The Heaven Trilogy (10 page)

She hesitated. “Uh, sure, Kent. Let me see if he's in.” A butterfly took flight in his belly at her tone. Borst was always
in
. If not in his office then in the john, reading some Grisham novel.
Let me check?
Who did they think he was?

Betty came back on. “Just a minute, Kent. Let me put you through.”

The line broke into Barry Manilow's “I Write the Songs.” The music brought a cloud to Kent's heart. That was one of the problems with mourning; it came and left without regard for circumstances.

“Kent!” Borst's voice sounded forced. Kent imagined the man sitting behind that big screen in his office, overdressed in that navy three-piece he liked to wear. “How are you doing, Kent?”

“Fine.”

“Good. We've been worried about you. I'm sorry about what happened. I had a niece who died once.” Borst did not elaborate, possibly because he'd suddenly realized how stupid that sounded.
Don't forget your pet ferret, Monkey Brains. It died too, didn't it? Must've been devastating!

“Yeah. It's tough,” Kent said. “I'm sorry for taking so much time off here, but—”

“No, it's fine. Really. You take all the time you need. Not that we don't need you here, but we understand.” He was speaking quickly. “Believe me, it's no problem.”

“Thanks, but I think the best thing now is to get back to work. I'll be in on Monday.” It was Friday. That gave him a weekend to set his mind in the right frame. “Besides, there are a few clarifications I need to make on the funds processing system.” That should spark a comment on the Miami conference. Surely the reception to AFPS had been favorable. Why was Borst not slobbering about it?

“Sure,” his supervisor said, rather anemically. “Yeah, Monday's good.”

Kent could not contain his curiosity any longer. “So, what did they say to AFPS?” he asked as nonchalantly as possible.

“Oh, they loved it. It was a real smash, Kent. I wish you could have been there. It's everything we hoped for. Maybe more.”

Of course! He'd known it all along. “So did the board make any mention of it?” Kent asked.

“Yes. Yes, they did. In fact, they've already implemented it. System wide.”

The revelation brought Kent to his feet. His chair clattered to the floor behind him. “What? How? I should have been told. There are some things —”

“We didn't think it would be right to bother you. You know with the missis dying and all. But don't worry; it's been working exactly as we designed it to work.”

We
nothing, Bucko. It was my program; you should have waited for me!
At least it was working. “So it was a big hit, huh?” He retrieved his chair and sat down.

“Very big. It was the buzz of the conference.”

Kent squeezed his eyes and gripped his fist tight, exhilarated. Suddenly he wanted to be back. He imagined walking into the bank on Monday, a dozen suits thumping his back with congratulations.

“Good. Okay, I'll see you Monday, Markus. It'll be good to get back.”

“Well, it'll be good to have you back too, Kent.”

He thought about telling the man about the changes he'd made to the program before leaving for Miami but decided they could wait the weekend. Besides, he rather liked the idea of being the only man who really knew the inner workings of AFPS. A little power never hurt anybody.

Kent hung up, feeling decent for the first time since Gloria's death. It was settled, then. On Monday he would reenter his skyrocketing career. It would breathe new life into him.

MONDAY MORNING came slow for Kent. He and Spencer had spent the weekend at the zoo and Elitch Gardens amusement park. Both the animals and the mobs of people served to distract them from their sorrow for a time. Helen had dragged them off to church on Sunday. Actually, Spencer had not needed dragging. In fact, it might be more accurate to say that
Spencer
had dragged him off to church—with Helen's full endorsement, of course. Pastor Bill Madison had lectured them on the power of God, which only served to annoy Kent immensely. Sitting in the pew, he'd thought about the power of death. And then his mind had drifted to the bank. Monday was on his mind.

And now Monday was here.

The arrangements had gone smoothly. Helen would watch Spencer at her place on Monday and Tuesday. Linda, one of Helen's buddies from church, would watch him Wednesday morning at the house. Spencer insisted he could finish off his home-school curriculum on his own this year. Next year he might attend the public school.

