Fire Of Heaven Book I Blood of Heaven

by Bill Myers

  The three of them stood at the other end of the hall, near the window. O’Brien had managed to shut off the main valve to the overhead sprinklers. There was still the sound of water dripping and trickling, but the deafening hiss had finally been stopped.

  Katherine looked out the window, down into the parking lot. It was buzzing with the Snohomish County bomb squad and Arlington police. Behind her, at the other end of the hall, sat the elevator with its charred pile in the final stages of smoldering. Directly in front of that, Murkoski’s body lay in half an inch of water, covered by O’Brien’s jacket.

  “I can talk to the authorities,” O’Brien offered, “explain what has happened.”

  “And that will stop it?” Coleman asked. “That will stop the gene from being manufactured, from being sold?” He motioned down the hall toward Murkoski’s body. “That will stop something like that from spreading throughout the world?”

  Katherine watched as O’Brien said nothing. All three of them knew the answer. Whatever political, military, and financial powers that had enabled Murkoski to go this far would not be stopped until they had their way.

  Coleman resumed pacing, then changed the subject. “Everything is contained in this building? The animals, the sequencers?”

  O’Brien nodded. “Everything. Why?”

  Before Coleman could respond, a light glared through the window. The sound of the approaching helicopter had been registering somewhere in the back of Katherine’s mind, but she’d paid little attention, until now. The thumping grew intolerable as the aircraft slowly dropped into view. All three ducked out of its sight, under the window.

  “This is the Snohomish County Bomb Division. You have three minutes to vacate the building or we will come in after you.”

  O’Brien turned toward Coleman, who was kneeling beside him. “It’s over,” he said again. “Let me go out and —”

  “No,” Coleman said.

  It was Katherine’s turn to try and reason. “Coleman —”

  “No!” he insisted. “It’s not over. Not yet.”

  Katherine and O’Brien exchanged looks.

  “Your Shipping and Receiving,” he asked. “It’s in this building, too, right?”

  “That’s right,” O’Brien said. “First floor, the entire back section.”

  “What about solvents?”

  “I’m sorry, what —”

  “For the labs, you guys use solvents, don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “What type do you have?”

  “We use several.”

  “Toluene?”

  “It’s one of the more common, certainly.”

  “You have lots of it?”

  “I imagine. But what —”

  A second light blazed through the window, striking the ceiling. This one came from ground level. Those outside had obviously located their position. Instinctively, the three pressed closer to the wall under the window.

  “Okay,” Coleman said, “this is what we’ll do. First, you two need to get out of here.”

  Katherine protested. “Cole —”

  He cut her off. “You need to stand up. Let them see you stand up. Then walk down the hall, take the stairs, and head out of the building.”

  “What about you?” O’Brien asked.

  “They want a bomb, I’ll give them a bomb.”

  “Coleman, you can’t —”

  He threw Katherine a harsh look and she stopped. Then, seeing her fear, he continued more softly. “I don’t see any other way. The sequencers have to go, the animals have to be destroyed —”

  “Let me stay with you, I can help.”

  He hesitated — then shook his head. “No.”

  “But —”

  “You’ve still got to find Eric. If something goes wrong, I don’t want to be responsible for killing both of his parents.”

  She held his look a moment, then asked quietly, “What about you?”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  She knew he was lying. He tried to smile, but with little success. He was frightened, and he couldn’t hide it. Not from her.

  “You have two minutes and thirty seconds.”

  O’Brien shook his head. “It won’t work. As soon as we’re out of here, as soon as your hostages are gone, they’ll come in after you.”

  “Not if you tell them I have a bomb. Not if you say I’ve jury-rigged it to go off when they enter.”

  “Why would they believe me?”

  “It used to be your company.”

  “Two minutes, fifteen seconds.”

  Another pause. “Are you sure you can do it?” O’Brien asked.

  “Just don’t let them cut the power.”

  O’Brien nodded.

  “Coleman…” Katherine’s voice was thick with emotion.

