The Heaven Trilogy (31 page)
No, that wouldn’t do. “Actually, Bob, if there’s any possibility that what you’re saying proves to have merit, I’m not sure we want to tip Mr. Monroe off.”
“Hmm. Yes, of course. You’re right. We should begin a quiet investigation right away.”
“And we may want him recalled in the meantime. I’ll check with the department supervisor, but seeing as he’s on temporary-replacement assignment anyway, I don’t see any sense in keeping him in a sensitive position. AFPS is too valuable to risk, at any level.”
“Reassign him?”
“Reassign him immediately,” Kent insisted. “Today. As soon as I’ve talked to Borst, of course.”
“Yes. Makes sense. Call me then.”
“Good. In fact, maybe you could send him on an errand. Run to the bookstore or something—get him out of here while we sort this out.”
“I’ll call him as soon as we hang up.”
“Thank you, Bob. You’re a good man.”
Kent hung up feeling as though the world had just been handed to him on a platter. He stood and pumped his fist. “Yesss!” He walked around his office, thinking through his next play. He would tell Borst about the possibility that they had a spy working under their noses. It was perfect! Cliff the kook, a spy.
Twenty-five minutes later it was all over. Kent talked to Borst, who nearly lost his toupee bolting from his seat. Of course, he had to call Bob himself— make sure this removing of Cliff happened immediately, barking orders like he owned the bank or something. Kent watched, biting his cheeks to keep the grin from splitting his face.
The plan proceeded flawlessly. Cliff left on some errand for Bob at eleven, after popping his head into Kent’s office to remind him of the one o’clock, clueless as to his impending demise. It was the last they would see of him for at least a few days while Human Resources checked out this whole business. They would discover that Cliff ’s file had mistakenly been wiped out, possibly, but by then, it would not matter.
Borst changed the access codes to AFPS within the hour. Cliff Monroe was history. Just like that. Which meant that for now, all was back to a semblance of order. As long as ROOSTER had not yet been discovered, there was no reason not to continue.
Actually, there was plenty of reason not to continue. In fact, every reasonable bone in his body screamed foul at the very thought of continuing.
It was noon before Kent found the solitude he needed to check on ROOSTER’s status. He virtually dove at the keyboard, punching through menus as if they did not exist. If Cliff had discovered the link, he would have left tracks.
Kent held his breath and scrolled down to the MISC folder containing ROOS-TER. Then he exhaled long and slow and leaned back in his chair. The file had been opened one week earlier at 11:45 P.M. And that was good, because that had been him, last Wednesday evening.
A small ball of hope rolled up his chest, ballooning quickly. He closed his eyes and let the euphoria run through his bones. Yes, this was good. This was all he had. This was everything.
The pinhead cop’s face suddenly flashed before him, and he blinked it away. The authorities had not made further contact, and he had decided that Lacy was correct about one thing—they were just doing their job. At least that’s what he insisted on believing. They simply could not know about ROOS-TER. And without ROOSTER, they had nothing. Nada. This bit about Spencer was absolute nonsense. Why Pinhead had even gone on about everything one day being found out, Kent had no clue. Certainly the man was not a psychic. But no other explanation fit. And psychics were nothing more than con men. Which meant that nothing fit. Pinhead simply did not fit into any reasonable picture.
Once he executed the plan, the point would be moot anyway. Cops would be crawling all over the bank.
He had to do this now, before some other menace cropped up. Before some other propeller-head walked into his life, flashing a pineapple-eating grin. And
now
meant within a week. Or next weekend. Which meant beginning now.
“YOU WHAT?”
“I moved in with him.”
“You moved in with Kent?” She did not answer. “Why?”
“I had no choice in the matter. Actually, I did have a choice. I could have ignored him.”
“Kent
asked you to move in?”
“No. I meant I could have ignored God. He told me to move in. And don’t think I wanted to, either. Believe me, I fought this one.”