Kent rose a full hour ahead of schedule, anxious and not knowing exactly why. He showered, dressed in navy slacks and a starched white shirt, and changed ties three times before settling on a red silk Countess Mara. He then sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and watching the clock. The bank opened at eight, but he would walk in at ten after. Seemed appropriate. Make a statement, although he was not sure why he needed to make a statement. Or even what that statement would be. Possibly he relished the image of walking through the bank after everyone else had arrived, nodding to their smiles of consolation; acknowledging their words of congratulations. He dismissed the notion. If anything, he felt like sneaking in and avoiding the predictable shows of sympathy. Still, some form of congratulations would be in order.

A hundred scenarios ran through his mind, followed by a healthy dose of self-correction for letting the thoughts occupy him at all. In the end he blamed it all on his stressed mental state. Some psychiatrists suggested that men bent upon success became more attached to their work than to their spouses. Married to their jobs. He doubted he'd ever gone to such extremes, but the notion seemed somewhat attractive now. After all, Gloria was gone. So then, possibly he was having first-date jitters.

Kent scoffed at the idea and stood from the table. Enough blather. Time to go.

He climbed behind the wheel of the silver Lexus and drove to the bank. The butterflies rose in his stomach when the renovated office complex, now bearing the name Niponbank, loomed on the corner of Fifth and Grand. A thousand times he'd approached the old, red-brick building in the Lexus, barely aware of the downtown maze through which he drove. Hardly noticing his stopping and starting at lights as he closed in on the twenty-story structure, sitting there like an oversized fire station.

Now every movement became acute. A newsman ran on about inflation over the stereo. Cars streamed by, completely lost to the fact that he was reentering their world after a three-week absence. Pedestrians wandered in abstract directions with intent, but otherwise aimless. He wondered if any of them had lost someone recently. If so, no one would know. The world was moving ahead, full stride, with or without him.

The light just before the bank remained red for an inordinate period. Two full minutes, at least. In that time he watched eighteen people ascend or descend the sweeping steps leading to the bank's main floor. Probably tenants from the upper stories.

The car behind him honked, and he started. The light had turned. He motored across the intersection and swung the Lexus into the side parking lot. Familiar cars sat in their customary slots. With one last look in the mirror, his pulse now drumming steadily, Kent eased out of the sedan. He snatched his briefcase from the backseat and strode for the main entry.

Like walking up to a dream date on prom night. Good grief !

Long, polished, white steps rose like piano keys to the brass-framed glass doors. The year-old face-lift suited the building. He grabbed the brass handrail and clicked up the steps. With a final tingle at the base of his spine, he pushed through the entry.

The three-story lobby loomed spacious and plush, and Kent paused just inside the doors. The tall brass yacht hovered ahead, stately and magnificent, seemingly supported by that one thin shaft. Sidney Beech, the branch's assistant vice president, clacked along the marble floor, thirty feet from Kent. She saw him, gave him a friendly nod, and continued her walk toward the glass-enclosed offices along the right wall. Two personal bankers he recognized as Ted and Maurice talked idly by the president's office door. A dozen stuffed maroon guest chairs sat in small groupings, waiting in perfect symmetry for patrons who would descend on the bank at nine.

To Kent's left, the gray-flecked floor ran up to a long row of teller stations. During peak hours, fifteen tellers would be shuffling bills across the long, hunter-green counter. Now, seven busied themselves for the opening.

Kent stepped forward toward the gaping hall opposite him where the marble floor ended and the teal carpet ran into the administration wing. The large seagull that hung on the wall above the hall seemed to be eyeing him.

Zak, the white-haired security guard, stood idly to Kent's right, looking important and doing exactly what he had done for five years now: nothing. He had seen it all a thousand times, but coming in now, it struck him as though new. Like a déjà vu.
I've been here before, haven't I? Yes, of course.
At any moment a call would come. Someone would notice that Kent Anthony had just entered the building. The man responsible for the new processing system. The man whose wife had just died. Then they would all know he had arrived.

But the call did not come.

