Piercing the Darkness (28 page)

“You will enjoy this one,” it teased in a crow’s voice. “Go ahead . . . leave your body and touch the moon . . .”

There were three other spirits in the room, one hanging from the wall like a bat, one flat on his back on the rug with his clawed feet in the air, and one lying on the end of the bed as if asleep. They reminded Cree of young delinquent boys hiding in some forbidden hangout, gleefully committing sin in secret.

“Oh, don’t give her
that
one again,” said the spirit hanging from the wall.

“Why not?” said the dreampainter. “She always believes it.”

“I can do one better.”

“Tonight will be your turn.”

Cree looked up at the warriors. They were ready.

The dreampainter’s yellow eyes danced with delight at his own cleverness. “Oooo, remember this place? You’ve been here before. It is a part of you!”

A blinding flash! Four angels, four demons! Flashing swords, red smoke!

Mrs. Denning awoke with a start.

Oh. It was morning. What had she been dreaming? Walking on the moon, touching it, knowing it as if she’d made it. Yes. How beautiful. Maybe it was true, just buried behind a veil of forgetfulness. Someday she must analyze what it could mean.

She sat up. She felt rested, but not energetic. Somehow her usual inspiration wasn’t with her. Maybe the previous week’s work had drained her power.

Cree and his warriors regrouped in the attic to watch her. The room was empty now except for her.

She got up, got dressed, and went down the stairs. Perhaps a short walk on this crisp, clear morning would reawaken her inner potential and get the creative juices flowing. It always worked before.

“YEAH, HERE IT is,”
said Mr. Pomeroy, pulling over next to a wide, gravel drive that wound back into the woods. Just next to the road was an attractive, sand-blasted sign: OMEGA CENTER FOR EDUCATIONAL STUDIES.

Sally swung the door open and hopped out. “Thanks a lot.”

“God bless you now,” said the kind man.

More traditional thinking
, Sally thought. “Sure. Take care of yourself.”

He nodded and smiled. She closed the cab door and pulled her duffel bag from the truck’s bed. She gave him a wave, and off he went, apparently with bees and hives on his mind.

The sound of the old pickup faded away, and then there was only the quiet of this mountain morning. Sally stood motionless for a moment, just looking at that sign. She figured they had probably repainted it at some point, but apart from that, it was still the same. The gravel drive looked the same as well. How many years had it been? At least ten.

She was afraid, but she just had to take the chance. She started walking up that gravel drive, watching carefully on all sides. She tried to remember what it was like, where everything was. She was hoping nothing would escape her notice and surprise her.

MR. POMEROY’S OLD
pickup roared up the mountain road and around a long, steady curve. When the road passed behind a thick grove of trees the sound of the truck faded quickly, replaced by a whispered rushing of silken wings.

Where the road reappeared, Si, a dark East Indian, was aloft, his wings unfurled and his sword in his hand. With a burst of power he went into a steep climb and circled back toward the Center.

MRS. DENNING FELT
a little better out in the fresh air, walking on the smooth, asphalt path between the classrooms and meeting halls. Soon the campus would be full of people again and this restful solitude would be ended. It was certainly pleasant now; there went a chipmunk up that tree, and how the birds were chattering!

Oh, what was this, an early arrival? Just beyond the sports field, a young lady was coming up the main road into the complex. Their eyes met.

Cree touched Mrs. Denning’s eyes.
Easy now . . . don’t see too well.
Then he darted into the trees and out of sight. Somewhere the other warriors were present, ready and invisible.

Sally looked carefully at this woman she was approaching. She wasn’t sure who she might be. She was afraid they may have known each other before. She kept walking.

Finally the two women came face to face in front of the quaint Log Cabin Cafe.

“Hello,” said Mrs. Denning. “And who might you be?”

Sally smiled, but her mind was instantly far away, more than eighteen years away.

I know this woman.

The woman before her, dressed in gray pants and a casual Omega Center sweatshirt, was eighteen years older, grayer, with more lines in her face. But the gray eyes still had that same sparkle, the head still had that same playful tilt when she spoke. This was Sybil Denning!

Sally found her tongue and the name she’d decided to use. “Um . . . I’m Bethany Farrell. I was just passing through the area, and someone told me I might find a place to stay up here.”

Mrs. Denning smiled. “Oh, you just might. We have overnight camping here, and some nice cabins. We’re expecting people to arrive for a weekend retreat this afternoon, but they’re a small group. I’m sure we’ll still have some rooms empty. What did you have in mind?”