  He looked at her. He was seeing inside of her again, she knew it. Just as he had so many times before. He was seeing — and understanding — her worry, her heartfelt concern. And when he spoke, it was with the same quiet sensitivity of before. “We talked about faith.”

  “Yes, but —”

  “I don’t know if I can pull this off — I don’t know if I have the strength, the faith. But if I don’t try, who will?”

  “You don’t have —”

  “Katherine, listen to me.”

  “You don’t have to be the one —”

  “Listen.”

  His gentle intensity silenced her.

  “There’s a lot I don’t understand. You’re the expert in this field, not me.”

  “But —”

  “And if you don’t think it will work, if you don’t think I have what it takes, you need to let me know.”

  “And if you don’t?”

  He searched her face, looking for the words. “Then…I truly am lost.”

  As she stared into his eyes, realization slowly set in. He wasn’t doing this just to destroy the gene. That was important, of course. If the gene, if all record of it, weren’t completely destroyed, the powers behind Murkoski would simply retrieve it and continue again. But Coleman wasn’t doing this just to stop them. He was also doing it for himself. If he could overcome his old nature, if he could hold it at bay and destroy the project — then he would be winning a much deeper, more important battle.

  Moisture welled up in her eyes.

  He waited, seeking her assurance, needing to know if she thought his proposal possible.

  Finally, slowly, she began to nod.

  He smiled. “Go then,” he whispered. “Let them see you at the window and go.”

  Before she knew it, she was reaching out and touching his face. She wanted to say something, to encourage him, to tell him how good he was. She also wanted to tell of her overwhelming fears and doubts. But no words came.

  He understood and moved her hand from his cheek to his lips. He gently kissed it. He was trembling again, and her heart swelled so full that she thought it would break.

  “Go,” he urged.

  She closed her eyes and swallowed hard.

  “One minute.”

  “Go!”

  She nodded. She took a breath to steady herself, then slowly rose to her feet. O’Brien joined her. They stood in front of the window, their bodies glowing eerily white from the intense beam of the helicopter that hovered some thirty feet in front of them.

  “Put your hands on top of your heads and come out of the building.”

  They nodded, raised their hands above their heads, and turned to head down the hall.

  The dripping of the sprinklers had almost stopped. Now, there was only the sloshing of their feet in the water. The journey took forever. Katherine was crying hard now, but that was okay — Coleman couldn’t see.

  They passed Murkoski’s body. It lay motionless. Beyond that the charred pile of Eppendorf tubes continued to smolder. At the door to the stairway, Katherine hesitated for just a moment and looked back.

  Coleman appeared tiny and helpless as he crouched under the window in the sh
adows of the blinding light. But even through her tears, even in the glare and shadow, she could see him smiling. The new Coleman was still in charge. The thought gave her comfort, at least enough to help her through the doorway, to start her down the stairs.

  Toluene, also known as methylbenzene, CH, is one of the Ts in TNT. According to Hector Garcia, the bomber punk Coleman had defended on Nebraska’s death row, in its liquid form it is highly flammable. In its vapor form, its explosive power is incredible. Forget the fertilizer and diesel fuel. According to Garcia, this stuff, if properly mixed with air, could really do some damage.

  On the Row, Coleman had listened to Garcia’s stories. Knowing that knowledge is power, and having nothing but time on his hands, he had asked the right questions, challenged the hyperbole, and filed the information away for future reference. If prison is anything, it’s a classroom for the hungry to learn. And Coleman had always been hungry. Now it was time to put what he had learned to work.

  The anger inside continued to boil and writhe and seethe, looking for the slightest frustration, the slightest crack to rise through and overtake him. But instead of fighting it, Coleman began to use it. Instead of trying to destroy the anger, he focused it toward accomplishing his purposes, using it to push through the sweat and pain and mind-dulling exhaustion that were clouding his thinking.

  Still, he was at the edge, and he knew it. He nearly exploded with impatience while cooped up inside the freight elevator, pacing in frustration as it slowly lumbered its way down to Shipping and Receiving.

