked again
at the list of names Bernice had gotten from Albert
Darr. "How am I supposed to get any work done
around here with this kind of stuff hanging around
unresolved? Bernie, you're getting to be a lot
of trouble, you know that?"
  She took it as a compliment. "And have you looked
over that flyer of elective courses Langstrat
is teaching?"
  Marshall picked it up from his desk and could only
shake his head incredulously. "What in blazes is
all this stuff? "Introduction to God and Goddess
Consciousness and the Craft the divinity of man,
witch, warlock, the Sacred Medicine Wheel, how
do spells and rituals work?"' You gotta be
kidding!"
  "Read on, boss!"
  ""Pathways to Your Inner Light meet your own
spiritual guides, discover the light within...
harmonize your mental, physical, emotional, and
spiritual levels of being through hypnosis and
meditation:"" Marshall read a little further and then
exclaimed, "What? "How to Enjoy the Present
by Experiencing Past and Future Lives.""
  "I like that one near the bottom there:
"In the Beginning Was the Goddess."
Langstrat, perhaps?"
  "Why hasn't anyone heard about all this before?"
  "For some reason it was never advertised in the
school paper or in the public list of classes.
Albert Darr gave me the flyer himself and said it was
a somewhat exclusive passaround item among the
interested students."
  "And my little Sandy is sitting in this woman's
class..." "And in a way so are all those people on the
list."
  Marshall set down the flyer and picked up the
list. He shook his head again; it was all he could
think of to do.
  Bernice added, "I guess I don't mind it
too much if a bunch of dupes want to be taken in
by this Langstrat, but they're all too important!
Just look at that. Two of the college regents, the
owner of the college land, the county comptroller, the
district judge!"
  "And Young! Respected, revered, influential,
community-involved Oliver Young!" Marshall let
some memory tapes play in his head. "Yeah, it
fits, it makes sense now, all that vague,
noncommittal stuff he was handing me in his
office. Young's got a religion all his own.
He's no hard-shell Baptist, I'll tell you
that!"
  "Religion I don't care about. Lies and
cover-ups I do!"
  "Well, he most certainly denied knowing
Langstrat. I asked him directly, right to his
face, and he told me he didn't know her."
  "Somebody's lying," Bernice sing-songed.
  "But I just wish we had some more corroboration."
  "Yeah, we've only just met Darr."
  "What about Ted Harmel? How well did you know
him?"
  "Well enough, I suppose. You heard why he
left?"
  Marshall sneered just a bit. "Brummel said there
was some kind of scandal, but who can you believe these
days?"
  "Ted denied it."
  "Aw, everybody's saying everything and everybody's
denying everything."
  "Well, call him anyway. I have the number.
He's living up near Windsor now. I think
he's trying to be a hermit."
  Marshall looked at all the advertising
copy still on his desk, awaiting his time and attention.
"How am I going to get any of this stuff done around
here?"
  "Hey, it's no biggie. If I could do some
independent hoofing, the least you can do is give Ted a
call. Do it tomorrow... Saturday, your day off.
Reporter to reporter, newsman to newsman. You
might hit it off with him."
  Marshall sighed. "Let's have the number."
  Mary finished the dinner dishes, put up the
towel, and made her way through the little house to the back
bedroom. There, in the dark, Hank knelt beside the
bed in prayer. She knelt down beside him, took his
hand, and together they placed themselves in the hands of the Lord.
God's will would be done this night, and they would accept
it, whatever it was.
  Alf Brummel had a key to the church and was already
there, switching on the lights and turning up the
thermostat. He wasn't feeling well at all.
They'd just better vote right this time, he kept
thinking.
  Outside, even though it was still a half hour before the
meeting, cars began to arrive, more than were usually there
on Sundays. Sam Turner, Brummel's chief
cohort, drove up in his big
Cadillac and helped his wife Helen from the car.
He was a rancher of sorts, not a land baron, but he
acted like one. Tonight he was grim and determined, as was
his wife. In another car came John Coleman
and his wife Patricia, a quiet couple who
came to Ashton Community after leaving a large church
elsewhere in town. They really liked Hank and made
no effort to hide it. They knew well that Alf
Brummel would not be happy to see them there.
  Others arrived and quickly coagulated into little
clusters of similar sentiment, speaking in quick
syllables and hushed tones and keeping their eyes
to themselves, except for a few rubbernecking
nose-counters trying to foresee the final tally.
  Several dark shadows kept a wary eye on
everything from their perch atop the church roof, their stations
around the building, or their appointed posts in the
sanctuary.
  Lucius, more nervous than ever, paced and hovered
about. Ba-al Rafar, still wanting a very low
profile, had entrusted this task to him, and for this night
at least Lucius was back in his old glory.
  What worried Lucius the most were the other spirits
standing around, the enemies of the cause, the host of
heaven. They were held at bay
by Lucius's forces, to be sure, but there were some new
ones he had never seen before.
  Nearby, but not too near, Signa and his two
warriors kept watch. Upon Tal's orders they
allowed demons access to the building, but monitored
the demons' activities and kept an eye out for
Rafar. So far their very presence, as well as the
presence of so many other warriors, had had a taming
effect on the demonic hosts. There had been no
incidents, and for now that was all Tal wanted.
  When Lucius saw the Colemans come in the
front door, he was agitated. In the past they had
never been very strong against the defeats and discouragements
Lucius had ordered, and their marriage had just about
dissolved. Then they aligned themselves with Praying
Busche, hearing his words and becoming stronger all the
time. Before long they and others like them would be a real
threat.
  But their arrival didn't cause Lucius as much
agitation as the huge, blond-haired messenger of
God who accompanied them. Lucius knew for
sure he'd never seen this one before. As the
Colemans found a seat, Lucius swooped down
and accosted this new intruder.
  "I've not seen you before!" he said
gruffly, and all the other spirits focused their attention
on him and the stranger. "From where do you come?"
  The stranger, Chimon of Europe, said nothing.
He only riveted his eyes on those of Lucius and
stood firm. "I'll have your name!" Lucius
demanded. The stranger said not a word.
  Lucius smiled slyly and nodded. "You are
deaf, yes? And dumb? And as mindless as you are
silent?" The other demons guffawed. They loved this
kind of game. "Tell me, are you a good fighter?"
Silence.
  Lucius drew a scimitar that flashed
blood-red and droned metallically. On cue,
all the other demons did the same. The clatter and
ring of burnished blades filled the room as
crimson crescents of reflected light danced about
the walls. The other messengers of God were barred from
intervening by an armed ring of demons as Lucius
continued to toy with this one single newcomer.
  Lucius peered at his solid, unmoving
opponent with a burning hatred that made his yellow
eyes bulge and his sulfurous breath chug out through
widely flared nostrils. He toyed with his sword,
waved it in small circles in the stranger's
face, watched for the stranger to make the
slightest move. The stranger only watched him, not
moving at all. With an intense cry Lucius
swept his sword across the front of the stranger,
slashing his garment. Cheers and laughter came from the
crowd of demons. Lucius poised for a fight,
held his sword with both hands, crouched, his wings
flared. Before him stood a statue with a slashed
tunic. "Fight, you listless spirit!" Lucius
challenged. The stranger did not respond, and
Lucius cut his face. Another cheer from the
demons.
  "Shall I remove an ear? Or two? Shall I
cut out your tongue if you have one?" Lucius
taunted.
  "I think it's time we got started," said Alf
Brummel from the pulpit. The people in the room stopped
their hushed conversations, and the place began to quiet
down.
  Lucius leered at the stranger, and motioned with his
sword. "Go stand with the other cowards."
  The newcomer stepped back, then took his place
with the other messengers of God behind the demonic
barricade.
  Eleven angels had managed to get into the church
without raising too much ire from the demons;
Triskal and Krioni had already entered with Hank and
Mary. They had often been seen with the pastor and his
wife, so they were not paid much attention other than the
usual threatening expressions and postures. Guilo
was there, as big and threatening as ever, but apparently no
demons were the slightest bit interested in asking him
any questions.
  A newcomer, a burly Polynesian, made
his way over to Chimon and tended the wound in
Chimon's face while Chimon repaired the slash
in his tunic.
  "Mota, called here from Polynesia," came the
introduction.
  "Chimon of Europe. Welcome to our
numbers."
  "Can you continue?" Mota asked.
  "I will continue," Chimon answered, skillfully
reweaving his tunic with his fingers. "Where is Tal?"
  "Not here yet."
  "A demon of fever tried to stop the
Colemans. No doubt Tal has encountered an
attack on Duster."
  "I don't know how he'll ward it off without
making himself visible."
  "He'll do it." Chimon looked about.
"I don't see the Ba-al Prince anywhere."
  "We may never."
  "And may he never see Tal."
  Brummel brought the meeting to order, standing behind the
pulpit and looking out over the nearly fifty people who
had gathered. From this vantage point even he couldn't
help but try to guess the final tally. Some of the people were
definitely going to give Hank the ax, some were
definitely not going to, and then there was that frustrating
and unpredictable group he couldn't be sure about.
  "I want to thank you all for coming tonight," he said.
"This is a painful matter for us to decide. I'd
always hoped that this night would never come, but we all
want God's will to be done and we want what will be
best for His people. So, let us open with a word of prayer
and commit the rest of the evening to His care and
guidance."
  With that Brummel began a very pious prayer,
appealing to the Lord for grace and mercy in words to bring
a tear to the driest eye.
  In the front corner of the sanctuary, Guilo
sulked, wishing an angel could spit on a human.
Triskal asked Chimon, "Getting any
strength?"
  Chimon answered, "Why? Is somebody
else going to pray?"
  Brummel finished his prayer, the roomful
muttered a few Amens, and then he went on with his
introduction to the proceedings.
  "The purpose of this meeting is to openly discuss
our feelings regarding Pastor Hank, to put an
end once and for all to all the backbiting and murmuring
that's been going on, and to end our meeting with a final
vote of confidence. I would hope that we would all have
the mind of the Lord in these matters.
  "If you have something you wish to say to the group, we
would ask that you limit your time to three minutes.
I'll be letting you know when your time is up, so
keep that in mind." Brummel looked at Hank and
Mary. "I think it would be good to let the pastor have the
first say. Afterwards he'll leave us alone so we can
talk freely."
  Mary squeezed Hank's hand as he got up.
He went to the pulpit and stood behind it, gripping its
sides. For the longest time he couldn't say a word, but
only looked into every eye of every face. He suddenly
realized how much he truly loved these people, all of
them. He could see the hardness in some of the faces, but
he couldn't help seeing past that to the pain and
bondage these people were under, deluded, led
astray by sin, by greed, by bitterness and rebellion.
In many other faces he could read the pain they were
feeling for him; he could tell that some were silently
praying for God's mercy and intervention.
  Hank let a quick prayer course through his thoughts as
he began. "I have always counted it a privilege
to stand behind this sacred desk, to preach the Word and speak
the truth." He surveyed their faces again for just a
moment and then continued, "And even tonight I feel I
cannot stray from God's commission to me and the purpose for
which I have ever stood before you. I am not here to defend
myself or my ministry. Jesus is my advocate,
and I rest the course of my life on His grace,
guidance, and mercy. So tonight, since I am standing behind
this pulpit once again, let me share with you what I
have received from God."
  Hank opened his Bible and read from Second
Timothy, chapter 4. ""I solemnly charge you
in the presence of God and of Christ Jesus, who is
to judge the living and the dead, and by His appearing and
His kingdom: preach the Word, be ready in season and out
of season, reprove, rebuke, exhort, with great
patience and instruction. For the time will come when they will not
endure sound doctrine, but wanting to have their ears
tickled, they will accumulate for themselves
teachers in accordance to their own desires; and will turn
away their ears from the truth, and will run aside
to myths.
  "'But you, be sober in all things, endure
hardship, do the work of an evangelist, fulfill
your ministry."" Hank closed his Bible, looked
about the room, and spoke firmly. "Let each one
of us apply God's Word where it may apply. Tonight
I will speak only for myself. I have my call from
God; I just read it. Some of you, I know, have really
gotten the impression that Hank Busche is
obsessed with the gospel, that it's all he ever thinks
about. Well, that's true. Sometimes I even wonder
why I remain in such a difficult position, such
an uphill effort... but for me, God's call on
my life is an inescapable commission, and as Paul
said, "Woe is me if I do not preach the
gospel." I understand that sometimes the truth of
God's Word can become a divider, an irritation,
a stone of stumbling. But that's only because it remains
unchanged, uncompromising, and steadfast. And what
better reason could there be to build our lives on
such an immovable foundation? To violate the Word of
God is only to destroy ourselves, our joy, our
peace, our happiness.
  "I want to be fair with you, and so I'll be
truthful in letting you know exactly what you may
expect from me. I intend to love all of you, no
matter what. I intend to shepherd and feed you for as
long as you'll have me. I will not discredit,
compromise, or turn my back on what I
believe the Word of God teaches, and that means that there
may be times when you'll feel my shepherd's crook
around your neck, not to judge or malign you, but
to help you move in the right direction, to protect you,
to heal you. I intend to preach the gospel of Jesus
Christ, for that is my calling. I have a burden for this
town; sometimes I feel that burden so strongly I have
to ask myself why, but it's still there and I can't turn my
back on it or try to deny it. Until the Lord
tells me otherwise, I intend to remain in
Ashton to answer that burden.
  "If that is the kind of pastor you want, then you can
let me know tonight. If you do not want that kind of
pastor... well, I really need to know that too.
  "I love all of you. I want the very best God
has to give you. And I guess that's all I have
to say."
  Hank stepped down from the platform, took
Mary's hand, and the two of them walked down
the aisle to the door. Hank tried to catch the eyes
of as many people as he could. Some gave looks of love
and encouragement; some looked away.
  Krioni and Triskal left with Hank and
Mary. Lucius watched with mocking disdain.
  Guilo muttered to his fellows, "While the
cat's away the mice will play."
  "Where is Tal?" Chimon asked again.
  Brummel stood before the group. "We'll now
hear statements from the congregation. Just raise your hand
to be recognized. Yeah, Sam, why don't you go
first."
  Sam Turner stood and walked to the front of the
sanctuary.
  "Thanks, Alf," he said. "Well, I've
no doubt you all know me and my wife Helen.
We've been citizens of this community for over
thirty years, and we've supported this church through
thick and through thin. Now I don't have a lot to say
tonight. You all know what kind of man I am, how I
believe in loving one's neighbor and living a good
life. I've tried to do right and be a good example
of what a Christian should be.
  "And I'm angry tonight. I'm angry for my friend,
Lou Stanley. You may have noticed Lou
isn't here tonight, and I'm sure I know why. It
used to be he could show his face at this church and be a
part of it, and we all loved him and he loved us, and
I think we all still do. But this Busche fellow, who
thinks he's God's gift to this earth, thought he had
a right to judge Lou and kick him out of the church.
Now, friends, let me tell you one thing: nobody
kicks Lou Stanley out of anything if Lou
doesn't feel like it, and the very fact that Lou went
along with this whole smear on his character only shows the
goodness of his heart. He could have sued Busche by now,
or he could have settled the matter like I've seen him
settle other matters. He's not afraid of
anything. But I just think Lou's so ashamed of the
horrible things that have been said about him and so hurt
by what he thinks we must think of him that he decided
he'd better just stay away.
  "Now we have this self-righteous, Bible-pounding
gossipmonger to blame for these troubles. Forgive me
if I sound a bit harsh, but listen, I can
remember when this church was like a family. How long
now since it's been that way? Look what's
happened: here we are having a big bicker meeting,
and why? Because we let Hank Busche come in here and
stir us all up. Ashton used to be a
peaceful town, this church used to be a peaceful
church, and I say we do what's necessary to get it that
way again."
  Turner took his seat as a few nearby nodded
their silent encouragement and approval.
  John Coleman was recognized next. A shy
person, he was very nervous about speaking in front of
everyone, but concerned enough to do it anyway.
  "Well," he said, nervously handling his Bible and
looking at the floor a lot, "I don't usually
say much, and I'm scared to death to be standing up here,
but... I think Hank Busche is a real man of
God, a good pastor, and I'd really hate to see
him go. The church Pat and I came from, well, it
just wasn't meeting our needs, and we were getting
hungry: hungry for the Word, for the presence of God.
We thought we'd found those things here, and we were really
looking forward to being involved and growing in the Lord under
Hank's ministry, and I know a lot of other
folks feel that way too. As far as this stuff about
Lou is concerned, that was not just Hank's doing. All
of us were involved in that decision, including me, and I
know Hank's not trying to hurt anybody."
  As John sat down, Patricia patted his arm
and said, "You did fine." John was not
sure.
  Brummel addressed the group. "I think it
might be a good idea for us to hear what the church
secretary, Gordon Mayer, has to say."
  Gordon Mayer went to the front with some of the
church records and minutes in his hand. He was a
tense man with a tight expression and gruff voice.
  "I have two items I'd like to address before this
group," he said. "First of all, from the business
side, you all need to be aware that the offerings have been
decreasing over the past several months, but our
bills have been staying steady if not going up. In
other words, we're running out of money, and I
personally have no doubts why. There are differences
among us we really need to get resolved, and
withholding your giving is not the way to do it. If you have
a gripe against the pastor, then do whatever you have to tonight,
but let's not bring the whole church down over this one
man.
  "Secondly, for whatever it's worth, let me
tell you that the original pulpit committee was
considering another man for the job. I was on that
committee, and I can assure you that they had no
intention of recommending Busche for the office. I'm
convinced the whole thing was a fluke, a
grave mistake. We voted in the wrong man, and
now we're paying for it.
  "So let me close with this. Sure, we've
made a mistake, but I have faith in the group here,
and I think we can turn the whole thing around and start
doing things right for a change. I say let's do it."
  And so the evening went for the better part of two
hours, as both sides took turns in crucifying
and praising Hank Busche. Nerves got raw,
bottoms got numb, backs got sticky, and the
opposing views became more and more vehement in their
convictions. After two hours, a common sentiment
began to mutter its way around the room: "C'mon,
let's have the vote..."
  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'll
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 was 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.
  Saturday morning. The sun was out, and lawn
mowers called to each other across fences, hedges, and
cul-de-sacs; kids were playing, hoses were
spraying dirty cars.
  Marshall sat in the kitchen, at the table filled
with advertising copy and a list of new and old
accounts; the Clarion still lacked a secretary. The
front door opened and in came Kate. "I need
a hand!"
  Yes, the inevitable unloading of groceries.
  "Sandy," Marshall hollered out the back door,
"let's get going!" Over the years the family had
developed a pretty good system of grocery
separating, handling, and stashing.
  "Marshall," said Kate, passing vegetables from
a sack to him at the refrigerator, "are you still working
on that copy? It's Saturday!"
  "Almost finished. I hate to have stuff
stack up on me. How's Joe and the gang?"
  Kate stopped a bunch of celery in
midtransfer and said, "You know what? Joe's gone.
He sold the store and moved away, and I didn't
even hear about it."
  "Brother. Things happen fast around here. So
where'd he move?"
  "I don't know. Nobody would tell me. As a
matter of fact, I don't think I like that new
owner."
  "What's this cleaner here?"
  "Oh, put that under the sink." It went under the
sink. "I asked that guy about Joe and Angelina and
why they sold the store and why they moved and where they
moved and he wouldn't tell me anything, just said he
didn't know."
  "That's the owner of the store? What's his name?"
  "I don't know. He wouldn't tell me that either."
  "Well, does he talk? Does he know
English?"
  "Enough to ring up your groceries and take your
money, and that's about it. Now could we get all this
stuff off the table?"
  Marshall started gathering up all his papers before the
oncoming invasion of cans and produce.
  Kate continued, "I guess I'll get used
to it, but for a while I thought I'd gone into the wrong
store. I didn't recognize anybody. They
might even have all new people working there."
  Sandy spoke for the first time. "Something weird's
going on in this town." Marshall asked, "Oh
yeah?" Sandy didn't elaborate.
  Marshall tried to draw it out of her. "Well,
what do you think it is?"
  "Aw, nothing, really, it's just a feeling I
get. People around here are starting to act weird. I
think we're being invaded by aliens."
  Marshall let it go.
  The groceries were all put away, Sandy went
back to her studies, and Kate got ready to work in
the garden. Marshall had a phone call to make.
Talk about weird aliens invading the town jarred his
memory and also his reporter's nose. Maybe
Langstrat wasn't an alien, but she was certainly
weird.
  He sat on the couch in the living room and took
the slip of paper with Ted Harmel's phone number
from his wallet. A sunny Saturday morning would be
a strange time to find someone home and indoors, but
Marshall figured he'd try.
  The phone on the other end rang several times and
then a man's voice answered. "Hello?"
  "Hello, Ted Harmel?"
  "Yes, who's this?"
  "This is Marshall Hogan, the new Clarion
editor."
  "Oh, uh-huh..." Harmel waited for
Marshall to go on.
  "Well, anyway, you know Bernice Krueger,
right? I have her working for me."
  "Oh, she's still there, eh? Has she found out
anything about her sister?"
  "Mm, I don't know much about that, she's never
told me."
  "Oh. So how's the paper doing?"
  They talked for a few minutes about the Clarion,
the office, circulation, whatever may have happened to the
cord to the coffeemaker. Harmel seemed
particularly concerned to hear that Edie had left.
  "Her marriage broke up," Marshall told
him. "Hey, it was a complete surprise to me. I
came in too late to know what was going on."
  "Hmmm... yeah..." Harmel was doing some thinking
on the other end.
  Keep it flowing, Hogan. "Yeah,
well, I've got a daughter who's a freshman
at the college."
  "Is that right."
  "Yeah, doing her prerequisites, jumping through
the hoop. She likes it."
  "Well, more power to her."
  Harmel was certainly being patient.
  "You know, Sandy has a psychology professor
I thought was an interesting gal."
  "Langstrat."
  Bingo. "Yeah, yeah. A lot of unusual
ideas."
  "I bet."
  "Do you know anything about her?"
  Harmel paused, sighed, and then asked, "Well,
what is it you want to know?"
  "Where's she coming from, anyway? Sandy's bringing
home some weird ideas..."
  Harmel had trouble coming up with an answer. "It's
... uh ... Eastern mysticism, ancient
religious craft. She's just into, you know,
meditation, higher consciousness ... uh ... the oneness
of the universe. I don't know if any of that makes
sense to you."
  "Not much. But she seems to spread it
around a lot, doesn't she?"
  "What do you mean?"
  "You know, she meets with people on a regular
basis; Alf Brummel, and, uh, who else?
Pinckston ..."
  "Delores Pinckston?"
  "Right, on the board of regents. Dwight
Brandon, Eugene Baylor"
  Harmel cut in sharply. "What is it you want
to know?"
  "Well, I understand you were pretty close to the
situation"
  "No, that's wrong."
  "Didn't you have sessions with her yourself?"
  There was a long pause. "Who told you that?"
  "Oh, we... just found out."
  Another long pause. Harmel sighed through his
nose. "Listen," he asked, "what else do you
know?"
  "Not much. It just smells like there might be a story
in it. You know what that's like."
  Harmel was struggling, fuming, groping for words.
"Yes, I know what it's like. But you're wrong this
time, you're really wrong!" Another pause, another
struggle. "Oh, brother, I wish you
hadn't called me."
  "Hey, listen, we're both newspapermen"
  "No! You're the newspaperman! I'm out.
I'm sure you know all about me."
  "I know your name, your number, and that you used to own
the Clarion."
  "All right, let's leave it at that. I still have
respect for the vocation. I don't want to see you
ruined."
  Marshall tried not to lose a big fish. "Say,
don't leave me in the dark!"
  "I'm not trying to leave you in the dark. There are
some things I just can't talk about."
  "Sure, I understand. No problem."
  "No, you don't understand. Now listen to me! I
don't know what you've found out, but whatever it is,
bury it. Do something else. Cover the Kiwanis
tree planting, anything innocuous, but just keep your
nose clean."
  "What are you talking about?"
  "And quit pumping me for information! What I'm
giving you is all you're going to get, and you'd better
make good use of it. I'm telling you, forget
Langstrat, forget anything you may have heard about
her. Now I know you're a reporter, and so
I know you're going to go out and do just the opposite of
what I'm telling you, but let me give you fair
warning. Don't." Hogan didn't answer.
"Hogan, you hear me?"
  "How can I possibly leave it alone now?"
  "You have a wife, a daughter? Think of them.
Think of yourself. Otherwise you'll be out on your ear like
everybody else."
  "What do you mean, everybody else?"
  "I don't know anything, I don't know
Langstrat, I don't know you, I don't live
there anymore. Period."
  "Ted, are you in trouble?"
  "Leave it alone!"
  He hung up. Marshall slammed the receiver down
and let his mind race as he sat there. Leave it
alone, Harmel said. Leave it alone. In a
pig's eye.
  Edith Duster-wise old matron of the church,
former missionary to China, a widow of some thirty
years-lived in the Willow Terrace Apartments, a
small retirement complex not far from the church. She
was in her eighties, subsisted meagerly on
Social Security and a minister's pension from her
denomination, and loved to have company,
especially since it was difficult for her to get out and
around these days.
  Hank and Mary sat at her little dinette near the
large window overlooking the building's courtyard.
Grandma Duster poured tea from a very old, very charming
teapot into equally charming teacups. She was dressed
nicely, almost formally, as always when she received
guests.
  "No," she said as she sat down at last, the
morning tea table properly set, the pastries in
place. "I don't believe God's purposes
are ever thwarted for long. He has His own ways of
working His people through difficulties."
  Hank agreed, but weakly, "I imagine so
..." Mary held his hand.
  Grandma was firm. "I know so, Henry Busche.
Your being here is not a mistake; I strongly
disagree with that notion. If you were not supposed to be
here, the Lord would not have accomplished the things He has
through your ministry."
  Mary volunteered some information. "He feels a
bit down about the vote."
  Grandma smiled lovingly and looked into Hank's
eyes. "I think the Lord is forcing a revival upon
that church, but it's like the turning of the tide:
before the tide can come back in, it first has to stop
all its going out. Give the church time to turn around.
Expect opposition, even expect to lose a few
people, but the direction will change after the lull. Just
give it time.
  "But I do know one thing: there was nothing that could keep
me away from that meeting last night. I was
dreadfully sick, Satan's attack, I
suppose, but it was the Lord who got me out. Right about
the time of the meeting I could just feel His arms bearing
me up and I got my coat on and got down there,
and just in time, too. I don't know if I'd even go
that far to get groceries. It was the Lord, I know it.
I'm just sorry I only had one vote."
  "So who do you suppose the other vote came from?"
Hank asked.
  Mary quickly added, "It couldn't have been Lou
Stanley."
  Grandma smiled. "Oh, now don't say that. You
never know what the Lord might do. But you are curious,
aren't you?"
  "I'm really curious," said Hank, and now he
smiled too.
  "Well, you might find out, and maybe you never will.
But it's all in the Lord's hands, and so are
you. Let me warm up your tea."
  "That church can't possibly survive if half
the congregation removes its support, and I can't
imagine them supporting a pastor they don't
want."
  "Oh, but I've had dreams of angels
lately." Grandma was always very matter-of-fact about
such things. "I don't usually, but I've seen
angels before, and always when there was great headway to be
made for the kingdom of God. I just have a feeling in
my spirit that something is really stirring here. Haven't you
felt that way?"
  Hank and Mary looked at each other to see which of
them should speak first. Then Hank told Grandma all
about the battle of the other night and the burden he had
felt lately for the town. Mary slipped in her
remembrances whenever they came to her. Grandma
listened with great fascination, responding at key
moments with "Oh dear," "Well, praise the
Lord," and "Well...!"
  "Yes," she said finally, "yes, that makes a
lot of sense to me. You know, I had an experience
just the other night, standing right by that window." She pointed
to the front window overlooking the courtyard. "I was
getting the place straightened up, getting
ready for bed, and I walked by that window and looked out
at the rooftops and the streetlight and all of a sudden
I got really dizzy. I had to sit down or
I'd fall down And I never get dizzy. The
only time that ever happened before was in China. My
husband and I were visiting a woman's home there, and
she was a medium, a spiritist, and I knew she hated
us and I think she was trying to put a curse on us.
But just outside her door I had the same dizzy
sensation, and I'll never forget it. What I felt
the other night was just like that time in China."
  "What did you do?" Mary asked.
  "Oh, I prayed. I just said, "Demon, be
gone in the name of Jesus!" and it went away, just like
that."
  Hank asked, "So you think it was a demon?"
  "Oh yes. God is moving and Satan
doesn't like it. I do think there are evil spirits out
there."
  "But don't you feel like there are more than usual?
I mean, I've been a Christian all my life
and I've never come up against anything that felt like this."
  Her face grew pensive. "This kind goeth not out
but by prayer and fasting." We need to pray, and we
need to get other people praying. That's just what
the angels keep telling me."
  Mary was intrigued. "The angels in your
dreams?" Grandma nodded. "What did they look
like?"
  "Oh, people, but different from anybody else.
They're big, very handsome, bright clothes, big
swords at their sides, very large, bright wings. One
of them last night reminded me of my son; he was
tall, blond, he looked Scandinavian." She
looked at Hank. "He was telling me to pray for
you, and you were in the dream too. I could see you up behind
that pulpit preaching, and he was standing there behind you with his
wings stretched out over you like a big canopy, and he
looked back at me and said, 'Pray for this
man.""
  "I never knew you were praying for me," said
Hank.
  "Well, it's time somebody else was praying
too. I believe the tide is turning, Hank, and
now you need true believers, true visionaries who
can stand with you to pray for this town. We need to pray that
the Lord will gather them in."
  It was so natural then to join hands in praise to the
Lord and thanksgiving for the first real encouragement to come
along in quite some time. Hank prayed a
prayer of thanks and could hardly get through it as his
emotions welled up inside him. Mary was
grateful, not only for the encouragement but for Hank's
revived spirits.
  Then Edith Duster, who'd fought in spiritual wars
before, who'd won victories on foreign soils,
tightly grasped the hands of this young ministering couple
and prayed.
  "Lord God," she said, and the warmth of the Holy
Spirit flowed through them, "I build now a hedge around
this young couple, and I bind the spirits in Jesus' name.
Satan, whatever your plans for this town, I
rebuke you in Jesus' name, and I bind you, and I
cast you out!"
  CLUNK!
  Rafar's eyes darted toward the sound that had
interrupted his talking and saw two swords fallen
from their owners' hands. The two demons, formidable
warriors, were nonplussed. They both stooped
hurriedly to gather up their weapons, bowing,
apologizing, begging for pardon.
  Slam! Rafar's foot fell on one sword,
his own huge sword clamped the other down. The two
warriors, startled and terrified, backed away.
  "Please pardon, my prince!" said
one. "Yes, please pardon!" said the other. "This
has never happened before..."
  "Silence, you two!" Rafar bellowed. The two
warriors braced themselves for a terrible punishment; their
frightened yellow eyes peered out from behind black wings
unfurled for protection, as if there was any
protection from Ba-al Rafar's wrath.
  But Rafar did not lash out at them. Not yet.
He seemed more interested in the fallen swords; he
stared at them, his brow furrowed and his big yellow
eyes narrowing. He walked slowly around the
swords, strangely bothered in a way the warriors
had never seen before.
  "Uhnnnnnnnhhh..." A low, gurgling growl
came from deep in his throat as his nostrils belched
forth yellow vapor.
  He slowly went down on one knee and picked
up one sword in his hand. In his huge fist it
looked like a toy. He looked at the sword,
looked at the demon who had dropped it, then off
into space, his gnarled face registering a burning
hatred that slowly rose from deep within. "Tal," he
whispered.
  Then, like a slowly swelling volcano, he rose
to his feet, the anger building until
suddenly, with a roar that shook the room and terrified
all those present, he exploded and hurled the
sword through the basement wall, through the earth around
Stewart Hall, through the air, through several other
buildings on the college campus, and up into the
sky where it tumbled end over end in a long arc of
several miles.
  His initial explosion released, he grabbed the
sword's owner andwiththe order, "Go after it!" flung the
demon like a spear along the same trajectory.
  He grabbed up the other sword and flung it at
the other demon, who sidestepped just in time to save
himself. Then that demon too went sailing after his
sword.
  To some in the room the word "Tal" meant nothing, but
they could see by the faces and deflating postures of
others that it had to mean something dreadful.
  Rafar began to storm about the room, growling
indiscernible phrases and waving his sword at
invisible enemies. The others gave him time to vent
himself before daring to ask any question. Lucius finally
stepped forward and bowed low, much as he hated to do so.
  "We are at your service, Ba-al Rafar.
Can you tell us, who is this Tal?"
  Rafar spun around in fury, his wings
unfurling like a clap of thunder and his eyes like hot
coals.
  "Who is this Tal?" he screamed, and every demon
present fell on his face. "Who is this Tal, this
warrior, this Captain of the Hosts of Heaven, this
sneaking, conniving rival of rivals? Who is this
Tal?"
  Complacency happened to be within grabbing distance.
With a huge fist around Complacency's scrawny
neck, Rafar plucked him up like a frail weed and
held him high.
  "You," Rafar growled with a cloud of sulfur and
steam, "have failed because of this Tal!" Complacency could
only tremble, speechless with terror. "Hogan has
become a hound, sniffing and barking after our scent, and
I have had my fill of you and your whining excuses!"
  The huge sword flashed in a wide, crimson
arc, cutting a gash in space which became a
bottomless abyss into which all light seemed to drain
like water.
  Complacency's eyes swelled in stark terror, and
he screamed his last scream upon the earth. "No,
Ba-al, noooooo!"
  With a mighty thrust of his arm, Rafar cast
Complacency headlong into the abyss. The
small demon tumbled, fell, and kept falling, his
screams becoming fainter until they vanished altogether.
Rafar wiped the rift in space shut with the flat of
his blade, and the room was just as it was before.
  Just then the two warriors returned with their
swords. He grabbed both of them by their wings and
jerked them together in front of him.
  "On your feet, all of you!" he hollered at the
others. They complied instantly. Now he held the
two demons aloft as an exhibit. "Who is this
Tal? He is a strategist who can make
warriors drop their swords!" With that, he hurled
the two into the group, causing several to go sprawling.
They picked themselves up as quickly as they could. "Who
is this Tal? He is a subtle warrior who knows
his limitations, who never enters a battle he cannot
win, who knows all too well the power of the saints of
God, a lesson you could all stand to learn!"
  Rafar held his sword in a fist that trembled with
rage, waving it about to give extra force to his
words. "I knew all too well to expect him.
Michael would never have sent anyone less to pit against
me. Now Hogan is revived, and it is clear why
he was even brought to Ashton to begin with; now Henry
Busche is still retained and the Ashton
Community Church has not fallen, but stands as a
bastion against us; now the warriors are dropping their
swords like clumsy fools!
  "And all because of this ... Tal! This is Tal's
manner. His strength is not in his own sword, but in the
saints of God. Somewhere somebody is praying!"
  Those words brought a chill over the group.
  Rafar kept pacing and thinking and growling. "Yes,
yes, Busche and Hogan were handpicked; Tal's
plan must revolve around them. If they fall,
Tal's plan falls. There isn't much time."
  Rafar selected a slimy-looking demon and
asked, "Have you laid a trap for Busche?"
  "Oh, yes, Ba-al Rafar," said the demon,
and he couldn't help laughing with delight at his own
cleverness.
  "Be sure it is subtle. Remember, no
frontal assault will work."
  "Leave it to me."
  "And what has been done to destroy Marshall
Hogan?"
  Strife stepped forward. "We seek to destroy his
family. He derives a great amount of strength from
his wife. If that support were ripped away..."
  "Do it, any way you can."
  "Yes, my prince."
  "And let us not neglect some other avenues.
Hogan could be lethal, and Krueger the same, but
they could be manipulated to compromise each other..."
Rafar appointed some demons to look into that
possibility. "And what about Hogan's daughter?"
  Deception stepped forward. "She is already within our
hands."

  The leaves were green, that fresh, new-growth kind
of green they wear in the early months of summer. From
their small table on the red brick plaza below,
Sandy and Shawn could look up and see the glowing
leaves, backlit by the sun, and watch the birds
flit about in the branches between their regular
scavengings for bread crumbs and french fries. This
spot on campus was Sandy's favorite. It was so
peaceful here, almost a world away from the strife, questions,
and disputes at home.
  Shawn enjoyed watching the brown sparrows cheeping
and scrambling for every bread crumb he tossed onto
the bricks.
  "I love the way the universe all fits
together," he said. "The tree grew here to give us
shade, we sit here and eat and give food
to the birds that live in the tree. It all works
together."
  Sandy was fascinated by the concept. On the
surface it seemed very simple, almost
storybookish, but part of her was so thirsty for this kind
of peace.
  "What happens when the universe doesn't fit
together?" she asked.
  Shawn smiled. "The universe always fits together.
The problem is only when people don't realize it."
  "So how do you explain the problems I'm having with
my folks?"
  "None of your minds are tuned in right. It's just like
an FM station on your radio. If the signal is
fuzzy and the voices hiss and sputter, don't
blame the broadcasting station-adjust your radio.
Sandy, the universe is perfect. It is unified,
harmonious. The peace, the unity, the wholeness are
really there, and all of us are a part of the universe;
we're made of the same stuff, so there's no reason
why we shouldn't just fit into the whole scheme of things.
If we don't, we just took a wrong turn
somewhere. We're out of touch with true reality."
  "Boy, I guess so," Sandy muttered. "But
that's what gets me! My folks and I
are supposed to be Christians and loving each other
and close to God and everything, but all we ever do is
argue about who's right and who's wrong."
  Shawn laughed and nodded his head. "Yeah, yeah,
I know all about that. I've been there too."
  "Okay, so how did you solve it?"
  "I could only solve it for myself. I can't
change other people's minds, only my own. It's a
little hard to explain, but if you're in tune with the
universe, a few little quirks in it that aren't in
tune won't bother you much. That kind of thing is
only an illusion of the mind anyway. Once you
stop listening to the lies your mind's been telling you,
you'll see very clearly that God is big enough for
everybody and in everybody. Nobody can put Him in
a jar and keep Him all to themselves, according to their own
whims and ideas."
  "I just wish I could find Him, for real."
  Shawn looked at her comfortingly and touched her hand.
"Hey, He's no trouble to find. We're all a
part of Him."
  "What do you mean?"
  "Well, it's like I said, the whole universe
all fits together; it's made of the same essence, the
same spirit, the same... energy. Right?"
Sandy shrugged and nodded. "Well, whatever our
individual concept of God might be, we all
know that there is something there: a force, a principle,
an energy, that holds everything together. If that force is
part of the universe, then it must be a part of us."
  Sandy wasn't grasping this. "This is pretty
foreign to me. I'm from the old Judeo-Christian
school of thought, you know."
  "So all you've ever learned is religion,
right?"
  She thought for a moment, then conceded. "Right."
"Well, you see, the problem with religion-any
religion-is that it's basically a limited
perspective, only a partial view of the whole
truth."
  "Now you sound like Langstrat."
  "Oh, she's right on, I think. When you think about
it long enough, it makes a lot of sense. It's just
like that classic old story about the blind men who
encountered the elephant."
  "Yeah, yeah, I heard her tell that story
too."
  "Well, see? Each man's perspective of the
elephant was limited to the part that he touched, so
since they all touched different parts, they
couldn't agree on what an elephant was really like.
They got in a fight over it, just like religionists
throughout history have done, and all they needed to realize
was that the elephant was only one elephant. It
wasn't the elephant's fault that they couldn't
agree with each other. They weren't tuned in to each
other and to the whole elephant." "So we're all just
like blind men ..." Shawn gave a strong,
affirmative nod. "We're just like a bunch of
bugs crawling around on the ground, never looking up.
If an ant could talk, you could ask him if he
knew what a tree was, and if he'd never come out
of the grass and actually climbed a tree, he'd
probably argue with you that the tree didn't exist.
But who's wrong? Who's really blind? We're just like
that. We've allowed ourselves to be fooled by our own
limited perceptions. Are you into Plato at all?"
  Sandy laughed a little and shook her head. "I
studied that last quarter, and I don't think I got
that either."
  "Hey, he was into the same enlightenment. He
figured there had to be a higher reality, an ideal,
a perfect existence of which all we see is a
copy. It's kind of like what we see with our
limited senses is so limited, so
imperfect, so broken up into pieces, we can't
perceive the way the universe really is, all
perfect, running smoothly, everything fitting together,
all the same essence. You could even say that reality
as we know it is just an illusion, a trick of our
ego, our mind, our selfish desires."
  "This all sounds very far-out to me."
  "Oh, but it's great once you really get into it.
It answers a lot of questions and solves a lot of
problems."
  "Yeah, if you can ever get into it."
  Shawn leaned forward. "You don't get into it,
Sandy. It's already in you. Think about that for a minute."
  "I don't feel anything in me..."
  "And why not? Guess!"
  She twisted an invisible radio dial with her
fingers. "I'm not tuned in?"
  Shawn laughed with delight. "Right! Right!
Listen. The universe doesn't change, but we can;
if we're not lined up with it, not tuned in, we're
the ones who are blind, who are living in an illusion.
Say, if your life is messed up, it's really a
matter of how you look at things."
  Sandy scoffed. "Come on, now. You're not going
to tell me that it's all in my head!"
  Shawn put up hands of caution. "Hey, don't
knock it until you try it." He looked again at
the sunshine, the green trees, the busy birds.
"Just listen for a moment."
  "Listen to what?"
  "The breeze. The birds. Watch those leaves
waving in the wind up there."
  For a moment they were silent.
  Shawn spoke quietly, almost in a whisper.
"Now be honest. Haven't you ever felt a sort
of... kinship with the trees, andwiththe birds, with just about
everything? Wouldn't you miss them if they weren't there?
Have you ever talked to a houseplant?"
  Sandy nodded. Shawn had a point there.
  "Now don't resist that, because what you're
experiencing there is just a glimpse of the real
universe; you're feeling the oneness of everything.
Everything is fitted together, interwoven, interlocked.
Now you've felt that before, haven't you?"
  She nodded.
  "So that's what I'm trying to show you; the truth is
already within you. You're a part of it. You're a part of
God. You just never knew it. You wouldn't let yourself
know it."
  Sandy could hear the birds clearly now,
and the wind seemed almost melodic as it shifted in
pitch and intensity through the branches of the trees. The
sun was warm, benevolent. Suddenly she felt so
strongly that she had been in this place before, had known
these trees and these birds before. They were trying to reach
out to her, to talk to her.
  Then she noticed that, for the first time in many months,
she felt peace inside. Her heart was at rest.
It wasn't an all-pervading peace, and she
didn't know if it would last, but she could feel it and
she knew she wanted more.
  "I think maybe I'm tuning in a little bit,"
she said.
  Shawn smiled and squeezed her hand encouragingly.
  Meanwhile, with very gentle, very subtle combing
motions of his talons, Deception stood behind Sandy,
stroking her red hair and speaking sweet words of comfort
to her mind.
  Tal and his troops gathered once again in the little
church, and the mood was better this time. They had tasted
the first promises of battle; a victory, even
though a small one, had been won the night before.
Most of all, there were more of them. The original
twenty-three had grown to forty-seven as more mighty
warriors had gathered, called in by the
prayers of...
  "The Remnant!" said Tal with a note of
anticipation as he looked over a preliminary list
presented to him.
  Scion, a red-haired, freckled fighter from the
British Isles, explained the progress of the
search. "They're out there, Cap, and there's plenty
o' them, but these are the ones we'll be bringin' in for
sure."
  Tal read the names. "John and Patricia
Coleman."
  Scion explained, "They were here last night and
spoke up for the preacher. Now they're all the more for
him, and they drop to their knees easy as droppin' a
hat. We've got them workin'."
  "Andy and June Forsythe."
  "Lost sheep, you could say. Left the United
Christian here in Ashton out of sheer hunger.
We'll bring them to church tomorrow. They have a son,
Ron, who's searchin' for the Lord. A bit wayward
now, but reachin' his fill o' his ways."
  "And plenty more, I see," said Tal with a
smile. He handed the list to Guilo. "Assign
some of our newcomers to this list. Gather these people in.
I want them praying." Guilo took the
list and conferred with several new warriors. "And what
about relatives, friends elsewhere?" Tal asked
Scion.
  "Plenty o' them are redeemed and ready for
prayer. Shall I send emissaries to burden them?"
Tal shook his head. "I can't let any warriors
be gone for long. Instead, have messengers carry word
to the watchcarers over these people's towns and cities, and
let the watchcarers see that these people are burdened with
prayer for their loved ones here."
  "Done."
  Scion set right to work, assigning messengers who
immediately vanished to their missions.
  Guilo had sent his warriors also and was excited
to see the campaign in motion. "I like the feel of
this, captain."
  "It is a good beginning," Tal said.
  "And what of Rafar? Do you suppose he knows of
your presence here?"
  "The two of us know each other all too well."
  "Then he will be expecting a fight, and soon."
  "Which is why we won't fight, not yet. Not
until the prayer cover is sufficient and we know
why Rafar is here. He's not a prince of small
towns but of empires, and he would never be
here for any task below his pride. What we've seen
is far less than the enemy has planned. How's
Mr. Hogan?"
  "I hear little Complacency has been banished for
failure and the Ba-al is in a rage."
  Tal chuckled. "Hogan has come to life like a
dormant seed. Nathan! Armoth!" They were there
immediately. "You have more warriors now. Take as many as
you need to surround Marshall Hogan. Greater
numbers may intimidate where swords cannot."
  Guilo was visibly indignant and looked
longingly at his sheathed sword.
  Tal cautioned, "Not yet, brave Guilo. Not
yet."
  Right after Marshall's call to Harmel,
Bernice's phone nearly jumped off the wall.
Marshall didn't ask her, he told her, "Be
at the office tonight at 7, we've got work to do."
  Now, at 7:10, the rest of the Clarion office
was deserted and dark. Marshall and Bernice were in the
back room, digging old issues of the Clarion out
of the archives. Ted Harmel had been quite fastidious;
most of the past issues were neatly kept in huge
binders.
  "So when did Harmel get run out of
town?" Marshall asked as he flipped through several
old pages of a back issue. "About a year
ago," Bernice answered, bringing more binders up to the
big worktable. "The paper operated on a skeleton
crew for several months before you bought it. Edie,
Tom, myself and some of the college journalism
majors kept it going. Some of the issues were okay,
some of them were a lot like a college paper." "Like this
one here?"
  Bernice looked at the old issue from the
previous August. "I'd appreciate it if you
wouldn't look too closely."
  Marshall flipped the pages backward. "I
want to see the issues up to the time Harmel
left."
  "Okay. Ted left in late July. Here's
June... May... April. Just what are you
looking for?" "The reason why he got run out."
"You know the story, of course." "Brummel says
he molested some girl." "Yes, Brummel says
a lot of things." "Well, did he or didn't
he?" "The girl said he did. She was about
twelve, I guess, a daughter of one of the
college regents." "Which one?"
  Bernice probed her brain, finally forcing
the memory out. "Jarred. Adam Jarred. I think
he's still there."
  "Is he on that list you got from Darr?"
  "No. But perhaps he should be. Ted knew Jarred
pretty well. The two of them used to go fishing
together. He did know the daughter, had frequent
access to her, and that helped the case against him."
  "So why wasn't he prosecuted?"
  "I don't think it ever went that far. He was
arraigned before the district judge" "Baker?"
  "Yes, the one on the list. The case went into the
judge's chambers and apparently they struck some
kind of deal. Ted was gone just a few days after that."
  Marshall gave the worktable an angry slap.
"Boy, I wish I hadn't let that guy get
away. You didn't tell me I'd be putting my
fist through a beehive."
  "I didn't know that much about it."
  Marshall kept scanning the pages in front of
him; Bernice was going through the previous month.
  "You say this all blew up in July?"
  "Mid to late July."
  "The paper's pretty quiet about it."
  "Oh sure. Ted wasn't going to print anything
against himself, obviously. Besides, he
didn't have to; his reputation was shot to pieces
anyway. Our circulation dropped critically.
Several weeks went by without any paychecks."
  "Oh-oh. What's this?"
  The two of them zeroed in on a letter to the editor in
a Friday issue from early July.
  Marshall scanned, muttered as he read, ""I
must express my indignation at the unfair treatment
this board of regents has received from the local
press. The recent articles published in the
Ashton Clarion amount to nothing less than
blatant malfeasance of journalism, and we hope
our local editor will be professional enough to check his
facts from now on before printing any more groundless
innuendoes...""
  "Yes!" Bernice brightened with recollection.
"This was a letter from Eugene Baylor." And then she
slapped her hands to either side of her face and
exclaimed, "Oh...! Those articles!" Bernice
started flipping hurriedly through the June binder.
"Yes, here's one."
  The headline read, "STRACHAN CALLS FOR
AUDIT." Marshall read the lead: ""Despite
continuing opposition from the Whitmore College
board of regents, College Dean
Eldon Strachan today called for an audit of all
Whitmore College accounts and investments, still
voicing his concern over recent allegations of
mishandling of funds.""
  Bernice's eyes rolled up and scanned the
heavens as she said, "Hoo-boy, this may be more than
just a beehive!"
  Marshall read a little farther: ""Strachan has
asserted that there is "more than adequate evidence"
to justify such an audit even though it would be costly
and premature, as the board of regents still
maintains.""
  Bernice explained, "You see, I never paid that
much attention when all this was going on. Ted was an
aggressive sort, he'd gotten on the bad side
of people before, and this just sounded like another mundane
political thing. I was just a reporter on the
innocuous human interest staff... what did I
care about all this?"
  "So," said Marshall, "the college dean got
himself in hot water with the regents. Sounds like a real
feud."
  "Ted was a good friend of Eldon Strachan. He
took sides and the regents didn't like it. Here's
another one, just the week after."
  Marshall read, ""REGENT MAULS
STRACHAN. Whitmore College Regent
Eugene Baylor, the college general treasurer,
today accused Dean Eldon Strachan of "malicious
political hatcheting," asserting that Strachan is
using "deplorable and unethical methods" to further
his own dynasty within the college administration."
Heh. Not exactly a harmless little tiff between
friends."
  "Oh, I understand it got bitter, really bitter.
And Ted probably stuck his nose out a little too
far. He started catching the crossfire."
  "Hence Eugene Baylor's angry letter."
  "Along with political pressure, I'm
sure. Strachan and Ted had many meetings and Ted was
finding out a lot, maybe too much."
  "But you have no details ..."
  Bernice only threw up her hands and shook her
head. "We have these articles and Ted's phone
number, and the list."
  "Yeah," Marshall mused, "the list. A lot of
college regents on it."
  "Plus the chief of police and the district judge
who cooked Ted's goose."
  "So what became of Strachan?"
"Fired."
  Bernice flipped through some more old Clarions.
A loose page fluttered out and dropped to the
floor. Marshall picked it up. Something on the
page caught his eye and he perused it until
Bernice found what she was looking for, an article
from late June.
  "Yes, here's the write-up," she said.
""STRACHAN FIRED. Citing conflicts of
interest and professional incompetency as their
reasons, the Whitmore College board of
regents today unanimously called for Dean Eldon
Strachan's resignation.""
  "Not a very long article," Marshall commented.
  "Ted put it in because he had to, but it's obvious
he held back any damaging details. He
firmly believed Strachan's cause was just."
  Marshall kept flipping through the pages.
"Ehhh, what's this one here? "WHITMORE COULD
BE MILLIONS IN ARREARS, SAYS
STRACHAN."" Marshall read that one carefully.
"Wait a minute here, he's saying the college
could be in big trouble, but he isn't saying how he
knows."
  "It kept coming out in bits and pieces.
We just never got all of them before Strachan and Ted
were silenced."
  "But millions ... you're talking real money
here."
  "But you see all the connections?"
  "Yeah. The regents, the judge, the police
chief, Young, the comptroller, and who knows who else,
all connected to Langstrat and very quiet about it."
  "And don't forget Ted Harmel."
  "Yeah, he's quiet about it too. I mean,
real quiet. The guy's scared out of his socks. But
he wasn't a very loyal member of the group if he
sided with Strachan against the regents."
  "So they rubbed him out, so to speak, along with
Strachan."
  "Maybe. So far we have just a theory, and it's
foggy." "But we do have a theory, and my being in jail
fits the pattern."
  "Too nicely just yet," Marshall thought aloud.
"We need to realize what we're saying here.
We're talking political corruption, abuse of
process, racketeering, who knows what else?
We'd better be really sure of ourselves."
  "What was that page there that dropped?"
  "Huh?"
  "The one you picked up."
  "Mm. It was out of order. It's dated clear
back in January."
  Bernice reached for the proper binder on the archive
shelf.
  "I don't want the archives all mixed up
after-hey, what'd you fold it all up for?"
  Marshall shrugged a little, gave her a very gentle
look, and unfolded the page.
  "There's an article about your sister," he said.
  She took the page from him and looked at the news
story. The headline read "KRUEGER DEATH
RULED SUICIDE." She put the page down
quickly.
  "I figured you wouldn't want to be reminded,"
he said.
  "I've seen it before," she said abruptly. "I
have a copy at home."
  "I read the article just now." "I know."
  She pulled out another binder, opening it on the
worktable.
  "Marshall," she said, "you may as well know
everything about it. It might come up again. The case is
not resolved in my mind, and it's been a very
difficult battle for me."
  Marshall only sighed and said, "You started this,
remember that now."
  Bernice kept her lips tight and her body
straight. She was trying to be a detached machine.
  She pointed to the first story, dated
mid-January: "BRUTAL DEATH ON
CAMPUS."
  Marshall read silently. He wasn't prepared
for the horrible details.
  "The story isn't entirely accurate,"
Bernice commented in a very guarded tone of voice.
"They didn't find Pat in her own dorm room;
she was down the hall in an unoccupied room. I
guess some of the girls used that room to study by themselves
if it got too noisy on the floor. No one
knew where she was until someone spotted the blood
running out under the door." Her voice cracked, and
she shut her mouth tightly.
  Patricia Elizabeth Krueger, age
nineteen, had been found in a dorm room, naked and
very dead, her throat slashed. There was no sign of a
struggle, the entire college was in a state of
shock, there were no witnesses.
  Bernice flipped to another page and another
headline, "NO CLUES TO KRUEGER
DEATH." Marshall read it quickly, feeling more and more
like he was invading a very sensitive area where he had
no business to be. The article stated that no
witnesses had come forth, no one had heard or seen
anything, there was no clue to who the assailant might
be. "And you read the last one," Bernice said.
"They finally ruled it was a suicide. They decided
that my sister had stripped herself and cut her own
throat." Marshall was incredulous. "And that was that?"
  "That was that."
  Marshall closed the binder quietly. He had
never seen Bernice looking so vulnerable. The
feisty little reporter who could hold her own in a
jail cell full of hookers had one part of her still
laid bare and wounded beyond healing. He put his hands
gently on her shoulders. "I'm sorry," he said.
  "It's why I came here, you know." She wiped
her eyes with her fingers, reached for a nearby tissue
to wipe her nose. "I ... I just couldn't leave it
at that. I knew Pat. I knew her better than
anyone. She just wasn't the type to do such a thing.
She was happy, well-adjusted, she liked
college. She sounded just fine in her letters."
  "Why.. why don't we just pack it up for the
night?" Bernice didn't acknowledge his
suggestion. "I checked the dorm layout, the room
where she died, the roster for the names of every girl living in
that building; I talked to all of them. I checked the
police reports, the coroner's report, I
went through all of Pat's personal effects, I
tried to track down Pat's roommate, but she'd
left. I still can't remember her name. I only
met her once when I was here for a visit.
  "I finally decided just to stick around, get a
job, wait and see. I had some newspaper
background, the job here was easy enough to land."
  Marshall put his arm around her shoulders.
"Well, listen. I'll help you out any way I
can. You don't have to carry this whole thing by yourself."
  She relaxed a bit, leaning into him just enough
to acknowledge his embracing arm. "I don't want
to bother you."
  "You're not bothering me. Listen, as soon as
you're ready, we can go over it, recheck everything.
There might still be some leads somewhere."
  Bernice shook her two fists and whimpered,
"If I could just be more objective about it!"
  Marshall gave her a gentle, comforting chuckle
and a friendly squeeze. "Well, maybe I can handle
that end of it. You're doing a good job,
Bernie. Just hang in there."
  She was a nice kid, Marshall thought, and as far
as he could remember this was the first time he'd ever touched
her.

  For obvious reasons the congregation of Ashton
Community Church was much smaller and fragmented this
Sunday morning, but Hank had to admit that the whole
atmosphere was more peaceful. As he stood behind the
old pulpit to open the service, he could see the
smiling faces of his supporters peppered throughout the
small crowd: yes, there were the Colemans sitting
in their usual spot. Grandma Duster was there too,
in much better health, praise the Lord, and there were the
Coopers, the Harrises, and Ben Squires, the
mailman. Alf Brummel hadn't made it, but
Gordon Mayer and his wife were there, and so were Sam
and Helen Turner. Some of the not-so-actives were there
for their usual once-a-month drop-in, and Hank
gave them special glances and smiles to let them
know they were noticed.
  As Mary banged out "All Hail the Power of
Jesus' Name" on the piano and Hank led the
singing, another couple came in the back door and
took a seat near the rear, as new folks
usually did. Hank didn't recognize them at
all.
  Scion remained near the back door, watching
Andy and June Forsythe take their seats. Then he
looked up toward the platform and gave Krioni and
Triskal a friendly salute. They smiled and
saluted back. A few demons had come in with the
humans, and they were not happy to see this new heavenly
stranger even lurking about, let alone bringing new people
into the church. But Scion backed nonthreateningly out
the door.
  Hank couldn't explain why he felt as joyful
as he did this morning. Maybe it was having Grandma
Duster there, and the Colemans, and the new couple. And
then there was that other new fellow, the big blond guy
sitting in the back. He had to be a football
lineman or something.
  Hank kept remembering what Grandma had said
to him, "We need to pray that the Lord will gather them
in..."
  He got to the sermon and opened his Bible
to Isaiah 55.
  ""Seek the Lord while He may be found;
call upon Him while He is near. Let the
wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man
his thoughts; and let him return to the Lord, and He will
have compassion on him; and to our God, for He will
abundantly pardon ... For My thoughts are not your
thoughts, neither are your ways My ways, declares the
Lord, For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so
are My ways higher than your ways, and My thoughts
than your thoughts. For as the rain and the snow come down from
heaven, and do not return there without watering the earth, and
making it bear and sprout, and furnishing seed to the sower
and bread to the eater; so shall My word be which goes forth from
My mouth; it shall not return to Me empty, without
accomplishing what I desire, and without succeeding in
the matter for which I sent it. For you will go out with joy,
and be led forth with peace; the mountains and the hills will
break forth into shouts of joy before you, and all the trees
of the field will clap their hands.""
  Hank loved that passage, and he couldn't help
smiling as he began to explain it. Some people simply
stared at him, listening out of obligation. But others
even leaned forward in their seats, hanging on every word.
The new couple sitting in the back kept nodding their
heads with very intent expressions. The big blond
man smiled, nodded his head, even shouted out an
"Amen!"
  The words kept coming to Hank's heart and
mind. It had to be the Lord's anointing. He stopped
by the pulpit from time to time to look at his notes, but
most of the time he was all over the platform, feeling like
he was somewhere between heaven and earth, speaking forth the Word
of God.
  The few little demons lurking about could only cower
and sneer. Some did manage to stop the ears of the people
they owned, but the onslaught this morning was particularly
severe and painful. To them, Hank's preaching had
all the soothing effect of a buzz saw.
  On top of the church, Signa and his warriors
refused to bend or back down. Lucius dropped
by with a sizeable flock of demons just in time for the
service, but Signa would not step aside.
  "You know better than to tamper with me!" Lucius
threatened.
  Signa was sickeningly polite. "I'm sorry,
we cannot allow any more demons into the church this
morning."
  Lucius must have had more important things for his
demons to do that morning than try to hack their way
through a wall of obstinate angels. He delivered
a few choice insults and then the whole bunch roared
off into the air, bound for some other mischief.
  When the service ended, some people made a
beeline for the door. Others made a beeline for
Hank.
  "Pastor, my name is Andy Forsythe, and this is my
wife June."
  "Hello, hello," Hank said, and he could
feel a wide smile stretching his face.
  "That was great," Andy said, shaking his head in
amazement and still shaking Hank's hand. "It was ...
boy, it was really great!"
  They made small talk for a few minutes,
finding out about each other. Andy owned and ran the
lumberyard just on the outskirts of town; June was
a legal secretary. They had a son, Ron, who
was in trouble with drugs and needed the Lord.
  "Well," said Andy, "we haven't been saved
too long ourselves. We used to go to the Ashton
United Christian ..." His voice trailed off.
  June was less inhibited. "We were starving there.
We couldn't wait to get out."
  Andy cut back in, "Yeah, that's right. We
heard about this church; well, actually we heard about
you; we heard you were in a bit of trouble for being such a
stickler with the Word of God, and we just thought to ourselves,
"We ought to check that guy out." Now I'm glad
we did.
  "Pastor," he continued, "I want you to know there
are a lot of hungry people out there. We have some friends
who love the Lord and have no place to go. It's been
really strange the last few years. One by one the
churches around here have kind of died. Oh, they're still
there, all right, and they have the people and the bucks, but... you
know what I mean." Hank wasn't sure that he
did. "What do you mean?" Andy shook his head.
"Satan's really playing games with this town, I
guess. Ashton never used to be this way, with so much
weird stuff going on. Hey, you may have trouble
believing this, but we have friends who have dropped out of
three, no, four of the local churches."
  June exchanged glances with Andy as she went through
a mental list of names. "Greg and Eva Smith,
the Bartons, the Jennings, Clint Neal..."
  "Yeah, right, right," said Andy. "Like I said, there
are a lot of hungry people out there, sheep without a
shepherd. The churches around here just don't cut it.
They don't preach the gospel."
  Just then Mary walked up, all smiles. Hank
happily introduced her.
  Then Mary said, "Hank, I'd like you to meet"
and she turned toward the empty room. Whoever was
supposed to be there wasn't. "Well...
he's gone!"
  "Who was it?" Hank asked.
  "Oh, you remember that big guy sitting in the
back?"
  "The big blond guy?"
  "Yes. I got a chance to talk to him. He
told me to tell you that" Mary deepened her voice
to mimic him-""the Lord is with you, keep praying and
keep listening.""
  "Well, that was nice. Did you get his name?"
  "Uh... no, I don't think he ever told
me."
  Andy asked, "Who was this?"
  "Oh," said Hank, "you know, that big guy in the
back. He was sitting right next to you."
  Andy looked at June, and her eyes got
wide. Andy started smiling, then he started laughing,
and then he started clapping his hands and practically
dancing.
  "Praise the Lord!" he exclaimed, and Hank
hadn't seen such enthusiasm in a long time.
"Praise the Lord, there was nobody there. Pastor,
we didn't see a soul!"
  Mary's mouth dropped open, and she covered it with
her fingers.
  Oliver Young was a real showman; he could work an
audience right down to each tear or titter and time it so
well that they became just so many puppets on a string.
He would stand behind the pulpit with incredible dignity and
poise, and his words were so well-chosen that whatever he
was saying had to be right. The vast congregation certainly
seemed to think so; they had packed the place out. Many
of them were professionals: doctors, teachers,
lawyers, self-proclaimed philosophers and
poets; a very large segment was from or connected in some
way with the college. They took fastidious notes
on Young's message, as if it were a lecture.
  Marshall had heard a lot of this little song and dance
before, so on this particular Sunday he mulled over the
questions he couldn't wait to spring on Young after the
service was over.
  Young continued. "Did not God say, "Let us
make man in our image, according to our likeness"?
What had remained in the darkness of tradition and
ignorance, we find now revealed within ourselves. We
discover-no, rather, we rediscover the knowledge we have always
had as a race: we are inherently divine in our very
essence, and have within ourselves the capacity for good, the
potential to become, as it were, gods, made in the
exact likeness of Father God, the
ultimate source of all that is..."
  Marshall took a quick and furtive glance
sideways. There was Kate, and there was Sandy taking
notes like mad, and next to her sat Shawn
Ormsby. Sandy and Shawn had hit it off pretty
well, and he had a definite positive influence
on her life. Today, for example, he had made a
deal with Sandy: he would go to church with her if she would
go with her folks. Well, it worked.
  Marshall had to admit, even though a little
reluctantly, that Shawn could communicate with Sandy
in ways Marshall never could. There had been several
occasions when Shawn had served quite well as a
liaison or interpreter between Sandy and Marshall and
opened lines of communication neither of them thought could ever
materialize. Things were getting peaceful around the
house at last. Shawn seemed a gentle sort with a
real gift for refereeing.
  So what do I do now? Marshall wondered. For the
first time in who knows how long, my whole family is
sitting together in church, and that's nothing but a
miracle, a real miracle. But we sure picked
one heck of a church to be sitting together in, and as for
that preacher up there ...
  It would be so comfortable and so nice to let
everything be, but he was a reporter, and this Young had
something to hide. Nuts. Talk about conflict of
interests!
  So while Pastor Oliver Young was up there trying
to get across his ideas on the "infinite divine
potential within seemingly finite man," Marshall
had his own nagging issues to think about. The service
ended punctually at noon, and the carillon in the tower
automatically clicked on and began to play a very
traditional, very Christian-sounding accompaniment
to all the hand shaking, visiting, and filing out.
  Marshall and his family entered the flow of traffic
that oozed toward the foyer. Oliver Young was standing by the
front door in his usual spot, greeting all his
parishioners, shaking hands, cootchy-cooing the
babies, being pastorly. Soon Marshall,
Kate, Sandy, and Shawn had their turn with him.
  "Well, Marshall, good to see you," Young gushed,
shaking Marshall's hand.
  "Have you met Sandy?" Marshall asked, and formally
introduced Young to his daughter.
  Young was very warm. "Sandy, I'm very glad to see
you."
  Sandy at least acted glad to be there.
  "And Shawn!" Young exclaimed.
"Shawn Ormsby!" The two of them shook hands.
  "Oh, so you two know each other?" Marshall
asked.
  "Oh, I've known Shawn since he was just a little
shaver. Shawn, don't make yourself so scarce, all
right?"
  "All right," Shawn answered with a shy smile.
  The others moved on, but Marshall lagged behind and
came up close on the other side to speak to Young
some more.
  He waited until Young had finished greeting one
little group of people, and then interjected into the pause,
"Hey, I just thought you'd like to know that things are going
better now with Sandy and me."
  Young smiled, shook a few hands, then said
sideways to Marshall, "Wonderful! That's really
wonderful, Marshall." He offered his hand to someone
else. "Nice seeing you here today."
  In another space between exiting greetees,
Marshall interjected, "Yeah, she really enjoyed
your sermon this morning. She said it was very challenging."
  "Well, thank you for saying so. Yes, Mr.
Beaumont, how are you?"
  "You know, it even seemed to be along the same
lines as what Sandy's getting in school,
in Juleen Langstrat's classes."
  Young didn't answer that, but directed all his
attention to a young couple with a baby. "Oh my,
she's getting so big."
  Marshall continued, "You're going to have to meet
Professor Langstrat sometime. There's a very
interesting parallel between what she teaches and what you
preach." There was no response from Young. "I
understand, as a matter of fact, that Langstrat's
pretty deeply involved in occultism and Eastern
mysticism."
  "Well," Young finally responded, "I wouldn't
know anything about that, Marshall."
  "And you definitely don't know this Professor
Langstrat?"
  "No, I told you that."
  "Haven't you attended several private sessions
with her on a regular basis, and not only you, but also
Alf Brummel, Ted Harmel, Delores
Pinckston, Eugene Baylor, and even Judge
Baker?"
  Young turned just a little red, paused, then grimaced
with embarrassed recollection.
  "Oh, for goodness sake!" he laughed. "Where in the
world has my mind been? You know, all this
time I've been thinking of someone else!"
  "So you do know her?"
  "Well, yes, of course. Many of us do."
  Young turned aside to greet some more people. When those
people had gone, Marshall was still standing there.
  Marshall pressed, "So what about these private
sessions? Does she really have a clientele
including community leaders, elected officials,
regents at the college..."
  Young looked directly at Marshall, and his
eyes were a little cold. "Marshall, just what is your
specific concern here?"
  "Just doing my job. Whatever this is seems to be
something the people of Ashton should know about, especially because
it involves so many of the influential people who are shaping
this town."
  "Well, if you are concerned about it, I'm not the
person to talk to. You should go and ask Professor
Langstrat herself."
  "Oh, I intend to. I just wanted to give you the
chance to give me some honest answers, something I
feel you're not quite doing."
  Young's voice got a bit strained. "Marshall,
if I seem to be elusive it is because what you are
trying to pry into is protected
by professional ethics. It is privileged
information. I was simply hoping you would figure that out
without my having to tell you."
  Kate was calling from the sidewalk. "Marshall,
we're all waiting for you."
  Marshall stepped away from the conversation, and it was just
as well. It could only have gotten hotter from that
point, and it was getting him nowhere anyway. Young was
cool, very tough, and very slippery.
  A few states away, in a deep, secluded,
and steep-sided valley rimmed by high mountains and
carpeted with thick green ground cover and
moss-tufted rock, a small but well-constructed
cluster of buildings nestled like a lonely outpost in
the center of the valley floor, accessible only by one
rough and meandering gravel road.
  That little cluster of buildings, once a dismal and
dilapidated old ranch, had been expanded into a
complex of stone and brick buildings which now housed a
small dormitory, an office complex, a dining
hall, a maintenance building, a clinic, and several
private dwellings. There were no signs, however,
no labels anywhere, nothing to indicate where or what
anything was.
  Drawing a charcoal streak across the sky,
a sinister black object flew over the
mountaintops and began to drop into the valley, piercing
through the paper-thin layers of mist that hung in the air.
Cloaked by oppressive spiritual darkness and silent
as a black cloud, Ba-al Rafar, the Prince
of Babylon, floated along. He stayed close
to the contour of the mountainside, maneuvering on a
course that weaved this way and that among the dead snags
and rocky crags. The canopy of darkness followed
him like a cast shadow, like a tiny circle of night
upon the landscape; a faint streak of red and yellow
vapor trailed from his nostrils and hung in the air
behind him like a long, slowly settling ribbon.
  Below, the ranch looked like a huge hive of
hideous black insects. Several layers of
ruthless warriors hovered almost stationary in a vast
dome of defense over the complex, swords drawn,
yellow eyes peering across the valley. Deep within this
shell, demons of all shapes, sizes, and
strengths darted about in a boiling mass of activity.
As Rafar dropped closer, he noted a concentration
of black spirits around a large multistoried stone
house on the fringe of the cluster. The Strongman is
there, he thought, so he banked gently to one side,
changing his course for that building.
  The outer sentinels saw him approaching and gave
an eerie, sirenlike wail. Immediately the defenders
radiated outward from Rafar's flight path, opening
a channel through the defense layers. Rafar swooped
skillfully through the channel as demons on all
sides saluted him with upheld swords, their glowing
eyes like thousands of paired yellow stars on black
velvet. He ignored them and passed quickly through.
The channel closed again behind him like a living gate.
He floated slowly down through the roof of the house,
through the attic, past rafters, walls, plaster, through
an upstairs bedroom, through a thick,
beam-supported floor and down into a spacious
living room below.
  The evil in the room was thick and confining, the
darkness like black liquid that swirled about with any
motion of the limbs. The room was crowded.
  "Ba-al Rafar, the Prince of Babylon!"
a demon announced from somewhere, and monstrous demons
all around the perimeter of the room bowed in respect.
  Rafar folded his wings in regal, capelike
fashion and stood with an intimidating air of
royalty and might, his jewels flashing
impressively. His big yellow eyes studied
carefully the orderly ranks of demons
lined up all around him. A horrible gathering. These
were spirits from the principality levels, princes themselves
of their own nations, peoples, tribes. Some were from
Africa, some were from the Orient, several were from
Europe. All were invincible. Rafar noted their
tremendous size and formidable appearance; they all
matched him for size and ferocity, and he doubted he
would ever venture to challenge any of them. To receive a
bow from them was a great honor, a compliment indeed.
  "Hail, Rafar," said a gargling voice from the
end of the room.
  The Strongman. It was forbidden to speak his name.
He was one of the few majesties intimate with
Lucifer himself-a vicious global tyrant
responsible over the centuries for resisting the
plans of the living God and establishing Lucifer's
kingdom on the earth. Rafar and his kind controlled
nations; those such as the Strongman controlled Rafar and
his kind.
  The Strongman rose from his place, and his huge
form filled that part of the room. The evil that emanated
from him could be felt everywhere, almost like an extension of
his body. He was grotesque, hulking, his black
hide hanging like sacks and curtains from his limbs and
torso, his face a macabre landscape of
bony prominences and deep, folded furrows. His
jewels flashed brilliantly from his neck, chest,
arms; his big black wings draped his body like a
royal robe and trailed along the floor.
  Rafar bowed low in homage, feeling the
Strongman's presence from clear across the room.
"Hail, my lord."
  The Strongman never wasted words. "Shall we be
detained again?"
  "The errors of Prince Lucius are being
corrected. The new resistance is failing, my
lord. Soon the town will be ready."
  "And what of the host of heaven?"
  "Limited."
  The Strongman did not like Rafar's
answer-Rafar could feel that distinctly. He spoke
slowly. "We have received reports of a strong
Captain of the Host being sent to Ashton. I
believe you know him."
  "I have reason to believe Tal has been sent but
I have anticipated him."
  The big, velvet-draped eyes burned with
fury. "Is it not this Tal who vanquished you at the
fall of Babylon?" Rafar knew he must
answer, and quickly. "It is this Tal."
"Then the delays have cost us our advantage. You have
now been matched strength for strength." "My lord, you
will see what your servant can do." "Bold words,
Rafar, but your strengths can only succeed with
immediacy; the strengths of our enemies grow with
time."
  "All will be ready."
  "And what of the man of God and the newspaper
man?"
  "Does my lord even give them his attention?"
  "Your lord wishes you to give them yours!"
  "They are powerless, my lord, and will soon be
removed."
  "But only if Tal is removed," the
Strongman said derisively. "Let me see it
happen before you bother me in boasting about it. Until
then, we remain confined here. Rafar, I will not wait
long!"
  "Nor shall you need to."
  The Strongman only smirked. "You have your
orders. Begone!"
  Rafar bowed low, and with an unfurling of his wings he
quietly rose through the house until he was
outside. Then, with a furious burst of rage, he
swooped upward, sending unexpecting
demons tumbling out of the way. He picked up
speed, his wings rushing in a blinding blur, and the
defenders could barely get a channel opened before he
burst through it trailing a hot stream of sulfurous
breath. They closed up the channel again, giving each
other curious looks as they watched him soar away.
  Rafar roared like a rocket up the side of the
mountains and then out over the craggy peaks and back
toward the little town of Ashton. In his rage he cared
not who saw him, he cared not about stealth or even
decorum. Let the whole world see him, and let it
tremble! He was Rafar, the Prince of Babylon!
Let all the world bow before him or be decimated under
the edge of his sword!
  Tal! The very name was bitterness itself on his tongue.
The lords of Lucifer would never let him forget that
defeat so long ago. Never-until the day when
Rafar redeemed his honor.
  And indeed he would. Rafar could see his sword
gutting Tal and scattering him in shreds and pieces
across the sky; he could feel the impact in his arms,
he could hear the ripping sound of it. It was only a
matter of time.
  Among the jagged rocks on one mountain's
summit, a silver-haired man came out
of hiding to watch Rafar quickly shrink into the distance,
etching a long black trail across the sky until
he vanished over the horizon. The man took one
more look at the demon-swarmed cluster of buildings
in the valley, looked again toward the horizon, then
vanished down the other side of the mountain in a flash
of light and a flurry of wings.

