Fire Of Heaven 02 - Threshold

by Bill Myers

  The voices swore and grunted as the attacker pinned Brandon’s arms with his knees and yanked the knife from the floor. Suddenly the blade was high overhead, once again glimmering in the light. Below it Brandon could see the kid’s crooked teeth, his leering grin. The knife plunged toward him. With his arms pinned, there was nothing he could do. Nothing but watch the blade and brace himself — until suddenly, the hand and knife were swept aside. Fur and fangs filled his vision as his attacker was knocked off.

  Brandon kicked himself backward scooting out of the way as Drool tore into the man’s hand, biting it, savagely shaking it.

  The multiple voices screamed curses. The knife reappeared in the other hand. Drool continued growling and tearing into the first. He did not see the blade preparing to strike.

  “No!” Brandon shouted. “Stop!”

  The order startled the attacker, carrying more weight than any punch Brandon had landed. But it lasted only a second before the young man focused back on the dog. He raised the knife high into the air, and this time he brought it down hard.

  The dog yelped in pain but continued to fight.

  “No!” Brandon shouted again. “Stop it! Stop!”

  Again the assailant turned to him, this time with confusion and fear. That’s when Brandon understood. That’s when he remembered what the old lady had said about his power. His authority.

  “I command you —” He took in a gulp of air. “I command you to stop this!”

  “You have no authority!” the attacker shouted.

  Brandon searched his memory, trying to remember what the old woman had said, the phrase she had used. He had it. “In the name of Jesus —”

  “You have no authority!”

  “In the name of Jesus Christ I command you —”

  “You have no authority! You don’t believe! You don’t believe!”

  The accusation hit hard. Brandon faltered for a second, and a second was all it took. With a mocking grin, the attacker raised his knife high over the animal and drove it down again.

  “No!”

  Brandon’s cry was lost in a thundering roar that filled his left ear; plaster exploded from the wall behind him. He spun around to see his mother standing at the door, holding a smoldering shotgun. Before either could speak the attacker leaped into the window. Glass shattered and the shade ripped away as he hit the roof, rolling and scrambling out of sight.

  Glaring sunlight flooded the room. Out in the hall Brandon could hear the Reverend shouting, running down the stairs after the intruder. A moment’s silence passed before Momma finally spoke, her voice shaking. “You all right?”

  But Brandon barely heard. Drool lay less than a yard away, whimpering and panting.

  “Brandon.”

  He pulled himself through the broken plaster and pieces of glass to the animal. Drool looked up at him, unable to move, eyes begging him to make the pain go away.

  “Sweetheart, are you all right?”

  But they were deep wounds. One in the chest, the other in the gut.

  “Brandon? Sweetheart, are you okay?”

  The boy dropped closer to the dog and wrapped his arms around him. There was nothing he could do. He thought his heart would burst as the big animal whimpered again, this time more faintly. With great effort and a slight groan it turned its head toward him. Then, finding Brandon’s face, the dog began licking him. It was more than Brandon could stand. He lowered his head and buried his face in the animal’s fur. He would not leave. He would stay with him until the end.

  CHAPTER 13

  TAKING A BREAK TO walk down the hallway for a cup of coffee, Sarah was surprised to notice that the sun had just set. She’d been in Lab One all afternoon, carefully going over the data and results on Brandon Martus. The whole Martus affair may have been over, but a tremendous amount of ground had been broken, and it was important that someone transcribe and evaluate the information — if not for now, at least for future reference. Then, of course, there was the other matter, the one of her heart.

  So far, today’s work had revealed nothing new — just a review of the rapid drop of vital signs as Brandon had crossed Threshold, and of the sketchy accounts he had provided after their first session. Earlier she had brought up the PET scans and studied them on the monitor. Again, nothing new — just the pronounced stimulation of the right temporal lobe that they had originally observed.