  Then there was the anxiety of trying to locate the toluene. Why hadn’t he asked for more specifics? Shipping and Receiving went on forever. It could be anywhere down here. Yet, somehow, through his own tough mental discipline and with whatever understanding he had of faith, he was able to focus and refocus until his efforts paid off.

  He found six fifty-five-gallon drums of the solvent. He only needed two.

  Getting those drums onto the freight elevator was another matter. He opted for the mini electric forklift sitting outside on the loading dock. But it was too big to bring in through the doorway. He’d have to roll up one of the large loading doors. No problem, except it would rattle and draw the attention of any sheriff’s sniper who might be hanging out on that side of the building.

  Something about that last thought outraged him. Here he was risking his life to help the very people who were trying to kill him. Why? If they wanted him so badly, maybe he should just run out there and let them fire away. And in six months, a year, maybe two, they could start warring against terrorists without conscience, gunmen without feeling. That would show them.

  The thought grew more and more appealing until it was all Coleman could do to fight off the urge to throw open the doors, yell his vengeance at the world, and go out in a blaze of glory.

  Instead, barely holding his anger in check, he stole out onto the loading dock. This part of the building was L shaped. What exposed area remained was concealed by a ten-foot-high fence. Still, he moved quickly and quietly to the forklift and disconnected it from its charging bay. He climbed on board the machine, backed it up as close to the edge of the dock as possible — and then, finally, he released his rage. He stomped on the accelerator with all of his might. The forklift raced toward the metal door and crashed into it. The impact sent such jarring pain through his body that he let out a stifled cry. But when he looked, he found that he’d ripped out only part of the door’s bottom seam; he hadn’t broken through.

  He dropped the forklift into reverse. He expected any minute to feel bullets explode into his back, but he didn’t care. In fact, it might be a relief compared to the pain he was already enduring. He ground the gears, found forward, and raced at the door again. This time he broke through, tearing metal and sending brads flying in all directions.

  The rush was exhilarating, filling Coleman with such a sense of power that he momentarily lost control. For several seconds he wasn’t sure if he wanted to regain it.

  But the next task called for concentration and focus, and he fought back to the surface to take charge. Carefully, he maneuvered the forklift, sliding the steel teeth under the first fifty-five-gallon drum. Then he turned, approached the freight elevator, and gently loaded the barrel inside. He repeated the process with the second. When they were in place, he maneuvered the lift inside between the drums and jumped down. He grabbed the nylon strap and pulled down the heavy steel door. It slammed shut, and he hit the button for the top floor.

  Once again, the elevator’s slow, lumbering speed irritated him, and once again his anger started to rise. But this time there was nowhere to direct it. He didn’t even have room to pace. He pounded his fist into his palm. Again and again. “Help me,” he muttered, “help me, help me, help me…”

  All ten officers and two reserves of the Greater Arlington Police Department had arrived on the scene. They had set up a perimeter around the Sheriff’s Bomb Division to hold back the growing crowd. They were successful with the crowd. They weren’t so successful with the experienced TV crews arriving from Seattle.

  “Excuse me, excuse me!” The camera lights pushed and jockeyed toward Katherine, who was kneeling behind the open door of a sheriff’s car. “Were you frightened — where did you meet him — did he threaten you — can you give us any idea of his motives — did he display obvious signs of mental instability — did he tell you…”

  Katherine stayed low and mostly out of the lights, ignoring the news crews as she gave a detailed description of her son to the deputy. From time to time she looked toward the building. So far, no one was going in. O’Brien was doing his job. For how long she wasn’t certain.

  “Ms. Lyon, Ms. Lyon?” a policewoman was working her way through the crowd. “Ms. Lyon?”

  Katherine looked up, shielding her eyes from the lights. The officer was motioning for her to look across the parking lot toward the crowd at the gate.