  Well, thought Marshall, sooner or later I have
to get around to it. On Thursday afternoon, when things were
quiet, he closed himself in his office and made some
phone calls trying to track down Professor
Juleen Langstrat. He called the college,
got the number of the Psychology Department, and went
through two receptionists in two different offices before
he finally found out that Langstrat was not in today and had
an unlisted home number. Then Marshall thought of the
very cooperative Albert Darr, and gave his office
a ring. Professor Darr was teaching, but would
return his call if he would leave a message.
Marshall left a message. Two hours later,
Albert Darr returned Marshall's call, and he
did have the unlisted number for Juleen
Langstrat's apartment.
  Marshall called the number.
  It was busy.
  The living room of Juleen Langstrat's
apartment was dimly lit by one small lamp on the
mantel. The room was quiet, warm, and comfortable.
The shades were drawn to block out distractions, bright
light, and any other disturbances. The phone was off the
hook.
  Juleen Langstrat sat in her chair, speaking
quietly to her counselee who sat opposite her.
  "You hear only the sound of my voice..." she
said, then repeated the sentence several times quietly
and clearly. "You hear only the sound of my
voice..."
  This went on for several minutes until her
subject was in a deep, hypnotic trance.
  "You are descending... descending deep within yourself
..." Langstrat watched the face of her subject
carefully. She then extended her hands palms out,
fingers spread, and began to move her hands up and down
just inches away from the subject's body, as if
feeling for something. "Release your true self...
let it go... it is infinite... at unity with all
existence... Yes! I can feel it! Can you read my
energy returning to you?"
  The subject murmured, "Yes ..."
  "You are free from your body now... your body is
an illusion ... you feel the bounds of your body
dissolving away..."
  Langstrat leaned in close, still using her hands.
  "You are free now..."
  "Yes.. disyes, I am free..."
  "I can feel your life force expanding."
  "Yes, I can feel it."
  "That's enough. You may stop there." Langstrat was
intent, closely observing everything. "Go back...
go back... Yes, I can feel you receding. In a
moment you will feel me slipping from you; don't be
alarmed, I'm still here."
  In the next several minutes, she brought her
subject slowly back out of the trance, step by step,
suggestion by suggestion.
  Finally she said, "All right, when I count
to three, you will awake. One, two, three."
  Sandy Hogan opened her eyes, rolled them about
dizzily, then took a deep breath, coming fully
around.
  "Wow!" she responded.
  The three of them laughed together.
  "Wasn't that something?" asked Shawn, sitting
next to Langstrat.
  "Wow," was all Sandy could say.
  This was a real first for Sandy. It had been
Shawn's idea and, though she hesitated at first,
now she was very glad that she had gone along with it.
  The apartment shades were opened, and Sandy and Shawn
prepared to go back to their afternoon classes.
  "Well, thank you for coming," said the professor
at the door.
  "Thank you," Sandy piped.
  "And thank you for bringing her," Langstrat told
Shawn. Then she said to the two of them, "Now
remember, I wouldn't advise speaking to anyone about
this. It's a very personal and intimate experience that
we should all respect."
  "Yeah, right, right," said Sandy. Shawn drove
her back to campus.
  It was Friday again, and Hank sat at home in
his little corner office looking anxiously at the
clock. Mary was usually very reliable. She had said
she would be back before Carmen got there for her afternoon
counseling appointment. Hank had no idea if there
were any spies watching the house, but he could never be
sure. All he needed was for someone to figure out that
Carmen was dropping in to see him while Mary went
grocery shopping. Hank's fearful side
could envision all kinds of plots his enemies might
be forming against him, such as sending some strange and
seductive woman to compromise and ruin him.
  Well, he knew one thing. If Carmen didn't
show a genuine responsiveness to the counseling and begin
to apply real solutions to a real problem, that would be
the end of it as far as he was concerned.
  Uh-oh. There was the doorbell. He sneaked a
look out the window. Carmen's red Fiat was parked out
front. Yes, she was standing at the door, in broad
daylight, in iull view of ten or fifteen
houses. The way she was dressed today made Hank
figure he'd better let her in quickly, if only
to get her out of sight.
  Where, oh where, was Mary?
  Mary was not sure she liked the new owners of what
used to be Joe's Market. Oh, it wasn't their
service or the way they ran the store, or whether
or not they were friendly; they were okay in most of those
departments, and Mary also figured it would take time for
them to know everyone and vice versa. What bothered
Mary was how obviously secretive they became
any time she asked them whatever became of Joe
Carlucci and his family. As far as Mary could find
out, Joe, Angelina, and their children left
Ashton abruptly and didn't tell anyone, and so
far no one could be found who even knew where they went.
  Oh well. She hurried out of the store and toward
her car, a young box boy pushing a cart of
groceries along behind her. She opened the trunk and
watched the boy load the groceries in.
  And then she felt it, suddenly, without any
apparent reason: an unexplainable tinge of emotion,
an odd mixture of fear and depression. She
felt cold, nervous, a little shaky, and could think of
nothing but getting out of that place and hurrying home.
  Triskal had been accompanying her, guarding
her, and he felt it too. With a metallic ring and a
flash of light, his sword was instantly in his hand.
  Too late! From somewhere behind him came a stunning
blow on the back of his neck. He toppled forward.
His wings shot out to steady him, but an incredible weight
came down on his back like a pile driver and pinned
him down.
  He could see their feet, like the clawed feet of
hideous reptiles, and the red flicker of their
blades; he could hear their sulfurous hissing. He
looked up. At least a dozen demonic warriors
surrounded him. They were towering, fierce, with glowing
yellow eyes and dripping fangs, and they were
sneering and gargling with laughter.
  Triskal looked to see if Mary was all right.
He knew her safety would soon be threatened if
he didn't act. But what could he do?
  What was that? He suddenly felt an intense
wave of evil rolling over him.
  "Pick him up," said a voice like thunder.
  A viselike hand curled around his neck and jerked
him up as if he were a toy. Now he was looking at
all these spirits eye to eye. They were newcomers
to Ashton. He had never seen such size, strength,
and brazenness. Their bodies were covered with thick,
ironlike scales, their arms rippled with power, their
faces were mocking, their sulfurous breath choked him.
  They turned him around and held him tightly, and
he found himself face to face with a vision of sheer
horror.
  Flanked by no less than ten more huge demonic
warriors, a gargantuan spirit stood with an
S-curved sword in his monstrous black hand.
  Rafar! The thought coursed through Triskal's mind
like a death sentence; every inch of his being tightened with the
anticipation of blows, defeat, unbearable pain.
  The big, fanged mouth broke into a mocking and
hideous grin; amber saliva dripped from
the fangs, and sulfur chugged forth in rancid clouds
as the giant warlord chuckled mockingly.
  "Are you so surprised?" Rafar asked. "You should
feel privileged. You, little angel, are the first
to look upon me."
  "And how are you today?" Hank asked as he showed
Carmen to a comfortable chair in his office area.
  She sank into the chair with a coo and a sigh, and
Hank began to wonder where he left his tape
recorder. He knew he was innocent of wrongdoing
here, but some proof would be nice.
  "I'm much better," she answered, and her voice
was pleasant and even. "You know, maybe you can tell
me why, but I haven't heard any voices talking
to me all week."
  "Oh... um... yeah," said Hank, finally
getting his counselor's thoughts in gear. "That was what
we were talking about wasn't it?"
  Triskal looked toward Mary. She was thanking
the box boy and closing her trunk.
  Rafar watched Triskal, amused. "Oh, I
see. You are here to protect her. From what? Did
you expect to swat mere flies?" Triskal had
no answer. Rafar's tone became cruel and
cutting. "No, you are mistaken, little
angel. It is a much greater power with whom you have
to do."
  Rafar tapped the ground with his sword, and
Triskal immediately felt the iron hands of two
demons clamping his arms from behind. He looked toward
Mary. She was looking for the key to the car door. She
was getting into the car. Another demon stretched out his
sword and pierced the hood of the car. Mary tried
to start the engine. Nothing happened.
  Rafar looked toward the nearby laundromat that
faced the parking lot. A young, greasy-looking character
stood in front of it, leaning against a post.
Triskal could tell the man was possessed by one of
Rafar's henchmen-as a matter of fact, several of
them. At Rafar's nod, the demons went into action
and the man started walking toward Mary's car.
  Mary checked her lights. No, she had not left
them on. She turned the key on and turned on the
radio. It played. The horn honked. What on
earth was the matter? She saw the young character coming her way
from the direction of the laundromat. Oh, great.
  As Triskal watched helplessly, the demons
guided the man up to the car window.
  "Hey, cutie," he said, "having some trouble
here?"
  Mary looked out at him. He was skinny,
dirty, and dressed in black leather and chrome
chains.
  She called through the window, "Uh... no thanks.
I'm all right."
  He only smirked, eyeing her up and down as he
said, "Why won't you open up and let me see what
I can do?"
  Hank didn't feel right about any of this. Where was
Mary? At least Carmen was making a little more sense this
time. She seemed to be dealing with her problems
intelligently andwitha genuine desire to change things.
Maybe it would be different this time, but Hank
wasn't counting on it.
  "So," he asked, "what do you suppose became
of those amorous voices in the night?"
  "I don't listen to them anymore," she
answered. "There's one thing you helped me to realize,
just by talking about it: Those voices aren't real.
I've only been fooling myself."
  Hank was very gentle when he agreed, "Yes, I
think you're right."
  She heaved a deep sigh and looked at him with those
big blue eyes. "I was trying to cope with my
loneliness, that's all. I think that was it.
Pastor, you're just so strong. I wish I could be that
way."
  "Well, the Bible says, 'I can do all things
through Christ who strengthens me.""
  "Uh-huh. Where's your wife?"
  "Getting groceries. She should be back any
minute."
  "Well..." Carmen leaned forward and smiled ever
so sweetly. "I'm really drawing strength from your
company. I want you to know that."
  Mary could feel her heart pounding. What would this
guy do next?
  The man leaned against the window and his breath fogged the
glass as he said, "Say, sweetheart, why
don't you tell me your name?"
  Rafar grabbed Triskal by the hair and jerked his
head around. Triskal thought his head would snap off.
  Rafar breathed sulfur right into Triskal's
face as he said, "And now, little angel, I will have
words with you." The tip of the long sword came up
to Triskal's throat. "Where is your captain?"
  Triskal did not answer.
  Rafar yanked his head around and let him look
toward Mary.
  The man tried the latch on Mary's
door. She was terrified. She groped for every lock
button in the car, pushing each one down only
seconds before the man could grab the outside latch.
He tried all the doors, a leering smile on his
face. Mary tried the horn again. A demon had
already taken care of that-it didn't work. Rafar
twisted Triskal's head back again, and the cold
blade pressed against Triskal's face. "I will
ask you again. Where is your captain?"
  Carmen was still telling Hank how much good this
counseling was doing her, how he reminded her of her
former husband, and how she was looking for a man with his
qualities. Hank had to put a lid on this
stuff.
  "Well," he finally cut in, "do you have any
other people in your life that you feel are significant
as far as strength, support, friendship, those kinds of
things?"
  She looked at him just a little mournfully.
"Sort of. I have friends who hang out at the tavern.
But nothing ever lasts." She let her thoughts brew
for a moment, then asked, "Do you think I'm
attractive?"
  The man in black leather leaned close to Mary's
window, threatened her with horrible
obscenities, then started banging on the glass with a
large metal buckle.
  Rafar nodded to a warrior whose hand passed through
Mary's window and grasped the lock button, ready
to pull it up at Rafar's order. The demons in
the young man were drooling and ready. His hand was on the
latch.
  Rafar made sure Triskal could see it all,
and then said, "Your answer?"
  Triskal finally spoke, moaning, The
brake..."
  Rafar held him tighter, leaning closer. "I
didn't hear you."
  Triskal repeated it. "The brake."
  Mary had a flash. The car was parked on an
incline. It wasn't much, but it might be enough to get the
car moving. She released the parking brake and the car
started to roll. The creep wasn't expecting that;
he banged on the window, tried to get around in
front of the car to stop it, but it began to roll at a
steady dip and he soon realized that his efforts to stop
it were becoming a little too obvious to other shoppers.
  A husky contractor standing by his big
four-wheeler finally saw what was going on and
hollered, "Hey, creep, whaddaya
doin'?"
  Rafar watched it happen, his rising anger coursing
through his big iron fist making it tighten more and more around
Triskal. Triskal thought his neck would crack
any moment.
  But then Rafar seemed to give in.
  "Desist!" he ordered the demons. They backed
off; the man gave up the chase and tried to saunter
nonchalantly away. The big contractor started
after him, and he fled.
  The car kept rolling. There was an exit from the
parking lot that emptied onto a backstreet with a
fairly good grade. Mary steered for it, hoping no
other cars or pedestrians would get in her way.
  Triskal saw that she would make it.
  So did Rafar. The cold steel of his blade
pressed against Triskal's throat. "Well done,
little angel. You have spared your charge until a more
opportune time. I will leave you with only a
message for today. Pay careful attention."
  With that, Rafar released Triskal into the hands of
his henchmen. One huge, warty demon pounded his
iron fist into Triskal's torso and sent him
spinning into the air where another demon intercepted him
with a swat of his sword, carving a deep
gash in his back. Triskal fluttered and tumbled
down in a daze, into the clutches of two more demons
who pummeled his limp body with iron fists and
tore at him with taloned feet. For several
horrible minutes the demons made violent sport
with him as Rafar coldly watched. Finally the great
Ba-al gave a growled command, and the warriors let
Triskal go. He flopped to the ground, and
Rafar's big taloned foot stomped down on his
neck. The huge sword swung down and waved in
small circles before Triskal's eyes as the
demon master spoke.
  "You will tell your captain that Rafar, the Prince
of Babylon, is looking for him." The big foot
pressed harder. "You will tell him!"
  Suddenly Triskal was alone, a limp, ragged
wreck. He struggled to his feet again. All he
could think of now was Mary.
  Hank gently took hold of Carmen's hand,
lifted it off his own, and placed it courteously in
her lap. He held it there for just a moment and looked
into her eyes with compassion and yet firmness. He let
go of it and then leaned back in his chair to a safe
distance.
  "Carmen," he said with a soft and understanding
voice. "I'm very flattered that you're so impressed
with my masculine qualities... and really, I have
no doubts that a woman of your particular
qualities will have no trouble finding a good man with
whom to build a lasting and meaningful relationship. But
listen-I don't mean to sound abrupt, but I have
to emphasize one thing right here and now: I am not that
man. I'm here as a minister and counselor, and we
have to keep this relationship strictly limited to that of a
counselor and his client."
  Carmen seemed very disturbed, and very offended. "What
are you saying to me?" "I'm saying that we really can't
continue these appointments. They're causing emotional
conflicts for you. I think you'll be better off going
to someone else."
  Hank couldn't explain why, but even as he said
that, he felt like he had just won some kind of
battle. From the icy look in Carmen's eyes, he
figured she had lost.
  Mary was crying, wiping the tears from her face with
her sleeve and praying a mile a minute. "Father
God, dear Jesus, save me, save me, save
me!" The hill was beginning to flatten out; the car
slowed down, fifteen, ten, five miles an hour.
She looked behind and saw no one following,
but she was too scared by now to be comforted. She just
wanted to get home.
  Then, up the street behind her and about ten feet above
the ground, Triskal flew, his clothes flashing with
white-hot light and his wings rushing. His flight path
was wobbly and the rhythm of his wings out of sync, but he
was determined nevertheless. His face was etched with deep
concern for her welfare. He spread his tattered,
fluttering wings like a large canopy and let them
brake him to a stop as he settled down onto the
roof of the car. By now it was barely rolling and Mary just
kept crying and wailing, jerking her body in futile
attempts to urge the car onward.
  Triskal reached down through the roof and gently
placed his hand on Mary's shoulder. "Shhh... be
calm, it's all right now. You're safe."
  She looked behind her again and began to quiet down a
little.
  Triskal spoke to her heart. "The Lord has
saved you. He won't let you go. You're all
right."
  The car was almost to a complete stop now. Mary
pulled it over to the side of the street and parked it
while she still had the momentum to do so. She pulled on
the parking brake and sat there for several
minutes just to compose herself.
  "That's it," said Triskal, comforting her in her
spirit. "Rest in the Lord. He's here."
  Triskal slid off the roof of the car and reached his
arm down through the hood, probing around. He found
whatever it was he was looking for.
  "Mary," he said, "why don't you try again?"
Mary sat in the car thinking to herself that the stupid thing
would never start and what horrible timing it had, to die
and leave her in such a fix.
  "C'mon," Triskal prodded. "Take a step
of faith. Trust God. You never know what He
might do."
  Mary decided to take one more stab at starting the
car, even though she had little faith that anything would
happen. She twisted the key. The engine cranked
over, then sputtered, then started. She gave it
several powerful revs just to make sure it stayed
awake. Then, still in a very great hurry to get home
to Hank's protecting arms, she pulled out into the
street and hot-rodded for home with Triskal riding
on the roof.
  Hank was very relieved to hear the slam of the car
door outside. "Oh, that must be Mary!"
  Carmen got up. "I guess I'd
better go."
  Now that Mary was here, Hank added, "Oh,
listen, you don't have to. You can stay for a while."
  "No, no, I'll just leave. Maybe I ought
to go out the back, even."
  "No, don't be silly. Here. I'll see you
to the door. I need to help Mary with those groceries
anyway."
  But Mary had forgotten about the groceries and only
wanted to get inside the house. Triskal ran beside
her. He was battered and limping, his clothing was
torn, and he could still feel the fiery wound in his
back.
  Hank opened the door. "Hi, hon. Boy, I
was getting worried about you." Then he saw her
tear-filled eyes. "Hey, what"
  Carmen screamed. It was a sudden, heart-piercing
scream that halted every thought and stifled any words.
Hank spun around, not knowing what to expect.
  "NOOOO!" Carmen shrieked, her arms guarding
her face. "Are you mad? Get away from me, you
hear? Get away!"
  As Hank and Mary both looked on in horror,
Carmen backed into the room, waving her arms as if
trying to shield herself from some invisible
attacker; she stumbled around the room, she tumbled
over the furniture, she cursed and spewed horrible
obscenities. She was terrified and enraged at the
same time, her eyes wide and glassy, her face
contorted.
  Krioni tried to grab Triskal and hold him
back. Triskal had glorified and was a shimmering
white; his tattered wings filled the room and
glimmered like a thousand rainbows. He held a
gleaming sword in his hand, and the sword flashed and
sang in blinding arcs as he engaged in a frenzied
battle with Lust, a hideous demon with a
black-scaled, slippery body like a lizard and a
red tongue that lashed about his face like the tail of a
snake. Lust was first defending himself, then lashing
back with his glowing red sword, the crescent blade
cutting crimson arcs through the air. The swords
clashed with explosions of fire and light.
  "Let me be, I tell you!" Lust screamed,
his wings propelling him like a trapped hornet about the
room.
  "Let him be!" shouted Krioni, trying to hold
Triskal back while staying out of the path of that
infinitely sharp blade. "Do you hear my order?
Let him be!"
  At last Triskal withdrew, but held his sword
steady and kept it raised in front of him, the light
from the blade illuminating his raging face, his burning
eyes.
  Carmen calmed down, rubbed her eyes, and looked
about the room with a frightened expression. Hank and
Mary went to her immediately and tried to comfort her.
  "What's wrong, Carmen?" Mary asked,
wide-eyed and concerned. "It's just me, Mary. Did
I do something? I didn't mean to scare you."
  "No... no..." moaned Carmen. "It wasn't
you. It was somebody else..." "Who? What?"
  Lust backed off, his sword still held high.
Krioni told him, "We will give place to you no
longer today. Begone, and don't come here again!"
  Lust folded his wings and circled carefully around
the two heavenly warriors and over to the door. "I
was leaving anyway," the demon hissed. "I was
leaving anyway," said Carmen, composing herself.
"There's... there's bad energy in this place.
Good-bye."
  She bolted out the door. Mary tried to call after
her, but Hank touched Mary's arm and let her know that
silence would be best for now.
  Krioni held Triskal until the
light around him faded and he replaced his sword.
Triskal was shaking.
  "Triskal," Krioni scolded, "you know
Tal's orders! I was with Hank the whole time; he
did just fine. There was no need" Then Krioni
saw Triskal's many injuries and the deep wound in
his back. "Triskal, what happened?"
  "I... I could not let myself be assailed by still
another," Triskal gasped. "Krioni, we are
more than matched."
  Mary finally remembered that she was about to cry. She
picked up where she had left off.
  "Mary, what in the world is going on here?" Hank
asked, putting his arms around her.
  "Just close the door, honey!" she cried. "Just
close the door and hold me. Please!"

  Kate grabbed a kitchen towel and hurriedly
wiped her hands so she could pick up the phone.
  "Hello?"
  "Hi there." It was Marshall.
  Kate knew what was coming; it had been happening a
lot the last two weeks. "Marshall, I am
cooking dinner and I am cooking enough for all four of
us..."
  "Yeah, well..." Marshall had the tone of
voice he always used when he was about to weasel out of
something.
  "Marshall!" Then Kate turned her back
toward the living room where Sandy and Shawn were studying
and talking, but mostly talking; she didn't want
them to see the distress in her face. She lowered her
voice. "I want you home for dinner. You've been
out late all this week, you've been so busy and so
preoccupied I hardly have a husband anymore"
  "Kate!" Marshall broke in. "It won't be
as bad as you thought: I'm just calling to say I'll be
a little late, not that I won't be there."
  "How late?"
  "Oh brother..." Marshall wasn't sure at
all. "How about an hour?"
  Kate couldn't think of what to say. She only
sighed in disgust and anger.
  Marshall tried to appease her. "Listen, I'll
get there as soon as I can."
  Kate decided to say it over the phone; she
might never get the chance any other time. "Marshall,
I'm concerned about Sandy."
  "What's wrong with her now?"
  Oh, she could just punch him for that tone of
voice! "Marshall, if you'd just be around here once
in a while you'd know! She's... I don't know.
She just isn't the same old Sandy anymore.
I'm afraid of what Shawn is doing to her."
  "What Shawn is doing to her?"
  "I can't talk about it over the phone."
  Now Marshall sighed. "All right, all right.
We'll talk about it."
  "When, Marshall?"
  "Oh, tonight, when I get home."
  "We can't talk right in front of them"
  "I mean... oh, you know what I mean!"
Marshall was tiring of this conversation.
  "Well, just get home, Marshall, please!"
  "All right, all right!"
  Marshall hung up the phone with hardly a loving
gentleness. For a split second he regretted the
act and thought about how it must have made Kate feel,
but he forced his thoughts onward to the next, very pressing
project: interviewing Professor Juleen
Langstrat.
  Friday evening. She should be home now. He
dialed the number, and this time it rang. And rang.
And rang one more time.
  Click. "Hello?"
  "Hello, this is Marshall Hogan, editor of the
Ashton Clarion. Am I speaking with
Professor Juleen Langstrat?" "Yes, you
are. What can I do for you, Mr. Hogan?" "My
daughter Sandy has been in some of your classes."
She seemed pleased to hear that. "Oh, very good!"
"At any rate, I was wondering if we might
set up a date for an interview."
  "Well, you'd have to speak with one of my teacher
assistants. They are the ones responsible for
checking the progress and problems of the students. The
classes are large, you understand."
  "Oh, well, no, that's not exactly what I
had in mind. I was thinking I would like to interview you."
  "Pertaining to your daughter? I'm afraid I
don't know her. I wouldn't be able to tell you much
..."
  "Well, we could talk a little about the class, of
course, but I was also curious about the other interests
you're pursuing there on the campus, the elective
classes you've been teaching at night..."
  "Oohh," she said, with a down note at the end that
didn't sound promising. "Well, that was part of an
experimental college idea we were trying. If you
wish to check that out the registrar might have some
old flyers available. But I should inform you that I
am very uncomfortable with the idea of granting any
interview to the press, and I really cannot do so."
  "So you're not willing to discuss the very influential
people you have among your circle of friends?"
  "I don't understand the question," and it sounded like she
didn't appreciate it either.
  "Alf Brummel, chief of police, Reverend
Oliver Young, Delores Pinckston, Dwight
Brandon, Eugene Baylor, Judge John
Baker..."
  "I have no comment," she said sharply, "and I really
have some other things that are very pressing. Is there anything
else I can help you with?"
  "Well..." Marshall thought he'd go ahead and
try for it. "I guess the only other thing I could
ask you about is why you ejected me from your class."
  Now she was getting indignant. "I don't know
what you're talking about."
  "Your class on Monday afternoon two weeks
ago. The Psychology of Self," I think it
was. I'm the big guy you told to leave."
  She began to laugh incredulously. "I haven't
the slightest idea what you're talking about! You must
have the wrong person."
  "You don't remember telling me to wait
outside?"
  "I am convinced you have me mixed up with someone
else."
  "Well, do you have long blonde hair?"
  She said simply, "Good night, Mr.
Hogan," and hung up.
  Marshall stood there a moment, then asked himself,
"C'mon, Hogan, what did you expect?"
  He dropped the receiver into the cradle and went out
into the front office where a question from Bernice grabbed
his attention.
  "So I'd like to know how you're finally going to corner
Langstrat," she quipped, flipping through some
papers at her desk.
  Marshall felt like his face must be awfully red.
  "Boy, your face is sure red," Bernice
confirmed.
  "Talking to too many temperamental people in one
night," he explained. "Langstrat was one of them.
Boy, I thought Harmel was bad!"
  Bernice turned around, excited. "You got
Langstrat on the phone?"
  "For all of thirty-two seconds. She had
absolutely nothing to say to me, and she
didn't remember kicking me out of her class."
  Bernice made a screwy face. "Isn't it
funny how no one seems to remember having any
encounters with us? Marshall, we must be invisible!"
  "How about very undesirable and very inconvenient?"
  "Well," Bernice said, going back to her
paperwork, "Professor Langstrat probably
has been very busy, too busy to talk to nosy
reporters..."
  A wad of paper bounced off her head. She
turned around and saw Marshall looking over some
lists. He looked like he couldn't possibly have
tossed that little projectile.
  He said, "Boy, I wonder if I could contact
Harmel again? But he won't talk either."
  The same wad of paper bounced off his ear. He
looked at Bernice and she was dead serious, all
business.
  "Well, it's obvious he knew too much.
It's my guess that both he and former Dean
Strachan are running good and scared."
  "Yeah." Marshall had a memory come to the
surface. "Harmel talked that way, warning me.
He said something like, I'd be out on my ear like
everybody else."
  "So who's everybody else?"
  "Yeah, who else do we know who could have been
removed?"
  Bernice looked over some of her notes.
"Well, you know, now that I look over this list,
none of these people have really been in their position for a very
long time."
  The wad of paper ricocheted off her head and
skittered across her desk.
  "So who did they replace?" Marshall asked.
  Bernice solemnly picked up the wad of paper
as she said, "We can check that out. In the meantime, the
most obvious thing to do is call Strachan and see
what" she hurled the wad at Marshall com8he has
to say!"
  Marshall grabbed the wad in midflight and quickly
crumpled another one to add to his arsenal, sending
them both back in Bernice's direction. Bernice
began to prepare an adequate counterattack.
  "All right," Marshall said, starting to crack up
with laughter, "I'll give him a ring." He was
suddenly in the middle of a blizzard of paper wads.
"But I think we'd better get out of here, my
wife's waiting."
  Bernice was not finished with the war yet, so
they finished it and then had to clean up before they could
leave.
  Rafar paced up and down the dark basement room,
chugging out hot breath that became a layer of cloud
obscuring him from the shoulders up. He pounded his
fists together, he tore invisible enemies in his
outstretched talons, he cursed and fumed.
  Lucius stood with the other warriors, waiting for
Rafar to calm down and give the reason for calling this
meeting. Lucius rather enjoyed the little scene before him.
Obviously Rafar, the great braggart, had been
cut down to size in his meeting with the Strongman!
Lucius could hardly keep a hideous smirk off
his face.
  "Wouldn't the little angel tell you where you could find
this... what was that name again?" Lucius asked, knowing
full well Tal's name.
  "TAL!" Rafar roared, and Lucius could
detect Rafar's humiliation at the very sound of the
name.
  "The little angel, the helpless little angel, told
you nothing?"
  Rafar's immediate response was a monstrous black
fist clamped instantly around Lucius's throat.
"Do you mock me, little imp?"
  Lucius had learned the right tone of groveling
to please this tyrant. "Oh, be not offended, great
one. I only seek your pleasure."
  "Then seek this Tal!" Rafar growled. He
released Lucius and turned to all the other demons
present. "All of you, seek this Tal! I want
him in my hands to shred him at my pleasure. This
battle could be settled easily between the two of us.
Find him! Bring me word!"
  Lucius tried to hide his words behind a whimpering
tone, but they were specially selected for another
purpose. "Indeed we shall, great one! But surely
this Tal must be a formidable foe to have routed you at the
fall of Babylon! Whatever will you do, should we find
him? Will you dare to assail him again?" Rafar
grinned, his fangs shining. "You will see what your
Ba-al can do!"
  "And may we not see what this Tal can do!"
  Rafar drew close to Lucius and stared him down
with fiery yellow orbs. "When I have vanquished this
Tal and hurled his little pieces across the skies as
my victory banner, I will most certainly give
you your chance to better me. I will relish every moment of
it."
  Rafar turned away, and for an instant the
whole room was filled with his black wings before he
shot upward through the building and into the sky.
  For hours afterwards as angels all over Ashton
watched from their hiding places, the Ba-al flew
slowly over the town like a sinister vulture, his
sword visible and challenging. Up, down, back and
forth he flew, weaving in among the downtown
buildings, then soaring high above the town in graceful
arcs.
  Down below, through the window of an obscure store
basement, Scion watched as Rafar passed
overhead again. He turned to his captain, who sat
nearby on some appliance crates with Guilo,
Triskal, and Mota. Triskal, with the help of
others, was getting himself patched up and back together
again.
  "I don't understand," said Scion. "What's he
think he's doin"?"
  Tal looked up from Triskal's wounds and said
matter-of-factly, "He's trying to draw me out."
  Mota added, "He wants the captain.
Apparently he has offered great honors to whatever
demon can find Captain Tal and report his
whereabouts."
  Guilo said gruffly, "The devils are
crawling all over the church with no other aim. It was
the first place they looked."
  Tal anticipated Scion's next question and
answered it. "Signa and the others are still there at the
church. We've tried to keep our guard there looking
as it usually does."
  Scion watched Rafar circle over the far
side of the town and come back for another pass.
"I'd have trouble bein' taunted by such as him!"
  Tal spoke the truth, without shame. "If I were
to meet him now I would most certainly lose, and he
knows it. Our prayer cover is insufficient-while
he has all the backing he needs."
  They could all hear the rushing of Rafar's huge,
leathery wings and see his shadow fall over the building
for an instant as he passed overhead.
  "We will all have to be very, very careful."
  Hank was walking through the town again, up and down the
streets and storefronts, driven by the Lord and
praying with every step he took. He had a feeling that
God had some particular purpose for this little jaunt,
but he couldn't begin to guess what it was.
  Krioni and Triskal walked on either side of
him; they had gotten some extra reserves to stay at
the house and watch over Mary. They were wary
and alert, and Triskal, still recovering from his recent
encounter with Rafar, felt especially edgy when he
considered where they were leading Hank.
  Hank took a turn he had never taken before,
down a street he had never looked at before, and
finally stopped outside a business establishment he
had only heard bad stories about but could never find.
He stood outside the door, staring, amazed at the
number of kids going in and out like bees. Finally he
stepped inside.
  Krioni and Triskal tried their very best to look
meek and nonthreatening as they followed him.
  The Cave was aptly named: the power it took
to run the rows upon rows of flickering, beeping video
games was made up for by the total absence of any
other lights, except a little blue globe here and
there in the black ceiling with an occasional watt
meandering through it. There was more sound than light; heavy
metal rock music pounded from speakers all around the
room and clashed painfully with the myriads of
electronic sounds tumbling out of the machines. One
lone proprietor sat behind his little cash register in
the corner, reading a girlie magazine whenever he
wasn't making change for the game players. Hank
had never seen so many quarters in one
place.
  Here were kids of all ages, with few other
places to go, congregating after school and all through the
weekends to hang out, hang on, play games,
pair up, wander off, do drugs, do sex, do
whatever. Hank knew this place was a hell hole;
it wasn't the machines, or the decor, or the
dimness-it was just the pungent spiritual stench of demons
having their heyday. He felt sick to his stomach.
  Krioni and Triskal could see hundreds of
narrowing yellow eyes peering at them from the corners and
dark hiding places of the room. Already they had heard
several metallic rings as blades were drawn and
made ready.
  "Do I look harmless enough?" Triskal
quietly asked. "They do not think you are harmless
anymore," Krioni said dryly.
  The two looked around at all the eyes looking
back at them. They smiled in a trucelike way,
raising their empty hands to show no intent of
hostility. The demons made no reply, but
several blades could be seen glowing in the dark.
  "So where is Seth?" Triskal asked.
  "On his way, I'm sure."
  Triskal tensed. Krioni followed his
look to see a surly demon approaching them. The
demon's hand was on his sword; he hadn't drawn
it, but plenty of other swords were drawn behind him.
  The black spirit looked the two angels up and
down and hissed, "You are not welcome here! What
is your business?"
  Krioni answered quickly and politely, "We
are watching over the man of God."
  The demon took one look at Hank and lost the
better portion of his cockiness. "Busche!" he
exclaimed nervously while those behind him backed
away. "What is he doing here?"
  "That's nothing we wish to discuss," said
Triskal.
  The demon only sneered. "Are you Triskal?"
  "I am."
  The demon laughed, coughing up puffs of red and
yellow. "You enjoy a fight, don't you?" Several
demons joined him in laughter.
  Triskal had no intention of answering. The
demon had no time to demand an answer. Suddenly
all the mocking spirits grew tense and agitated. Their
eyes darted about, and then like a flock of timid
birds they backed away and huddled in the dark
corners. At the same time Krioni and
Triskal could feel a new strength coursing through
them. They looked down at Hank.
  He was praying.
  "Dear Lord," he said silently, "help us
to reach these kids; help us to touch their lives."
  Hank was praying a very good time, considering the
commotion just coming in the back door. As demons
slinked away from the entrance, three of their comrades
came into the building wailing, hissing, and drooling,
their arms and wings over their heads. They were chased and
prodded along by a very tall and quite unshakable angelic
warrior.
  "Well," said Triskal, "Seth has brought us
Ron Forsythe and then some!"
  "I was afraid of that," said Krioni.
  Triskal was referring to a young man barely
visible under the three demons, a very confused and
disoriented victim of their destructive influence.
They clung to him like leeches, causing him to stagger
to and fro as they fought to avoid the goading tip of the
big warrior's sword. Seth had them under very tight
control, however, and he herded them right toward Hank
Busche.
  "Hey, Ron," said some guys at a bombardier
game.
  "Hey..." was all Ron answered, giving them a
slow, heavy wave of his hand. He did not seem very
happy.
  Hank heard the name and saw Ron Forsythe coming,
and for a moment he didn't know whether to remain where he
was or get out of harm's way. Ron was a tall,
spindly youth with long, unkempt hair, dirty
tee shirt and jeans, and eyes that seemed to be
looking into some other universe. He staggered toward
Hank, looking over his shoulder as if a flock of
birds was chasing him and then forward as if he were one
step from a cliff. Hank, watching him approach,
decided to remain right where he was. If the Lord
wanted the two of them to meet, well, it was about
to happen.
  Then Ron stopped short and leaned against a
road-racing game. The man standing in front of him
looked familiar.
  The demons clinging to Ron were shaking and whimpering,
shooting glances toward Seth behind them and Krioni and
Triskal in front of them. As for the other demons
in the room, they were itching for a fight. Their yellow
eyes shifted about and their red blades clattered, but
something held them back-that praying man.
  "Hi there," Hank said to the young man.
"I'm Hank Busche."
  Ron's glassy eyes widened. He stared at
Hank and said with slurred speech, "I've seen you
around. You're that preacher my folks keep talking
about."
  Hank was sure enough now to guess. "Ron? Ron
Forsythe?"
  Ron looked around and fidgeted as if he'd been
caught doing something illegal. "Yeah..."
  Hank stretched out his hand. "Well, God bless
you, Ron, I'm glad to meet you."
  The three demons snarled at that, but the three
warriors shifted their weight forward just a little and
kept them under control.
  "Divination," said Triskal, identifying one of the
demons.
  Divination clung to Ron with needle-sharp talons
and hissed, "And what is your business with us?"
  "The lad," said Krioni.
  "You can't tell us what to do!" another demon
squawked, its fists stubbornly clenched.
  "Rebellion?" Krioni asked.
  The demon did not deny it. "He belongs to us."
  The spirits in the room were getting braver, moving in
closer.
  "Let's get him out of here," said Krioni.
  Hank touched Ron on the shoulder and said, "Can
we step outside where we can visit for a minute?"
  Divination and Rebellion spoke together, "What
for?"
  Ron protested, "What for?"
  Hank just led him gently. "Come on," and they
went out the back door. Triskal remained in the
doorway, his hand on his sword. Only the demons
attached to Ron were allowed outside, constantly
corralled by Seth and Krioni.
  Ron sank onto a nearby bench like a rag
doll in slow motion. Hank put his hand on
Ron's shoulder and kept looking into those dazed
eyes, wondering where to start.
  "How are you feeling?" Hank finally asked. The
third demon enclosed Ron's head in his bulky,
slimy arms.
  The boys' head drooped toward his chest and he
almost nodded off, oblivious to Hank's words.
  The tip of Seth's sword got the demon's
attention.
  "What?" it screeched.
  "Sorcery?"
  The spirit laughed drunkenly. "All the
time, more and more. He'll never give it up!"
  Ron started to chuckle, feeling drugged and
silly.
  But Hank could feel something in his spirit, the same
horrible presence he had felt that one very frightening
night. Evil spirits? In such a young boy? Lord,
what can I do? What can I say?
  The Lord answered, and Hank knew what he had
to do.
  "Ron," he said, whether Ron heard him or not,
"can I pray for you?"
  Only Ron's eyes turned to look at
Hank, and Ron actually pleaded, "Yeah. Pray
for me, preacher."
  But the demons wanted no part of that. They all
cried into Ron's brain with one voice, "No, no,
no! You don't need that!"
  Ron suddenly stirred, his head rocked back and
forth, and he mumbled, "No, no ... don't
pray... I don't like that." Now Hank wondered
what Ron really wanted. Or was it even Ron who
was speaking?
  "I would like to pray for you, okay?" Hank asked,
just to check.
  "No, don't," Ron said, and then
pleaded, "Please pray, c'mon..."
  "Do it," Krioni prompted. "Pray!"
  "No!" the demons cried. "You can't make us
leave him!"
  "Pray," said Krioni.
  Hank knew he had better take charge of the
situation and pray for this boy. He already had his hand
on Ron, so he started praying very gently. "Lord
Jesus, I pray for Ron; please touch him,
Lord, and get through to his mind, and set him free from
these spirits that are hanging on to him."
  The spirits clung to Ron like spoiled brats and
whined at Hank's prayer. Ron moaned and shook
his head some more. He tried to get up, then he sat
down again and held Hank's arm. The Lord spoke
to Hank again, and Hank had a name. "Sorcery,
let go of him in the name of Jesus."
  Ron squirmed on the bench and cried out as if
stuck with a knife. Hank thought Ron would squeeze
his arm off.
  But Sorcery obeyed. He whined and hollered and
spit, but he obeyed, fluttering away into the nearby
trees.
  Ron gave an anguished sigh and looked at
Hank with eyes full of pain and
desperation. "C'mon, c'mon, you're doing it!"
  Hank was amazed. He took hold of Ron's
hand just to assure him and kept looking into those eyes.
They were clearer now. Hank could see an earnest,
pleading soul looking back at him. What next?
he asked the Lord.
  The Lord answered, and Hank had another name.
"Divination"
  Ron looked right at Hank, his eyes wild and
his voice hoarse. "No, not me, never!"
  But Hank didn't stop; he looked right
into Ron's eyes and said, "Divination, in Jesus'
name, let go."
  "No!" Ron protested, but then said just as quickly,
"Go on, Divination, get out! I don't want you
with me anymore!"
  Divination grudgingly obeyed. Thanks to this
praying man, oppressing Ron Forsythe wasn't
fun anymore.
  Ron relaxed again, sniffing back some tears.
  "It's funny. No, it's neat. It was just today
I was thinking I needed somebody to pray for me. I
just couldn't go on with all the stuff I've been
into." Hank knew what had happened. "It was the
Lord, I think, who set it up."
  "Nobody's prayed for me before."
  "I know your folks do all the time."
  "Well, yeah, they do."
  "And the rest of us at the church, too. We're
all pulling for you."
  Ron took his first clear-eyed look at Hank.
"So you're my folks' pastor, huh? I thought you
were older than that."
  "Not too much older," Hank quipped.
  "Are the other people at the church like you?"
  Hank chuckled. "We're all just people; we have our
good points and our bad points, but we all have
Jesus, and He gives us a special love for
each other."
  They talked. They talked about school, the town,
Ron's folks, drugs in general and particular,
Hank's church, the Christians who were around, and
Jesus. Ron began to notice that no matter what
the subject or the issue, Hank had a way of
bringing Jesus into it. Ron didn't mind. This
wasn't like a phony sales pitch; Hank
Busche really believed that Jesus was the answer
to everything.
  So, after talking about everything else with Jesus
brought into it, Ron let Hank talk about
Jesus, just Jesus. It wasn't dull. Hank
could really get excited about Him.

  Nathan and Armoth flew high above the beautiful
summer countryside, following the speeding Buick.
Things were definitely quieter out here, away from
strife-torn Ashton. Still, neither one felt
entirely comfortable about the two passengers in the car
below; although the heavenly escorts weren't yet
certain, they had a feeling that a covert plot on the
part of Rafar and his guerrillas might be underway.
Marshall and his good-looking young reporter were too
critical a combination for those devils to pass up.
  Former college dean Eldon Strachan lived
on a quaint and unpretentious ten-acre farm an
hour away from Ashton. He was not farming the place,
just living there, and as Marshall and Bernice drove
up the long gravel driveway they could tell his
interests extended no further than the immediate yard of the
white farmhouse. The lawn was small and
manicured, the fruit trees pruned and bearing, the
flower beds soft with freshly turned and weeded soil.
Some chickens meandered about, pecking and scratching, A
collie greeted their approach with furious barking.
  "Wow, a normal human being
to interview for once," said Marshall.
  "That's why he moved out of Ashton," said
Bernice.
  Strachan stepped onto his porch as the collie
ran and barked beside him.
  "Hi there!" he called to Marshall and Bernice
as they got out of the car. "Quiet down now,
Lady," he added to the collie. Lady never
obeyed such commands.
  Strachan was a healthy, white-haired fellow who
got plenty of exercise on this place, and showed it.
He wore work clothes and still carried a pair of
garden gloves in his hand.
  Marshall extended his hand for a good firm handshake.
So did Bernice. They exchanged introductions,
and then Strachan invited them around the barking Lady and
into the house.
  "Doris," Strachan called, "Mr. Hogan
and Miss Krueger are here."
  Within minutes Doris, a sweet and rotund little
grandma type, had set the coffee table with tea,
coffee, rolls, and goodies, and they were having a
pleasant conversation about the farm, the countryside, the
weather, the neighbor's wandering cow. They all knew
it was obligatory and besides, the Strachans
were very pleasant people to talk and visit with.
  Finally Eldon Strachan introduced the
transitional sentence: "Yes, I suppose things
in Ashton aren't quite this nice."
  Bernice got out her notepad as Marshall said,
"Yeah, and I kind of hate to drag it all out here
with us."
  Strachan smiled and said philosophically, "You
can run but you can't hide." He looked out the window
at the trees backed by endless blue sky and said,
"I always have wondered if just leaving it all was the right
thing. But what else could I do?"
  Marshall double-checked his notes. "Let's see
now. You told me on the telephone when you left"
  "In late June, about a year ago."
  "And Ralph Kuklinski took your place."
  "And he's still there, I understand."
  "Yes, still there. Was he in on any of this-this
"Inner Circle" stuff? I don't know what
else to call it."
  Strachan thought for a moment. "I don't know for
sure, but I wouldn't be surprised if he was.
He really had to be one of the group to be put in as
dean."
  "So there really is some kind of in
group," so to speak?"
  "Absolutely. That became pretty obvious
after a while. All the regents were becoming like peas in
a pod, like clones of each other. They all acted the
same, talked the same..."
  "Except for you?"
  Strachan laughed a little. "I guess I just
didn't fit into the club very well. As a matter of
fact I became a definite outsider, even an
enemy, and I think that's why they fired me."
  "I suppose you're talking about that fracas over
the college funds?"
  "Exactly." Strachan had to resift his
memory. "I never suspected anything until we
started having some unexplained disbursement delays.
Our bills were being paid late, our payrolls were
behind. It wasn't even my job to be hounding after that
sort of thing, but when I started getting some indirect
complaints-you know, hearing others talking about it-I
asked Baylor what the problem was. He never
directly answered my questions, or at least I
didn't like the sound of his answers. That's when I
asked an independent accountant, a friend of a friend,
to look into it and maybe do some quick scanning of what the
accounting office was doing. I don't know how
he ever got access to the information, but he was a clever
character and he found a way."
  Bernice was ready with a question. "Can we have his name?"
  Strachan answered with a shrug. "Johnson.
Ernie Johnson."
  "How do we reach him?"
  "I'm afraid he's dead."
  That was a letdown. Marshall grabbed at a
hope. "Did he leave you any records, anything
written down?"
  Strachan only shook his head. "If he did,
those records were lost. Why do you think I've been
sitting out here so silently? Listen, I even know
Norm Mattily, the state attorney general,
pretty well, and I thought of going to him and telling
him what was going on. But let's face it, those big
folks at the top don't give you the time of day
unless you have some really substantial proof. It's
tough to get the authorities to stick their necks out.
They just won't do it."
  "All right... so what was it that Ernie Johnson
found?" "He came back horrified. According to his
findings, monies from grants and tuitions were being
reinvested at an alarming rate, but apparently there
were no dividends or returns of any
kind from whatever the investments were, as if the money
had been poured down a bottomless well somewhere. The
figures had been juggled to cover it up, accounts
payable had been staggered so that other accounts could be
dipped into to pay those due... it was just one colossal
mess." "A mess worth millions?"
  "At least. The college money had been leaking
out in large amounts for years, with no clues as to where
it was going. Somewhere out there was a money-hungry
monster gobbling up all the college's assets."
  "And that's when you called for the audit." "And
Eugene Baylor hit the ceiling. The whole thing
went from professional to personal in an instant and
we became intense enemies. And that convinced me all
the more that the college was in big trouble and that Baylor
had a lot to do with it. But of course there's nothing
Baylor does that all the others don't know about.
I'm sure they're all aware of the problem, and it's
my feeling that their unanimous vote for my
resignation was a common conspiracy."
  "But to what end?" asked Bernice. "Why would they
want to undermine the college's financial base?"
  Strachan could only shake his head. "I don't
know what they're trying to do, but unless there's something
else hidden somewhere to explain where these
funds are going and how the losses are going to be
made up, that college is most certainly headed for
bankruptcy. Kuklinski must know that. As far as
I know, he was in total agreement with the financial
policies and with my resignation."
  Marshall flipped to some other notes. "So just how
does our kind Professor Langstrat figure
into all this?"
  Strachan had to chuckle. "Ah, the dear
professor..." He considered the question for a moment.
"She was always a definite influence and mentor, to be
sure, but... I don't think she's the ultimate
center of things. It seemed to me that she had a lot
to do with controlling the group while someone higher up had
a lot to do with controlling her. I think-I think
she's answering to someone, some unseen authority."
  "But you've no idea who?"
  Strachan shook his head.
  "So what else do you know about her?"
  Strachan searched his memory. "A graduate of
UCLA... she taught at other universities before
she came to Whitmore. She's been on the
faculty for at least six years. I do recall that
she always had a strong interest in Eastern
philosophy and occultism. She was once
involved in some kind of neo-pagan religious
group in California. But you know, I never realized
until maybe three years ago that she was openly
declaring her beliefs to her classes, and I was rather
surprised to find that her teachings had aroused a lot of
interest. Her beliefs and practices were not only
spreading among the students, but also among the
faculty."
  "Who on the faculty?" Marshall asked.
  Strachan shook his head in disgust. "It started
years before I was aware of it, in the Psychology
Department among Langstrat's associates.
Margaret Islander-you may know of her"
  "I believe my friend Ruth Williams does,"
said Bernice.
  "I think she was the first to be initiated
into Langstrat's group, but she'd always had an
interest in psychics like Edgar Cayce, so she was a
natural."
  "Anyone else?" Marshall prodded.
  Strachan pulled out a hastily scrawled list and
let Marshall have a look at it. "I've gone
over and over this in the months since I left. Here.
Here's a list of most of the Psychology
Department..." He pointed out a few
names. "Trevor Corcoran is new on the staff
this year. He even studied in India before he came
here to teach. Juanita Janke replaced Kevin
Ford... well, as a matter of fact, a lot of people
were replaced over the past few years. We had a
lot of turnover." Marshall noted another portion
of the list. "So who are these people?"
  "The Humanities Department, and then the
Philosophy Department, and these down here are in the
biology and premed programs. A lot of them are
new as well. We had a lot of turnover."
  "That's the second time you've said that," Bernice
observed.
  Strachan stared at her. "What are you thinking?"
  Bernice took the list from Marshall and placed it
in front of Strachan again. "Well, tell us now.
How many of these people have come on staff during the last
six years, during the time Langstrat's been there?"
  Strachan took a second, more critical look
at the list. "Jones ... Conrad... Witherspoon
... Epps ..." An overwhelming percentage of the
names were those of new faculty members, who had
replaced former members who had resigned or whose
contracts had simply not been renewed. "Well,
isn't that odd?" "I would say that's
odd," Bernice agreed. Strachan was visibly
shaken. "All the turnover... I was getting very
concerned about it, but I never even considered ... This
would explain a lot of things. I knew there was some
kind of common interest spreading among all these people;
they all seemed to have a very unique and undefinable
rapport with each other-their own lingo, their own inside
secrets, their own ideas of reality-and it seemed no
one person could do anything without everyone else knowing
about it. I thought it was a fad, a sociological
phase" He looked up from the list with a new
awareness in his eyes. "So it was more than that. Our
campus was invaded and our faculty displaced by a-a
madness!"
  For just a moment Marshall had a flashback, a
quick, fleeting memory of his daughter Sandy saying,
"People around here are starting to act weird. I think
we're being invaded by aliens." That memory was
immediately followed by Kate's voice over the phone:
"I'm concerned about Sandy... she just isn't the same
old Sandy anymore..."
  Marshall snapped out of it and began leafing through his
materials. He finally found the old list Bernice
had gotten from Albert Darr. "All right, what about
these classes Langstrat was teaching:
'Introduction to God and Goddess Consciousness and the
Craft... The Sacred Medicine Wheel ...
Spells and Rituals... Pathways to Your Inner
Light, Meet Your Own Spiritual Guides"?"
  Strachan nodded with recognition. "It all began
as part of an alternative education program,
purely a voluntary thing for any interested
students, paid for by special tuitions. I just thought it
was a study of folklore, myths, traditions"
"But I guess they were taking this stuff pretty
seriously." "Ehh, so it seems, and now we have a
great percentage of the staff and the student body...
bewitched."
  "Including the regents?"
  Strachan did some fresh thinking. "Get ready for
this. I think the same kind of upheaval happened on
the board of regents as well. There are twelve
regent positions altogether, and five, I think, have been
suddenly and abruptly replaced in the last year and a
half. How else could the vote for my resignation be
unanimous? I used to have some very loyal friends on that
board."
  "What are their names, and where have they gone?"
Bernice started writing the names down as Strachan
recalled them, along with any other information
he could provide about each person. Jake
Abemathy had died, Morris James had gone
bankrupt in a business and moved to another job,
Fred Ainsworth, George Olson, and Rita
Jacobson had all left Ashton with no word as
to where they had gone.
  "And that," said Strachan, "takes care of just about
everyone. There are none left but initiates into this
strange mystical group."
  "Including Kuklinski, the new dean,"
Bernice added. "And Dwight Brandon, the owner of the
land." "And what about Ted Harmel?" Marshall
asked. Strachan tightened his lips, looked at the
floor, and sighed. "Yes. He did try to back
out, but by then they'd already entrusted too much information
to him. When they found they couldn't control him
anymore-he has myself and our friendship to blame for
that-they arranged to defame him and chase him out of town
with that ridiculous scandal." "Hmmmm," said
Bernice. "A conflict of interest." "Of course.
He kept telling me it was a fascinating new sence
of the human mind, and he claimed he was only after a
story, but he just kept getting more and more wrapped up
in it, and they wooed him, I'm sure. I heard him
say that they had promised him great success
with his newspaper because he had aligned himself with
them..."
  Marshall had another flashback: he saw
Brummel looking at him with those numbing gray
eyes, saying sweetly, "Marshall, we'd like to know
that you'll be standing with us..."
  Strachan was still talking.
  Marshall woke up and said, "Uh, excuse me,
what was that again?"
  "Oh," said Strachan, "I was just saying that Ted
became torn between two loyalties: first and foremost
he was loyal to the truth and to his friends, and that
included me. His other loyalty was to the Langstrat
group and their philosophies and practices. I
guess he thought that the truth was inviolable and the press
would always be free, but, whatever the reason, he began
to print stories about the financial problems. And that
was definitely stepping over the line as far as the
regents were concerned."
  "Yes," Bernice recalled. "Now I
remember him saying they were trying to control him and
dictate what he printed. He was really mad about
it."
  "Well, of course," said Strachan, "when it
came down to principles, regardless of
what so-called science or metaphysical
philosophies he may have been interested in, Ted
was still a newspaperman and would not be intimidated."
Strachan sighed and looked at the floor. "So,
I'm afraid he got caught in the crossfire of
my battle with the college regents. Consequently
we both lost our positions, our good standing in the
community, everything. I guess you could say I was
well content to leave it all behind. It was impossible
to fight it."
  Marshall disliked that kind of talk. "Are they-is
this thing-really that strong?"
  Strachan was deadly serious. "I don't think
I ever realized how vast and strong it really was, and
I guess I'm still finding out. Mr. Hogan, I
have no idea what the final goal of these people is, but
I'm beginning to see that nothing standing in their way can
escape being stamped out, eliminated. Even as we
sit here I can look back over the years, and, not
even considering our faculty turnover, I'm
frightened to think of how many other people around Ashton have just
dropped out of sight." Joe, the supermarket owner,
Marshall thought. And what about Edie? Strachan was
looking a little pale now, and asked with obvious
worry in his voice, "Just what do you people
intend to do with this information?"
  Marshall had to be honest. "I don't know yet.
There are too many missing pieces, too many
assumptions. I don't have anything I can print."
  "You do remember what happened to Ted? You are
keeping that in mind?"
  Marshall didn't want to think about that. He
wanted to find out something else. "Ted wouldn't talk
to me."
  "He's scared."
  "Scared of what?"
  "Of them, of the system that destroyed him. He knows
more about their weird goings-on than I do; he knows enough
to be a lot more afraid than I am, and I
believe his fears are justified. I do believe
there's a genuine danger here."
  "Well, does he ever talk to you?"
  "Sure, about anything besides what you're after."
  "But the two of you are in touch?"
  "Yes. We fish, we hunt, we meet for
lunch. He isn't far from here."
  "Could you call him?"
  "You mean, call him and put in a plug for you?"
  "That's exactly what I mean."
  Strachan answered cautiously,
"Hey, he may not want to talk, and I can't push
him."
  "But will you just call him, see if he'll talk
to me one more time?"
  "I'll... I'll think about it, but that's all I
can promise you."
  "I'd appreciate even that."
  "But, Mr. Hogan..." Strachan reached over
and grabbed Marshall's arm. He looked at both
Marshall and Bernice and said very quietly, "You people
watch out for yourselves. You're not invincible. None of the
rest of us were, and I believe it's possible
to lose everything if you make just one wrong move or
take just one wrong step. Please, please be sure
at every moment you know exactly what you're doing."
  At the Clarion, Tom, the paste-up man, was
getting the usual ads, fillers, and completed
galleys into the Tuesday edition when the bell over
the front door jingled. He had better things to do
than deal with callers, but with Hogan and Bernice out
on their mysterious mission of intrigue, he was the
only remaining fort-holder-downer. Boy, he wished
Edie had stuck around. The paper got to be more of a
shambles every day and, whatever wild goose chase
Hogan and Bernice were on, it took their
attention away from the many tasks piling up around the
place.
  "Hello?" called a woman's sweet voice.
Tom grabbed a shop cloth to wipe his hands and
hollered back, "Hold on, I'm coming."
  He scurried up the narrow passage to the front
office and saw a very attractive and neatly
dressed young woman standing at the counter. She smiled
when she saw him. Ah yes, thought Tom, if I were
only young again.
  "Hello there," he said, still wiping his hands on the
shop cloth. "What can I do for you?"
  The young lady said, "I read your ad for a
secretary and general office manager. I've come
to apply."
  It had to be an angel, Tom thought. "Boy,
if you can cut it, let me tell you, there's sure a
job to be had around here!"
  "Well, I'm ready to start," she said with a bright
smile. Tom made sure his hand was clean enough and then
extended it. "Tom McBride, paste-up man and
general worrier."
  She shook his hand firmly and said her name,
"Carmen." "Pleased to meet you, Carmen. Uh...
Carmen who?" She laughed at her lapse
of mind and said, "Oh, Carmen Fraser. I get so
used to just going by my first name." Tom swung the little
gate open at the end of the counter and Carmen followed
him into the office area.
  "Let me show you what the devil's going on
here," he said.

