Fire Of Heaven Book III Fire of Heaven

by Bill Myers

  “He really got to you, huh?”

  She looked up at him, then slowly nodded. “Yeah … he really got to me.”

  As Brandon remained in the church praying, a deeper urgency began to rise up within him. At first he thought it was coming from the old Brandon Martus, the dead one, the one trying to make him worry and draw him away from the presence of God. This sort of thing happened frequently, but he was getting used to its tricks. In fact, he’d learned a few of his own. He’d discovered the best way to keep the old man dead was by focusing upon Christ. He discovered if he filled his mind so full of worshiping and dwelling upon him, he could literally force the old thoughts to flee. Sometimes this would take ten seconds, sometimes ten minutes, but if he persisted, it always worked. He could enter the presence of God and remain until the Father’s thoughts became his thoughts.

  Except for now.

  Now, the more he dwelled upon Christ, the more his thoughts filled with Sarah. He bore down harder, closing his eyes, concentrating upon Jesus’ grace, his tenderness, his glory. And yet the thoughts of Sarah continued to grow and expand. An idea began to take shape. Was it possible that the reason he couldn’t remove the thoughts of Sarah was because they were the thoughts of the Father?

  Eyes still closed, he sensed a difference in the light striking his face. Somebody had approached and was standing in front of him. He heard faint, labored breathing, but kept his eyes shut and continued to pray. Then he heard the brush of clothing and felt something touch his arm. He opened his eyes and saw a frail old woman leaning toward him. She was hunched over and wore a loose dark brown dress and a cream-colored Palestinian head scarf. Her face was leathered and grooved from decades of sun, and her once-blue eyes were watery gray from cataracts.

  She patted his arm again, this time motioning for him to rise and follow her.

  He smiled, but indicated that he was praying.

  She took his arm. He looked down at her hand. It was mostly bone and blue veins. She pulled, motioning that he must come with her. Her grip was weak but persistent, and when he looked back into her eyes, he sensed how important it was for her that he obey. Finally, reluctantly, he rose from the marble bench.

  She did not release her grip, but continued to pull. She hobbled toward the steep steps and started down them, relying on him for balance, until they reached the main floor of the church. Once there, she turned and started toward the exit.

  “Whoa, wait a minute.” Brandon brought them to a stop. “I have friends. They are coming to pick me up.”

  She paid no attention and continued to pull, motioning for him to follow.

  He spoke again, louder and slower. “I must stay.” He indicated the church. “Here. I must stay here.”

  She shook her head and continued to pull. It was obvious the woman would not let up until she got her way. Brandon scanned the crowded church, making sure Tanya had not already arrived. When he didn’t see her, he looked back at the woman’s anxious eyes. Finally he agreed to follow.

  They stepped through the wooden door and into the blazing bright courtyard. He winced at the sunlight reflecting off the limestone pavement and buildings. She led him to the right, up the steps, and out onto St. Helena, a narrow street. Fifty yards later they turned left onto Christian Quarter Road. Like all the other streets and roads in the Old City, it was a crowded walkway jammed with small shops hawking everything from onions to leather coats, Turkish delight, batteries, dried dates, blue jeans, pistachios, and a thousand and one tourist trinkets — from cheap olive wood chessboards to holographic pictures that changed from Jesus to Mary and back to Jesus again as you walked past.

  And still the woman pulled, tirelessly, treading up the worn stones until they turned right again, past more shops, and eventually arrived at a square just inside Jaffa Gate. A square big enough for a few cars.

  “Taxi?” A driver called out. “Taxi?”

  Brandon shook his head.

  They continued through the square toward the towering wall of giant stone blocks. The woman was puffing now, struggling to breathe. Brandon tried to slow her down, indicating that she should sit on one of the benches and catch her breath. But she would not stop. They stepped through Jaffa Gate and out into the new city.

  And still the voices accused.

  Failure! Destroyer! Whore!

