by Bill Myers
PRAISE FOR BILL MYERS
The God Hater
“When one of the most creative minds I know gets the best idea he’s ever had and turns it into a novel, it’s fasten-your-seat-belt time. This one will be talked about for a long time.”
—Jerry B. Jenkins, author of Left Behind
“An original masterpiece. The God Hater re-opens our eyes to God’s absolute justice and His unfathomable love.”
—Dr. Kevin Leman, bestselling author of Have a New Kid by Friday
“If you enjoy white-knuckle, page-turning suspense, with a brilliant blend of cutting-edge apologetics, The God Hater will grab you for a long, long time.”
—Beverly Lewis, NY Times bestselling author
“I’ve never seen a more powerful and timely illustration of the incarnation. Bill Myers has a way of making the Gospel accessible and relevant to readers of all ages. I highly recommend this book.”
—Terri Blackstock, NY Times bestselling author
“A brilliant novel that feeds the mind and heart, The God Hater belongs at the top of your reading list.”
—Angela Hunt, NY Times bestselling author
“The God Hater is a rare combination that is both entertaining and spiritually provocative. It has a message of deep spiritual significance that is highly relevant for these times.”
—Paul Cedar, Chairman Mission America Coalition Angel of Wrath
“Bill Myers is a genius. Not only is ANGEL OF WRATH full of engaging characters and heart-stopping suspense, but underneath it explores thoughts and truths that will keep you pondering long after the book is closed.”
—Lee Stanley, producer, Gridiron Gang, The Voice
“A crisp, express-train read featuring 3D characters, cinematic settings and action, and, as usual, a premise I wish I’d thought of. Succeeds splendidly! Two thumbs up!”
—Frank E. Peretti, author
“Nonstop action and a brilliantly crafted young heroine will keep readers engaged as this adventure spins to its thought-provoking conclusion. This book explores the intriguing concept of God’s power as not only the creator of the universe, but as its very essence.”
—Kris Wilson, CBA Magazine
“It’s a real ‘what if?’ book with plenty of thrills…that will definitely create questions all the way to its thought-provoking finale. The success of Myers’s stories is a sweet combination of a believable storyline, intense action, and brilliantly crafted, yet flawed characters.”
—Dale Lewis, TitleTrakk.com
The Face of God
“Strong writing, edgy…replete with action…”
—Publishers Weekly
Fire of Heaven
“I couldn’t put the Fire of Heaven down. Bill Myers’s writing is crisp, fast-paced, provocative…Avery compelling story.”
—Francine Rivers Siddons, author
Blood of Heaven
“With the chill of a Robin Cook techno-thriller and the spiritual depth of a C.S. Lewis allegory, this book is a fast-paced, action packed thriller.”
—Angela Elwell Hunt, author
“Now this is innovative. Bill Myers has played the game of ‘what if?’—creating a compelling story of grace triumphing over judgment…A bold new twist on an age-old theme. Blood of Heaven is an enjoyable and provocative read. I wish I’d thought of it!”
—Frank Peretti, author
Eli
“The always surprising Myers has written another clever and provocative tale.”
—Booklist
“With this thrilling and ominous tale Myers continues to shine brightly in speculative fiction based upon Biblical truth. Highly recommended.”
—Library Journal
“Myers weaves a deft, affecting tale.”
—Publishers Weekly
Soul Tracker
“Soul Tracker provides a treat for previous fans of the author, but also a fitting introduction to those unfamiliar with his work. I’d recommend the book to anyone, initiated or not. But be careful to check your expectations at the door…it’s not what you think it is.”
—Brian Reaves, Fuse magazine
“Thought provoking and touching, this imaginative tale blends elements of science fiction with Christian theology.”
—Library Journal
“Myers strikes deep into the heart of eternal truth with this imaginative first book of the Soul Tracker series. Readers will be eager for more.”
—Romantic Times Magazine
The Seeing
“Bill Myers’ novel…compels the reader to burn through the pages. Cliff-hangers abound and the stakes are raised higher and higher as the story progresses—intense, action-shocking twists!”
—TitleTrakk.com
“An entertaining novel, Bill Myers’ The Seeing is a great reminder of spiritual warfare and the impact of choices and is reminiscent of Frank Peretti’s This Present Darkness.”
—IDealinHope.com
When the Last Leaf Falls
“A wonderful novella…Any parent will warm to the humorous reminiscences and the loving exasperation of this father for his strong-willed daughter…Compelling characters and fresh, vibrant anecdotes of one family’s faith journey.”
—Publishers Weekly
OTHER WORKS BY BILL MYERS
The God Hater
Angel of Wrath
The Voice
The Wager
Soul Tracker
The Presence
The Seeing
The Face of God
When the Last Leaf Falls
Eli
Blood of Heaven
Threshold
Fire of Heaven
The Bloodstone Chronicles (children’s fantasy series)
McGee and Me (children’s book/video series)
The Incredible Worlds of Wally McDoogle (children’s comedy series)
Blood Hounds Inc. (children’s mystery series)
Secret Agent Dingledorf and His Trusty Dog, SPLAT (children’s comedy series)
Faith Encounter (teen devotional)
Forbidden Doors (teen series)
Another one for Brenda…who has stayed faithful for richer or poorer, better or worse…and everything in between. Thanks for hanging in there with me.