  In the faraway secluded valley, in the little
cluster of unlabeled buildings hidden by rocky
crags, a hurried transition was in full swing.
  In the office complex, sitting at desks and
worktables, scurrying up and down the aisles, dashing
in and out the doors, running up and down the
stairways, over two hundred people of all ages,
descriptions, and nationalities were typing letters, going
through files, checking records, balancing accounts,
chattering on telephones in different languages.
Maintenance people in blue coveralls brought in large
stacks of boxes and crates on handtrucks, and the
office workers meticulously began to fill the
boxes with the contents of the file cabinets, with any
office paraphernalia not immediately needed, with other
books and records.
  Outside, trucks were being loaded with the crates as
more maintenance people driving little grounds
tractors went about the complex, shutting down various
hookups and utilities and boarding up any
buildings no longer occupied.
  Nearby, on the porch of the big stone house at the
edge of the grounds, a woman stood watching. She was
tall and slender, with long, jet-black hair; she
wore black, loose-fitting clothes, and she
clutched her shoulder bag close to her side with
pale, trembling hands. She looked this way and that,
evidently trying to relax herself. She took a few
deep breaths. She reached into her bag and brought out a
pair of dark sunglasses with which she covered her
eyes. Then she stepped down from the porch and started
across the plaza toward the office building.
  Her steps were firm and deliberate, her eyes
remained straight ahead. A few office
personnel passed and saluted her, pressing their
palms together in front of their chins and bowing
slightly. She nodded at them and kept walking.
  The office staff saluted her in the same way as
she entered and she smiled at them, not speaking a word.
Upon receiving her smile, they returned to their feverish
work. The office manager, a well-dressed woman
with tightly pinned hair, stepped up, gave a
slight bow and said, "Good morning. What
does the Maidservant require?"
  The Maidservant smiled and said, "I'd like
to run off some copies."
  "I can do it immediately."
  "Thank you. I'd like to run them off myself."
  "Certainly. I'll warm up the machine for you."
The woman scurried toward a small room off to the
side, and the Maidservant followed. Several
accountants and filing clerks, some oriental, some
East Indian, some European, bowed as she passed
and then went back to their consultations with each other. The
office manager had the copier ready in less than
a minute.
  "Thank you, you may go now," said the
Maidservant.
  "Certainly," answered the woman. "I am at
your disposal if you have any problems or questions."
  "Thank you."
  The manager left and the Maidservant closed the
door behind her, shutting out the rest of the office and any
intrusions. Then, quickly, the Maidservant reached
into her bag and brought out a small book. She leafed
through it, skimming over the handwritten pages until
she found what she was looking for. Then, laying the
book open and face down on the copier,
she started pressing the buttons and copying page after
page.
  Forty pages later she turned off the machine,
folded the copies neatly, and placed them in a
compartment of her bag, along with the little book. She
left the office directly and went back to the big
stone house.
  The house was majestic in its size and decor,
with a large stone hearth and soaring, rough-beamed
ceilings. The Maidservant hurried up the
thickly-carpeted staircase to her bedroom and
closed the door behind her.
  Placing the little book on her stately antique
vanity, she opened a drawer and pulled out some brown
wrapping paper and twine. The paper already had a name
written on it, the addressee: Alexander M.
Kaseph. The return address included the name
J. Langstrat. She quickly rewrapped the book
as if it had never been opened, then bound the package
with string.
  Elsewhere in the house, in a very large office, a
middleaged, roundly built man dressed in loose
trousers and tunic sat Indian fashion on a
large cushion. His eyes were closed, his breathing
deep. The fine furnishings of a man of
great prestige and power surrounded him: souvenirs from
around the world, such as swords, war clubs,
African artifacts, religious relics, and
several rather grotesque idols of the East; a
battleship of a desk with built-in computer
console, multilined telephone, and an intercom; a
long, deep-cushioned couch with matching hand-carved
oak chairs and coffee table; hunting trophies of
bear, elk, moose, and lion.
  Without hearing a knock, the man spoke loftily.
"Come in, Susan."
  The big oak door opened silently and the
Maidservant entered, carrying the brown paper
package.
  Without opening his eyes, the man said, "Put it on
my desk."
  The Maidservant did so, and the man began to stir
from his motionless position, opening his eyes and stretching
his arms as if awakening from sleep.
  "So you finally found it," he said with a teasing
smile.
  "It was there all the time. With all the packing and
rearranging it got shoved over in a corner."
  The man rose from his cushion, stretched his legs,
and walked a few laps around the office.
"I really don't know what it is," he said as if
answering a question.
  "I didn't wonder," said the Maidservant.
  He smiled condescendingly and said, "Oh, maybe
not, but it felt like you did." He went up behind her and
placed his hands on her shoulders, speaking in her ear.
"Sometimes I can read you so very well, and sometimes you
drift away. You've been feeling so troubled
lately. Why?"
  "Oh, all the moving, I guess, the
upheaval."
  He put his arms around her waist and held her
close as he said, "Don't let it bother you.
We're going to a far better place. I have a
house all picked out. You'll love it."
  "I grew up in that town, you know."
  "No. No, not really. It won't be the same
town at all, not as you remember it. It will be
better. But you don't believe that, do you?"
  "As I said, I grew up in Ashton"
  "And all you wanted was to get out of there!"
  "So you can understand why my feelings are confused."
  He twirled her around and laughed playfully as
he looked into her eyes. "Yes, I know! On the
one hand, you have no desire at all for the
town, and on the other hand, you sneak off to attend the
carnival."
  She blushed a little and looked at the floor. "I
was searching for something from my past, something from which to envision
my future."
  He held her hand and said, "There is no past.
You should have stayed with me. I hold the answers for you
now."
  "Yes, I can see that. I couldn't before."
  He laughed and went behind his desk. "Well, good,
good. We don't need any more meetings held in
hiding places behind a noisy carnival. You should have
seen how embarrassed our friends were to have to meet there."
  "But why did you even have to come looking for me? Why
did you have to drag them along?"
  He sat at the desk and began handling a
wicked-looking ceremonial knife with a golden
handle and razor-sharp blade.
  Looking over the edge of the blade at her, he
said, "Because, dear Maidservant, I do not trust
you. I love you, I am one in essence with you,
but..." He held the knife up to the level of his
eye and peered down the edge of the blade at her, his
eyes as sharply cutting as the knife. "I do not
trust you. You are a woman given to many
conflicting passions." "I cannot harm the Plan. I
am only one person among myriads."
  He rose and came around to the side of the desk where
other knives were stuck into the carved head of some
pagan idol.
  "You, dear Susan, share my life, my
secrets, my purposes. I have to protect my
interests."
  With that, he dropped the knife, point first and it
thudded into the idol's head.
  She smiled in acquiescence and sidled up to him,
giving him an alluring kiss. "I am, and will always
be, yours," she said.
  He gave her a sly smile, and the cutting look
never left his eyes as he answered, "Yes. Of
course you are."
  High above the valley, amid the rocks and
crevices of the mountaintops, two figures concealed
themselves. One, the silver-haired man who had been
here before, continually watched the activity below. He was
stately and mighty, his piercing eyes full of
wisdom.
  The other was Tal, the Captain of the Host.
  "This is what you're looking for," said the
silver-haired man. "Rafar had business
there only days ago."
  Tal peered down into the valley. The swarms of
black demons were too numerous to even estimate.
  "The Strongman?" he asked.
  "Undoubtedly, with a cloud of guards and warriors
all around him. We've been unable to penetrate it
yet."
  "And she's right in the middle of it!"
  "The Spirit has been steadily opening her eyes and
calling her. She is close to the
Strongman-dangerously close. The prayers of the
Remnant have placed a blindness and stupor on the
demonic hosts all around her. At present it will
buy you time, but little more."
  Tal grimaced. "My general, it will take more
than a stupor for us to break through to her. We can
barely hold the town of Ashton, much less take
on the Strongman directly."
  "And you can only expect this buildup to worsen.
Their numbers increase tenfold each day."
  "Yes, they are preparing, that's for certain."
  "But at the same time, her conflicts continue
to grow. Soon she won't be able to conceal her true
feelings and intentions from her lord down there. Tal, she
has learned of the suicide."
  Tal looked directly at the general. "I
understand she and Patricia were very close."
  The general nodded. "It jolted her, which made her
more receptive. But her time of safety is
limited. Here's your next step. The Universal
Consciousness Society is holding a special
fund-raising and promotional dinner in New York
for its many cohorts and members in the United
Nations. Kaseph can't attend because of his present
activities here. He will send Susan, however,
to represent him. She'll be closely escorted,
but this will be the one time she'll be out from under the
Strongman's demonic cover. The Spirit knows she
plans to get away and make contact with one remaining
friend on the outside, who can in turn contact your
newspaperman. She'll take that chance, Tal. You
must arrange for her to succeed."
  Tal's first response was, "Is there prayer
cover in New York?"
  "You will have it."
  Tal looked at the swarms below. "And they must not
find out..."
  "No. They must not suspect anything has
happened until you can get Susan out for good. They
would destroy her if they knew."
  "And who is the friend?"
  "His name is Kevin Weed, a former
classmate and boyfriend."
  "To work, then. I have some more prayer to gather in."
"Godspeed, dear captain!"
  Tal climbed behind some large rocks for concealment
before he unfurled his wings. Then, with the silence and
grace of a drifting cloud, he floated up over the
mountaintop. Once he had cleared the summit and
could no longer be seen by any of the swarms in the
valley, his wings snapped into a rushing pattern and
he shot forward like a bullet, trailing a
brilliant arc of light across the sky and over the
horizon.
  Marshall and Bernice drove through the forested
countryside in the big brown Buick, talking about
themselves, their pasts, their families, and anything else
that came to mind. They were getting tired of only
talking about business anyway, and finding it enjoyable
to share each other's company.
  "I grew up Presbyterian," said Marshall.
"Now I don't know what I am."
  "My folks were Episcopalian," said
Bernice. "I don't think I was ever anything.
They dragged me along to church every Sunday,
and I couldn't wait to get out of there."
  "I didn't mind it that much. I had a good
Sunday school teacher."
  "Yeah, maybe that's where I missed out. I never
went to Sunday school."
  "Aw, I think a kid needs to know something about
God."
  "What if God doesn't exist?"
  "See what I mean? You never went to Sunday
school!"
  The Buick came to a crossroads, and a sign
indicated the way back to Ashton was to the left.
Marshall turned left.
  Bernice answered one of Hogan's questions.
"Nope, no parents alive anymore. Dad died
in '76 and Mom died... let's see, two years
ago."
  "That's too bad."
  "And then I lost my only sibling,
Patricia."
  "Is that right! Boy, I'm sorry."
  "It's a lonely world out there sometimes ..."
  "Yeah, I suppose... and I wonder who there
is to meet in Ashton?"
  She only looked at him and said,
"I'm not hunting, Marshall."
  About a mile ahead of them was a wide spot in the
road referred to as Baker, a little town indicated
by the smallest possible dot on the map. It was one
of those typical roadsides where truckers and
four-wheeling hunters drop in for black coffee and
cold eggs. Blink just once and you'd miss it.
  Above the Buick, whisking just over the tops of the
trees, Nathan and Armoth kept a careful eye
on the vehicle, their wings rushing in an even
pattern and their bodies trailing two streaks of
diamond-studded light.
  "So this is where it all begins," said Nathan with a
playful tone.
  "And you have been chosen to strike the blow,"
responded Armoth.
  Nathan smiled. "Child's play."
  Armoth teased him a little. "I'm sure Tal could
pick someone else who would like the honor"
  Nathan drew his sword, and it flashed like a
lightning bolt. "Oh no, dear Armoth! I've
waited long enough. I'll take it." Nathan
banked away from Armoth, dropped down over the
roadway as it wound through the tall trees, and began
to keep pace with the car, flying lazily about
thirty feet above it. He kept his eye on the little
town of Baker now approaching, made a quick
judgment as to the coasting distance the car could travel, and
then, at the right moment, he hurled his sword like a
fiery spear downward. The sword traveled a
perfect trajectory and shot through the hood of the car.
The engine died.
  "Nuts!" said Marshall, shifting quickly
into neutral. "What's wrong?" Bernice asked.
"Something's broke."
  Marshall tried to restart the engine as the car
continued to coast along. No response.
  "Probably electrical..." he muttered.
"Better pull over at that station." "Yeah, I
know, I know."
  The Buick limped into the little filling station in
Baker and rolled to a stop right at the front door.
Marshall opened the hood.
  "I'm going to excuse myself," said Bernice.
"Go for me too, will you?" Marshall said crossly,
looking here and there around the engine compartment.
  Bernice went to the next little building, The
Evergreen Tavern. Age and settling were slowly
swallowing it from the bottom up, and one end was badly
sunken, the paint on the front door was
peeling. The neon beer logo in the window still worked,
though, and the jukebox inside was twanging some country
hit.
  Bernice pushed the door open-the bottom
scraped a worn arc across the linoleum-and went
inside, twisting her nose a little at the blue
cigarette smoke that had replaced the air. Just a
few men sat in the establishment, probably the first
of the logging crews getting off work. They were talking
loudly, swapping stories, cussing it up.
Bernice looked directly toward the back of the
room, trying to find the little Men and Women signs.
Yes, there were Restrooms.
  One of the men at a nearby table said, "Hey,
baby, how's it goin'?"
  Bernice wasn't going to even look in his
direction, but did just happen to give him a glance and
an appropriately dirty look. A little too
much local color in this place, she thought.
  She slowed her walk. Her eyes locked on
him. He looked back at her with a boozy,
lazy-eyed smile on his bearded face.
  Another man said, "Looks like you got her
attention, buddy."
  Bernice kept looking at him. She
approached the table and took an even closer look.
The hair was long and tangled, bound into a ponytail
with a rubber band. The eyes were glassy and now heavily
lined. But she knew this man.
  The man's friend said, "Good evening, ma'am.
Don't let him bother you, he's just having a good
time, right, Weed?"
  "Weed?" Bernice asked. "Kevin Weed?"
  Kevin Weed just looked up at her, enjoying the
view and saying little. Finally he said, "Can I buy
you a beer?"
  Bernice came closer to him, made sure he
could clearly see her face. "Do you remember me?
Bernice Krueger?" Weed only looked
puzzled. "Do you remember Pat Krueger?"
  A light slowly began to dawn in Weed's
face. "Pat Krueger ...? Who are you?"
  "I'm Bernice, Pat's sister. Do you
remember me? We met a couple of times. You and
Pat's roommate were going together."
  Weed brightened and smiled, and then he cursed and
excused himself. "Bernice Krueger! Pat's
sister!" He cursed again, and excused himself again.
"What're you doin' in this place?"
  "Just passing through. And I will take a
small Coke, thank you."
  Weed smiled and looked at his friends. Their eyes
and mouths were getting wide, and they were starting to laugh.
Weed said with a leer, "I think it's time you boys
found another table..."
  They gathered up their hard hats and lunch boxes
and laughed. "Yeah, you got it, Weed."
  "Dan," Weed hollered, "a small Coke for the
lady here."
  Dan had to stare for a moment at the nice girl who
had come into a place like his. He got the Coke and
brought it to her.
  "So what have you been doing?" Weed asked her.
  Bernice had her pen and notebook out. She
told him a little about what she had been doing and what
she was doing now. Then she said, "I haven't seen you
since before Pat's death."
  "Hey, I'm really sorry about that."
  "Kevin, can you tell me anything about it? What do
you know?"
  "Nothing much... no more than what I read in the
papers."
  "What about Pat's roommate? Do you hear from
her anymore?" Bernice noticed Weed's eyes
widen and his mouth drop open the moment she
mentioned the girl.
  "Man, this world is getting smaller all the time!"
he said.
  "You saw her?" Bernice couldn't believe her
good fortune.
  "Well, yeah, sort of."
  "When?" Bernice insisted.
  "But just for a little while."
  "Where? When?" Bernice was having a very
difficult time holding herself back.
  "I saw her at the carnival."
  "In Ashton?"
  "Yeah, yeah, in Ashton. I just ran into her.
She called my name, and I turned around and there she
was."
  "What did she say? Did she say where she's
living now?"
  Weed fidgeted a little. "Man, I don't know.
I don't really care. She dumped me, you know,
ran off with that other goon. She was even with him that
night."
  "What was her name again?"
  "Susan. Susan Jacobson. She's a real
heartbreaker, she is."
  "Do you have any idea-did she give you
any idea of where I might find her? I have to talk
to her about Pat. She might know something."
  "Man, I don't know. She didn't talk
to me for very long at all. She was in a hurry, had
to meet her new boyfriend or something. She wanted my
phone number, that was about it."
  Bernice couldn't let go of her hope. Not yet.
"Are you sure she didn't give you some idea of
where she's living now, or any way to get in touch with
her?" Weed shrugged drunkenly. "Kevin, I've
been trying to find her for ages! I've got to talk
to her!"
  Weed was bitter. "Talk to her boyfriend, that fat
little geezer with all the bucks!"
  No, no, that wasn't really a legitimate
hunch that ran through Bernice's mind. Or was it?
  "Kevin," she said, "what did Susan look like
that night?"
  He was staring off into space, like a drunken and
jilted lover. "Foxy," he said. "Long, black
hair, black dress, sexy shades."
  Bernice felt her stomach tighten into a knot as
she said, "And what about her boyfriend? Did you see
him?"
  "Yeah, later. Susan acted like she
didn't even know me when he came into the
picture."
  "Well, what did he look like?"
  "Like some wimp from Fat City. It had to have been
his money, that's why Susan latched on to him."
  Bernice picked up her pen in a shaking hand.
"What's your phone number?"
  He gave it to her.
  "Address?"
  He mumbled that off too.
  "Now, you say she asked you for your phone
number?"
  "Yeah, I don't know why. Maybe things aren't
working out with loverboy."
  "Did you give it to her?"
  "Yeah. Maybe I'm a sucker, but yeah, I
did."
  "So she just might be calling you."
  He shrugged.
  "Kevin ..." Bernice gave him one of her
cards. "Listen carefully to me. Are you listening?"
  He looked at her and said yes.
  "If she calls, if you hear anything from her at
all, please give her my name and number and tell
her I want to talk to her. Get her
number so I can call her. Will you do that?"
  He took the card and nodded. "Yeah, sure."
  She finished her Coke and prepared to leave. He
looked at her with his dull, glassy eyes.
  "Hey, you doin' anything tonight?"
  "If you hear from Susan, call me. We'll have
plenty to talk about then."
  He looked at her card again. "Yeah, sure."
  A few moments later Bernice was back at the
filling station just in time to see Marshall start the car
up. The old and bent station owner was looking at the
engine and shaking his head.
  "Hey, that did it!" Marshall shouted from behind the
wheel.
  "Heck, I didn't do a thing," said the old
man.
  High above the filling station, Nathan soared
skyward to join Armoth, his sword retrieved.
"Done," he said.
  "And now we'll see how the captain and Guilo
succeed in New York."
  The Buick started out again, and Nathan and Armoth
followed behind and above it like two kites on strings.

  Hank started the Sunday morning
service with a good rousing song, one Mary performed on
the piano particularly well. Both were in good spirits
and feeling encouraged; in spite of the approaching
sounds of battle, they sensed that God in His
infinite wisdom was indeed working out a very mighty and
effective plan for reestablishing His kingdom in the
town of Ashton. Victories large and small were
in the making, and Hank knew it had to be the hand of
God.
  For one thing, this morning he would be ministering to an
almost entirely new congregation; at least it sure
felt that way. Many of the old dissenters had dropped
out of the church and taken their embittering presence with
them, and the whole mood and spirit of the place had risen
several notches because of their absence. Sure, Alf
Brummel, Gordon Mayer, and Sam Turner still
hovered around, brooding together like some kind of hit
squad, but none of them were in the service this morning
and a lot of new, fresh faces were. The Forsythes'
example had been followed by their numerous friends and
acquaintances, some married couples, some singles, and
some students. Grandma Duster was there, as strong and
healthy as ever and ready for a spiritual fight; John and
Patty Coleman were back, and John couldn't
keep from grinning in his joy and excitement.
  Of the rest, Hank had only met one. Next
to Andy and June, looking a little sheepish, sat
Ron Forsythe, along with his girlfriend, a short, very
made-up sophomore. Hank had to choke down some
very strong emotion when he saw the Forsythes enter
accompanied by their son: it was a miracle, a
genuine act of grace by the living God. He would have
shouted hallelujah right there, but he didn't want
to scare the young fellow away; this could be one of those
kid-gloves cases.
  After the first song, Hank figured he might as
well address the situation before him.
  "Well," he said informally, "I don't know
whether to call all you people visitors or refugees
or what." They all laughed and exchanged glances.
Hank continued, "Why don't we just take a moment
here to introduce ourselves? I guess you probably
know who I am; I'm Hank Busche, the pastor,
and this flower sitting at the piano is my wife,
Mary." Mary stood quickly, smiled meekly, then
sat down again. "Why don't we go around the room
here and tell everybody who we are..."
  And the first roll call of the Remnant took
place as the angels and demons watched: Krioni
and Triskal stood at the posts right beside
Hank and Mary while Signa and his squad, now
numbering ten, kept a hedge about the building.
  Again Lucius had carried on a bitter argument
with Signa, trying to gain admittance. But he knew
better than to push the matter too far-Hank
Busche was bad enough, but now he had a whole church
full of praying saints. The heavenly warriors were
enjoying their first real advantage. Lucius finally
ordered his demons to remain outside and hear what
they could.
  The only demons that had managed to enter had come
in with their human hosts, and now they sat here and there in
the congregation, brooding over this horrible
development. Scion stood near the back like a hen
watching over her brow and Seth stayed near the
Forsythes and the group with them. There was power in this place
today, and everyone could feel it grow as each new
person stood and introduced himself. To Hank it
seemed just like the gathering of a special army.
"Ralph Metzer, sophomore at Whitmore
..." "Judy Kemp, sophomore at Whitmore
..." "Greg and Eva Smith, friends of the
Forsythes." "Bill and Betty Jones. We run
the Whatnot Shop over on Eighth Street..."
  "Mike Stewart. I live with the
Joneses, and I work out at the mill."
  "Cal and Ginger Barton. We're still new in
town." "Cecil and Miriam Cooper, and we're
sure glad to see you all here..."
  "Ben Squires. I'm the guy who brings you your
mail if you live on the west side ..."
  "Tom Harris, and this is my wife Mabel.
Welcome to all of you and praise the Lord!"
  "Clint Neal-I work at the filling station."
  "Greg and Nancy Jenning. I teach and she's a
writer."
  "Andy Forsythe, and praise the Lord!"
  "June Forsythe, and amen to that."
  Ron stood to his feet, put his hands in his
pockets, and looked at the floor a lot as he
said, "I'm-I'm Ron Forsythe, and this here is
Cynthia, and ... I met the pastor at The
Cave, and..." His voice cracked with emotion.
"I just want to thank you people for praying for me and for
caring." He stood there for a moment, looking at the
floor while tears welled up in his eyes.
  June stood beside him and addressed the group on his
behalf. "Ron wants you all to know that he and
Cynthia gave their hearts to Jesus last night."
  Everyone smiled with delight and murmured
encouragement, and that loosened Ron up enough to say,
"Yeah, and we flushed all our drugs down the
toilet!"
  That brought down the house.
  With increased joy and fervor, the roll call
continued.
  Outside, the demons listened with great alarm and
hissed exclamations of foreboding.
  "Rafar must know of this!" one said.
  Lucius, his wings half unfurled just to keep his
fussing ranks from pestering him, stood still and brooded.
  One little demon hovered about his head and cried out,
"What shall we do, Master Lucius? Shall we find
Rafar?"
  "Back to whatever you were doing!" he hissed back.
"Let me see to informing Ba-al Rafar myself!"
They gathered around him, wanting to hear his next
order. " Lately it seemed he had spoken so very
little.
  "What are you all staring at?" he shrieked.
"Go, do mischief! Let me worry about these
petty little saints!"
  They flurried away in all directions, and
Lucius stood in his place outside the church
window.
  Tell Rafar indeed! Let Rafar humble himself
enough to ask, Lucius would not be his lackey.
  In this part of New York City, things were
tailored for the elite and discerning; the shops,
boutiques, and restaurants were the exclusive
kind, the hotels quite lavish. Carefully groomed
flowering trees grew in round stucco planters along
the sidewalks, and maintenance workers kept the
streets and walks spotless.
  Among the hurried shoppers and browsers crowding the
district were two very large men in tan tunics,
strolling the sidewalk and looking here and there.
  "The Gibson Hotel," Tal read on the
front of an old, distinguished stone building that
towered thirty stories above them.
  "I see no activity," said Guilo.
  "It's early yet. They'll be along. Let's
be quick about this."
  The two of them slipped through the big front
doors and into the hotel lobby. People passed on all
sides of them, and sometimes right through them, but that, of
course, was of no consequence. Within moments they had
checked the schedule at the desk for the hotel's
banquet facilities and verified that the Grand
Ballroom was reserved that night for the
Universal Consciousness Society.
  "The general's information was right," Tal commented with
pleasure.
  They hurried down a long, thickly-carpeted
hallway past a barbershop, a beauty salon, a
shoeshine nook, and a gift shop, and at length came
to two huge oak doors with lavishly wrought brass
handles. They passed through and found themselves in the Grand
Ballroom, now filled with dining tables adorned with
crystal place settings and white linen tablecloths.
One lone, long-stemmed rose in a bud vase
stood on every table. The hotel caterers were
hurriedly making final preparations, setting out the
artfully folded napkins and wine glasses. Tal
checked the place cards at the head table. One,
towards the end, said, "Kaseph, Omni
Corporation."
  They went through a nearby exit door and looked
right and left. Down the hall, to the left and toward the
back of the hotel, was the ladies" lounge. They
went in, passed a few women primping at the
mirrors and found what they were after: the very last stall,
designated for use by the handicapped. It was built
against the rear wall of the hotel, just below a window
large enough for a limber human to crawl through.
Tal reached up, broke the lock, and tested the
window to make sure it would open and close easily.
Guilo passed quickly through the wall into the alley where
he found a large dumpster and, with incredible ease,
moved it several feet so that it was situated below the
window. He then arranged some crates and garbage
cans in a very handy stairstepped fashion against the
dumpster.
  Tal joined him and the two went up the alley to the
street. Down one block was a phone booth. Tal
picked up the receiver and made sure everything was
functioning.
  "Here they come!" Guilo warned, and they leaped through
the wall of a department store and peered out a window just
as a long, black limousine and then another and then
another began an ominous parade down the street
toward the hotel. Inside the limousines sat
dignitaries and other VIP'S from many different
nations and races, and within and on top were demons,
large, black, warty, and fierce, their yellow
eyes darting warily in every direction.
  Tal and Guilo watched with fascination. In the
sky overhead, other demons began flocking to the
hotel like swallows, their black winged outlines
silhouetted against the reddening sky.
  "A significant gathering, captain," said
Guilo.
  Tal nodded and continued watching. Amid the
limousines were many taxis, also carrying a vast
cross section of humanity: Orientals,
Africans, Europeans, Westerners,
Arabians-people of great power, esteem, and dignity from
all over the world.
  "As written in the Scriptures, the kings of the
earth," Tal observed, "being made drunk with the wine
of the great harlot's immorality."
  "Babylon the Great," said Guilo. "The Great
Harlot arising at last."
  "Yes, Universal Consciousness. The world
religion, the doctrine of demons spreading among
all the nations. Babylon revived right before the end
of the age."
  "Hence the return of the Prince of Babylon,
Rafar."
  "Of course. And that explains why we were called.
We were the last to confront him."
  Guilo only winced at that. "My captain, our
last battle with Rafar is not a pleasant
memory."
  "Nor a pleasant expectation."
  "Do you expect him here?"
  "No. This gathering is only a party before the real
battle, and the real battle is slated for the town of
Ashton."
  Tal and Guilo remained where they were, watching
the gathering forces of mankind and of Satanic evil
converge on the Gibson Hotel. They kept
looking for one key person: Susan Jacobson,
Alexander Kaseph's Maidservant.
  They finally spotted her in a very fancy Lincoln
Continental, probably Kaseph's private
vehicle, driven by a hired chauffeur. She was
accompanied by two escorts sitting on either side
of her.
  "She'll be closely watched," said Tal.
"Come on, we need a better look."
  They stalked quickly through the department store, through
walls, displays, and people, then ducked under the street
and came up inside the restaurant right across from the
hotel's main door. All around them
well-dressed people sat at quiet, candlelit tables
eating expensive French cuisine. They hurried
to a front window right next to an older couple
enjoying seafood and wine and watched as the Lincoln
carrying Susan pulled up in front of the
hotel.
  Susan's door was opened by the red-coated
doorman. One escort got out and extended his hand
to help her disembark; she stepped out and was immediately
joined by the other escort. The two tuxedo-clad
escorts were very handsome, but also very intimidating. They
kept very close to her. Susan wore a very
loose-fitting evening gown that draped her body
stunningly and cascaded to her feet. Guilo had
to ask, "Are her plans the same as ours?"
  Tal answered assuredly, "The general has
yet to err." Guilo only shook his head in
apprehension. "To the alley," said Tal.
  They moved along under the cracked cobbled alley
and surfaced to a hiding place behind a fire
escape. Night had fallen, and it was very dark in the
alley. From their vantage point they could count
twenty pairs of shifting yellow eyes, evenly
spaced along the alley and against the hotel.
  "About a hundred sentries are around the place,"
said Tal.
  "Under better circumstances, a mere handful,"
Guilo muttered.
  "You need only concern yourself with these twenty."
  Guilo took his sword in his hand. He
could feel the prayers of the local saints.
  "It will be difficult," he said. "The prayer
cover is limited."
  "You don't have to defeat them," answered Tal.
"Just get them to chase after you. We need the alley
clear for just a few moments."
  They waited. The air in the alley was still and
dank. The demons moved very little, remaining at their
posts, mumbling back and forth in different
languages, their sulfurous breath forming a
strange, meandering ribbon of yellow vapor that hung
along the alley like a putrid river floating in
midair. Tal and Guilo could feel themselves getting
more and more tense, like ever-tightening springs, with each
passing second. The banquet must be in progress
by now. At any time Susan could excuse herself from the
table.
  More time passed. Suddenly both Tal and Guilo
felt the prompting of the Spirit. Tal looked at
Guilo, and Guilo nodded. She was on her way.
They watched the window. The light from the ladies'
lounge shone brightly through it; they could just barely hear
the sound of the door opening and closing as patrons
came and went.
  The door opened. High heels clicked
on the tile floor, moving toward the window. The
demons began to stir a little, muttering among themselves.
The door to the last stall swung open. Guilo's
hand gripped his sword. He began to breathe
deeply, his big torso heaving in and out, the power of
God coursing through him. Their eyes were riveted on the
window. The demons became more alert, their yellow
eyes wide open and darting back and forth. They were
talking louder.
  The shadow of a woman's head suddenly appeared
on the window. A woman's hand reached for the latch.
  Tal touched Guilo on the shoulder, and Guilo
instantly dropped into the ground. Only a fraction
of a second passed.
  "YAHAAAAA!" came the sudden, deafening war
cry from Guilo's powerful lungs, and the whole
alley instantly exploded in a blinding flash of
white light as Guilo shot up out of the ground, his
sword flashing and shimmering, tracing brilliant
arcs in the air. The demons jumped, hooting and
shrieking in terror, but recovered immediately and drew
their swords. The alley echoed with the metallic
ringing, and the red glow of their blades danced like comets
on the high brick walls.
  Guilo stood tall and strong, and he
bellowed out a laugh that shook the ground. "Now, you
black lizards, I'll test your mettle!"
  A big spirit on the end shrieked out an order, and
all twenty demons converged on Guilo like starving
predators, their swords flashing and their fangs
bared. Guilo shot straight up out of their midst like
a slippery bar of soap and added an agile spin as
he went, throwing light everywhere in colorful
spirals. The demons unfurled their wings and shot
up after him. As Tal watched, Guilo looped and
corkscrewed all over the sky like a loose
balloon, laughing, taunting and teasing, staying just out
of their reach. The demons were in a blind rage by now.
  The alley was empty. The window was opening. Tal
was beneath the window in an instant, unglorified and
concealed in the darkness. He grabbed Susan the moment
her hand came through the window and pulled so hard she
practically shot through the window on his strength alone.
She was dressed in a simple blouse and jeans, and
had small slippers on her feet. From the neck
up she was still gorgeous; from the neck down she was
ready for running down dark alleys.
  Tal helped her find her way down from the
dumpster and then prodded her up the alley and out to the
street where she hesitated, looked this way
and that, and then spotted the phone booth. She ran like
the wind, in a terrible and desperate hurry. Tal
followed her, trying to stay as concealed as possible.
He looked back over his shoulder; Guilo's
diversion had worked. For now, Guilo was the main
problem for the demons, and their attention was far from this one
frantically running woman.
  Susan leaped into the booth and slammed the door
behind her. She took a pile of coins from her jeans
pocket, dialed the operator, and put through a
long-distance call.
  Somewhere between Ashton and the little roadside of
Baker, in a rundown warehouse refashioned
into low-rent apartments, Kevin Weed was awakened from
an exhausted sleep by the ringing of his phone. He
rolled over on his mattress and lifted the receiver.
  "Yeah, who's this?" he asked.
  "Is this Kevin?" came the desperate voice
on the other end.
  Kevin perked up a little. It was a woman's
voice. "Yeah, that's me. Who's this?"
  In the phone booth, Susan looked up and down
the street fearfully as she said, "Kevin, this is
Susan. Susan Jacobson."
  Kevin was beginning to wonder about all this.
"Hey, what do you want with me anyway?"
  "I need your help, Kevin. I don't have much
time. There isn't much time."
  "Time for what?" he asked very dully.
  "Please listen. Write it down if you have to."
  "I don't got a pencil."
  "Then just listen. Now you know about the Ashton
Clarion? The newspaper in Ashton?"
  "Yeah, yeah, I know about it."
  "Bernice Krueger works there. She's the sister
of my old roommate, Pat, the one who committed
suicide."
  "Oh, man ... what's going on around here?"
  "Kevin, will you do something for me? Will you get
ahold of Bernice Krueger at the Clarion and
... Kevin?" "Yeah, I'm listening." "Kevin,
I'm in trouble. I need your help." "So where's
your boyfriend?" "He's the one I'm afraid of. You
know about him. Tell Bernice all about Alexander
Kaseph, everything you know." Kevin was nonplussed.
"So what do I know?" "Tell her what happened,
you know, between us, with Kaseph, the whole thing. Tell
her what Kaseph's up to." "I don't get
this."
  "I'don't have time to explain. Just tell
her-tell her that Kaseph is taking over the whole
town ... and let her know I have some very important
information about her sister Pat. I'll try to reach
her, but I'm afraid the Clarion phone might be
bugged. Kevin, I need you to be there to answer the
phone, to ..." Susan was frustrated, full of
emotion, unable to select the right words. She had too
much to say and too little time. "You're not making a
whole lot of sense," Kevin muttered. "You on
something?"
  "Just do it, Kevin, please! I'll call you again
as soon as I can, or I'll write, or do
something, but please call Bernice Krueger and
tell her everything you know about Kaseph and about me.
Tell her it was me she saw at the carnival."
"How'm I supposed to remember all this stuff?"
"Please do it. Tell me you'll do it!" "Yeah,
okay, I'll do it." "I've got to go!
Good-bye!"
  Susan hung up the phone and dashed out of the
booth. Tal followed her, ducking inside the
buildings as much as he could.
  He reached the alley a few moments ahead of her
to check it out. Trouble! Four more sentries had moved
in to take the place of the original twenty,
and they were fully alert. There was no way of knowing where
Guilo and the twenty might be. Tal looked behind
him. Susan was running full speed for the alley.
Tal dove headfirst through the pavement and penetrated
deep under the city, gaining speed, bringing forth his big
silver sword. The power of God was increasing now;
the saints must be praying somewhere. He could feel it.
He only had seconds and he knew it. He
checked his bearings, made a wide subterranean
sweep away from the hotel and then, over a mile
away, he circled back, gaining speed, gaining
speed, gaining speed, shining light, building power,
faster, faster, faster, his sword a blinding lightning
bolt, his eyes like fire, the earth a blur around
him, the roar of passing clay, boulders, pipe, and
stone like a freight train. He held the sword
crossways, the glimmering tip ready for that one
infinitesimal moment.
  Quicker than he thought, like the explosion of a
missile, a brilliant streak of light burst from
the ground across the street and seemed to cut space in
half as it pierced through the alley and right across the
eyes of all four demons. The demons, stunned
and blinded, fell to the ground, stumbled about, tried
to find each other. The streak of light
vanished back into the ground as quickly as it came.
  Susan came around the corner and into the alley,
heading for the window.
  Tal cupped his wings and braked himself. He had
to get back to help her through that window before any
demons could recover and sound an alarm. He
snapped his wings into a violent forward rush and doubled
back.
  Susan clambered up the crates and cans and
onto the dumpster. The demons started to regain their
vision and were rubbing their eyes. Tal emerged behind the
fire escape, trying to judge the remaining time.
  Good! Guilo made it back and dropped like a
hawk into the alley, grabbing Susan and thrusting her
through the window in an instant, holding her up so she
would not tumble to the floor inside. Guilo closed the
window himself.
  Tal flew out to meet Guilo. "One more time,"
he shouted.
  Nothing more needed to be said. The four sentries had
recovered and were pouncing on them, and the other twenty had
returned, hot on Guilo's trail. Tal and
Guilo shot into the air and streaked away, chased by a
flock of frothing demons.
  The angels flew a course high over
the city and kept their speed just slow enough to encourage the
demons. They headed west, off into the dark night
sky, trailing brilliant white streaks behind them.
The demons were tenacious in their pursuit for
hundreds of miles, but eventually Tal looked
back and found that they had given up the chase and
returned to the city. Tal and Guilo picked up
speed and headed for Ashton.
  In the ladies' room, Susan hurriedly
rolled up the legs of her jeans, took her evening
gown from its hook in the stall, and quickly resumed her
proper appearance for the banquet. She removed the
slippers and put them in her handbag, slipped on
her dress shoes, then opened the stall door and
came out.
  A man's voice outside the lounge door
called, "Susan, they're waiting for you!"
  She checked her appearance in the mirror, combed
her hair, and tried to calm her breathing. "Hasty,
hasty," she called teasingly.
  With ladylike dignity she finally emerged into the
hallway and took the arm of the escort. He led her
back to the Grand Ballroom, now filled with people, and
showed her to her seat at the head table, giving the other
escort a reassuring nod.

  The Clarion office was finally recovering the
nice, healthy efficiency Marshall liked to see,
and the new girl, Carmen, had a lot to do with it. In
less than a week she had taken the old bull by the
horns and had more than filled Edie's shoes,
reestablishing a tight office routine.
  It was only Wednesday, and already the paper was in
full swing, heading for the Friday edition. Marshall
stopped by Carmen's desk on his way to the coffee
machine.
  She handed him some fresh copy and said, "This is
part of Tom's article."
  Marshall nodded. "Yeah, the thing on the fire
department."
  "I've broken it down into three headings-staff,
history, and goals-and figured we could run it in
three parts. Tom already has it slotted for the next
two paste-ups and thinks he can bump something for the
third."
  Marshall was pleased. "Yeah, go with it, I like it.
I'm glad you can read Tom's writing."
  Carmen had already proofread the bulk of the material
for Friday and was halfway through preparing the copy for
George, the typesetter. She had gone
through the books and balanced all the accounts. She
planned on helping Tom with the paste-up tomorrow. The
negatives for the Sportsman's Club layout were
ready.
  Marshall shook his head with happy amazement.
"Glad to have you aboard."
  Carmen smiled. "Thank you, sir."
  Marshall went to the coffeemaker and poured two
cups of coffee. Then it dawned on him: Carmen
had found the cord to this fool machine!
  He took the two cups back toward his office
and gave her a smile of approval as he passed
her desk. The location of her desk had been her
only request on the job. She had asked if it
could be moved to a location right outside Marshall's
office door, and Marshall was happy to comply. Now
all he had to do was turn and holler, and she would
spring into action to do his bidding.
  Marshall went into his office, set his cup of
coffee on his desk, and offered the other cup to the
long-haired, slightly dazed man sitting in the
corner. Bernice sat in a chair she had brought in
with her own cup of coffee.
  "Now where were we?" Marshall asked, sitting at
his desk.
  Kevin Weed rubbed his face, took a sip of the
coffee, and tried to pick up his thoughts again, looking
around the floor as if he had dropped them down there
somewhere.
  Marshall prompted, "Okay, let me at least
make sure I've got this straight. Now you used
to be the ... male acquaintance of this Susan, and
she used to be the roommate of Pat Krueger,
Bernice's sister. Have I got that right?"
  Weed nodded. "Yeah, yeah, that's right."
  "So what was Susan doing at the carnival?"
  "Beats me. Like I said, she just came up behind
me and said hi, and I wasn't even looking for her.
I couldn't believe it was her, you know?"
  "But she got your phone number and then she called
you last night..."
  "Yeah, all tripped out, shook up. It was
wild. She didn't make a lot of sense."
  Marshall looked at both Weed and Bernice and
asked Bernice, "And this is the same
ghostly-looking woman you photographed that night?"
  Bernice was convinced. "The descriptions Kevin
gave me match perfectly the woman I saw, and
also that one older man who was with her."
  "Yeah, Kaseph." Kevin said the name
as if it tasted bad.
  "All right," and Marshall made a list in his
mind. "So let's talk about this Kaseph first, then
we'll talk about Susan, and then we'll talk about
Pat."
  Bernice had her notepad ready. "What's
Kaseph's full name, any idea?"
  Weed strained his brain.
"Alex-Alan-Alexander... something like that."
  "But it starts with A."
  "Yeah, right."
  Marshall asked, "What is he?"
  Weed answered, "Susan's new boyfriend, the
guy she dumped me for."
  "So what does he do? Where does he work?"
  Weed shook his head. "I don't know. He's
got bucks, though. He's a real wheeler-dealer.
When I first heard about him, he was hanging around
Ashton and the college and talking about buying
property and stuff. Man, the guy was loaded and he
liked everybody to know it too." Then he
remembered, "Oh, and Susan said he's trying
to take over the town..."
  "What town? This one?"
  "I guess."
  Bernice asked, "So where is he from?"
  "Back east, maybe New York. I think
he's the big-city type."
  Marshall told Bernice, "Make a note for
me to call Also Lemley at the Times. He might
be able to track this guy down if he's in New
York." Bernice made the note. Marshall
asked Weed, "What else do you know about him?"
  "He's weird, man. He's into weird
stuff."
  Marshall was getting impatient. "C'mon, try
harder."
  Weed stirred and fidgeted in his chair, trying
to get comfortable about talking. "Well, you know, he was
like a guru, or a witch doctor, or some kind of
far-out ooga-booga man, and he got Susan
into all that stuff."
  Bernice prodded, "Are you talking about Eastern
mysticism?"
  "Yeah."
  "Pagan religions, meditation?"
  "Yeah, yeah, all that stuff. He was into all that
stuff, he and that professor lady at the
college, what's-her-name"
  Marshall was sick of the name.
"Langstrat."
  Weed's face brightened with recollection. "Yeah,
that was it."
  "Were Kaseph and Langstrat associated?
were they friends?"
  "Yeah, sure. They were teaching some night
classes together, I think, the ones that Susan was
going to. Kaseph was a special guest star or
something. He really had everybody wowed. I thought he
was spooky."
  "All right, so Susan was attending these
classes"
  "And she got crazy, and I mean crazy.
Man, she couldn't have been on a higher trip with
mescaline. I couldn't even talk to her anymore.
She was always way out in space somewhere."
  Weed kept talking, starting to roll a little on his
own. "That's what really started to get me, how she
and the rest of that bunch started keeping secrets and
talking in codes and not letting me in on what they were
talking about. Susan just kept telling me I
wasn't enlightened and wouldn't understand. Man, she just
gave it all to that Kaseph guy and he took her,
I mean he really took her. He owns her now.
She's gone. She's had it."
  "And was Langstrat mixed up in all this?"
  "Oh yeah, but Kaseph was the real heavy. He
was the guru, you know. Langstrat was his puppy
dog."
  Bernice said, "And now Susan gets your phone
number and calls you after all this time."
  "And she was scared," said Weed. "She's in
trouble. She said I was supposed to get in touch with you
guys and tell you what I knew, and she said she had
some information on Pat."
  Bernice was longing to know. "Did she say what
kind of information?"
  "No, nothing. But she wants to get ahold of
you."
  "Well, why doesn't she just call?"
  That question helped Weed to remember something. "Oh,
yeah, she thinks your phone might be bugged."
  Marshall and Bernice were silent for a moment. That
was a comment they didn't know how seriously to take.
  Weed added, "I guess she called me to be a
go-between, to tip you guys off."
  Marshall ventured, "Like you're the only one she
has left to trust?"
  Weed only shrugged. Bernice asked, "Well,
what do you know about Pat? Did Susan
ever tell you anything while you were still going together?"
  One of Weed's most painful undertakings was trying
to remember things. "Uh ... she and Pat were good
friends, for a while anyway. But you know, Susan
left us all out in the cold when she started following
after that Kaseph bunch. She kinda pushed me off,
and Pat too. They didn't get along very well
after that, and Susan kept saying how Pat was ...
heh ... just like me, trying to get in the way, not
enlightened, dragging her feet."
  Marshall thought of the question and didn't wait for
Bernice to ask it. "So, would you say that this
Kaseph bunch may have regarded Pat as an
enemy?"
  "Man ..." Weed remembered some more. "She
did stick her neck out, I mean, she got in the
way. Her and Susan had a real fight once about
the stuff Susan was getting into. Pat didn't
trust Kaseph and kept telling Susan she was
brainwashed."
  Weed's eyes brightened. "Yeah, I talked
to Pat once. We were sitting at a game, and we
talked about what Susan was getting into and how
Kaseph was controlling her, and Pat was really shook
up about it, just like I was. I guess
Pat and Susan really had some fights about it
until Susan finally moved out of the dorm and ran
off with Kaseph. Boy, she dropped out of her
classes and everything."
  "So did Pat make any enemies, I mean
real enemies?"
  Weed kept digging up new things that had been
buried under the years and the alcohol. "Uh, yeah,
maybe she did. It was after Susan ran off with this
Kaseph guy. Pat told me she was going to check
the whole thing out once and for all, and I think she may
have gone to see that Professor Langstrat a few
times. A while later I ran into her again. She was
sitting in a cafeteria on campus, and she looked
like she hadn't slept in days, and I asked her how
she was, and she would hardly even talk to me. I
asked how her investigation was going, you know, her
checking out Kaseph and Langstrat and stuff, and she
said she'd quit doing anything about that, said it was really
no big deal. I thought that was a little weird, she'd
been so torn up about it before. I asked her,
"Hey, are they coming after you now?"' and she wouldn't
talk about it, she said I wouldn't understand. Then she
said something about some instructor, some guy that was helping
her out and that she was doing okay, and I got
the message that she didn't want me butting in,
so I just sort of left her there."
  "Did her behavior seem strange to you?"
Bernice asked. "Did she seem like herself?"
  "No way. Hey, if she hadn't been so against
that whole Kaseph and Langstrat bunch, I woulda
thought she was one of them; she had the same kind of
dopey, lost-in-space look all over her."
  "When? Just when was it that you saw her like that?" Weed
knew, but hated to say it. "Just a little while before they
found her dead."
  "Did she seem afraid? Did she give you
any indication of any enemies, anything like that?"
  Weed grimaced, trying to remember. "She
wouldn't talk to me. But I saw her once after that and
tried to ask her about Susan, and she acted like I was
some kind of mugger or something ... she hollered,
"Leave me alone, leave me alone!" and tried
to pull away and then she saw it was me, and she
looked all around like somebody was following her..."
"Who? Did she say who?"
  Weed looked at the ceiling. "Oh ... what was
that guy's name?"
  Bernice was leaning forward, hanging on his words.
"There was somebody?"
  "Thomas, some guy named Thomas." "Thomas!
Did she ever say his last name?" "Don't
remember any last name. I never met the guy,
never saw him, but he sure must have owned her. She
acted like he was following her all around, talking
to her, maybe threatening her, I don't know. She
seemed pretty afraid of him."
  "Thomas," Bernice whispered. She said
to Weed, "Is there anything else about this Thomas?
Anything at all?"
  "I never saw him... she didn't say who he
was or where she would meet him. But it was kinda
strange. One minute she'd be talking like he was the
greatest thing that ever happened to her, and then the next
minute she'd be hiding out and saying he was following
her."
  Bernice got up and headed for the door. "I think
we might have a college roster somewhere." She began
rummaging around in the desks and shelves of the front
office.
  Weed fell silent. He looked tired.
  Marshall reassured him, "You're doing fine,
Kevin. Hey, it's been a while."
  "Uh ... I don't know if this is
important"
  "Consider everything important."
  "Well, this stuff about Pat having some new
instructor... I think some of the Kaseph bunch,
maybe it was Susan, they had instructors."
  "But I thought Pat didn't want anything to do with
that group."
  "Yeah. Yeah, that's right."
  Marshall shifted directions. "So where did you
fit into all these goings-on, besides your relationship with
Susan?"
  "Hey, nowhere! I didn't want anything to do with
it, man."
  "Were you going to the school?"
  "Yeah, taking accounting. Man, when all this started
coming down and then Pat killed herself, hey, I got
out of there fast. I didn't want to be next, you
know?" He looked at the floor. "My life's
been nothing but hell ever since."
  "You working?"
  "Yeah, logging crew for Gorst Brothers up
above Baker." He shook his head. "I didn't
think I'd ever see Susan again."
  Marshall turned to his desk and searched for some
paper. "Well, we'll have to keep in touch. Let
me have your number and address, at work and
at home."
  Weed gave Marshall the information. "And if I'm
not there, you can probably find me at The Evergreen
Tavern in Baker."
  "Okay, listen, if you hear anything else from
Susan you let us know, day or night." He gave
Weed his card with his home phone number added.
  Bernice came back in with the roster.
  "Marshall, you have a call. I think it's
urgent," she said. Then she turned to Weed.
"Kevin, let's you and I step outside and go through this
roster. Maybe we'll find that guy's full name."
Weed stepped outside with Bernice as Marshall
picked up the phone.
  "Hogan," he said. "Hogan, this is Ted
Harmel."
  Marshall scrambled for a pencil. "Hi, Ted.
Thank you for calling."
  "So you talked to Eldon" "And Eldon talked
to you?"
  Harmel sighed and said, "You're in trouble,
Hogan. I'll give you one interview. Got a
pencil handy?" "I'm ready. Shoot."
  Bernice had just said good-bye to Weed and seen him
to the door when Marshall emerged from his
office with a scribbled-on piece of paper in his hand.
"Any luck?" he asked.
  "Zilch. There are no Thomases of any kind,
first or last name."
  "It's still a lead though." "Who was that on the
phone?" Marshall produced the scrap of paper.
"Thank God for small favors. That was Ted
Harmel." Bernice brightened considerably as
Marshall explained, "He wants to see me tomorrow,
and here are the directions. It must be way back in the
sticks. The guy is still paranoid as all get-out;
I'm surprised he didn't make me wear a
disguise or something." "He wouldn't say anything about
all this?" "No, not over the phone. It has to be just
the two of us, in private."
  Marshall leaned over just a little and said, "He's
another one who thinks our phone might be bugged."
"So how do we make sure it isn't?" "Make that
one of your assignments. Now here's the rest of them."
Bernice grabbed her notepad off her desk and
made her list as Marshall spoke. "Check the
New York phone book" "I did. No A.
Kaseph listed."
  "Scratch that one. Next: Check around with the
local real estate offices. If
Weed's right about Kaseph looking for property around
here, some of those people might know something. And I'd look
around in the commercial listings as well."
  "Mm-hmm."
  "And while you're at it, find out what you can about
whoever owns Joe's Market."
  "It's not Joe?"
  "No. The place used to belong to Joe and
Angelina Carlucci, c-a-r-l-u-c-c-i.
I want to know where they went and who owns the store
now. See if you can get some straight answers."
  "And you were going to check with your friend at the
Times..."
  "Yeah, Lemley." Marshall added a note
to his piece of paper.
  "That it?"
  "That's it for now. In the meantime, let's get
back to running this paper."
  All the time, all through their meeting with Weed and their
following conversation, Carmen sat at her desk
busily working and acting like she hadn't heard a word.
  The morning had been tight, with the next issue's
deadline galloping up on them, but by noon the
paste-up was ready to go to the printer and the office had a
chance to resume its normal pace.
  Marshall put in a call to Lemley, his old
comrade-in-arms at the New York Times.
Lemley got all the information Marshall had on this
strange character Kaseph, saying he'd get right on
it. Marshall hung up the phone with one hand and
grabbed his suit jacket with the other; his next stop was
his afternoon appointment with the reclusive Ted Harmel.
  Bernice drove off for her appointed stops.
She parked her red Toyota in the parking lot of
what used to be Joe's Market and was now called the
Ashton Mercantile, and went into the store. About a
half hour later, she returned to her car and drove
away. It had been a wasted trip: no one knew
anything, they only worked there, the manager wasn't
in, and they had no idea when he would be back. Some
had never heard of Joe Carlucci, some had but
didn't know whatever happened to him. The assistant
manager finally asked her to quit bothering all the
employees on company time. So much for getting any
straight answers.
  Now it was off to the realty offices.
  Johnson-Smythe Realty occupied an old
house remodeled into an office on the edge of the
business part of town; the house still had a very charming
front yard, with a redwood tree standing
tall in the middle of it and a quaint, log cabin
mailbox out front. It was warm and welcoming
inside, and quiet. Two desks occupied what
used to be the living room; both were empty at the
time. On the walls hung bulletin boards with
snapshots of house after house, with cards below each
photograph describing the building, the property,
the view, nearness to shopping and so forth, and-last but not
least-the price. Boy, what people would pay these days
for a house!
  At a third desk in what used to be the dining
room a young lady stood and smiled at Bernice.
  "Hi, can I help you?" she asked.
  Bernice smiled back, introduced herself, and
asked, "I need to ask a question that might seem a little
odd, but here goes. Are you ready?"
  "Ready."
  "Have you done any business with anyone by the name of
A. Kaseph in the last year or so?"
  "How do you spell that?"
  Bernice spelled it for her, then explained. "You
see, I'm trying to get in touch with him. It's just a
personal matter. I was wondering if you might have a
phone number or address or anything."
  The young lady looked at the name she had
just written on a piece of paper and said, "Well,
I'm new here, so I sure don't know, but let
me ask Rosemary."
  "In the meantime, might I have a look through your
microfiche?"
  "Sure. You know how to run it?"
  "Yes."
  The lady went toward the back of the house where
Rosemary-apparently the boss lady-had her
office in a back bedroom. Bernice could hear
Rosemary talking on the phone. Getting an
answer from her might take a while.
  Bernice went to the microfiche reader. Where
to start? She looked at a map of Ashton and
vicinity on the wall and found the location of Joe's
Market. The hundreds of little celluloid plates
were arranged by Section, Township, Quarters, and the
street numbers. Bernice had to do a lot of
looking back and forth to get all the numbers off the
map. Finally she thought she might have found the right
microfiche to put into the viewer.
  "Excuse me," came a voice. It was
Rosemary, marching down the hall toward her with a
grim expression on her face. "Ms. Krueger,
I'm afraid the microfiche is only
for the use of our staff. If there's something you'd like me
to find for you..."
  Bernice kept cool and tried to keep things
flowing. "Sure, I'm sorry. I was trying to find
out the new owner of Joe's Market."
  "I wouldn't know."
  "Well, I thought it might be on the machine here
somewhere."
  "No, I don't think so. It's been a while
since the files have been updated."
  "Well, could we look anyway?"
  Rosemary totally ignored the question. "Is there
anything else you'd like to know?"
  Bernice stood firm and unshaken. "Well, there
was my original question. Have you done any business with
anyone named Kaseph in the last year or so?"
  "No, I've never heard the name."
  "Well, perhaps someone else on your staff"
  "They've never heard it either." Bernice was about
to question that, but Rosemary interrupted with, "I would know.
I know all their accounts."
  Bernice thought of one other thing. "You wouldn't have
a-a cross-reference file, would you"
  "No, we don't," Rosemary answered very
abruptly. "Now is there anything else?"
  Bernice was tired of being nice. "Well,
Rosemary, even if there was, I'm sure you would
not be able or willing to supply it. I'm leaving now,
so breathe easy."
  She left hurriedly, feeling very lied to.

  Marshall was beginning to worry about his shock
absorbers. This old logging road had more potholes
than surface; apparently it wasn't used that much
anymore by the logging companies, but was left
to hunters and hikers who knew the area well enough
to keep from getting lost. Marshall did not. He
looked again at the scribbled directions and then at the
odometer. Boy, the miles go by slowly on roads
like this one!
  Marshall bumped his way around a gravelly
corner and finally saw a vehicle ahead, parked
alongside the road. Yes, an old Valiant.
It was Harmel. Marshall pulled up behind the
Valiant and got out. Ted Harmel got out of his
car, dressed in clothing for the outdoors: wool
shirt, faded jeans, work boots, a wool cap.
He looked the way he had sounded: exhausted and very
scared.
  "Hogan?" he asked.
  "Yeah," said Marshall, extending his hand.
  Harmel shook it and then turned away
abruptly. "C'mon with me."
  Marshall followed Harmel to a trail off the
road and they hiked up among the tall timber,
picking their way through logs, rocks, and underbrush.
Marshall was wearing a suit and his shoes were
definitely the wrong kind for this sort of terrain, but
he wasn't about to complain-he'd recaptured the big
fish that got away.
  At last Harmel seemed satisfied with their
seclusion. He went to a huge fallen log,
weathered and bleached by years of changing seasons, and
sat down on it. Marshall joined him.
  "I want to thank you for calling me," Marshall
said for an opener.
  "We never had this meeting," Harmel said
bluntly. "Is that an agreement?"
  "You've got it."
  "Now what do you know about me?"
  "Not much. You used to be the editor of the Clarion,
Eugene Baylor and the other college regents were
on your case, you and Eldon Strachan are friends
..." Marshall reviewed quickly all he had
learned, which was mostly what he and Bernice
had gleaned from the old Clarion articles.
  Harmel nodded. "Yeah, that's all true.
Eldon and I are still friends. We went through basically
the same thing, so that gives us a sort of
comradeship. As far as the molesting of Maria
Jarred, Adam Jarred's girl-that was a bizarre
set-up. I don't know who coached her, or how,
but somebody got that girl to say all the right words to the
police. I do find it significant that the whole
matter was settled so quietly. What I was
supposed to have done is a felony; you don't just
settle a thing like that quietly."
  "Why did it happen, Ted? What did you do
to bring it on yourself?"
  "I got too involved. You're right about Juleen
and all the others. It's a secret society, a
club, a whole network of people. Nobody has any
secrets from anybody else. The eyes of the group
are everywhere; they watch what you do, what you say,
what you think, how you feel. They're working toward
what they call a Universal Mind, the concept that
sooner or later all the inhabitants of the world will
make a giant evolutionary leap and meld into one
global brain, one transcending consciousness."
Harmel stopped, looked at Marshall.
"I'm spilling it as it comes to me. Is it making
sense?"
  Marshall had to compare Manuel's "spillings" with
what he already knew. "Every person affiliated with this
exclusive network subscribes to these ideas?"
  "Yeah. The whole thing is built around occult
ideas, Eastern mysticism, cosmic consciousness.
That's why they meditate and do psychic readings and
try to meld their minds together..."
  "Is this what they do in Langstrat's therapy
sessions?"
  "Yes, exactly. Every person who joins the
network goes through a certain initiation process.
They meet with Juleen and learn to achieve altered
states of consciousness, psychic powers, out-of-body
experiences. The sessions could involve just one
person, or several, but Juleen is at the core of
it all, like some kind of guru, and we were all her
disciples. We all became like one, growing,
interdependent organism, trying to become one with the
Universal Mind."
  "You said something about... melding your minds together?"
  "ESP, telepathy, whatever. Your thoughts are not
your own, and neither is your life. You're only one
segment of the whole. Juleen's highly
skilled in such things. She-she knew my every thought.
She owned me..." This part became difficult for
Harmel to speak about. He grew tense, and his
voice faltered and dropped in volume. "Maybe
she still does. Sometimes I still hear her calling
to me... moving through my brain."
  "Does she own all the others as well?"
  Harmel nodded. "Yeah, everybody owns
everybody, and they won't stop until they own that
whole town. I could see it coming. Anybody who
gets in their way suddenly drops out of sight.
That's why I'm still wondering about Edie. Ever since
this whole thing started happening, I've been leery about
anyone just dropping out of the picture suddenly..."
  "What danger would Edie be to them?"
  "Maybe she's just one more step toward taking you out.
I wouldn't be surprised. They took out Eldon,
they took out me, they took out Jefferson..."
  "Who's Jefferson?"
  "The district judge. I don't know how they
did it, but suddenly he decided he wouldn't run for
reelection. He sold his home, left town, no
one's heard from him since."
  "And now Baker's in"
  "He's part of the network. He's owned."
  "So did you know this at the time you had your little
crime settled so quietly?"
  Harmel nodded. "He told me he could make it
really rough for me, turn me over to the county
prosecutor and then it would be out of his hands. He
knew good and well it was a frame-up! He had me
checkmated, so I took him up on it. I got out
of town."
  Marshall took out a pad and pen. "Who else do
you know that belongs to this bunch?"
  Harmel looked away. "If I tell you too
much, they'll trace it back to me. You'll have to find
out for yourself. All I can do is point you in the right
direction. Check the mayor's office and the town
council; see who's new there and who they replaced.
They've had a lot of turnover lately."
Marshall made a note of it. "You've got
Brummel?"
  "Yeah, Brummel, Young, Baker."
  "Check the county land commissioner, and the president
at the Independent Bank, and..." Harmel kept
probing his memory. "The county comptroller."
  "I've got him on the list."
  "The board of regents at the college?"
  "Yeah. Say, wasn't it the tiff with
them that got you run out of town?"
  "That was only part of it. I wasn't controllable
anymore. I got in the way. The network took
care of me before I could hurt them. But there's no
way I can prove it. It doesn't matter
anyway. The whole thing's too big; it's like a
huge organism, a cancer that just keeps spreading.
You can't go after just one part of it like the regents and
expect to kill the whole thing. It's everywhere, at every
level. Are you religious?" "In a limited
sense, I suppose." "Well, you're going to need
something to fight it. It's spiritual, Hogan. It
doesn't listen to reason, or to the law, or to any
set of morals but its own. They don't believe in
any God-they are God." Harmel paused to calm
down and then took off on a different note. "I
first got involved with Juleen when I wanted to do a
story on some of the so-called research she was doing.
I was intrigued by it all-the parapsychology, the
strange phenomena she was documenting. I started
having these counseling sessions with her myself. I let
her read and photograph my aura and my energy
field. I let her probe my mind and meld our
thoughts. I went into it after a novelty story,
actually, but I got hooked. I couldn't
tear myself away from it. After a while I started
picking up on some of the same things she was heavily
involved in: I'd leave my body, go out
into space, talk to my instructors" Harmel
caught himself. "Oh man, that's right: you're never
going to believe any of this stuff!"
  Marshall was firm-and maybe he did believe
it. "Tell me anyway."
  Harmel gritted his teeth and looked skyward.
He fumbled, he stammered, his face went pale.
"I don't know. I don't think I can tell you.
They'll find out."
  "Who'll find out?"
  "The network."
  "We're out in the middle of nowhere, Ted!"
  "It doesn't matter..."
  "You used the word instructors. Who are they?"
  Harmel only sat there, trembling, terror
etched in his face. "Hogan," he said finally, "you
just can't cross them. I can't tell you! They'll know
about it!"
  "But who are they? Can you at least tell me that?"
  "I don't even know if they're real," Harmel
muttered. "They're just... there, that's all. Inner
teachers, spirit guides, ascended masters...
they're called all kinds of things. But anyone who
follows Juleen's teachings for very long invariably
gets mixed up with them. They come from nowhere, they
speak to you, sometimes they appear to you when you're
meditating. Sometimes you visualize them yourself, but then
they take on a life and personality of their own
... it's not just your imagination anymore."
  "But what are they?"
  "Beings ... entities. Sometimes they're just like
real people, sometimes you only hear a voice, sometimes you
only feel them-like spirits, I suppose. Juleen
works for them, or maybe they work for her, I don't
know which way it goes. But you can't hide from them, you
can't run, you can't get away with anything. They're
part of the network, and the network knows everything, controls
everything. Juleen controlled me. She even came
between me and Gail. I lost my wife over this whole
thing. I started to do everything Juleen told
me...she'd call me in the middle of the night and
tell me to come over, and I'd come over. She'd
tell me not to print a certain story, I wouldn't
print it. She'd tell me what kind of news
to cover and I'd print it, just like she said.
  "She owned me, Hogan. She could have told me
to take a gun and shoot myself, and maybe
I would have done it. You gotta know her to understand what
I'm saying."
  Marshall remembered standing in the hallway
outside Langstrat's class wondering how he
got there. "I think I understand."
  "But Eldon found out about the college finances, and
we both checked into it, and he was right. The college
was headed for the rocks, and I'm sure it still is.
Eldon tried to stop it, to get the whole mess
straightened out. I tried to help him. Juleen
came after me right away and made all kinds of
threats. I ended up going in two directions,
following two different loyalties. It was like being
torn apart inside. Maybe that's what snapped me
out of it; I made up my mind I wasn't going
to be controlled anymore, not by the network, not
by anyone. I was a newspaperman; I had to print
it the way I saw it." "And they took care of you."
"And it came as a total surprise. Well,
maybe not total. When the police came to the paper
and arrested me, I almost knew what it was about. It was
something I could have predicted from the way Juleen and the
others were threatening me. They've done that sort of thing
before." "For instance?"
  "I can't help thinking the real estate
offices, the tax rolls, any information you can get
on the properties around the town, might show something.
I couldn't follow it up when I was still there, but all
the recent real estate deals didn't feel quite right
to me."
  The real estate business wasn't feeling quite right
to Bernice either. Just as she pulled up in front of
Tyler and Sons Realty, she saw the owner,
Albert Tyler, locking up the place and getting
ready to leave.
  She rolled down her car window and asked him,
"Say, aren't you supposed to be open until 5?"
  Tyler only smiled and shrugged. "Not on
Thursdays."
  Bernice could read the hours on the front door.
"But your hours say Monday through Friday,
10-5."
  Tyler got just a little cross. "Not on
Thursdays, I said!"
  Bernice noticed Tyler's son Calvin
driving his Volkswagen out from behind the building. She
got out of her car and waved him down. Unwillingly,
he paused and rolled down his window.
  "Yeah?" he said.
  "Aren't you people usually open on Thursday
until 5?"
  Calvin only shrugged and made a face. "What
do I know? The old man says go home, we all
go home."
  He drove off. "Old man" Tyler was getting
into his Plymouth. Bernice ran up to the car and
waved to get his attention.
  He was really miffed by now. He rolled down his
window and said gruffly, "Lady, we're closed and
I have to get home!"
  "I just wanted to look through your microfiche. I
need some information on some property."
  He shook his head. "Hey, I can't help you
anyway. Our microfiche is broken down."
  "Wha ...?"
  But Tyler rolled up his window and pulled away,
screeching his tires a little.
  Bernice shouted angrily after him, "Did
Rosemary tip you off?"
  She hurried to her car. There was still the Top of the
Town Realty. She knew the owner regularly
helped out with youth baseball on Thursday afternoons.
Maybe the other gal who worked there wouldn't know who
she was.
  Harmel looked grim and haggard as he
said, "They'll do you in, Hogan. They have the clout
and the connections to do it. Look at me: I lost all
I owned, lost my wife and family... they cleaned
me out. They'll do the same to you."
  Marshall wanted answers, not doomsaying.
"What do you know about some guy named Kaseph?"
  Harmel grimaced with fresh disgust. "Go after that.
He might be the source of all the trouble. Juleen
worshiped that guy. Everybody did Juleen's
bidding, but she did his."
  "Do you know whether or not he was looking for any
real estate around Ashton?"
  "He was drooling over the college, I know that."
Marshall was taken aback. "The college? Keep
going." "I never got the chance to dig after it, but there
might be something there. Talk around the Network said that
the college would be taken over entirely by some
Network higher-ups, and Eugene Baylor seemed
to be spending a lot of time talking money with
Kaseph or his reps." "Kaseph was trying to buy
the college?" "He hasn't yet. But he did
end up buying everything else around town." "Like
what?"
  "A lot of homes, I know, but I couldn't find
out very much. Like I said, check the tax
rolls or the real estate offices to see if he's
been buying up anything else. I know he had the
bucks to do it." Harmel pulled a ragged manila
envelope from under his jacket. "And take this off my
hands, will you?" Marshall took the envelope. "What
is it?" "A curse, that's what. Something happens
to everyone who has it. Eldon's accountant friend,
Ernie Johnson, gave it to me, and I hope
Eldon told you what happened to him!" "He told
me."
  "It's Johnson's findings from the college
accounting office." Marshall couldn't believe his
luck. "You gotta be kidding! Did Eldon know
about this?"
  "No, I just came across them myself, but don't
start dancing yet. You'd better get some accountant
friend of your own to try to decipher it for you. It
doesn't make much sense to me... I think there's
still a whole other half of it missing." "It's a
start. Thanks."
  "If you want to play with theories, try this out:
Kaseph comes to Ashton and wants to buy everything
he can get his hands on. The college is not even
thinking of selling. Next thing you know, thanks
to Baylor, the college gets itself in such
deep financial trouble that selling may be the only
way to get out of it. Suddenly Kaseph's offer
isn't so far-fetched, and by now the board of regents
is stacked with yea-sayers."
  Marshall opened the envelope and leafed through the
pages and pages of photocopied columns and
figures. "And you couldn't find any leads in all
this?"
  "More leads you don't need, not as much as proof.
What you really need to see is who's on the other end
of all those transactions."
  "Kaseph's books, perhaps?"
  "With all the friends and confederates he has at that
college, I wouldn't be surprised if Kaseph
was coming back to buy the college with its own money!"
  "That's some theory. But what would a man like that even
want with a little town, or with a whole college?"
  "Hogan, a guy with the power and bucks that guy
seems to have could take a town like Ashton and do
anything he wanted with it. I think he already has to a
great extent."
  "How do you know?"
  "Just check it out."

  Bernice was in a hurry. She was in the
back room of the Top of the Town Realty, going through
their microfiche files. Carla, the girl out in
front, was new enough to the job and the town that she bought
Bernice's little talk about being a historian from the
college looking for background on Ashton. It
didn't take long for Carla to give Bernice a
tour of the files and a short course on how to run the
viewer. When Carla left her alone, Bernice
went straight for the crisscross file. This was
certainly a wonderful stroke of luck: the other
real estate offices had files that told you what
land was owned by whom if you knew where the property
was; the crisscross file told you what various
people owned if you knew the names of the people.
  Kaseph. Bernice flipped through the microfiche
holder to the Ks. She slipped the celluloid into the
viewer and began scanning up and down, across,
zigzag, the myriads of microscopic letters and
figures streaking in a blur across the viewscreen as
she looked for the right column. There. Kw ...
Kh... Ke... Ka... across to the next column.
Hurry it up, Bernice!
  She found no listing under Kaseph.
  "How're you doing?" asked Carla from up front.
  "Oh, just fine," Bernice answered.
"I'm not finding much yet, but I know where to look."
  Well, there was still Joe's Market. She went
back to the regular file and pulled out the
microfiche for the Section, Township, and Quarter for
that address. Into the viewer the celluloid went, and
again Bernice raced the myriads of listings up and
down, looking for the listing. There! The legal
description of what used to be Joe's Market,
now the Ashton Mercantile. It was tax assessed
at $105,900, and owned by Omni Corporation. That
was all it said.
  Bernice went back to the crisscross file.
Into the viewer went the Ok-Om celluloid. Up,
down, across. Olson ... Omer... Omni.
Omni. Omni. Omni. Omni. Omni. The
listings under Omni Corporation went down, down,
down the column; there could have been over a hundred.
Bernice got her pen and pad and started writing
furiously. The many addresses and legal
descriptions meant little to her; many of them weren't
even decipherable, but she kept scribbling as fast as
she could, hoping she would be able to read her own writing
when she looked at it later. She abbreviated,
filling page after page in her notepad.
  Out front, the telephone rang, as it
had been doing; but this time Carla's conversation didn't
sound too happy. Her voice was hushed and serious,
and she sounded very apologetic. The jig might be
up, kid, keep writing!
  In a moment Carla appeared. "Are you Bernice
Krueger, from the Clarion?" she asked directly.
  "Who's asking?" Bernice said. That was dumb, but
she didn't want to come right out with the truth either.
  Carla looked very disturbed. "Listen, you're going
to have to leave right away," she said.
  "That was your boss on the phone, right?" "Yes it
was, and I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't tell
him I let you back here. I don't know what this
is all about, and I don't know why you lied to me, but
would you please just leave? He's coming over here to lock
the place up, and I told him you hadn't come
by..." "You're a doll!"
  "Well, I lied for you, now you please lie for
me." Bernice scrambled to gather up all her
notes and replace the celluloids. "I was never
here."
  "I appreciate it," said Carla as Bernice
raced out the door. "Wow, you just about got me
fired."
  Andy and June Forsythe had a very nice
home, a modern log house on the outskirts of
town, not far from Forsythe Lumber. Tonight Hank and
Mary had gathered there for a dinner fellowship along with
many others of the Remnant, as Krioni,
Triskal, Seth, Chimon, and Mota sat up in
the lofty rafters looking on. The angels could
feel the growing power of this little cluster of praying people.
The Joneses were there, as were the Colemans, the
Coopers, the Harrises, some of the college
students; Ron Forsythe was there along with his girlfriend
Cynthia. A few more brand-new Christians were with
him, just now getting introduced to the rest of the group.
Other latecomers were continually trickling in.
  After dinner the people gathered and settled around the big
stone hearth in the living room, while Hank took
his place on the hearth with Mary beside him. Each
person began to share his background.
  Bill and Betty Jones had been churchgoers
all their lives, but only made a serious commitment
to Jesus Christ a year ago. The Lord had spoken
to their hearts, and they searched Him out.
  John and Patty Coleman had been to another
church in town, but never knew much about the Bible or
about Christ until coming to this church.
  Cecil and Miriam Cooper had always
known the Lord, and they were glad to see a new flock
gathering to replace the old one. "It feels a lot
like replacing a flat tire," Cecil quipped.
  As others shared, their various backgrounds were brought
out; there were different traditions and different
doctrinal backgrounds, but any differences were not very
important right now. All of them had one main
concern: the town of Ashton.
  "Oh, it's a war, all right," said Andy Forsythe.
"You can't go out on those streets and not feel it.
Sometimes I feel like I'm running through a shower of
spears, you know?"
  A new couple, friends of the Coopers, Dan and
Jean Corsi, spoke up.
  Jean said, "I really think it's Satan out there,
just like the Bible says, just like a roaring lion trying
to devour everyone."
  Dan commented, "The problem is that we've all just
sat to the side and let it happen. It's time we
got concerned and scared and on our knees to see that the
Lord does something about it."
  Jean added, "Some of you know our son is having
some real problems right now. We really wish you'd
pray for him."
  "What's his name?" someone asked.
  "Bobby," Jean answered. She swallowed and
went on to say, "He enrolled at the college this
year and something's really happened to him ..." She had
to stop, choked with emotion.
  Dan picked it up, and his tone was bitter.
"Seems like something happens to any kid who goes
off to that college. I never knew what kind of
weird stuff they were really teaching over there. The rest
of you should find out about it and make sure you don't
let your kids get involved."
  Ron Forsythe, silent up to this time, piped up,
"I know what you're talking about, man. It's in the
high school, too. The kids are messing around with
Satanic stuff like you wouldn't believe. We used
to trip out on drugs; now it's demons."
  Jean ventured through her tears, "I know this sounds
awful, but I really wonder if Bobby isn't
possessed."
  "I was," said Ron. "I know I was.
Man, I heard voices talking to me, telling me
to get some drugs, or steal something, all kinds of
horrible things. I never let my folks know where I
was, I never came home, I'd end up sleeping
in the weirdest places... andwiththe weirdest people."
  Dan muttered, "Yeah, that's Bobby.
We haven't seen him in about a week."
  Jean wanted to know, "But how did you get started
in such things?"
  Ron shrugged. "Hey, I was already going the wrong
way. I'm not sure I'm even all the way
straightened out yet. But I'll tell you when I
think I got into the Satanic Stuff: it's when I
had my fortune told. Hey, that's when I caught
it, no doubt." Someone asked if the fortune-teller
was a certain woman. "No, it was somebody else.
It was at the carnival three years ago."
  "Aw, they're all over the place," someone
else moaned.
  "Well, that just goes to show how far off-base this
town has gotten!" Cecil Cooper protested.
"There are more witches and fortune-tellers around here
than Sunday school teachers!"
  "Well, we'll just see what we can do about that!"
said John Coleman.
  Ron picked it up again. "It's all heavy
duty, man. I mean, I saw some pretty
weird things when I was into that stuff: I've seen
things just float around by themselves, I've read people's
minds, I even left my body once and floated
around town. You'd just better all be good and
prayed up!"
  Jean Corsi began to cry. "Bobby's
possessed... I just know it!"
  Hank could see it was time to take control.
"Okay, people, now I have a real burden to pray for this
town, and I know you do too, so I think that's where the
answer lies. That's the first thing we need to do."
  They were all ready. Many felt awkward praying
out loud for the first time; some knew how to pray loudly and
confidently; some prayed in phrases they'd learned
from certain liturgies; all meant every word, however
they managed to express it. The fervency slowly
began to rise; the prayers became more and more earnest.
Someone started a simple song of worship and those who
knew it sang, while those who didn't know it
learned it.
  In the rafters the angels sang along, their
voices smooth and flowing like cellos and basses in
a symphony. Triskal looked at Krioni,
smiled broadly, and flexed his arms. Krioni
smiled and flexed back. Chimon took his sword
and made it dance from the pivot of his wrist, tracing
streaks and curls of shimmering light in the air as the
blade sang with a beautiful resonance. Mota just
looked toward heaven, his silken wings
spreading, his arms upraised, caught up in the
rapture of the song.
  Kate quietly set her kitchen table with one
plate, one cup, and a saucer. That evening she ate
by herself, hardly able to get anything down because of the
emotions tightening her throat and twisting her stomach.
Oh well, it was leftovers anyway-leftovers from
those many other meals Marshall never showed up for. It
was happening again. Maybe the place had nothing to do with
how busy a newsman could be. Perhaps, even though
Marshall had moved to a small, supposedly dull
town, he still had that cursed nose for news that led him
on his wild hunts into all hours of the night, making
a story where one didn't even exist before. Perhaps this
was, after all, his first love, more than his wife, more
than his daughter.
  Sandy. Where was she tonight? Hadn't they made this
move for her sake? Now she was further away from them
than ever, even though she still lived in the same house.
Shawn had grown into her life like a cancer, not a
friend, and Kate and Marshall never did talk about it
like he had promised. His mind had been totally
preoccupied. He was married to that newspaper,
maybe enamored by that young, attractive reporter.
  Kate shoved her plate away and tried
to keep from crying. She couldn't start fussing and shedding
tears now, not when she had to think clearly.
Undoubtedly there would be decisions to make, and she
would have to make them alone.
  On the outskirts of Ashton, next to the
railroad yard, Tal conferred with his warriors
inside an old, unused water tower.
  Nathan was pacing back and forth, his voice echoing
off the walls of the huge tank. "I could feel it
coming, captain! The enemy is luring Hogan into a
trap. There has been a dangerous shift in
affection toward Krueger. His family is in
grave danger."
  Tal nodded his head and remained deep in thought.
"Exactly as one might expect. Rafar knows no
frontal attack will work; he's trying his evil hand
at subtlety, at moral compromise."
  "And succeeding, I say!"
  "Yes, I agree."
  "But what can we do? If Hogan loses his
family, he'll be destroyed!"
  "No. Not destroyed. Knocked down, perhaps.
Decimated, perhaps. But it's all because of the dross in
his own soul, which the Spirit of God has yet to convict
him of. We can do nothing but wait and let
all things take their course."
  Nathan could only shake his head in frustration.
Guilo stood nearby, pondering Tal's words. Of
course what Tal said was true. Men will sin if men
will.
  "Captain," Guilo said, "what if Hogan
falls?"
  Tal leaned back against the dank metal wall and
said, "We can't be concerned with the question of "if." The
question we must deal with is "when." Both Hogan and
Busche are now laying the foundation we need for this
battle. Once that's done, Hogan as well as
Busche must fall. Only their clear defeat will
coax the Strongman out of hiding."
  Guilo and Nathan both looked at Tal with
consternation.
  "You-you would sacrifice these men?" Nathan
asked.
  "Only for a season," Tal answered.
  Marshall brought out Ernie Johnson's large
packet of pirated records from the Whitmore
College accounting office and handed them across the
Clarion's reception counter to Harvey Cole.
Cole was a CPA Marshall knew well enough
to trust.
  "I don't know what you'll be able to make of all
this," said Marshall, "but see if you can find whatever
Johnson found, and see if it looks crooked."
  "Wow!" said Harvey. "This is going to cost you!"
  "I'll swap you some free advertising. How about
that?"
  Harvey smiled. "Sounds fine. Okay, I'll
get to it and get back to you."
  "A.s.a.p."
  Harvey went out the door and Marshall returned
to his office, rejoining Bernice in their evening,
after-hours project.
  They were working amid a flurry of notes,
papers, phone books, and any other public
records they could get their hands on. In the middle
of it all, a consolidated list of names,
addresses, jobs, and tax records was forming
piece by piece.
  Marshall looked over his notes from his interview
with Harmel. "Okay, what about that judge,
what's-his-name, Jefferson?"
  "Anthony C.," Bernice replied, flipping
through last year's phone book. "Yeah, Anthony
C. Jefferson, 221 Alder Street." She
immediately went to her scrawled notes from the
Top of the Town Realty. "221 Alder..." Her
eyes scanned one sheet in her notebook, then
another, until finally, "Bingo!"
  "Another one!"
  "So check me out on this: Jefferson was bumped
by the Network and Omni came in and bought his house?"
  Marshall scribbled some reminder notes to himself
on a yellow legal pad. "I'd like to know why
Jefferson moved and how much he sold that house for.
I'd also like to know who's living there now."
  Bernice shrugged. "We'll just have to go down the
list and check all these Network people's addresses.
I'll lay you odds it's one of them."
  "What about Baker, the judge who replaced
Jefferson?"
  Bernice looked at another list. "No,
Baker's over in the house that used to belong to the high
school principal, uh, Waller, George
Waller."
  "Oh yeah, he's the one who lost his house in the
sheriff sale."
  "Oh, there are a lot of those, and I'll bet we
might find more if we knew where to look."
  "We'll have to snoop around the County Finance
Office. Somehow, some way, those people's
property taxes never got to where they were supposed
to go. I can't believe this many people would be delinquent
on their taxes."
  "Someone diverted the money so the taxes were never
paid. It's dirty, Hogan, just plain dirty."
  "It wasn't Lew Gregory, the old
comptroller. Look at this. He had to resign because
of some conflict of interest rap. Now Irving
Pierce is in, and he's Omni-owned, right?"
  "You got it."
  "And what was that you had on Mayer Steen?"
  Bernice consulted her notes, but shook her
head. "He just recently bought his house; the deal
looks legitimate except for the previous owner
being the former police chief who left town for no
apparent reason. It might mean something, it might
not. It's what happened to all those other people that has
me wondering."
  "Yeah, and why none of them ever squawked or
made a fuss about it. Hey, I wouldn't let the
county just come in and auction off my house right out from under
me, not without asking at least a few questions. There's
something else about this that we don't know."
  "Well, think about the Carluccis. Did you know
their house sold to Omni for $5,000?
That's ridiculous!"
  "And the Carluccis went poof! Gone, just like that!"
  "So I wonder who's living in their house now?"
  "Maybe the new high school principal, or the
new fire marshal, or a new city councilman,
or a new this or a new that!"
  "Or one of the new college regents."
  Marshall scrambled for some more papers. "Boy,
what a mess!" He finally found the list he was
looking for. "Let's go through those regents and see
what we come up with."
  Bernice flipped through a few pages in her
notebook. "I know for sure that Pinckston's
place is owned by Omni. Some kind of trust
arrangement."
  "What about Eugene Baylor?"
  "Don't you have that somewhere?"
  "One of us does, but now I can't remember
who."
  They both fumbled through their notes, papers,
lists. Marshall finally found it among his scattered
leaves.
  "Here it is. Eugene Baylor, 1024 SW
147th."
  "Oh, I think I saw that here somewhere."
Bernice perused her notes. "Yes, Omni owns
that too."
  "Sheesh! Deeding everything over to Omni
Corporation must be a requirement for membership."
  "Well, that makes Young and Brummel
card-carrying members. It makes sense, though.
If they all want to meld into one Universal
Mind, they have to do away with individuality, and that
means no private ownership."
  One by one, Marshall read off the names of the
college regents, and Bernice researched their
addresses. Of the twelve regents, eight were living
in homes owned by Omni Corporation. The others
rented apartments; one of the apartment buildings was owned
by Omni. Bernice had no information on the other
apartment buildings.
  "I think we've ruled out coincidence," said
Marshall.
  "And now I can't wait to hear what your friend
Lemley has to say."
  "Sure, that Kaseph and Omni Corporation are
linked. That's obvious." Marshall took just a
moment to ponder. "But you know what really scares me?
So far, everything we see here is legal. I'm
sure they've been crooked somewhere to get
where they are, but you can see they're working within the
system, or at least doing a very good job of looking
like it."
  "But come on, Marshall! He's taking over a
whole town, for crying out loud!"
  "And he's doing it legally. Don't forget that."
  "But he must leave some tracks somewhere. We've
been able to sniff him out at least this far."
  Marshall took a deep breath and then sighed it
out. "Well, we can try to track down every person
who sold out and left town, try to find out why it
happened. We can check into what positions they held
before they left and who holds that position now. Whoever
holds the position now can be asked what connection he
or she has with Omni Corporation or with this
Universal Consciousness mind-tripping group. We
can ask each and every one of them what they might know about
the elusive Mr. Kaseph. We can do some more
research on the Omni Corporation itself, find out where
it's based, what it deals in, what else it owns.
We have our work cut out for us. And then I guess
it'll be time to go directly to our friends with what we
know and get a response from them."
  Bernice could feel something coming across in
Marshall's manner. "What's bothering you,
Marshall?"
  Marshall tossed his notes on the desk and leaned
back in his chair to ponder. "Bernie, we'd be
fools to think we're immune to any of this."
  Bernice gave a resigned nod. "Yeah,
I've been wondering about it, wondering what they
might try."
  "I think they already have my daughter." It was a
blunt statement. Marshall himself was shocked at the
sound of it.
  "You don't know that for sure."
  "If I don't know that, I don't know
anything."
  "But what kind of real power could they wield
except economic and political? I don't
buy all this cosmic, spiritual stuff; it's nothing but
a mind trip."
  "That's easy for you to say, you're not religious."
  "You'll find it's a lot easier."
  "So what if we end up like-like Harmel, no
family left, just hiding in the bushes and talking
about... spooks?"
  "I wouldn't mind ending up like Strachan. He
seems comfortable enough just being out of this whole thing."
  "Well, Bernie, even so, we'd
better see it coming before it gets here." He grabbed
her hand in earnest and said to her, "I hope we both
know what we're getting ourselves into. We may be in
too deep already. We could quit, I
suppose..."
  "You know we can't do that."
  "I know I can't. I'm not putting any
expectations on you. You can get out now, go somewhere
else, work for some ladies' journal or something. I
won't mind."
  She smiled at him and held his hand tightly.
"Die all, die merrily."
  Marshall only shook his head and smiled in
return.