Bill Madison shook his head slowly. Helen had been walking for over two weeks now. Eight hours, twenty miles a day, without any signs of weakness. It was Jericho all over again, and Bill was not sleeping so much these days. His wife had accused him of being distracted on several occasions, and he had not bothered to deny it. Neither had he bothered to tell her about Helen’s little daily ventures out into the concrete jungle. It seemed somehow profane to talk idly about the matter. And he would be less than honest to deny that a small part of him wondered whether she had somehow conjured up the whole thing. A senile intercessor suffering from delusions of walking in God’s power. It was not unthinkable. Actually more plausible than believing her.
But that was the problem—he did believe her. In fact he had
seen
her.
“So how did you talk him into that?”
“It wasn’t pleasant.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t.” He paused, choosing his questions carefully. They spoke every other day, give or take, and Bill found himself begging time to skip forward to their conversations. Once on the phone, he fought for every minute. Invariably it was she who ended the discussion.
“I’m surprised he didn’t flatly refuse.”
“He did.”
“I see. And still you’re there. How is he?”
“He’s no nearer the truth than he was a decade ago,” she returned flatly. “If I were walking in circles and he was the wall of Jericho, I might feel like we had come to the end of the first day.”
“You think it’s that far off ?”
“No. I’m not
thinking.
It is how I
feel.”
He smiled. “Surely there must be a crack in that armor of his. You’ve been breathing down his neck as you say, for weeks. You are specifically called to intercede for the man; surely that means God will hear you.
Is
hearing you.”
“You would think so, wouldn’t you? On the other hand, you are specifically called to pray for
your
loved ones, Pastor. Does God hear my prayers any more than he hears your prayers?”
“I don’t know. I would have said
no
a month ago, but I would also have thought you crazy a month ago.”
“You still do at times, don’t you, Bill?” He couldn’t answer. “It’s okay. So do I. But you are right; God is hearing me. We are both deriving a lot of pleasure from this little episode now that I’ve settled into an acceptance of the matter.”
“You’ve always interceded for others, Helen. In many ways this is not so different.”
“Yes, in many ways. You are right. But in one way it’s very different. I am now walking in faith, you see. Quite literally. I am living intercession, not simply praying. The difference is like the difference between splashing through the surf and diving into the ocean.”
“Hmmm. Good analogy. That’s good.”
“He’s drinking, Bill. And he’s slipping. Like a slug headed for the dark creases.”
“I’m sorry, Helen. I’m sure it must be hard.”
“Oh, it’s not so hard anymore, Pastor. Actually the walking helps. It’s . . . well, it’s like a bit of heaven on Earth, maybe. It’s the stretching of the mind that wears one thin. Have you been feeling thin lately, Bill?”
“Yes. Yes, I have. My wife thinks I need a break.”
“Good. We have too many of the thick headed among our ranks. Maybe one of these days you’ll be thin enough to hear.”
“Hmm.”
“Good-bye, Bill. I have to fix him dinner. I promised I would. We’re having egg foo yung.”
Week Eleven
KENT SAW Helen at each evening meal, but otherwise only the spotless kitchen remained as a clue that another person shared the house. By the time he dragged himself from bed each morning, she was gone. Walking, she said, although he couldn’t imagine why a woman Helen’s age chose 5 A.M. for her daily walk. By the time he wandered home about six, the evening meal was either on the table or simmering on the stove.
He’d peeked into the sewing room once, just to see what she had done with it. The bed had been neatly made with a comforter he’d never seen before; a small pile of laundry rested at the foot, waiting to be put away. Otherwise there was hardly a sign that Helen occupied the spotless room. Only the nightstand beside the bed betrayed her residence there. There, her Bible lay open, slightly yellowed under the lamp. A white porcelain teacup sat nearby, emptied of its contents. But it was the crystal bottle that made him blink. She had brought this one knickknack from that hutch in her house and set it here beside her bed. Her most prized possession, Gloria had once told him. A simple bottle filled with only God knew what. Kent had closed the door without entering.
He had come home Tuesday evening to the sound of what he would have sworn was Gloria singing. He’d called her name and run to the kitchen only to find Helen bent over the sink, humming. If she’d heard him, she did not show it. He had retreated to the bedroom for a quick snip at the bottle without her knowing.
