Piercing the Darkness by Frank Peretti Read Free Book Online Page B

said, his booming voice shattering the nerves, “that does it.”
    “Any next of kin we can notify?” Ben asked.
    Mulligan pulled a manila envelope out of a drawer. “There aren’t any. Roe was a nobody, a loner.” He slid the report, along with its accompanying sketches and photographs, into the envelope and folded it shut. “She pulled her own plug, and now it’s our job to plant her quietly and get on with business.”
    “I don’t suppose there will be a coroner’s report?”
    Ben knew he’d overstepped. Mulligan was getting steamed. “Of course there will. What about it?”
    Ben wanted to back off, but now he had to answer Mulligan’s question. “Well . . . with all due respect . . . the coroner might find some evidence to suggest another cause of death.”
    Mulligan didn’t have time for this. “Listen, Cole, if just being a plain, hard-working, clean-nosed cop isn’t enough for you . . . if youjust don’t feel you have enough responsibility . . . I’m sure I can find you some more important jobs, something you can really take pride in. The place could use some sweeping, and I know you’d be thorough; you’d get that broom into every corner, you’d catch every cobweb, huh?”
    Ben knew he was glaring at Mulligan, but he made no effort to soften his expression. “I could be very thorough in checking the accuracy of last night’s investigation.”
    Mulligan yanked a file drawer open and tossed the envelope in. “You just concentrate on doing your job, Cole. I’m not paying you to be my conscience.”

CHAPTER 5
     
    POSTMASTER LUCY BRANDON couldn’t keep her mind on her work. Debbie, the postal clerk, had already asked her three questions—one about the Route 2 driver, one about the cracked mailing trays, and one about . . . now she couldn’t remember the third question. She couldn’t answer any of them; she couldn’t recall the information; she just couldn’t think.
    “Hey,” Debbie said finally, “are you feeling okay?”
    Lucy removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. She was usually a strong person, tough enough. A tall brunette in her late thirties, she’d been through plenty of life’s little trials by this time: poverty, the early death of her parents, a wild and rebellious youth, a shaky marriage, picking up the pieces after a bitter divorce, and raising a young daughter alone—all in all, a well-rounded package of scrapes. So she’d learned to cope, usually; most troubles never really got her upset—as long as they didn’t touch her family.
    She looked around the small Post Office, and fortunately it was quiet right now. The midday rush was still a few hours away, the drivers had all left for their routes, the stack of work on her desk was growing, but she could catch up.
    She was determined to answer at least one question. “Well, no, not really.”
    Debbie was young, pretty, and compassionate. Maybe she hadn’tlived long enough to develop a tough exterior. She touched Lucy’s shoulder tenderly. “Anything I can do?”
    “Well . . .” Lucy checked the clock on the wall. “I have an appointment coming up in just a few minutes. Think you and Tim can hold down the fort until I get back?”
    “Oh, sure.”
    A flash of reflected sunlight danced along the wall. A deep-blue fastback pulled up outside.
    “Oh, there’s my ride.”
    “You go ahead. Don’t worry about us.”

     
    THE DRIVER OF the car was Claire, a wonderful friend and counselor for not only Lucy, but many people of all walks of life around the town. She was a beautiful woman with blonde hair arranged neatly around her head and adorned with combs and pins that twinkled and shined. Her blouse and long skirt, both of beautifully woven natural fibers, draped about her like regal robes, and in Lucy’s eyes Claire was a real queen. She and her architect male friend Jon were the perfect couple, constantly growing together in self-realization and harmony and becoming an enduring example to all their