“Oh . . . just a warm place out of the rain, some blankets, maybe a mattress.”

Mrs. Denning laughed. “Oh, we can do better than that! Listen, the office doesn’t open for a few more hours. I think the Galvins are up by now; maybe they’ll open the cafe and we can get a cup of coffee, all right?”

“All right.”

Mrs. Denning turned toward the Log Cabin Cafe, and Sally followed her.

“By the way, I’m Sybil Denning.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

“Excuse me. What was your name again?”

“Bethany Farrell.”

Mrs. Denning paused on the large patio in front of the cafe. “Bethany Farrell . . .” She stared at Sally for a moment. “Don’t know why you seem so familiar to me. How do you spell your last name?”

“F-a-r-r-e-l-l.”

Mrs. Denning shook her head just a little. “No . . . that doesn’t sound familiar. Tell me, have we ever met before?”

SERGEANT MULLIGAN DROVE
over to the Post Office the moment he got the call. He parked the car quietly, went up the steps quietly, and quietly found Postmaster Lucy Brandon, then just about broke a blood vessel containing himself.

“Hi, Lucy,” he said, probably too loudly.

“Oh hi, Harold,” she replied from behind the counter. She was helping a patron decide whether to send something first or fourth class, and the little lady couldn’t seem to make up her mind. She turned to Debbie, who was just handing a giddy junior-higher a box of baby chicks. “Debbie, could you finish helping Mrs. Barcino?”

Debbie stepped over and began checking the weight of the package on the scale. “Fourth class?”

Mrs. Barcino still wasn’t happy. “Well, I don’t know . . . That’s kind of slow, isn’t it?”

Lucy hurried to the back room and opened the Employees Only door for Mulligan. He stepped inside, his hand on his hip and his feet shuffling nervously. Lucy said nothing, but quickly stepped behind a partition for privacy. Mulligan followed her, and when they were both safe from any watching eyes, she showed him a letter, still in a sealed envelope.

He took it in his big fingers, read the address and the return address—actually just a name, and said nothing. He couldn’t think of what to say.

It was a letter addressed to Tom Harris. The name in the upper-left corner was Sally Roe.

“When did this come in?” Mulligan asked.

“Today. And look at the postmark: just three days ago.”

Again Mulligan couldn’t think of what to say.

Lucy was quite troubled. “I don’t understand. I guess it could have gotten lost somewhere, or rerouted, I don’t know, but . . . there’s only one postmark, and that’s . . . that’s halfway across the country.”

Mulligan murmured, “Somebody’s being a real sicko. It’s a joke.”

“Well, there’s no address to return it to. I just don’t know . . .”

“Can we open this thing?”

“No, we can’t tamper with the mail . . .”

“Mmm.”

“It’s kind of scary, though. The postmark is after Sally Roe’s suicide. What if Sally Roe is still alive somewhere?”

Mulligan didn’t handle that question very well. “She isn’t! That’s crazy!”

She put her finger to her lips to shush him.

Debbie’s attention was caught, however, by that outburst. She was finished with Mrs. Barcino and could see just a little of what was going on behind the partition.

He struggled for an answer. “Well . . . listen, I don’t know what this is all about, but let me take this with me and check into it.”

“But . . . it’s mail!”

He held his hand up. “Hey, we’re only delaying it, that’s all. We need to check into this.”

“But—”

“If Tom Harris ever got this letter . . . You never know, it might hurt your lawsuit.”

Lucy hesitated when he said that. “But I’m concerned about the law . . .”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll cover for you. I’ll just have some friends check this out, and we’ll get it back to you.”

“You’re not going to open it . . .”

“Don’t worry. Just don’t worry.”

He put the letter in his pocket and got out of there, leaving Lucy troubled, curious, nervous, and yes, worried.

When he put the letter in his pocket, Debbie saw him do it. She didn’t know what it all meant; she just thought it might be something worth remembering.

Debbie wasn’t the only one who saw it. Two little spirits were
following Mulligan, flitting about his shoulders like oversized mosquitoes, carefully eyeing that letter, snuffing and hissing in a frantic, secret conversation.

Mulligan climbed into his car and cranked the engine to life. He would have some phone calls to make when he got back to the station.

The two spirits had seen enough.

“Destroyer!” hissed one.

“He will reward us for this!” slobbered the other.

They shot up the street, careening over the tops of the trucks and cars, dodging the utility poles, darting this way and that between and through the stores and businesses. Destroyer must still be nearby; they would find him.