Solomon's Porch (27 page)

“Legion, leave that body you’re in. It’s not yours. Be gone and trouble us no more.”

“You do not order me around like some pet, Kallistos. This human gave himself to me willingly. You do not control him.”

Once more Peter offered a whispered plea and raised his arms toward heaven. Again the demon reacted as if he was being stretched and racked.

The mass of grey black mist creatures behind Legion then began to take the shape of a single organism, appearing as a deformed cross between an insect and a snake, a vision no doubt projected for the sole purpose of being ultimately nightmarish to the watching humans.

Warren was not really Warren anymore. His body had become a sickly bluish pupa with no limbs or other features other than the barest outline of a face on top of a throbbing cocoon of rank smelling, rotting flesh.

The black cloud then changed shape again. It became an evil, mutant cockroach as it engulfed what had been Warren, ingesting his remains, which by then were only a pus-filled, disgustingly grotesque bag of skin.

Peter did not move during Legion’s spectacle. He neither cowered nor flinched, showing no fear.

“We will not let you open their eyes, Kallistos.” Legion spoke now in a clear voice filled with rage. “You will be crushed along with your pathetic attempts to save your kind. Your God is nothing but a puffed up meddler, we control the destiny of this world. We are supreme.”

Peter remained immovable, steadfast in the face of evil. He projected a sober confidence, a surety in the power of Christ to deliver him.

“Be Gone!” Peter demanded, his voice miraculously amplified ten fold.

Legion could no longer resist. The black cloud collapsed into itself, like filthy wash water pouring down the drain. As the last of the demons disappeared, a loud pop was heard, as if a jar had been resealed.

No trace of Warren remained. Neither was there any evidence of Warren’s two stabbing victims. No audio, film, or still picture of any of these events survived. Every record was erased, right down to the BOP files, which now showed that Warren Sutton and the two dead inmates had never been assigned to Parkersboro, and had all died elsewhere. However, the memories of all those present were intact.

Once they were certain that Legion was gone, people began to reassemble around the porch. Peter conferred with the disciples and took stock of the situation.

After a few minutes, the crowd’s collective conversations rose to a roar. Peter held up his hands, asking for quiet.

“Brothers and sisters,” Peter began, “what you saw here today was the very face of our enemy. Take heed, friends! Satan is real and it is through his power alone that violence, hatred, sickness, indeed even death itself plagues our earthly home.”

“We were put here by God to defeat evil, to triumph over the devil and his kind, and by doing so unite ourselves with our Creator.”

“Rational men will tell you that what happened here today was some delusion or a trick. Do not be fooled! All of man’s accumulated wisdom, scientific, social, economic, all of it, is without value if it is not placed in the context of spiritual warfare.”

Those present were no longer afraid, they were captivated. Peter knew he had a rare opportunity in the aftermath of the confrontation with Legion to teach, to reach some souls who might otherwise be forever dead to the truth.

Alex got his cameras rolling again. The other journalists, who were sprinkled in amongst the crowd, now stopped trying to figure out why their equipment had malfunctioned and focused instead on recording Peter’s sermon.

“Satan does not want Christ’s message to reach you. We all heard the demon, he dares brag that he ‘will not let us’ open your eyes. My dear brothers and sisters, be certain of this; Satan cannot stop you from seeking and finding God, he cannot keep you from the loving arms of Christ! The devil is a liar and a coward. As our Lord said, Satan is indeed the father of all lies, and was a murderer from the beginning.

“So, let us now do the Master’s work and not be distracted or deterred by the enemy. Those among you who believe and came in faith seeking deliverance from suffering, let you now receive according to your faith.”

The seven disciples then formed a circle and began to pray. They gave thanks for their many blessings and for the privilege of being the human instruments guiding God’s mighty hand on this glorious day.

It was then that the shouts of joy began erupting. “I can hear! Praise God, I can hear!” screamed a young boy as he hugged his mother. Alex’s cameras quickly shifted their attention to the crowd and away from Peter and his men.

