The Heaven Trilogy (14 page)

Helen paused and drew her breath carefully, noting that it had grown short. “There are some more things, but they would not make any sense right now.” She looked up at him with heavy eyes.

“And this does?”

She shrugged. “You asked for it.”

Pastor Madison looked at her with wide eyes. “And I don't think you can be so sure that your daughter was sacrificed. God does not work like that.”

“You don't think so? Well, it's one thing to read about how God butchered a thousand nasty Amalekites long ago, but when the object of his ax is your own daughter's neck, the blindfolds go on, do they?”

Bill sat back without removing his eyes from hers. His dark brows were pulled together, creating furrows above the bridge of his nose. He'd stopped shepherding, she thought. Not that she blamed him. She had stopped bleating.

“It's okay, Bill. I don't really understand it, either. Not yet. But I would like you to pray with me. Pray
for
me. I'm a part of this, and it's not yet finished; that much I do know. It is all just beginning. Now you're a part of it. I need you, Pastor.”

“Yes,” he said. “Of course I will. But I want you to at least consider the possibility that you are misreading these images.” He held up his hand. “I know it's not in your nature to do so, Helen. But so far all that has happened is that your daughter has died. I'm not minimizing the trauma of her death, not at all. In fact that very trauma may be initiating all of this. Can you at least understand my line of thinking?” His eyebrows lifted hopefully.

She nodded and smiled, thinking he might very well be the one who was mis- understanding here; he appeared to have missed the point entirely. “Yes, I can. Any psychiatrist in his right mind would tell me the same.” She stood then. “But you are wrong, Bill. Gloria's death is not the only thing that has happened. They are rather frantic in the heavens, I think. And there is more to come. It is
this
for which I need your prayers. That and possibly my sanity. But I assure you, young man. I have not lost it yet.”

She had walked out then.

He had called two hours later and told her he was praying. It was a good thing, she thought. He was a good man, and she liked him.

Helen let the memory drift away and brought her mind back to the present. Lack of understanding seemed as valuable to God as understanding. It required man to dip into the black hole of faith. But dipping into the hole was pretty much like walking through the dungeon at times.

She tilted her head back and breathed to the ceiling. “Oh God, do not keep silent; be not quiet, oh God, be not still.” She quoted the Psalms as she often did in prayer. It was a kind of praying that seemed to fit her new life. “I am worn out calling for help; my throat is parched. My eyes fail looking for my God.”

Yes indeed. In its own way, God's silence was as powerful as his presence. If for no reason other than it nudged you toward that hole. Taking the plunge was another matter. That took faith. Believing God was present when he felt absent.

She closed her eyes and moaned at the ceiling. “God, where have you gone?”

I have gone nowhere.

The voice spoke quietly in her spirit, but loudly enough to make her stop halfway down her groove.

Pray, daughter. Pray until it is over.

Now Helen began to tremble slightly. She sidestepped to the bed and sat heavily. “Over?” she vocalized

Pray for him and trust me.

“But it is so difficult when I cannot see.”

Then remember the times when you have seen. And pray for him.

“Yes, I will.”

The voice fell silent.

A wave of warmth swept through Helen's bones. She stretched her arms for the ceiling and tilted her head back. How could she have ever doubted this? This being who breathed through her now? “Oh, God, forgive me!”

Her chest swelled, and tears spilled from her eyes, unchecked. She opened her mouth and groaned—begging forgiveness, uttering words of love, trying to contain the emotions burning in her throat.

Helen sank to the mattress twenty minutes later, thoroughly content, unable to rid her face of its broad smile. How could she have possibly questioned? She would have to tell the pastor in the morning. It was all painfully obvious now.

An hour later, all of that changed.

Because an hour later, half an hour after she'd fallen into the sweetest sleep she could imagine, God spoke to her again. Showed her something new. But this time it did not feel like a soothing breath sweeping though her bones. This time it felt like a bucket of molten lead poured down her neck.