PREFACE
If I’ve learned anything in writing this book it’s that truth can indeed be stranger than fiction. As with Blood of Heaven I’ve tried to make all of the science as accurate as possible — which includes the paranormal research being conducted to one degree or another in laboratories around the world. The same can be said regarding the various supernatural experiences. Except for the climax, which is more symbolic and allegorical in nature, most of the mentioned encounters have to one degree or another been experienced, documented, or verified by myself or others. When it comes to these two areas, science and the supernatural, I’m afraid what fiction I’ve added only pales by comparison.
My research began as early as 1976 when John Smalley, Keith Green, and I were involved in the deliverance of an influential West Coast psychic from intense demonic activity. It was then the story began to take shape. I wanted to show how crafty and deceptive the Adversary can be in comparison to the purity and power of Jesus Christ.
Other elements came from my trips around the world as a film director for various mission groups. The spiritual warfare some of these men and women are waging overseas is worth a book in itself.
Recently, I’ve spent hours in prison interviewing David Berkowitz, the serial killer once known as the Son of Sam — a man who had been deep into the occult and who was charged with shooting thirteen people, but who is now a dedicated brother in Christ.
There was also an extensive
and gracious conversation with Dr. Edwin May, who for twenty years headed up a psychic research program for the CIA and who also provided the information on current Russian progress in this field. Dr. Richard S. Broughton was kind enough to speak with me and allow me to visit the Institute for Parapsychology, one of the top psychic research labs in the world.
There were also numerous conversations with pastors, physicists, medical researchers, and followers of Eastern religions.
Their stories and research were both encouraging and chilling. Encouraging in that their ongoing studies clearly demonstrate the presence of a supernatural world and the power of faith. Chilling in that sometimes many of these well-meaning men and women are entering into areas of the occult without even knowing it.
Grateful appreciation also goes to Dr. Schelbert, the Biochemical Engineering and Nuclear Medicine department at UCLA, Dr. Craig Cameron, David Carini, Angie Hunt, Al Janssen, Scott Kennedy, Jim Bass, Lynn Marzulli, Aggie Villanueva, Julie LaFata, Kenneth and Rebecca McCrocklin, Heinz and Maria Fussle, and to Thomas Gray for his “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.” Special thanks also to Doug McIntosh, a talented writer who served as my research assistant, as well as to my agent and friend, Greg Johnson.
Writing a novel is one thing. Getting it ready out there for reading is another. And for that I want to thank the Zondervan team from sales, to marketing, to editorial. You folks are amazing.
And for their ongoing intercession I want to thank Greg Dix, Gary Gilmore, Robin Jones Gunn, Rebecca and Scott Janney, Lissa Halls Johnson, Larry LaFata, Lynn and Peggy Marzulli, Dorothy Moore, Bill Myers Sr., James Riordan, Carla Williams, as well as my extended family, John Tolle, Bill Burnett, Gary Smith, Tom Kositchek, Cathy Glass, Criz Hibdon, Mark Brown and Dave Wray.
Finally and always, thanks to Brenda, Nick, and the Mack.
For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.
Ephesians 6:12
PROLOGUE
THE SAND IS HOT. It sears the bottoms of her feet, raising welts wherever it touches, but she feels nothing.
She never does.
The scorching wind makes her eyes water. It whips and tears at her faded house dress, but it carries no heat.
It never does.
Grains of sand bite into her face, chapping her cheeks. Talcum-fine grit works its way deep into her nappy hair, into the creases of her mottled black skin, beneath the elastic band of her dress. But it doesn’t matter. None of it matters.
Gerty has stood in this desert, at this riverbank, a hundred times. A hundred times she has waited, and a hundred times she has been disappointed.
Once again she hears faint gurgling. She looks at the river — at a small patch of water. It is starting to boil. It always begins this way. Slowly. First one bubble. Then another. Then another and another and another, and faster and faster the bubbles rise until the small area in the river churns furiously.
Gerty struggles to hold back her excitement. She has come this far many times before.
She steps into the river. There is no sensation of warmth, or cold, or wet. Just the knowledge that once again she is in the river.
She sloshes toward the bubbles. Her dress wraps around her legs, binding her movement. She thinks of hiking it above her waist. But there is always the chance that this will be the time, and she would not dare stand half naked. Not on holy ground.
She arrives at the patch of boiling water. Steam rolls up and blows into her face. She blinks, squinting through it.
And then it happens …
A small dark form appears under the water. For a moment it looks like a fish, but as it surfaces it is obvious that this is no fish. It is a piece of metal. Iron. An ax head.
Maybe this will be the time.
The boiling comes to a stop. Now there is absolute silence as the last wisps of steam disappear. The ax head continues floating on the water as effortlessly as a newly fallen leaf.
This is the crucial part. She hopes, she prays that it will not disappear as it has so many times in the past. She takes a breath to steady herself, and finally she reaches for it. The tips of her fingers touch the cool surface.
