Free Piercing the Darkness by Frank Peretti Page B

that quiet?
    Ben got his flares from the supply room. The quicker he got out of there, the better.
    Oh-oh! There went Mulligan’s chair again, rolling back and hitting the wall. Ben ducked into the supply room, expecting Mulligan to come bursting through his door.
    But Mulligan must have jumped up in anger. He stayed in his office, hollering at whoever was on the phone.
    “No, Parnell, I’m telling you, there was nothing on either hand! That’s what I said, nothing!”
    Hmm. Parnell. That was the coroner.
    Mulligan gave Parnell time to say something, and then dove into him again. “No, I didn’t find anything in her pockets either! What kind of a jerk do you take me for?” Parnell got another two bits in, and then Mulligan answered, “Well, you just go back and check around again! I’m doing my job, now you do yours!” Another pause. “Hey, you’re the one who got the body, not me. I delivered it just like I found it. Why not ask the medics, if you’ve got a problem? Yeah, Parnell, it’s your problem, and I can make it a bigger problem if you just say the word!”
    He slammed the phone down and cursed.
    Ben ducked back outside as quickly as he could. Even as he closed the door behind him, he could hear the sergeant still hissing and cursing under his breath.

CHAPTER 7
     
    JAMES BARDINE WAS a young, handsome lawyer with black, wavy hair left long in the back and a voice with a lingering adolescent quack. Normally, he was tough and decisive—his associates used words like belligerent and rude behind his back—and in control of his situation. He was ambitious, a real goal-grabber, and flaunted his red Porsche at every opportunity. His suits were specially tailored to project an image of power. He’d perfected his own walk for use whenever he went to court: a quick, intimidating clip, chin high, spine straight, and lots of extra yellow legal pads under his arm. He knew he’d go far. He had the grit for this work. He was good at it.
    Right now, he was scared to death. He was sitting in an overly soft couch in the outer office of his boss, Mr. Santinelli, waiting to be called in for a conference. The room had high, twelve-foot walls, dark-stained mahogany trim around, over, and under everything, and a thick carpet your feet sank into. It was deathly quiet except for the secretary’s steady tapping on the typewriter and an occasional electronic warbling of a telephone. Bardine needed a cigarette, but Mr. Santinelli forbade smoking in his office. The magazines on the coffee table were either old or boring, but it didn’t matter. There was no way he’d be able to read right now.
    He was trying to compose a defense in his mind, something persuasive. Surely Mr. Santinelli knew when he had a good man; surely hewouldn’t make a big thing out of such a little incident. Surely he would consider the fine record Bardine had accumulated in the past five years.
    The big mahogany door opened like the seal of a crypt, and Mr. Anthony stepped out. Anthony was Mr. Santinelli’s aide and right-hand man, a tall, thin, ghosty character, something like a cross between a butler and a hangman. Bardine rose quickly.
    “We’re ready,” said Anthony. “Won’t you come in?”
    Such a nice invitation to an inquisition , Bardine thought. He stepped forward.
    “Are those yours?” Anthony asked, pointing to some yellow legal pads on the coffee table.
    “Oh, yes, thank you.”
    Bardine grabbed them up and followed Anthony through the big door. It closed after them with a thud of finality.
    This was the inner conference room adjacent to Mr. Santinelli’s office. The ornate light fixtures were at full brightness, but the room still seemed gloomy. The dark woodwork and furniture seemed to absorb the light; the heavy, floor-to-ceiling, velvet curtains were drawn over the windows.
    Mr. Santinelli sat at the other end of the oval conference table, looking over some papers before him and seeming not to notice when Bardine came in. He was