A scream woke her, filling her mind like a blaring klaxon that jerked her from the dream. It was not until she'd bolted up in bed and sat rigid that she realized the scream was coming from her own mouth.

“God, noooooo! Noooo! Noo—”

She caught her breath mid-wail. God no
what?
Why was she drenched in sweat? Why was her heart racing like a runaway locomotive?

The vision came back to her like a flood.

Then she knew why she had awakened screaming. She moaned, suddenly terrified again.

Darkness crowded her, and she glanced around the room for references, for some sense to dash this madness. Her wardrobe materialized against the far wall. The French doors glowed with moonlight. Reality settled in. But with it, the stark vision she had just witnessed.

Helen dropped to her back and breathed again, pulling in long, desperate breaths. “God, why, God? You can't!”

But she knew he could. Knew he would.

It took her three full hours to find a fitful sleep again and then only after changing her pillowcase twice. She thought it might be the wetness from her tears that kept her from sleep. But in the end she knew it was just the terror.

God was dealing in terror.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

KENT DRAGGED himself to the bank Wednesday morning, gritting his teeth in a muddle of humiliation and anger. He'd managed his way back to his office yesterday after the Bentley fiasco—fortunately without encountering a soul. For two hours he'd tried to work—and failed miserably. At eleven he'd left, brushing past Betty, mumbling something about an appointment. He had not returned.

Today he entered through the front door, but only because of his attorney's insistence that he maintain normalcy—act like nothing under the sun was bothering him when actually he was falling apart inside. He hurried through the lobby with his head down, fiddling with his third button as if something about it required his full attention. One of the tellers called out his name, but he pretended not to hear it. The button was far too consuming.

He rested his hand on the door to the Information Systems suite and closed his eyes.
Okay, Kent. Just do what needs to be done.
He pushed his way in.

Betty stared at him uncomfortably. Oversized fake black lashes shielded her eyes from the fluorescents. He had an urge to pluck one of them off. Then when she batted her eyes, there would be only one lash fanning the reception room; the room was too small for two anyway.

He nodded. “Morning.”

“Morning,” she returned, and her voice cracked.

“Borst in?”

“He's in Phoenix today. He'll be back tomorrow.”

Thank God for small favors.

Kent walked into his office and closed himself in. Ten minutes later he came to the grinding conclusion that he could not work. Just couldn't. He could pretend to work and play Dennis Warren's game if it would reward him with a fat settlement. But with the door closed, pretending felt absurd.

He punched up a game of solitaire and found it dreadfully boring after the second hand. He tried to call Dennis but learned from the little bimbo at the law offices' front desk that he was in court.

When the knock on the door sounded at ten, it came as a relief. A kind of put-me-out-of-my-misery relief. Kent punched the dormant solitaire game off his screen. “Come in,” he called and adjusted his tie knot out of habit.

The new transfer walked in and shut the door. Cliff Monroe. All crisp and clean and charged to climb the ladder. He smiled wide and stuck out his hand— the same hand that Kent had ignored two days earlier.

“Hi, Kent. It's a pleasure to meet you. I've heard a lot about you.” His pineapple-eating smile covered the full spectrum—a genuine ear-to-ear grin. “Sorry about the other day.”

Kent took the hand and blushed at the memory of
the other day.
“Not your fault. I should apologize. Not the best first impression, I guess.”

Cliff must have taken Kent's tone as an invitation to sit, because he grabbed a chair and plopped down. His eyes flashed a brilliant green. “No, it wasn't a problem, really. From what I've picked up between the lines, if you know what I mean, you had every reason to be upset.”

Kent straightened. “You know what's going on?” Cliff was still wearing that grin. His teeth seemed inordinately white, like his shirt. “Let's put it this way, I know that Kent Anthony was primarily responsible for the creation of AFPS—I knew that while I was still in Dallas. That's where I transferred in from. I guess the boys upstairs decided that you could use another decent programmer. It's not permanent yet, but believe me, I hope it becomes permanent because I love this place. Even if I don't have my own office yet.” Somewhere in that long preamble Cliff had lost his grin. He pressed on before Kent could refocus him. “Yes sir, I would absolutely love to move to the mountains here in Denver. I figure I can crack code during the week, make some decent dough, and the slopes will be mine on the weekends. Do you snowboard?”