  Katherine rose, but the reporters blocked her view. She stepped up into the doorway of the car and scanned the crowd. In the distance, toward the back, there was a disturbance. People were parting under the orders of an officer, who slowly made his way through the crowd. An older couple walked with him. And by the way they kept looking down and speaking, it was obvious that there must be somebody much smaller by their side.

  Katherine held her breath, straining for a better view. She thought she saw a flash of blonde hair through the crowd.

  She hopped down and bolted around the car, sending more than one reporter staggering. She ran across the parking lot and started to wade through the crowd. “Eric, Eric!”

  There was no response.

  “Eric?”

  She caught a glimpse of a purple shirt — maybe his U of W sweatshirt, she couldn’t tell.

  The crowd was parting faster now.

  “Eric?”

  There was the hair again, then the sweatshirt, then hair —

  And then she saw the face.

  “Mom!”

  Her heart leaped. She shoved through the crowd, running now, giving no thought to anybody or anything but her son.

  “Eric!”

  At last she dropped down, and he threw himself at her so hard that she nearly fell.

  “Mom!”

  They hugged fiercely, burying their faces into one another, neither wanting to let go.

  “I’m sorry, Mom, I’m sorry.”

  She pulled back to look at him. His face had a few small cuts, but other than that he was fine. “Sorry for what?” she asked.

  “My glasses. I lost my glasses.”

  She laughed and pulled him into another embrace. “It’s okay, honey. We can get new glasses.” She closed her eyes tightly and allowed the waves of love to wash over her.

  “He came to our house,” the older gentleman was saying, “clothes torn, all cut up like that. And he come right up to the door, knocked as polite as you please.”

  Katherine looked up at the weathered old man, but before she could respond
, somebody in the crowd shouted. “He’s on the roof! Look, he’s on the roof!”

  Heads spun. Hands pointed. Katherine slowly rose to her feet and turned to watch.

  With a grunt, Coleman swung his ax into the base of the large intake duct that rose half a dozen feet from the roof. It was part of the building’s high-volume air-conditioning unit. The blade easily ripped into the galvanized metal. He swung three more times. When he was certain the hole was large enough, he turned to the toluene drums behind him and began to pry them open.

  It had been a little tricky getting the barrels up onto the roof, since the elevator only went as far as the top floor. He’d had to drive the forklift out of the elevator, scoop up a drum, then position it just below one of the frosted skylights. Then he had raised the fork high into the air, busting the barrel through the skylight. When the shards of glass had stopped raining, he had placed the barrel on the roof, then repeated the same procedure with the second one.

  Next, he had switched on the giant double fans of the air-conditioning unit. They had begun to beat the air with low, ominous thumps. But as the blades picked up speed, the pounding had quickly blurred to a deafening roar.

  Finally, using the forklift as a ladder, he had climbed through the skylight out onto the roof and taken an ax to the duct.

  When he had both of the fifty-five-gallon barrels open, he pushed and eased the first onto its side. It fell hard, and the liquid began to chug out. With some minor adjusting, he was able to channel the toluene directly into the gaping hole he had chopped out at the duct’s base.

  The giant fans below immediately began pumping the explosive fumes through the building. They were strong fumes, reminding him of his younger, glue-sniffing days. Knowing he’d have to keep his wits about him, he turned his head to the side to breathe in as much fresh air as possible.

  The first drum finished draining and he kicked it aside, sending it rolling and clattering across the roof. He opened the second barrel just as the helicopter crested the building and blinded him with its spotlight.

  “This is the Snohomish County Sheriff’s Department. Exit the building at once.”

  He scrambled behind the vent. The glaring light, the beating rotors, and the interruption of his work all helped rekindle his anger. But once again, he was able to channel it. Even though his position behind the duct was awkward, giving him little leverage, he reached out to the open drum and pulled it toward him. He rocked it once, twice, three times before it fell, washing its contents over him, his legs, his waist, before spilling across the roof. It burned and felt cold against his skin, and the fumes made his eyes water, but he fought with the emptying drum until he was able to direct the remaining toluene down into the duct.