  As Sarah’s hopelessness grew, her need to be near the one person who had ever given her hope increased. She struggled to rise from the edge of the tub. Her first unsteady step ended with a sharp burn. She looked down to see a jagged piece of the broken glass cutting into her right heel. She watched the dark blood spread out onto the white marble. But it didn’t matter. She continued walking, stepping on other pieces of glass, hearing them pop and snap under her bare feet, feeling the sharp pain as they tore into her toes, her arches, her heels. But it didn’t matter. In fact, it almost felt good, proof that the universe was still a sane place that demanded justice.

  She staggered into the bedroom, leaving bloody footprints on the beige carpet. Some of the glass remained stuck in her feet, but it didn’t matter. She arrived at the dresser and pulled open the bottom drawer. She dug through the cloths until she found it. Brandon’s shirt. She pulled it out, sending the other clothes tumbling to the floor. She slipped it on. Of course the smell was gone, but there were still the memories.

  She hugged herself, holding it close, shutting her eyes and imagining it to be Brandon’s embrace. She wasn’t sure how long she stood, lost in his goodness, his kindness, his love. It had been the happiest time in her life, in both of their lives. Until she had ruined it …

  Adultery and ambition, that is all you are!

  “No!” she whispered harshly.

  Liar!

  “No!”

  Cheater!

  “Stop it!”

  Thief! Murderer!

  She wrapped her arms tighter, holding Brandon’s shirt closer. But the comfort had already faded. There was nothing he could do. Nothing anyone could do. For the briefest second she thought of praying. But she’d failed at that, too.

  You have never changed, you never will.

  It wasn’t God’s fault. It was nobody’s fault … but hers. Like everything else, she was the one to blame.

  Killer! Adulterer!

  She lowered her head, but the tears still did not come. Now there was only the self-hatred, the accusing voice, and the unbearable pain. These were things no one could stop.

  Or could they?

  She turned. With unsteady steps, she shuffled back toward the bathroom. A plan was beginning to form.

  Baby killer!

  There was a way to silence the voice. There was a way to stop the pain.

  By now the water was pouring over the top of the tub, mixing with the blood on the marble and darkening the carpet where it soaked. Another mess of her making.

  She sloshed across the floor, her feet finding another piece of broken glass before she arrived and turned off the water. Now everything was quiet. Strangely still, except for the echoing drip of the faucet. And the voice.

  Stooping down, she rummaged through the pieces of glass until she found just the right one — blunt at one end, razor sharp at the other. There was a way to stop the pain and the voice. And, as a doctor, she knew the least painful and most effective way to do it. Holding onto the tub for balance, she rose back up and then stepped into the water. For the briefest moment she started to remove Brandon’s shirt, then thought better of it. It was all she had left. And she needed him now more than ever.

  She lowered herself into the water, sending more of it spilling over the side and onto the floor. But it didn’t matter. No one would know. The Cartel would see to that. It would be too much of an embarrassment. But, then again, she was always an embarrassment.

  She looked at the water. It was turning pink from her bleeding feet. She looked down at her wrists. This much she could do right. After all, she was a doctor. Taking the piece of glass in her right hand, she lowered her
left arm into the warm water. There was barely any pain as she expertly opened the vein. She switched the glass shard to the other hand and slit open the other vein. Darkness spread into the water.

  Sarah set the glass on the side of the tub. As she scooted down into the water, more sloshed onto the floor. But that was okay, everything would be okay. All she had to do was wait. She pulled Brandon’s shirt tighter around her body and drew his collar up around her face. This is how she would go to sleep. This is how she would die. Dreaming of Brandon, of all that they had, of all that they could have been.

  “Mom,” Eric whined from inside the limo. “Lucas is already there. Come on.”

  “Right, honey, just a second.” Katherine stood in the open car door. Lucas had sent word for Eric to join him as he reviewed the preparations at the Temple Mount before tomorrow’s installation. They were just leaving when a slight commotion in front of the hotel caught her attention. A young man and an old Palestinian woman were being blocked from entering by two plainclothes security. Normally such a scene wouldn’t concern her, but there was something vaguely familiar about the man, and she felt drawn to check it out.