  She reached for her notebook and flipped through its pages. These were sporadic notations she’d taken from their conversations — information on Jenny’s death, Brandon’s vision outside the church, his dreams, the reaction of the multiple personality patient, and his mention of the old black woman who kept wanting to help him. Sarah paused at her name for just a moment, then reached for the envelope of her sketches that Brandon had brought in.

  They were drawings of him in various stages of childhood, nothing unusual — except that the woman had supposedly drawn them all during the first week of his life. Then there was the last sketch, in which he stood in an ancient city wearing burlap and breathing fire from his mouth. Sarah studied the picture. If this woman had legitimate PSI, and if she had accurately seen into the future with this sketch as she had with the earlier ones …

  Sarah flipped over the envelope to look at the front. It was old and previously used. The name and address of Gerty Morrison had been crossed out but was still legible. She grabbed her notepad and copied it down.

  She looked over the other notes, the ones mentioning the factory accident and Brandon’s precognitive dream four days before it had happened. Then there was his hallucination involving the young singer at church.

  Again she stopped. Brandon’s account of the teenage soloist at church had been shaky at best. But it was interesting that this teen and the factory worker were the only two people outside his family to appear in his visions. And if the accident at the factory had come true, then what about this girl?

  Sarah hesitated. She didn’t particularly want to call up Brandon. She wasn’t even sure he would speak to her. But she had to try. Partly to satisfy her scientific curiosity — and partly because, if his vision was accurate, this girl could be in trouble.

  Brandon stood in the doorway of his pickup, looking over the top of the cab. He carefully scanned the countryside for signs of danger as Frank and Del continued their shoveling in the back.

  “We missed you, ol’ buddy,” Frank said. He was breathing hard, and for good reason. They’d been shoveling for over ten minutes; the bed of the pickup was nearly full. “Sure glad you’re back in the saddle again.”

  Del, who was breathing even harder, leaned against his shovel a moment to catch his breath. “You’ve had some pretty classy ideas in the past, Bran, but this is definitely Guinness Book of World Records time.”

  Brandon nodded and continued to search the driving range and the parameter road for any signs of activity. “Just keep shovelin’, boys,” he said, “just keep shovelin’.”

  Sarah picked up the phone, dialed, and waited nervously as the phone rang on the other end.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Mrs. Martus? This is Sarah Weintraub. Is Brandon in?”

  “No, he’s, uh, he’s out for the evening.”

  Sarah hesitated, unsure if she was hearing the truth. “Well, maybe you could help me. Do you remember that girl who sang the solo in your church last Sunday — you know, when Brandon had one of his ‘spells’?” There was no response, and Sarah fumbled with her notebook to get the name. “A Lori Beth? Lori Beth Phillips?”

  Again, no response.

  “Mrs. Martus?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you happen to have her phone number — maybe an address?”

  “Sarah …” The woman cleared her throat. “Please understand, I appreciate your tryin’ to help. But Brandon is much better now, and that’s a part of his past I think we’d all do better to forget.”

  “I can understand that, but if you would just tell me —”

&nb
sp; “I’m sorry, dear, but we’ve got the farewell service at the church tonight, and I’m already runnin’ late.”

  “What about Gerty, the old black woman who —”

  “I’ve got to go now, darlin’, but thank you for your concern.”

  “Mrs. Martus, if you —”

  There was a click on the other end, and for a moment, Sarah sat, puzzled at the woman’s abruptness. Then she rose and walked to the shelf against the back wall. After some searching, she found the local phone directory and began flipping through the pages.

  Hills are few and far between in northern Indiana. Fortunately for Brandon and the boys, Bethel Lake had a couple. Even more fortunately, one of them rose directly behind the Bethel Lake Country Club. It wasn’t a huge hill, no more than a hundred, maybe a hundred and twenty feet at best. But in making room for their parking lot, the club owners had cut away a good third of it, leaving an impressive fifty-foot ridge that dropped sharply toward the lot.

  After taking the back way around a gate or two, Brandon had managed to drive the pickup to the top of that ridge. Now he maneuvered it backward until the rear tailgate was aligned over the parking lot below. He remained behind the wheel, keeping the motor idling, as Frank and Del piled outside.