  In another state, in a low-income section of
another town, a little panel truck weaved its way
down a kid-cluttered street through a housing
project. All the little duplexes, except for
different color schemes, came from the same mold.
As the truck pulled to a stop at the end of an aging
asphalt cul-de-sac, "Princess Cleaners"
could be seen printed on its side.
  The driver, a young lady in blue overalls, her
hair in a red scarf, got out. She opened
the side door and pulled out a large laundry
bundle and some bag-draped dresses on hangers.
Rechecking the address, she made her way up one
walk to one particular door and rang the bell.
  First the curtain of the front window pulled to the
side for a moment, and then there were footsteps toward the
door. The door opened.
  "Hi, got some cleaning here," said the young lady.
  "Oh, yes..." said the man who answered the
door. "Just bring it in."
  He opened the door wider so she could make her
way into the house as three children tried to keep out of her
path despite their great curiosity.
  The man called to his wife, "Honey, the
cleaning lady is here."
  She came in from the small kitchen, looking tense
and nervous. "You children go outside and play," she
ordered.
  They whined a bit, but she herded them out the door,
closed it, then drew shut the one window that still
remained open.
  "Where'd you get all this laundry?" the man
asked.
  "It was in the truck. I don't know who it
belongs to."
  The man, a heavyset Italian with graying
curly hair, offered his hand. "Joe Carlucci."
  The young lady set down the laundry and shook his
hand. "Bernice Krueger from the Clarion."
  He showed her to a chair and then said, "They told
me I was never to talk to you or Mr. Hogan..."
  "For the sake of our children, they said," Mrs.
Carlucci added.
  "This is Angelina. It was for her sake, for the
children's sake, that we-we moved away, we left it
all, we said nothing."
  "Can you help us?" asked Angelina.
  Bernice got her pad ready. "Okay, just
take your time. We'll start at the beginning."
  At what Also Lemley called "the halfway
point" between Ashton and New York, Marshall
pulled the Buick into the parking lot of a little insurance
office in Taylor, a small town at the crossing
of two major highways with no other real reason for
being there. He stepped into the little office and was immediately
recognized by the lady at the desk.
  "Mr. Hogan?" she asked.
  "Yes, good morning."
  "Mr. Lemley is already here. He's waiting for
you."
  She showed him to another door which led to a back
office that no one was using at the time. "Now there's
coffee out here on the counter, and the bathroom is right
through this door and to the right."
  "Thank you."
  "You're welcome."
  Marshall closed the door, and only then did
Also Lemley stand up and give him a warm
handshake.
  "Marshall," he said, "it's great to see you. Just
great!"
  He was a smaller man, bald, with a hooked
nose and sharp blue eyes. He had spunk and
sparkle, and Marshall had always known him as a
priceless associate, a friend who could come through with
almost any much-needed favor.
  Also sat behind the desk, and Marshall pulled a
chair up beside him so they could both look over the
materials Also had brought. For a little while they
talked old times. Al was pretty much filling the
vacancy that Marshall had left in the City Room
at the Times, and he was beginning to have a real
appreciation for Marshall's ability to handle the
job.
  "But I don't think I want to trade
places with you now, buddy!" he said. "I thought you
moved to Ashton to get away from it all!"
  "I guess it followed me there," he said.
  "Eh... in a few weeks New York may be
a lot safer."
  "What've you got?"
  Also pulled an 8 x 10 glossy photo from
a file folder and let it slide across the desk under
Marshall's nose. "Is this your boy?"
  Marshall looked at the picture. He'd never
seen Alexander M. Kaseph before, but from all the
descriptions he knew, "This has to be him."
  "Oh, it's him, all right. He's known and then
he's not known, if you catch my drift. The general
public never heard of the guy, but start asking
investors on Wall Street, or government people,
or foreign diplomats, or anyone else in any
way connected with international wheeling and dealing and
politics and you'll get a response. He is the
president of Omni Corporation, yes; they are
definitely connected."
  "Surprise, surprise. So what do you know about
Omni Corporation?"
  Also shoved a stack of materials toward
Marshall, a stack several inches thick.
"Thank goodness for computers. Omni was just a little
nontypical in tracking down. They have no central
headquarters, no main address; they're scattered
into local offices all over the world and keep a very
low profile. From what I understand, Kaseph
keeps his own immediate staff with him and likes to be as
invisible as possible, running the whole operation from no
one knows where. It's weirdly subterranean.
They're not on the New York or American
Stock Exchanges, not by their name, at least. The
stocks are all diversified among, oh, maybe a
hundred different front corporations. Omni is
the owner and controller of retail chain stores,
banks, mortgage companies, fast food chains,
soft drink bottlers, you name it."
  Also continued talking as he thumbed through the stack of
materials. "I had some of my staff digging into this
stuff. Omni doesn't come right out and print anything
about itself. First you have to find out what the front
corporation is, then you sort of sneak in the back
door and find out what interest the Big Mother Company
has in it. Take this one here ..." Also produced
a stockholder's annual report from an Idaho
mining company. "You don't know what you're really
reading about until you get down here to the end
... see? "A subsidiary of Omni
International.""
  "International"
  "Very international. You wouldn't believe how
influential they are in Arab oil, the Common
Market, the World Bank, international terrorism"
  "What?"
  "Don't expect to find any stockholder's
reports on the latest car bombing or mass
murder, but for every documented aboveboard item here there
are a couple hundred pieces of under-the-table
scuttlebutt that no one can prove but everyone
seems to know."
  "And such is life."
  "And such is your man Kaseph. I want
to tell you, Marshall, he knows how to spill blood
if he has to and sometimes when he doesn't have to.
I'd say this guy is a perfect cross between the
ultimate guru and Adolf Hitler, and he
makes Also Capone look like a Boy Scout.
Word has it that even the Mafia is afraid of
him!"
  Angelina Carlucci tended to spill words more from
emotions than from objective recall, which made her
story travel in agonizing circles.
Bernice had to keep asking questions to get things clear.
  "Getting back to your son Carl"
  "They broke his hands!" she wept.
  "Who broke his hands?"
  Joe intervened to help his wife. "It was after we
said we would not sell the store. They had asked us
... well, they didn't ask, they told us we'd
better... but they talked to us about it a few times and
we wouldn't sell..."
  "And that's when they started threatening you?"
  "They never threaten!" Angelina said angrily.
"They say they never threatened us!"
  Joe tried to explain. "They-they threaten you without
sounding like they are. It's hard to explain. But they
talk the deal over with you, and they let you know how very
wise you will be to go along with the deal, and you know, you just
know that you should go along with it if you don't want
anything evil to befall you."
  "So just who was it that you talked to?"
  "Two gentlemen who were-well, they said they were
friends of the new people who own the store now. I just thought
at first that they were realtors or something. I had no
idea..."
  Bernice looked over her notes again. "All
right, so it was after you turned them down the
third time that Carl had his hands broken?"
  "Yes, at school."
  "Well, who did it?"
  Angelina and Joe looked at each other.
Angelina answered, "No one saw it. It was
during recess at school, and no one saw it!"
  "Carl must have seen it."
  Joe only shook his head and waved his hand at
Bernice to stop short. "You cannot ask Carl about it.
He is still tormented, he has had dreams."
  Angelina leaned forward and whispered, "Evil
spirits, Miss Krueger! Carl thinks it was evil
spirits!"
  Bernice kept waiting for these two responsible
adults to explain the strange perceptions of their young
son. She had trouble phrasing a question. "Well,
what does-why-what do you ... Well, surely you
must know what really happened, or at least have some
idea." The two of them only stared at each other
blankly, at a loss for words. "There were no
teachers on the grounds who assisted him after it
happened?"
  Joe tried to explain. "He was playing
baseball with some other boys. The ball rolled
into the woods and he went after it. When he
came back, he was-he was crazy, screaming,
he'd wet himself... his hands were broken."
  "And he never said who did it?"
  Joe Carlucci's eyes were glazed with terror.
He whispered, "Big black things..."
  "Men?"
  "Things. Carl says they were spirits, monsters."
  Don't knock it, Bernice told herself. It was
clear these poor deluded people really believed something of
this nature was attacking them. They were very devout
Catholics, but also very superstitious. Perhaps that
explained the many crucifixes on every door, the
pictures of Jesus and the figurines of the Virgin
Mary everywhere, on every table, over every doorway, in every
window.
  Marshall had perused the materials on the Omni
Corporation. He still hadn't read about one thing.
"What about any kind of religious affiliation?"
"Yeah," said Also, reaching for another folder. "You
were right on that. Omni is just one of several
underwriters for the Universal Consciousness
Society, and that's a whole other ball of
financial and political wax, and perhaps the main
motivation behind the company, even more than money.
Omni owns or backs-oh brother, there
must be hundreds of them-Society-owned businesses,
from cottage-level enterprises clear up
to banks, retail stores, schools, colleges"
  "Colleges?"
  "Yeah, and law firms too, according to this news
clipping. They have a major lobbying task force in
Washington, they've been regularly pushing their own
special interest legislation ... it's usually
anti-Jewish and anti-Christian, if that's of
any interest to you."
  "How about towns? Does this Society like to buy
towns?" "I know Kaseph's done it, or other
things similar to that. Listen, I got in touch with
Chuck Anderson, one of our foreign
correspondents, and he's heard all kinds of
interesting things besides seeing a lot of it himself. It
seems these Universal Consciousness people are a
worldwide club. We've located Society
chapters in ninety-three different countries. They
just seem to pop up everywhere, no matter what part of the
world, and yes, they have acquired full control of
towns, villages, hospitals, some ships, some
corporations. Sometimes they buy their way in,
sometimes they vote their way in, sometimes they just crowd
their way in."
  "Like an invasion without guns."
  "Yes, usually quite legally, but that's probably out
of sheer cleverness, not any integrity, and remember
you're also looking at a lot of power and pull here.
You're standing right in the path of Big Daddy himself, and
from what I gather, he doesn't slow, stop, or
even go around."
  "Nuts..."
  "I'd... well, I'd cool it, buddy.
Call the feds, let somebody bigger handle it if
they want. You still have a job back at the Times if
you ever want it. At least cover the story from a
distance. You're a class-A reporter, but you're
too close, you have too much to lose."
  All Marshall could think was, Why me?
  Bernice had stumbled too far into a touchy
situation. The Carluccis were getting more unsettled and
terrified the more she questioned them.
  "Maybe this wasn't a good idea," Joe finally
said. "If they ever find out we talked to you ..."
  Bernice was about to scream if she heard that word
again. "Joe, who do you mean by "they"? You keep
saying they and them, but you never say who."
  "I-I can't tell you," he said with great
difficulty.
  "Well, let me at least clear this much up.
Are they people, I mean real people?"
  He and Angelina thought for a moment, then he
answered, "Yes, they are real people."
  "So they are real, flesh-and-blood people?"
  "And maybe spirits too."
  "I'm talking about the real people now," Bernice
insisted. "Was it real people who audited your
taxes?"
  Reluctantly, they nodded.
  "And it was a real, flesh-and-blood man who
posted the auction notice on your door?"
  "We didn't see him," Angelina said.
  "But it was a real piece of paper, right?"
  "But nobody told us it would happen!" Joe
protested. "We always paid our taxes, I have the
cancelled checks to prove it! The people at the County
Office wouldn't listen to us!"
  Angelina was angry now. "We had no money
to pay the taxes they wanted. We already paid them, we
couldn't pay them again."
  "They said they would take our store, take all
our inventory, and business was bad, very bad. Half
our customers left and wouldn't come in anymore."
  "And I know what kept them away!" said
Angelina defiantly. "We could all feel it.
I tell you, windows don't break by themselves, and
groceries don't fly off the shelves by themselves. It
was the Devil himself in our store!"
  Bernice had to reassure them. "All right,
I'm not arguing with that. You saw what you saw, I
don't doubt you"
  "But don't you see, Miss Krueger?" Joe
asked with tears in his eyes. "We knew we could not
stay. What would they do next? Our store was
failing, our home was sold out from under us, our children were
being tormented by evil people, spirits, whatever. We knew
it would be best not to fight. It was God's will. We
sold the store. They gave us a good price..."
  Bernice knew that wasn't so. "You didn't
get half of what that store was worth."
  Joe broke down and cried as he said, "But we
are free... We are free!"
  Bernice had to wonder.
  Then came the blitz, a die-all-die-merrily
push for information accompanied by mixed feelings of
determination and foreboding, by conflicts between initial
impulses and second thoughts. Every Tuesday and
Friday for two weeks the Ashton Clarion still
appeared on the newsstands and in all the
mailboxes of subscribers, but its editor and
chief reporter were very hard to contact or even catch
a glimpse of. Marshall's phone messages
stacked up unreturned, Bernice was simply never
home; there were several nights when Marshall never
went home at all, but slept here and there, now and
then in the office, waiting for special calls,
making other calls, working at keeping the paper
afloat with one hand while going over lists of
contacts, tax records, business reports,
interviews, and leads with the other.
  The people who had left their positions, and usually
Ashton, and the people who replaced them were definitely
two separate groups of widely different
persuasions; after a while, Marshall and Bernice
could just about predict what their responses were going
to be.
  Bernice called Adam Jarred, the college
regent whose daughter was allegedly molested by Ted
Harmel.
  "No," said Jarred, "I really don't know
anything about any special... what did you call
it?"
  "A society. The Universal Consciousness
Society."
  "No, afraid not."
  Marshall spoke with Eugene Baylor.
  "No," Baylor replied somewhat
impatiently, "I've never even heard the name
Kaseph, and I really don't understand what you're
driving at."
  "I'm trying to chase down some claims that the
college might be negotiating a sale of its
property with Alexander Kaseph of the Omni
Corporation."
  Baylor laughed and said, "You must have heard about
another college. There's nothing like that happening
here."
  "And what about the information we've received that the
college is in heavy financial trouble?"
  Baylor didn't like that question at all. "Listen,
the last editor of the Clarion tried that one too, and
it was the dumbest move he ever made. Why don't
you just run your paper and leave the running of the
college to us?"
  The former regents had a different tune.
  Morris James, now a business consultant in
Chicago, had nothing but bad memories of his last
year with the college.
  "They really taught me what it must be like
to be a leper," he told Bernice. "I felt
I could be a good voice on the board, you know, a
stabilizing factor, but they simply would tolerate
no dissent. I thought it was highly unprofessional."
  Bernice asked him, "And what about Eugene
Baylor's handling of the college finances?"
  "Well, I left before any of this really serious
trouble arose, this trouble you've described to me, but
I could foresee it. I did try to block some
decisions the board made regarding the granting of
special powers and privileges to Baylor. I
thought it was giving too much unauthorized control to one
man without the oversight of the other regents. Needless
to say, my opinion was very unpopular."
  Bernice asked a very pointed question. "Mr.
James, what finally precipitated your resigning
from the board and leaving Ashton?"
  "Well... that's a tough one to answer," he
began reluctantly. His answer took about
fifteen minutes, but the bottom line came down
to, "My wholesale business was so harassed and so
sabotaged by... unseen mobsters, I guess I
would call it... that I became too great an
insurance risk. I couldn't fill my orders,
clientele dropped way off, and I just
couldn't stay above water anymore. The business
folded, I took the hint, and I got out of there.
I've been doing fine ever since. You can't keep a
good man down, you know."
  Marshall managed to track down Rita
Jacobson, now living in New Orleans. She was
not happy to hear from someone in Ashton.
  "Let the Devil have that town!" she said
bitterly. "If he wants it so bad, let him have
it."
  Marshall asked her about Juleen Langstrat.
  "She's a witch. I mean a real, live
witch!"
  He asked her about Alexander Kaseph.
  "A warlock and a gangster rolled into one. Stay
out of his way. He'll bury you before you even feel
it."
  He tried to ask her some other questions, but she finally
said, "Please don't ever call this number again," and
hung up.
  Marshall tracked down as many former members of the
city council as he could by telephone and found out that
one had simply retired, but all the others stepped
down because of some form of hardship: Allan Bates
fell ill of cancer, Shirley
Davidson went through a divorce and ran off with a
new lover, Carl Frohm was "set up," as he
called it, with a phony tax scam, Jules
Bennington's business was "strong-armed" out of town
by a bunch of mobsters whom he knew better than
to identify. By cross-checking Marshall found that, in
every case, the deposed city councilman or
councilwoman was replaced by a new person
connected in some way with either the Universal
Consciousness Society or Omni Corporation or
both; and in every case the deposed person thought that he
or she was the only one who had left. Now, out of
fear, out of self-interest, out of that typical
reluctance to get involved, all of them remained far
away, out of touch, out of the picture, saying nothing.
Some were cooperative in answering Marshall's questions,
and some felt very threatened. All in all, though,
Marshall got what he was after.
  As for those who used to own businesses now run by this
mysterious incognito corporation, very few of them had
planned on selling out, moving out, or giving up their
peaceful lives in Ashton or their successful
businesses. But the reasons for leaving were consistently
along the same lines: tax bunglings, harassments,
boycotts, personal problems, marriage
dissolutions, perhaps a disease or a nervous breakdown
here and there, with an occasional macabre tale of
strange, maybe-supernatural occurrences.
  Former Ashton District Judge Anthony C.
Jefferson's story was ominously typical. "Word
started circulating around the courthouse and the legal
community that I was on the take, receiving bribes for
fixing sentences and letting people off. Some false
witnesses even confronted me and made accusations, but
it never happened-I swear it with all that I have in
me!"
  "Then can you tell me the truth about why you left
Ashton?" Marshall asked, almost knowing what kind of
answer to expect.
  "Personal reasons as well as professional.
Some of these reasons remain with me even now and are still
viable enough to restrict what I can share with you. I can
say, however, that my wife and I were needing a
change. We were both feeling the pressure, she more
than I. My health was failing. We at length
thought it best to get out of Ashton altogether."
  "May I ask, sir, if there were any...
unfavorable outside influences ... that brought about
your decision to step down from the bench?"
  He thought for a moment, and then, with some
bitterness in his voice, said, "I cannot tell you who
they were-I have my reasons-but I can say yes, some
very highly unfavorable influences."
  Marshall's last question was, "And you really can't
tell me anything about who they might be?"
  Jefferson gave a sardonic chuckle and said,
"Just keep going the way you are, and you'll find out
soon enough yourself."
  Jefferson's words were beginning to haunt both
Marshall and Bernice; they had heard many similar
warnings as they went along, and both of them were growing more
aware of something out there around them, building, coming
closer, growing more and more malevolent. Bernice
tried to shrug it off, Marshall found himself resorting
more and more to quickly blurted prayers; but the feeling was still
there, that disturbing sense that you are nothing but a sand
castle on the beach and a twenty-foot wave is about
to crash down on you.
  On top of all this, Marshall had to wonder how
Kate was holding up through all of this, and how he would
ever patch things up between them when this was finally over.
She was talking about being a widow again, a newspaper
widow, and had even made some very embarrassing
suggestions about Bernice. Man, this thing just had
to get over with; much more of it and he wouldn't have
much of a marriage to come home to.
  And then of course there was Sandy, whom Marshall
hadn't seen in weeks. But when this was all over, when
it was really finally over, things would be different.
  For now, the investigation he and Bernice were doing was
incredibly urgent, a top priority, something that
grew more ominous with every new stone they turned.

  When things around the office were in their usual
quiet, post-Tuesday state, Marshall had
Carmen search out a good-sized cardboard box and some
file folders and he began to organize the piles
of papers, records, documents, scattered
notes, and other information he and Bernice had compiled
in their investigation into an orderly file. As he
went through it all, he also compiled a list of questions on
a legal pad on his desk-questions he intended to use
in his interview with the first of the real principals in this
plot: Alf Brummel.
  That afternoon, after Carmen had left for a dentist
appointment, Marshall made a call to Alf
Brummel's office.
  "Police Department," said Sara's voice.
  "Hi, Sara, this is Marshall Hogan. Can I
have a word with Alf?"
  "He's out of the office right now..." Sara let out
a long sigh and then added in a very strange, very quiet
tone of voice, "Marshall-Alf Brummel does
not want to talk to you."
  Marshall had to think for a moment before he said,
"Sara, are you caught in the middle?"
  Sara sounded miffed. "Maybe I am, I
don't know, but Alf told me in no uncertain
terms that I was not to put through any calls from you and that
I was to let him know whatever your intentions were."
  "Huh..."
  "Look, I don't know where friendships end and
professional ethics begin, but I sure wish I
knew what was going on around here."
  "What is going on around there?"
  "What'll you trade me for it?"
  Marshall knew he was taking a chance. "I think
I can find something of equal value if I look
hard enough."
  Sara hesitated for just a moment. "From all
appearances, you've become his worst enemy. Every
once in a while I hear
  your name coming through that office door of his, and he
never says it nicely."
  "Who's he talking to when he says it?"
  "Uh-uh. It's your turn."
  "All right. Well, we talk about him too.
We talk about him a lot, and if everything we've
uncovered checks out, yeah, I just might be his worst
enemy. Now who's he talking to?"
  "Some of them I've seen before, some of them I
haven't. He's put several calls through to Juleen
Langstrat, his whatever-she-is."
  "Anyone else?"
  "Judge Baker was one, and several members of the
city council..."
  "Malone?"
  "Yes."
  "Everett?"
  "Yes."
  "Uh-Preston?"
  "No."
  "Goldtree?"
  "Yes, plus some other VIP'S from out of town,
and then Spence Nelson from the Windsor Police
Department, the same department that supplied our
extra manpower for the Festival. I mean, he's
been talking to a lot of people, far more than usual.
Something's up. What is it?"
  Marshall had to be careful. "It might
involve me and the Clarion, it might not."
  "I don't know if I'll accept that or not."
  "I don't know if I can trust you or not. Whose
side are you on?"
  "That depends on who the bad guy is. I know
Alf is shady.
  "Are you?"
  Marshall had to smile at her spunk. "I'll
have to let you be the judge of that. I do try to run an
honest paper, and we have been carrying on a very
intensive investigation of not only your boss, but just
about every other bigwig in this town"
  "He knows it. They all do."
  "Well, I've talked to just about all of them.
Alf was next on my list."
  "I think he knew that too. He told me just this
morning that he did not want to talk to you. But he's
sure talking up a storm with everybody else, and
he just left here with a pile of papers under his arm,
heading for another hush-hush meeting with someone."
  "Any idea of what they're going to do about me?"
  "Oh, you can be sure they wil do something, and I
get the feeling they're loading for bear. Consider
yourself warned."
  "And I'd advise you to be the sweet,
ignorant angel who knows nothing and says nothing.
Things could get messy."
  "If they do, Marshall, can I come to you for
answers, or at least a ticket out of town?"
  "We'll be able to deal."
  "I'll give you anything I can find if you'll
keep me safe."
  Marshall caught it in her voice: this gal was
scared. "Hey now, remember, I didn't ask you
to get involved."
  "I didn't ask to be involved. I just am. I
know Alf Brummel. I'd better pick you for my
friend."
  "I'll keep you posted. Now hang up and act
normal."
  She did.
  Alf Brummel was in Juleen Langstrat's
office, and the two of them were looking over a very thick
portfolio of information Brummel had brought.
  "Hogan now has enough to fill a front page!"
Brummel said quite unhappily. "You've berated me
for being slow in taking care of Busche, but as far as
I can see, you've given Hogan nothing but a clear
freeway since the beginning."
  "Calm down, Alf," Langstrat said
soothingly. "Just calm down."
  "He's going to be coming after me for an interview
any day now, just like he's gone after all the others.
What do you suggest I say to him?"
  Langstrat was a little shocked at his stupidity.
"Don't say anything, of course!"
  Brummel paced the room exasperated. "I
don't have to, Juleen! By this point, nothing I
say or don't say will make any difference
anyway. He already has everything he needs: he
knows about the property sales, he has very good leads
on all the sheriff sales of the tax delinquent
homes, he knows all about the Corporation and the
Society, he has good information on the college
embezzlements ... he even has more than enough
evidence to accuse me of false arrest!"
  Langstrat smiled with pleasure. "Your spy
has done very well."
  "She brought me a lot of this material today.
He's getting it all organized in a file now.
He's about to make his move, I'd say."
  Langstrat gathered all the material neatly,
placed it back in its portfolio, and leaned back
in her chair. "I love it."
  Brummel only looked at her in
amazement and shook his head. "You could lose at this
game someday, you know. We could all lose!"
  "I love a challenge," she exulted. "I
love taking on a strong opponent. The stronger the
opponent, the more exhilarating the victory! Most of
all, I love winning." She smiled at him,
truly pleased. "Alf, I've had my doubts about
you, but I think you've come through bountifully. I think
you should be there to see Mr. Hogan step into the
snare."
  "I'll believe it when I see it."
  "Oh, you will. You will."
  There was a short lull, and it got strangely
quiet around the town of Ashton. People weren't in
touch. Nothing much was said.
  During the day Marshall and Bernice organized
their materials and stuck close to the office.
Marshall took Kate out to dinner one night.
Bernice sat at home and tried to read a novel.
  Alf Brummel kept regular hours, but he
didn't have much to say to Sara or anyone else about
anything. Langstrat fell ill, or so the word was from
her office, and her classes were canceled for a few
days.
  Hank and Mary thought that maybe their
phone was out of order, the thing had been so silent. The
Colemans visited relatives out of town. The
Forsythes took the chance to do some inventory at the
lumberyard. The rest of the Remnant all went about
their normal business.
  There was an odd stillness everywhere. The skies were
hazy, the sun a blurred ball of light, the air
warm and sticky. It was quiet.
  But no one could relax.
  High on a hill above the town, in the top of a
graying, long-dead snag of an old tree, like an
enormous black vulture, Rafar, the Prince of
Babylon, sat. Other demons attended him,
waiting to hear his next command, but Rafar was silent.
Hour upon hour, a tense scowl on his face, he
sat and gazed down at the town with his slowly shifting
yellow eyes.
  On another hill, directly across the town from
Rafar's big dead tree, Tal and his warriors
concealed themselves in the woods. They also were looking out
over the town, and they could feel the lull, the silence,
the ominous deadness of the air.
  Guilo stood at his captain's side, and he
knew this feeling. It had always been the same throughout
the centuries.
  "It could be any time now. Are we ready?" he
asked Tal.
  "No," Tal said flatly, looking intensely
over the town. "Not all the Remnant are gathered.
Those who have gathered are not praying, not enough. We
haven't the numbers or the strength."
  "And the black cloud of spirits over the Strongman
grows a hundredfold each day."
  Tal looked up into the sky over Ashton. "They
will fill the sky from horizon to horizon."
  From their hiding place they could look across the
valley, over several miles, and see their hideous
opponent sitting in the big dead tree.
  "His strength has not waned," said Guilo.
  "He is more than ready to do battle," said
Tal, "and he can pick his own time, his own place,
and the best of his warriors. He could attack on a
hundred different fronts at once."
  Guilo only shook his head. "You know we can't
defend that many."
  Just then a messenger rushed toward them, on the wing.
"Captain," he said, alighting next to Tal,
"I've brought word from the Strongman's Lair. There
is a stirring there. The demons are growing restless."
  "It's beginning," said Tal, and this word was
passed back through the ranks. "Guilo!" Guilo
stepped up. "Captain!" Tal took Guilo
aside. "I have a plan. I want you to take a
small contingent with you and set up watch over that
valley"
  Guilo was not one to argue with the captain, but "A
small contingent? To watch the Strongman?"
  The two of them continued in conference, Tal mapping
out his instructions, Guilo shaking his head
dubiously. At length Guilo came back to the
group, picked out his warriors, and said, "Let's be
off!"
  With a rush of wings the two dozen weaved and
zigzagged through the forest until they were far enough away
to take to the open sky.
  Tal summoned a strong warrior. "Replace
Signa in guarding the church, and tell him to come
to me."
  Then he summoned another messenger. "Tell
Krioni and Triskal to rouse Hank and get him
praying, and all the Remnant."
  In a short moment Signa arrived.
  "Come with me," said Tal. "Let's talk."
  It had been a quiet afternoon for Hank and Mary.
Mary spent most of it in the little garden behind
the house, while Hank worked to repair a corner
of the backyard fence that kids had broken a hole
through. As Mary hunted for weeds among her
vegetables, she noticed Hank's hammering getting
more and more sporadic until finally it stopped altogether.
She looked his way and saw him sitting there, the
hammer still in his hand, praying.
  He seemed very disturbed, so she asked, "Are you
all right?" Hank opened his eyes, and without looking
up he shook his head. "I don't feel good at
all." She went over to him. "What is it?"
  Hank knew where the feeling came from. "The Lord,
I guess. I just feel something's really wrong.
Something terrible is about to happen. I'm going to call
the Forsythes."
  Just then the phone in the house rang. Hank went
in and answered it. It was Andy Forsythe.
  "Sorry to bother you, Pastor, but I was just
wondering if you feel a real burden of prayer right
now. I know I sure do."
  "Come on over," said Hank.
  The fence would have to wait.
  On into the evening the angelic host waited, while
Hank, the Forsythes, and several others prayed.
Rafar continued to sit up in the dead tree,
his eyes beginning to glow in the steadily thickening
darkness. His taloned fingers continued to drum his
knee; his brow stayed crinkled with his intense scowl.
Behind him a host of demons began to gather, primed
with anticipation and rapt with attention, waiting to hear
Rafar's order.
  The sun dipped behind the hills on the west side;
the sky was washed with red fire.
  Rafar sat and waited. The demonic host
waited.
  In her bedroom Juleen Langstrat sat on
her bed, her legs crossed in the lotus position of
Eastern meditation, her eyes closed, her head
erect, her body perfectly still. Except for one
single candle, the room was dark. There, under the shroud
of the darkness, she convened her meeting with the Ascended
Masters, the Spirit Guides from the higher planes.
Deep within her consciousness, far within the depths of her
inner being, she spoke with a messenger.
  To the eyes of Langstrat's entranced mind the
messenger appeared as a young lady, all dressed in
white, with flowing blonde hair that reached nearly to the
ground and was constantly in motion, wafted by the
breeze.
  "Where is my master?" Langstrat
asked the messenger.
  "He waits above the town, watching over it,"
came the girl's answer. "His armies are ready
for your word."
  "All is ready. He may await my
signal."
  "Yes, my lady."
  The messenger departed like a beautiful gazelle,
leaping gracefully away.
  The messenger departed, a filthy black
nightmare of a creature borne on membranous
wings; he departed to take word to Rafar, who still
waited.
  Darkness deepened over Ashton; the candle in
Langstrat's room dwindled to one round, ebbing
flame in a pool of wax, the inky blackness
overtaking its weak, orange light. Langstrat
stirred, opened her glazed eyes, and arose from the
bed. With a very small puff of breath she extinguished
the candle and moved in a half daze into the living
room where another candle was burning on the coffee
table, the wax flowing and hardening into macabre fingers
across the photograph of Ted Harmel on which the
candle sat.
  Langstrat sank to her knees beside the
coffee table, her head held high, her eyes half
shut, her movements slow and liquid. As if
floating in space, her arms rose upward over the
candle, stretching out an invisible canopy over the
flame, and then, so very quietly, the name of an
ancient god began to form itself on her lips again and
again. The name, a guttural, harsh sound, spilled
forth from her like the spitting of hundreds of invisible
pebbles, and with each mention of the name, her trance
deepened. Steadily, steadily the name tumbled forth,
louder and faster, and Langstrat's eyes widened and
remained unblinking and glaring. Her body began
to quiver and tremble; her voice became an eerie
wailing sound.
  Rafar could hear it all from where he sat and
waited. His own breathing began to deepen and chug out of
his nostrils like putrid yellow steam. His eyes
narrowed, his talons flexed.
  Langstrat swayed and quivered, calling out the
name, calling out the name, her eyes fixed on the
candle's flame, calling out the name.
  And then she froze.
  Rafar looked up, very still, very attentive,
listening.
  Time stood still. Langstrat remained
motionless, her arms extended over the candle.
  Rafar listened.
  Air began to slowly flow into Langstrat's mouth
and nostrils, her lungs began to fill, and then, with
one sudden cry from deep within, she brought her hands
down like a trap, clapping them on the candle's
wick, snuffing out the flame.
  "Go!" shouted Rafar, and hundreds of demons
shot into the sky like a thunderous flock of bats, rushing
along a straight and level trajectory
northward.
  "Look," said an angelic warrior, and Tal
and his host all saw what looked like a black swarm
silhouetted against the night sky, an elongated
puff of smoke.
  "Going north," observed Tal. "Away from
Ashton."
  Rafar watched the squadron disappear at great
speed and let a mocking grin bare his fangs.
"I'll keep you guessing, Captain of the Host!"
  Tal shouted out his orders. "Cover Hogan and
Busche! Awaken the Remnant!"
  A hundred angels soared downward into the town.
  Tal could still see Rafar sitting in the big dead
tree.
  "Just what are your plans, Prince of
Babylon?" he murmured.
  The phone startled Marshall out of a restless
sleep. The clock said 3:48 A.m. Kate
moaned at being awakened. He grabbed up the receiver
and mumbled hello.
  For a moment he didn't have the slightest idea who
was on the other end or what they were saying. The voice
was wild, hysterical, high-pitched.
  "Hey, simmer down and slow down or I'll
hang up!" Marshall snapped hoarsely.
Suddenly he recognized the voice. "Ted? Is
this Ted?"
  "Hogan ..." came Ted Harmel's voice,
"they're coming for me! They're all over the place!"
  Marshall was awake now. He pressed the receiver
to his ear, trying to understand what Ted was blubbering about.
"I can't hear you! What'd you say?"
  "They found out I talked! They're all over the
place!"
  "Who is?"
  Ted started crying and screaming unintelligibly,
and the sound of it was enough to make Marshall's insides
curl up. He groped around the bedside stand for his
pen and pad.
  "Ted!" he shouted into the phone, and Kate jerked
with a start and turned over to look at him. "Where are
you? Are you home?"
  Kate could hear the cries and wailings squawking
out of the receiver, and it unnerved her. "Marshall, who
is it?" she demanded.
  Marshall couldn't answer her; he was too
occupied trying to get a clear answer from Ted
Harmel. "Ted, listen, tell me where you are."
Pause. Some more cries. "How do I get there?
I said, how do I get there?" Marshall began
scribbling hurriedly. "Try getting out of there if
you can ..."
  Kate listened, but couldn't make out what the party
on the other end was saying.
  Marshall told whoever it was, "Listen, it's
going to take me at least half an hour to get there,
and that's if I can find a station open to get some gas.
No, I'll get over there, just hang tight. All
right? Ted? All right?"
  "Who's Ted?"
  "All right," said Marshall into the phone. "Give
me time, I'll get out there. Just take it easy.
Good-bye." He hung up the phone and bolted out of
bed. "Who in the world was that?" Kate needed
to know. Marshall grabbed his clothes and began to dress
hurriedly. "Ted Harmel, remember, I told
you about him ..." "You're not going over there tonight, are
you?" "The guy's going crazy or something, I
don't know." "You get back in bed!"
  "Kate, I have to go! I can't afford to lose this
contact." "No! I don't believe this! You can't
be serious!" Marshall was serious. He kissed
Kate good-bye before she could even bring herself
to believe he was really going, and then he was gone.
She sat there in the bed for a few moments, stunned,
then flopped down angrily on her back, staring at
the ceiling as she heard the car back down the
driveway and speed off into the night.

  Marshall drove about thirty miles north, through
the town of Windsor and a little beyond. He was surprised
to find out how close to Ashton Ted Harmel still
lived, especially after they both met in the mountains
over a hundred miles further up Highway 27.
This guy has to be crazy, Marshall thought, and
maybe I'm just as crazy to be going along with this
whole routine. The guy's paranoid, a real
space case.
  But he sure sounded convincing over the
phone. Besides, it was a chance to reopen communications with
him after that one-time-only interview.
  Marshall had to do some backtracking and groping
around the maze of winding, unmarked backroads in his
efforts to make sense of Harmel's directions.
When he finally located the little shake-sided house
at the end of a long gravel road, a ribbon of
pink light was growing on the horizon. He'd taken
an hour and a half to get there. Yes, there was the old
Valiant, parked in the driveway. Marshall
pulled in behind it and got out of the car.
  The front door of the house was open. The front
window was broken. Marshall crouched just a little behind his
car, taking a moment to check out the situation. He
didn't like the feelings he was getting at all; his
insides had gone through this kind of a dance before, that night
when Sandy had run off, and again there seemed no
obvious, up-front reason for it. He hated
to admit it, but he was afraid to take another step.
  "Ted?" he called, not too loudly.
  There was no answer.
  It didn't look good at all. Marshall forced
himself to make his way around his car, up the walk, and
onto the front porch very slowly, very carefully.
He kept listening, looking, feeling. There
was no sound except his own pounding heart. His shoes
crunched just a little on the shards of broken glass from
the window. The sound seemed deafening. C'mon,
Hogan, get with it. "Ted?" he called through the
open door. "Ted Harmel? It's Marshall
Hogan."
  No answer, but this had to be Ted's place. There
was his coat hanging on the rack; on the wall above
the dining room table was a framed front page from the
Clarion.
  He ventured inside.
  The place was a mess. The dishes that had been in
the corner hutch were now shattered all over the
floor. In the living room a chair lay broken
on the floor just below a large hole in the plaster
wall. The bulbs were shattered out of the ceiling light
fixture. Books from the shelves were thrown everywhere.
The side window was also broken out.
  And Marshall could feel it, just as strongly as before:
that fierce, gut-wrenching terror he had felt that
other night. He tried to shake it off, tried
to ignore it, but it was there. His palms were slick with
sweat; he felt weak. He looked around for a
weapon and grabbed a fireplace poker. Keep your
back to the wall, Hogan, keep quiet,
look out for blind corners. It was dark in here, the
shadows were very black. He tried to take his time,
tried to let his eyes get used to the dark. He
felt for a light switch somewhere, anywhere.
  Behind and above him, a black, leathery wing
quietly repositioned. Leering yellow eyes
watched his every move. Here, there, over there, all over
the room, in the corners of the ceiling, upon the
furniture, clinging like insects to the walls, were the
demons, some of them letting out little snickers, some of
them drooling blood.
  Marshall made his way stealthily to the desk in the
corner and, using a handkerchief to prevent
fingerprints, slid the drawers open. They had not
been disturbed. Keeping the poker at the ready, he
continued to move through the house.
  The bathroom was a mess. The mirror was
shattered; the shards were in the sink and all over the
floor.
  He moved down the hall, staying close to the
wall.
  Hundreds of pairs of yellow eyes watched his
every move. There was an occasional hacking from the throat
of a demon, a short burst of vapor from its
dripping mouth. In the bedroom the most
loathsome spirits of all awaited him. They watched the
bedroom doorway from their positions on the ceiling,
on the walls, in every corner, and their breathing sounded like
the dragging of chains through gravel-filled mud.
  From where he stood, Marshall could see just the
corner of the bed through the bedroom door. He
approached cautiously, making frequent checks
behind and even above him.
  When he reached the bedroom door a single
image, like a photograph, was instantly engraved
on his mind. One second seemed like an eternity as
his eyes darted from the bloodspattered bedspread to the
bullet-blasted skull of Ted Harmel to the large
revolver still dangling from Harmel's limp hand.
  Shrieks! Thunder! Fangs bared to bite! The
demons exploded from the walls, corners, every nook
of the room and like arrows went for Marshall's heart.
  A blinding flash! Then another, then another! The
whitest hot light traced brilliant fiery arcs,
a searing edge that cut through the flock of evil spirits like
a scythe. Parts of demons tumbled into nothingness;
other demons imploded and vanished in instantaneous
billows of red smoke. Waves of spirits still poured
down upon the one lone man who stood there in reasonless
terror, but suddenly this man was surrounded
by four heavenly warriors robed in glorious light,
their crystalline wings unfurled like a canopy over
their charge, their swords blurring into waving, swirling
sheets of brilliance.
  The air was filled with the deafening cries of hideous
spirits as blades met flanks, necks, torsos,
and demon after demon was flung aside in pieces
that instantly disintegrated and vanished like vapor.
Nathan, Armoth, and two other angels, Senter and
Cree, darted, feinted, spun, batted away one
spirit and sliced another, thrusting their blades in a
myriad of directions. The lightning from their swords
flashed against the walls, bright enough to bleach out all
colors.
  Nathan gutted one demon and sent it spiraling
through the roof, leaving a red trail of vapor until
it vanished. With his sword he slashed; with his free
hand he collected demons by their heels.
  Armoth and Senter whirled in a high-powered blur,
mowing through demons as through grass. Cree threw himself
against Marshall and kept his wings spread to protect
the stunned man.
  "Push them back!" shouted Nathan, and he began
to spin his fistful of demons about his head, feeling the
shock of their bodies striking other demons
with the rhythm of a stick on a picket fence.
  The demons began to shy back; half their
numbers were now gone, as was half their zeal.
Nathan, Armoth, and Senter started flying a tight
spiral around Marshall, their swords knifing through the
fading demonic ranks.
  One demon shot straight into the sky with a wail of
terror. Senter got right after it and quickly dispatched it
like a slaughtered gamebird. He remained above the
house for a time, containing any fleeing spirits very neatly
and abruptly, swatting them out of existence as if they
were fast-served tennis balls.
  And then, almost as suddenly as it had begun, it was
over. No demon remained; none had escaped.
  Nathan alighted back in the hallway as his wings
folded and the light around him faded. "How's our
man?"
  Cree was relieved to say, "He's still very shaken,
but he's all right. He still has the will to fight."
  Armoth came in for a landing and immediately checked Ted
Harmel's pitiful frame. Senter dropped through the
ceiling and joined him.
  Armoth shook his head and sighed. "As Captain
Tal said, Rafar can choose any front he
wants, at any time."
  "They have owned and tormented Ted Harmel for a long
time," Senter conceded.
  "Is Kevin Weed covered?" Nathan asked.
  Armoth answered with a little curiosity, "Tal sent
Signa to watchcare Weed."
  "Signa? Was he not assigned to guard the
church?"
  "Tal must have a change in plans."
  Nathan got back to the immediate business. "We'd
best see to Marshall Hogan."
  Marshall got a grip on himself. For a moment he
thought he would really panic, and that would have been the very
first time in his life. Nuts, I don't need to get
involved in this stuff, not now, he thought. He took
a few more moments to ease up and think the thing through.
Harmel was history. But what about the others?
  He went into the dining room and found the phone.
Using his handkerchief again and a pen to dial, he called
the operator, who put him through to the police department
in Windsor, a town closer than Ashton,
fortunately. Something told Marshall that Brummel
and his cops were definitely not the ones to call on this.
  "This is an anonymous call," he said.
"There's been a fatal shooting, a suicide..."
He told the sergeant who answered how
to get there and then hung up.
  Then he got out of there.
  Several miles further north, he pulled the
Buick into a filling station and went into a phone
booth. He first called Eldon Strachan's
number. There was no answer.
  He had the operator ring the Clarion. Bernice
should be there by now. C'mon, girl, answer the phone!
  "Ashton Clarion." It was Carmen.
  "Carmen, this is Marshall. Put Bernice on,
will you?"
  "Sure thing."
  Bernice picked up her extension immediately.
"Hogan, are you calling in sick?"
  "Act normal, Bernie," Marshall said.
"I've got some heavy developments."
  "Well, take an aspirin or something."
  "Good girl. Brace yourself for this one. I just
came from Ted Harmel's place. He just blew his
brains out. I got a call from him early this morning
and he was talking crazy, talking about somebody coming
after him, so I drove to his place and just now found
him. It looked like he'd had an all-out fight with
something. The place was a mess."
  "So how are you feeling really?"
Bernice said, and Marshall could tell this was the acting
job of her career.
  "I'm shook up but all right. I called the
Windsor police but chose to get out of there. Right
now I'm up near Windsor on Highway 38.
I'm going to head north and drop by Strachan's
place to check up on him. I want you to check on
Weed right away. I don't want any more sources
dying on me."
  "Do you-do you think it's catching?"
  "I don't know yet. Harmel was a little crazy;
it may be an isolated incident. I do know I've
got to talk to Strachan about it, and I don't want
you to wait to check on Weed."
  "Okay, I'll do that today."
  "I should be back this afternoon. Be careful."
  "You take care of yourself."
  Marshall got back in his car and checked his map
for the best way to get to Eldon Strachan's place.
It took him another hour to make the drive, but
soon he was pulling up the same old driveway
to the quaint little farmhouse.
  He slammed on the brakes and the Buick lurched
to a halt, skidding on the gravel. He opened the
car door and had another look from outside
his car windows. There was no mistake.
  The windows were broken in this house too. Come
to think of it, by now that collie would be barking, but the
place was dead silent.
  Marshall left the car where it was and quietly
made his way toward the house. No sounds. The
windows on the side of the house were also broken. He
noted that the glass was broken inward this time, unlike
the Harmel house where the glass was broken out. He
passed along the side of the house and checked the parking
area in the back. No cars. He began praying that
Eldon and Doris were gone and nowhere near whatever was
happening.
  He went around the other side of the house,
completely encircling it, then stepped onto the
front porch and tried the front door. It was
locked. He looked through the front window-the glass
was mostly gone-and saw total chaos inside: the
house had been ransacked.
  He carefully stepped through the window into the once
quaint living room, now a pitiful shambles. The
furniture was thrown everywhere, the cushions on the
sofa were slashed open, the coffee table had been
chopped in several pieces, some floor lamps had
been thrown down and broken, everything was out of
its place and thrown about.
  "Eldon!" Marshall called. "Doris!
Anybody home?"
  As if I really expected an answer, he
thought. But what was that on the mirror over the
fireplace? He went for a closer look. Someone
had taken red paint... or was it blood? Marshall
checked closely. With great relief he smelled the
unmistakable scent of paint. But someone had
scrawled an obscene message of hate on the
mirror, a very clear threat.
  He knew he would have to check every room in the
house, and right at this moment he wondered why he
didn't feel the same terror he had felt at
Harmel's. Maybe this day was turning him numb.
Maybe he just wasn't believing any of it
anymore.
  He checked the whole house, upstairs and
downstairs and even the cellar, but there were no terrible
discoveries, and he was very glad. That didn't make
him any less concerned, nervous, or perplexed,
however. This was too much of a coincidence despite the
basic differences. As he took a second look
around the living room, he tried to think if there could be
a connection. Obviously, both Harmel and
Strachan had been sources for Marshall's
investigation and could have become targets for intimidation.
But Harmel in his terrible fear could have done the
damage around his house by himself, fighting off whatever it
was, while this damage to Strachan's house was
clearly the act of vandals, of malicious characters out
to scare him. That was one connection: fear. Both
Harmel and Strachan were the brunt of fear
tactics, whatever form they took. But why would...
  "All right! Freeze! Police!"
  Marshall stayed still, but he did look out through the
broken window. There, on the porch, was a sheriffs
officer aiming a gun at him.
  "Take it easy," Marshall said very gently,
without moving.
  "Get both hands in the air, in plain sight!" the
officer commanded. Marshall obeyed. "The name's
Marshall Hogan, editor of the Ashton Clarion.
I'm a friend of the Strachans."
  "Just hold steady. I'll have to see some I.d.,
Mr. Hogan." Marshall explained everything he
did as he did it. "I'm going to reach into my back
pocket here, see? Here's my wallet. Now
I'm going to toss it to you through the window there."
  By now the officer's partner had mounted the
porch and also had his gun trained on Marshall.
Marshall tossed his wallet through the broken window,
and the first policeman picked it up. The officer
checked Marshall's I.d. "What are you doing
here, Mr. Hogan?"
  "Trying to figure out what in blazes happened
to Eldon's house. And I'd also like to know what
happened to Eldon and Doris, his wife."
  The officer seemed satisfied with Marshall's
I.d. and relaxed just a little, but his partner kept a
gun trained on Marshall. The officer tried the
front door and then asked, "How'd you get in
there?"
  "Through that window," Marshall answered.
  "Okay, Mr. Hogan, I am going to ask you
to step very carefully back through the window, and do it very
slowly. Please keep both hands in plain sight."
  Marshall obeyed. As soon as he got out on the
porch the officer turned him around, his hands against the
wall, and frisked him.
  Marshall asked, "You guys from Windsor?"
  "Windsor Precinct," came the short answer,
and with that the officer grabbed Marshall's wrists one at
a time and slapped handcuffs on him. "We're
placing you under arrest. You have the right to remain
silent..."
  Marshall could think of all kinds of questions to ask and
it was all he could do to keep from disassembling these
two, but he knew better than to say a word.

  Bernice called Kevin Weed right after she got
off the phone with Marshall, but there was no answer.
He was probably working with the logging crew today. She
dug through her file and found the phone number for
Gorst Brothers Timber.
  They told her Kevin had not been in today, and if
she saw him she'd better tell him to show up quick
or he'd be out of a job.
  "Thanks, Mr. Gorst."
  She dialed The Evergreen Tavern in Baker.
Dan, the proprietor, answered.
  "Sure," he said, "Weed was in here this morning,
just like he always is. He was in a gosh-awful mood
though. He got in a fight with one of his buddies, and
I had to throw them both out."
  Bernice left Dan the Clarion's number in
case he saw Weed again. Then she hung up and
thought for a moment. It wasn't out of the question to drive out
to Baker, and besides, orders were orders. She went
over her schedule for the day and tried
to rearrange her jobs to accommodate the trip.
  "Carmen," she said, grabbing her jacket and
handbag, "I'll be gone for the day, I think. If
Marshall calls, tell him I've gone out to check
on a source. He'll know what I mean."
  "Righto," said Carmen.
  Baker was about seventeen miles north on
Highway 27; the apartments where Weed lived were about
two miles closer. Bernice found them without too
much trouble, a sad complex of dry-rotting
cubicles honeycombed into a sun-bleached old
warehouse. Bernice's nose told her the septic
system was failing.
  She went up the plank stairs onto the loading
dock which now served as a patio and entranceway.
Inside, she was appalled at how dark the building
was. She looked down one long corridor and
noted many closely spaced doors; these weren't
apartments, they were lockers.
  She had heard some footsteps on the old
planks upstairs, and now they came down the
stairway just behind her. She turned her head just enough
to see an unpleasant-looking character stepping down, a
skinny, pimple-faced apparition in black leather.
She immediately decided she had a very pressing
appointment at the other end of the hall and started in that
direction.
  "Hi there," the man called to her. "Looking for
someone?"
  Make it quick, Bernice. "Just visiting a friend,
thank you."
  "Have a nice visit," he said, and he kept
looking her over as if she were a steak.
  She walked quickly down the corridor, hoping it
wouldn't be a dead end, and though she didn't look
back she could tell he was still watching her. Hogan,
I'll get you for this.
  She was glad to find another stairway leading
upstairs. Weed's apartment had a two hundred
number, so up the stairs she went. The stairwell
was old weathered planks, illumined with one bare
light bulb hanging from a very high rafter. Some
thirty years ago someone had tried to paint the
walls. She wound her way upward, ignoring the
disgusting graffiti everywhere, her shoes making hollow
thuds on the worn planks.
  She reached the upstairs corridor and doubled
back, following the descending numbers on the
doors. From behind some of the doors came sounds of
soap operas, FM rock stations,
marital spats.
  She finally found Weed's door and knocked; there
was no answer. But her knocking nudged the door, and
it drifted slowly open. She helped it quietly
on its way.
  The place was an absolute mess. Bernice
had seen the homes of messy people before, but how could
Weed possibly live in a disaster area like this?
  "Kevin?" she called.
  No answer. She stepped inside and closed the
door.
  It had to be vandalism; Weed didn't own that
much, but what he did own was thrown about, broken,
spilled, and shattered. Papers and bric-a-brac were
everywhere, the little cot in the corner was overturned,
Weed's guitar was facedown on the floor, the
back stomped through, the bulbs were broken out of the
ceiling fixture, the few secondhand dishes were in
shattered pieces all over the floor in the little
kitchen cubicle. Then she saw words
spray-painted across one whole wall, an
incredibly obscene threat.
  For the longest time she didn't move. She was
afraid. The implications were clear enough-how long
would it be before they struck her or Marshall?
She wondered what Marshall would find at
Strachan's, she wondered what her own home
looked like, and she realized there were no police
to call; the police were with them.
  Finally she slipped quietly out the door,
wrote Weed a quick note in case he ever came
back, and shoved it in the crack just above the
doorknob. She looked this way and that and then went
along the corridor and back down the stairs again.
  Just one flight below the second floor, a wall
formed a blind corner between the two flights at the
middle landing. Bernice was just thinking how she didn't
like blind corners in a place like this, and how the lighting
was so poor...
  A black figure leaped at her from the flight
below. Her body slammed into the old shiplap wall
as her teeth clapped together.
  The man in leather! A rough, dirty hand grabbing
a fistful of blouse. A violent, sideways
jerk. Tearing cloth, her body reeling. An
impact like an explosion in her left ear. A
blurred, hate-filled face.
  She was falling. Her arms went out against the rough
plank corner, they were limp, they buckled, she
slid down the wall to the floor. A
black boot blotted out her vision, her glasses
were driven into her face, her skull thudded against the
wall. She went numb. Her body kept jerking
about-he was still hitting her.
  Step step step step step step step-he was gone.
  She was dreaming, her head was reeling, there was
blood upon the floor and broken glasses in bent
pieces. She slumped against the wall, still feeling the
fist in her ear and the boot in her face, and hearing
blood dripping from her mouth and her nose. The
floor drew her down like a magnet until her
head finally thumped on the boards. She whimpered, a
gurgling sound as blood and saliva bubbled over her
tongue. She spit it all out, raised her head, and
cried out in a sound that was half cry, half moan.
  From somewhere up above, the boards began to pound and
clatter with a sudden flow of traffic. She heard people
shouting, swearing, thundering down the steps. She couldn't
move; she kept half-dreaming as light and sound
faded in and out, were there, were not there. Hands began
to hold her, move her, cradle her. A cloth
wiped across her mouth. She felt the new warmth of a
blanket. A towel kept dabbing her face. She
gurgled again, spit again. She heard someone swear
again.
  Marshall still wouldn't reply to any questions, although the
detective at the Windsor Precinct kept
trying.
  "We're talking about murder here, bub!" the
detective said. "Now we have it from reliable
sources that you were there at Harmel's place early this
morning, and that's right near the time of death. Do you have
anything to say about that?"
  This flunky was born yesterday, Marshall thought.
Sure, punk, I'll tell you all about it so you can
hang me! In a pig's eye it was murder.
  But what really bothered Marshall was just who this
"reliable source" was, and how that reliable source
not only knew he'd been at Harmel's, but also
knew these cops could find him at Strachan's. He
was still working on the answer to that riddle. The
detective asked, "So you're still not going to say
anything?"
  Marshall wouldn't even nod or shake his head.
  "Well," the detective said with a half shrug,
"at least give me the name of your lawyer. You're
going to need counsel."
  Marshall had no name to give him and couldn't even
think of one. It became a waiting game.
  "Spence," said a deputy, "you've got
a call from Ashton."
  The detective picked up the phone at his
desk. "Nelson. Oh, hi there, Alf. What's
up?"
  AlfBrummel?
  "Yeah," the detective said, "he's right here.
Would you like to talk to him? He sure won't talk
to us." He offered Marshall the receiver. "Alf
Brummel."
  Marshall took the receiver. "Yeah, this is
Hogan."
  AlfBrummel was acting shocked and dismayed.
"Marshall, what's going on up there?"
  "I can't say."
  "They tell me Ted Harmel was murdered and that
they have you as a suspect. Is that true?"
  "I can't say."
  Alf was beginning to catch on. "Marshall...
listen, I'm calling to see if I can help. Now,
I'm sure there's been a mistake and I'm sure
we can work something out. What were you doing up at
Harmel's place anyway?"
  "I can't say."
  That flustered him. "Marshall, for crying out loud,
will you just forget that I'm a cop? I'm also
your friend. I want to help you!"
  "Do it."
  "I want to. I really want to. Now
listen, let me talk to Detective Nelson
again. Maybe we can work something out."
  Marshall handed the receiver back to Nelson.
Nelson and Brummel talked for a while, and it
sounded like they knew each other pretty well.
  "Well, you might be able to do more with him than I
ever will," said Nelson quite pleasantly. "Sure,
why not? Huh? Yeah, okay." Nelson looked
at Marshall. "He's on another line. Guess
he'll vouch for you, and I think he can take
jurisdiction over your case, if there is one."
  Marshall nodded all too knowingly. Now
Brummel would have Marshall right where he wanted him.
If there was a case! If there wasn't one,
Brummel would find one. What would it be now,
Harmel and Hogan running a child-molesting ring with a
gangland-type murder?
  Nelson heard Brummel come back on the
line. "Yeah, hello. Yeah, sure." Nelson
handed Marshall the receiver again.
  Brummel was upset, or at least he sounded like
it.
  "Marshall, that was the fire district that just called.
They've just sent an aid car out toward Baker.
It's Bernice; she's been assaulted."
  Marshall never thought he'd hope Brummel was
lying. "Tell me more."
  "We won't know more until they get out there. It
won't take long. Listen, they're going to release
you on personal recognizance under my supervision.
You'd better get back to Ashton right away. Can
you see me in my office at, say, 3?"
  Marshall thought he would have a seizure trying
to contain all the cusswords he had for this whole thing.
"I'll be there, Alf. Nothing could keep me
away."
  "Good, I'll see you then."
  Marshall returned the receiver to Nelson.
  Nelson smiled and said, "We'll take you
back to your car."
  The man in black leather was back in Ashton,
running down the streets and then through the alleys like a
man possessed, looking behind him, panting, crying,
terrified.
  Five cruel spirits rode on his back, ducked
in and out of his body, clung to him like huge leeches,
their talons deeply embedded in his flesh.
But they were not in control. They too were terrified.
  Just above the five demons and their running
victim, six angelic warriors floated along
with their swords drawn, moving this way and that, to the
right, to the left, whatever it took to keep the demons
herded in the right direction.
  The demons hissed and spit and made shooing
motions with their sinewy hands.
  The young man ran, swatting at invisible bees.
  The young man and his demons came to a corner.
They tried to go left. The angels blocked their
way and prodded them with their swords to the right. With a
cry and a terrible wailing, the demons fled to the right.
The demons began to cry for mercy. "No! Let us
alone!" they pleaded. "You have no right!"
  Just up the street, Hank Busche and Andy
Forsythe were walking together, taking some time to share their
burdens and pray.
  Right alongside them walked Triskal,
Krioni, Seth, and Scion. The four warriors
all saw what their comrades were herding their way, and
they were more than ready.
  "Time for an object lesson for the man of
God," said Krioni.
  Triskal only beckoned to the demons
with his finger and said, "Come, come!"
  Andy looked down the street and saw the man first.
"Well...!"
  "What?" asked Hank, seeing the dumfounded
look on Andy's face.
  "Get ready. Here comes Bobby Corsi!"
  Hank looked and cringed at the sight of a
wild-looking character running toward them, his eyes
filled with terror, his arms beating the air as he
battled unseen enemies.
  Andy cautioned, "Be careful. He could be
violent."
  "Oh, terrific!"
  They stood still and waited to see what Bobby would
do.
  Bobby saw them and cried out in even more terror,
"No, no! Leave us alone!"
  Heaven's warriors were bad enough, but the five
demons wanted no part of Busche and Forsythe. They
twisted Bobby around and tried to run away, but were
instantly hemmed in by the angelic six.
  Bobby stopped dead in his tracks. He looked
at nothing ahead of him, then looked at Hank and
Andy, then looked again at his unseen enemies. He
screamed, standing still where he was, his hands
dawlike and trembling, his eyes bulging and glazed.
  Hank and Andy moved forward very slowly.
  "Easy, Bobby," Andy said soothingly. "Take
it easy now."
  "No!" Bobby screamed. "Leave us alone!
We want no business with you!"
  An angel gave one of the demons a prod with the
tip of his sword.
  "Awww!" Bobby cried out in pain, collapsing
to his knees. "Leave us alone, leave us alone!"
  Hank stepped forward quickly and said firmly,
"In Jesus' name, be quiet!" Bobby let out
one more scream. "Be quiet!"
  Bobby grew still and began to weep, kneeling there
on the sidewalk.
  "Bobby," said Hank, bending down and speaking
gently, "Bobby, can you hear me?"
  A demon clapped his hands over Bobby's ears.
Bobby did not hear Hank's question.
  Hank, hearing from the Spirit of God, knew what the
demon was doing. "Demon, in the name of Jesus,
let go of his ears."
  The demon jerked his hands away, a surprised
look on his face.
  Hank asked again, "Bobby?"
  This time Bobby answered, "Yeah, preacher, I
hear you."
  "Do you want to be free from these spirits?"
  Immediately one demon answered, "No, you don't!
He belongs to us," and Bobby spit the words in
Hank's face. "No, you don't! He belongs
to us!"
  "Spirit, be quiet. I'm talking to Bobby."
  The demon said no more, but backed off sulkingly.
  Bobby muttered, "I've just done a horrible
thing..." He began to weep. "You gotta help
me... I can't stop from doing this stuff..."
  Hank spoke quietly aside to Andy.
"Let's get him somewhere where we can deal with him, where
he can make a scene if he has to."
  "The church?"
  "Come on, Bobby."
  They took him by his arms and helped him up, and the
three, and the five, and the six, and the four headed up the
street.
  Marshall sped through Baker and then made a quick
swing by the apartment complex where Weed lived. There
seemed to be no activity there, so he drove on
into Ashton. When he reached the hospital, the aid
car was parked outside. An emergency
medical technician who was securing the stretcher
back in the vehicle filled Marshall in.
"She's in the emergency room, two doors down."
  Marshall burst through the main doors and got to the
right room in an instant. He heard a cry of pain
from Bernice just as he reached the door.
  She was lying on a table, attended by a doctor and
two nurses who were washing her face and dressing her
cuts. At the sight of her, Marshall could contain
himself no longer; all the anger and frustration and
terror of this whole day exploded from his lungs in one
vehement expletive.
  Bernice responded through swollen and bleeding
lips, "I guess that about covers it."
  He hurried to the side of the table as the doctor and
two nurses gave him room. He took her hand
in both of his and couldn't believe what had happened
to her. Her attacker had been merciless.
  "Who did this to you?" he demanded, his blood
boiling.
  "We went the whole fifteen rounds, boss."
  "Don't clown with me, Bernie. Did you see
who did it?"
  The doctor cautioned him, "Easy now, let's
take care of her first..."
  Bernice whispered something. Marshall couldn't
make it out. He leaned closer and she whispered it
again, her swollen mouth slurring her words. "He
didn't rape me."
  "Thank God," Marshall said, straightening up.
  She wasn't satisfied with his response. She
motioned to him again to lean forward and listen. "All he
did was beat me up. That's all he did."
  "Aren't you satisfied?" Marshall whispered
back rather loudly.
  She was handed a glass of water to wash her mouth
out. She swirled the water around in her mouth and spit
into a bowl.
  "Was Strachan's house nice and neat?" she
asked.
  Marshall held back his answer. He asked the
doctor, "When can I talk to her in private?"
  The doctor thought about it. "Well, she's going in
for Xrays in just a few minutes"
  "Give me thirty seconds," Bernice
requested, "just thirty seconds."
  "It can't wait?"
  "No. Please."
  The doctor and the nurses stepped out of the room.
  Marshall spoke softly. "Strachan's
place was a mess; somebody really went through it.
He's gone; I've no idea where he is or how
he is."
  Bernice reported, "Weed's place was the
same way, and there was a threat spray-painted on the
wall. He didn't show up for work today, and Dan
at The Evergreen Tavern said he was really upset
about something. He's gone, too. I didn't find
him."
  "And now they've got me wrapped up with Ted
Harmel's death. They found out I was there this morning.
They think I did it."
  "Marshall, Susan Jacobson was right: our
phone must be bugged. Remember? You called me at
the Clarion and told me you'd been at Ted's and
where you were going next."
  "Yeah, yeah, I figured that. But that means the
Windsor cops would have to be in on it too. They
knew right where and when to find me at Strachan's."
  "Brummel and Detective Nelson are like that,
Marshall," Bernice said, holding two fingers
together.
  "They must have ears everywhere."
  "They knew I'd be at Weed's alone ... and
when ..." Bernice said, and then something
else dawned on her. "Carmen knew it too."
  That revelation hit Marshall almost like a death
sentence. "Carmen knows a lot of things."
  "We've been hit, Marshall. I think they're
trying to get a message to us."
  He straightened up. "Wait'll I find
Brummel!"
  She grabbed his hand. "Be careful. I mean,
really be careful!"
  He kissed her forehead. "Happy X-rays."
  He stormed out of the room like a raging bull, and
no one dared get in his way.