  “Mom!”

  “I’ll be right back.” She turned from the limo and walked briskly toward the entrance. “Excuse me,” she called. “Excuse me, is there a problem?”

  The young man looked at her. He was in his mid-twenties. And, although the face was unshaven and his hair closely cropped, she recognized the steel gray eyes instantly. They were the same eyes from the photos Sarah had shown her. “You’re Dr. Martus’s husband?”

  He was surprised at the recognition and nodded. “Yes, I’m Brandon Martus. And

  you’re —”

  “You know these people, Ms. Lyon?” the older of the two security guards asked.

  “Yes, I …” Katherine glanced back at Brandon. “This is Brandon Martus, Dr. Martus’s husband.” There was no missing the glance between the two guards. They’d all been briefed on Sarah’s relationship to Lucas.

  She turned back to Brandon. “You’re here to see Sarah.”

  “Is she here?” He sounded surprised.

  “Of course.”

  “Mom!”

  Katherine glanced back at the limo. Eric was growing agitated. If she didn’t hurry, he could have another outburst. She turned to the older guard and asked, “You’ll see to it Mr. Martus gets to her room?”

  The guard fidgeted. “Ms. Lyon, I’m not sure if he’s cleared security for —”

  “He’s the woman’s husband.”

  “Yes, I can appreciate that, but —”

  “Mom!”

  “Certainly a man’s entitled to see his own wife.”

  “I agree, but —”

  She heard a car door slam and turned to see the limo begin pulling away. “Eric!” She started after him. “Eric, wait a minute! Eric!” The car picked up speed. “Eric!” She ran a half-dozen steps before slowing to a stop. The limo pulled out of the driveway and onto King David Road, where it took a right and disappeared down the street. Frustrated and angry, Katherine turned and stormed back to the group.

  “He’ll be okay,” the guard said as she arrived. “We’ve got two of our best people with him.”

  She gave him a look, then called out to the doorman, “Order me a taxi.”

  The older guard shook his head. “Can’t do that.”

  “What?”

  “Not until we get you some security.”

  “Then get me some!”

  “It will take at least thirty minutes.”

  “Then do it,” she snapped. Spotting Brandon and the old lady still waiting, she asked, “So are you going to get them up to see Dr. Martus or not?”

  The older guard hesitated, not wanting to upset Katherine any more than she already was.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  More hesitation.

  “Ponte’s not even here! What’s the risk in taking this man up to see his own wife?” she demanded.

  Finally, reluctantly, the guard turned to his partner and motioned toward the entrance. The partner nodded and escorted them to the door, but not before the older guard called, “He can go, but not the old woman.”

  “What?” Katherine turned to him.

  “Not the old lady.”

  “She’s obviously a friend.”

  “Not the old lady,” the man repeated.

  Katherine realized it was a power play, the only way for the guard to save face. But before she could continue, the old woman produced a business card on paper-thin stock. She handed it to Brandon, pointing to the card, then to herself.

  “What’s this?” Brandon asked.

  Again, she pointed.

  “It’s her home,” the guard answered in mild irritation.

  Brandon frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s an invitation. If you don’t have a place to stay she’s offering her home.” The guard motioned her toward the street and ordered something in Arabic. She nodded, but before she turned to leave, Brandon reached out and took her hand.

  He spoke loud and slow. “Thank you.”

  She patted his arm, gave a semitoothless smile, and pointed toward the heavens. Brandon understood and nodded.

  Once again the guard ordered her to leave. This time she obeyed, turning and starting to shuffle down the driveway toward the road. Katherine watched as the younger guard ushered Brandon through the large revolving door and into the hotel. She hesitated a moment, glanced at her watch, then turned to the first guard.

  “Thirty minutes?”

  He nodded.