  “You sure they’re there?” Del asked as he hoisted himself up and climbed onto the load.

  “That’s his car, ain’t it?” Frank asked, climbing up to join him.

  Del pushed up his glasses, took another look down into the parking lot, and nodded.

  “Then they’re there.” Without another word, Frank reached down to the tailgate and unbolted his side. Del unbolted the other.

  “We’re ready!” Frank shouted back to the cab. “Hit it!”

  Brandon punched the accelerator. The rear wheels spun out as Frank gave the tailgate a good kick. It flew open, and twenty-three hundred golf balls began to tumble out. Frank and Del tried to help push them, but they were unable to keep their balance as they slipped and fell and flopped around in the back.

  “Yee-haaa!” Frank yelled, laughing, having the time of his life — as all twenty-three hundred golf balls bounced down the steep ridge directly toward Bethel Lake Country Club.

  The score was 30-Love in the second set. Tom Henderson and Beverly, a new lovely he’d been strutting for all evening, were two games short of winning the match against Reggie and his babe of the month. Henderson delivered a powerful serve that hit the baseline before zipping past Reggie’s racket.

  That’s when they heard the first explosion. It sounded like a small firecracker. It was immediately followed by another, and then another, and more and more in rapid succession.

  Reggie called to Henderson. “Is that hail?”

  Henderson wasn’t sure, and they both crossed the court, heading for the lobby to investigate. By now the entire structure was thundering. Jogging into the lobby, Henderson saw movement through the front glass door. Giant, white somethings were bouncing into the glass and pounding against the aluminum wall.

  The girls arrived, and everyone edged closer for a better look. It was then that Henderson recognized the little white somethings.

  “Golf balls!” he shouted over the roar. “They’re golf balls!”

  Golf balls pounded everywhere — against the door, the front wall, ricocheting around the walk, raining down on the parking lot. He approached the door, cupped his hands against the glass, and searched the cars. His beloved Firebird sat directly in the center of the downpour, its carefully waxed finish slowly but quite surely breaking out in a severe case of acne.

  Reggie pushed past him, shoving open the door, attempting to brave the onslaught. But the pounding balls forced him back in.

  Not Henderson. That was his Firebird out there, his pride and joy. He raced outside and was instantly hit by a stinging ball against his shoulder. Then his thigh. Then his head. They hurt. So did the other dozen that hit. He raised his arms to protect his face as he fought his way forward, staggering toward his car. He’d made it only ten feet from the building when, over the din, he heard a distinct and unforgettable cackle of laughter. He looked up to the ridge and caught a glimpse of a pickup — the one with the broken running light on the cab — just before it bounced and disappeared out of sight. And then he opened his mouth and shouted.

  “Townies-s-s …”

  Sarah’s car was acting up again, but she managed to coax it out of the Institute’s parking lot and up Brower Avenue to Third. Then it was just a short jaunt over to Lambert, then left to Klaussen. That was the address the phone book had for Herb and Margaret Phillips: 339 Klaussen.

  It was an older ranch home, mostly brick. The porch light was off, but Sarah could see lights on inside. As she stepped out of the car and approached the house, she heard the TV blaring. Some mindless sitcom. She headed up the porch steps, pushed the doorbell, and waited.

  There was no answer. She tried again. Still nothing. She opened the aluminum screen door and knocked. A moment later the porch light glared on. A worn woman in her late thirties opened the door.

  “Mrs. Phillips?” Sarah asked.

  The woman squinted. “No, I’m …” She glanced past Sarah to make sure no one else was there. “I’m her sister.”

  “My name is Sarah Weintraub. Is Lori Beth in?”

  “Are you a friend?”

  “Well, not exactly.” Sarah heard a car slowly pull up to the curb behind her. “I tried to call earlier, but —”

  “I don’t believe it,” the woman muttered half under her breath. But she was no longer listening or even looking at Sarah; she was staring past her. Sarah threw a glance over her shoulder to see that a white Taurus had pulled up to the curb. The driver’s side opened, and a large man with thinning blond hair stepped out.