  Marshall was seeing red, and was so angry that he
parked crookedly across two parking places in the
Courthouse Square parking lot. He thought that
walking fast across the parking lot to the police
department's door might air-cool him a bit, but
it didn't. He jerked open the door and went into the
reception area. Sara wasn't at her desk.
Brummel wasn't in his office. Marshall checked
his watch. It was 3 o'clock on the dot.
  A woman came around the corner. He'd never
seen her before.
  "Hello," he said, and then added very
abruptly, "Who are you?"
  She was quite taken aback by the question, and timidly
answered, "Well, I'm... I'm Barbara, the
receptionist."
  "The receptionist? What happened to Sara?"
  She was intimidated and a little indignant. "I-I
don't know of any Sara, but can I help you?"
  "Where's Alf Brummel?"
  "Are you Mr. Hogan?"
  "That's right."
  "Chief Brummel is waiting for you in the conference
room, right down at the end of the hall."
  She hadn't finished her sentence before Marshall was
already on his way. If the door latch would have given
the slightest resistance, it wouldn't have survived
Marshall's entrance. He burst into the room ready
to wring the first neck he could get his hands around.
  There were many necks to choose from. The room was
full of people Marshall had not been expecting, but as
he looked around at all the faces, he had no
trouble guessing the meeting's agenda. Brummel had
friends with him. Big shots. Liars. Schemers.
  Alf Brummel sat at the conference table
surrounded by his many comrades and smiling that toothy
grin. "Hello, Marshall. Please
close the door."
  Marshall kicked the door shut with his foot without
looking away from all these people now gathered, no doubt
to have it out with him. Oliver Young was there, as was Judge
Baker, County Comptroller Irving Pierce,
Fire Marshall Frank Brady, Detective
Spence Nelson from Windsor, a few other men
Marshall didn't recognize, and finally the mayor
of Ashton, David Steen.
  "Well, hello there, Mayor Steen,"
Marshall said coldly. "How interesting to find you
here."
  The mayor only smiled cordially and silently,
like the dumb puppet Marshall always thought he was.
  "Have a seat," said Brummel, waving his hand
toward an empty chair.
  Marshall didn't move. "Alf, is this the
meeting you and I were going to have?"
  "This is the meeting," said Brummel. "I
don't think you know everyone in the room ..." With
overcooked graciousness, Brummel introduced the
new or possibly new faces. "I'd like you
to meet Tony Sulski, a local attorney, and
I believe you've dealt with Ned Wesley,
president of the Independent Bank. We
understand you've had a conversation at least with Eugene
Baylor, college regent. And you of course
remember Jimmy Clairbome, from Commercial
Printers." Brummel showed his teeth widely,
obnoxiously. "Marshall, please have a seat."
  Cusswords were going through Marshall's mind as he
told Brummel squarely, "Not while I'm
outnumbered."
  Oliver Young piped up in answer to that.
"Marshall, I can assure you that this will be a civil
and cordial meeting."
  "So which one of you beat the ever-living daylights out of
my reporter?" Marshall was hardly feeling
civil.
  Brummel responded, "Marshall, these things
happen to people who aren't careful."
  Marshall smeared some descriptions on
Brummel like icing from a sewer trap and then told
him seethingly, "Brummel, this didn't just happen.
She was set up. She was assaulted and injured and
your cops haven't done a thing, and we all know
why!" He glared at them. "You're all in on this
whole thing, and your tricks come real cheap. You
vandalize homes, you make threats, you drive people
out, you act like some kind of Mafia boys'
club!" He aimed an accusing finger at
Brummel. "And you, buddy, are a disgrace to your
profession. You've used your entrusted powers
to silence and intimidate, and to cover up your own
dirty work!"
  Young tried to interject. "Marshall"
  "And you call yourself a man of God, a pastor,
a pious example of what a good Christian should
be. You lied to me all along, Young, hiding behind some
excuse you call professional ethics, guzzling
down all that mystical bull from that Langstrat
witch and then acting like you knew nothing about it. How
many people who trusted you have you sold out to a lie?"
  The men in the room sat silent. Marshall kept
unloading. "If you guys are public servants,
Hitler was a great humanitarian! You schemed and
manipulated and horned your way into this town like
mobsters, and you silenced anybody who spoke up
or got in your way. You will read about it in the paper,
gentlemen! If you want to make any comments or
denials I'll be glad to hear them, I'll even
print them, but it's press time for all of you whether you
like it or not!"
  Young raised his hands to get just a short moment
to speak. "Marshall, all I can say is,
be sure of your facts."
  "Don't worry about that. I have my facts, all
right. I have innocent people like the Carlucds, the Wrights,
the Andersons, the Dombrowskis, over a hundred of
them, who were driven out of their homes and businesses
by intimidation and trumped up tax delinquencies."
  Young piped in, "Intimidation? Marshall, it's
hardly within our control to prevent fear, foolish
superstition, family breakups. Just what will you
print? That the Carlucds, for example, were convinced
their store was haunted and that evil spirits, of all
things, broke their small son's hands? Come now,
Marshall."
  Marshall pointed at Young straight from the shoulder.
"Hey, Young, that's your specialty. I'll print
that you and your bunch preyed on their fears and
orchestrated their superstitions, and I'll tell all
about the wild practices and philosophies you used
to pull it off. I know all about Langstrat and her
mind-tripping hocus-pocus, and I know that every one of
you is into it.
  "I'll print that you set people up with phony raps
just to get them removed from their jobs and offices so your
own people could move in: you framed Lew Gregory,
the former comptroller, with a phony conflict of
interest charge; you pushed and pressed for that big
turnover on the Whitmore College Board of
Regents after Dean Strachan caught Eugene
Baylor" Marshall looked right at Baylor as
he said it- "juggling the books! You put Ted
Harmel out of town on his ear with that phony
child-molesting rap, and I find it interesting that Adam
Jarred's poor little victim daughter now has a
special fund set up for her college education.
If I look far enough, I'll probably find the
money came out of your pockets!
  "I'll print that my reporter was falsely
arrested by Brummel's flunkies because she took a
picture she wasn't supposed to, a picture
of Brummel, Young, and Langstrat with none other
than Alexander M. Kaseph himself, the Big Boy
behind a conspiracy to take over the town, aided and
abetted by all of you, a bunch of power-hungry,
pseudo-spiritualized neo-Fascists!"
  Young smiled calmly. "Which means you plan
to write about the Omni Corporation."
  Marshall couldn't believe he was actually hearing
it coming from Young's mouth. "So now it's tell-the-truth
time?"
  Young continued, very relaxed, very confident.
"Well, you have been tracking down everything that Omni
has bought and owns, isn't that right?"
  "That's right."
  Young laughed a little when he asked, "And how many
houses would you say were turned over to Omni because of
tax delinquency?"
  Marshall refused to play games. "You tell
me."
  Young simply turned to Irving Pierce, the
comptroller.
  Pierce shuffled through some papers. "Mr.
Hogan, I believe your records show that one
hundred and twenty-three homes were auctioned
to Omni for failure to pay taxes..."
  He knew. Well, so what? "I'll stand by that."
  "You were in error."
  Let's hear the lie, Pierce.
  "The correct number is one hundred and
sixty-three. All legally, all
legitimately, over the past five years."
  Marshall hated it, but he couldn't think of a
comeback.
  Young spoke on. "You are correct about Omni
owning all these properties, plus many other
commercial enterprises as well. But you also
should note how these properties have been substantially
improved under this new ownership. I would say that
Ashton is certainly a better town for it."
  Marshall could feel the steam rising in his pipes.
"Those people paid their taxes! I've talked to over a
hundred of them!"
  Pierce was unmoved. "We have substantial
evidence to show that they did not."
  "In a pig's eye!"
  "And in regard to the college..." Young looked
at Eugene Baylor, giving him his cue.
  Baylor stood to speak. "I've really had quite enough
of this slander and gossip about the college being in
financial arrears. The college is doing just fine,
thank you, and this-this smear campaign that Eldon
Strachan began must stop or we will sue! Mr.
Sulski has been retained for just that eventuality."
  "I have records, I have proof, Baylor, that
you've embezzled Whitmore College out of
millions."
  Brummel piped in, "You have no proof,
Marshall. You have no records."
  Marshall had to smile. "Oh, you ought to just see
what I have."
  Young said simply, "We have seen it.
All of it." Marshall had the feeling deep inside
that he had just stepped off a cliff. Young continued with a
progressively cooling tone. "We've been
following your futile attempts from the very beginning.
We know you talked to Ted Harmel, we know you've
been interviewing Eldon Strachan, Joe
Carlucci, Lew Gregory, and hundreds of other
quacks, malcontents and doomsayers. We know
you've been harassing our people and our businesses. We
know that you've been snooping in all our personal
records." Young paused for effect, and then said,
"That's all going to stop now, Marshall."
  "Hence this meeting!" Marshall said with sarcastic
flair. "What's in store for me, Young? How about
it, Brummel? Got a nice morals rap to pin
on me? You gonna send someone to tear up my house
too?"
  Young stood up, motioning for a chance to speak.
"Marshall, you may never understand our true
motivations, but at least give me one opportunity
to try to clear the matter up for you. There is no
predatory thirst for power here among us, as you
probably think. We do not seek power as an end."
  "No, you just came upon it purely by accident,"
Marshall said cuttingly.
  "Power for us, Marshall, is only necessary as one
means toward our real goal for mankind, and that is
nothing other than universal peace and prosperity."
  "Who's "we" and "u"'?"
  "Oh, you already know that too, all too well. The
Society, Marshall, the Society you've been
hounding after all this time as if chasing after some mysterious
burglar."
  "The Universal Consciousness Society. And
we have our own little chapter here in Ashton, our own
little piece of the Conquer the World Club!"
  Young smiled ever so tolerantly. "More than a
club, Marshall. Actually, a long-awaited,
newly rising force for global change, a worldwide
voice that will finally unite mankind."
  "Yeah, and such a wonderful, humanitarian
movement that you have to sneak in with it, you have to hide
it..."
  "Only from old ideas, Marshall, from the old
obstacles of religious bigotry and intolerance.
We live in a changing and growing world, and mankind
is still evolving, still maturing. Many still lag behind in the
maturing process and cannot tolerate the very thing that will be
best for them. Marshall, too many of us just don't know
what's best. Someday-and we hope it will be
soon-everyone will understand, there will be no more religion,
and then there will be no more secrets."
  "In the meantime, you do what you can to scare people and
chase them from their homes and businesses"
  "Only, only if they are limited in their
perspective and resist the truth; only if they stand
in the way of what is truly right and good."
  Marshall was getting as sick as he was angry.
"Truly right and good? What? All of a sudden, you
guys are the new authority on what right and good is?
C'mon, Young, where's your theology? Where does
God fit into all this?"
  Young gave a resigned shrug and said, "We are
God."
  Marshall finally did sink into a chair. "Either you
people are crazy or I am."
  "I know it's quite beyond anything you've ever considered
before. Admittedly, ours are very high and lofty
ideals, but what we've come to achieve is inevitable
for all men. It is nothing more than the final destination
of man's evolution: enlightenment, self-realization.
Someday all men, even yourself, must realize their own
infinite potential, their own divinity, and become
united in one universal mind, one universal
consciousness. The alternative is
to perish."
  Marshall had heard enough. "Young, that is pure,
unadulterated horse hockey and you are out of your
ever-loving mind!"
  Young looked at the others and almost looked sad.
"We all hoped you would understand, but in truth, we
did expect you to feel this way. You have so far to go,
Marshall, so very far to go..."
  Marshall took a good long look at them all.
"You plan to take over the town, don't you? Buy
out the college? Make it some kind of hive for your
cosmic, mind-blown Society?"
  Young looked at him with a very sober face and said,
"It's for the very best, Marshall. It has to be this
way."
  Marshall got up and headed for the door. "I'll
see you in the paper."
  "You have no paper, Marshall," Young said
abruptly. Marshall only turned and shook his
head at Young. "Drop dead."
  Ned Wesley, the president of the Independent
Bank, spoke on cue from Young. "Marshall, we
have to foreclose on you."
  Marshall did not believe what he had heard.
  Wesley opened his file to the records
of Marshall's business loan on the Clarion.
"You've been delinquent in your payments for eight
months now, and we've received no response
whatsoever from our many inquiries. We really have no
choice but to foreclose."
  Marshall was totally prepared to make Wesley
eat his phony records, but didn't have time before
Irving Pierce, the county comptroller, spoke up.
  "As for your taxes, Marshall, I'm afraid
those have become quite delinquent as well. I just don't
know how you thought you could go on living in that house without
meeting your obligations."
  Marshall knew he could be a murderer right about
now. It would be the easiest thing in the world, except that
there were two cops in the room who would love to pin such
a rap on him and a judge who would love to lock him
away for good. "You are all crazy," he said
slowly. "You'll never get away with it."
  Just then Jimmy Clairborne from Commercial
Printers put in his two cents. "Marshall, I'm
afraid we've been having some trouble with you as
well. My records here show that we haven't been
paid for the last six runs of the Clarion. There's no
way we can continue to print the paper for you until these
accounts are cleared up."
  Detective Nelson added, "These are very
serious matters, Marshall, and as far as our
investigation of Ted Harmel's murder, these things do
not put you in a very good light."
  "As for the courts," said Judge Baker, "whatever
decisions we ultimately render will depend, I
suppose, on your behavior from now on."
  "Especially in light of the complaints of sexual
misconduct we've just received," added Brummel.
"Your daughter must be a very frightened girl to have
remained silent for so long."
  He felt like bullets were ripping into him. He
could feel himself dying, he was sure of it.
  The five demons clung tenaciously to Bobby
Corsi, hissing their sulfurous oaths and cursings
as they cowered in the front of the little sanctuary of the
Ashton Community Church. Triskal, Krioni,
Seth, and Scion were there along with six other
warriors, their swords drawn, surrounding the little
prayer group. Hank had his Bible handy and had already
gone through a few references in the Gospels to get
some idea of how to proceed. He and Andy held
Bobby firmly but gently as Bobby sat on the
floor in front of the pulpit. John Coleman
had come right over to help, and Ron Forsythe
wouldn't have missed it.
  "Yeah," Ron observed, "he's got it bad.
Hey, Bobby. Remember me, Ron Forsythe?"
  Bobby looked at Ron with glassy, staring
eyes. "Yeah, I remember you..."
  But the demons also remembered Ron Forsythe and the
hold their comrades once had on his life.
"Traitor! Traitor!"
  Bobby began to scream at Ron, "Traitor!
Traitor!" as he struggled to free himself from Hank
and Andy. John stepped in to help hold Bobby
down.
  Hank commanded the demons, "Stop it! Stop it
right now!"
  The demons spoke through Bobby as Bobby turned
and cursed at Hank. "We don't need to listen
to you, praying man! You will never defeat us! You will
die before you defeat us!" Bobby glared at the four
men and screamed, "You will all die!"
  Hank prayed aloud so everyone, including
Bobby, could hear. "Lord God, we come against these
spirits now in Jesus' name, and we bind them!"
  The five spirits ducked their heads under their wings as
if being pelted by stones, crying and whimpering.
"No... no..." said Bobby.
  Hank continued, "And I pray right now that you will
send your angels to help us..." The ten warriors
were ready and waiting. Hank addressed the spirits. "I
want to know how many are in there. Speak up!"
  One demon, a smaller one, ducked inside
Bobby's back and shrieked, "Nooo!" The scream
came belching out of Bobby's throat.
  "Which one are you?" Hank asked.
  "I won't tell you! You can't make me!"
  "By the name of Jesus"
  The demon responded immediately,
"Fortune-telling!"
  Hank asked, "Fortune-telling, how many of you
are in there?"
  "Millions!" Triskal jabbed
Fortune-telling lightly in the flank. "Awww!
Ten! Ten!" Another jab. "Aww! No, we are
five, only five!"
  Bobby began to twitch and shake as the demons
got into a scuffle. Fortune-telling found himself the
brunt of some very harsh blows.
  "No! No!" Bobby screamed for the demon.
"Now see what you've made me do! The others are
hitting me!"
  "In Jesus' name, leave," said
Hank.
  Fortune-telling let go of Bobby and floated up
over the group. Krioni grabbed him.
  "Depart from the region!" he ordered.
  Fortune-telling obeyed immediately and soared out of the
church, not looking back.
  A large and hairy demon shouted after the departed
spirit, and Bobby stared at the ceiling shouting,
"Traitor! Traitor! We'll get you for that!"
  "And who are you?" Hank asked.
  The demon shut its mouth, as did Bobby, and
glared at the men with eyes full of fire and hatred.
  "Spirit, who are you?" Andy demanded.
  Bobby remained silent, his entire body
strained, his lips tightly together, his eyes bulging
out. He was taking frantic, short breaths through his
nose. His face was crimson.
  "Spirit," said Andy, "I command you to tell us who you
are in Jesus' name!"
  "Don't you mention that name!" the spirit hissed and then
cursed.
  "I will mention that name again and again," said Hank.
"You know that name has defeated you."
  "No... No!"
  "Who are you?"
  "Confusion, Madness, Hatred ... Ha! I do
them all!"
  "In the name of Jesus I bind you and command you
to come out!"
  The demons all made a sudden rushing of their
wings together, pulling, tearing at Bobby, trying to get
away.
  Bobby struggled to get free from the men who held
him, and it was all they could do to hold him down. They
outweighed him at least four to one, and yet he almost
threw them off.
  "Come out!" all four commanded.
  The second spirit lost his grip on Bobby and
jolted upward as Bobby suddenly relaxed. The spirit
immediately found himself in the waiting hands of two
warriors.
  "Depart from this region!" they ordered him.
  He looked down at Bobby glaringly, and at his
three remaining cohorts, then shot out of the church and
streaked away.
  The third demon spoke right up, speaking through
Bobby's voice. "You'll never get me out!
I've been here most of his life!"
  "Who are you?"
  "Witchcraft! Lots of
witchcraft!"
  "It's time for you to leave," said Hank.
  "Never! We're not alone, you know! There are many
of us!"
  "Only three by my count."
  "Yes, in him, yes. But you'll never get to us
all. Go ahead and cast us out of this one; there are still
millions in the town. Millions!" The demon
laughed uproariously.
  Andy ventured a question. "And what are you all doing
here?"
  "This is our town! We own it! We're going
to stay, forever!"
  "We're going to cast you out!" said Hank.
  Witchcraft only laughed and said, "Go ahead,
try it!"
  "Come out in Jesus' name!"
  The demon held tightly, desperately,
to Bobby. Bobby's whole body strained again.
  Hank commanded again, "Witchcraft, in Jesus'
name, come out!"
  The demon spoke through Bobby as Bobby's
eyes, wild and bulging, glared at Hank and Andy,
and every sinew in his neck strained like piano wire.
"I won't! I won't! He's mine!"
  Hank, Andy, John, and Ron all began
to pray together, pounding at Witchcraft with their
prayers. The demon ducked inside Bobby and
tried to hide his head under his wings; he drooled from
pain and agony, he winced at every mention of Jesus.
The praying continued. Witchcraft began to gasp for
breath. He cried out.
  "Rafar," Bobby cried. "Ba-al Rafar!"
  "Say that again?"
  The demon continued to cry out through Bobby,
"Rafar... Rafar..."
  "Who is Rafar?" Hank asked.
  "Rafar... is Rafar... is Rafar... is
Rafar..." Bobby's body twitched, and he
spoke like a sickening broken record.
  "And who is Rafar?" Andy asked.
  "Rafar rules. He rules. Rafar is
Rafar. Rafar is lord."
  "Jesus is Lord," John reminded the demon.
  "Satan is lord!" the demon argued.
  "You said Rafar was lord," Hank said.
  "Satan is lord of Rafar."
  "What is Rafar lord of?"
  "Rafar is lord of Ashton. Rafar rules
Ashton."
  Andy tried a hunch. "Is he prince over
Ashton?"
  "Rafar is prince. Prince of Ashton."
  "Well, we rebuke him too!" said Ron.
  Near the big dead tree, Rafar spun quickly
around as if someone had just pricked him, and he eyed
several of his demons suspiciously.
  The demon continued to spout his boasts, speaking through
Bobby, whose face contorted in almost a perfect
representation of the demon's expressions.
  "We are many, many, many!" the demon boasted.
  "And Ashton is your town?" asked Hank.
  "Except for you, praying man!"
  "Then it's time to start praying," said Andy, and they
all did.
  The demon grimaced in terrible pain,
desperately hiding its head under its wings and hanging
onto Bobby with all its rapidly ebbing strength.
  "No ... no ... no!" it whimpered.
  "Let go, Witchcraft," said Hank, "and come
out of him."
  "Please let me stay. I won't hurt him,
I promise!"
  A sure sign. Hank and Andy glanced at each
other. The thing was about to go.
  Hank looked directly into Bobby's eyes and
commanded, "Spirit, come out in Jesus' name! Now!"
  The demon shrieked as his talons began to slip
loose from Bobby. Slowly, inch by inch, they began
to withdraw despite the demon's most frantic
efforts to keep them driven in. He screamed and
cursed, and the sounds came out through Bobby's throat as
the very last talon broke loose and the demon
fluttered upward. The angels were about to command him
to leave the region, but he was already on his way.
  "I'm going, I'm going!" he hissed, streaking
away.
  Bobby relaxed, as did the four men who were
ministering to him.
  "Okay, Bobby?" Andy asked.
  Bobby-the real Bobby-answered, "Yeah ... there
are still some in there, I can feel them." "We'll rest
a minute and then get them all out," said Hank.
"Yeah," said Bobby. "Let's do that." Ron
patted Bobby's knee. "You're doing all right,
man!"
  Just then, Mary walked into the sanctuary to see if
she could help in any way. She had heard they were
ministering to someone in here and she didn't feel right
staying home.
  But then she saw Bobby. The man! The man in
leather! She froze in her place.
  Bobby looked up and saw her.
  So did one of the demons in him. Suddenly
Bobby's face changed from that of an exhausted and
frightened young man to that of a leering, lustful, raping spirit.
  "Hey there," said the spirit through Bobby, and then the spirit
referred to Mary in lascivious, obscene terms.
  Hank and the others were shocked, but they knew who was
doing the speaking. Hank looked toward Mary, and she
was backing away, terrified.
  "He's-he's the one who threatened me in the parking
lot!" she cried.
  The demon spouted more obscenities.
  Hank intervened immediately. "Spirit, be quiet!"
  The spirit cursed at him. "That's your wife, eh?"
  "I bind you in Jesus' name."
  Bobby curled and writhed as if in terrible pain;
the demon was feeling the sting of their prayers.
  "Leave me alone!" it screamed. "I want
to-I want to ..." It went on to describe
rape in hideous detail.
  Mary recoiled, but then regathered herself and spoke
back. "How dare you! I'm a child of God, and I
don't have to put up with that kind of talk.
You be silent and come out of him!"
  Bobby curled like a stuck worm and retched.
  "Let him go, Rape!" commanded Andy.
  "Let go of him!" said Hank.
  Mary stepped closer and said firmly, "I
rebuke you, demon! In Jesus' name I rebuke
you!"
  The demon fell from Bobby as if struck by a
wrecking ball and fluttered about on the floor.
Krioni scooped him up and flung him out of the
church.
  The one remaining spirit was quite intimidated but very
obnoxious anyway. "I beat up a woman today!"
  "We don't want to hear about it," said John.
"Just get out of there!"
  "I hit her and I kicked her and I beat her
up"
  "Be quiet and come out!" Hank ordered.
  The demon cursed loudly and left, helped on
his way by Krioni.
  Bobby slumped on the floor exhausted, but a
gentle smile crossed his face and he started
to laugh happily. "They're gone! Thank God,
they're gone!"
  Hank, Andy, John, and Ron moved
in to comfort him. Mary stayed back, still unsure of this
seedy-looking character.
  Andy was clear and direct. "Bobby, you need to have
the Holy Spirit in your life. You need Jesus if
you want to stay free of those things."
  "I'm ready, man, I'm ready!" Bobby said.
  Right then and there, Bobby Corsi became a new
creation. And his first words as a Christian were,
"Guys, this town's in trouble! Wait'll you hear
what I've been up to and who I've been working for!"

  IT always took place in Professor Juleen
Langstrat's apartment, in the darkened living room,
sitting on the warm, comfortable sofa, illumined by the one
candle on the coffee table. Langstrat was always the
teacher and guide, giving instructions in her calm,
clear voice. Shawn was always there as a moral
supporter and fellow-participant. Sandy was never
alone.
  They had been meeting like this regularly now, and
each time was a whole new adventure. The quiet,
restful excursions into other levels of consciousness were
like opening a whole new door to a higher reality, the
world of psychic powers and experiences. Sandy was
totally enthralled.
  The metronome on the coffee table ticked, a
slow, restful, steady rhythm, breathing in, breathing
out, relax, relax, relax.
  Sandy was getting quite skilled at dropping below the
upper levels of consciousness, those levels in which
all humans normally operate, but which are the most
distracted and cluttered by outside stimuli. Somewhere
below that were the deeper levels where true psychic
ability and experience could be found. To reach these
levels took careful, methodical relaxation,
meditation, concentration. Langstrat had taught her
all the steps.
  As Sandy sat very still on the couch and Shawn watched
intently, Langstrat counted down slowly,
steadily, in cadence with the metronome.
  "Twenty-five, twenty-four,
twenty-three..."
  In Sandy's mind she was riding an elevator,
descending into the lower levels of her being, relaxing,
putting the upper levels of brain activity on
hold while she moved through the lower realms.
  "Three, two, one, Alpha level," said
Langstrat. "Now, open the door."
  Sandy visualized herself opening the elevator
door and stepping into a beautiful green
meadow bordered by trees covered with pink and white
blossoms. The air was warm, and a playful breeze
wafted across the meadow like gentle caresses. Sandy
looked here and there.
  "Do you see her?" Langstrat asked gently.
  "I'm still looking," Sandy answered. Then her
face brightened. "Oh, here she comes! She's
beautiful!"
  Sandy could see the girl coming toward her, a
beautiful young lady with cascading blonde hair,
all dressed in shimmering white linen. Her face
glowed with happiness. She was extending her hands in
greeting.
  "Hello!" Sandy called happily.
  "Hello," said the girl in the most beautiful and
melodic voice Sandy had ever heard.
  "Have you come to guide me?"
  The blonde girl took Sandy's hands in her own
and looked into her eyes with tremendous kindness and
compassion. "Yes. My name is Madeline. I will
teach you."
  Sandy looked at Madeline with amazement. "You
look so young! Have you lived before?"
  "Yes. Hundreds of times. But each life was
simply a step upward. I'll show you the
way."
  Sandy was ecstatic. "Oh, I want to learn.
I want to go with you."
  Madeline took Sandy by the hand and began to lead
her across the green meadow toward an immaculate
golden walkway.
  As Sandy sat on the sofa in Langstrat's
apartment, her face full of joy and rapture,
gleaming talons penetrated her skull as the black
and gnarled hands of a hideous demon held her head
in a viselike grip. The spirit leaned over her and
whispered the words to her mind, "Then come. Come with me.
I will introduce you to others who have ascended even before
me."
  "Love to!" Sandy responded.
  Langstrat and Shawn smiled at each other.
  Tom McBride, the paste-up man, heard the
little bell over the front door ring and could only
moan. This day had been the most traumatic he'd
ever been through. He scurried to the front just in time
to see Marshall come in and make a beeline for his
office.
  Tom was distraught and full of questions. "Marshall,
where have you been, and where's Bernice? The papers
haven't come from the printer! I've had
nothing but calls all day-I finally had to put the
phone on the answering machine-and people have been coming
by wondering where today's paper is." "Where's Carmen?"
Marshall asked, and Tom noticed Marshall
looked very, very sick.
  "Marshall," Tom asked, very worried,
"what-what's wrong? What's going on around here?"
  Marshall just about bit Tom's head off when he
growled, "Where's Carmen?"
  "She's not here. She was here, but then Bernice
took off, and then she took off, and I've been here
alone all day!"
  Marshall flung the door to his office open and
got inside. He went straight for a file drawer
and yanked it out. It was empty. Tom stood at a
safe distance and watched. Marshall reached under his
desk and pulled out a cardboard box. The box
slid out easily and lightly. He saw that it was
empty too and dashed it to the floor with a loud oath.
"Is... is there anything I can do?" Tom asked.
Marshall flopped into his chair, his face like
chalk, his hair disheveled. For a moment he just sat
there, leaning his head on his hand, breathing deeply,
trying to think, trying to calm down.
  "Call the hospital," he finally said
in a very weak voice that didn't sound much like
Marshall Hogan at all.
  "The-the hospital?" Tom didn't like the sound of
that at all.
  "Ask them how Bernice is doing."
  Tom's mouth dropped open. "Bernice! Is
she in the hospital? What happened?"
  Marshall exploded, "Just do it, Tom!"
  Tom scurried to a phone. Marshall got up and
went to his door.
  "Tom..."
  Tom looked up, but kept trying to dial the
phone.
  Marshall leaned on the doorpost. He felt so
weak, so helpless. "Tom, I'm sorry. I'm
really sorry. Thanks for making that call. Let
me know what they say."
  And with that, Marshall turned and went back into his
office, flopping into his chair and sitting there
motionless.
  Tom came back with his report. "Uh ...
Bernice had a cracked rib, and they wrapped
it... but no other serious injuries. Somebody
brought her car back from Baker, so they released her
and she drove home. That's where she is
now."
  "Yeah... I gotta get home..."
  "What happened to her?"
  "She was beat up. Somebody jumped her,
clobbered her."
  "Marshall..." Tom was almost too horrified for
words. "That's ... well... that's terrible."
  Marshall worked himself out of the chair and leaned against his
desk.
  Tom was still concerned. "Marshall, is there going
to be a Friday edition? We sent paste-ups to the
printer... I don't understand."
  "They didn't print it," Marshall answered
blandly.
  "What? Why not?"
  Marshall let his head fall forward, and he shook
it just a little. He blew out a sigh, then looked at
Tom again. "Tom, just go ahead and take the day off,
what's left of it. Let me get squared away
here and then I'll call you, okay?"
  "Well... okay."
  Tom went into the back room for his lunchbox and his
coat.
  The phone rang, a different line, a number
Marshall reserved for special calls.
Marshall picked it up.
  "Clarion," he said.
  "Marshall?"
  "Yeah..."
  "Marshall, this is Eldon Strachan."
  Oh, thank God, he's alive! Marshall
felt his throat tighten. He thought he would cry.
"Eldon, are you all right?"
  "Well, no. We just got back from a trip.
Marshall, someone just tore up my house. The
place is a mess!" "Is Doris all right?"
"Well, she's upset. I'm upset." "We've
all been hit, Eldon. They're on to us."
"What's happened?"
  Marshall recounted it all to him. The hardest part
of all was telling Eldon Strachan that his friend and
fellow outcast, Ted Harmel, was dead.
  Strachan had trouble speaking for quite some time.
Several minutes were spent in an awkward, painful
silence, interrupted only a few times by either man
asking if the other was still on the line.
  "Marshall," Strachan finally said, "we'd
better run. We'd just better get the heck out of
here and not come back." "Run where?" Marshall
asked. "You already ran once, remember?
As long as you're alive, Eldon, you're going
to be living with this and they're going to know it." "But what
can any of us do anyway?" "You have friends, for crying out
loud! What about the state attorney general?"
  "I told you, I can't go to Norm Mattily with
nothing but my word; I need more than just our friendship.
I need proof, some kind of documentation."
  Marshall looked down at the empty cardboard
box. "I'll get you something, Eldon. One way
or another, I'll get you something to show to anybody
who'll listen."
  Eldon sighed. "I just don't know how much longer
this is going to have to go on..." "As long as we let
it, Eldon."
  He thought for a moment, then said, "Yeah, yeah,
you're right. You get me something solid, and I'll
see what I can do." "We have no choice. Our
necks are on the block right now; we've got
to save ourselves!"
  "Well, I certainly intend to do that. Doris and
I are going to disappear, and fast, and I'd advise
you to do the same. We sure can't stay around here."
  "So where do I reach you?"
  "I won't tell you over the phone. Just wait
to hear from Norm Mattil's office.
It'll mean I got through to him, and that's the only
way I'll be any good to you anyway."
  "If I'm not here, if I've skipped town or
ended up dead, have him contact Also Lemley at the
New York Times. I'll try to leave word with
him."
  "I'll see you again sometime."
  "Let's pray that you do."
  "Oh, I'm starting to pray a lot these days."
  Marshall hung up, locked all the doors, and
headed for home.
  Bernice lay on her couch with an ice bag over
her face and an uncomfortable bandage around her rib
cage, and she really did want a phone call.
She had already thrown up once, her head was throbbing,
and she felt miserable, but she wanted a phone
call. What was happening out there? She tried calling
the Clarion, but no one answered. She called
Marshall's home, but no one answered there either.
  Well, what do you know! The phone rang. She
snatched it up like an owl grabbing a mouse.
"Hello?"
  "Bernice Krueger?"
  "Kevin?"
  "Yeah, man..." He sounded very nervous
and highstrung. "Hey, I'm dying, man, I mean
I am really scared!"
  "Where are you, Kevin?"
  "I'm at home. Hey, somebody came in here
and tore the place apart!"
  "Is your door closed?"
  "Yeah."
  "Then why don't you lock it?"
  "Yeah, I got it locked. I'm scared, man.
They must have a contract out on me."
  "Be very careful what you say, Kevin. What we
heard about our phones being bugged is probably
true. They may have bugged your phone." Weed
didn't say anything for a moment; then he cursed out
of sheer fright. "Oh man, I just got a call from you
know who! You think they heard us talking?"
  "I don't know. We have to be careful."
  "What am I gonna do? It's all going down,
man. Susan says she's got the goods, and it's
all going down! She's gonna split that place"
  Bernice cut him short. "Kevin, don't say
another word. You'd better tell me in person.
Let's meet somewhere."
  "But won't they know where we're meeting?"
  "Hey, if they know they know, but at least
we'll have some control over what they hear."
  "Well, let's do it quick, and I mean quick!"
  "How about that bridge a few miles north of
Baker, the one over the Judd River?"
  "The big green one?"
  "Yeah, that one. There's a turnoff right at the
north end of it. I can be there by" Bernice
looked at her wall clock com8let's say 7."
  "I'll be there."
  "Okay. Good-bye."
  Bernice immediately dialed the Clarion. No
answer. She dialed Marshall at home.
  The telephone in the Hogan kitchen rang and
rang, but Marshall and Kate remained silent at
the kitchen table, letting it ring until finally it
stopped.
  Kate, her hands shaking just a little, her breathing
consciously controlled, looked at her husband with
tear-filled eyes.
  "The telephone has a way of bringing consistently
bad news," she quipped, her eyes dropping for a
moment.
  Right now Marshall had as much intestinal fortitude
as an empty garbage bag, and for one rare occasion in
his life he was at a loss for words.
  "When did you get that call?" he finally asked.
  "This morning."
  "But you don't know who it was?"
  Kate took a deep breath, trying to stay on
top of her emotions. "Whoever it was, he knew just
about everything about you and me, and even Sandy; so he
wasn't just a crank in that respect. His...
credentials were very impressive."
  "But he was lying!" Marshall said angrily.
  "I know," Kate answered assertively.
  "It's just another smear tactic, Kate.
They're trying to take away my newspaper,
they're trying to take away my home, and now
they're trying to destroy my marriage. There isn't
now, nor has there ever been any kind of goings-on
between Bernice and me. For crying out loud, I'm old
enough to be her father!"
  "I know," Kate answered again. She took a
moment to build up strength to continue. "Marshall, you
are my man, and if I were ever to lose you I know
I'd never find one better. I also know you're not a
man given to just tossing around his passions. I have a
prize in you, and I've never forgotten that."
  He took her hand. "And you're all the woman
I could ever handle."
  She squeezed his hand as she said, "I do have
confidence that these things will never change. I suppose
it's that kind of confidence that's kept me hanging on,
waiting..."
  Her voice trailed off, and there was a moment of
silence. Kate had to choke down her emotions, and
Marshall couldn't think of anything to say.
  "Marshall," she said finally, "there are some other
things that haven't changed either, but those things were
supposed to change; you and I agreed together that they
would. We agreed that things would be different after we
moved from New York, that you would take it easy, that
you would have more time for your family, that maybe we could
all get to know one another again and patch things up."
The tears began to flow and it was difficult for her
to speak, but she was committed now, so she kept going.
"I don't know what it is, whether the ultimate
scoop simply tags after you no matter where you go
or if you concoct it on your own, time after time. But
if I were to ever be jealous or suspicious of another
lover, that's what the lover would be. You do have another
love, Marshall, and I just don't know if I can
compete with it."
  Marshall knew he'd never be able to fully
explain everything. "Kate, you've no
idea how big this whole thing is."
  She shook her head. She didn't want to hear
it. "That's not at issue here. As a matter of
fact, I'm sure it is big, it is extremely
important, it probably does warrant the amount
of time and energy you've put into it. But what I am
coping with now is the detriment that this whole thing has
been to myself, to Sandy, and to this family. Marshall,
I don't care about comparisons; no matter where
Sandy and I have been placed on your list of
priorities, we are still suffering, and that is the
direct problem that I'm dealing with. I can't care
about anything else."
  "Kate ... that's what they want!"
  "They're getting it," she countered abruptly.
"But don't you dare blame anyone else for your
failure to live up to your promises. No one
else is responsible for your promises,
Marshall, and I am holding you responsible for the
promises you made to your family."
  "Kate, I didn't ask for this to come up, I
didn't ask for this to happen. When it's all over"
  "It's over now!" That stopped him cold. "And
it's not really a matter of choice for me. I have my
limitations, Marshall. I know there's
only so much I can take. I have to get away."
  Marshall was too weak to say a word. He couldn't
even think of any words. All he could do was look
her in the eye and let her speak, let her do whatever
she had to do.
  Kate kept going. She had to get it all out before
she would be unable to. "I talked to my mom this
morning. She was very supportive of both of us, and
she's not taking sides at all. As a matter of
fact-and you might find this interesting-she's been
praying for us, for you in particular. She says she
even dreamt about you the other night; she dreamt that you
were in trouble and that God would send His angels to help
you if she prayed. She took the whole thing pretty
seriously, and she's been praying ever since."
  Marshall smiled weakly. He appreciated that,
but what good was it doing?
  Kate came to the bottom line. "I'm going
to stay with her for a while. I need time to think. And you
need time to think. We both need to know for sure just which
of your promises you are truly willing to live up
to. We need to get it settled once and for all,
Marshall, before we go one step further.
  "As for Sandy, right now I don't even know where
she is. If I can find her I might
ask her to come with me, although I doubt she'll want
to leave Shawn and everything they're involved in."
She drew a deep breath as this new pain took
hold of her. "All I can say is, you don't know
her anymore, Marshall. I don't know her.
She's been slipping away and slipping away... and
you were never here." She couldn't go on. She buried
her face in her hands and wept.
  Marshall found himself wondering if he should even go
to her, comfort her, put his arms around her. Would she
accept it? Would she even believe that he cared?
  He did care. His own heart was breaking. He
went to her and gently put his hand on her shoulder.
  "I won't give you any pat answers," he
said quietly. "You're right. Everything you've said is
right. And I don't dare make any more promises
now that I may not be able to keep." The words hurt
even as he forced himself to say them. "I do need to think
about it. I need to do some real housecleaning. Why
don't you go ahead? Go ahead and stay with your mom
for a while, get away from all this mess. I'll...
I'll let you know when it's all over, when I'm
settled on what's important. I won't even
ask you to come back until then."
  "I love you, Marshall," she said as
she wept.
  "I love you too, Kate."
  She rose suddenly and embraced him, giving him
a kiss he would remember for a long time, a kiss
when she held him desperately tight, when her
face was wet with tears, when her body trembled with
her weeping. He held her with his strong arms as if
he were hanging on to his very life, a priceless
treasure he might never have again.
  Then she said, "I'd better just go," and gave him
one final hug.
  He held her for one last moment and then said as
comfortingly as he could, "It'll be okay. Good-bye."
  Her bags were already packed. She didn't take
much. After the front door quietly closed behind her
and their little pickup truck eased out of the driveway,
Marshall sat alone at the kitchen table for a very long
time. He numbly stared at the woodgrain patterns
in the tabletop, a thousand memories flooding through his
mind. Minutes upon minutes passed without his heed;
the world went on without him.
  At last his stupor crumbled as all his thoughts and
feelings came to rest on her name, "Kate..." and
he cried and cried.
  28
  Guilo bit his lower lip and surveyed the
valley below, along with his two dozen warriors. From
their vantage point halfway down the mountain
slopes and in among the rocks, the Strongman's
Lair was a boiling, humming caldron of black
spirits, their myriads forming a swarming, living haze
over the duster of buildings below. The sound of their wings
was a constant, low-pitched drone that echoed back upon
itself from the rocky crags all around. The demons were
very disturbed right now, like an angry hive of bees.
"They're building up for something," a warrior
observed. "Even so," said Guilo, "something
doesn't feel right, and I would venture to say it
has to do with her."
  All around the complex, vans and trailers were
packed with everything from the office supplies right down
to Alexander M. Kaseph's stuffed trophies. The
personnel were now going through their dormitories,
packing up their personal belongings and sweeping out the
rooms. Everywhere there was a pervading excitement and
anticipation, and people clustered here and there, chattering in
their native languages.
  In the big stone house, secluded from all the
activity, Susan Jacobson worked hurriedly in
her private room, consolidating a huge
box of records, ledgers, documents, printed
matter. She was trying to eliminate anything she
didn't absolutely need, but almost every item
seemed indispensable. Even so, only one
suitcase-now sitting on her dresser-would have
to contain it all. So far, the load was too bulky
to fit in the suitcase and too heavy for Susan
to carry even if it did.
  With some hastily muttered prayers and some more quick
perusals, she eliminated half of the items. She
then took what was left and began to carefully
arrange it all in the suitcase, a ledger here, some
affidavits there, more documents, some photographs,
another ledger, a computer printout, a thick ream of
photocopies, some undeveloped film.
Footsteps in the hall! She hurriedly closed the
suitcase, pressing the lid shut so she could fasten
the latches, and then lugged the heavy thing over to the big
bed where she quickly slid it underneath. She then threw
all the other unpacked items back into the box and
concealed the box on a shelf behind some linens in a
small closet.
  Without knocking, Kaseph came into the room.
He wore casual clothes because he too had been
packing and taking part in all the activity.
  She went to him and threw her arms around him.
"Well, hi! How are things on your end?"
  He returned her embrace briefly, then
dropped his arms and began to look around the room.
  "We were wondering whatever became of you," he said.
"We are meeting in the dining hall, and we were hoping
you would attend." There was something strange and ominous in
his tone.
  "Well," she said, a little abashed at his
demeanor, "of course I'm going to attend. I
wouldn't miss it for anything."
  "Good, good," he said, looking around the room.
"Susan, may I look through your suitcase?"
  She looked at him curiously. "What?"
  He would not change or qualify his question. "I
want to look in your suitcase."
  "Whatever for?"
  "Bring it here," he said in a tone not to be argued
with.
  She went to her closet, brought out a large blue
suitcase full of clothes, and laid it on the bed.
He opened the latches and threw back the lid, then
proceeded to very quickly and very rudely unpack it,
throwing its contents here and there.
  "Hey," she protested, "what are you
doing? It took me hours to get all that in there!"
  He thoroughly emptied it, opening every side
pocket, unloading and shaking out every garment. When he
had finished, she was quite angry.
  "Alex, what is the meaning of this?"
  He turned to her with a very grim expression, and then
his face suddenly broke into a smile. "I'm
sure you can pack your suitcase even more
efficiently the second time." She knew she
didn't dare give him any comeback for that. "But it
was necessary for me to check on something. You see, dear
Susan, you've been absent from the normal flow of the
population and absent from my presence for a considerable
time." He began to walk slowly around the room, his
eyes darting over every nook and corner of it. "And it
seems there are some very important records and
files missing, things of a very delicate
nature-things that you, my Maidservant, would have
access to." He smiled that same old smile that
cut like a knife. "Of course, I know that your
heart is indeed in union with mine, despite
your... second thoughts and petty fears of late."
  She raised her head high and looked right at him.
"Those things are strictly the weakness of my
humanity, but something over which I expect
to gain a victory."
  "The weakness of your humanity..." He thought that
over for a moment. "That same little weakness that has always
made you so intriguing, because it could make you so very
dangerous."
  "You are implying, then, that I could betray you?"
He approached her and rested his hands on her
shoulders. Susan imagined how his hands would not have
to move far to clamp around her neck.
  "It is possible," he said, "that someone is trying
to betray me, even now. I can read it in the
atmosphere." He looked at her very closely, his
eyes burrowing into hers. "I might even be reading it
in your very own eyes." She turned her eyes away
and said, "I would not betray you." He leaned closer
and said very coolly, "Nor would anyone else... if
they knew what would be in store for them. It would be a
very serious business indeed." She felt his hands
tighten their grip.
  A messenger streaked across the sky and then darted,
zigzagged, and weaved through the woods above Ashton
looking for Tal.
  "Captain!" he called, but Tal was not there
among the others. "Where is the captain?"
  Mota answered, "Carrying out another
prayer gathering at Hank Busche's home. Be
careful not to attract attention."
  The messenger soared down the hillside and
floated quietly into the maze of streets and
alleys below.
  At Hank's house, Tal remained carefully
hidden within the walls while some of his warriors
carried out his orders, bringing in people ready to pray.
  Hank and Andy Forsythe had called a special
prayer meeting, but they hadn't expected so many people
to show up. More and more cars kept arriving, and more and more people
kept filing through the door: the Colemans, Ron
Forsythe and Cynthia, newly saved Bobby
Corsi, his parents Dan and Jean, the Joneses,
the Coopers, the Smiths, the Bartons, some
college students and their friends. Hank brought out
whatever extra chairs he had. People began to find
places on the floor. The room was getting stuffy;
the windows were opened.
  Tal looked out front and saw an old station
wagon pull up. He smiled broadly. This was
one arrival Hank would be glad to see.
  When the doorbell rang several people hollered,
"Come in," but whoever it was didn't come in. Hank
stepped over several people to get to the door and
opened it.
  There stood Lou Stanley, together with his wife
Margie. They were holding hands.
  Lou smiled timidly and asked, "Hi, Hank.
Is this where you're holding the prayer meeting?"
  Hank believed again in miracles. Here was the
man who had been removed from the church for adultery,
now standing before him reunited with his wife and wanting
to pray with all the others!
  "Wow," said Hank, "it sure is! Come on
in!"
  Lou and Margie entered the packed living room,
where they were greeted with love and acceptance.
  Just then there was another knock on the door.
Hank was still standing there, so he opened the door and saw
an older man and his wife standing outside. He had
never seen either one of them before.
  But Cecil Cooper knew who they were; he
called to them from where he was sitting. "Well,
praise the Lord! I don't believe it! James
and Diane Farrel!"
  Hank looked at Cecil, and then at the couple
standing there, and his mouth dropped open. "Reverend
Farrel?"
  Reverend James Farrel, former pastor
of Ashton Community Church, extended his hand.
"Pastor Henry Busche?" Hank nodded, taking
his hand. "We got word there was a prayer meeting here
tonight." Hank invited them in with outstretched arms.
Meanwhile, the messenger arrived and found Tal.
"Captain, Guilo sends word that Susan's time
is very short! She is very near discovery. You must come
now!"
  Tal took a quick survey of the prayer cover he
had gathered. It had to be enough for tonight's plan to work.
  Hank was starting the meeting. "The Lord has
impressed on all of us that we need to pray tonight for
Ashton. Now we've learned some things this afternoon, and
we were sure right about Satan having a grip on this
town. We need to pray that God will bind the demons
that are trying to take over, and we need to pray for
victory for the people of God, and for the angels of
God..."
  Good, good! Tal thought. It might be enough. But
if what the messenger said was truly the situation at
the Strongman's Lair, they would have to proceed with the
plan whether the prayer cover was sufficient or not.
  The demonic cloud over the valley continued
to thicken and swirl, and from their vantage point
Guilo and his warriors could see the
glimmer of millions of pairs of yellow eyes.
  Guilo could not relax at all, but continually
watched over the mountaintops for the one streak of light
that would mark Tal's arrival. "Where is Tal?"
he muttered. "Where is he? They know. They know!"
  At this very moment Kaseph's entire staff, the
implementing force behind Omni Corporation, was gathered
in the dining hall for a makeshift banquet and final
get-together before the big move for which they had all
prepared. It was an informal buffet affair; everything
was casual, and the mood was light. Kaseph himself,
usually aloof from his inferiors, mingled freely with them
now, and hands often reached out to him as if imploring a
special blessing.
  Susan remained steadfastly by his side,
dressed again in her customary black suit, and hands
also reached out to her for a special touch, a special
glance or look of blessing. These she freely bestowed
on the grateful followers.
  As the meal got underway, Kaseph and Susan
took their places at the head table. She tried
to act normal and enjoy her food, but her master still
maintained that smile, that strange, cutting, wicked
smile, and it unnerved her. She had to wonder how
much he really knew.
  Toward the end of the dinner Kaseph stood, and as
if on signal everyone in the room immediately became
silent.
  "As we have done in other regions, in other parts
of our rapidly uniting world, so we shall do here,"
Kaseph said, and the whole room applauded. "As a
decisive and powerful tool of the Universal
Consciousness Society, Omni Corporation is
about to establish still another foothold for the coming New
World Order and the rule of the New Age Christ. I
have received word from our advance people in Ashton that the
purchase of our new facility can be finalized on
Sunday, and I will personally go before you to close the
deal. After that, the town will be ours."
  The room broke into applause and cheers.
  But then, with a rather abrupt change of mood,
Kaseph let a scowl come upon his face, to which all
those present responded with an equal sobriety.
"Of course, all through this massive effort we have
often been reminded of how serious this business really
is in which we are involved, to which we have vowed our
lives and our allegiances. We have often pondered
how dire the results would be to everything we have worked
toward if any one of us should ever turn toward the
wrong and answer the persistent call of
greed, temporality, or even" he looked at
Susan-"human weakness."
  Suddenly the room was dead quiet. Everyone's
gaze was upon Kaseph as his eyes scanned slowly
across the whole group.
  Susan could feel a terror starting to form deep
down inside, a terror she had always tried to push
down, avoid, control. She could feel the one thing
she feared most of all slowly stalking up on her.
  Kaseph continued, "Only a few of you are
aware that in the course of transferring the files from the
head office we discovered that several of our most
sensitive folders were missing. Apparently someone
with high privilege and inside access thought those
files would be of value... some other way." The people
began to gasp and murmur. "Oh, don't be
alarmed. I have a happy ending to this story. The
missing files have been found!" They were all
relieved, and chuckled amongst themselves. This, they
seemed to think, was another one of Kaseph's little
teasers.
  Kaseph signaled to some security men toward the
back of the room, and one of them picked up-what was
it? Susan rose from her chair just a little to see.
  A cardboard box. No! The cardboard
box? The one she had hidden behind the linens? He was
bringing it toward the front, toward the head table.
  She remained where she was, but she thought she would
faint. Her whole body trembled with fear. The
blood drained from her face; her insides were riddled
with horrible pain. She had been discovered. There was
no way out. It was a nightmare.
  The security guard lifted the heavy box onto
the table, and Kaseph flung it open. Yes, there were
all the materials she had so painstakingly sorted
out and hidden. He lifted them out, and held them up for
all to see. The whole crowd gasped in astonishment.
  Kaseph threw the materials back into the box and
let the guard carry it away.
  "This box," he announced, "was found hidden in
the Maidservant's linen closet."
  All were stunned. Some remained frozen with shock.
Some shook their heads.
  Susan Jacobson prayed. She prayed
furiously.
  The messenger arrived back in the valley, and
Guilo was voracious for news.
  "Yes, speak up!"
  "He is gathering the prayer cover for the operation
tonight. He should be here any moment."
  "Any moment may be too late." Guilo
looked toward the buildings below. "Any moment and
Susan might be dead."
  Tal watched while the gathered people prayed intently
as the Holy Spirit led them and empowered them. They were
praying specifically for the confounding of the demonic
hosts. It just might be enough! He slipped out of the
house, shrouded by the darkness. He would pass quickly
through the town and then fly to the Strongman's Lair,
hopefully in time to save Susan's life.
  But no sooner had he stepped into the narrow and
rutted alley behind the house than he felt a sharp
pain in his leg. His sword flashed into view in an
instant, and in one quick movement he beheaded a small
spirit that had been clinging to him. It dissolved in a puff
of blood-red smoke.
  Another spirit clamped onto his back. He
swept it away. Another on his back, another on
his leg, two more slashing and nipping at his head!
  "It is Tal!" he heard them squeak and
chatter. "It is Captain Tal!"
  Much more of this noise and they would bring Rafar!
Tal knew he would have to vanquish them all or
risk exposure. The demons around his head went
quickly enough. He swept his sword up and
across his back and dismembered the one clinging there.
  But they seemed to multiply. Some of them were quite
sizable, and all were greedy for the reward Rafar would
give for whoever revealed Tal's whereabouts.
  A large, laughing spirit flew in close for a look
at Tal, and then shot straight into the sky. Tal
followed after him in an explosion of light and power and
grabbed his ankles. The spirit screamed and began
to claw at him. Tal dropped back to earth like a
stone, dragging the spirit down with him, the spirit's wings
flapping and fluttering like a torn umbrella.
Once under the cover of trees and houses, Tal's
sword sent the spirit into the abyss.
  But more demons were coming upon him from all directions.
The word was spreading.
  Two powerful and muscular guards, the same two
men who had once been her tuxedoed escorts,
dragged and carried Susan between them, hardly letting
her use her own feet to carry herself, across the
grounds, up onto the porch of the big stone house,
inside, up the ornate staircase, and down the
upstairs hall to her room. Kaseph followed,
cool, collected, perfectly ruthless.
  The guards threw Susan down in a chair and
held her there with their full weight,
preventing her escape. Kaseph took a long,
icy look at her.
  "Susan," he said, "my dear Susan, I am
not really shocked at this. Such problems have happened
before, with many others, many times. And every time we've had
to deal with it. As you well know, such problems never
remain. Never."
  He moved in close, so close his words seemed
to slap her like little whips. "I never trusted you,
Susan, I told you that. So I've kept my
eye on you, I've had the others keep their eye on
you, and I see now that you have rekindled your friendship with
my... rival, Mr. Weed." He laughed at that.
  "I have eyes and ears everywhere, dear Susan.
Since the moment your Mr. Weed went to the Ashton
Clarion, we have made his business, every aspect of
it, our business: where he goes, whom he knows,
whomever he calls, and whatever he says. And as for the
hurried and careless call you made to him today..."
He laughed loudly. "Susan, did you really think
we wouldn't monitor every phone call going out of here?
We knew you would make your move sooner or
later. All we had to do was wait and be ready. An
undertaking such as ours is naturally going to have
enemies. We understand that."
  He leaned over her, his eyes cold and cunning.
"But we most certainly do not tolerate it. No,
Susan, we deal with it, harshly and abruptly. I
had thought that one little harassment would silence Weed, but
now I find that, thanks to you, he knows far too much.
Therefore, it will be best if you and your Mr. Weed are
taken care of."
  All she could do was tremble; she could think of nothing
to say. She knew it would be useless to beg for mercy.
  "You have never been to one of our blood rituals,
have you?" Kaseph began to explain it to her as if
giving a short lecture. "The ancient worshipers
of Isis, or Molech, or Ashtoreth, were not too
far afield in their practices. They understood, at
least, that the offering of a human life to their so-called
gods seemed to bring the gods' favor upon them.
  "What they performed in ignorance, we now continue
with enlightenment. The life-force that intertwines itself through
us and our universe is cyclical, never-ending,
self-perpetuating. The birth of the new cannot occur
without the death of the old. The birth of good is created
by the death of evil. This is karma, dear Susan,
your karma."
  In other words, he was going to kill her.
  A warrior asked Guilo, "What is
that? What are they doing?"
  They both listened. The cloud, still stirring and
swirling slowly about the valley floor, was
trickling and babbling now with a strange sound, an
indefinable noise that gradually rose in volume and
pitch. At first it sounded like the rush of faraway
waves, then it grew into the roar of a numberless mob.
From this it crescendoed into an eerie wailing of
millions of sirens.
  Guilo slowly brought his sword out, and the metal
of the blade rang.
  "What are you doing?" asked the warrior.
  "Prepare!" Guilo ordered, and the order was
spread among the group. Ring, ring, ring went their
blades as each warrior took his sword in his hand.
  "They're laughing," said Guilo. "There's nothing
we can do but go in."
  The warrior was willing, and yet the thought was
unthinkable. "Go in? Go into ... that?"
  The demons were strong, brutal, savage ... and
now they were laughing with the smell of approaching death like
sweet perfume in their nostrils.
  Triskal and Krioni came swooping into the
valley, swords blazing and sweeping in lethal
arcs of light as demons disintegrated on
all sides. Other warriors shot into the sky like
flares from a cannon, plucking fleeing demons out
of the air, silencing them.
  Tal was in a real bind, wishing he could release
his fighting power full force and yet needing to remain
subdued lest he draw attention to himself. Thus he
could not vanquish the spirits now clustering on him like
angry bees in one violent attack, but rather had
to pluck them off one by one, hacking and chopping with his
sword.
  Mota entered the scuffle and came in close
to Tal, swinging his sword and plucking demons off his
captain like bats off a cave wall. "There! There
now! And another!"
  Then came one infinitesimal moment when Tal was
clean of demons. Mota quickly slipped into his
place while Tal vanished into the ground.
  The spirits were enraged by the fighting, and at first continued
to flock and circle about the area; but then they realized
that Tal had somehow slipped away and they were only
placing themselves in the hands of heavenly warriors to be
destroyed for no reason.
  Their numbers quickly dwindled, their cries ebbed
away, and soon they were gone.
  Several miles outside of Ashton,
Tal shot out of the ground like a bullet from a rifle,
streaking across the sky, a trail of light following
him like the tail of a comet, his sword held straight
out in front of him. Farms, fields, forests, and
highways became a blur beneath him; the clouds
became rushing mountains passing by on either side.
  He could feel his strength building with the prayers
of the saints; his sword began to burn with power, glowing
brilliantly. He almost felt it was pulling him
through the sky.
  Faster and faster, the wind screaming, the distance
shrinking, his wings an invisible roar, he flew for the
Strongman's Lair.
  A very strange-looking, black-robed and beaded,
long-haired little guru from some dark and pagan land
stepped into Susan's room at Kaseph's bidding.
He bowed in obeisance to his lord and master,
Kaseph.
  "Prepare the altar," said Kaseph. "There will be
a special offering for the success of our endeavor."
  The little pagan priest left quickly. Kaseph
returned his attention to Susan.
  He took one look at her and then gave her the
back of his hand.
  "Stop that!" he shouted. "Stop that
praying!"
  The force of the blow nearly knocked her out of the
chair, but one guard held her firmly. Her head
sank and she began to sob in very short, shallow
gasps of terror.
  Kaseph, like a conqueror, stood above her and
boasted over her limp and trembling form. "You have no
God to call upon! With the nearness of your death you
crumble, you fall back upon old myths and
religious nonsense!"
  Then he said, almost kindly, "What you don't
realize is that I'm actually doing you a favor.
Perhaps in your next life your understanding will be deeper,
your frailties will have fallen away. Your
sacrificial gift to us now will build wonderful
karma for you in the lives to come. You'll see."
  Then he spoke to the guards. "Bind her!"
  They grabbed her wrists and held them behind her; she
heard a click and felt the cold steel of the
manacles. She heard herself screaming.
  Kaseph went to his office, now a bare room
except for a few remaining shipping crates and
travel cases. He went directly to a small
case covered with fine old leather and tucked it under his
arm.
  Then he went down the big staircase to the lower
floor, through an imposing plank door and down
another stairway into the deep basement below the house.
He turned one corner, passed through another door,
and entered a dark, candlelit room of stone. The
strange little priest was already there, lighting candles and
moaning some strange, unintelligible words over and
over. Some of Kaseph's closest confidants were
present, waiting quietly. Kaseph handed the little
case to the priest, who laid it beside a large,
rough-hewn bench at one end of the room. The little
priest opened the case and began to set out
knives-Kaseph's knives-ornate, jeweled,
delicately wrought, razor-sharp.
  Tal could see the mountains ahead. He would have
to stay in close to their rocky sides. He must not be
seen.
  Guilo and his warriors remained in the darkness,
unglorified, stalking step by step downward toward the
complex concealing themselves behind rocks and old snags.
Just above them now, boiling and towering like a thunderhead, the
cloud of leering, laughing spirits continued to swirl.
Guilo was sensing some prayer cover; surely the
demons would have noticed them by now, but their eyes were
strangely unseeing.
  Down below, parked very near the main administration
building, was a large van. Guilo found a spot
from which he could see the van clearly, then had his
warriors fan out, keeping one warrior close by for
special instructions.
  "Do you see the upper window in the big stone
house?" Guilo asked him.
  "Yes."
  "She is there. On my signal, go alone and
get her out."

  In the strange dark room below the house,
Alexander M. Kaseph and his little entourage
remained transfixed in deep meditation. Before them,
just behind the rough wooden bench, stood the Strongman,
flanked by his close guards and assistants. His
sagging face was spread now with a hideous, drooling
grin that bared his fangs as he chuckled with demonic
delight.
  "One by one the obstacles are falling," he said.
"Yes, yes, your offering will bring you good fortune, and
it will please me." The big yellow eyes narrowed
with the command. "Bring her!"
  Upstairs, sitting helplessly between the two
guards, her feet and hands bound with
manacles, Susan Jacobson waited and
prayed. With all that was within her, she cried out to the one
true God, the God whom she did not know but must be
there, had to hear her, and was the only one who could help
her now.
  Tal reached the mountains and soared up their steep
face, climbing, climbing, easing back his speed.
He continued to slow as he neared the top, and then, just
as he crested the summit, he stopped all motion and
all sound, and let himself glide down the other side
silently, invisibly. He noticed with concern that the
cloud had grown even more since he'd been away.
He could only hope the prayer cover would at least
be sufficient to blind these foul creatures.
  Guilo had been watching for the captain, and his sharp
eyes saw Tal descending like a silent hawk
toward them.
  "Get ready," Guilo told the warrior at his
side.
  The warrior was poised, his eyes on that upstairs
window.
  Tal dropped down so low he was almost skidding
along the ground. He finally came to rest right beside
Guilo.
  "We have the cover," he said.
  "Go!" Guilo commanded the warrior, and the warrior
half-flew, half-ran toward the big stone house.
  The little priest, his eyes darting about with
anticipation, made his way up the big staircase,
humming and muttering a mantra to himself.
  Kaseph and his people waited downstairs in a hushed
silence, Kaseph standing right next to the knives.
  Susan Jacobson tried to work the shackles
loose, but they were clamped on tightly enough to cut
into her even if she didn't struggle. The guards
only laughed at her.
  "Dear God," she prayed, "if You are truly
the ruler of this universe, please have mercy on one
who dared to stand for Your sake against a terrible
evil..."
  And then-as if she were no longer in that room, as if
she were slowly waking up from a nightmare-the
agonizing, heart-twisting fear began to ebb from her
mind like a fading thought, like the slow, steady calming of a
storm. Her heart was at rest. The room seemed
strangely quiet. All she could do was look around
with very curious eyes. What had happened? Had she
died already? Was she asleep, or dreaming?
  But she had felt this way before. The memory of that
one night in New York came back
to her; she thought of that strange, buoyed-up feeling
she had had even as she clambered desperately through
that window. There was someone in the room. She could sense
it.
  "Are you here to help me?" she asked in her
heart, and the faintest little spark of hope came
to life again somewhere deep inside her.
  Clink! Her feet were suddenly released and could
swing unbound from the chair. The shackles lay on the
floor, opened. She felt something break loose from
around her wrists, and she pulled her arms free. The
manacles clinked to the floor, just like the shackles that
had bound her feet.
  She looked at the two guards, but they were just standing
there looking at her, still smirking, then looking
elsewhere as if nothing had happened.
  Then she heard a click, and looked just in time
to see the window latch twist loose and the big
bedroom window swing open all by itself. The cool
night air began to waft into the room.
  Whether this was illusion or reality, she accepted
it. She jumped up from the chair-the guards did
nothing. She ran for that open window. Then she
remembered.
  Still keeping a wary and unbelieving eye
on those guards, she hurried to the bed, reached under it,
and pulled out the suitcase that Kaseph and his people had
not found, even in such an obvious hiding place! It
felt strangely light for all the papers she had
loaded in it, but nothing at this moment made much sense
anyway, so she simply accepted how easy it was
to carry the suitcase to the window and set it on the
rooftop outside. She looked behind her. The guards
were smiling confidently at an empty chair!
  Feeling as if someone was lifting her, she climbed
through the window and onto the roof. A thick vine grew
up one side of the house. It would make a perfect
escape ladder.
  Outside the administration building, some security
people were talking in hushed tones about the fall of the
Maidservant and her imminent fate when suddenly
they heard footsteps running across the parking area.
  "Hey, look there!" someone shouted.
  The security men looked just in time to see a
woman dressed in black scurrying for one of the
trucks.
  "Hey, what are you doing?"
  "It's the Maidservant!"
  They ran after her, but she had already reached a big
moving van and climbed inside. The starter
growled, the engine came to life, andwitha lurch and a
whine the van started rolling away.
  Guilo leaped from his hiding place and bellowed,
"YAHAAA!" as his little troop of three and twenty
popped into the air like fireworks and trailed after the
van. "Cover yourselves, warriors!"
  The little priest reached Susan's bedroom, and his
bony hand opened the door. "We are ready," he
declared, and suddenly realized that he was talking to a
pair of very dedicated guards making very sure an
empty chair would not get away.
  The little pagan had a first-class fit; the guards
had no explanation.
  The van sluggishly headed up the winding and
precarious road that led out of the valley and over the
mountains. Four angels swooped down behind it and
started pushing it up the grade, helping it to top
sixty. They were making good time, but looking back they
could see an oncoming legion of demons in hot
pursuit, the glimmer of their fangs and the red
flicker of their blades filling the night sky.
  From high above, Guilo watched the cloud. It
remained where it was, covering the Strongman. Only
a small contingent of demonic warriors had been
sent after the runaway van.
  Roaring up the mountain road in pursuit, four of
Kaseph's armed security men gave chase in a
high-powered jeep. Even so, they had a surprising
amount of trouble catching up.
  "I thought that thing had a full load!" said one.
  "It does," said the other. "I loaded it myself."
  "How many horses does that thing have?"
  By now Kaseph had gotten word of Susan's
escape. He ordered eight more armed men in two more
vehicles to join the chase. They leaped into another
jeep and a V-8 powered sports car and squealed out
of the parking lot.
  Demons and angels converged on the van, still
chugging up the steep grade at more than sixty
miles an hour, its tires growling and often skidding
sideways across the winding, reeling gravel road.
The four angels kept pushing it from behind while the
other nineteen did their best to encircle it and ward
off demonic attack. Demons dove down from
above, their red swords gleaming, and engaged the
heavenly warriors in fierce dogfights, the
blades singing, droning, and clashing metallically with
bursts of sparks.
  The van came to the summit and picked up more
speed. The pursuing vehicles topped the
summit only seconds behind it. As the van
accelerated more and more, the bumps and curves in the
roadway became one death-dealing jolt or one
frame-bending wrench after another, and the van rocked,
dancing on two and three wheels as it careened down
the steep grade. The road went straight, then
turned abruptly, then twisted back the other
direction, then took a dip. The van wrestled the
road as the rocks and guardrails blurred by. With
each sharp curve it groaned and leaned heavily
toward the outside, the big frame bottoming out the
springs, the tires screeching in protest.
  A very sharp left turn! The van's heavy back
end fishtailed into the guardrail with a loud grinding and a
fiery shower of sparks. Down the road, another
dip, the springs bottoming out, the frame crunching
down on the axles, groaning and creaking.
  The jeeps and the sports car followed behind, doing
much better at negotiating the treacherous curves but
getting the ride of their lives all the same. Two
men in the lead jeep had high-powered rifles ready,
but it was impossible to get any clear shot. They
fired a few rounds anyway, if only to scare the
Maidservant.
  The van was headed right for a hairpin
turn, with yellow signs everywhere screaming at it
to slow down and be cautious. The four angels who
had been behind the van pushing were now pressed up against
its sides, trying to keep it on the road. Guilo
himself swooped down, his sword flashing, hacking his
way through demon interceptors until he could work his
way to the van. It was only a fraction of a second
from the guardrail and the sheer drop beyond it when Guilo
slammed forcefully into its side, jolting the front
wheels to the left with a sharp jerk. The van made the
turn and rolled on. The pursuers in the other
vehicles had to slow down or go right through the
guardrail.
  But the heavenly warriors trying to encircle the
van were being steadily cut away. Guilo looked just
in time to see one huge spirit pounce with bared talons
on top of a warrior like a hawk on a sparrow,
knocking the angel senseless, making it flutter down
into the deep canyon below. Another dogfight high
above and to the left ended in a cry of pain from another
warrior who went into a crazy spin, one wing
shredded, and disappeared inside the wall of a mountain.
The ringing clashes of blades echoed all around. There
went a demon, disappearing in a trail of red
smoke. Another angel fell toward the
canyon floor, still holding his sword but listless and
stunned, his demon pursuer right behind him.
  The hideous warriors of hell finally began
to break through and reach the van. One reached the warrior
right behind Guilo and knocked him away. Guilo
didn't have time to think another thought before his own sword
went up to fend off the incredibly powerful blow of a
spirit at least equal to himself. Guilo returned the
blow, their swords locked for a moment, arm against arm,
and then Guilo made good use of his foot to cave in
the demon's face and sent it tumbling out over the
canyon.
  The van began to swerve wildly, the tires
tiptoeing on the very edge of the chasm. Guilo pushed
with all his might to get it back on course. The
van lurched again and he realized a band of demons
must be on the other side, pushing against him. He
looked around for help and saw more fangs and yellow
eyes than friends. A huge blade swept downward
over his shoulder, and he parried it off. Another one
thrust toward his midsection, and he struck that away.
The van veered toward the cliff. He tried to push
back, parry a blow, look for help, strike
another demon, kick a face, push the van, cut
a flank, parry a blow, guide the van
...
  A blow! He didn't see it coming and had no
idea who had struck it, but it stunned him. He
lost his grip on the van, saw the canyon floor
spinning far below, saw the earth, the sky, the earth, the
sky. He was falling. He spread his wings and
floated downward like a torn and fallen leaf. From
up above he heard a bloodcurdling howl. He
looked up. This must be the one who had struck him, a
very large, bulb-eyed nightmare with reptilian skin
and serrated wings.
  "Come, come," Guilo muttered, waiting for the thing
to pounce.
  It dove straight at him, its jaws gaping, its
fangs glimmering, a wide, flat blade with keen
edge flashing. Guilo waited.
  The thing raised its sword high and brought it down
with a whoosh! Guilo was suddenly three feet away
from where he had been, and the blade continued on its way
without their having met, the demon somersaulting
wildly after it. Guilo made a blinding sweep with
his own sword and dewinged the demon, then finished it.
  The boiling trail of red smoke cleared away from
Guilo's eyes just in time for him to see the van
crash through a guardrail and sail out over the
precipice. The fall was so far, so very long and
extended, that the van seemed to float for an eternity
before folding and crushing on the rocks below, twisting,
turning, bouncing like a pop can as chairs, desks, and
cabinets tumbled out the back and papers upon papers
fluttered through the air like snowflakes. About thirty
demons hovered high above or roosted on the
remaining guardrail to watch their work come to completion.
After turning and rolling over and over, the van, no
longer recognizable as anything, finally came to rest
in a heap of scrap and glass at the base of the
mountain. The three pursuing vehicles pulled to a
stop, and the twelve security men got out to take a
satisfied look.
  Guilo rested on a rocky crag, setting his
sword down and looking skyward. High above he could
make out minute streaks of light heading in several
different directions, each one followed by two or
three streaks of red-accented black. His
warriors-what was left of them-were scattering in
all directions. Guilo thought it best to remain where
he was until the skies cleared. He, Tal, and
their warriors would all regroup in Ashton soon
enough.
  Rafar still sat in his big dead tree,
watching over the town of Ashton as a master at
chess would sit and look over a gameboard. He
enjoyed watching the many pieces and pawns make their
moves against each other.
  When a demon messenger brought the welcome
news from the Strongman's Lair that the
Maidservant, that traitorous wench, had come to a
miserable end and the heavenly host had been routed,
Rafar gloated and laughed. He had taken his
opponent's queen!
  "And so shall it be for the rest," Rafar said with
diabolical glee. "The Strongman entrusted the
preparation of the town to me. When he comes, he will find
it unoccupied, swept, and put in order!"
  He called some of his warriors. "It's time
to clean house. While the heavenly host are weak and
cannot stand against us, we should take care of the final
obstacles. I would like Hogan and Busche put
away like vanquished kings! Make use of the woman
Carmen, and see to it that they are bound and helpless, a
byword and a mockery! As for Kevin Weed ..." The
demon warlord's eyes narrowed with disdain. "He could
never be a worthy prize for such as myself. See that
he is killed, any way you wish; then bring me
word." The warriors departed to carry out his
orders.
  Rafar heaved a deep, half-mocking sigh.
"Ah, dear Captain of the Host, perhaps I will see
my battle won with no more than a raised finger, a
casual order, the poison of my subtlety; your
sky-rending trump of battle will be displaced by a
pitiful whimper, and my victory will be won without
my ever having seen your face, or your sword."
He looked over the town and broke into his fiendish
grin, clicking his thumb talon across his other four.
  "But do be sure of this. We shall meet, Tal! Do
not think to hide behind your praying saints, for we can
both see they have failed you. You and I shall meet!"
  Bernice knew it would be difficult, even
dangerous, to drive without her glasses, but
Marshall never answered his phone, so the meeting with
Kevin Weed was entirely up to her and certainly
worth the risk. So far, as she drove up
Highway 27, the daylight was sufficient to make out
the center line and the oncoming blobs, so she pressed
on toward the big green bridge north of Baker.
  Kevin Weed also had that bridge in mind as he
sat at the bar at The Evergreen Tavern with his hands
around a beer and his eyes on the big Lucky Lager
dock. Somehow he felt safer here than
at home by himself. He had buddies around, lots of
noise, the ball game on television, the
shuffleboard game going on behind him. His hands still
shook, though, every time he let go of his beer mug; so
most of the time he hung on to it and tried to act
normal. The front door kept scraping the
linoleum as more people came in.
  The place was warming up, which was just fine. The more the
merrier. Several loggers had beers to buy and
stories to tell. There were bets going around on the
shuffleboard game-tonight a long-standing rivalry would be
settled once and for all. Kevin took time to smile
and greet his friends and exchange a little jaw time. That
helped him loosen up.
  Two loggers came in. They were new, he
figured; he'd never seen them before. But they fit right
in with the rest of the bunch and were quick to get everyone caught
up on where they were working and for how long and how the weather
had been good, bad, or indifferent. They even came
up and sat with him at the bar. "Hey," said one,
extending his hand, "Mark Hansen." "Kevin
Weed," he said, shaking Mark's hand. Mark
introduced Kevin to the other guy, Steve Drake.
They hit it off fine, talking logging, baseball,
deer hunts, and booze, and Kevin's hands
quit shaking. He even finished his beer.
  "Want another beer?" Mark asked. "Yeah,
sure, thanks."
  Dan brought the beers, and the conversation kept
rattling on.
  A loud cheer went up from the shuffleboard
championship-for-all-time, and the three of them spun
around in their seats to see the winner shaking hands with the
loser.
  Mark was quick. When no one was looking, he
emptied a small vial into Kevin's beer.
  The shuffleboard crowd began to congregate at the
bar. Kevin checked the dock. It was time to go
anyway. In all the hubbub and chatter he managed
to say so long to his two new acquaintances, down
his beer, and head for the door. Mark and Steve gave
him a friendly wave as he went. Kevin climbed in
his old pickup and drove off. He figured he
would even get to the bridge a little early. Just thinking
about it made him start shaking again.
  Mark and Steve wasted no time. Kevin had no
sooner pulled out onto the highway than they were in
their own pickup truck, following some distance behind.
Steve checked his watch.
  "It won't be long now," he said.
  "So where do we dump him?" asked Mark.
  "What's wrong with the river? He's heading there
anyway."
  It must have been that last beer, Kevin was thinking
to himself. He must have chugged it down too fast or
something; his stomach was letting him know about it. On
top of that, he had to go to the bathroom. On top of
that, he was really getting sleepy. He spent a
few miles debating what to do, but finally he
figured he had better pull over before he just plain
keeled over.
  A garishly painted, sagging, low-overhead
hamburger joint was just ahead. He pulled off the
highway and managed to bring the truck to a safe stop
beside the building.
  He didn't notice the pickup truck that
pulled off the highway and then waited some hundred
yards behind him.
  "Terrific!" said Mark angrily. "So what's
he going to do, keel over right in front of that
hamburger place? I thought that stuff was supposed
to hit hard and fast!"
  Steve only shook his head. "Maybe he just
has to go to the bathroom. We'll have to wait and
see."
  It looked like Steve was right. Kevin stumbled and
staggered his way into the men's restroom behind the
building. For a minute or so they stared at the
restroom door. Steve looked at his watch again.
Time was getting short.
  "If he comes out and gets back on the road, the
stuff should hit him before he reaches the bridge."
  "If he even comes out!" Mark muttered. "What
if we have to drag him out of there?"
  No. Here he came, out the restroom door,
looking a little better. As the two men watched,
Kevin climbed back into his truck and pulled
back out onto the highway. They followed him,
waiting for something to happen.
  It did. The truck began to swerve, first to the
left, then back to the right.
  "There he goes!" said Steve.
  Up ahead was the Judd River Bridge, a
steel span over a very deep chasm carved out by the
Judd River. The little truck kept speeding along
crazily, veering clear over into the left lane, then
back again into the right lane, and then over onto the
shoulder.
  "He's fighting it, trying to stay awake,"
Steve observed.
  "It's probably watered down with too much
beer."
  The truck went over onto the shoulder, and the
tires began to wobble and dig into the soft gravel.
The rear wheels spun and threw rocks, and the truck
fishtailed along for several feet, heading for the
bridge, but by now the driver had no control and
seemed to have slipped into sleep with his foot on the
gas pedal. The truck roared and accelerated, then
shot across the road, roared across the wide turnoff just
before the bridge, leaped upon a dump of alder
saplings, and finally soared off the rocky precipice
and into the river canyon below.
  Mark and Steve pulled to a stop on the bridge
just in time to look over the side and see the truck
sinking wheels-up into the river.
  "Score one more for Kaseph," said Steve.
  Another driver in an oncoming car screeched to a
halt and jumped out of his auto. Soon another
vehicle pulled up. The bridge was starting to get
dogged with excited people. Mark and Steve eased away,
making their way off the bridge.
  "We'll call the fire department!" Mark shouted
out his window.
  And away they went, never to be seen or
heard from again.