The oversized kid was a piece of work. Kent just stared at the programmer for a moment. He'd heard of this type: all brain when it came to the keyboard, and all brawn when it came to the weekends. He smiled for the first time that day.

Cliff joined him with a face-splitting grin of his own, and Kent had an inkling that the kid knew exactly what he was doing.

“I've skied a day or two in my time,” he said.

“Great, we can go sometime.” The new transfer's face dropped long. “Sorry about what happened to your wife. I mean, I heard about that. It must be hard.”

“Uh-huh. So what do you know besides the fact that I was responsible for AFPS?”

“I know that things got a bit topsy-turvy at the convention. Your name was somehow bypassed in all the fuss. Sounds like Borst grabbed all the glory.” Cliff grinned again.

Kent blinked and decided not to join him. “Yeah, well you may think that's a cheesy let's-all-have-a-grin-about-it affair, but the fact is, Borst not only got the glory, he's getting all the money as well.”

The kid nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

That set Kent back. The kid knew that as well? “And you don't have a problem with that?”

“Sure I do. I also have a problem with the fact that the slopes are two hours away. I came to Denver thinking the resorts are out everybody's backdoor, you know. But unless we can find a way to move mountains, I think we're both kinda stuck.”

Yes, indeed, Cliff was no dummy. Probably one of those kids who started punching up computer code while they were still in diapers. “We'll see.”

“Well, if you need my help, just ask.” Cliff shrugged. “I know I will.”

“You will what?”

“Need help. From you. My responsibility is to dig into the code and look for weaknesses. I've found the first three already.”

“Look for weaknesses, huh? And what makes you think there are any weaknesses? What three?”

“Todd, Mary, and Borst.” That grin wrinkled the kid's face again.

Kent could hardly help himself this time. He chuckled. Cliff was looking more and more like an ally. Another small gift from God, possibly. He'd tell Dennis about this one.

He nodded. “You're all right, Cliff. But I wouldn't be saying that too loudly around here, if I were you. You know what they say about power. It corrupts. And by the sound of things, Borst has found himself a load of power lately.”

Cliff winked. “Not to worry, Kent. I'm on it already. You got my vote.”

“Thanks.”

“Now seriously, I do have a few questions. Do you mind running me through a few routines?”

The kid was a walking paradox. At first glance, clean cut and ready to brown-nose the closest executive, but something entirely different under the starch. A snowboarder. Spencer would get a kick out of this.

“Sure. What do you want to know?”

They spent the rest of the morning and the first afternoon hour plowing through code. Kent's instincts proved correct: Cliff was a regular programming prodigy. Not as fluent or precise as Kent, but as close to him as anybody he'd met. And likable to boot. He'd set up shop down the hall in an office that had served as the suite's overflow room before his arrival. He retreated there shortly after one.

Kent stared at the door after Cliff 's departure. What now? He picked up the phone and began to dial Dennis Warren's number. But then he remembered that the attorney was in court. He dropped the phone in its cradle. Maybe he should talk to Will Thompson upstairs. Recruit the loan officer's support on the matter of the missing bonus. That would mean walking past Betty again, of course, and he could hardly stand the thought. Unless she was taking a late lunch.

Kent shut his computer down, grabbed his briefcase, and headed out.

Unfortunately, Betty was back from lunch, unwittingly transferring blush from her well-oiled face to her phone's mouthpiece while gabbing with only heaven knew who. Some other lady who had absolutely no clue about banking. Her beautician perhaps.

Kent didn't bother reporting his plans. He found Will upstairs, banging on his monitor again. “You need some help there, young man?”

Will jerked up. “Kent!” He sat back and nodded in a bouncing motion.

“You still having problems with that monitor?”