  The woman turned and called into the house. “Jim? Jimmy, he’s here!”

  The front door of the house opened wider, and a burly mountain of flesh appeared. At first his eyes glared at Sarah. They were angry and bloodshot. Then they moved past her to the man on the curb.

  The man at the curb came to a stop and called to him. “Hello, Jim.”

  The burly man answered, low and intense. “You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here. Go. Now.”

  “I just, uh …” The man at the curb coughed slightly and took half a step closer. “The parents, how are they doing?”

  Jim seethed. “What do you care?”

  The man at the curb continued his approach. “Listen, I, uh —”

  “Get out of here!” The response was so venomous that it brought the man at the curb to a stop. “You take another step, and I’ll come out there and kill you myself.”

  “I need to talk to the parents, Jim. I need to explain. It’s not as it appears —”

  “Get off their property!”

  The man hesitated.

  “Get out of here!”

  The standoff lasted another moment before the man at the curb lowered his head, turned, then slowly headed back to his car.

  But Jim wasn’t finished. “Filth! Pervert!” He stepped out onto the porch, pushing past Sarah. “We’re going to get you locked up!” he yelled. “They’ll lock you up and throw away the key! Do you hear me? Your life is over! It’s over!”

  The other man said nothing as he approached his car, opened the door, and entered.

  Suddenly Jim turned on Sarah. “What do you want?” he glowered.

  “She’s a friend of Lori Beth’s,” the woman beside him explained.

  “Lori Beth is dead. She killed herself this morning.” He watched as the car slowly pulled from the curb. “More like she was murdered.”

  Sarah stood in stunned silence. She was unsure how to respond. The man gave her little opportunity. He turned and headed back into the house.

  Finally Sarah found her voice. “Wait a minute. I don’t understand. What happened?”

  The woman at the door hesitated, then spoke. “You mustn’t hold it against her, honey. The note said that that monster” — she
motioned toward the departed car — “that her teacher there had been …” She searched for the word. “You know — ‘hurting her.’ Poor thing, she just didn’t know how to tell anyone, how to make him stop.”

  Sarah’s head reeled. It was true then, what Brandon had seen. The teacher had been assaulting the girl. Maybe not right there, right in the church, but behind school doors. Once again Brandon had seen the truth, had seen what really was happening. She was so lost in thought that she barely heard the woman conclude, “I’m sorry.” By the time she looked back up, the door had closed in her face.

  Gerty sat at the kitchen table, writing another letter. She suspected that it would never get to Brandon. Not that it mattered. All the important notes were already over at the computer hacker’s house, being entered for future retrieval. These notes were simply loose thoughts, rambling odds and ends. Still, if she could save Brandon even a little suffering on his treacherous road ahead, it would be worth the effort.

  Earlier she had arranged the table so that nothing would be missed. She had carefully laid out the remaining sketches she had not yet given him. She’d also opened her worn Bible to the underlined passages. She hated parting with that Bible; it had been her companion for over thirty years. But now he would need it far more than she.

  Her pen had barely begun the second paragraph of the letter when she heard the creaking. It came from the back porch. She stopped writing and held her breath.

  There it was again, the groaning of old wood. Somebody was outside, making his way toward the screen door. She tried to remember if she had locked it but couldn’t recall. Not that it mattered. If he wanted in, he could easily rip out the little hook and eyelet.

  She continued to listen. Another creak, more groans. She forced herself to take a breath. It came out shaky. She had known that this moment was coming, had sensed it for days, but still she was frightened. It’s not that she didn’t trust her Lord. She trusted him completely. And she was anxious to finally see his face, to fall into his arms.

  But still she was frightened.

  There was a knock. “Hello?” The voice was young. It attempted to be friendly, but she could hear the pain and torment underneath. “Hello, is anybody home?”