Fire Of Heaven Book II Threshold

by Bill Myers

  Brandon had learned, over the years, that it would do no good to protest coming. There were some things Momma would not be swayed from. So he consented to this Sunday routine while at the same time quietly and efficiently perfecting the fine art of zoning out.

  “As you know, a week from this evening we will be holding our final service here in this building — a farewell celebration as we prepare to join our Unitarian brothers across town. Now I suppose some would consider the closing of this fine old church a defeat, but I assure you that the Higher Power in his infinite …” The reverend continued droning on through his justification for shutting down the church. But whatever his rationalization, the bottom line was simple: Attendance was so meager that there was no way they could afford to keep the doors open.

  Brandon didn’t mind. True, he’d spent his entire life going to this church; he’d been dedicated here as a baby, baptized here as a child. And he’d spent years listening to his father deliver sermons from that very pulpit. But maybe the change would do them good. It might even cool Momma’s fanatical ardor for constant attendance — although that was doubtful. He guessed that whenever and wherever the reverend decided to speak, she would always be there to listen. Yes, Momma and the reverend had grown close — but there was nothing immoral about their friendship. After all, it had been six years since Dad’s stroke, and Momma was entitled to a little male companionship.

  Brandon stole a look at his father. Did he know what was going on — that they were about to tear down the church he had fought so hard to build? Who knew what was going on behind that slack, impassive face — except, of course, for the contempt Brandon always sensed lurking behind his silence. Contempt for him — for everything Brandon did, for everything he was and was not.

  Brandon looked back up at the reverend and pretended to listen as the man continued rattling off his bromides. It’s not that Brandon hated church. He didn’t even hate God. You have to care about something to hate it. And Brandon didn’t care one way or the other. Not anymore. When he was a kid, sure. He’d followed the party line, wowed everyone with his zeal, even subbed as a Sunday school teacher for the little ones. But that was back when he’d thought life had guarantees, when he’d thought faith counted for something. Now, of course, he knew it didn’t. Not after his father’s stroke. And not after Jenny’s death.

  Brandon stared at the brass pipes of the organ mounted on the wall behind the pulpit, then at the white ash cross positioned immediately in front of them. The cross. What a perfect symbol of life’s futility. Brandon shook his head at the irony: How Christians cherished and worshiped the very thing that proves that, no matter what you do, no matter how good you are, you die. Everything dies. He remembered hearing some comedian say that if Jesus came today, instead of crosses, Christians would be wearing electric chairs around their necks. What a joke. What a sad, hopeless joke. Yes, Brandon thought, if there was any symbol to capture the futility of life, it was the cross.

  For the thousandth time, his mind drifted back to Friday night, to little Jenny standing in the road…if it had been Jenny. Of course it had been Jenny. What else could it have been? And yet nobody else had seen her. Frank, Del — they hadn’t seen a thing. Had it been a hallucination, something he’d just imagined? Brandon closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against his lids. If so, then he was really in bad shape.

  It sounded like the reverend was finally running out of steam. “At this time, we have some special music. Lori Beth, would you like to come forward now and share with us?”

  Brandon watched as a fourteen-year-old blonde nervously walked down the aisle and took her position in front of the altar. Over the past year, Lori Beth had gotten quite a figure, and she was still painfully self-conscious about it — a little girl trapped in a woman’s body. She took the mike from the reverend and nodded to the soundman at the back of the church. A music track blared through the speakers until the volume was lowered. A few bars later, the girl started to sing. Her voice wasn’t bad, though a little thin and tentative. That’s how it always was with the new ones. A little nervous at first but gradually, as the song continued, their confidence increased.

  Not so with Lori Beth. In fact it was just the opposite. With each line she sang, she seemed to grow less and less sure of herself, and more and more nervous. But it wasn’t the congregation that unnerved her. It was something else, something toward the back. At first Brandon tried to ignore the problem, but by the second verse the girl was practically trembling.

  Brandon stole a look over his shoulder. Mr. Gleason, the middle-school English teacher, a large man with thinning blond hair, had risen from the back and was heading up the aisle toward her. Brandon remembered him as a friendly guy, always making jokes. But instead of his usual good-natured expression, his face was twisted into a leer.