Yes, cool. It is a sensation. A feeling. For the first time the ax head has substance. She can actually feel it!
Carefully she scoops it from the water, fearing that any minute it will dissolve and slip through her trembling fingers.
But it doesn’t.
Tightness grows in her throat. Her eyes burn with tears of gratitude, but she blinks them back as she turns the ax head over and over in her hands.
This is the time.
Then she sees it. Senses it, really. The light. It hovers over the bank of the river. Brighter than the sun, so brilliant that it is difficult for her to distinguish any shape or detail, though for the briefest moment, she catches a glimpse of what could be wheels…and eyes. The rest is light. Everywhere light. And sound, like a roaring waterfall. But there is no waterfall in this river. The sound comes from the light.
Fear and awe grip Gerty; tears spill onto her cheeks. She hears the voice. It has been there all along — in the roar. It is the roar. It thunders all around her, yet resonates gently through her body. It is all-powerful and infinitely tender:
“HIS TIME HAS COME.”
Gerty nods, the tears now flowing freely. Through her blurry vision she sees movement in front of her. A young man with long, dark hair is kneeling in the water. He wears a coarse, burlap robe. He is kneeling exactly where the water had been boiling. He looks up to her with gray, penetrating eyes. They are filled with fear and confusion. But, even more alarming, they are filled with a lack of hope. Gerty’s heart swells with compassion. She has known of him since he was a child, has prayed and interceded for him these many years. She wants to comfort him, to encourage him, but he bows his head before she has a chance to speak.
She looks back up into the light, puzzled. But the light gives no answer. There is only the tender, thundering, consuming roar.
She feels the ax head move in her hands. She watches in alarm as it grows soft, starting to melt.
No. Please, dear God!
Has she come this far only to fail again?
And still it melts, becoming nothing but a puddle in her hands.
But only for a moment.
Immediately it reshapes itself. She watches in amazement as it grows, as its texture shifts from cool metal to rough, porous clay. Seconds later she is holding a squatty cylinder — a flask. The ax head has become an ancient clay flask.
Joy floods through her. It radiates into her arms, her hands, even her fingertips. This is what she has been waiting for. This is what she has been hoping and praying for.
Instinctively, she removes the flask’s stopper. Her hands tremble in excitement. Without a word, she tilts the flask and a thick, clear oil spills over its lip, falling in uneven spurts onto the boy’s head.
Her tears turn to quiet sobs. “Thank you…Thank you, thank you …”
As the last of the oil drains, the light before her begins to dim. The roar also fades. The boy, the river, everything around her wavers like a mirage until, in a matter of moments, they have all disappeared.
Gerty Morrison opened her eyes. She was back home, still kneeling before her bed. She kept her head bowed, resting it on the thin, worn mattress that had become soaked with her tears as she continued to pray, “Thank you, dear Lord. Thank you, thank you …”
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
BRANDON HATED IT. How many years had they been pulling these stupid pranks? Three? Four? Ever since they were seniors in high school. Sure, it was fun back then, back when they were kids. But now it was getting old. Real old.
But not for Frank. Frank thrived on it.
Brandon stood alone, inside the giant trophy case. With a roll of gray duct tape in hand he carefully worked his w
ay past the cups, plaques, signed bats, tournament balls, pennants, group photos, silver plates, silver bowls, and other awards on display. Bethel Lake Country Club prided itself on its members’ athletic prowess. And if you couldn’t tell it by their arrogance, you could see it in the new trophy room they were about to dedicate — a room complete with this enormous, dust-proof trophy case that covered nearly the entire front wall.
Frank was right about one thing. Pride and pretension like this couldn’t go unrewarded. They owed it to their people. They owed it to the townies.
Brandon tossed back his long, dark hair and knelt. He yanked off a sizable strip of duct tape and ran it along the seam, right where the clear Plexiglas wall of the trophy case met the floor. He carefully sealed it so no water would leak through.
Meanwhile, behind the back wall of the case, Del gave the Black and Decker drill the workout of its life as it moaned and groaned in his incapable hands.
“You’re pushing too hard,” Frank’s voice whispered from behind the wall.
“No way,” Del’s voice answered.
Brandon glanced over his shoulder at the back of the case; the thick cherry wood bulged under Del’s pressure. There was more moaning and groaning from the drill until the head of the bit popped through the wood, followed by the rest of the shank.
Then the drill stopped. Then started again. Then stopped. It was jammed.
Another start. Another stop.
Hoping to loosen it, Del began to wiggle the drill back and forth.
“Stop!” Frank’s voice whispered. “You’re going to break it, you’re going to break the —”
SNAP!
Too late. The bit had broken off in the wall.
In the adjacent room, Tom Henderson, a twenty-one-year-old Aryan dream, complete with blond hair and blue eyes, listened to a pompous master of ceremonies delivering another pompous speech. Tom stood with the forty or fifty other firm-bodied club members as the emcee continued his jibes at the locals:
“… can well remember when we first entered these events seven, eight years back. Why, no one ever gave a thought to Bethel Lake — unless, of course, they found themselves downwind of the hog farms.”
