Valley of the Shadow by Tom Pawlik

months ago. And get this . . . it was the same night Devon was shot and Hayden was having his heart attack.”
        Jim felt chills pour down his back. “You’re kidding me.”
        “Now all that brings me to your experience with Devon. And how he was acting.”
        “You mean his being out of it? Like drugged or something?”
        “Yeah, disorientation and the seizure. But there was one other thing.…”
        “What’s that?”
        “The cold. You said for a moment before his seizure it got real cold in the room. The window frosted up, you said.”
        “Yeah.” Jim was nodding at the phone. “Yeah, like the AC had kicked in or something. I could actually see my breath.”
        “Right. Only there is no AC in that room.”
        “So . . . what are you saying?”
        Darnell gave what sounded like a nervous chuckle. “Well, officially, I’m not saying anything. Officially, my office is working diligently with the police to find Devon and bring him back. But unofficially…” He paused a moment. “Unofficially, I think there’s something very weird—spiritual or paranormal or whatever you want to call it—going on.”
        Jim sat with his mouth open. He suddenly felt detached, like he was watching himself in a movie. A bizarre, low-budget horror flick about demon-crazed zombies running amok. He shook his head. This was crazy.
        “Mr. Malone?” Darnell’s voice drew Jim out of his daze.
        He blinked. “Uhh . . . yeah. So . . . what does that all mean? I mean . . . what can we do about it?”
        “Again, officially, nothing. We let the police handle it. But it sounds to me like Devon is in more trouble than just being chased by the police. A lot more.”

19
    “WELL, CONNER, I’ve been wondering when we’d get the chance to talk.”
        Norman Lewis—Pastor Norman Lewis—closed the door to his study and sat down in the chair across from Conner. Lewis was sixtysomething and grandfatherly, his brown hair trimmed with gray and neatly combed. In fact, a little too neatly, Conner thought. Not a hair out of place.
        Conner also took note that the guy didn’t sit at his desk, which might’ve suggested a position of authority. Instead, he seemed to treat Conner like a friend. An equal.
        Then again, maybe that was the impression he was trying to give—that they were friends. Like some pre-scripted psychological trick from Pastoring Techniques 101: How to Elicit Trust from Your Minions While Pretending to Be Their Equal.
        Conner had called Lewis shortly after lunch—upon arriving home from his encounter at Walter Kent’s house. He was frustrated and found himself getting angry with God again. Why would God bring him back to life and make it so difficult to accomplish the task that He’d brought him back to do? And to make matters worse, Conner was now fighting against the clock as well. If Kent had made “final arrangements” for his son, that could only mean he was having Mitch disconnected from life support. And probably soon.
        So with reservations—but nowhere else to turn—Conner had looked up the pastor’s number and given him a call. Marta was still at work, but Conner wasn’t sure he wanted her along anyway.
        Conner tapped his fingers on the leather armrest, unsure of how to begin the conversation.
        But Lewis smiled. “So Marta shared with me a bit of your… well, your story and how you came to faith. I don’t think I know anyone with that dramatic a testimony.”
        “Mmm.” Conner nodded. “Road to Damascus.”
        “Well, I’m eager to hear more about it. That is, whenever you feel comfortable enough to share it.”
        “Actually, not even Marta knew the whole story—at least not until this morning. I finally told her everything.”
        “So what took you this long to share it all with her?”
        Conner shrugged. “I