  Kate. Sandy. The Network. Bernice.
Langstrat. The Network. Omni. Kaseph.
Kate. Sandy. Bernice.
  Marshall's thoughts went around and around as he stood
at the sliding glass door just off the kitchen and
watched daylight ebb slowly away from the backyard,
from the delicate orange wash of sunset to the sad,
ever deepening gray of nightfall.
  Maybe it was the longest time he had ever spent in
just one spot in his whole life, but maybe this right here
and now was the end of the life he had always known.
Sure, he had gone through several little attempts at
denial, at trying to prove to himself that these cosmic
characters, these far-out conspirators, were nothing but wind, but
he kept coming back to the cold, hard facts.
Harmel was right. Marshall was now out on his ear, like
everybody else. Believe it, Hogan. Hey,
it's happened whether you believe it or not!
  He was out, just like Harmel, just like Strachan, just like
Edie, just like Jefferson, Gregory, the
Carluccis, Waller, James, Jacobson...
  Marshall rubbed his hand over his head and stopped the
train of names and facts coursing through his
brain. Such thoughts were beginning to hurt; each one of
them seemed to punch him in the stomach as it passed through
his brain.
  But how did they do it? How could they be so powerful
that they actually destroyed lives on a personal
level? Was it only coincidence? Marshall couldn't
settle that question. He was too close to it, having
lost his own family and having the Network to blame,
but also himself. It would be so easy to blame the
conspiracy for tampering with his family and turning his
wife and daughter against him, and undoubtedly they had
tried it. But where could he draw the line between their
responsibility and his?
  All he knew was that his family had fallen apart
and now he was out, just like all the others.
  Wait! There was a noise at the front door.
Could it be Kate? He stepped to the kitchen door and
looked toward the front room.
  Whoever it was ducked around a corner very hurriedly
as soon as he showed his face. "Sandy?" he
called.
  For a moment there was no answer, but then he heard
Sandy reply in a very strange, cold tone of
voice, "Yes, Daddy, it's me."
  He almost broke into a run, but he forced
himself to take it easy and walk lightly to her
bedroom. He looked in and saw her going through her
closet, moving rather hurriedly and nervously, and she
showed a definite discomfort at his watching her.
  "Where's Mom?" she asked.
  "Well..." he said, trying to come up with an
answer. "She's gone to her mother's for a while."
  "She's left you, in other words," she replied quite
directly.
  Marshall was direct too. "Yeah, yeah, that's
right." He watched her for a while; she was grabbing
clothing and belongings and throwing them into a suitcase and
some shopping bags. "Looks like you're leaving too."
  "That's right," she said, without slowing down or even
looking up. "I felt it coming. I knew what
Mom was thinking, and I think she was right. You get
along so well all by yourself, we may as well let
you have it that way for keeps."
  "Where will you go?"
  Sandy looked up at him for the first time, and
Marshall was chilled and even sickened by the look in
her eyes, a strange, glassy, maniacal
expression he had never seen before.
  "I'll never tell you!" she said, and Marshall
couldn't believe the way she said it. It was
not Sandy at all.
  "Sandy," he said gently, pleadingly, "can we
talk? I won't put any pressure or demands
on you. Could we just talk?"
  Those very strange eyes glared at him again and this
person who used to be his loving daughter responded
with, "I'll see you in hell!"
  Marshall immediately sensed those all too familiar
sensations of fear and doom. Some thing had come into his
house.
  Hank answered the door and immediately felt a
certain check in his spirit. Carmen stood there. She was
dressed neatly and conservatively this time, and her
demeanor was much more down to earth; yet Hank had his
qualms.
  "Well, hi," he said.
  She smiled disarmingly and said, "Hello, Pastor
Busche."
  He stepped aside and motioned for her to come in.
She stepped inside the door in time to see Mary coming
from the kitchen.
  "Hello, Mary," she said.
  "Hello," said Mary. She took an extra
step and gave Carmen a loving embrace. "Are you
all right?"
  "Much better, thank you." She looked at
Hank, and her eyes were full of repentance.
"Pastor, I really owe you an apology for the way
I acted before. It must have been very alarming for you
both."
  Hank hemmed and hawed a little and finally said,
"Well, we certainly were concerned for your welfare."
  Mary moved toward the living room and said,
"Won't you have a seat? Can I bring you anything?"
  "Thankyou, no," said Carmen, sitting down on
the sofa. "I won't be staying long."
  Hank sat in a chair opposite the sofa and
looked at Carmen, praying a mile a minute.
Yes, she looked different, like she'd gotten a
lot of loose ends finally tied together in her life,
and yet... Hank had seen a lot in the last few
days, and he had the distinct impression that he was
seeing more of the same thing this very moment. There was something
about her eyes...
  Sandy backed up a little and narrowed her eyes at
Marshall like a wild bull about to charge. "You get
out of my way!"
  Marshall remained in the bedroom door, blocking
it with his body. "I don't want a big fight,
Sandy. I won't stand in your way forever.
I just want you to think for a moment, okay? Can you just
calm down and give me an audience just one last
time? Huh?"
  She stood there rigidly, breathing heavily through
her nose, her lips shut tightly, her body
crouched a little. It was simply unreal!
  Marshall tried to calm her down with his voice as
if approaching a wild horse. "I'll let you go
anywhere you want. It's your life. But we don't
dare part without saying what needs to be said. I love
you, you know." She didn't respond to that. "I
really do love you. Do you-do you believe that at
all?"
  "You-you don't know the meaning of the word."
  "Yeah... yeah, I can understand that. I haven't
done very well these past years. But listen, we can
put it back together. Why let this thing go in the shape
it's in when we could heal it?"
  She looked him over again, observed how he was still
standing in the doorway, and said, "Daddy, all I
want right now is to get out of here."
  "In a minute, in a minute." Marshall tried
to speak slowly, carefully, gently. "Sandy... I
don't know if I can explain it to you very clearly, but
remember what you said yourself about the town that
one Saturday, how you thought-what was it? Aliens were
taking over the town? Do you remember that?"
  She didn't answer, but she seemed to be
listening.
  "You don't know how right you were, how true that
theory really was. There are people in this town, Sandy,
right now, that want to take the whole town over, and they
also want to destroy anyone who gets in their way.
Sandy, I'm someone who got in their way."
  Sandy began to shake her head incredulously. She
wasn't buying it.
  "Listen to me, Sandy, just listen! Now... I
run the paper, see, and I know what they're up
to, and they know that I know, so they're just doing what
they can to destroy me, take away my house, the
newspaper, undermine my family!" He looked at
her in earnest, but had no idea if any of this was
getting through. "All that's happening to us ... it's
what they want! They want this family to fall
apart!"
  "You're crazy!" she finally said. "You're a
maniac! Get out of the way!"
  "Sandy, listen to me. They've even been using you
against me. Did you know those cops in town are trying
to find anything they can to put me away?
They're trying to pin a murder rap on me, and it
even sounds like they're accusing me of abusing you!
That's how terrible this whole thing is. You have to understand"
  "But you did it!" Sandy cried. "You know you did
it."
  Marshall was stunned. All he could do was stare at
her. She had to be crazy. "Did what, Sandy?"
  She actually broke down and tears came to her
eyes as she said, "You raped me. You raped me!"
  Carmen seemed to be having a very difficult time
getting around to whatever she had come to tell them.
"I-I just don't know how to begin ... it's just so
difficult."
  Hank reassured her, "Oh, you're among
friends."
  Carmen looked at Mary sitting at the other end
of the sofa, and then at Hank, still sitting opposite
her. "Hank, I just can't live with it anymore."
  Hank said, "Then why don't you just give it over
to Jesus? He's the Healer, you know. He can take
away your regrets and your sorrows, believe me."
  She looked at him and only shook her head
incredulously. "Hank, I am not here to play
games. It's time we were truthful and cleared the air
once and for all. We're just not being fair
to Mary."
  Hank didn't know what she was talking about, so
he just leaned forward and nodded, his way of telling her
he was listening.
  She continued, "Well, I guess I'll just have
to say it and get it out. I'm sorry, Hank."
She turned to Mary, her eyes filling with tears, and
said, "Mary, for the last several months... ever since
our first counseling appointment... Hank and I have
been seeing each other on a regular basis."
  Mary asked, "What do you mean by that?"
  Carmen turned to Hank and implored him,
"Hank, don't you think you should be the one to tell
her?"
  "Tell her what?" Hank asked.
  Carmen looked at Mary, took her hand, and said,
"Mary, Hank and I have been having an affair."
  Mary looked startled, but not very stunned. She did
pull her hand away from Carmen's. Then she looked
at Hank.
  "What do you think?" she asked him.
  Hank took another good look at Carmen and then
nodded to Mary. Mary turned directly toward
Carmen, and Hank got up out of his chair. They
both looked intently at Carmen, and she
began to look away from their eyes.
  "It's true!" she insisted. "Tell her,
Hank. Please tell her."
  "Spirit," said Hank firmly, "I command you in the
name of Jesus to be silent and come out of her!"
  There were fifteen of them, packed into Carmen's
body like crawling, superimposed maggots, boiling,
writhing, a tangle of hideous arms, legs,
talons, and heads. They began to squirm. Carmen
began to squirm. They moaned and cried out, and so
did Carmen, her eyes turning glassy and staring
blankly.
  Outside the room, Krioni and Triskal
watched from a distance.
  Triskal fumed, "Orders, orders, orders!"
  Krioni reminded him, "Tal knows what he's
doing."
  Triskal pointed toward the living room and
cried, "Hank's playing with a bomb in there. You
see those demons? They'll tear him apart!"
  "We have to stay out of it," Krioni said. "We can
protect Hank's and Mary's lives, but we cannot
keep the demons from doing whatever they might do..."
Krioni was having trouble with it himself.
  Sandy got louder and louder. Marshall
felt that any moment he would lose control of her
altogether.
  "You... you let me out of here or you're going to be
in big trouble!" she nearly screamed.
  Marshall could only stand there in total dismay and
horror. "Sandy, it's me, Marshall Hogan,
your father. Think, Sandy! You know I never touched you,
I never molested you. I only loved you and cared for
you. You're my daughter, my only daughter."
  "You did it to me!" she cried hysterically.
  "When, Sandy?" he demanded. "When did I ever
touch you wrongly?"
  "It was something my mind had blocked out for years,
but Professor Langstrat brought it out!"
  "Langstrat!"
  "She put me under hypnosis, and I saw it like
it was yesterday. You did it, and I hate you!"
  "You never remembered it because it never happened.
Think, Sandy!"
  "I hate you! You did it to me!"
  Nathan and Armoth, from outside the house, could
see the hideous deceiving spirit clinging to Sandy's back,
its talons deep in her skull.
  Alongside them was Tal. He had just given them
their special orders.
  "Captain," said Armoth, "we don't know what
that thing might do."
  "Preserve their lives," said Tal, "but
Hogan must fall. As for Sandy, see to it that a
special detachment follows her at a distance.
They'll be able to move when the time is right."
  Just then, with a very low, stealthy trajectory,
Signa floated in for a landing.
  "Captain," he reported, "Kevin Weed is
dead. It worked."
  Tal gave Signa a strange, knowing look and
smile. "Excellent," he said.
  The fifteen spirits in Carmen were foaming and frothing,
wailing and hissing. Hank held Carmen down
gently, one hand on her right hand, one hand on her
left shoulder. Mary stood beside him, clinging to him a
little out of her own timidity. Carmen moaned and
twisted, her eyes glaring at Hank. "Let us go,
praying man!" Carmen's voice warned, and the
sulfurous odor coming from deep inside her was strong
and nauseating.
  "Carmen, do you want to be delivered?" Hank
asked.
  "She can't hear you," said the spirits. "Let us
alone! She belongs to us!"
  "Be silent and come out of her!"
  "No!" Carmen screamed, and Mary was almost sure
she saw a puff of yellow vapor from Carmen's
throat.
  "Come out in the name of Jesus!" said Hank.
  The bomb exploded. Hank was thrown backward.
Mary leaped aside. Carmen was on top of Hank,
clawing, biting, mauling. Her teeth clamped onto
his right arm. He pushed and pounded with his left.
  "Demon, let go!" he ordered.
  The jaws opened. Hank gave all the shove he
had and Carmen's body staggered backward, twitching
and shrieking. Her hands found a chair. Instantly it
shot upward and came down with a crash, but Hank
scurried out of the way. He dove for Carmen and
tackled her as she was grabbing another chair. Her
leg came up like a catapult and flung him across
" the room where he thudded into the wall. Her fist was
right behind him. He dodged it. It rammed a hole in
the plaster. He was looking into the eyes of a beast; he
smelled the sulfurous breath hissing through the bared
teeth. He jerked himself away. Sharp fingernails
snagged and tore at his shirt. Some dug into his
flesh. He could hear Mary screaming, "Stop it,
spirit! In Jesus" name, stop it!"
  Carmen doubled over and clapped her hands over her
ears. She staggered and screamed.
  "Be silent, demon, and come out of her!" Hank
ordered, trying to keep his distance.
  "I won't! I won't!" Carmen screamed, and
her body careened toward the front door. She hit
it full force. The center of the door caved in with a
loud crack. Hank ran to the door and pulled it
open, and Carmen flew out the door and down the
street. As Hank and Mary watched her go, all
they could do was hope the neighbors wouldn't see.
  "Sandy," said Marshall, "this isn't you. I know
it isn't you."
  She said nothing, but like the strike of a
rattlesnake she pounced at him, trying to get through
the door. He held his hands up to protect his
face from her flying fists.
  "Okay, okay!" he told her, stepping
aside. "You can go. Just remember, I love you."
  She grabbed her suitcase and a shopping bag and
bolted for the front door. He followed her down the
hall toward the living room.
  He came around the corner. He looked to see
her, but all he saw was the lamp that smacked into his
skull. He heard and felt the blow in every
part of his body. The lamp fell to the floor with a
crash. Now he was on one knee, slumped against the
couch. His hand went to his head. He looked up and
saw the front door still standing open. He was bleeding.
  His head was so light he was afraid to try to stand
up. His strength was gone anyway. Nuts, now
there's blood on the rug. What will Kate say?
  "Marshall!" came a voice above him. A hand
rested on his shoulder. It was a woman. Kate?
Sandy? No, Bernice, squinting at him through
blackened eyes. "Marshall, what happened? Are
you-are you still there?"
  "Help me clean up this mess," was all he could
say.
  She scurried into the kitchen and found some paper
towels. She brought them back and pressed a wad of
them against his head. He winced at the pain.
  She asked him, "Can you get up?"
  "I don't want to get up!" he answered
crossly.
  "Okay, okay. I just saw Sandy drive off.
Was this her doing?"
  "Yeah, she pitched that lamp at me..."
  "It must have been something you said. Here, hold still."
  "She's not herself at all, she's gone
crazy."
  "Where's Kate?"
  "She's left me."
  Bernice settled to the floor, her bruised
face the picture of shock, dismay, and exhaustion.
Neither of them said anything for a few moments. They just
stared at each other like two shot-up soldiers in a
foxhole.
  "Man, you're a mess!" Marshall finally
observed.
  "At least the swelling's gone down. Don't I
look foxy?"
  "More like a raccoon. I thought you were supposed to be
resting at home. What are you doing here, anyway?"
  "I just got back from Baker. And I have nothing but
bad news from there too."
  He anticipated it. "Weed?"
  "He's dead. The truck he was driving went off
the Judd River Bridge and into that big canyon.
We were supposed to have met each other. He'd just
gotten a call from Susan Jacobson, and it
sounded pretty important."
  Marshall's head fell back against the couch, and
he closed his eyes. "Aw, great... just great!"
He wanted to die.
  "He called me this afternoon, and we set up the
appointment. I imagine either my phone or his was
bugged. That accident was set up, I'm sure of it.
I got out of there fast!"
  Marshall took the wad from his head and looked at
the blood on it. He placed it back over the
gash.
  "We're going down, Bernie," he said, and went
on to tell her about his whole afternoon, his meeting with
Brummel and Brummel's buddies, his loss of the
house, his loss of the paper, his loss of Kate, of
Sandy, of everything. "And did you know that I've made
it a habit to molest my daughter besides having an
affair with my reporter?"
  "They're cutting you up into little pieces, aren't
they?" she said very quietly, her throat constricted with
fear. "What can we do?"
  "We can get the heck out of here, that's what we can
do!"
  "You're going to give up?"
  Marshall only let his head sink downward. He
was tired. "Let somebody else fight this war. We
were warned, Bernie, and we didn't listen. They
got me. They got all our records, any proof
we ever had. Harmel blew his brains out.
Strachan's getting as far away from it as he can.
They took out Weed. Right now I think I'm just
barely alive and that's all I have left."
  "What about Susan Jacobson?"
  It took some extra effort and willpower to make
himself think about it. "I wonder if she even exists,
and if so, if she's alive."
  "Kevin said she had the goods and she was getting
ready to get out of wherever she was. That sounds to me like
a defection, and if she has the evidence we need
to seal this thing up"
  "They took care of that, Bernie. Remember?
Weed was our last contact with her."
  "Want to toy with a theory?"
  "No."
  "If Kevin's phone was bugged, they know what
Weed and Susan talked about. They heard it all."
  "Naturally, and Susan's as good as dead too."
  "We don't know that. Maybe she managed to get
away. Maybe she was going to meet Kevin
someplace."
  "Ehhh..." Marshall passively listened.
  "What I'm toying with is that somewhere there must be a
recording in somebody's hands of that phone call."
  "Yeah, I suppose there is."
Marshall felt half-dead, but the half of him that was
still alive was thinking. "But where would it be? This is a
big country, Bernie."
  "Well... like I said, it's a theory to toy with.
It's all we have left, really."
  "Which sure isn't much."
  "I'm dying to know what Susan had to say"
  "Please don't use that word "dying.""
  "Well, think for a minute, Marshall. Think of
all the people who seem to have responded to the alleged
bug. There were the Windsor cops who knew they could
find you at Strachan's after you told me you'd be
there"
  "It's not likely they'd have the recording
equipment. They're too far away."
  "So somebody who did have the recording equipment
must have tipped them off."
  Marshall got an idea, and a little bit of color
returned to his face. "I'm wondering about
Brummel."
  Bernice's eyes brightened. "Sure! Like I
said, he and the cops in Windsor are in cahoots
all the time."
  "He fired Sara, you know. She wasn't there
today. She'd been replaced." New ideas
began to form in Marshall's mind. "Yeah ... she
talked to me on the phone and ratted on Brummel
a little. She said she'd help me out if I could
help her out... we agreed to deal... and Brummel
fired her! He must have heard that conversation too."
Then it hit him. "Yeah! Sara! Those filing
cabinets! Brummel's filing cabinets!"
  "Yeah, you're cooking, Marshall, just keep
going!"
  "He had his filing cabinets moved out into Sara's
reception area to make room for some new office
equipment. I saw it there, sitting right in his
office, and there was a wire coming out of the wall... he
said it was for the coffeemaker. But I didn't see
any coffeemaker!"
  "I think you might have it there!"
  "It was telephone wire, not appliance cord."
Excitement made his head hurt, but he said
anyway, "Bernice, it was telephone wire."
  "If we could find out for sure that the recording
equipment is there in his office ... if we could find
any tapes of phone conversations ... well, that
might be enough to bring some kind of charges at least:
illegal wiretapping"
  "Murder."
  That was a chilling thought.
  "We need Sara," Marshall added. "If she's
on our side, now's when she can prove it."
  "Whatever you do, don't call her. I know where
she lives."
  "Help me up."
  "You help me up!"

  Hank and Mary were still shaking as he took a
careful look at the front door.
  He shook his head and whistled his astonishment.
"She cracked the doorjamb. Look at this! The
stop is moved out about an inch."
  "Well, how about changing your shirt?" Mary
asked, and Hank remembered that half his shirt was
gone.
  "Here's another one for the rag box," he said,
slipping the shirt off. Then he winced a little.
"Oooo!"
  "What's wrong?"
  As the shirt came off Hank raised his arm to have
a look, and Mary gasped. Carmen's teeth had
made some very impressive welts. The skin was
broken in some places.
  "We'd better put some peroxide on
those," said Mary, hurrying into the bathroom. "Come
here!"
  Hank went into the bathroom, still carrying the torn
shirt. He held his arm out over the sink, and Mary
started dabbing the wounds.
  She was astonished. "Goodness! Hank, she bit you
in four different places. Look at this." "Boy,
I hope she's had all her shots."
  "I knew that woman was up to no good the first time
I saw her."
  The doorbell rang. Hank and Mary looked
at each other. What now?
  "Better go answer it," said Hank.
  She went out into the living room while Hank
finished cleaning his arm.
  "Hank!" Mary called. "I think you'd better
come out here!"
  Hank went out into the living room, still carrying the
torn shirt in his hand and sporting the bite marks on
his arm.
  Two policemen stood at the door, an older,
taller one and a younger, new-on-the-force type.
Yeah, the neighbors must have thought something terrible was
happening in here. Come to think of it, they were right.
  "Hi there," said Hank.
  "Hank Busche?" the older one asked.
  "Yeah," he answered. "This is Mary, my
wife. You must have received a call from the neighbors,
right?"
  The big officer was looking at Hank's arm.
"What happened to your arm?"
  "Well..." Hank wasn't sure how
to answer. Even the truth would sound like a pretty
tall tale.
  No matter. He didn't have time. The younger
officer grabbed Hank's shirt right out of his hand and
unfolded it, holding it up in both hands. The older
one happened to have the rest of Hank's shirt
discreetly hidden behind his back. Now he produced
the torn piece and made a quick comparison of the
materials.
  The older one nodded to the younger one, and the younger one
got out a pair of handcuffs and rather forcefully twisted
Hank around. Mary's mouth dropped open and she
squealed, "What on earth are you doing?"
  The older one started rattling off the prisoner's
liturgy. "Mr. Busche, we are placing you under
arrest. It's my duty to advise you of your rights.
You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and
will be used against you ..."
  Hank had an idea, but he asked anyway,
"Uh ... mind telling me what the charges are?"
  "You oughta know," snapped the older one.
  "Suspected rape," said the younger.
  "What?" Mary exclaimed.
  The younger one held up his hand as a warning. "Just
stay out of this, lady."
  "You're making a mistake!" she pleaded.
  The two officers led Hank down the front
walk. It happened so fast that Mary hardly knew
what to do. She ran after them, pleading, trying
to reason with them.
  "This is crazy! I don't believe this!" she
said.
  The younger one just told her, "You'll have to stay out
of the way or face charges of obstructing justice."
  "Justice!" she cried. "You call this justice?
Hank, what should I do?"
  "Make some calls," Hank answered.
  "I'm going with you!"
  "We can't allow you in the squad car, ma'am,"
said the older one.
  "Make some calls, Mary," Hank repeated.
  They strong-armed him into the car and closed the door.
The two officers got in and away they
went, down the street, around the corner and out of
sight, and Mary remained there on the curb all
by herself, without her husband, just like that.
  Tal and his warriors and couriers knew where
to look and they knew what to listen for; so they heard the
telephones ringing all over town, they saw the many people
roused from their televisions or from their sleep by the
phone calls. The entire Remnant was buzzing with the
news of Hank's arrest. The praying began.
  "Busche has fallen," said Tal. "Only
Hogan remains." He turned to Chimon and
Mota. "Does Sara have the keys?"
  Chimon answered, "She had several keys
copied before she left her job at the police
station."
  Mota looked across the town as he said, "They should
be meeting with her right about now."
  Sara, Bernice, and Marshall conferred in a
tight, hushed little huddle in the middle of Sara's
small kitchen. Except for the light from one lamp out
in the dining room, there were no other lights on in the
house. Sara was still up, fully dressed. She was
packing to move.
  "I'll take whatever I can squeeze into my
car, but I'm not staying around past tomorrow,
especially after tonight," she said in a near whisper.
  "How are you set for money?" Marshall asked.
  "I've enough gas money to get out of the state, and after
that I don't know. Brummel didn't give me
any severance pay."
  "Just booted you right out?"
  "He didn't say so, but I've no doubt he
overheard that conversation I had with you. I didn't
survive very long after that."
  Marshall handed her a hundred dollars. "I'd
give you more if I had it."
  "That's all right. I'd say we have a deal."
Sara passed a set of keys to him. "Now listen
carefully. This one here is for the main door, but first you
have to deactivate the burglar alarm. That's this little
key here. The box is around the back, just above the
garbage cans. You just open the cover and flip the
switch off. This key here, with the round head, is
to Brummel's office. I don't know if that
equipment is locked up or not, but I don't have
any key for it. You'll just have to take the risk. The
night dispatcher is still posted at the fire station, so
there shouldn't be anyone else there."
  "What do you think of our theory?" Bernice
asked.
  "I know Brummel's very protective of that new
equipment in there. Ever since he had it installed,
I've not been allowed in his office and he keeps the
door closed. It's the first place I'd look."
  "We'd better go," Marshall said to Bernice.
  Bernice gave Sara a hug. "Good luck."
  "Good luck yourselves," Sara replied. "Be very
quiet going out."
  They sneaked away in the darkness.
  Later that night Marshall picked up Bernice
at her apartment and they rode together downtown.
  Marshall found a good spot to hide the Buick just
a few blocks from Courthouse Square, a nice
vacant lot with lots of overgrown shrubs and
trees. He slipped the big car down into the
jungle and turned off the engine. For a moment he and
Bernice just sat there wondering what the next move
should be. They thought they were ready. They had even
changed into dark clothes, and they had brought
flashlights and rubber gloves.
  "Sheesh!" said Marshall. "The last time I did
something like this was when we kids stole the neighbor's
corn."
  "How did that turn out?"
  "We got caught, and boy, did we
get it!"
  "What time does your watch say?"
  Marshall checked his watch with his flashlight.
"1:25."
  Bernice was clearly nervous. "I wonder if
real burglars work this way. I feel like I'm in
some kind of hokey movie."
  "How about some charcoal for your face?"
  "It's black enough now, thank you."
  They both sat there for a few more moments, trying
to build up the nerve to proceed.
  Bernice finally said, "Well, are we going to do
it or aren't we?"
  "Die all, die merrily," Marshall
replied, opening his door.
  They tiptoed up an alley and through a few yards
until they reached the back of the courthousestpolice
station. Fortunately, the town hadn't gotten the
funds together yet for any floodlights over the
parking lot, so the darkness was pretty concealing.
  Bernice couldn't help feeling petrified;
only sheer determination kept her carrying on.
Marshall was nervous, but for some reason he felt an
odd exhilaration in doing something so sneaky and dirty
against these enemies. As soon as they had
crossed the parking lot they ducked into a nearby
shadow and stood tightly against the wall. It was so
nice and dark there that Bernice didn't want
to leave.
  About twenty feet down the wall were the garbage
cans, and above them a small gray panel.
Marshall got there quickly, found the right key, opened
the little door, and found the switch. He signaled
to Bernice, and she followed him. They walked quickly
around to the front of the building, and now they were in the
open, facing the large parking area between the police
station and the town hall. Marshall had the key ready,
and they were able to get into the building without delay.
Marshall quickly closed the door behind them.
  They rested just a minute and listened. The place was
deserted and dead quiet. They heard no sirens or
alarms going off. Marshall found the next key and
went to Brummel's office door. So far Sara
had predicted right on the money. Brummel's
door opened too. They both ducked inside.
  And there sat the cabinetry housing the mysterious
equipment-if it was truly there. Marshall clicked
on his flashlight and kept the beam subdued under his
hand so that it would not play on the walls or shine out the
window. Then he swung open the lower left
cabinet door. Inside he found some shelves on
roller tracks. He pulled the upper one out...
  And there sat a recording machine with a good supply
of tape. "Eureka!" Bernice whispered.
  "Must be signal activated... switches on
automatically whenever an input comes in."
  Bernice clicked on her flashlight and checked
the other door on the lower right. Here she found some
files and folders.
  "It looks like a catalog!" she said.
"Look-names, dates, conversations, and what tape
they're on."
  "That handwriting looks familiar."
  They were both astounded at how many names were on the
list, how many people were being listened in on.
  "Even Network people," Marshall observed. Then
he pointed to a listing near the bottom of one page.
"There we are."
  He was right. The Clarion phone was listed, the
conversation noted as being between Marshall and Ted
Harmel, recorded on tape 5-A.
  "Who in the world has the time to list all this stuff?"
Bernice wondered.
  Marshall only shook his head. Then he asked,
"When was that conversation between Susan and
Weed?"
  Bernice thought for a moment. "We'll just have to check
all of today, yesterday... who knows? Weed didn't
say exactly."
  "Maybe that call came in today. There's no
record of that here."
  "It must be on the tape that's on the machine now.
Those calls haven't been logged yet."
  Marshall wound the tape back, put the machine
into play, flipped on the speaker switch, and set the
volume down low.
  Conversations began to unfold from the recording, a
lot of everyday, innocuous stuff. Brummel's
voice was in a lot of them, talking business.
Marshall ran the tape ahead on Fast Forward a
few times, skipping over several conversations.
Suddenly he recognized a voice. His own.
  "You already ran once, remember?" came his
recorded voice. "As long as you're alive,
Eldon, you're going to be living with this and they're
going to know it..."
  "Eldon Strachan and I," he told
Bernice.
  It was scary hearing his very words coming out of the machine,
words that could tell the Network anything and
everything.
  Marshall skipped forward some more.
  "Man, this whole thing is crazy," came a
voice.
  Bernice brightened. "That's him! That's Weed!"
  Marshall wound the tape back and flipped it
to Play again. There was a gap, then the abrupt start
of a conversation.
  "Yeah, hello?" said Weed.
  "Kevin, this is Susan."
  Bernice and Marshall listened intently.
  Weed replied, "Yeah, I'm listening, man.
What can I do?"
  Susan's voice was tense and her words hurried.
"Kevin, I'm getting out, one way or another, and
I'm doing it tonight. Can you meet me at The
Evergreen tomorrow night?"
  "Yeah... yeah."
  "See if you can bring Bernice Krueger with you.
I have materials to show her, everything she needs
to know."
  "Man, this whole thing is crazy. You ought to see
my place. Somebody came in here and tore it all
up. You be careful!"
  "We're all in great danger, Kevin.
Kaseph's moving to Ashton to take over everything.
But I can't talk now. Meet me at The
Evergreen at 8. I'll try to get there somehow.
If not I'll call you."
  "Okay, okay."
  "I have to go. Good-bye, and thanks."
  Click. The conversation was over.
  "Yeah," said Bernice, "he called to tell me
about this."
  "It wasn't much," said Marshall, "but it was
enough. Now the only question is, did she manage
to get away?"
  A key rattled in the front door. Bernice
and Marshall never moved so fast. She replaced
all the files, and Marshall slid the machine back
inside the cabinet. They closed the cabinet
doors.
  The front door opened. The lobby lights came
on.
  They ducked behind Brummel's big desk.
Bernice's eyes were full of one question. What do we
do now? Marshall gestured to her to keep cool, then
he made fists to show her they might have to fight their
way out.
  Another key worked at Brummel's
office door, and then it opened. Suddenly the room
was flooded with light. They heard someone going to the
cabinets, opening the doors, sliding out the machine.
Marshall figured the person's back had to be
toward them. He raised his head to take a quick
peek.
  It was Carmen. She was winding the tape back to the
beginning and preparing to make more entries in the
record.
  Bernice took a look also, and both of them
felt the same rage and indignation.
  "Don't you ever sleep?" Marshall asked
Carmen right out loud. That startled Bernice and she
jumped a little. It startled Carmen and she jumped a
lot, dropped her papers, and gave a short little
scream. She spun around.
  "What!" she gasped. "What are you doing here?"
  Marshall and Bernice both stood up. From their
battered and dark-clothed appearance, this looked like
anything but a nonchalant cordial visit.
  "I might ask you the same thing," Marshall said.
"Do you have any idea what time it is?"
  Carmen looked them both over, and she was
speechless.
  Marshall could certainly think of some things
to say. "You're a spy, aren't you? You were a spy in
our office, you wiretapped our phones, and now
you've run off with all our investigation materials."
  "I don't know"
  "comwhat I'm talking about. Right! So I
suppose you do this every night too, go over all the
recorded phone conversations and log them, listen for
anything the big boys might want to know."
  "I wasn't"
  "And what about all the Clarion's business
records? Let's take care of that first."
  She suddenly broke down crying, saying,
"Ohhh ... you don't understand ..." She went out
into the reception area.
  Marshall was right on her heels, not about to let her
out of his sight. He took her by the arm and spun her
around.
  "Easy, girl! We have some real business
to take care of here."
  "Ooohhh!" Carmen wailed, and then she threw
her arms around Marshall as if she were a frightened child and
sobbed into his chest. "I thought you were some burglar...
I'm glad it was you. I need help, Marshall!"
  "And we want answers," Marshall snapped
back, unaffected by her tears. He sat
her down in Sara's old chair. "Have a seat and
save your tears for some soap opera."
  She looked up at both of them, her mascara
running down her cheeks. "Don't you understand?
Don't you have any heart? I came here for help!
I've just had a terrible experience!" She built
up the strength to say it, and then burst out in a fit of
tears, "I've been raped!"
  She collapsed to the floor, sobbing
uncontrollably.
  Marshall looked at Bernice, and Bernice
looked at Marshall.
  "Yeah," said Marshall unsympathetically, "there
seems to be a lot of that going around these days,
especially among the people your bosses want out of the
way. So who was it this time?"
  All she did was lie there on the floor and cry.
  Bernice had something boiling inside her. "How do
you like my looks tonight, Carmen? I think it's
interesting that you were the only one who knew I'd be
going out to visit Kevin Weed. Did you tip off the
thug who beat me up?"
  She still lay there on the floor crying, not saying a
word.
  Marshall went into Brummel's office
and returned with some of the files, including the notes
Carmen had written that very night. "It's all in your
handwriting, Carmen, my dear. You've been nothing but
a spy from the very beginning. Am I right or am I
right?"
  She kept crying. Marshall took hold of her,
lifting her from the floor. "C'mon, get up!"
  It was just as he saw her hand come off the silent
alarm button in the floor that the front door
burst open and he heard a voice holler,
"Freeze! Police!"
  Carmen was no longer crying. As a matter of
fact, she was smirking. Marshall put his hands up,
and so did Bernice. Carmen ran behind the two
uniformed police who had just come in. Their guns were
trained right on the two burglars.
  "Friends of yours?" Marshall asked Carmen.
  She only smiled an evil smile.
  Just then Alf Brummel himself came into the
building, fresh out of bed and in his bathrobe.
  "What's going on here?" he asked, and then he
saw Marshall. "What... his Well, well, who
do we have here?" Then he actually chuckled a bit.
He walked up to Marshall, shaking his head and showing
those big teeth. "I don't believe this!
I just can't believe it!" He looked at
Bernice. "Bernice Krueger! Is that you?"
  Bernice had nothing to say, and Brummel was too
far away to spit on.
  Oh no. Now they had a full house. Juleen
Langstrat, also in a bathrobe, walked in the
door! She sidled up to Brummel, and the two of
them stood there looking proudly at Marshall and
Bernice, as if they were trophies.
  "Sorry for disturbing all of you like this," said
Marshall.
  Langstrat smiled lusciously and said, "I
wouldn't have missed this for the world."
  Brummel kept on grinning with those big teeth and
told the policemen, "Read them their rights and take
them into custody."
  The opportunity was too good to pass up. There
stood the two cops trying to do their job, and there were
Brummel and Langstrat, standing just a little in front
of them. The situation was perfect, and it had been
building up inside Marshall for a long time.
Instantly, with all his weight, he dove
into Brummel's stomach and toppled Brummel and
Langstrat backward into the two cops. "Run,
Bernie, run!" he shouted. She ran.
She didn't stop to consider if she had the courage
or the will or even the speed. She just ran for all she
was worth, down the long hallway, past all the
office doors, straight for the exit at the end. The
door had a crash bar. She crashed into it, it
opened, and she stumbled out into the cool night air.
  Marshall was in the middle of a tangle of arms,
hands, bodies, and shouts, hanging on to as many of them
as he could. He was almost enjoying it, and he didn't
try that hard to get away. He wanted to keep them
all busy.
  One cop recovered and ran after Bernice,
bursting out through that back door. He was close enough on
her trail to pick up the sound of footsteps heading
up the back alley, and away he went in hot
pursuit.
  Here was Bernice's chance to find out what kind of
shape she was in, cracked rib and all. She chugged
down the alley, taking long strides, making her
way through the blurry dark; she longed for her
glasses, or at least a little more light. She heard
the cop hollering at her to stop. Any moment he would
fire that warning shot. She made a sharp left through
a yard and a dog started barking. There was a space of
light between two low-hanging fruit trees.
She headed for that and encountered a fence. Two garbage
cans helped her over with a clatter that told the cop
where she was.
  Bernice stomped through a freshly tilled garden,
flattening several unseen bean poles. She ran
onto a lawn, turned back toward the alley,
knocked over some more cans, clambered over a fence,
and kept running. The cop seemed to be fading back
a little.
  She was getting desperately tired and could only
hope that he was, too. She couldn't keep this up
much longer. Every panting breath brought a sharp pain from
that cracked rib. She couldn't breathe. She whipped
around one house and doubled back through a few more yards,
raising a tumult of barking from tattletale dogs,
then crossed a street, and dove into some woods. The
branches lashed at her and entangled her, but she
plowed through them until she reached another fence
bordering a service station. She ran along the fence,
found an old dumpster just on the other side, went just
a little further-and then her eyes were attracted by a
fragment of street light filtering through the leaves and
illuminating a pile of rubbish some litterbug had
dumped. She grabbed the first thing her hand found, an
old bottle, then dropped to the ground,
trying not to breathe too loudly, trying not to cry from the
pain.
  The cop was moving rather slowly through the woods,
groping his way along in the dark, snapping twigs
under his feet, huffing and puffing. She lay there
silently, waiting for him to pause to listen. Finally
he did stop and fall silent. He was listening.
She pitched the bottle over the fence. It bounced
off the top of the dumpster and shattered on the pavement
behind the service station. The cop came crashing through the
woods and up to the fence. He climbed over and stood
still behind the station.
  Bernice could not see him from where she was, but she
listened very intently. So did he. Then she heard
him walk slowly along the back of the station and stop.
A moment passed, and then he walked away at a
normal pace. He had lost her.
  Bernice remained where she was, trying to calm the
pounding of her heart and the rushing of blood in her ears,
trying to calm her nerves and her panic, and wishing the
pain would go away. All she wanted to do was gasp
deep breaths of air; she couldn't seem to get
enough.
  Oh, Marshall, Marshall, what are they doing
to you?

  Marshall was facedown on the floor, his
pockets emptied, his hands cuffed behind him. He was
being very cooperative with the cop who stood over him with
his gun drawn. Carmen, Brummel, and
Langstrat were in Brummel's office going over the
tape that Marshall and Bernice had listened to.
  "Yes," said Carmen, "here's my notation of the
tape counter. I thought the tape hadn't run very far
for such a long period of surveillance. The
recordings continue after this stopping point." They wound
the tape back."
  Brummel stepped out of his office and stood over
Marshall. "So what did you and Bernice listen
to?"
  "Big band jazz, I think," Marshall
answered. That response brought Brummel's heel
down on Marshall's neck. "Aaauu!"
  Brummel had another question. "So who gave you the
keys to this place? Did Sara?"
  "Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no
lies."
  Brummel muttered, "I'll have to put out an
APB on her too!"
  "Don't bother," Langstrat said from the
office. "She's gone now and she's nothing. Don't
bring trouble back once you're rid of it. Just
concentrate on Krueger."
  Brummel told the cop who was guarding
Marshall, "Ed, go out and see if you can help
John. Krueger's the one we really need to round
up."
  But just then John came back in through the door at
the end of the hall, and he did not have Bernice in tow.
  "Well?" Brummel demanded.
  John only gave a timid shrug. "She ran
like a scared rabbit, and it's dark out there!"
  "Aw, terrific!" Brummel moaned.
  Marshall thought it really was terrific.
  Langstrat's voice came from the office.
"Alf, come listen to this."
  Brummel went into his office, and Marshall could
hear the conversation between Weed and Susan being
replayed.
  Langstrat said, "So they've heard the conversation.
We picked it up from Susan's end today." The
dialogue between Susan and Weed came to an end.
"Unless I miss my guess, Krueger could very
well be headed for The Evergreen Tavern in Baker
to meet Susan" She broke
into laughter.
  "I'll have it staked out, then," said Brummel.
  "Get a stakeout on her apartment also. She'll
want to get to her car."
  "Good idea."
  Brummel and Langstrat came out of the office and
stood over Marshall like vultures over a
carcass.
  "Marshall," Brummel gloated, "you're in for
quite a downhill slide, I'm afraid. I've enough
against you to put you away for good. You should have gotten out
of this thing while you had the chance."
  Marshall looked up at that silly grinning face
and said, "To use a cliche, 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 the 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 a 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."
  Rafar held Lucius high as he called
to another demon, "Courier, take word to the
Strongman that all is ready and that he may come at
his will. The obstacles are removed, Rafar has
completed his task, and the town of Ashton is ready
to fall into his hands" Rafar dropped Lucius as
he said it-"like a ripe plum."
  Lucius bolted up from the ground and flew away
in a humiliated flurry while the demonic
ranks laughed and laughed.

  Edith Duster had felt a certain stirring in her
spirit before she went to bed that night. So when she was
awakened abruptly by two luminous beings in her
bedroom she was not entirely surprised, even though
awestruck.
  "Glory to God!" she exclaimed, her eyes
wide, her face enraptured.
  The two tall men had very kind and compassionate
faces, but their expressions were serious. One was
tall and blond, the other dark-haired and youthful.
Both towered as high as the ceiling, and the glow from their
white tunics filled the room. Each had a
magnificent golden scabbard and belt,
and the handles of their swords were purest gold, with
fiery jewels.
  "Edith Duster," said the big blond one in a
deep, resonant voice, "we are going
into battle for the town of Ashton. The victory
rests on the prayers of the saints of God. As you
fear the Lord, pray, and call others to prayer.
Pray that the enemy will be vanquished and the righteous
delivered."
  Then the dark-haired one spoke. "Your pastor,
Henry Busche, has fallen prisoner. He will be
delivered through your prayers. Call Mary, his
wife. Be a comfort to her."
  Suddenly they were gone, and the room was dark once
again. Edith knew somehow that she had seen them before,
perhaps in dreams, perhaps as unimpressive, normal
people here and there. And she knew the importance of their
request.
  She rose and grabbed her pillow, placed it on
the floor, and then knelt upon it there beside the bed. She
wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry, she wanted
to sing; there was a burden and a power deep within her, and
she clasped her shaking hands together there upon the bed,
bowed her head, and began to pray. The words flowed forth
from her deepest soul, an outcry on
behalf of God's people and God's righteousness, a
plea for power and victory in the name of Jesus, a
binding of the evil forces that were trying to take the very
life, the very heart of that community. Names and faces
cascaded before her mind's eye and she interceded for
all of them, pleading before the throne of God for their
safety and salvation. She prayed. She prayed.
She prayed.
  From high above, the town of Ashton was spread out like
an innocent toy village on a patchwork quilt,
a small and unpretentious community still sleeping, but
now awash with the slowly rising flood of predawn
gray and pink that grew over the mountains in the east.
As yet nothing stirred in the town. There were no
lights being switched on; the milk truck was still
parked.
  From somewhere in the skies, beyond the pink-edged clouds,
a solitary, rushing sound began. One angelic
warrior, soaring like a gull, spiraled quickly and
covertly downward, until his form was lost in the
patterns and textures of the streets and buildings
far below. Then another appeared and he too dropped
quietly into the town, disappearing somewhere within it.
  And Edith Duster kept praying.
  Two appeared, their wings swept back,
their heads sharply downward, diving like hawks into the
town. Then came another, gliding along a more
shallow path that would carry him to the far side of town.
Then four, dropping in four different directions.
Then two more, then seven...
  Mary was awakened from fitful sleep on the couch
by the telephone.
  "Hello?" Her eyes brightened immediately. "Oh,
Edith, I'm so glad you called! I've been
trying to reach you, I haven't even gone to bed, I
must have your number written down wrong, or the
phones aren't working..." Then she started crying, and
told Edith all about the events of the previous
night.
  "Well, you just rest and be quiet until I get
there," said Edith. "I've been on my knees all
night and God is moving, yes He is! We'll
get Hank out of there and more besides!"
  Edith grabbed her sweater and her sneakers and was off
to Mary's house. She had never felt younger.
  John Coleman awoke early that morning, so
shaken by a dream he couldn't get back to sleep.
Patricia knew the feeling-the same thing had
happened to her.
  "I saw angels!" John said.
  "I did too," said Patricia.
  "And... and I saw demons. Monsters,
Patty! Hideous things! The angels and the demons
were fighting it out. It was"
  "Terrible."
  "Awesome. Really awesome."
  They called Hank. Mary answered. They got
the story of last night, and they went right over.
  Andy and June Forsythe couldn't sleep all that
night. This morning Andy was crabby, and June just
tried to stay out of his way. Finally, as Andy tried
to eat some breakfast, he was able to talk about it. "It
must be the Lord. I don't know what else it could
be."
  "But why are you so crabby?" June asked as
tenderly as she could.
  "Because I've never felt this way before," Andy said,
and then his voice started to quiver. "I... I just
feel like I have to pray, like ... like something's really
got to be settled and I can't rest until it is."
  "You know," said June, "I really know what you
mean. I don't know if I can explain it, but I
feel like we haven't been alone all night.
Somebody's been here with us, filling us with these
feelings."
  Andy got wide-eyed. "Yeah! That's it! That's
the feeling!" He grabbed her hand with great joy and
relief. "June, honey, I thought I was going
crazy!"
  Just then the phone rang. It was Cecil Cooper.
He had had a very disturbing dream that night, and so had
many others. Something was up. They didn't wait
to gather to pray. They started praying right then and there.
  From north, from south, from east and west, from all
directions, and so very silently, heavenly warriors
continued to drop into the town like snowflakes, walk
into the town like people, sneak into the town like guerrillas,
glide through fields and orchards into the town like bush
pilots. Then they hid themselves and waited.
  Hank woke at about 7; the nightmare had not
ended. He was still in the cell. His new cellmate
continued snoring for another hour until the guard
brought in breakfast. The big man said nothing, but
took the little plate that was handed through the bars. He
didn't look too excited about the burnt toast and
cold eggs. Perhaps this would be the time to break the ice.
  "Good morning," Hank said.
  "Good morning," the big man replied very
half-heartedly.
  "My name is Hank Busche."
  The big man slid his plate out under the door for the
guard to pick up. He hadn't touched the food.
He stood there, looking out through the bars like a caged
animal. He did not respond to Hank's
introduction, nor did he tell Hank his name.
He was obviously hurting; his eyes seemed so
longing, and so vacant.
  All Hank could do was pray for him.
  Step, step, mumble, then step again. All morning
long, through fields of corn, pastures of cows,
thick forests, Bernice trudged along, slowly
making her way north on a meandering route that ran
roughly parallel to Highway 27, somewhere off to her
left. The sound of the vehicles roaring along the
highway helped her get her bearings.
  She was beginning to trip over her own feet, her
thoughts getting sluggish. Row upon row of cornstalks
marched past her, their big green leaves brushing against
her with a steady, almost annoying rhythm. The dirt under
her feet was softly tilled and dusty. It was working
into her shoes. It absorbed the strength from her
strides.
  After crossing the sea of corn, she came to a very
long and very narrow grove of trees, a windbreak
planted between the fields. She went into the
middle of it and immediately found a patch of soft,
grassy ground. She checked her watch: 8:25
A.m. She had to rest. She would get to Baker
somehow... it was the only hope ... she hoped
Marshall was okay... she hoped she wouldn't die
... she was asleep.
  By the time lunch was brought in, Hank and his
cellmate were a little more ready to eat. The sandwiches
weren't that bad and the beef vegetable soup was quite good.
  Before the guard got away Hank asked him,
"Say, are you sure I couldn't have a Bible
somehow?"
  "I told you," the guard said rudely, "I'm
waiting on authorization, and until I get it, no
dice!"
  Suddenly the big silent cellmate burst out,
"Jimmy, you've got a stack of Gideon Bibles
in your desk drawer and you know it! Now give the man
a Bible."
  The guard only sneered at the man. "Hey,
you're on that side of the bars now, Hogan. I'll
run the show out here!"
  The guard left, and the big man tried to shift his
attention to his lunch. He looked up at Hank,
though, and quipped, "Jimmy Dunlop.
He thinks he's a real man."
  "Thanks for trying, anyway."
  The big man heaved a deep sigh and then said,
"Sorry for being rude all morning. I needed time
to heal up from yesterday, I needed time to check you out,
and I guess I needed time to get used to the idea of
being in jail."
  "I can sure identify with that. I've never been
in jail before." Hank tried again. He extended his
hand and said, "Hank Busche."
  This time the man took it and gave him a firm
shake. "Marshall Hogan."
  Then something clicked for both of them. Before they had
even dropped their hands again, they looked at each
other, pointed at each other, and both began to ask,
"Say, aren't you ... ?"
  And then they stared for a moment and didn't say
anything.
  The angels were watching, of course, and brought
Tal word.
  "Good, good," said Tal. "Now we'll just let
those two talk."
  "You're the pastor of that little white church,"
Marshall said.
  "And you're the editor of the paper, the
Clarion," Hank exclaimed.
  "So what in the wide world are you doing here?"
  "I don't know if you'd be able to believe it."
  "Kid, you'd be amazed-I'm amazed-at what
I'd believe!" Marshall lowered his voice and
leaned close as he said, "They told me you were in
here for rape."
  "That's right."
  "That sounds just like you, doesn't it?"
  Hank didn't quite know what to make of that
statement. "Well, I didn't do it, you know."
  "Doesn't Alf Brummel go to your church?"
  "Yes."
  "Ever cross him?"
  "Uh... well, yes."
  "So have I. And that's why I'm in here, and that's
why you're in here! Tell me what happened."
  "When?"
  "I mean, what really happened? Do you even know
this girl you supposedly raped?"
  "Well..."
  "Where'd you get those bite marks on your arm?"
  Hank was getting some doubts. "Say, listen,
I'd better not say anything."
  "Was her name Carmen?"
  Hank's face said a yes that was almost audible.
  "Just thought I'd take a stab at it. She's
really a treacherous gal. She used to work for me and
last night she told me she'd been raped and I
knew then that it was a lie."
  Hank was completely flabbergasted. "This is too
much! How do you know about all this?"
  Marshall looked around the cell and shrugged. "Ah
well, what else is there to do? Hank, have I got
a story for you! It's going to take a few hours.
You ready for that?"
  "If you're ready to hear mine, I'm ready
to hear yours."
  "Hello? Ma'am?" Bernice jolted awake.
There was someone leaning over her.
  It was a young girl about high school age, maybe
older, with big brown eyes and black, curly
hair, dressed in bib overalls, a perfect
farmer's daughter.
  "Oh! Uh ... hi." It was all Bernice could
think of to say.
  "Are you all right, ma'am?" the girl asked in a
slow and easy drawl.
  "Um, yes. I was just sleeping. I hope that's
all right. I was out for a walk, you know, and
..." She remembered her bruised face. Oh,
great! Now this kid will think I've been mugged or
something.
  "You looking for your sunglasses?" the girl
asked, reaching down and picking them up. She handed them
to Bernice.
  "I... uh ... guess you're wondering what
happened to my face."
  The girl only smiled a disarming smile and said,
"Aw, you ought to see how I look when I first wake
up."
  "I take it this is your property? I didn't
mean to"
  "No, I'm just passing through, like you are. I saw
you lying here and thought I'd check up on you. Can I
give you a lift anywhere?"
  Bernice was about to say an automatic no, but
then she looked at her watch. Oh no! It was almost
4 o'clock in the afternoon. "Well, you wouldn't happen
to be going north, would you?"
  "I'm heading up toward Baker."
  "Oh, that's perfect! I could catch a ride with
you?"
  "Right after lunch."
  "What?"
  The girl walked out of the trees to the next field
of corn, and then Bernice noticed a shiny blue
motorcycle parked in the sun. The girl reached
into a side saddle and brought out a brown paper
sack. She returned and set that sack in front of
Bernice, along with a carton of cold milk.
  "You eat lunch at 4 in the afternoon?" Bernice
asked with a conversational chuckle.
  "No," the young lady answered with a chuckle of her
own, "but you've come a long way, and you have a long
way to go, and you need something to eat."
  Bernice looked into those clear and laughing brown
eyes, and then at the simple little lunch bag in
front of her, and she could feel her face turning
red and her eyes filling up.
  "Eat up, now," said the girl.
  Bernice opened the paper bag and found a roast
beef sandwich that was truly a work of art. The beef
was still hot, the lettuce crisp and green. Below that was
a carton of blueberry yogurt-her favorite
flavor-still cold to the touch.
  She tried to keep her emotions down, but she
began to quake with weeping, and the tears ran down her
cheeks. Oh, I'm making a fool of myself, she
thought. But this was so altogether different.
  "I'm so sorry," she said. "I'm just... very
touched by your kindness."
  The girl touched her hand. "Well, I'm glad
I could be here."
  "What is your name?"
  "You can call me Betsy."
  "I'm-well, you can call me Marie." It was
Bernice's middle name.
  "I'll just do that. Listen, I have some cold water
too, if you want that."
  There came another wave of emotion. "You're a
wonderful person. What are you doing on this
planet?"
  "Helping you," Betsy answered, running to her
motorcycle for the water.
  Hank sat on the edge of his cot, enraptured
by the story Marshall was relating.
  "Are you serious?" he responded suddenly.
"Alf Brummel is into witchcraft? A board
member in my church?"
  "Hey, call it what you want, bub, but I'm
telling you, it is spacy! I don't know how long
he and that Langstrat have been bosom buddies, but enough
of her cosmic consciousness crud has rubbed off on
him to make him dangerous, and I mean that!"
  "So who's in this group again?"
  "Who isn't in it? Oliver Young's in it,
Judge Baker's in it, most of the cops on the
local police force are in it..." Marshall went
on to give Hank just a small segment of the list.
  Hank was amazed. This had to be the Lord. So many
of the questions he had had for so long were finally finding their
answers.
  Marshall kept going for another half an hour
or so, and then he started losing momentum. He had
come to the part about Kate and Sandy.
  "That's the part that hurts the most," he said, and then
started looking out through the bars instead of into Hank's
eyes. "It's a whole other story in itself, and you
don't need to hear it. But I sure went over and
over it this morning. It's my fault, Hank. I
let it happen."
  He heaved a deep breath and wiped wetness from his
eyes. "I could have lost everything; the paper, the
house, the-the battle. I could have taken it if I
only had them. But I lost them too..." Then he
said the words, "And that's how I ended up here," and he
stopped. Abruptly.
  Hank was weeping. He was weeping and smiling,
raising his hands up to God, shaking his head
in wonderment. To Marshall, it looked like he was
having some kind of religious experience.
  "Marshall," Hank said excitedly, unable
to sit still, "this is of God! Our being here is no
accident. Our enemies meant it for evil, but God
meant it for good. He's brought the two of us together just
so we could meet, just so we could put the whole thing
together. You haven't heard my story yet, but guess
what? It's the same! We've both been coming up
against the exact same problem from two different
sides."
  "Tell me, tell me, I want to cry too!"
  So Hank began telling how he suddenly found
himself the pastor of a church that didn't seem to want
him...
  Betsy's motorcycle flew like the wind up
Highway 27, and Bernice held on tight,
sitting behind her on the soft leather seat, watching all
the scenery go by. The whole trip was exhilarating;
it made her feel like a kid again, and the fact that both
of them wore helmets with dark face shields made
Bernice feel all the more safe from discovery.
  But Baker was coming up rapidly, and with it the risks
and dangers and the big question of whether Susan
Jacobson would even be there or not. Part of
Bernice wanted to stay on the motorcycle with this
sweet, likable kid and just keep right on going to
... wherever. Any life had to be better than this
one.
  The landmarks became familiar: the Coca-Cola
sign, and that big lot full of firewood for
sale. They were coming into Baker. Betsy let off the
throttle and started whining down through the gears. Finally
she pulled off the highway and bumped along to a stop
in a gravel parking lot just in front of the aged
Sunset Motel.
  "Will this do for you?" Betsy shouted through her face
shield.
  Bernice could just make out The Evergreen up the
highway. "Oh, yeah, this will do just fine."
  She climbed off the motorcycle and struggled with the
chin strap of her helmet.
  "Leave it on a while," said Betsy.
  "What for?"
  Bernice's eyes immediately gave her a good
reason that she would know of: a squad car from the
Ashton precinct just happened to drive by, slowing
down as it entered Baker. Bernice watched as it then
signaled left and pulled into the parking area in
front of The Evergreen Tavern. Two
officers got out and went inside. She looked down
at Betsy. Did she know?
  She didn't act like it. She pointed to a little
diner attached to the motel. "That's Rose Allen's
little cafe. It looks like a terrible place, but she
makes the best homemade soup in the world and she
sells it cheap. It'd be a great place to kill some
time."
  Bernice removed her helmet and set it on the
bike.
  "Betsy," she said, "I owe you a very great
debt. Thank you so very much."
  "You're welcome." Even through the face shield
that smile shone brightly.
  Bernice looked at the little cafe. No, it
didn't look very nice. "The best soup in the world,
eh?"
  She turned back to Betsy and stiffened. For a
moment she felt she would stumble forward as if a wall
had suddenly disappeared in front of her.
  Betsy was gone. The motorcycle was gone.
  It was like awaking from a dream and needing time to adjust
one's mind to what was real and what was not. But
Bernice knew it had not been a dream. The
tracks of the motorcycle were still plainly
visible in the gravel, leading from where it had left the
highway to the spot directly in front of
Bernice. There they ended.
  Bernice backed away, stunned and shaken. She
looked up and down the highway, but knew even as she
did that she would not see that girl on her
motorcycle. As a matter of fact, as a few more
seconds went by Bernice knew she would have been
disappointed if she had. It would have been the end of a very
beautiful something she had never felt before.
  But she had to get off the highway, she kept
telling herself. She was sticking out like a sore thumb.
She tore herself away from that spot and hurried
into Rose Allen's little cafe.
  Dinner came through the bars at 6. Marshall was
ready to eat the fried chicken and cooked carrots, but
Hank was so much into his story that Marshall had
to prompt him to eat.
  "I'm really getting to the good part!" Hank
protested, and then he asked, "How are you keeping
up with this?" "A lot of it is new," Marshall
admitted. "What were you again? Presbyterian?"
"Hey, don't blame them. I'm just me, that's
all, and I always thought that spooks only come out on
Halloween." "Well, you always wanted an
explanation for Langstrat's strange pull, and how
the Network could have all that powerful influence on people, and
what may have really been tormenting Ted Harmel, and
especially who these spirit guides might be."
  "You're-you're asking me to believe in evil
spirits." "Do you believe in God?"
  "Yes, I believe there's a God."
  "Do you believe in a devil?"
  Marshall had to think for a moment. He noticed that
he'd gone through a change of opinion somewhere along the
line. "I... well, yeah, I guess I do."
  "Believing in angels and demons is simply the
next step after that. It's only logical."
  Marshall shrugged and picked up a drumstick.
"Just keep going. Let me hear the whole thing."