They filmed an older Asian gentleman, who was holding out his hands in front of him, turning them over left and right in fascination. He carefully examined his arms and fingers, his legs and his feet, as if he had never seen them before. Until a few seconds earlier he had not. The man looked up at Peter and wept in reverent thanksgiving.

More shouts came from the crowd. “I can walk!” “My pain is gone!” “I am healed!” Alex captured all of these miracles on film. No one present was expressing any disappointment; the Lord had turned no one away on this day. It was a gathering not witnessed for almost two thousand years, as God, for His purposes, poured out His healing grace in a very open and profound demonstration of His power and glory.

Gail came up from behind Peter, touched his arm and kissed him on the cheek.

“Thank you, brother,” Gail said. “Thank you for letting me see this, to be a witness to something so perfect.”

“My dear, sweet Gail,” Peter responded, returning her kiss, “as Christ told Nathanael when He called him to His service, you will see greater things than these.”

“It’s just cool enough to enjoy a fire,” Julie said, as she refilled Peter and Gail’s wineglasses. “A Carolina beach on a June night is a beautiful thing.”

“Brings back memories, Jules,” Peter said, as he methodically stirred the flames with a skinny, green tree limb. “Great ones. Don’t think I don’t remember.”

“Listen, if you two need to be alone I can just … ”

“No, Gail. Stay. We’re talking about history, not current events.” As Peter spoke, Julie frowned and looked away.

By God’s grace they had made it all the way to the eighteenth of June. Alex was incredulous. He simply could not believe that with all the media attention Peter and Parkersboro had received over the past few weeks that some governmental authority, Federal or State or whomever, hadn’t shut them down.

For weeks now, Parkersboro had ceased to be a prison and had in effect become an outdoor cathedral. Gail’s staff stopped doing head counts or taking roll calls, some officers didn’t even bother to show up for work. Inmates came and went as they pleased. As of ten days ago, Warden McCorkle hadn’t even bothered to file her required daily BOP reports. She quit doing so primarily because she could no longer in good conscience lie to her superiors, nor did she see any further need to do so.

“I’ve got it right here, Panos,” Alex announced, as he stepped out of the blackness and into the firelight. “It’s a pretty thick file for only a few weeks time.”

Alex sat down on one of the portable beach chairs that were set up around the fire and Julie brought him a glass of Merlot.

“Everything at the camp is in order,” Alex told them. “The remote truck pulled up an hour ago, so our satellite uplink is secure. The network crew just called me on the cell. They had a question I couldn’t answer though.”

“Which was?” Gail asked.

“Where are all the inmates?”

“We were just talking about that, Mr. Anderson,” Gail said, flashing a sly grin at Peter. “Did they say how many are still there?”

“You mean you don’t know, Warden McCorkle?” Alex was amazed by the total disregard Gail seemed to have for her soon to be former job responsibilities. “They said maybe a hundred, roughly.”

“That’s about right,” Peter chimed in. “Something like half of the men have faith and would not miss tomorrow for anything.”

“And the other half, Warden?” Alex asked.

“Escaped, gone, AWOL, whatever. Mr. Anderson, I could care less about them. If they could live through what we’ve all lived through, see what we’ve seen, and still not believe, which means they’d have to stay, then I say God bless them and I wish them well.”

“You know, Warden, when the Feds up in Raleigh finally wake up, none of this will amuse them. Odds are you’ll become an inmate yourself.”

“That is probably true, Mr. Anderson,” Gail agreed. “And if it comes to pass, then so be it. I can no longer be part of returning evil for evil anyway. No Christian can in good conscience run a human zoo.”

“Can I quote you on that, Warden?” Alex prodded.

“Of course.”

“If you two are quite finished chattering,” Peter teased, “I’m interested in learning what the press has been saying about us.”

“Like I said, Panos, it is a thick file. Maybe I should … ”

“Maybe you should just read to us, Alex. I don’t need a full briefing, a highlight reel is more than sufficient.” Peter settled in next to Julie on the blanket and slowly sipped his wine.