And that bothered him a little. He stepped onto the carpet and swallowed, thinking maybe they had not seen him. And, after all, these front-lobby workers were not as close to his world as the rest. Back in the administration sections they referred to those who worked out in the large foyer as the
handlers
. But it was them, the
processors
, who really made banking work—everyone knew that.

Kent breathed deeply once, walked straight down the hall, and opened the door to his little corner of the world.

Betty Smythe was there at her desk on the left—bleached, poofy-white hair and all. She had a tube of bright red lipstick cocked and ready to apply, one inch from pursed lips already too red for Kent's taste. Immediately her face went a shade whiter, and she blinked. Which was how he supposed some people might respond to a waking of the dead. Only it was not he who had died.

“Hi, Betty,” he said.

“Kent!” Now she collected herself, jerked that red stick to her lap, and squirmed on the seat. “You're back.”

“Yes, Betty. I'm back.”

He'd always thought that Borst's decision to hire Betty had been motivated by the size of her bra rather than the size of her brain, and looking at her now he was sure of it. He glanced about the reception area. Beyond the blue armchairs the hall sat vacant. All four oak office doors were shut. A fleeting picture of the black nameplates flashed through his mind. Borst, Anthony, Brice, Quinn. It had been the same for three years now.

“So how are things going?” he asked absently.

“Fine,” she said, fiddling with the latch on her purse. “I don't know what to say about your wife. I'm so sorry.”

“Don't say anything.” She had not mentioned AFPS yet. He turned and smiled at her. “Really, I'll be fine.” So much for the blaring reception.

Kent walked to the first door on the left and entered his office. The overhead fluorescent stuttered white over his black workstation, tidy as he had left it. He closed the door and set the briefcase down.

Well now, here he was. At home once again. Three computer monitors rested on the corner station, each displaying the same exotic-fish screensaver in unison. His high-back leather chair butted up to the keyboard.

Kent reached for his neck and loosened his collar. He slid into his chair and touched the mouse. The screens jumped to life as one. A large three-dimensional insignia reading “Advanced Funds Processing System” rolled out on the screen like a carpet inviting entry. “Welcome to the bank,” the last of it read. Indeed, with this little baby, an operator had access to the bank in ways many a criminal would only dream of through fitful sleep.

He dropped into his chair, punched in his customary access code, and dropped a finger on the ENTER key. The screen went black for a moment. Then large yellow letters suddenly popped up: ACCESS DENIED.

He grunted and keyed in the password again, sure he had not forgotten his own son's name: SPENCER.

ACCESS DENIED, the screen read again. Borst must have changed the code in his absence. Of course! They had integrated the program already. In doing so, they would need to set a primary access password, which would automatically delete the old.

Kent hesitated at the door to his office, thinking again that he had been in the office for a full five minutes now and not one word of congratulations. Borst's closed door was directly across the hall. He should walk in and let the man bring him up to speed. Or perhaps he should make an appearance in Todd's or Mary's office first. The two junior programmers would know what was up.

At the last moment he decided to check in on Will Thompson in the loan department instead. Will would know the buzz, and he was disconnected.

He found Will at his desk, one floor up, bent over his monitor, adjusting the focus.

“Need any help with that?” Kent asked, grinning.

Will looked up, surprised. “Kent! You're back!” He extended a quick hand. “When did you get back? Gee, I'm sorry.”

“Ten minutes ago.” Kent reached down and twisted a knob behind the monitor. The menu on the screen immediately jumped into clear view.

Will smirked and sat down. “Thanks man. I always could count on you. So, you okay? I wasn't sure I'd ever see you back here.”

Kent sat in a guest chair and shrugged. “I'm hanging in there. It's good to be back to work. Keep me distracted, maybe.”

The loan officer lifted an eyebrow. “So, you're okay with it all?”

Kent looked at his friend, not sure what he was asking. “It's not like I have a lot of choice in the matter, Will. What's done is done.”

“Yeah. You're right. I just thought that on top of your wife's death and all, you might see things differently.” The room suddenly seemed deathly quiet. It struck Kent then that something was amiss. And like Betty, Will had not congratulated him. A thin chill snaked down his spine.