  Bernice killed another hour and a half in
Rose Allen's cafe, buying a bowl of Rose's
soup-Betsy was right, it was good-and eating it very
slowly. She kept her eye on Rose the whole
time. Boy, if that woman made one move toward that
telephone, Bernice was going to be out of there! But
Rose didn't appear to think a beat-up woman in
her cafe was all that unusual, and nothing happened.
  When 7:30 rolled around, Bernice
knew she would have to try for that meeting one way or
another. She paid Rose for the soup out of the change in
her pocket and stepped outside.
  It looked like that police car that had stopped at
The Evergreen was gone now, but the light was getting
poor and it was too far away for Bernice to tell for
sure. She would just have to take it one step at a time.
  She walked along carefully, her eyes looking
in all directions for police, stakeouts,
suspicious vehicles, anything. The parking lot of
The Evergreen was overflowing, and that was probably
typical for a Saturday night. She kept her
sunglasses on, but apart from that she looked every bit
like the Bernice Krueger the police were searching for.
What else could she do?
  As she approached the tavern, she looked here and
there for any escape routes. She did notice a
trail going back into the woods, but had no idea
how far it went or where it eventually led. All in
all, there didn't seem to be too many places
to run or hide.
  The back of The Evergreen Tavern was the one part
of the building nobody seemed to care about at all; the
three old cars, the forgotten refrigerators, the
dented beer kegs, and the piles of
delaminating tables and rusting, broken-through chairs were
parted just enough to allow a narrow pathway to the back
door.
  This door also scraped an arc in the linoleum.
The music from the jukebox hit Bernice like a
wave, as did the smoke from cigarettes and the
sickeningly sweet smell of beer. She closed the
door after her, and found herself in a dark cavern full
of silhouettes. She cautiously looked over,
under, and around her sunglasses, trying to see where she
was and where everyone else was without taking the
sunglasses off.
  There had to be someplace to sit in here. Most of the
booths were full of loggers and their girlfriends. There was
one chair in the corner. She took it and settled in
to survey the room.
  From this spot she could make out the front door and
could see people coming in, but she could not distinguish their
faces. She did recognize Dan behind the bar;
he was pouring beers while trying to keep a bridle
on things. Her ears verified that the shuffleboard
game was in full swing, and two video games against
a far wall were bleeping and burpling through the quarters.
  It was 7:50. Well, just sitting here wasn't
going to work; she felt too obvious, and she
simply couldn't see. She got up from her chair and
tried to mingle with the crowd, staying close to the walls.
  She looked at Dan again. He was a little closer
and he could have been looking back at her, but she
didn't know. He didn't act like he recognized
her, or cared if he did. Bernice tried to find
an unobtrusive spot from which to look at the people at
the front tables. She joined a small group around
one of the video games. These people in the front were still
silhouettes, but none of them could have been Susan.
  There was Dan again, leaning over one table and pulling
the front windowshade half down. Some of the people
nearby didn't like it, but he gave them some
explanation, and left it that way.
  She decided to go back to her chair and wait.
She worked her way back to the shuffleboard game,
then went slowly behind the crowd toward the back of the
room.
  Then a thought hit her. She had seen that
pulling-down-the-windowshade trick in some movie.
A signal? She turned her head toward the
front, and at that exact moment the front door
opened. Two men in uniforms came in. Police!
One pointed right at her. She moved as quickly as she
could for the back door. It was nothing but dark
in front of her. How in the world was she even going
to find that door?
  She could hear a shout over the noise of the crowd.
"Hey! Stop that woman! Police! You! Hold
it!"
  The people around her began muttering, "Who? What
woman? That woman?" One other voice out of the
blackness said, "Hey, lady, I think he's
talking to you!"
  She didn't look back, but she could hear the
shuffling of chairs and feet. They were coming after her.
  Then she saw the green exit sign over the back
door. Forget about keeping cool! She broke into a
run toward that light.
  People were hollering everywhere, coming to help her, wanting
to see what was going on. They got in the
policemen's way, and the police started hollering,
"One side, please! Get out of the way! Stop
her!"
  She couldn't see the latch or knob or whatever
that door had. Hoping it had a crash bar, she
slammed her body against it. It didn't have a crash
bar, but she could hear something break and the door opened
anyway.
  It was lighter out here than inside. She
could make out the path through all the junk and raced through
it, running for all she was worth just as she heard the
backdoor crash open again. Then came the sound of
their footsteps. Could she get out of sight before they
got clear of all that junk?
  She tore off her sunglasses just in time to spot
the trail through the woods, on the other side of the
fence.
  It was amazing what a person could do when scared
enough. Planting her hands on the top of the fence, she
swung her body up and vaulted over it, tumbling
down into the brush on the other side. Without stopping
to congratulate herself, she scrambled up that trail
into the woods like a scared rabbit, ducking to avoid the
low-hanging branches she could see and being whipped in
the face by the ones she couldn't.
  The trail was soft and clear, and kept her
footsteps quiet and muffled. It was darker in the
woods, and at times she had to stop abruptly just
to see where the trail led next. During those times she
would also listen for her pursuers; she could hear some
kind of yelling going on far behind her, but it seemed
no one had thought of this trail.
  There was light up ahead. She came to a gravel
back road, but hesitated in the trees
long enough to look up and down that road for cars, cops,
anyone. The road was quiet and deserted. She
stepped out quickly, trying to decide which way to go.
  Suddenly, at an intersection a little way down the
road, a car appeared, pulling onto this road and
heading her way. They had to have seen her! There was
nothing to do but keep running!
  Her lungs were laboring, her heart was aching and
felt like it would pound itself apart, her legs felt like
lead. She couldn't help crying out in anguish and
fear with each exhalation as she ran across a field
toward a cluster of buildings in the distance. She
looked back. A figure was after her, running
swiftly in hot pursuit. No! No! Please
don't chase me, just let me go! I can't go on like
this!
  The buildings were getting closer. It looked like
an old farm. She was no longer thinking, only
running. She couldn't see; her eyes were doubly
blurred now with tears. She was gasping for breath, her
mouth was dry, the pain from her rib cage shot up and
down her whole side. The grass whipped against her
legs, almost tripping her with every step. She could hear
the footsteps of her pursuer swishing through the grass
not far behind her. Oh, God, help me!
  Ahead was a large, dark building, a barn. She
would go for it and try to hide. If they found her, they
found her. She could run no further.
  She stumbled, trudged, dragged one foot after the
other around one end, and found the big sliding door
half open. She practically fell through it.
  Inside, she found herself in inky blackness. Now
her eyes were useless to her. She stumbled ahead, her
arms out in front of her. Her feet were shuffling through
straw. Her arms bumped into boards. A stall.
She went further. Another stall. She could hear the
footsteps coming around the corner and through the door. She
ducked into one of the stalls and tried to quell her
gasping. She was on the verge of fainting.
  The steps slowed. The pursuer was encountering the
same darkness and trying to feel his way along. But
he was coming closer.
  Bernice backed further into the stall, wondering
if there might be some way to hide herself. Her hand
encountered some kind of handle. She felt downward.
A pitchfork. She took it in her hands. Could she
really use this thing in cold blood?
  The footsteps moved ahead methodically; the
pursuer was checking each stall, working his way through the
barn. Now Bernice could see a small
beam of light sweeping here and there.
  She held the pitchfork high as her cracked rib
punished her in protest. You're going to be very
sorry you ever chased me, she thought. She was playing
by jungle rules now.
  The footsteps were very close now. The little beam of
light was just outside the opening. She was ready. The
light shined in her eyes. There was a slight gasp.
Come on, Bernice! Throw the pitchfork! Her arms
would not move.
  "Bernice Krueger?" asked a muffled,
female voice.
  Bernice still didn't move. She held the
pitchfork high, still panting for air, the little shaft of
light illuminating her crazed, blackened eyes and
her terrified face.
  Whoever it was stepped back abruptly at the
sight of her and whispered, "Bernice, no! Don't
throw it!"
  That made Bernice want all the more to throw that
thing. She was whimpering and gasping, trying to get her
arms to move. They would not.
  "Bernice," came the voice, "it's Susan
Jacobson! I'm alone!"
  Bernice still did not put down the
pitchfork. For the moment she was beyond rationality, and words
meant nothing.
  "Do you hear me?" came the voice. "Please,
put the fork down. I won't hurt you. I'm not the
police, I promise you."
  "Who are you?" Bernice asked finally, her
voice gasping and quivering.
  "Susan Jacobson, Bernice." She said it
again slowly. "Susan Jacobson, your sister
Pat's old roommate. We had an
appointment."
  It was as if Bernice suddenly recovered from a
hallucination or a sleepwalking nightmare. The name
sank into her mind at last and awoke her.
  "You..." she panted. "You gotta be kidding!"
  "I'm not. It's me."
  Susan shone her little penlight on her own face.
The black hair and pale complexion were
unmistakable, even though the black clothes were
replaced now with jeans and a blue jacket.
  Bernice lowered the pitchfork. Then she dropped it
and let out a muffled wail, putting her hand over her
mouth. She suddenly realized she was in terrible pain.
She sank to her knees in the straw, her arms around
her rib cage.
  "Are you all right?" Susan asked.
  "Turn out that light before they see you," was all
Bernice would say.
  The light clicked off. Bernice could feel
Susan's hand touching her.
  "You're hurt!" Susan said.
  "I... I try to keep everything in
perspective," Bernice gasped. "I'm still
alive, I've found the real live Susan
Jacobson, I haven't had to kill anybody, the
police haven't found me... and I have a cracked
rib! Oooooohhh..."
  Susan put her arms around Bernice to comfort her.
  "Gently, gently!" Bernice cautioned. "Where
in the world did you come from? How did you find me?"
  "I was watching the tavern from across the street,
waiting to see if you or Kevin would show up. I
saw the police go in, and you running out the back, and
I knew it was you right away. We college kids
used to hang around here a lot, so I knew about that
trail you took, and I knew how it emptied out
onto that road out there. I drove around, thinking I
could head you off and let you jump into my car, but you were
too far ahead of me and you took off running."
  Bernice let her head drop a bit.
She could feel herself getting emotional again. "I
used to think I'd never seen a miracle, but now I
don't know."
  Hank finished his whole story and, with Marshall's
prodding, had also put away most of his dinner.
Marshall began to ask questions, which Hank answered from
his knowledge of the Scriptures.
  "So," Marshall asked and mused at the same
time, "when the Gospels talk about Jesus and His
disciples casting out unclean spirits, that's what they were
really doing?"
  "That's what they were doing," Hank answered.
  Marshall leaned back against the bars and kept right
on thinking. "That would sure explain a lot of things.
But what about Sandy? Do you suppose that
she's-she's... ?"
  "I don't know for sure, but it could be."
  "What I talked to yesterday... that wasn't her.
She was just crazy; you wouldn't have believed it." He
caught himself. "Aw, then again, you probably would."
  Hank was excited. "But don't you see what's
happened? It's a miracle of God, Marshall.
All along, you were looking into all this racketeering and
intrigue, and wondering how these things could be happening
so smoothly and so forcefully, especially in
the individual lives of so many people. Well, now you
have your "how." And now that you've told me what
you've found out and all that you've been through, I have my
"why." All this time I've been encountering
demonic powers in this town, but I never really knew
just what they were up to. Now I know. It has to be
the Lord who brought us together."
  Marshall gave Hank a wry smile. "So where
do we go from here, Preacher? They've locked us in,
they haven't allowed us any communication with our
families, friends, lawyers, or anyone. I have a
feeling that our constitutional rights aren't going to have much
to do with it at this juncture."
  Now Hank leaned back against the cold concrete
wall and thought about it. "That part only God knows.
But I have a very strong feeling that He got us into this,
and that He also has a plan for getting us out."
  "If we must talk about strong feelings,"
Marshall countered, "I have some pretty strong
feelings that they just want us out of the way while they
finish once and for all what they've started. It's
going to be interesting to see what's left of the town,
our jobs, our homes, our families, and everything
else we treasured once we get out of here. If
we get out of here."
  "Well, have faith. God's in control here."
"Yeah, I just hope He hasn't dropped the
ball."
  As the two women sat there in the straw, in the
dark, Bernice tried to explain everything to Susan:
her battered face, her cracked rib, what she and
Marshall had been through, and the death of Kevin Weed.
  Susan digested it all for a moment, and then said,
"It's Kaseph's way. It's the Society's
way. I should have known better than to have brought Kevin
into it."
  "Don't-don't blame yourself. All of us are in
this thing whether we really want to be or not."
  Susan forced herself to be unemotional and
calculating. "You're right... at least for now.
Someday soon I'll sit down and really think about
it, and I'll weep over that man." She stood up.
"But right now there's too much to do and too little time. Do
you think you can walk?"
  "No, but that hasn't stopped me so far."
  "My car is rented, and I have too many
important materials in it to leave it sitting out
there. Come on."
  With careful and very quiet, well-picked steps,
Susan and Bernice made their way to the
big barn door. It was very quiet out there.
  "Want to go for it?" Susan asked.
  "Sure," said Bernice, "let's do it."
  They started back across the expansive field
toward the road where Susan had left her car, using
one tree that jutted up against the starry sky as their
heading. As they crossed the field again, Bernice
noted how much shorter the trip seemed now that she was
not fleeing for her life.
  Susan led the way to where her car was parked. She
had pulled it off the road a little way and nestled it
in among some trees. She began fumbling in her
pocket for the keys.
  "Susan!" said a voice from the woods.
  The two of them froze.
  "Susan Jacobson?" came the voice again.
  Susan whispered excitedly. "I don't
believe it!"
  Bernice answered, "I don't believe it
either!"
  "Kevin?"
  Some bushes began to move and swish, and then a
man stepped out of the woods. There was no mistaking that
lanky frame and that lazy walk.
  "Kevin Weed?" Bernice had to ask
again.
  "Bernice Krueger!" said Kevin. "You made
it. Aw, that's great!"
  After a short moment of speechless amazement and
surprise, the embraces came automatically.
  "Let's get out of here," said Susan.
  They piled into her car and put some miles between
themselves and Baker.
  "I got a motel room in Orting, up north
of Windsor," said Susan. "We can go there."
  It was okay with Bernice and Kevin.
  Bernice said very happily, "Kevin, you've just
made a liar out of me! I thought for sure you were
dead."
  "I'm alive for now," Kevin said, not sounding
too sure about anything.
  "But your truck went into the river!"
  "Yeah, I know. Some jerk stole it and crashed
it. Somebody was trying to kill me."
  He realized he didn't make much sense, so
he started over. "Hey, I was on my way to meet
you at the bridge like you said. I stopped at The
Evergreen to have a few, and I bet some guy slipped
me a mickey-you know, put something in my beer. I
mean, I got stoned.
  "I was driving down the road to meet up with you, and
I was really spacing out, so I pulled over at
Tucker's Burgers to throw up or get a drink of
water or go to the bathroom or something. I fell
asleep in the men's room, man, and I must have
slept there all night. I woke up this morning and
went outside and my truck was gone. I didn't
know what happened to it until I read about it in the
paper. They must still be searching the river for my
body."
  "It's obvious Kaseph and his Network have us
all marked," said Susan, "but... I think
somebody's looking out for us. Kevin, something very
similar happened to me: I ran away from
Kaseph's ranch on foot, and the only reason I
got away was because all the security personnel went
chasing somebody else who was trying to get away in
one of the big moving vans. Now who in their right mind
would try that, and at just that precise moment?"
  Bernice added, "And I still haven't figured out
who in the world that Betsy was."
  Susan had been formulating her theory for days.
"I think we'd better start thinking about God."
  "God?"
  "And angels," Susan added. She
quickly recounted the details of her escape, and
concluded, "Listen, somebody came into that room. I
know it."
  Kevin piped up. "Hey, like maybe it was an
angel that stole my truck."
  And then Bernice recalled, "You know, there was
something about Betsy. It made me just cry. I've
never run into anything like that before."
  Susan touched her hand. "Well, it looks like
we're all running into something, so whatever we do
we'd better pay attention."
  The car continued to speed along back roads,
taking a slightly roundabout route toward the little
resort town of Orting.
  Like two comrades-in-arms, Marshall and Hank
were beginning to feel they had known each other all their
lives. "I like your kind of faith," Marshall said.
"It's no wonder they've tried so hard to get you out
of that church." He chuckled a little. "Boy, you must
feel like the Alamo! You're the only thing standing between
the Devil and the rest of the town."
  Hank smiled weakly. "I'm not much, believe
me. But I'm not the only one. There are saints out
there, Marshall, people praying for us. Sooner or later
something's going to break. God won't let
Satan have this town that easy!"
  Marshall pointed his finger at Hank, even shook
it a little. "See there? I like that kind of faith. Good
and straight, laid right on the line." He shook his
head. "Sheesh! How long has it been since
I've heard it come across like that?"
  Hank seasoned his words with salt, but he knew the
time had come to say it. "Well, Marshall, since
we're talking so straight here, right on the line,
what do you say we talk about you? You know, there could be
some more reasons God put us in this cell together."
  Marshall was not defensive at all, but smiling and
ready to listen. "What are we going to do, talk about
the fate of my eternal soul?"
  Hank smiled back. "That's exactly what
we're going to talk about."
  They talked about sin, that aggravating and
destructive tendency of man to stray from God and
choose his own way, always to his own hurt. That
brought them around to Marshall's family again, and how so
many attitudes and actions were the direct result of
that basic, human self-will and rebellion against
God.
  Marshall shook his head as he saw things in this
light. "Hey, our family never did know
God. We only went through the motions. No wonder
Sandy wouldn't buy it!"
  Then Hank talked about Jesus, and showed
Marshall that this Man whose name was so casually thrown
around and even trampled upon in the world was far more than just
a religious symbol, a lofty untouchable
personality in a stained-glass window. He was the very
real, very alive, very personal Son of God, and
He could be the personal Lord and Savior of anyone
who asked Him to be.
  "I never thought I'd be lying here listening to this,"
Marshall said suddenly. "You're really hitting me
where it hurts, you know that?"
  "Well," said Hank, "why do you suppose that
is? Where s the pain coming from?"
  Marshall took a deep breath as he took the
time to think. "I guess from knowing that you're right, which
means I've been wrong a long, long time."
  "Jesus loves you anyway. He knows that's your
problem, and that's what He died for."
  "Yeah... right!"

  The motel in Orting was nice, quaint, homey,
just like the rest of this town situated along the Judd
River on the border of the national forest. It
was a stopping place for sportsmen, built and
decorated in a pleasing hunt-and-fish,
hike-in-the-woods motif.
  Susan wanted no trouble or attention, so she
paid for two more occupants for the room that night. They
went into the room and pulled the shades.
  They all made a stop in the bathroom, but
Bernice remained just a little longer, carefully
rewrapping her ribs and then washing her face. She
looked herself over in the mirror and touched her
bruises very gingerly, whistling at the sight. It could
only get better from here.
  In the meantime, Susan had flopped her big
suitcase on the bed and opened it up. When
Bernice finally came out, Susan took a small
book from the suitcase and handed it to her.
  "This is where it started," she said. "It's your
sister's diary."
  Bernice didn't know what to say. A diamond
would not have been a greater treasure. She could only
look down at the little blue diary in her hands, a
last surviving link with her dead sister, and struggle
to believe it was really there. "Where ... how did you
get this?"
  "Juleen Langstrat made sure no
one ever saw it. She had it stolen from Pat's room
and she gave it to Kaseph, from whom I stole it.
I became Kaseph's girl, you know; his
Maidservant, he called it. I had regular
access to him all the time, and he trusted me. I
came across the diary one day while I was straightening
up his office, and I recognized it right away because
I used to watch Pat write in it almost every night in
our dorm room. I sneaked it out, read it, and it
woke me up. I used to think Alexander Kaseph
was ... well, the Messiah, the answer for all
mankind, a true prophet of peace and universal
brotherhood..."
  Susan made a face like she was getting sick.
"Oh, he filled my mind with all that kind of
talk, but somewhere deep inside I always had my
doubts. That little book right there told me to listen to the
doubts and not to him."
  Bernice thumbed through the pages of the diary. It
went back a few years, and seemed very detailed.
  Susan continued, "You may not want to read it just
now. When I read that diary... well, it made me
sick for days."
  Bernice wanted the end of the story. "Susan, do
you know how my sister really died?"
  Susan said angrily, "Your sister Pat was
methodically and viciously done away with by the
Universal Consciousness Society, or I should
say, the forces behind it. She made the same fatal
mistake I've seen so many others make: she found
out too much about the Society, she showed herself to be
an enemy of Alexander Kaseph. Listen, what
Kaseph wants, he gets, and he doesn't care
who has to be destroyed, murdered, or mutilated
to make sure of it." She shook her head. "I had
to be blind not to have seen it happening to Pat. It was right
out of the textbook!"
  "So what about some man named Thomas?"
  Susan answered directly, "Yes, it was
Thomas. He was responsible for her death." Then
she added rather cryptically, "But he wasn't a
man."
  Bernice was slowly catching on to this new game with
its very weird rules. "And now you're going to tell
me it wasn't a woman either."
  "Pat was taking a psychology class, and one of
her requirements was that she be in a subject pool
for psychology experiments-it's in the diary, you'll
read it all. A friend persuaded her to volunteer for
an experiment involving relaxation
techniques, and it was during that experiment that she had
what she called a psychic experience, some kind of
insight into a higher world, she called it.
  "I'll make it short; you can read it for yourself
later. She became extremely enamored by the
experience and saw no connection between this
"scientific" exploration and the "mystical"
practices I was into. She kept going back,
kept taking part in the experiments, and finally contacted
what she called a "highly evolved, disembodied
human" from another dimension, a very wise and
intelligent being named Thomas."
  Bernice struggled with what she was hearing, but knew
she held the documentation for Susan's account, her
sister's diary. "So who was this Thomas really? Just
a figment of her imagination?"
  "Some things you're just going to have to accept for now,"
Susan replied with a sigh. "We've talked about
God, we've toyed with the idea of angels; now
let's try evil angels, evil spirit entities.
To the atheistic scientists, they might appear as
extraterrestrials, often with their own spaceships;
to evolutionists they might claim to be highly
evolved beings; to the lonely, they might appear as
long-lost relatives speaking from the other
side of the grave; Jungian psychologists
consider them "archetypal images" dredged from the
collective consciousness of the human race."
  "What?"
  "Hey, listen, whatever description or
definition fits, whatever shape, whatever form it
takes to win a person's confidence and appeal to his
vanity, that's the form they take. And they tell the
deluded seeker of truth whatever he or she wants
to hear until they finally have that person in their complete
control."
  "Like a con game, in other words."
  "It's all a con game: Eastern meditation,
witchcraft, divination, Science of Mind, psychic
healing, holistic education-oh, the list goes on and
on-it's all the same thing, nothing but a ruse
to take over people's minds and spirits, even their
bodies."
  Bernice reviewed memory after memory of their
investigation, and Susan's claims fell right
into place.
  Susan continued, "Bernice, we are dealing with a
conspiracy of spirit entities. I know. Kaseph is
crawling with them and takes his orders from them. They do
his dirty work. If anyone gets in his
way, he has numberless resources in the spiritual
realm to clear away the problem in whatever manner is
most convenient."
  Ted Harmel, Bernice thought. The Carluccis.
How many others? "You're not the first person to try
to tell me all this."
  "I hope I'm the last person who will have to."
  Kevin piped in. "Yeah, I remember how
Pat talked about Thomas. He never sounded like he
was human. She acted like he was more of a god. She
had to ask him before she'd even decide what to eat for
breakfast. I-I thought she'd found some guy, you
know, some male chauvinist type."
  Susan eased into the bottom line of the story.
"Pat had given her will over to Thomas. It
didn't take long; it usually doesn't once a
person really submits to a spirit's influence. No
doubt he took control of her, then terrified her,
then convinced her that-well, the Hindus call it
karma; it's the delusion that your next life will be
better than this one because you've earned enough brownie
points. In Pat's case, a self-inflicted
death would be nothing more than a way to escape the evil
of this lower world and join Thomas in a higher state of
existence."
  Susan gently flipped the pages of the diary still
in Bernice's hands, and found the last entry. "There.
The last thing in Pat's diary is a love letter
to Thomas. She planned to join him soon, and she
even mentions how she'll do it."
  Bernice could feel revulsion at the thought of
reading such a letter, but she began to work her way through the
last few pages of her sister's diary. Pat
wrote in a style of someone under a very strange,
lofty-sounding delusion, but it was clear she was also
disoriented by an irrational fear of life itself.
Terrible pain and spiritual anguish had taken over her
soul, changing her from the happy-go-lucky
Patricia Krueger that Bernice had grown up with
to a terrified, aimless psychotic completely out of
touch with reality.
  Bernice tried to read on, but she began to feel
old wounds reopening; emotions that had waited for this very
moment of final revelation burst from their hiding
places like a river through an opened floodgate. The
scrawled and ambling words on the pages blurred behind
a sudden cascade of tears, and her whole body
began to quake with sobs. All she wanted to do was
shut out the world, disregard this gallant woman and this
poor, disheveled logger, lie down on the
bed, and cry. And she did.
  Hank slept peacefully on his cot in the
cell. Marshall was not sleeping at all. He sat
up in the dark, his back against the cold, hard bars
of the cell, his head drooping, his hand making nervous
little trips around his face.
  He had been shot through the guts. That's what it
felt like. Somewhere he had lost his armor plating, his
strength, his strong and tough facade. He had always
been Marshall Hogan, the hunter, the hound, the
stay-out-of-my-way getter of whatever he wanted, a
foe to be reckoned with, a guy who could take care
of himself.
  A lump, that's what he was, and nothing but a
fool. This Hank Busche was right. Just look at
yourself, Hogan. Don't worry about God dropping
the ball; you dropped it a long time ago. You blew
it, man. You thought you had everything under control, and now
where's your family and where are you?
  Maybe you've been tricked by these demons
Hank's been talking about, and then maybe you've
even fooled yourself. Come on, Marshall, you know why
you shortchanged your family. You were copping out, singing
the same old tune again. And you enjoyed working with that
good-looking reporter, didn't you? Teasing
her, tossing paper wads at her, for crying out loud!
How old are you, sixteen?
  Marshall let his own mind and heart tell him the
truth, and much of it felt as if he had known it
somewhere but had never listened. How long, he began
to wonder, had he been lying to himself?
  "Kate," he whispered there in the dark, his eyes
glistening with tears. "Kate, what have I done?"
  A big hand reached across the cell and nudged
Hank's shoulder.
  Hank stirred, opened his eyes, and said
quietly, "Yeah, what's up?"
  Marshall was weeping and he said very quietly,
"Hank, I'm just no good. I need God. I
need Jesus."
  How many times in his life had Hank said the words?
"Let's pray."
  After several minutes had passed, Bernice
began to feel the flood subsiding. She sat up,
still sniffling, but trying to get back to the business at
hand.
  "That's what woke me up," Susan
reiterated. "I thought these beings were benevolent; I
thought Kaseph had all the answers. But I saw
them all in their true form when I read what
they did to my best friend, your sister."
  Kevin asked, "So is that why you came up to me
at the carnival and got my number?"
  "Kaseph had a special meeting in town with
Langstrat and some other vital conspirators,
Oliver Young and Alf Brummel. I came
to Ashton with Kaseph, tagging right along as I always
did, but when I got the opportunity I sneaked
away. I had to take the chance that maybe I'd see
you somewhere. Maybe it was God again; it was nothing
short of a miracle that I spotted you at the
carnival. I needed a friend on the outside I could
confide in, someone obscure."
  Kevin smiled. "Yeah, that describes me
pretty well."
  Susan continued, "Kaseph never liked to feel
that he didn't have complete control of me. When I
slipped away to the carnival, he probably told
the others that he'd already sent me there and that they would
meet me. When he found me and dragged me behind that
silly booth, he talked to me like I had gone
ahead and picked out that spot."
  Bernice said, "And that's when I came across you and
snapped your picture!"
  "And then Brummel slipped some bills
to those two hookers and some instructions to a few of his
Windsor friends, and you know the rest."
  Susan went to her suitcase, "But now for the
really big news. Kaseph is making his move
tomorrow. There's a special meeting scheduled with the
Whitmore College regents at 2 in the afternoon.
Omni Corporation-as a front for the Universal
Consciousness Society-plans to buy Whitmore
College, and Kaseph is closing the deal."
  Bernice's eyes widened with horror. "Then we
were right! He is going for the college!"
  "It's good strategy. The whole town of Ashton
is practically built around that college. Once
the Society and Kaseph get established there at
Whitmore, they'll have overwhelming influence over the
rest of the town. Society people will come in like a swarm and
Ashton will become another "Sacred City of the
Universal Mind." It's happened enough before, in
other towns, in other countries."
  Bernice pounded the bed in frustration. "Susan,
we have records of Eugene Baylor's financial
transactions, evidence that might show how the
college was undermined. But we haven't been able
to make any sense of it all!"
  Susan pulled a little canister out of her
suitcase. "Actually, you only have half the
picture. Baylor's no fool; he knew how
to cover his tracks so his embezzlements on behalf
of Omni wouldn't be noticed. What you need is the
other side of those transactions: Kaseph's own
records." She held the canister out for them to see.
"I didn't have room for all that material. I
did photograph it, though, and if we could get this
film developed"
  "We have a darkroom at the Clarion. We could
print that film right away." "Let's check out of
here." They scrambled.
  The Remnant continued to pray. None had been
able to see or even hear from Hank since his arrest.
The police station was manned at all times by strange
police no one had ever seen in Ashton before, and
none of these officers knew anything about how to visit
anyone in jail, or how to bail them out, nor would
they let anyone in to find out. It seemed Ashton
had become a police state.
  Fear, anger, and prayer increased. Something
terrible was happening to the town, and they all knew it
vividly, but what could be done in a town with deaf
authorities, in a county whose offices were closed
for the weekend?
  The phone lines continued to hum, both in the town and
going out across the country to relatives and friends, all
of whom dropped to their knees to intercede and called
their own authorities and legislators.
  Alf Brummel stayed away from his office,
avoiding any distraught Christians with sermons
to deliver about their pastor's constitutional rights, or
an official's duty to the will of the people, or anything
else. He remained in Langstrat's apartment,
pacing the floor, worrying, sweating, waiting for 2
o'clock on Sunday afternoon.
  Grandma Duster kept praying and reassuring
everyone that God had everything under control. She
reminded them of what the angels had told her, and
then many recalled what they had dreamed, or heard in
their mind while praying, or seen in a vision, or
felt in their spirits. And they continued to pray for the town.
  And everywhere, from every direction, new visitors
continued to arrive in the town of Ashton, riding in on
passing hay trucks, hitchhiking in like summer
backpackers, gliding in through the cornfields and then
through the back streets, roaring in like wild bikers,
bussing in like high schoolers, hiding in the trunks and
under the bellies of every vehicle that traveled through on
Highway 27.
  And steadily the nooks, crannies, unused
rooms, and countless other hiding places all over the
town became alive with still, silent figures, their
burly hands upon their swords, their golden eyes
piercing and alert, their ears tuned to one particular
sound from one particular trumpet.
  Above the town, concealed in the trees, Tal could still
look out across the wide valley and see Rafar in the
big dead tree, overseeing the activities of his
demons. Captain Tal continued to watch and wait.
  In the remote valley, a rapidly growing
cloud of demon spirits churned for a radius of two
miles all around the ranch, towering as high as the
mountaintops. Their numbers were beyond counting, their
density such that the cloud totally obscured anything within
it. The spirits danced and wailed like drunken brawlers,
waving their swords, raving and drooling, their eyes
wild with madness. Myriads of them paired off,
jousting, sparring, testing one another's skills.
  In the darkened center of the cloud, in the big stone
house, the Strongman sat with narrowed eyes and a
crooked smirk that deepened the folds of his sagging
face. In the company of his generals, he took time
to gloat over the news he had just received from Ashton.
  "Prince Rafar has satisfied my
wishes, he has fulfilled his mission," the
Strongman said, and then bared his ivory fangs with a
drooling smile. "I will like that little town. In my
hands, it will grow like a tree and fill the
countryside."
  He savored the next thought: "I may never have
to stir myself from that place. What do you think? Shall we
have our home at last?"
  The tall and loathsome generals all muttered
affirmatively. The Strongman rose from his seat,
and the others snapped to a stiff and upright stance of
attention.
  "Our Mr. Kaseph has been calling me for
some time now. Prepare the ranks. We will leave
immediately."
  The generals shot out through the roof of the house into the
cloud, shrieking their orders, assembling their
troops.
  The Strongman unfolded his wings in a regal
manner, then floated like a monstrous, overweight
vulture into the basement room where Alexander
Kaseph, sitting cross-legged on a large
cushion, chanted the Strongman's name again and again.
The Strongman alighted right in front of Kaseph
and observed him for a moment, drinking in
Kaseph's worship and spiritual groveling. Then,
with a swift movement, the Strongman stepped forward and
let his huge frame dissolve into Kaseph's body
as Kaseph twitched and writhed grotesquely. In
a moment the possession was complete, and Alexander
Kaseph awakened from his meditation.
  "The time has come!" he said, with the Strongman's
look in his eyes.

  Susan turned the rented car into the little gravel
parking area behind the Ashton Clarion. It was 5 in
the morning, and just beginning to get light outside.
Somehow, as far as they knew, they had not been seen
by any of the police. The town seemed quiet, and the
day promised to be pleasant and sunny.
  Bernice went to a special hiding place behind a
pair of dented garbage cans and found the key to the
back door. In a quick and silent moment, all
three were inside.
  "Don't turn any lights on, make any
noise, or go near any windows," Bernice
cautioned them. "The darkroom's in here. Everybody
come in before I turn on the light."
  All three squeezed into the little darkroom.
Bernice closed the door and then found the
light switch.
  She prepared her chemicals, double-checked the
film, then got the little developing tank ready.
She switched off the light, and they stood in total
blackness.
  "Freaky," Kevin said.
  "This will only take a few minutes. Boy, I
haven't the slightest idea of what's happening
to Marshall, but I don't dare try to find out."
  "What about your answering machine? There might be
some messages on it."
  "That's a thought. I can check that as soon as I
get this film all loaded in here. I'm almost
finished." Then Bernice had another thought. "I
wonder about Sandy Hogan, too. She pitched a
lamp at her father and ran out of the house."
  "Yes, you were telling me about that."
  "I don't know where she'd go, unless she's
decided to run off with that Shawn character."
  "With who?" Susan asked abruptly. "Who
did you say?"
  "Some guy named Shawn."
  "Shawn Ormsby?" Susan asked.
  "Uh-oh, it sounds like you know him."
  "I'm afraid Sandy Hogan could be in
real trouble! Shawn Ormsby appears quite a few
times in your sister's diary. He's the one who got
Pat involved in those parapsychology experiments.
He encouraged her to continue them, and he's the one who
eventually introduced her to Thomas!"
  The darkroom light clicked on. The developing
tank was loaded and ready, but all Bernice could do
was stare whitefaced at Susan.
  Madeline was not a beautiful, golden-haired,
highly evolved, superhuman from a higher dimension.
Madeline was a demon, a hideous, leather-skinned
monster with sharp talons and a subtle, deceiving
nature. For Madeline, Sandy Hogan had been
a very easy and vulnerable prey. Sandy's deep
wounds concerning her father made her an ideal subject
for the candy of illusionary love Madeline was able
to dangle before her, and now it seemed that Sandy would
follow whatever course Madeline said was right for her
life, believing whatever Madeline said. Madeline
loved it when she got people to that point.
  Patricia Krueger, though, had been a
challenge. Then, disguised as handsome, benevolent
Thomas, this demon had quite a struggle getting
Patricia to believe he was really there; it had
taken some very heavy-handed hallucinations and
well-timed coincidences, not to mention the very best of his
psychic signs and wonders. It wasn't enough to just
bend keys and spoons; he had to carry out some very
impressive materializations as well. Finally he
had succeeded, though, and fulfilled Ba-al
Lucius's bidding. Pat had ceremonially done
away with herself, and she would never know the love of God
again.
  But what of Sandy Hogan? What would the new
Ba-al, Rafar, want done with her? The demon,
now calling himself-or herself-Madeline, approached the
great prince on his big dead tree.
  "My lord," said Madeline, bowing low with
respect, "do I understand that Marshall Hogan is
defeated and powerless?"
  "He is," said Rafar.
  "And what would you wish for Sandy Hogan, his
daughter?"
  Rafar was about to answer, but then hesitated, giving
the matter a little more thought. At length he said, "Do
not destroy her, not yet. Our foe is as subtle
as I, and I would like one more assurance against any
success of this Marshall Hogan. The Strongman
comes today. Hold her against that time."
  Rafar dispatched a messenger along with
Madeline to visit Professor Langstrat.
  Shawn was awakened by an early morning phone
call from the professor.
  "Shawn," said Langstrat, "I've heard from the
masters. They want some extra assurances that
Hogan will not be an obstacle to today's business.
Is Sandy still there with you?"
  Shawn could look out from his bedroom into the living
room of his small apartment. Sandy was still on the couch,
still asleep.
  "I still have her."
  "The meeting with the regents will take place in the
Administration Building, the third-floor conference
room. A room across the hall, 326, has been
reserved for us and the other psychics. Bring Sandy with
you. The masters want her there."
  "We'll be there."
  As Langstrat hung up the phone, she could hear
Alf Brummel clattering about in the kitchen.
  "Juleen," he called, "where's the coffee?"
  "Don't you think you're nervous enough?" she asked
him, leaving her bedroom and going into the kitchen.
  "I'm just trying to wake up," he muttered,
shakily putting a pot of water on the stove.
  "Wake up! You haven't even slept,
Alf!"
  "Have you?" he retorted.
  "Quite well," she said very mildly.
  Langstrat, primly dressed, looked ready
to leave for the college. Brummel was a wreck, his
eyes sunken, his hair disheveled, still in a
bathrobe.
  He said, "I'll just be glad when this day is over
and everything quiets down. As chief of police, I
think I've broken about every law in the books."
  She put her hand on his shoulder and said
reassuringly, "All this new world growing around you will
be your friend, Alf. We are the law now. You've
helped to bring in the New Order, an ultimately
good deed that deserves reward."
  "Well... we'd better make good and sure of
that, that's all I have to say."
  "You can help, Alf. Several of the prime
leaders will be meeting just across the hall the same time as
the closure meeting this afternoon. With our combined psychic
energies, we can assure that nothing will stand in the way
of complete success."
  "I don't know if I even dare go out in
public. I guess the arrests of Busche and
Hogan have a lot of people riled-church people,
I might add! This rape charge hasn't hurt
Busche nearly as much as it was supposed to. Most
of the people in the church are coming at me, wondering what
I'm trying to pull!"
  "You will be there," she said plainly. "Oliver will be
there, as will the others. And Sandy Hogan will be there."
  He spun and looked at her in horror.
"What? Why is Sandy Hogan going to be there?"
  "Insurance."
  Brummel's eyes widened, and his voice
trembled. "Another one? You're going to kill
another one?"
  Her eyes grew very cold. "I do not kill
anyone! I only let the masters decide!"
  "So what have they decided?"
  "You are to let Hogan know that his daughter is in
our hands and that he would be very wise not to interfere with
anything that happens from this day forward."
  "You want me to tell him?"
  "Mr. Brummel!" Her voice was chilling.
She stepped toward him intimidatingly, and he
backed up a few steps. "Marshall Hogan
happens to be in your jail. You are in charge of him.
You will tell him."
  With that, she stepped out the front door and
went off to the college.
  Brummel stood there for a moment, nonplussed,
frustrated, afraid. His thoughts swam about like a
school of frightened fish. He forgot why he was even
in the kitchen.
  Brummel, you've had it. What makes you think
you're not just as dispensable as anyone in the Society
considers a commodity, a tool, a pawn? And,
let's face it, Brummel. You are a pawn!
Juleen's using you to do her dirty work, and now she's
setting you up as nothing less than an accessory
to murder. If I were you, I'd start looking out for
Number One. This whole plan will be found out sooner
or later, and guess who'll be caught holding the
bag?
  Brummel kept thinking about it, and his thoughts ceased
to swim about. They all began to run the same
direction. This was madness, utter madness. The
masters say this and the masters say that, but what's it
to them? They don't have wrists that can be handcuffed, they
don't have jobs to lose, they don't have faces they
could be afraid to show around town someday.
  Brummel, why don't you stop Juleen before she
totally ruins your life? Why don't you stop all
this madness and be a real, genuine lawman for
once?
  Yeah, thought Brummel. Why don't I? If
I don't, we're all going to sink on this crazy
ship.
  Lucius, the deposed Prince of Ashton,
stood in the kitchen with Alf Brummel, the chief of
police, having a little discussion with him. This Alf
Brummel always was rather flimsy; perhaps Lucius could
make use of this commodity.
  Jimmy Dunlop arrived at the courthouse at
7:30 Sunday morning, ready to begin his shift.
To his surprise the parking lot was full of people: young
couples, old couples, little old ladies; it
looked like a misplaced church picnic. Even as
he pulled in, he could see every eye focusing on his
policeman's uniform. Oh, no! Now they were coming
his way! Mary Busche and Edith Duster
recognized Jimmy right away; he was the young and very
rude officer who turned them away from visiting
Hank last night. Now they were right up at the head
of this crowd, and although none of these people had any intention
of doing anything rash or improper, they were not about
to be trodden on.
  Jimmy had to get out of his car whether he wanted
to or not. He did have to report to work today.
  "Officer Dunlop," said Mary, quite brazenly,
"I believe you told me last night that you would
arrange for me to visit my husband today."
  "If you'll excuse me," he said, trying to push
his way past.
  "Officer," said John Coleman
respectfully, "we're here to ask that you honor her
request to see her husband."
  Jimmy was a police officer. He did
represent the law. He had a lot of authority.
The only problem was, he didn't have any guts.
  "Uh..." he said. "Listen, you'll have to break
up this gathering or face possible arrest!"
  Abe Sterling stepped forward. He was an
attorney who was a friend of a friend of an uncle of
Andy Forsythe and he had been gotten out of bed last
night and invited for just this occasion.
  "This is a legal, peaceful gathering," he
reminded Jimmy, "according to the definition of RCS
14.021.217 and the decision rendered in Stratford
County Superior Court in Ames versus the
County of Stratford."
  "Yeah," said several, "that's right. Listen to the
man."
  Jimmy was flustered. He looked toward
the front door of the courthouse. Two officers from
the Windsor precinct were guarding the fort. Jimmy
walked toward them, wondering why they were letting this
continue.
  "Hey," he asked them with a subdued voice,
"what's all this about? Why didn't you get rid of
these people?"
  "Hey, Jimmy," said one, "this is your town and
your ball game. We figured you had the answers,
so we told them to wait until you got here."
  Jimmy looked at all the faces looking back
at him. No, ignoring this problem would not make it go
away. He asked the officer, "How long have all
these people been here?"
  "Since about 6. You should have been here then. They were
having a regular church service."
  "And they can do that?"
  "Talk to that lawyer of theirs. They have the right
to peaceful demonstration as long as they don't impede
the regular conduct of business. They've been
behaving themselves."
  "So what do I do now?"
  The two officers only looked at each other
somewhat blankly.
  Abe Sterling was right behind Jimmy.
"Officer Dunlop, you are within the law to hold a
suspect for up to seventy-two hours without charges,
but seeing as the suspect's wife does have the right
to contact her husband, we are ready to file suit in
Stratford County Superior Court requiring you
to appear and show just cause why she has been denied that
right."
  "You hear that?" someone piped up.
  "I'll... uh ... I'll have to talk to the
police chief..." Under his breath he was cursing
Alf Brummel for getting him into this mess.
  "Where is Alf Brummel, anyway? This is his
pastor he's thrown in jail," Edith Duster
declared.
  "I-I don't know anything about it."
  John Coleman said, "Then we as citizens
are asking you to find out. And we would like to talk
to Chief Brummel. Can you please arrange that?"
  "I'll-I'll see what I can do," Jimmy
said, turning for the door.
  "I wish to see my husband!" Mary said quite
loudly, stepping forward with her jaw set firmly.
  "I'll see what I can do," Jimmy said again,
and ducked inside.
  Edith Duster turned to the others and said,
"Just remember, brothers and sisters, we are not
contending against flesh and blood, but against the
principalities, against the powers, against the world
rulers of this present darkness, against the spiritual hosts
of wickedness in the heavenly places." She got
several Amens to that, followed by someone starting a
worship song. Immediately the whole Remnant took
up the song and sang it loudly, worshiping God and
making His praise heard in that parking lot.
  Rafar could hear the praise from where he stood on
the hill above the town, and he glowered at these saints
of God. Let them whine over their fallen pastor.
Their singing would be curtailed soon enough when the
Strongman and his hordes arrived.
  Countless spirits were arriving in the town of Ashton-but
they were not the kind Rafar desired. They rushed in under
the ground, they filtered in under the cover of occasional
clouds, they sneaked in by riding invisibly in cars,
trucks, vans, buses. In hiding places all
over the town one warrior would be joined by another, those
two would be joined by two more, those four would be joined
by four. They too could hear the singing. They could feel
the strength coursing through them with every note. Their swords
droned with the resonance of the worship. It was the
worship and the prayers of these saints that had
called them here in the first place.
  The remote valley was now a huge bowl of
boiling, swirling ink accented by myriads of glowing,
yellow eyes. The cloud of demons had
multiplied so that it filled the valley like a boiling
sea.
  Alexander Kaseph, possessed by the Strongman,
stepped out of his big stone house and got into his
waiting limousine. All the papers were ready for
signing; his attorneys would meet him at the
Administration Building on the Whitmore
College campus. This was the day he had waited and
prepared for.
  As the limousine carrying Kaseph-and the
Strongmanmade its way up the winding road, the
sea of demons began to shift in that direction like the
turn of the tide. The drone of countless billions of
wings rose in pitch and intensity. Streams of
demons began to trickle over the sides of the big
bowl, flowing out between the mountain peaks like hot,
sulfurous tar.
  In the darkroom at the Ashton Clarion,
Bernice and Susan stood at the enlarger, looking
down at the projected image of the negatives
Bernice had just developed.
  "Yes!" said Susan. "This is the first page of the
college embezzlement records. You'll notice
the name of the college doesn't appear anywhere.
However, the amounts received should match exactly the
amounts dispersed from the college records."
  "Yes, the records we have, or our accountant
has." "See here? It's been a pretty steady
flow of funds. Eugene Baylor has been
skimming and channeling college investments just a little
at a time into various accounts elsewhere, every one of which
is actually a front organization for Omni and the
Society."
  "So the so-called investments have all been going
into Kaseph's pocket!"
  "And I am sure they will comprise a
substantial part of the monies Kaseph will use
to buy the college out."
  Bernice moved the film forward again. Several
frames of financial records rolled by in a
blur.
  "Wait!" said Susan. "There! Go back a
few frames." Bernice rolled the film back.
"Yes! There! I got this from some of Kaseph's
personal notes. It's hard to make out the
handwriting, but look at this list of names."
  Bernice did have trouble making out the handwriting, but
she had written those names herself quite a few times.
  "Harmel... Jefferson..." she read.
  "You haven't seen these yet," Susan said,
pointing to the bottom of a very lengthy list.
  There, in Kaseph's own writing, were the names
Hogan, Krueger, and Strachan.
  "I take it this is some kind of hit list?"
Bernice asked.
  "Exactly. It goes on for hundreds of names.
Notice the red Xs after many of them."
  "They were disposed of?"
  "Bought out, driven out, maybe murdered, maybe
ruined reputations or finances or both."
  "And I thought our list was long!"
  "This is the tip of the iceberg. I have other
documents that we need to get photocopied and stored
somewhere safe. It could all work into a very good case
against not only Kaseph but the Omni
Corporation-evidence that could prove a long history
of wiretapping, extortion, racketeering,
terrorism, murder. Kaseph's creativity in these
areas knows no bounds."
  "The ultimate gangster."
  "With an international mob, don't
forget, unnaturally unified by their common allegiance
to the Universal Consciousness Society."
  Just then Kevin, who had been running off
photocopies of Susan's stolen documents,
hissed at them, "Hey, there's a cop out there!"
  Susan and Bernice froze.
  "Where?" said Bernice. "What's he doing?"
  "He's across the street. It's a stakeout,
I'll bet!"
  Susan and Bernice went carefully toward the
front to look. They found Kevin crouched in the
doorway of the copier room. It was broad daylight
now, and light was streaming in the front office window.
  Kevin pointed to a plain old Ford parked across the
street, just visible through the front windows. A
plainly dressed man sat behind the wheel, doing
nothing in particular.
  "Kelsey," said Weed. "I've had some
run-ins with him. Dressed in his civics and driving
an old Ford, but I'd know that face a mile
away."
  "More of Brummel's doing, no doubt," said
Bernice.
  "So what do we do now?" Susan asked.
  "Get down!" Kevin hissed.
  They ducked into doorways just as another man
came up to the front window and looked inside.
  "Michaelson," said Kevin. "Kelsey's
partner."
  Michaelson tried the door. It was locked.
He looked through the other front windows, and then he
walked out of sight.
  "Time for another miracle, huh?" Bernice
said, a little sarcastically.
  Hank awoke early that morning and thought for sure
that some great miraculous intervention of God had
occurred, or that he was about to ascend into heaven, or that
the angels had come to rescue him, or... or...
or he just didn't know what. But as he lay there on
his cot, half asleep, still in that semiconscious
state where you're not too sure of what is real and
what isn't he heard worship songs and hymns
floating around his head. He even thought he could hear
Mary's voice singing among all those other voices.
For a long time he just lay there enjoying it not wanting
to wake up for fear that it might go away.
  But Marshall exclaimed, "What the heck is
that?"
  He heard it too? Hank woke up at last.
He jolted up from his cot and went to the
bars. The sound was coming in through the window at the end of the
cellblock. Marshall joined him and they listened
together. They could hear the name "Jesus" being sung and
praised.
  "We've made it, Hank," said Marshall.
"We're in heaven!"
  Hank was crying. If those people out there only knew
what a blessing this was! Suddenly he knew he was not
in prison any longer, not really. The gospel of
Jesus Christ was not imprisoned, and he and
Marshall were now two of the freest men in the world.
  The two of them listened for a while, and then, startling
Marshall a little, Hank started singing too. It was a
song painting Jesus Christ as a victorious
warrior and the church as His army. Hank knew all
the words, of course, and belted them right out.
  A little embarrassed, Marshall looked around. The
two car thieves in the next cell were still too
dumbfounded to complain yet. The phony check writer
only shook his head and went back to his paperback
novel. Some other guy in the last cell, offense
unknown, cursed a little, but not too loudly.
  "C'mon, Marshall," prodded Hank. "Jump
in! We just might sing ourselves out of this place."
  Marshall only smiled and shook his
head.
  Just then the big door at the end of the cellblock
burst open and in strode Jimmy Dunlop, his
face red and his hands shaking. "What's going on in
here?" he demanded. "Do you know you're causing a
disturbance?"
  "Oh, we're just enjoying the music," Hank
said, all smiles.
  Jimmy shook his finger at Hank and said,
"Well, you cut that religious stuff out right now!
It has no place in a public jail. If you
want to sing, you do it in church somewhere, not here."
  Yeah, thought Marshall, I think I know the words
well enough by now. He started singing as loudly as he
could, singing right at Jimmy Dunlop.
  It brought a very satisfying response from
Jimmy. He turned on his heels and got out of
there, slamming the door after him.
  Another song began, and Marshall thought that maybe
he'd heard this one somewhere before, maybe at Sunday
school. "Thank you, Lord, for saving my soul."
He sang it loudly, standing next to that young man of
God, the two of them holding on to those cell bars.
  "Paul and Silas!" Marshall suddenly
exclaimed. "Yeah, now I remember!"
  From that point, Marshall wasn't singing for Jimmy
Dunlop's sake.
  Tal could hear the music from where he stood in
hiding. His face was still a little grim, but he nodded his
head with satisfaction.
  A messenger arrived with the news. "The Strongman
is on his way."
  Another messenger informed him, "We have prayer
cover now from thirty-two cities. There are
fourteen more being raised up."
  Tal brought out his sword. He could feel the
blade resonating with the worship of the saints, and he
could sense the power of God's presence. He smiled
a slight smile and put the sword back. "Gather
in the sources: Lemley, Strachan, Mattily,
Cole, and Parker. Do it abruptly. The timing will
be important."
  Several warriors disappeared to their missions.

  Sandy Hogan continued to primp in front of the
mirror in Shawn's bathroom, nervously brushing
her hair, checking her makeup. Oh, I hope
I look okay... whatever will I say, what will I
do? I've never been to a meeting like this before.
  Shawn had given her some explosively
good news: Professor Langstrat had decided
that Sandy was an excellent subject with exceptional
psychic abilities, so much so that Sandy was now being
considered as a prime candidate for a special
initiation into some kind of exclusive fellowship of
psychics, an international fellowship! Sandy now
recalled hearing just a fleeting mention here and there of
some kind of Universal Consciousness group, and it
had always sounded like something very lofty, very secret, even
sacred. She had never dreamed that she would be granted
such an extraordinary opportunity, to actually
meet other psychics and become a part of their
circle of confidence! She could imagine the new
experiences and the higher insights that could be achieved in
the company of so many gifted people, all combining their
psychic skills and energies in the continuing search for
enlightenment!
  Madeline, did you have something to do with this? Just wait
until we meet again! I have a hug and a load of
thanks to give you!
  Bernice, Susan, and Kevin could do nothing but
try to preserve the evidence Susan had gathered at
so great a risk. Bernice made prints of all the
pictures Susan had taken, then Kevin ran
photocopies of the prints, along with
copies of all the other material. Bernice
looked about the building for a good hiding place to stash
all the material. Susan looked over a map and
pondered different escape routes out of town,
different means of getting out, different people they could
call once they did get out. Then the telephone
rang. They had ignored it before and let the answering
machine squawk out its usual message. But this
time, after the little beep tone, a voice said,
"Hello, this is Harvey Cole, and I've
completed working on those accounts you gave me..."
  "Wait!" said Bernice. "Turn it up!"
  Susan crawled over to the desk in the front
office where the answering machine was sitting and turned
up the volume.
  Harvey Cole's voice continued, "I really
need to get in touch with you as soon as possible."
  Bernice snatched up the telephone in
Marshall's office. "Hello? Harvey? This is
Bernice!"
  Susan and Kevin were horrified.
  "What are you doing?"
  "The cops are going to hear this, man!"
  Harvey said through the telephone and also through the
turned-up answering machine, "Oh, you're
there! I heard you were arrested last night. The
police won't tell me anything. I didn't know
where to call..."
  "Harvey, just listen. Got a pen or a
pencil?"
  "Yeah, now I do."
  "Call my uncle. His name is Jerry
Dallas; his number is 240-9946. Tell him
you know me, tell him it's an emergency, and tell
him you have materials to show Justin Parker, the county
prosecutor."
  "What? Not so fast."
  Bernice labored through the information again, more slowly.
"Now, this conversation is probably being listened
to by Alf Brummel or one of his lackeys on the
Ashton Police Force, so I want you to make
sure that if anything happens to me that information will still go
to the prosecutor so he'll wonder what's going on
in this town."
  "Am I supposed to write that down too?"
  "No. Just make sure you get in touch with Justin
Parker. If you possibly can, get him to call us
here."
  "But, Bernice, I was going to say, it's
pretty clear that the funds have been going
out, but the records don't show where"
  "We have the records that show where. We have everything.
Tell my uncle that."
  "Okay, Bernice. You really are in trouble,
then?"
  "The police are after me. They'll probably
find out I'm here because I'm talking to you and our phone
has been bugged. You'd better hurry!"
  "Yeah, yeah, okay!"
  Harvey hung up quickly.
  Susan and Kevin looked at each other and then
at Bernice.
  She looked back at them and could only say,
"Call it a gamble."
  Susan shrugged. "Well, we didn't have any
better ideas."
  The phone rang again. Bernice hesitated,
waiting for the answering machine to go through its little
recitation.
  Then came the voice. "Marshall, this is Also
Lemley. Listen, I've got some pretty
stirred-up feds here in New York that want
to talk to you about your man Kaseph. They've been
tracking him for quite some time, and if you can supply them
with any good evidence, they'd be interested
..."
  Bernice picked up the phone again. "Also
Lemley? This is Bernice Krueger. I work for
Marshall. Can you bring those men to Ashton today?"
  "What? Hello?" Lemley was taken aback.
"Are you real or a recording?"
  "Very real, and very much in need of your help.
Marshall's in jail and"
  "In jail?"
  "A bum rap. It's Kaseph's doing. He's
taking over the Whitmore College today at 2,
he has Marshall in the slammer to keep him out of the
way, and I'm a fugitive at large. It's a
long story, but your friends will love it and we've
secured the documents to prove every word of it."
  "What was the name again?"
  Bernice labored through her name again and had to spell
it twice. "Listen, they've bugged this phone, so they
probably know where I am now, so would you please
hurry up and get here and bring all the good guys you
can find? There are none left in this town."
  Also Lemley knew enough. "Okay, Bernice,
I'll do anything and everything I can. And those
eight-balls who've bugged your phone had better be
warned that if things aren't downright peachy by the
time we get there, there will most certainly be trouble!"
  "Make it the Administration Building on the
Whitmore College campus at or before 2."
  "See you then."
  Now Kevin and Susan were beginning to lighten up a
bit.
  "What was that you wanted?" asked Susan.
"Another miracle?"
  The phone rang again. Bernice didn't wait this
time, but snatched it right up.
  A voice said, "Hello, this is State
Attorney General Norm Mattily, calling for
Marshall Hogan."
  Susan couldn't hold down a little squeal.
Kevin said, "All right, all right!"
  Bernice spoke to Mattily. "Mr.
Mattily, this is Bernice Krueger, a
reporter for the Clarion. I work for Mr.
Hogan."
  "Oh ... uh, yes..." Mattily seemed
to be conferring with someone else. "Yes, uh, Eldon
Strachan is right here with me, and he tells me
there's some kind of trouble there in Ashton"
  "The worst kind. It's all coming together today.
We've gained some substantial evidence
to show you. How soon can you get here?"
  "Well, I wasn't planning on doing that..."
  "The town of Ashton is going to be taken over
by an international terrorist organization at 2 o'clock
today."
  "What?"
  Bernice could hear the muffled voice of Eldon
Strachan, probably pounding away at
Mattily's other ear. "Uh... well, where is
Mr. Hogan? Eldon is concerned for his
safety."
  "I am sure that Mr. Hogan is not at all
safe. He and I were ambushed by the local mobsters
last night during a routine investigation. Marshall
fought them off while I fled. I've been in hiding
ever since and I have no idea what's happened
to Mr. Hogan."
  "What on earth! Are you..." Eldon kept on
talking in Mattily's other ear. "Well, I'm
going to need some kind of concrete evidence, something that
will wash legally..."
  "We have it, but we'll need your direct and immediate
intervention. Can you come, and bring some real police with
you? It's a matter of life and death."
  "This had better be on the up and up!"
  "Get here, please, before 2. I would advise
meeting us at the Administration Building on the
Whitmore College campus."
  "All right," said Mattily, his voice still sounding
a bit hesitant, "I'll get down there and see
whatever it is you have to show me."
  Bernice hung up and the phone immediately rang again.
  "Clarion."
  "Hello, this is County Prosecutor Justin
Parker. With whom am I speaking?"
  Bernice clapped her hand over the receiver and
whispered to Susan, "There is a God!"
  Alf Brummel could not stand it anymore. Things
were getting out of his control, things that had a lot to do with
his own future and security. He could not stay away
from the police station any longer. He had to be there
to be sure of what was going on, to keep things from
becoming irreversibly messed up, to... oh, where
were those car keys?
  He got into his car and raced through town to the station.
  The Remnant was still singing in the parking lot when he
arrived, and by the time he knew who they were and why they were
there, it was too late to sneak away. He had
to pull in and park.
  They converged on his car like a voracious
swarm of mosquitoes.
  "Where have you been, chief?"
  "When's Hank going to get out?"
  "Mary would like to see him."
  "What in blazes do you think you're doing to that
man? He hasn't raped anyone!"
  "You'd better be ready to kiss your job
good-bye!"
  Best foot forward, Alf, if you intend to save
the rest of you. "Uh, where is Mary?"
  Mary waved to him from the front steps of the
courthouse. He tried to make a beeline for her,
and once the people saw the direction he was heading, they were
more willing to make way for him.
  Mary started asking him questions as soon as he was within
earshot of her shouts. "Mr. Brummel, I would like
to see my husband, and how dare you allow this
travesty!"
  Brummel had never in his life seen sweet,
seemingly vulnerable Mary Busche so feisty.
  He tried to think of what to say. "It's been a
real madhouse around here. I'm sorry I've been
away..."
  "My husband is innocent and you know it!" she said
quite firmly. "We don't know how you intend
to get away with this, but we are here to see that you
don't!"
  With that comment, a flurry of shouts in agreement
thundered up from the crowd.
  Brummel tried the intimidation approach. "Now
listen to me, all of you! No one is above the law,
regardless of who they are. Pastor Busche has
been accused as a sexual offender, and I have no
choice but to carry out my duties as an officer of the
law. I can't help it if we are friends or fellow
church members, this is a matter of law"
  "Bunk!" came a deep-throated shout near
Brummel.
  Brummel turned toward the voice to correct
it, but then turned pale as he saw the face of Lou
Stanley, his old comrade-in-arms.
  Lou stood his ground firmly, one hand on his
belt, the other pointing right into Brummel's face as
he said, "You've talked about pulling a stunt like this
many times, Alf! I've heard you say that all you
needed was the right opportunity. Well, now I'm
saying that you've done it. I'm accusing you, Alf!
If anybody wants my testimony in any court
of law against you, they've got it!"
  A cheer and some jeers went up.
  Then Brummel got another shock. Gordon
Mayer, the church treasurer, stepped to the front of the
crowd, and he too pointed his finger right in
Brummel's face.
  "Alf, simple dissent is one thing, but flat-out
conspiracy is quite another. You'd better be really
sure of what you're doing."
  Brummel was backed against the wall.
"Gordon... Gordon, we have to do what's
best... we ..."
  "Well, count me out!" Mayer said. "I've
done enough for you!"
  Brummel turned away from his two former
comrades, only to come face to face with the suddenly
cleaned-up Bobby Corsi!
  "Hey, Chief Brummel," said Bobby.
"Remember me? Guess who I'm working for now."
  Brummel was speechless. He began to walk
toward the police department door, as if there would be
some shelter in there from all this disaster.
  Andy Forsythe did not block his way, but walked
close enough to him to cause him to stop.
  "Mr. Brummel," said Andy, "there's a young
wife back there who would still like her requests
considered."
  Brummel walked more briskly. "I'll see
what I can do, all right? Let me check the status
of things. Just wait. I'll be with you in a moment."
  As quickly as he could, he ducked through the door and
locked it behind him just in time. The crowd followed him
like a wave and pressed up against the door,
blockading him inside.
  His new receptionist sat wide-eyed at the
reception desk, looking out the window at all the
angry faces.
  "Should... should I call the police?" she asked.
  "No," said Brummel. "They're just some friends
here to see me."
  With that, he disappeared into his office and closed the
door.
  Juleen, Juleen! This was her fault! He was
sick of her, sick of this whole thing!
  He saw a note on his desk. Sam Turner
had left a message to call. He rang the
number, and Sam answered. "How's it looking,
Sam?" Brummel asked.
  "No good, Alf. Listen, I've been on the
phone all morning, and no one wants to call any
emergency congregational meeting. They have no intentions
of voting Hank out, and few of them buy this
rape business. Let's face it, Alf, you blew
it."
  "I blew it?" Brummel exploded. "I
blew it? Wasn't this your idea too?"
  "Don't you say that!" came Turner's reply
very threateningly. "Don't you ever say that!"
  "So now you're not going to stand by me either."
  "There's nothing to stand by, Alf. The plan just
didn't fly. Busche is a boy scout and
everybody knows it, and you just won't get this rape
charge to stick."
  "Sam, we were in this together! It was going to work!"
  "It didn't, buddy. Hank's in to stay, that's
the way I see it, and I'm withdrawing from this whole
thing. You do what you have to, but you'd better do something,
or your name won't be worth a dung heap by the time this
is over."
  "Well, thanks a lot, buddy!" Brummel
angrily hung up.
  He looked at the clock. It was just about noon.
The meeting would take place in two hours.
  Hogan. He still had to get a message
to Hogan about Sandy. Oh brother, here was another of
Juleen's fine messes. Sure, Juleen, you
bet! I'm already pegged with this bum rap
against Busche, and now you want me to go on record
as an accessory to whatever you have planned for Sandy
Hogan.
  And what about Krueger? Who had she been able
to snitch to about this whole thing? He bolted from his
office and went down the hall to the dispatch room.
  "Anything yet on that fugitive?" he asked the
lone dispatcher.
  The dispatcher stuffed a bite of peanut butter
sandwich into his cheek and said, "No, it's been
pretty quiet."
  "Nothing even at the Clarion?"
  "There's a strange car parked out back, but it's
out of state and they haven't traced the plates
yet."
  "They haven't...! Get those plates traced!
Check that building! Somebody could be in there!"
  "They haven't seen anybody"
  "Check the building!" Brummel exploded.
  The receptionist called from up the hall,
"Captain Brummel, Bernice Krueger is on
the phone. Should I take a message?"
  "Nooo!" he screamed, running up the hall
to his office. "I'll take it in here!"
  He slammed his office door behind him and
grabbed his telephone. "Hello?" He hit the
second button on his phone. "Hello?"
  "Mr. Alfred Brummel!" came a very
condescending voice.
  "Bernice!"
  "It's time we had a talk."
  "All right. Where are you?"
  "Don't be an absolute idiot. Listen,
I'm calling to give you an ultimatum. I've
been talking to the state attorney general, the county
prosecutor, and the feds. I have evidence-and I mean
some really hard stuff-that will blow your little plot wide
open, and they're all on their way here to see it."
  "You're bluffing!"
  "You have the conversations on tape, no doubt. Just
play them back."
  Brummel smiled a bit. She had given away
where she was. "And just what is your ultimatum?"
  "Spring Hogan. Now. And call off your
manhunt for me. In two hours I intend to show my
face in this town, and I want no harassment,
especially since I'll be accompanied by many very
special guests!"
  "You're at the Clarion right now, aren't you?"
  "Yes, of course I am. And I can
see... what's his name? Kelsey, sitting out there in
that old heap, he and his partner Michaelson. I
want you to call those guys off. If you don't,
all the big boys in the world will know what happened
to me. If you do, it can only help you."
  "You're ... I still say you're bluffing!"
  "Play your little bugging machine, Alf. See if
I'm telling you the truth. I'll wait to see that
car pull away."
  Click. She hung up.
  Brummel dashed to the cabinet and opened the
doors. He pulled out the recorder. He
hesitated, thought furiously, froze for a moment.
He shoved the recorder back into the cabinet,
slammed the doors shut, and dashed down the hall to the
dispatch room.
  The dispatcher was still munching on his sandwich.
Brummel reached right across his lap and grabbed the
microphone, throwing the talk switch.
  "Units two and three, Kelsey,
Michaelson, 10-19. Repeat: 10-19
immediately."
  The dispatcher looked up with delight. "Hey!
What happened? Did Krueger turn herself in?"
  Alf Brummel never was good at
comebacks for stupid or illtimed questions. He dashed
up the hall to the front desk and dialed the
courthouse.
  "Get me Dunlop."
  Dunlop picked up the other end.
  "Jimmy, Hogan and Busche are being released
on personal recognizance. Turn them loose."
  Jimmy gave him some more dumb questions.
  "Just do what you're told and leave the paperwork
to me! Now go!"
  He slammed down the phone and disappeared into his
office. The receptionist continued looking out the window
at all those people. They were starting to sing again. It sounded
kind of nice.
  Bernice, Susan, and Kevin waited nervously
for either a very good or a very bad thing to happen. Either
Brummel would play ball, or they would be getting
high on tear gas within minutes. But then they heard
an engine starting up across the street.
  "Hey! "said Kevin. Susan still wrung her
hands a little. Bernice just watched, unwilling
to believe anything good too quickly.
  The old Ford pulled away, with both Kelsey and
Michaelson in it.
  Bernice didn't want to wait around.
"Let's pack all this stuff in that suitcase again
and get over to the courthouse. Marshall's going
to need a catching up."
  "You don't have to tell me twice!" said Kevin.
  All Susan could say was, "Thank you,
God. Thank you, God!"
  Alf Brummel heard only one short segment
of one telephone conversation, the one between Bernice and
State Attorney General Norm Mattily.
He knew Mattily's voice, and, yes, it
made perfectly good sense that Eldon Strachan
would go to Mattily, if Strachan had some genuinely
reliable information.
  Brummel cursed aloud. Reliable information!
All Mattily had to do was find this
blankety-blank recorder sitting here, tapped
illegally into all those phones!
  The receptionist buzzed him. He reached over
to his desk and hit the intercom switch.
  "Yeah?" he said very crossly.
  "Juleen Langstrat on line two," she said.
  "Take a message!" he said, and flipped off
his switch.
  He knew why she was calling. She was going to nag
him, remind him to be there at the afternoon
meeting involving Sandy Hogan.
  He opened the other cabinet door and pulled out the
records and stored tape recordings. Where in the world
could he stash all this stuff? How could he destroy
it?
  The receptionist buzzed him again.
  "What?"
  "She insists that you talk to her."
  He picked up the telephone, and Langstrat's
oily voice came over the line.
  "Alf, are you ready for today?"
  "Yes," he answered impatiently.
  "Then please come as soon as you can. We must
prepare the energies of the rooms before the meeting
begins, and I want to have all things in unison before
Shawn arrives with Sandy."
  "So you're really going to bring her into this?"
  "Only as a safeguard, naturally. Marshall
Hogan is out of the way, but we must be sure we
keep him there, at least until all our efforts and
visions have been fulfilled and the town of Ashton has
been afforded its victorious leap into Universal
Consciousness." She paused to relish the thought for a
moment, and then asked rather nonchalantly, "And have you
heard any news of our runaway
burglar?"
  Before he even knew why he was doing it, he lied.
"No, nothing yet. She's out of the way."
  "Certainly. I'm sure she'll be found soon
enough, and after today she will have no hope at all."
  He said nothing to that. He was suddenly distracted
by a thought that poured over him like a ten-foot wave:
Alf, she believed you. She really doesn't know!
  "You will be here immediately, Alf?" she asked and
ordered at the same time.
  She doesn't know what's been happening, was all
Brummel could think. She's vulnerable! I know
something she doesn't!
  "I'll be right over," he said mechanically.
  "See you soon," she said with an authoritarian
finality, and hung up.
  She doesn't know! She thinks everything is going
fine and there will be no trouble! She thinks she'll get
away with it all!
  Brummel let his thoughts race as he considered his
options, his newly acquired exclusive knowledge, and the
strange sense of power it gave him. Yes, it was
all as good as over, and he was probably going to go
down... but he had the power to bring that woman, that
spider, that witch, down with him!
  Suddenly he had no desire to destroy the
tapes and the records. Let the authorities find
them. Let them find everything! Maybe he'd even
show them.
  As for the Plan, ifKaseph and his Society are
so all-knowing and so invincible, why should you tell them
anything? Let them find out for themselves!
  "Wouldn't it be nice to see your dear Juleen
sweating for once?" asked Lucius.
  "It would be nice to see Juleen sweating for
once," Brummel muttered.