“Fine by me. Let’s take it by geographic location,” Alex decided, as he shuffled through his folder.

“From the Atlanta paper, five days ago. ‘This reporter has confirmed that three Atlanta area residents, who prefer to remain anonymous, all with confirmed terminal illness diagnoses traveled last week to the Parkersboro Federal Prison Camp facility near Georgetown, South Carolina, hopeful of realizing a miracle cure. This minimum security prison camp has attracted considerable attention recently, since an inmate there, Mr. Peter Carson, shook up the authorities with his role in the much publicized and bizarre outing and suicide of Georgia Superior Court Judge Harmon Grove. Subsequent to this incident, claims of miraculous medical cures have streamed out of Parkersboro, along with other incredible stories including demonic apparitions and even the raising of the dead.”

“Let’s see,” Alex went on, “blah, blah, blah, okay. ‘This paper has independently substantiated that the three people in question have indeed been completely freed of all traces and symptoms of their respective maladies, which in two cases were advanced stages of cancer (lung and liver) and in the other a rare and fatal congenital heart disorder. In each instance, the patient attributes the healing to Mr. Peter Carson and the prayers of him and his “disciples” at the camp. Both the patients’ physicians and our own doctors hired to verify the claims have no explanation as to the cause of the symptom remissions.’ Blah, blah, blah. The Atlanta paper has run five stories on us in the past five weeks, all pretty much the same as this one.”

“What a dry account of such an extraordinary thing,” Julie observed.

“True enough,” Peter agreed, “but, regardless, the word is getting out.”

“No doubt about that,” Alex said, as he pulled another group of documents from his stack. “This one is interesting. It struck me as significant because it comes from a D.C. newspaper. I didn’t know that anyone up there was paying much attention to us yet.”

“Dateline June Second. The headline reads,
Finding Christ Amidst The Sinners?
The reporter’s name is Art Davenport.”

“I remember that dweeb,” Gail recalled. “Smallish little mealy mouthed dude. Walked around with a major bad attitude and a tape recorder. Had to resist the urge to slap him across the face a couple of times.”

“Gail,” Peter chided. “I hope you’re exaggerating.”

“No, Panos, I’m not. The little punk deserves it, needs it in fact. Sorry if I sound un-Christian, brother, but I remain convinced that a serious butt whipping can do more good for some men than any prayer or church service ever could.”

“Violence is never the answer, Gail,” Peter admonished. “But I hear what you’re saying. Some people invite retribution through their ignorance and rudeness.”

“Anyway,” Alex continued, “Mr. Davenport was not impressed by us or our claims. Blah, blah, blah. Let me start here. ‘This reporter interviewed several inmates not associated with Mr. Carson’s cadre. They hold firm to the belief that Peter Carson and his friends are running an elaborate con game at Parkersboro. While they could offer no direct proof to support their theory, two of these inmates reported seeing Mr. Carson and his associates receiving large envelopes full of cash from prospective miracle seekers. They also believe that some of these funds made their way to the prison staff, including to Warden Gail McCorkle.’”

“Why that little, lying piece of garbage. I ought to … ”

“You ought to what, Gail?”

“I ought to forgive him and pray for him.”

“That’s more like it,” Peter said. “Do not play the devil’s game. Don’t let these fools get the best of you, sister.”

“Davenport wasn’t finished,” Alex said, as he continued his selective reading from the story. “Parkersboro is in fact a federal prison now in name only. Inmates are not restrained to the prison grounds, or even properly accounted for. The staff, with considerable help from Mr. Carson’s dedicated group of ‘disciples,’ is entirely focused on the religious revival taking place there. Normal prison routines and functions are non-existent. For the entire two days this reporter spent at Parkersboro, I witnessed a corrections facility that has become an ad hoc spiritual festival with hundreds of attendees from various parts of the country mingling freely with the prisoners. Families who came to Parkersboro to see and hear Mr. Carson preach and had nowhere else to stay were given bunks in the prison dorms and fed meals in the cafeteria.”