  She sighed in frustration. “Call me,” she said, then turned and followed the other two inside. The lobby was two stories of yellow marble, dark wood, brass, and freshly cut flowers. The floor was made of long, alternating slabs of green and yellow marble. Along the walls were portraits so dark and indiscernible that Katherine figured they must have cost a fortune. Not that she cared. All she cared about was getting back to her son.

  She caught Brandon’s elevator just before the door closed and rode up with him and the security guard. It was there in the privacy of the small elevator that the guard motioned to Brandon with upturned palms. “May I?”

  It took a moment until Brandon suddenly understood. Without a word he raised his arms and the guard quickly, but expertly, ran his hands over his back, chest, and sides, then down each of his legs.

  “Thank you.”

  Brandon nodded as Katherine continued to watch. He was a good-looking kid, intriguing. Then there were those eyes. Sarah was right when she’d said there was nothing they didn’t see. And when they caught her evaluating him, even she felt the slightest bit uneasy, as if he was somehow able to see into her.

  She cleared her throat. “I take it Sarah isn’t expecting you.”

  “No, I uh … no.” He was nervous, and for good reason. She wondered if he had any idea what he was walking into.

  “My name is Katherine. Katherine Lyon.”

  “Eric’s mom?” The eyes were kind, but still probing.

  “Yes.”

  “How is he?”

  “He’s okay. He’s fine.”

  She tried to hold his look, but couldn’t. He obviously knew she was lying. It was time to change the subject. “Sarah’s … she’s been going through some tough times.”

  His answer was quiet and full of understanding. “I know.”

  She looked at him, wondering how much he did know. The elevator came to a stop and the doors opened onto the hallway of the sixth floor. This was the location of the Royal Suite, the suite in which nearly every visiting head of state had stayed in the past fifty years. Deciding to tag along, Katherine stepped out of the elevator and followed the guard as he escorted them down the hallway of plush blue carpet and dramatically lit limestone arches. In the center of the hallway to the right was a white tiled door with a guard posted on either side. Each was armed with an Uzi. They passed the two guards, who gave stoic nods, and then app
roached a door another twenty feet further down the hall.

  When they arrived their escort knocked loudly. There was no answer. He tried again. The result was the same. He turned to Brandon and gave a shrug.

  But Katherine would not be put off. “I guess he’ll have to wait inside until she returns.”

  The guard gave her an uneasy look.

  “You do know the security code, don’t you?” Katherine asked.

  He nodded.

  Katherine sighed heavily, trying her best to intimidate him — no easy job since he was Israeli. “Then will you please open the door so this man can go in and wait for his wife?”

  The guard hesitated.

  “You see how dirty he is.”

  More hesitation.

  “Look, I take full responsibility. Just let him in there and get cleaned up before she arrives.” Unable to clearly read him, she set her jaw more firmly. “Either that … or we go down, drag up your boss, and waste even more time that you fellows obviously don’t have.”

  She held his gaze, unblinking. Finally, more in irritation than compliance, he reached for the keypad and pressed four buttons. The door clicked and he pushed it open. Brandon entered, followed by Katherine. The guard said, “We’ll call you when a car is available,” then turned and headed back down the hall.

  Almost amused, Katherine shut the door and turned to Brandon. “Well, that went rather — ”

  But he’d noticed something off to his right. She followed his gaze to the carpet leading to the bedroom. It looked like footprints. “What on —”

  “Sarah?” He sprinted into the room. “Sarah!” He turned right, following the stains into the bathroom.

  Katherine was right behind him. The best she could tell, the footprints looked like blood. Then she saw the soaked carpet near the bathroom entrance and the rose-colored water on the bathroom floor. She heard splashing as Brandon reached into the tub and then she saw him rise up, holding Sarah’s limp body in his arms. The young woman’s face was the color of snow. She wore a blue work shirt stained crimson, the same color as the water streaming down her pale white legs and arms. And then she saw the wrists.