  Hank and Marshall stepped out the basement door
of the courthouse and found themselves all alone. Their friends
were still congregated at the police department door,
singing, talking, praying, demonstrating.
  "Praise the Lord," was all Hank could say.
  "Oh, I believe it, I believe it,"
Marshall answered.
  It was John Coleman who first spotted them and
let out a whoop. The others all turned their heads
and were shocked and ecstatic. They came running up
to Hank and Marshall like chickens to feed.
  But they all made room for Mary, even gave
her loving pushes forward as she ran by.
The Lord was so good! Here was Hank's dear Mary,
weeping and hugging and kissing and whispering her love
to him, and he could hardly believe it was really
happening. He had never felt so separated from her
before.
  "Are you all right?" she kept asking him, and he
kept telling her, "I'm just fine, just fine."
  "It's a miracle," said the others. "The Lord
has answered our prayers. He got you out of
prison just like Peter."
  Marshall understood when they virtually ignored
him. This was Hank's moment.
  But what was going on over there? Through the heads,
shoulders, and bodies Marshall noted Alf
Brummel ducking quickly out the front door and
into his car. He sped away. The creep. If I
were him, I'd duck out too.
  And here came... No! No, it couldn't be!
Marshall started easing his way through the crowd, craning
his neck to see for sure if the passengers in this just
arriving car were who they seemed to be. Yes!
Bernice was even waving to him! And there was Weed,
alive! That other gal, the one driving... she
couldn't be! But she had to be! Susan
Jacobson, back from the dead, no less!
  Marshall made his way through Hank's admirers
and broke into a very brisk, wide-grinned walk to where
Susan was just parking the car. Wow! When these people
pray, God listens!
  Bernice burst from the car and threw her arms around
him.
  "Marshall, are you all right?" she said, almost
crying.
  "Are you all right?" he asked her back.
  A voice behind them said, "Oh, Mrs. Hogan,
I've really wanted to meet you."
  It was Hank. Marshall looked at the man of
God, standing there all smiles, with his little wife
by his side and God's people all behind him, and he
felt the hug go out of his arms.
  Bernice slipped limply out of the embrace.
  "Hank," said Marshall with a broken kind of tone
Bernice had never heard from him before, "this is not my
wife. This is Bernice Krueger, my
reporter." Then Marshall looked at Bernice and
said with great love and respect, "And a good one,
too!"
  Bernice knew immediately that something had happened
to Marshall. It didn't surprise her; something had
been happening to her too, and she could see in
Marshall's face and detect in his voice that same
inner brokenness she had been feeling in herself. Somehow
she knew that this young man standing next to Marshall had
something to do with it all.
  "And who is your fellow jailbird here?" she
asked.
  "Bernice Krueger, meet Hank Busche,
pastor of Ashton Community Church and a very recent,
very good friend of mine."
  She shook his hand, shoving all her thoughts and
emotions aside. Time was running out.
  "Marshall, listen carefully. We have a
sixty-second crash course to give you!"
  Hank excused himself and returned to his excited
flock.
  When Bernice introduced Susan to Marshall,
he thought he was extending his hand to nothing less than a
miracle.
  "I'd heard that you'd been killed, and Kevin
too."
  "I'm looking forward to sharing the whole story with
you," Susan replied pleasantly, "but right now our
time is very short and there's a lot you need to know."
  Susan opened the trunk of her car and showed
Marshall the contents of her battle-weary
suitcase. Marshall loved every minute of it. It was
all there, everything he thought he'd lost
to sticky-fingered Carmen and these creeps, this
"Society."
  "Kaseph is coming to Ashton today to close the deal
with the college board of regents. At 2 o'clock, the
papers will be signed and the Whitmore College
campus will be quietly sold to Omni
Corporation."
  "The Society, you mean," said Marshall.
  "Of course. It's a key move. When the
college goes, the town will ultimately go with it."
  Bernice burst in with her news about Mattily,
Parker, and Lemley, not to mention Harvey Cole's
untangling of Baylor's records.
  "So when do they get here?" Marshall asked.
  "Hopefully in time for that board meeting. I
told them to meet us there."
  "I just might invite myself to the meeting. I know
they'll all be very happy to see me."
  Susan touched Marshall's arm and said, "But you
need to be warned that they've been working on your
daughter Sandy."
  "Don't I know that!"
  "They might have her under their influence right
now; it's Kaseph's style, believe me. If you
try to make a move against him, it could endanger
her."
  Bernice told Marshall about Pat, about the
diary, about the mysterious friend named Thomas, and about that
deceiving devil's advocate, Shawn Ormsby.
  Marshall looked at them for a moment, then called,
"Hank, this is where you and your people come in!"
  A summer Sunday in Ashton is usually one
of the happiest, carefree days of the week. The
farmers jaw with each other; the store clerks enjoy a
leisurely pace; other business owners close up
shops; moms, dads, and kids think of fun things
to do and neat places to go. Many lawnchairs are
occupied, the streets are a lot quieter, and
families are usually together. But this sunny, summer
Sunday did not feel right to anyone: one farmer had
a cow bloating on him while another had a
tractor with a burned out magneto that no one seemed
to have in stock; and though neither farmer was in any way
responsible for the other's problems, they still got into a
fight about it. The storeclerks working today were having
trouble counting change, and were getting into very uncomfortable
discussions with the customers whose change they were trying
to count. Every business owner had no desire
but to get out of his or her business, because no matter
what it was, it was doomed to fail sooner or
later. Many wives were nervous and wanted to go somewhere,
anywhere, they didn't know where; their husbands would
load the kids into all the station wagons, then the
wives wouldn't want to go anymore, then the kids
would get into fights in the cars, then their parents would
get into fights, and then the families would go nowhere
while the station wagons remained parked in all those
driveways with screams coming through their windows and their
horns honking. The lawnchairs either ripped through under
their owners' bottoms or just plain couldn't be found;
the streets were hectic with frantic drivers driving
with no destination in mind; the dogs, those ever
vigilant dogs of Ashton, were barking and howling and
whining again, this time with their fur bristling, their tails
up and their faces toward the east.
  Faces toward the east? There were many. Here a
college administrator, there a Post Office
employee, over here a family of potters and
weavers, over there an insurance salesman. All
over the town, certain people who knew a certain destiny
and a certain sympathetic spiritual vibration stood
silently, as if worshiping, their faces toward the
east.
  And there was no small stir around the big dead
tree. Rafar rose from his big branch, his
gamemaster's seat of power, and stood on the hill,
looking out over the little town of Ashton with his leering
yellow eyes as his hordes of attending spirits gathered
around him. His muscular arms rippled, his
expansive black wings rising behind him like a royal
trail, his jewels gleaming and glittering in the sun.
  He too looked toward the east. He waited
until he saw it. Then his breath sucked in through his
fangs like a gasp of surprise, but this was no
surprise. It was the highest kind of thrill, a
demonic exhilaration such as he felt only
rarely, a precious and very ripe fruit to be
enjoyed only after much labor and preparation.
  His black-haired hand grabbed the golden handle of
his sword and he pulled the blade from its sheath,
making it sing and drone and shimmer with blood-red
light. The attending demons all gasped and cheered
as Rafar held the sword high, bathing the whole
gathering in its sinister red light. The huge wings
suddenly disappeared into a blur andwitha rush of wind and a
blast of power they carried him into the air, out over the
wide valley, out over the little town, out into the open
where he could be seen from any part of the town or
any hiding place near it.
  He climbed to a lofty height, then hovered, his
sword still in his hand. His head turned this way and that,
his body slowly rotating, his eyes shifting about.
  "Captain of the Hosts of Heaven!" he bellowed,
and the echoes of his booming voice traveled back and
forth across the valley like thunder. "Captain Tal,
hear me!"
  Tal could hear Rafar perfectly. He knew
Rafar was about to make a speech, and he knew what
the demon warlord was about to say. He too was watching
the eastern horizon as he stood hidden in the forest,
his chief warriors beside him. Rafar continued to look
everywhere for any sign of his adversary. "I who have
never yet seen your face in this, our adventure, now
show you mine! Behold it, you and your warriors! For
today I place this face forever in your memory as the
face of him who vanquished you!"
  Tal, Guilo, Triskal, Krioni,
Mota, Chimon, Nathan, Armoth, Signa-all
were there together, gathered for this moment, gathered to listen to this
long-awaited oration.
  Rafar continued, "Today I place the name of
Rafar, Prince of Babylon, forever in your
memory as the name of him who remains bold
and stands undefeated!" Rafar took a few more quick
turns, looking all around him for any sign of his
archenemy. "Tal, Captain of the Hosts of Heaven,
will you dare to show your face to me? I think not! Will you
even dare to assail me? I think not! Will you and your
motley little band of highwaymen dare to stand in the path
of the powers of the air?" Rafar threw in a derisive
chuckle. "I think not!"
  He paused for effect, and allowed himself a mocking
grin. "I give you leave, dear Captain Tal,
to withdraw yourself, to spare yourself the anguish awaiting you
at my hand! I grant to you and to your warriors now the
occasion to turn away, for I do pronounce that the
battle's decision is made already!" Rafar then
pointed his sword toward the eastern horizon and said,
"Look to the east, captain! There is the outcome
clearly written!"
  Tal and his chiefs were already looking toward the
eastern horizon, their attention rapt and unswerving,
even when a young messenger came soaring in with the news-
"Hogan and Busche are free! They've" He
stopped in midsentence. His eyes followed every other
gaze to the east, and he saw what so held their
interest.
  "Oh, no!" he said in a whisper.
"No, no!"
  At first the cloud had been only a distant
fingertip of blackness poking up over the horizon;
it could have been a raincloud, or factory smoke,
or a distant, haze-darkened mountain appearing
suddenly. But then, as it drew nearer, its borders
expanded outward like the slowly emerging edge of a blunt
arrowhead stretching slowly and surely across the
horizon like a dark shroud, like a steadily rising
tide of blackness blocking out the sky. At first,
one direct glance could contain it all; in just a few
minutes, the eyes had to sweep back and forth, from one
end of the horizon to the other.
  "Not since Babylon," Guilo said quietly
to Tal.
  "They were there," said Tal, "every one of them, and now
they're back. Look at the front ranks, flying
multiple layers over, under, and within."
  "Yes," said Guilo, observing. "Still the same
style of assault."
  A new voice said, "Well, so far, Tal,
your plan is working very well. They've all come out of
hiding, and in countless numbers."
  It was the General. He was expected.
  Tal answered, "And hopefully they are
planning on a rout."
  "At least your old rival is, to hear him
boast."
  Tal only smiled and said, "My General,
Rafar boasts with or without reason."
  "What of the Strongman?"
  "By the shape of the cloud, I would say he
precedes it by just a few miles."
  "Having possessed Kaseph?"
  "That would be my guess, sir."
  The General looked carefully at the approaching
cloud, now a deep, inky black and spread like a
canopy across the sky. The deep, rumbling drone
of the wings was just becoming audible.
  "How do we stand?" the General asked.
  Tal answered, "Prepared."
  Then, as the sound of the wings grew louder and the shadow
of the cloud began to fall across the fields and farmlands
beyond Ashton, a reddish tint began to spread through the
cloud as if it were burning from within.
  "They've drawn their swords," said Guilo.
  Why am I so afraid? Sandy wondered.
  Here she was, holding Shawn's hand, going up the
front steps of the Administration Building on
campus, about to meet some people who had to be the
real keys to her destiny, her stepping-stone to real
spiritual fulfillment, to higher consciousness, maybe
even to self-realization, and yet... all the talk
could not remove a nagging fear she felt deep within
her. Something just wasn't right. Maybe it was just a
normal nervousness such as one would feel before a wedding
or any other very significant event, or maybe
it was that last remaining shred of her old, discarded
Christian heritage still holding her, pulling her
back as if with a leash. Whatever it was, she tried
to ignore it, overcome it with reason, even use
relaxation techniques she had learned in her
college yoga class.
  Come on, Sandy... steady breaths now...
focus, focus ... realign your energies.
  There, that's better. I don't want Shawn or
Professor Langstrat or anyone to think I'm
not ready to be initiated.
  All the way up the elevator she talked and
prattled and tried to laugh, and Shawn laughed
along, and by the time they reached the third floor and the
door numbered 326, she thought she was ready.
  Shawn opened the door, saying, "You'll love
this," and they went in.
  She didn't see them. To Sandy, this was
only the staff lounge, a very pleasant room with
soft carpet, leather-upholstered couches, and
massive burl coffee tables.
  But the room was occupied, very densely and
hideously, and the yellow eyes glared and stared at her
from all around, from every corner and chair and wall. They
were waiting for her.
  One hissed out asthmatically, "Hello there,
child."
  Sandy extended her hand to Oliver Young. "Pastor
Young, what a pleasant surprise," she said.
  Another let out a long, drooling snicker and
said, "I'm very glad you could make it."
  Sandy gave Professor Juleen Langstrat
an embrace.
  She looked around the room and recognized many of the
college faculty, some of her own professors,
even some business people and blue-collar workers from around
town. There, in the corner, stood the new owner of
what used to be Joe's Market. These thirty people
looked like a cross section of Ashton's best.
  The spirits were all ready and waiting. Deception
showed her off like a trophy. Madeline was there,
smiling wickedly, and beside her, or it, was another
demon accomplice, with loop after loop of
heavy glistening chains draped over his bony hands.
  In the cloud, the myriads of demons were
haughty, wild, drunk with the anticipation of
victory, of slaughter, of unprecedented power and
glory. Below them, the town of Ashton was a mere
toy, such a very small little hamlet in such avast
countryside. Layer upon layer of spirits droned
steadily forward, and myriads of yellow eyes peered
down at the prize. The town was quiet and
unguarded. Ba-al Rafar had done his work well.
  A series of harsh screeches came from the front
ranks of the cloud-the generals were calling out orders.
Immediately the demon commanders on the fringes of the cloud
relayed the orders to the swarms behind each of them, and as
the commanders flew out from the cloud and began to drop
downward, followed by their countless squadrons, the
edges of the cloud began to wilt and stretch toward the
ground.
  In the large, formally furnished third-floor
conference room, the regents began to gather. Eugene
Baylor was there with a pile of financial records
and reports, smoking a cigar and feeling chipper.
Dwight Brandon looked just a little somber, but he was
conversational enough. Delores Pinckston was not
feeling well at all, and only wanted
to get the whole thing over with. Kaseph's four
lawyers, very professional, sharp-as-a-whip types,
came in smirking. Adam Jarred strolled in and
seemed more concerned with going fishing afterward than with the
business they would be conducting. Every once in a while,
someone would look at his watch or at the fancy
clock on the wall. It would soon be 2 o'clock.
Some were feeling just a little nervous.
  The evil spirits that had come into the room with them were
feeling nervous also-they realized they would soon be in
the presence of the Strongman. This would be their very first
time.
  Alexander M. Kaseph's long, black,
chauffeur-driven limousine entered the city limits
and turned onto College Way. Kaseph sat
in regal splendor in the back, cradling his
briefcase in his lap and taking a lustful look out
the tinted windows at the beautiful town passing by.
He was making plans, envisioning changes, deciding
what he would keep and what he would remove.
  So was the Strongman, sitting inside him. The
Strongman laughed his deep, gargling laugh, and
Kaseph laughed the same way. The Strongman
couldn't remember when he had been so pleased and so
proud.
  The cloud was drooping down at the edges as it
continued to move forward, and Tal and his company kept
watching from their hiding place.
  "They're lowering their perimeter," said Guilo.
  "Yes," said Tal with fascination. "As usual,
they intend to contain the town on all sides before
actually descending into it."
  As they watched, the edges of the cloud dropped like
black curtains that gradually wrapped around the
town; demons were slipping into place like bricks in
a wall. Every sword was drawn, every eye was wary.
  "Hogan and Busche?" Tal asked a
messenger.
  "They are moving into place, along with the
Remnant," the messenger answered.
  Kaseph's limousine cruised toward the
college, and Kaseph could see the stately, red
brick buildings reaching up through the maples and oaks
all around the campus. He looked at his watch.
He would be right on time.
  As the limousine passed through an intersection, a
green, unmarked squad car pulled out onto
College Way and began to follow. Its driver was
Chief of Police Alf Brummel. He looked
grim and very nervous. He knew whom he was
following.
  As the limousine and then the squad car passed through
another intersection, the light changed and a stream of
cars all turned right onto College Way and
followed behind. The first car making the turn was the big
brown Buick.
  "Well, well!" said Marshall as he, Hank,
Bernice, Susan, and Kevin all noticed the
two cars they were following.
  "Did you recognize Kaseph?" Susan
asked Bernice.
  "Yes, good old Pudgy himself."
  Marshall had to wonder, "So what's up here? It
looks like the meeting is still on, regardless."
  Bernice said, "Maybe Brummel didn't
believe me after all."
  "Oh, he believed you, all right. He did
everything you told him to do."
  "So why hasn't Kaseph called this whole thing
off? He's walking right into it."
  "Either Kaseph thinks he's untouchable, or
Brummel hasn't told him anything."
  Hank looked behind them. "Looks like they all
made it through the light."
  The others looked back. Yes, there was
Andy, driving his Volkswagen bus crammed with
praying believers, and here came Cecil Cooper's
pickup with the cab and the bed full. The ranch wagon
of John and Patty Coleman followed behind that, and
somewhere back there was the former pastor, James
Farrel, driving a good-sized van carrying Mary and
Grandma Duster and several others.
  Marshall looked ahead, and then behind, and then
concluded, "This is going to be one heck of a
meeting."

  At Juleen Langstrat's direction, all the
smiling psychics, along with Sandy and Shawn, made
themselves comfortable in the plush chairs and couches,
arranged in a rough circle around the room.
  "This is a significant day," said Langstrat
warmly.
  "Yes, indeed!" said Young.
  The others also agreed. Sandy smiled back at
them all. She was very impressed with the reverence they all
seemed to have for this great woman, this great pioneer.
  Langstrat assumed a lotus position in her
big chair at the head of the group. Several others
who had the desire and the flexibility did
likewise. Sandy just relaxed where she
was, settling into the couch and resting her head back.
  "Our purpose here is to combine our psychic
energies to assure the success of today's venture.
Our long awaited goal will soon be realized: the
Whitmore College campus, and afterward the whole
town of Ashton, are going to become a part of the New
World Order."
  Everyone in the room started applauding. Sandy
applauded as well, even though she didn't really
know what Langstrat was talking about. It did sound
vaguely familiar, though. Was it her own father who
had said something about people wanting to take over the town?
Oh, but he couldn't have been talking about the same
thing!
  "I have a wonderful new Ascended Master
to introduce to you," said Langstrat, and faces all
around the room immediately lit up with excitement and
expectation. "He has lived long and traveled
far, and has learned the wisdom of countless ages.
He has come to Ashton to oversee this project."
  "We welcome him," said Young. "What is his
name?"
  "His name is Rafar. He is a prince from
long ago, and once ruled in ancient Babylon.
He has lived many lives, and now
returns to let us benefit from his wisdom."
Langstrat closed her eyes and breathed deeply.
"Let us call him, and he will speak to us."
  Sandy could feel a queasiness in the pit of her
stomach. She thought she felt chilled. The
gooseflesh on her arms was real enough. But she
brought these feelings under discipline, closed her
eyes, and began her own relaxation, listening intently
for the sound of Langstrat's voice.
  The others also relaxed and went into a trance. For a
moment the room was silent except for the deep breaths
being drawn and expelled by everyone present.
  Then the name formed on Langstrat's lips.
"Rafar..."
  They all echoed, "Rafar..."
  Langstrat called the name again, and continued
to call, and the others let all their thoughts narrow down
to that one name as they spoke it softly.
  Rafar was standing by the big dead tree, gleefully
watching as the cloud spread over the town. At the
sound of the call, his eyes narrowed with a very crafty
expression and his mouth stretched slowly into a
fang-baring grin.
  "The pieces now fall into place," he said.
He turned to an aide. "Any word from
Prince Lucius?"
  The aide was happy to report, "Prince
Lucius says he has surveyed all fronts and
finds no trouble or resistance."
  Rafar roused ten demon monsters with a sweep of
his wing, and they gathered at his side in an instant.
"Come," he said, "let us finish this business."
Rafar's wings clapped downward, and he shot into the
air, his ten rogues following him like a regal
honor guard. High above, the cloud stretched across
the sky like an oppressive, light-blocking shroud,
its shadow of evil and spiritual darkness falling over the
town. As Rafar sailed over Ashton in a high
arc, he could look up and see the myriads of
yellow eyes and the red swords waving in salute.
He waved his own sword back, and they cried out
jubilantly, their numberless swords bristling
downward like a wind-stirred, inverted field of
crimson wheat. They filled the air with sulfur.
Ahead and far below was the Whitmore campus, the
ripest of ready plums. Rafar eased the whirring of
his wings and began to drop toward the Administration
Building.
  As he descended, he saw the big limousine
carrying the Strongman come up the circular
drive and stop right at the building's front door.
The sight filled him with exhilaration. This was it: the
moment! He and his demon escorts disappeared through the
roof of the building just as the Strongman and his human
host emerged from the car... and just a little too soon
to see a stream of cars not far behind that limousine, now
finding parking spots here, there, and everywhere.
  Alf Brummel got out of his car in one hurried
jolt. He stood there for just a moment, building up
courage, and then started for the main door of the building
with stiff, jittery strides.
  Marshall parked the Buick, and the five of them
got out. All around, they could hear car doors
slamming as the Remnant found parking spaces and then
each other.
  "Brummel doesn't look too happy,"
Marshall observed.
  The other four looked just in time to see Brummel
go through the front door.
  "Maybe he's going to warn Kaseph," said
Bernice.
  "So where are all our powerful friends?" Marshall
asked.
  "Don't worry... at least not too much. They
said they'd be here."
  Susan said, "I'm quite sure the meeting is
to take place in the third-floor conference room.
It's where the board of regents usually meets."
  "So where do I find Sandy?" Marshall asked.
  Susan could only shake her head. "That I
don't know."
  They hurried toward the building, and from every
direction the Remnant converged on the front
steps.
  Lucius could sense the tension in the air, like one
huge rubber band pulled to its limit and about to snap.
As he dropped quietly out of the sky and alighted
on the roof of Ames Hall, right across the commons from
the Administration Building, he could see the cloud still
lowering its perimeter, spreading a thick drapery
all around the town. The atmosphere became thick and
choking with the presence of so many foul spirits.
  Suddenly he heard a frantic flapping behind him
and turned to see a little sentry demon, a petty
creature, a busybody, flitting up to speak
to him.
  "Prince Lucius, people are gathering below! They are
not ours! They are saints of God!" the little thing
gasped.
  Lucius was irritated. "I have eyes,
little insect!" he hissed. "Pay them no mind."
  "But what if they start praying?"
  Lucius grabbed the little demon by one wing, and it
fluttered about in pitiful little circles at the end of
his arm. "Silence, you!"
  "Rafar must know!"
  "Silence!"
  The little creature settled down, and Lucius
brought him to the edge of the roof for a brief lesson.
  "So what if they do pray?" Lucius said with a
fatherly tone. "Has it helped them to this point? Has
it slowed our progress one iota? And you have seen the
power and might of Ba-al Rafar, have you not?"
Lucius couldn't help the sarcastic tone with which he
added, "You know that Rafar is all-powerful, and
undefeatable, and does not need our help!" The little
demon listened with wide eyes. "Let us not bother
the great Ba-al Rafar with our petty worries!
He can handle this endeavor... all by himself!"
  Tal remained steady and kept watching. Guilo
grew more and more restless, pacing about, looking from one end
of the town to the other.
  "Soon the perimeter will be entirely enclosed,"
he said. "They will have enveloped the entire town, and
there will be no escape."
  "Escape?" said Tal, his eyebrows raised.
  "Purely a tactical consideration," Guilo
replied with a shrug.
  "The moment is approaching very quickly now," said
Tal, looking toward the college. "In just a few
minutes, all the players will be in their places."
  The demons in the conference room could feel him
coming, and they braced themselves. The hair bristled on
their arms, necks, and backs. A darkness, a
crawling cloud of evil was coming down the hall.
Quickly each one looked himself over to make sure
nothing was out of place, that his appearance was impeccable.
  The door opened. They froze in respect and
homage.
  And there he stood, the Strongman, nothing less
than the most horrible nightmare.
  "Good day to you," he said.
  "Good day to you, sir," the regents and lawyers
answered Alexander Kaseph as he entered the room
and started shaking their hands.
  Alf Brummel had no desire to meet up with
Alexander Kaseph. He even waited to take a
different elevator. When the elevator opened on
the third floor, he peeked to see if the coast was
clear before he stepped out. Only after he
heard the big door to the conference room down the hall
click shut did he make his way down the hall
himself, going very quietly to Room 326.
  He stood for a moment outside the door, listening
intently. It was pretty quiet in there. The session
must be underway. He turned the knob very slowly and
cracked the door just enough to see in. Yes, there was
Langstrat in meditation, her eyes closed. She was
the only one Brummel was worried about, and for now she
wasn't looking.
  He stepped into the room quietly and found a
chair halfway around the circle from Langstrat.
He looked around, sizing up the situation. Yes,
they were calling for a certain spirit guide. He had never
heard this particular name before. This entity must be some
new personage brought in for the project today.
  Oh no. There was Sandy Hogan, also meditating.
She was calling the name as well. Well,
Brummel, what do you do now?
  Outside, the Remnant was ready for orders.
Hank and Marshall gave them a very brief rundown
on the present situation, and then Hank concluded,
"We really don't know what we're going to encounter
in there, but we know we have to go in, at least to see if
we can locate Sandy. There's no question that this
is a spiritual battle, so you know what you all have
to do."
  They all knew, and they were ready.
  Hank continued, "Andy, I'd like you and Edith and
Mary to take charge out here and lead in the prayer and
worship. I'll be going inside with Marshall and the
others."
  Marshall conferred with Bernice. "Stay here and
keep an eye out for our visitors. The rest of us
will go in and see if we can find where this meeting is
taking place."
  Marshall, Hank, Kevin, and Susan went
into the building. Bernice went to a vacant spot
on the steps and sat down there to watch and wait. She
could not help but observe the Remnant. There was
something about them that felt all too familiar, and
very... well, very wonderful.
  Rafar and his ten escorts had been in the lounge
for quite some time now, just listening and watching. Finally
Rafar stepped up behind Langstrat and sank his
talons deep into her skull. She twitched and
gagged for a moment and then slowly, hideously, her
countenance took on the unmistakable expressions of the
Prince of Babylon himself.
  "Indeeeeeeeed!" said Rafar's deep,
guttural voice from Langstrat's throat.
  Everyone in the room shuddered. Several eyes
popped open with a start, and then widened at the sight of
Langstrat, her eyes bulging, her teeth bared,
her back arched like a crouching lion. Brummel could
only cringe and wish he could disappear into his chair
before that thing spotted him. But it was looking at Sandy,
drooling.
  "Indeeeeed!" the voice said again. "Have you come
together to see your vision truly fulfilled? So it shall
be!" The creature sitting in the chair pointed a
crooked finger at Sandy. "And who is this newcomer,
this searcher for the hidden wisdom?"
  "S-Sandy Hogan," she answered, her eyes
still closed. She was afraid to open them.
  "I understand that you have walked many pathways with your
instructor, Madeline."
  "Yes, Rafar, I have."
  "Descend within yourself again, Sandy Hogan, and
Madeline will meet you there. We will wait."
  Sandy had only a fraction of a second to wonder
how she would ever be able to relax herself into an altered
state. Then a slimy, deathlike spirit behind her
clapped his bony hand down on her head, and she went
under immediately. Her eyes rolled upward,
she wilted in her chair, and she felt her body
dissolving away, along with her rational thoughts and nagging
fears. All outside sensations began to vanish, and
she was floating in pure, ecstatic nothingness. She
heard a voice, a very familiar voice.
  "Sandy," the voice called.
  "Madeline," she answered. "I'm coming!"
  Madeline appeared deep within some endless
tunnel, floating forward, her arms outstretched.
Sandy moved toward the tunnel to meet her.
Madeline came into sharp focus, her eyes
sparkling, her smile like warming sunshine. Their hands
met and grasped each other tightly.
  "Welcome!" said Madeline.
  Alf Brummel watched it all happen. He
could see the dopey, ecstatic look on Sandy's
face. They were going to take her! All he could do was
sit there and fidget and shake and sweat.
  Lucius floated silently down through the roof of the
Administration Building and landed on the third
floor, folding his wings behind him. He could hear
Rafar bellowing and boasting in the lounge; he could
hear the Strongman going through his preliminaries in the
conference room. So far they had no fears or
suspicions. He heard the elevator
opening down the hall and then the footsteps of several
people. Yes, this would be Hogan the hound and the praying
man, Busche, and the one person Strongman would be the
most loath to see alive: the Maidservant.
  Suddenly there was a flutter of wings and a frantic
gasping. A demon shot down the hall toward him,
wings rushing, his face filled with terror.
  "Prince Lucius!" it cried. "Treachery!
We've been tricked! Hogan and Busche are
free! The Maidservant is alive! Weed is
alive!"
  "Silence!" Lucius cautioned.
  But the demon just kept spouting. "The saints are
gathered and are praying! You must warn the Ba-al"
  The demon's ranting ended abruptly in a choked
gargle, and he looked at Lucius with his eyes
full of horror and questions. He began to shrivel.
He clawed at Lucius in an effort to remain
upright. Lucius pulled his sword out of the demon's
belly and swung it in a fiery arc through the ebbing
body. The demon disintegrated, dissolved in a
puff of red smoke.
  Outside on the front steps, even as
passersby stared and gawked, the Remnant was in
prayer.
  Sandy could see other beautiful beings emerging from the
tunnel behind Madeline.
  "Oh ..." she asked, "who are these?"
  "New friends," said Madeline. "New spirit
guides to take you higher and higher."
  Alexander Kaseph began to exchange
important documents and contracts with the regents and the
attorneys. They were discussing all the little loose
ends that needed sewing up. Most of it was minor. It
would not take long.
  The cloud finally formed a complete enclosure around
the town of Ashton. Tal and his company found themselves
trapped under a thick, impenetrable tent of
demons. The spiritual darkness became deep and
oppressive. It was difficult to breathe. The steady
drone of the wings seemed to permeate everything.
  Suddenly Guilo whispered, "They're
descending!" They all looked up and could see the
ceiling of demons, that boiling red and yellow tinted
blanket of black, starting to settle downward, coming
closer and closer to the town. Soon Ashton would be
buried.
  Several cars were just turning onto College
Way. The first carried County Prosecutor
Justin Parker, the second Eldon
Strachan and State Attorney General Norm
Mattily, the third Also Lemley and three
federal agents. As they passed through an intersection,
a fourth car turned right and joined the procession. This
car just happened to carry that true-blue accountant
Harvey Cole, with a sizable stack of papers beside
him on the seat.
  Tal now held a golden trumpet in his hand,
gripping it very tightly, every muscle and every tendon
tensed. "Get ready! "he ordered.

  Marshall, Hank, Susan, and Kevin walked
quietly down the hall, listening for any sounds and
checking the numbers on all the doors. Susan
gestured toward the conference room, and they paused just
outside. Susan recognized Kaseph's
voice. She nodded to the others.
  Marshall put his hand on the doorknob. He
gestured to the others to wait. Then he opened the door
and stepped inside. Kaseph sat at the head of the
big conference table, and the regents and the four
attorneys were seated around it. The demons in the
room immediately drew their swords and backed up against
the walls. Not only was this the very unexpected
newspaperman, but he was accompanied
by two very mean-looking heavenly warriors, a huge
Arabian and a fierce African who looked more than
ready for a fight!
  The Strongman knew this meant trouble, but... not that
much trouble. He looked at the intruders
defiantly, even grinning just a little, and said, "And just
who are you?"
  "The name is Marshall Hogan," Marshall
told Kaseph. "I'm the editor of the Ashton
Clarion-that is, as soon as I prove to the right people
that I still rightfully own it. But I understand you and I have
had a lot to do with each other, and I think it's time
we met."
  Eugene Baylor did not like the looks of this at
all, and neither did any of the others. They were
speechless, and some looked like frightened mice with nowhere
to run. They all knew where Hogan was supposed
to be, but now, suddenly, shockingly, he was in the
worst possible place. Here!
  The Strongman's eyes took on an icy stare,
and the demons attending him drew strength from the thought that
the Strongman was invincible and diabolically clever.
He would know what to do!
  "How did you get here?" Kaseph asked for them
all.
  "I took the elevator!" Marshall snapped.
"But now I have a question for you. I want my daughter,
and I want her unharmed. Let's deal,
Kaseph. Where is she?"
  Kaseph and the Strongman only laughed
derisively. "Deal, you say? You, a mere man,
wish to deal with me?" Kaseph took a few side
glances at his team of lawyers and added, "Hogan,
you have no idea what kind of power you're dealing with."
  The demons snickered along. "Yes, Hogan,
the Strongman cannot be tampered with!"
  Nathan and Armoth were not laughing.
  "Oh, no," said Marshall. "That's where you're
wrong. I do know what kind of power I'm dealing with.
I've had some really good lessons all through this thing,
and some good lectures from my friend here."
  Marshall opened the door and in came Hank-and
Krioni, and Triskal, this time under no orders of
peace.
  The Strongman jumped up, his jagged jaws
gaping. The demons in the room started trembling and
tried to hide behind their swords.
  "Relax, relax!" said a lawyer. "They're
nothing!"
  But the Strongman could feel the presence
of the Lord God enter the room with this man. The demon
monarch knew who this was. "Busche! The praying
man!"
  And Hank knew whom he faced. The Spirit was
crying it out very loudly within Hank's heart, and that
face...
  "The Strongman, I presume!" said Hank.
  Sandy asked Madeline again, "Madeline, where
are we going? Why are you hanging on to me so?"
  Madeline would not answer but kept pulling Sandy
deeper and deeper into the tunnel. Madeline's friends
were all around Sandy, and they did not seem kind or
gentle at all. They kept pushing her, grabbing
her, forcing her along. Their fingernails were sharp.
  The people around the conference table were shocked and
nonplussed, suddenly finding themselves in the presence
of a hideous creature; they had never seen such an
expression on Kaseph's face before, and they had
never heard such a vicious voice. Kaseph rose
from his chair, his breath hissing through his teeth, his eyes
bulging, his back arched, his fists clenched.
  "You cannot defeat me, praying man!" the
Strongman bellowed, and the demons around him clung
with desperate hope to those words. "You have no power!
I have defeated you!"
  Marshall and Hank stood their ground
unflinchingly. They had tackled demons before. This was
nothing new or surprising.
  Kaseph's attorneys could not think of anything
to say.
  Marshall reached over and opened the door. With her
head held high and her face full of determination,
Susan Jacobson, the Maidservant, stepped
into the room, followed by the very angry Kevin Weed,
and four more towering guards with them. The room was getting
crowded, and tense.
  "Hello, Alex," said Susan.
  Kaseph's eyes were full of shock and fear, but
still he gasped and sputtered, "Who are you? I
don't know you. I've never seen you before."
  "Don't say anything, Alex," an attorney
advised him.
  Hank stepped forward. It was time for battle.
  "Strongman," Hank said in a firm and steady
voice, "in the name of Jesus, I rebuke you!
I rebuke you and I bind you!"
  Madeline would not let go! Her hands felt like
icy steel as she pulled Sandy along. The tunnel
was getting dark and cold.
  "Madeline!" Sandy cried.
"Madeline, what are you doing? Please let go of
me!"
  Madeline kept her face forward and would not look
back at Sandy. All Sandy could see was that long,
flowing, blonde hair. Madeline's hands were hard
and cold. They were hurting Sandy's wrists, cutting
into them.
  Sandy cried in desperation, "Madeline!
Madeline, please stop!" Suddenly the other spirit
guides pressed in all around her. They were clamping
onto her, and their steely hands hurt. "Please,
don't you hear me? Make them stop!"
  Madeline turned her head at last. Her hide
was soot-black and leathery. Her eyes were huge
yellow orbs. Her jaws were the jaws of a lion, and
saliva dribbled off her fangs. A low
guttural growl rumbled out of her throat.
  Sandy screamed. From somewhere in this blackness, this
tunnel, this nothingness, this altered state, this pit of
death and deception, she screamed from the depths of her
tortured and dying soul.
  Tal leaped from the earth. He exploded in a
burst of wings and light. The ground dropped away
and the town became a map below him as he shot over
Ashton like a comet, piercing the spiritual
darkness like a fiery arrow, illuminating the whole
valley like a prolonged lightning bolt. He
climbed, he circled; his wings were a blurred
flurry of jewels.
  The trumpet went to his lips, and the call went
forth like a shock wave to shake the heavens. It echoed
across the valley and back again, and back again, and
back again. With wave after wave it washed over the
ground, it deafened the demons, it soared down the
streets and rumbled through the alleys, it rang in every
ear with volley after volley of notes, building
higher and sounding longer, and the still, thick air was
shattered with the sound. Tal blew and blew as he
soared over the town, his wings flashing, his garments
glowing.
  The moment had come.
  The Strongman was suddenly silent. His big
eyes rolled back and forth.
  "What was that?" he hissed.
  The demons all around him were shaken and looking at
him for answers, but he had none.
  The eight heavenly warriors drew their swords.
That was answer enough.
  Rafar screamed through Langstrat, "I am
speaking here! Let nothing else draw your
attention!"
  The demons in the room tried to pay attention
again, as did the psychics they controlled.
  For a fraction of a moment, Madeline's grip
weakened. But only for a moment. But they all knew
they had heard something.
  The evil warriors in the cloud steadily settled
downward upon the town; but now their eyes were dazzled
by the sudden appearance of one lone angel tracing
brilliant streaks of light across the sky below them.
And what was this horribly loud trumpet all about?
were not the heavenly forces already defeated? Did they
dare to think they could possibly defend this town?
  Suddenly tiny bursts of light appeared all
over the town far below, flashes that did not dissipate
but remained and grew brighter. They thickened and grew
in numbers and density. The town was on fire; it was
disappearing under myriads of tiny lights, as numerous
as grains of sand. It was blinding!
  The eerie screams began at the center of the cloud
and rippled outward across the layers upon layers of
demons: "The Host of Heaven!"
  Thunderous shouts began the moment Tal touched down
on his hill and raised his blazing sword high above
his head. "For the saints of God and for the
Lamb!" Tal shouted it, Guilo shouted it,
myriads of heavenly warriors shouted it, and the
entire landscape from one end of the valley to the other,
the entire town, and even the forested hills surrounding
Ashton erupted in brilliant stars.
  From the buildings, streets, alleys, sewers,
lakes, ponds, vehicles, rooms, closets,
nooks, crannies, trees, thickets, and every other
imaginable hiding place, flaming stars shot into the
air.
  The Host of Heaven!
  Sandy was tumbling, struggling. The thing called
Madeline had both her arms; the other spirits held
her legs, her neck, her torso. They were biting
her. From somewhere the mocking voice of the Ascended
Master, Rafar, said, "Take her, Madeline!
We have her! We cannot fail now." Sandy tried
to get out of the trance, out of the altered state, out of the
nightmare, but she couldn't remember how. She heard
the metallic clinking of chains. No! NOOOOO!
  "You cannot defeat me!" the Strongman screamed, and
his demons hoped, or rather wished it were true.
  "Be quiet and come out of him!" Hank ordered.
  His words threw the demons against the walls and hit
the Strongman like a left hook.
  Kaseph hissed and spat curses and
obscenities at the young minister. The regents around
the table were all speechless; some ducked under the table.
The lawyers were trying to calm Kaseph down.
  "I want my daughter!" Marshall said. "Where
is she?"
  "It's all over," said Susan. "I've given
them all the right documents! The feds are coming to hang
you, and I'm going to tell them everything!"
  From behind the other three Kevin shouted, "Kaseph,
you think you're so tough, let's step outside and
settle this man to man!"
  The descending cloud of demons and the rising
fireball of angels began to collide in the
skies over Ashton. Thunder began to rip the sky in
response to the terrific clash of the spiritual forces.
Swords flashed, and a hail of screams and shouts
echoed across the sky. The heavenly warriors mowed through
the ranks of demons like blurring scythes. Demons
began to fall out of the sky like meteors, spinning,
smoking, dissolving.
  Tal, Guilo and the General streaked toward the
college, swords ready, the town a blur beneath
them. A very strong regiment of angelic hosts had
pushed its way through the demonic offensive
and began cordoning off the college campus.
Soon there would be an angelic canopy over the
college within the demonic canopy over the town.
The breaking of the enemy's strength would begin there.
  "They have nearly contained the Strongman!" Guilo
shouted over the roar of the wind and their wings.
  "Find Sandy!" Tal ordered. "There is no time
to spare!"
  "I'll take the Strongman," said the General.
  "And Rafar will soon get his wish," Tal said.
  They fanned out, shot forward with a new burst of
speed, and began cutting their way through the demons who
were still trying to blockade the college. The demon
warriors fell upon them like an avalanche, but for
Guilo this was good sport. Tal and the General could
hear his uproarious laughter through the thudding sounds of his
blade going through demon after demon.
  Tal was busy himself, being such a valuable prize
for the demon lucky enough to vanquish him. The most
horrible warriors were singling him out, and they didn't
fall easily. He skidded through the air
sideways, slammed one spirit with his sword, went
into a blurred spin and split the next warrior with the
force of a saw-blade. Two more dove down at him;
he shot toward them, impaled the first as he
passed it, grabbed its wingtip and whipped around in a
tight circle, coming up behind the other, his blade like a
bullet. They vanished in a cloud of red smoke.
He slipped through the clutches of several more, then
dove and zigzagged toward the college, cutting
demons down as he went. He could hear Guilo still
roaring and laughing somewhere over his left shoulder.
  The conference room was quickly losing its calm
atmosphere.
  Delores Pinckston was distraught. "I knew
it! I knew it! I knew we were all getting in
too deep."
  "Hogan," fumed Eugene Baylor, "you're
only bluffing. You have nothing."
  "I have everything, and you know it."
  Kaseph was beginning to look very ill. "Get out!
Get out of here! I'll kill you if you don't
leave!"
  Was this the real Kaseph that Marshall had been
tracking down all this time? Was this the ruthless occult
mobster who controlled such a vast international
empire? Was he actually afraid?
  "You're sunk, Kaseph!" said Marshall.
  "You're defeated, Strongman!" said Hank.
  The Strongman began to shake. The
demons in the room could only cower.
  "So let's deal," Marshall offered again.
"Where's my daughter?"
  Brummel was about to have a heart attack, and he
wished he really could. It was horrible! The others were
sitting around the room listening raptly to this beast
speaking through Langstrat, and actually relishing what
was happening to Sandy. She trembled and shook in her
chair, moaning, screaming, struggling against some unseen
assailant.
  "Let me go!" she screamed. "Let me go!"
  Her eyes were wide open, but she was seeing
unspeakable horrors from another world. She gasped for
air, pale with terror.
  She's going to die, Brummel! They are going
to kill her!
  The hulking, bug-eyed creature sitting in
Langstrat's chair was bellowing in a voice that
made Brummel's insides quiver. "You are
lost, Sandy Hogan! We have you now! You belong
to us, and we are the only reality you know!"
  "Please, God," she screamed. "Get me out
of here, please!"
  "Join us! Your mother has fled, your father is dead!
He is gone! Think of him no longer! You
belong to us!"
  Sandy went limp in her chair as if she had been
shot. Her face suddenly numbed with despair.
  Brummel could take no more. Before he had time
to realize what he was doing, he jumped out of his
chair and ran to her. He shook her gently and tried
to speak to her.
  "Sandy!" he pleaded. "Sandy, don't listen
to them! It's all a lie! Do you hear me?"
  Sandy could not hear him.
  But Rafar could. Langstrat jumped up from her
chair and screamed at Brummel in that same,
deep, devilish voice, "Be silent, you little
imp, and step aside! She belongs to me!"
  Brummel ignored her. "Sandy, don't listen
to this lying monster. This is Alf Brummel talking
to you. Your father is all right."
  Rafar's rage grew so that Langstrat's body
nearly burst from the intensity of it. "Hogan is
defeated! He is imprisoned!"
  Brummel looked right into Langstrat's-and
Rafar's-crazed eyes and shouted, "Marshall
Hogan is free! Hank Busche is free! I
released them myself! They are free, and they are coming
to destroy you!"
  Rafar was stymied for a moment. He simply could not
believe the ravings of this weak little man, this
insignificant little puppet who had never before acted
in this brazen fashion. But then Rafar heard a very
inappropriate snicker coming from behind Brummel, and
he saw a familiar face laughing him to scorn.
  Lucius!
  Tal and Guilo swooped down into the
Administration Building, but Tal suddenly stopped
short. "Wait now! What is this?"
  Lucius drew his sword and said, "You are not so
mighty, Rafar! Your plan has failed, and I
am the only true Prince of Ashton!"
  Rafar's sword rang from its sheath. "Do you dare
to oppose me?"
  Rafar's sword cut through the air with a rush of
wind, but Lucius stopped the big blade with his own;
the force of the blow almost knocked him over.
  The many demons in the room were startled and confused.
They let go of their hosts. What was this?
  Kaseph was indignant with his lawyers and even
threw some punches at them. "Stop it! You will not
tell me what to do! This is my world! I am in
charge here! I say what is and what is not! These people
are fools and liars, every one of them!"
Susan spoke directly to Kaseph. "You,
Alexander Kaseph, are responsible for the murder of
Patricia Krueger and the attempted murder of
myself and Mr. Weed here. I have the many lists I
helped you write up, lists of people who ended up dead
by your order."
  "Murder!" exclaimed one regent. "Mr.
Kaseph, is this true?"
  "Don't answer that," said a lawyer.
  "No!" Kaseph screamed.
  Several other regents looked at each other.
They knew Kaseph pretty well by now. They
didn't believe him.
  "How about it, Kaseph?" Marshall said
grimly.
  The Strongman wanted with all his evil heart
to lunge at this brazen hound and maul him, and he would
have, guards or no guards-if not for that horrible
praying man who stood in the way.
  Langstrat stalked like a lion toward
Brummel, as many of the psychics, having lost their
spirit guides, came out of their trances to see what in
the world had happened.
  "I will vanquish you for this treachery!" she hissed
at him.
  "What is this?" Oliver Young demanded. "Have you
both gone mad?"
  Brummel stood his ground and pointed a shaking
finger at Langstrat. "You will no longer rule over
me. This plan will not succeed for your glory. I will not
let it!"
  "Be quiet, you little fool!" Langstrat
ordered.
  "No!" Brummel shouted, driven on by the
crazed and brazen Lucius. "The Plan is
doomed. It has failed, just as I knew it would."
  "And you are doomed, Rafar!" Lucius
screamed, dodging the lethal thrusts of Rafar's
sword. "Do you hear the battle outside? The
Hosts of Heaven are everywhere!"
  "Treachery!" Rafar hissed. "You will pay for your
treachery!"
  "Treachery!" some of the demons cried.
  "No, Lucius speaks the truth!" others shouted
back.
  Sandy forced herself to look into those evil yellow
eyes and plead, "What's-what's happened to you,
Madeline? Why have you changed?"
  Madeline only cackled and answered, "Do not
believe what you see. What is evil?
It is but an illusion. What is pain? It is but
an illusion. What is fear? It is but an
illusion."
  "But you lied to me! You deceived me!"
  "I have never been other than I am. It is you
who have deceived yourself."
  "What are you going to do?"
  "I am going to set you free."
  Just as Madeline spoke those words, Sandy's arms
suddenly dropped with such a ponderous weight that she
almost fell to the ground.
  Chains! Links upon links of glistening, heavy
chains hung around her wrists and her arms. Crooked
hands were whipping them around her. The cold and bruising
links slapped against her legs, her body, her
neck. She could no longer struggle against them. She
tried to scream, but her breath was gone. "Now you are
free!" Madeline said gleefully. Brummel
started speaking for himself. "The authorities... the
state attorney general... Justin Parker... the
feds! They know everything!" "What?" some of the
psychics cried, jumping out of their seats. They
started to ask questions, to panic. Young tried to keep
order, but he was failing.
  Rafar dropped his hold on
Langstrat so he could better handle this traitorous
upstart.
  Langstrat snapped out of her trance and could feel
the psychic energy in the room collapsing.
  "Get back in your seats, everyone!" she shouted.
"We have not accomplished our purpose here."" She
closed her eyes and called out, "Rafar, please
return! Bring order!"
  But Rafar was busy. Lucius was smaller, but
he was very quick and very determined. The two swords
flashed about the room like fireworks, burning and
clanging. Lucius flitted about Rafar's head like
a pesky hornet, jabbing, swinging, and slashing. The
whole room was filled with Rafar's swirling wings and
his chugging breath, and his big sword traced fiery red
sheets through the air.
  "Traitor!" Rafar screamed. "I'll cut you
to pieces!"
  Langstrat moved toward Brummel with wild
eyes. "Traitor! I'll tear you apart!"
  "No," Brummel muttered with widened eyes, his
hand going to his side. "Not this time... no more!"
  Young shouted at them both, "Stop it! You don't
know what you're doing!"
  The demons in the room were dividing
into camps.
  "Prince Lucius speaks the truth!" said some.
"Rafar has led us to our doom!"
  "No, it is Lucius who is the enemy's
fool!"
  "You are the fools, but we will save ourselves!"
  More swords flashed into view.
  Rafar knew he was losing control.
  "Fools!" he roared. "This is a trick of the
Enemy! He is trying to divide us!"
  It only took that one brief moment when
Rafar's eyes were on his quarreling demons and not
on Lucius's sword.
  It only took that one moment of terror to push
Brummel over the edge. He pointed his police
revolver at the wild-eyed Langstrat.
  Lucius's blade sang through the air and slipped
just under Rafar's parrying sword. The tip ripped
deeply through Rafar's hide and opened his flank with a
deep, gushing wound.
  Langstrat made just one wrong move and the
bullet thudded into her chest.
  In the conference room they all heard the shot.
Marshall was out in the hall in an instant.
  Bernice leaped from her spot on the
front steps. It was Eldon Strachan with Norm
Mattily himself, and Justin Parker, and that had to be
Also Lemley-and those three guys in their nice
three-piece suits had to be FBI! Oh, and there
was Harvey Cole with a stack of papers under his arm.
  She ran up to them, her black eyes wild with
excitement. "Hello! You made it!"
  Norm Mattily's eyes got big. "What's
happened? Are you all right?"
  Bernice had paid a lot for these bruises; she was
going to use them. "No, no, I've been
attacked! Please hurry inside! Something terrible
is happening!"
  The VIP'S ran into the building with serious
business in their eyes and guns in their hands.
  Tal had seen enough. He shouted the order
to Guilo, "Go in!" and then soared out of the building
to signal for more troops.
  Smoke and red tar were pouring from Rafar's side,
but his rage spelled certain doom for the rebellious
Lucius. The light of a thousand angels beamed in
through the windows. They would be in the room in an
instant, but that was all the time Rafar needed. He
whipped his plank-sized sword in vicious
circles over his head. He brought it down
in blow after blow upon Lucius as the defiant
demon's little sword parried every blow with a loud
clang and a shower of sparks.
  The roar of angels" wings outside grew
louder, louder. The floors and walls rumbled with the
sound.
  Rafar let out a roar and brought the blade
straight down. Lucius blocked the blow, but
collapsed under the power of it. The blade ripped through
the air in a flat circle and caught Lucius under
the arm. The arm went spinning into space, and Lucius
cried out. The blade came down again, passed
straight through Lucius's head, shoulders, torso.
The air filled with boiling red smoke.
  Lucius was gone.
  "Kill the girl!" Rafar shouted to Madeline.
  Madeline drew out a horrible, crooked
knife. She placed it gently in Sandy's hand.
"These chains are the chains of life; they are a
prison of evil, of the lying mind, of illusion!
Free your true self! Join me!"
  Shawn had a knife ready. He placed it in the
entranced Sandy's hand.
  Rafar staggered through a wall just as the light of a
million suns exploded into the room with a
deafening thunder of wings and the warcries of the Heavenly
Host.
  Many demons tried to flee, but were instantly
disintegrated by slashing swords. The whole room was
one huge, bombastic, brilliant blur. The
roar of the wings drowned out every sound except the screams
of falling spirits.
  Kaseph leaped from his chair and fell across the
table. The regents and lawyers shied away and
pressed against the wall. Some headed for the room's
other door.
  Hank, Susan, and Kevin watched from a safe
distance. They knew what was happening.
  Kaseph's face seemed numb with death and his
mouth hung open as the most hideous scream came out
of him.
  The Strongman was face to face with the General. His
demons were gone, washed away by an overwhelming
tide of angels that were still roaring through the room like an
avalanche. The General's sword moved faster
than the ponderous Strongman could even
anticipate. The Strongman fought back,
screaming, slashing, swinging. The General just kept coming
at him.
  Marshall was out in the hall, listening for
any disturbance. He thought he heard a commotion from
down the hall.
  Sandy still held that knife, but now Madeline was
hesitating and looking around frantically. The chains
still held Sandy tightly, an iron cocoon.
  Guilo could see the chains wrapped tightly around
her, the horrible demonic bondage they had used
to enslave her.
  "No more!" he shouted.
  He raised his sword high above his head and brought
it down, trailing a wide ribbon of light. The
tip passed through the many windings of those chains like a
series of small explosions. The chains burst
outward and away from her, writhing like severed snakes.
  Guilo's big fist clamped onto the fleeing
Madeline's grisly neck. He jerked her
backward, spun her around, and hacked into her
vanishing particles.
  Sandy felt herself spinning, then rushing upward as
if she were a rocket in an elevator shaft.
Sounds began to register on her ears. She could
feel her physical body again. Light registered
on her retinas. She opened her eyes. A knife
fell from her hands.
  The room was in chaos. People were screaming,
running back and forth, trying to calm each other down,
fighting, arguing, trying to escape from the room;
several men were wrestling Alf Brummel to the
floor. There was a haze of blue smoke and a strong
smell like fireworks.
  Professor Langstrat was lying on the floor,
with several people huddled over her. There was blood!
  Someone grabbed her. Not again! She looked to see
Shawn holding her arm. He was trying to comfort her,
trying to keep her in her chair.
  The monster! The deceiver! The liar!
  "Let me go!" she screamed at him, but he
wouldn't let go.
  She hit him in the face, then pulled away from
him; she leaped to her feet and ran for the door,
bumping into several people and stepping on some others. He
went after her, calling her name.
  She burst through the door and stumbled out into the hall.
From somewhere down the hall she heard a familiar
voice shouting her name. She screamed and ran for that
voice.
  Shawn went after Sandy. He had to contain this
woman before all control was lost.
  What! Before him, filling the entire hallway with
fiery wings, stood the most frightening being he
had ever seen, holding a terrible flaming sword right
at his heart. Shawn braked to a stop, his shoes
skidding on the floor.
  Marshall Hogan appeared suddenly, running right
through that being. A huge fist slammed into Shawn's
jaw, and the whole matter was settled.
  "C'mon, Sandy," Marshall said, "we'll
take the stairs!"
  Rafar, somewhere inside that shaking, besieged
building, knew he had to get out. He tried to get
his wings to stir. They only quivered. He had
to build up the strength. He could not be defeated in the
presence of these petty warriors; he would not go to the
abyss!
  He sank to one knee, his hand holding his oozing
side, and let his rage grow inside him. Tal!
This was all Tal's doing! No, clever captain,
you'll not gain your victory this way!
  The yellow eyes burned with new fire. He
tried again. This time his wings roused themselves and went into a
blurred rushing. Rafar gripped his sword tightly
and turned his eyes skyward. The wings surged with
power and began to lift him up through the building, faster
and faster, until he soared up through the roof and into the
open air... and found himself face to face
with the very captain he had taunted and challenged time and
again.
  All around them the battle raged; demons-and
Rafar's great victory-fell like smoking, burning
rain from the sky. But for one very short moment of awe and
mutual horror, Tal and Rafar remained
frozen.
  They had met at last! And each could not help but
be numbed by the memories he had of the other. Neither
remembered the other looking so fierce.
  And neither could be entirely sure of winning this
contest.
  Rafar shot sideways, and Tal braced himself
for a blow, but-Rafar was fleeing! He dashed away
across the sky like a bleeding bird, trailing a stream
of ooze and vapor.
  Tal went after him, wings rushing, dashing this way and
that through falling demons and charging angels, looking
far ahead through the wild flurry of the battle clashing
and thundering all around. There! He spotted the demon
warlord dipping down toward the town. He would be hard
to find in the maze of buildings, streets, and
alleys. Tal quickened his speed and closed the distance.
Rafar must have seen him coming up from behind; the evil
prince shot ahead with a surprising burst of
speed and then dropped suddenly and sharply toward an
office building.
  Tal saw him disappear through the roof of that building
and dove after him. The black tar roof came at
him, growing in an instant from the size of a postage
stamp to more than the eye could see. Tal plunged through
it.
  Roof, room, floor, room, then pull up,
then down a hall, through a wall, up again, turn
back, follow that smoke, through an office, follow
up a wall, dip through a floor, rush along, the
passing walls slap, slap, slapping the eyes and
rushing past like speeding freight cars.
  A smoking black missile followed by a flaming
comet roared down the hall, down through several
floors, back up again, right through the office and over
all the desks, up through the ceiling panels, up through
the roof and out into the open sky again.
  Rafar was soaring, dashing, looping, zigzagging through
falling demons, doubling back, ducking down side
streets, but Tal stayed right on his tail and
retraced his every turn perfectly.
  How much longer could that bleeding demon keep this
up?
  The other door of the conference room burst
open, and the body of Alexander Kaseph rolled across
the hallway floor. He was retching and screaming.
  The General swung his sword at the Strongman
again and again, weakening him, cutting him more and more
frequently as the Strongman continued to lose his
power.
  "You will not defeat me!" the Strongman still boasted,
as did Kaseph, but the boast was empty and
futile. The Strongman was gushing red vapor and tar
like a wretched and broken sieve. His eyes were full
of evil and hate and he slashed with his big sword,
but the prayers...! The prayers could be felt
everywhere, and the General could not be defeated.
  Bernice had her group of vindicators gathered
in the lobby downstairs, and she was trying to figure out
where to start explaining everything when Marshall and Sandy
burst out of the stairway door.
  "Get yourselves upstairs!" Marshall hollered,
holding his weeping daughter. "Someone's been shot!"
  Lemley's feds went right into action. "Call the
police! We'll cordon off the building!"
  Bernice remarked, "I see some cops outside
there..."
  The police had come purely in response to a
call about all these religious fanatics
assembled on the campus. They were trying to break up
the gathering when Norm Mattily and one federal
agent ran out to them, identified themselves, and ordered
them to close off the building.
  Brummel's men were no fools. They obeyed.
  Rafar darted and weaved all over the sky, still
trailing a stream of red smoke from his wound. With that
telltale marker it was easy to follow him, and Tal
kept up the chase unrelentingly. Rafar sped
toward a very large warehouse several blocks away.
  He shot through the outside wall at about the third
floor, and Tal dove into the building after him. This
floor was open, with no places to hide; Rafar
dove immediately to a lower floor, and Tal followed that
trail of smoke. The gray, concrete floors
came up at them.
  Tal came out on the first floor and could see the
smoke trail veering off sideways and
corkscrewing through the distant wall. He shot after
it. The wall slapped around him as he passed through.
  Impaled!
  A burning edge cut through his side! He spun and
spun from the impact and the sword went flying from his
hand. He tumbled to the floor, doubled up with pain.
  There stood Rafar, bent and wounded, his
back against the wall Tal had just come through. He had
been waiting in ambush. The tip of his ugly sword
was still draped with part of Tal's tunic.
  No time to think! No time to feel pain! Tal
dove for his fallen sword.
  Crash! Rafar's sword came down with a shower of
sparks. Tal rolled and fluttered out of the way. The
big red sword ripped through the air again, and the keen
edge whistled just over Tal's head. Tal clapped
his wings and jerked sideways several feet.
  Whoosh! That horrible sword sliced the air with
brilliant red streaks. Rafar's eyes turned from
yellow to red, his mouth frothed with putrid foam.
  The huge wings roared, and Rafar came at Tal
like a pouncing cat. His powerful arm raised that blade
to strike again.
  Tal lurched forward and ducked under Rafar's
raised arm, his head butting into Rafar's chest. The
sulfur exploded from those huge lungs as Tal
spun around Rafar's body and beyond the tip of that red
blade as it slashed through the air.
  This was what Tal needed: he was now between Rafar and
his fallen sword. He dove at it, grabbed it, and
turned.
  Clang! The blade of hell came
down upon Tal's sword with a flash of fire. They
faced each other, swords held ready. Rafar was
grinning.
  "So now, Captain of the Host, we are alone
together, and evenly matched. I am opened, and you are
opened. Shall we assail each other for another
twenty-three days? We will be finished long before that,
eh?"
  Tal said nothing. This was Rafar's way; cutting
words were part of his strategy.
  The swords met again, and again. An envelope of
darkness began to fill the room: Rafar's creeping,
growing evil.
  "Is the light fading?" Rafar sneered. "Perhaps
it is your strength we now see ebbing away!"
  Saints of God, where are your prayers?
  Another blow! Tal's shoulder. He returned
with a swipe that caught Rafar under the ribs. The air
was filling with darkness, with red vapor and smoke.
  Several more clashes of the fiery blades...
ripping hides, tearing garments, more darkness.
  Saints! Pray! PRAY!
  When the police reached the third floor, they thought
at first that Kaseph was the gunshot victim. They
found out differently when this wild animal
threw them off as if they weighed nothing.
  "You cannot defeat me!" he screamed.
  The General slashed at the Strongman again, and the
Strongman screamed again. The swords clashed and
sang and flashed with fire.
  "You cannot defeat me!"
  The police aimed their guns. What was this nut
going to do next?
  Hank shouted, "No, take it easy! It's not
him!"
  They did not understand that statement at all.
  Hank stepped forward and gave it one more try.
"Strongman, I know you can hear me. You are
defeated. The shed blood of Jesus has defeated
you. Be silent and come out of him and depart from this
region!"
  Now the police were aiming at Hank!
  But the Strongman could take no more of this praying
man's rebukes. He wilted. His sword
dropped. The General took one swipe with his
flashing blade, and the Strongman was gone.
  Kaseph collapsed to the floor and lay there as
if dead. The lawyers and regents shouted from the
conference room, "Don't shoot!" and came out with their
hands raised whether ordered to or not. The
police still did not know who to arrest.
  "In here!" someone shouted from the lounge. The
police ran in and found the pitiful wreck that Alf
Brummel had become, and the very deceased Juleen
Langstrat.

  Rip! Rafar's sword took off a corner of
Tal's wing. Tal kept darting and flitting,
dodging and swinging, and he clipped Rafar's shoulder
and thigh. The air was filled with the stench of sulfur; the
evil darkness was thick like smoke.
  "The Lord rebuke you!" Tal shouted.
  Clang! Rip!
  "Where is the Lord?" Rafar mocked. "I see
Him not!"
  Whoosh!
  Tal screamed in pain. His left hand hung
useless.
  "Lord God," Tal cried, "His name is
Rafar! Tell them!"
  The Remnant were not praying so much now; instead they
watched all the excitement and the police dashing in and
out of the Administration Building.
  "Wow!" said John Coleman. "The Lord's
really answering our prayers!"
  "Praise the Lord!" Andy replied. "That just
goes to show ... Edith! Edith, what's wrong?"
  Edith Duster had sunk to her knees. She was
pale. The saints gathered around.
  "Should we call an aid car?" someone asked.
  "No! No!" Edith cried. "I know this feeling.
I've felt it before. The Lord is trying to speak
to me!"
  "What?" asked Andy. "What is it?"
  "Well, quit your gabbing and let me pray and
I'll tell you!"
  Edith started to weep. "There's still an evil spirit out
there," she cried. "He's doing great mischief. His
name is... Raphael ... Raving..."
  Bobby Corsi spoke up. "Rafar!"
  Edith looked up at him with wide eyes.
"Yes! Yes! That's the name the Lord's impressing
upon me!"
  "Rafar!" Bobby cried again. "He's the big
wheel!"
  Tal could only back away from the fearsome
onslaught of the demon prince, his one good hand still
holding his sword up for defense. Rafar kept
swinging and slashing, the sparks flying from the blades as
they met. Tal's arm sank lower with each
blow.
  "The Lord... rebuke you!" Tal found the breath
to say again.
  Edith Duster was on her feet and ready to shout it
to the heavens. "Rafar, you wicked prince of evil,
in the name of Jesus we rebuke you!"
  Rafar's blade zinged over Tal's head. It
missed.
  "We bind you!" shouted the Remnant
  The big yellow eyes winced.
  "We cast you out!" Andy said.
  There was a puff of sulfur, and Rafar bent
over. Tal leaped to his feet.
  "We rebuke you, Rafar!" Edith shouted again.
  Rafar screamed. Tal's blade had torn him
open.
  The big red blade came down with a clang against
Tal's, but that angelic sword was singing with a new
resonance. It cut through the air in fiery arcs. With
his one good hand, Tal kept swinging, slashing,
cutting, pushing Rafar back. The fiery eyes were
oozing, the foam was bubbling out the mouth and fizzing down
the chest, the yellow breath had turned deep
crimson.
  Then in one horrible, rage-empowered
swipe, the huge red sword came sizzling through the
air. Tal went tumbling backward like a tossed
rag toy. He fell to the floor stunned, his head
spinning, his body drenched in fiery pain. He could not
move. His strength was gone.
  Where was Rafar? Where was that blade? Tal tried
to turn his head. He strained to see. Was that his
enemy? Was that Rafar?
  Through the vapor and darkness he could see Rafar's
battered frame swaying like a big tree in the wind.
The demon did not move, he did not charge. As
for the sword, the huge hand still held it, but the blade
now hung limply, the tip resting on the floor.
The breaths were coming in long, slow wheezes. The
nostrils spewed deep red clouds. Those eyes-those
hate-filled eyes-were like huge, glowing rubies.
  The dripping, foaming jaws trembled open, and the
words gargled through the tar and the froth. "But... for...
your... praying saints! But for your saints...!"
  The big beast swayed forward. He let out one
last hissing sigh, and rumbled to the floor in a cloud
of red.
  And it was quiet.
  Tal could not breathe. He could not move. All he
could see was red vapor spreading along the
floor like thin fog and darkness all around that huge
body.
  But... yes. Somewhere the saints were praying. He
could feel it. He was healing.
  What was that? From somewhere the sweet music found its
way to him. It soothed him. Worship. The name of
Jesus.
  He lifted his head up from the floor and let his
eyes explore the cold, concrete room. Rafar,
the mighty, loathsome Prince of Babylon, was
gone. Nothing remained but a shrinking cloud of
darkness. Above the cloud of darkness light was coming through,
almost like a sunrise.
  He could still hear the music. It echoed throughout the
heavenlies, washing them clean, clearing away the
darkness with God's holy light.
  And his heart was the first to tell him: You've
won... for the saints of God and for the Lamb.
  You've won!
  The light grew and grew, blossoming, filling the
room, and the darkness continued to shrink and ebb and fade
away. Now Tal could see light coming in through the
windows. Sunlight? Yes.
  The Heavenly Host? Yes!
  Tal struggled to his feet and waited for
more strength. It came. He stepped forward. His
gait became firm and steady. Then, like unfurling
silk spun from sparkling diamonds, he spread his
wings, fold by fold, inch by inch. They blossomed
outward from his shoulders and back, and he let them grow
strong.
  He drew a deep breath, took the handle of his
sword in both hands, held it out in front of him,
and the wings took over. He was into the air, climbing
into the fresh, lightwashed sky, looking straight up
and seeing no darkness, no oppression, no clouds.
  What he did see was light: light from the
Heavenly Host as they swept the sky clean from one
end to the other. The air was so fresh, the smells were so
clean.
  He sailed over the little town and back to the
college just in time to see the many flashing lights of
squad cars and aid cars and official cars parked
everywhere.
  Where was Guilo? Oh, where was that blustery
Guilo?
  "Captain Tal!" came the shout, and Tal
dropped toward Ames Hall where his burly friend
awaited him with an almost crushing bear hug.
  "Surely the battle is over?"
Guilo roared happily.
  "Is it?" Tal wanted to know.
  He looked all around to make sure. Yes, in
the very great distance he could see the last fleeing
fragments of the cloud scattering in all directions,
swept away by the heavenly forces. The sky was a very
lovely blue. Below them he could see the faithful
Remnant still singing and cheering. It looked like the
police were going through some kind of final clean-up.
  Norm Mattily, Justin Parker, and Also
Lemley huddled around Bernice and her new friend.
  "Well, everybody," said Bernice, "I'd like
you to meet Susan Jacobson. She has a lot
to show you!"
  Norm Mattily took Susan's hand and said,
"You are a very brave woman."
  Susan could only point at Bernice through tears
of relief and say, "Mr. Mattily, look right
there. You're looking at bravery personified."
  Bernice looked at the stretcher being carried out
of the building by two medics. Juleen Langstrat was
completely covered with a white sheet. Behind the
stretcher came Alf Brummel, handcuffed and
escorted by two of his own officers.
  Behind Brummel came the number-one
man himself, Alexander M. Kaseph. Susan stared
at him long and hard, but he never raised his eyes.
He got into the squad car with a federal agent without
saying a word.
  Hank and Mary were embracing and crying because it was
over... and yet it was just beginning. Look at all
these firedup saints! Hallelujah-what God could
do with a bunch like them!
  Marshall held Sandy as if he had never held
her before. Both of them had lost count of how many times
they had each said they were sorry. All they wanted
to do now was get caught up on some badly missed
love.
  And then... what was this, some kind of fairy tale?
Forget the doubts and the questions, Hogan, that's Kate
coming your way! Her face was shining, and boy, did she
look good!
  All three of them held on to each other, and the
tears dripped all over everybody.
  "Marshall," Kate said with tearful giddiness,
"I couldn't possibly stay away. I heard you were
arrested."
  "Aw," Marshall said, giving her a loving
squeeze, "how else was God ever going to get my
attention!"
  Kate cuddled close to him and said, "Wow, this
does sound promising!"
  "Just wait'll I tell you about it."
  Kate looked around at all the people and the activity.
"Is this the end of your... big project?"
  He smiled, held his two favorite girls,
and said, "Yeah, it is. You bet it is!"
  The General touched Tal on the shoulder. Tal
looked and saw that big, golden trumpet in the
General's hand.
  "Well, captain," said the silver-haired
angel, "how about doing the honors? Sound the
victory!"
  Tal took the trumpet in his hand and found he could
not see through a sudden flow of tears. He looked
down at all those praying saints and that little praying
pastor.
  "They... they will never know what they have done," he
said. Then he took a breath to sober up and turned
to his old buddy-in-arms. "Guilo, how about you?"
He pushed the trumpet toward the big angel.
  Guilo was reluctant. "Captain Tal, you
are always the one who sounds the victory."
  Tal smiled, gave Guilo the trumpet, and
sat down right there on the roof. "Dear
friend... I am just too tired."
  Guilo thought about that for one short moment, then
started guffawing, then slapped Tal on the back and
sailed into the air.
  The victory signal went forth loud and clear, and
Guilo even did a tight corkscrew climb for
effect.
  "He loves to do that!" said Tal.
  The General laughed.
  So Hank had Mary and his little newborn church;
Marshall had his family back together again, ready
to patch things up; Susan and Kevin would be busy
for a while as state witnesses; Bernice figured
Marshall would let her cover the story to its final
end.
  But as Bernice stood there, bruised and
exhausted, she felt very separate, far away from this
happy crowd. She was glad for them, and her
professional, public-minded side acted the part very
well. But the rest of her, the real Bernice,
couldn't smile away that same old burden of deep
sorrow that had been her closest companion for so
long.
  And now she missed Pat. Perhaps it was the mystery
of her death and the obsession with finding the
answers that kept Pat alive in her heart for so
long. Now there was nothing left to delay the final
step Bernice had never been able to take: saying
good-bye.
  And there was that strange yearning deep in her heart,
something she had never felt before she met that strange
girl, Betsy; had she really been touched by God
somehow? If she had been, what was she to do about it?
  She started walking. The skies were bright again, the
air was warm, the campus was quiet. Maybe a
walk along the red brick pathways would calm her
and help her to think, help her to make sense of all
that was happening around her and inside her.
  She paused under a big oak tree, thought of
Pat, thought of her own life and what she would ever do
with it, and then let herself cry. She thought maybe she
should pray. "Dear God," she whispered, but then she
couldn't think of what to say.
  Tal and the General were assessing the situation below
them.
  "I would say this whole thing has left the town in
quite a mess," said the General.
  Tal nodded. "The college won't be the same
for a long time, what with the investigation by the state and
federal authorities, not to mention all that
money to be tracked down."
  "So do we have a good contingent to set the town back
in order?"
  "They're assembling for that now. In the meantime,
Krioni and Triskal will remain with Busche;
Nathan and Armoth will remain with Hogan.
Hogan's family will have a good church where they can
heal, and" Tal suddenly noticed one downcast
figure standing alone across the campus. "Hold
on." He got the attention of one particular
angel. "There she is. Let's not let her get
away."
  Bernice finally thought of one little sentence to pray.
"Dear God, I don't know what to do."
  Hank Busche. The name just came to her. She
looked back toward the Administration Building. That
pastor and his people were still there.
  You know, said a voice inside her, it wouldn't
hurt to talk to that man.
  She looked at Hank Busche, and then at all
those people who seemed so happy, so at peace.
  You've been calling out to God. Well, maybe
that preacher can introduce the two of you once and for
all.
  He sure did something for Marshall,
Bernice thought.
  There's something back there that you need, girl, and if
I were you I'd find out about it.
  The General was eager to be gone. "We're needed
in Brazil. The revival is going well, but the
enemy is concocting some plan against it. You should like that
kind of a challenge."
  Tal rose to his feet again and drew his sword.
Just then, Guilo returned with the trumpet. Tal
told him, "Brazil."
  Guilo laughed excitedly and drew his sword
also.
  "Wait," said Tal, looking below.
  It was Bernice, timidly making her way toward
the young pastor and his new flock. By the quiet
surrender in her eyes, Tal could see she was
ready. Soon the angels would be rejoicing.
  He waved his approval to the little curly-haired
angel sitting in the crook of the big oak, and she
smiled and waved back, her big brown eyes
sparkling. Her glowing white gown and golden
slippers suited her much better than bib
overalls and a motorcycle.
  The General asked with pleasure in his voice,
"Shall we be going?"
  Tal was looking at Hank when he said, "Just a
moment. I want to hear it one more time."
  As they watched, Bernice found her way to Hank
and Mary. She began to weep openly, and spoke some
quiet but impassioned words to them. Hank and Mary
listened, as did the others nearby, and as they listened,
they began to smile. They put their arms around her,
they told her about Jesus, and then they began to weep
as well. Finally, as the saints were gathered and
Bernice was surrounded with loving arms, Hank said the
words, "Let's pray..."
  And Tal smiled a long smile.
  "Let's be off," he said.
  With a burst of brilliant wings and three trails
of sparkling fire, the warriors shot into the sky,
heading southward, becoming smaller and smaller until
finally they were gone, leaving the now peaceful town of
Ashton in very capable hands.