The meals themselves were a time of clinking and smacking and polite talk, but not once did Helen engage him in any of her religious dogma. She’d made a conscious decision not to, he thought. In fact, by the way she carried herself, on several occasions he found himself wondering if she had succumbed to some new drug that kept her in the clouds. Her eyes seemed to shine with confidence, and she smiled a lot. Possibly she was misreading one of her prescriptions and overdosing.
If so, she had lost neither her wit nor her analytical skills. He had engaged her about her knee-high socks once and found that out immediately.
“Those socks look silly with a dress. You
do
know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, I had noticed that. But they keep my legs warm.”
“And so would pants.”
“No, Kent. You wear the pants in this family. I wear the dress. If you think these socks look silly, think of how a dress would look hanging off your hips.”
“But it doesn’t
have
to be that way,” he said with a chuckle.
“You’re right. But to be perfectly honest with you, it’s the only way I can get men to look at my legs these days.”
He drove up to the house on Thursday, eager to discover what Helen had prepared for dinner. The sentiment caused him to stop with the car door half open. The fact was, he looked forward to walking into the house, didn’t he? It was the only thing he really looked forward to now besides the plan. There was always the plan, of course.
And there was Lacy.
They had steak that night.
Kent forged ahead, tiptoeing through the hours, refining his plan, calling Lacy, drinking. Quite a lot of drinking, always late at night, either in his upstairs sitting room or at the office, maintaining his pattern of late nights at work.
They all took Cliff ’s departure in stride, talking ad infinitum about how the competition had tried to steal AFPS and almost got away with it. The speculation only fueled their perceptions of self-importance. That anyone would go to such lengths to infiltrate their ranks came off as yet one more feather in Borst’s cap. The distraction proved a perfect cover for Kent’s last days among them.
Step by step, the perfect crime began to materialize with stunning clarity. And that was no illusion. He had breezed through graduate school, testing with one of the sharpest analytical minds this side of Tokyo. Not that he dwelled on the fact; he just knew it. And his mind told him a few things about his plan. It told him that what he was planning was most definitely a crime, punishable by severe penalties. If he did fail, it would be the end of him. He might as well take a cyanide capsule with him in the event things went wrong.
His mind also told him that the plan, however criminal, however heinous, was absolutely brilliant. Crime-of-the-century stuff. Enough to bring a smile to any cop’s mouth; enough to boil any breathing man’s blood.
And his mind told him that when it was over, if he succeeded, he would be one rich fool, living in a new skin, free to suck up whatever pleasures the world had to offer. His heart pounded at the thought.
There was simply nothing he had overlooked.
Except Lacy. He had overlooked Lacy. Well, not Lacy herself—she was becoming hard to overlook. In fact, it was the difficulty of overlooking her that he had overlooked.
They talked every evening, and he had become increasingly aware of the way his gut knotted each time he thought about picking up the phone to call her. It had been the way she touched him on his last visit, holding his head as though it might break, feeling her breath in his ear. Long-lost memories had flooded his mind.
The following evening’s phone call had driven the stake further into his heart.
“You okay, Kent?”
“Yes. I’m better. I don’t know how to thank you, Lacy. I just . . .” And then he had started to blubber, of all things. Cried right then on the phone, and he hardly knew why.
“Oh, Kent! It will okay. Shhh, shhh. It will be okay. I promise.”
He should have dropped the phone in its cradle then and walked away from her. But he could not. The calls this whole week had been no better. No more tears. But the gentle words, though not overtly affectionate, could hardly hide the chemistry brewing between them.
And now Friday had arrived. Which was a problem, because Lacy didn’t exactly fit into his plan, and his plan started tomorrow.
Helen asked him if anything was wrong during the evening meal, and he shook his head. “No, why?”
“No reason, really. You just look troubled.”
It was the last she said of the matter, but her words rang annoyingly through his mind. He had expected to be ecstatic on the eve of the big weekend. Not troubled. And yet he
was
ecstatic in some ways. It was the Lacy thing that tore at his heart.