  Brandon turned back to Lori Beth. She still sang, but her eyes remained fixed on the approaching man, and her voice was beginning to quiver. Gleason passed Brandon. He was loosening his tie as he approached the girl. Lori Beth’s voice grew more and more shaky. Finally the teacher stopped directly in front of her. He raised his big, meaty hands and placed them on her white, delicate shoulders.

  And still she sang. Staring at him, terror-stricken, she continued to sing.

  Brandon looked at Momma, then at other members of the congregation. Everyone was calm, some even smiling. Wasn’t anybody concerned?

  Suddenly the man pulled Lori Beth toward him. She gasped and tried to resist, but he was insistent. He grabbed the back of her head and pulled it toward his face — and then he kissed her. Hard. His mouth covered hers in consuming passion.

  The reverend smiled, nodding his head; the congregation sat complacently. Didn’t they care?

  After the kiss, Lori Beth took a shaky breath…and still she sang. But Gleason wasn’t finished. He began kissing her neck, hungrily, demandingly.

  No — no, Brandon had seen enough. Disgusted at Gleason, outraged at the congregation, he rose to his feet. “Stop it!” he shouted. “What do you think you’re doing! Leave her alone!”

  Gleason ignored him. He began pawing at Lori Beth’s blouse, tearing at it, ripping off buttons. That’s when Brandon moved to action. He leaped across the few feet separating them, grabbed Gleason’s arm, and tried to pull him away. “What are you doing? Leave her alone!”

  With little effort, the big man flung him aside. He turned back to the girl, kissing her, pulling at her clothes while, amazingly, she continued to sing!

  Brandon lunged at him, grabbing his shoulders, using all of his strength to pull him away.

  “Stop it! Let her —”

  Then he felt a pair of hands on his own shoulders. He whirled around. It was the reverend. But he wasn’t helping to pull the teacher away. He was pulling Brandon away.

  “Easy, son, take it easy.”

  “What are you doing?” Brandon shouted. “Look what he’s doing to her!”

  “Easy — everything’s okay.”

  Surprised at the calming voice, Brandon looked first at Momma, then at the congregation. Their complacency was finally broken; now, everyone was staring in astonishment. But they weren’t staring at Mr. Gleason; they were staring at him, at Brandon.

  Confused and breathing hard, Brandon turned back to the teacher. He wasn’t there. Only Lori Beth stood before the altar — her blouse neatly pressed, her hair and face showing no signs of the struggle. True, her eyes registered fear, but not fear of Mr. Gleason. It was fear of Brandon.

  “It’s okay, son.” He could feel the reverend’s grip tighten as he gradually pulled him away. Brandon looked out over the congregation. There was Mr. Gleason at the back. Like Lori Beth’s parents and several other members of the congregation, he had risen to his feet in apparent concern. But his tie was perfectly straight; there was no sign of a skirmish.

  The reverend eased Brandon away, toward Momma who was now standing. “It’s okay, son,” he kept repeating, “it’s okay.” Numb and confused, Bran
don allowed himself to be guided to his mother, who helped him sit back in their pew. “It’s okay. Just have a seat, son. Everything is all right. It’s okay, everything is all right …”

  Three hours later, Brandon was sprawled on the sofa in the living room. It was stifling. The fan drew air in through the front screen door, but that helped little, since the outside air was even hotter than the inside. Sweat trickled down his temples as he stared at the TV, pressing the remote, one channel after another after another, barely watching.

  Drool, good old faithful Drool, had sensed Brandon’s turmoil. Several minutes earlier, the massive, chocolate-colored mongrel had plopped down at the foot of the sofa with a heavy sigh. Over the months, the years, he had become Brandon’s only confidant.

  At one time, it had been Brandon and his father — Brandon and his father camping out, Brandon’s father coaching Brandon’s basketball team, Brandon and his father working on model cars when he was a child, then graduating to the real thing as Brandon grew older. Everyone who knew them envied their friendship. If ever there were two people who found joy and purpose in one another, it was these two.

  But that was a long time ago.

  Now there was only Drool. Brandon may no longer be able to talk to his father, he may not be able to stay in the same room with his mother, but there was always Drool. Quick to listen, slow to judge, and always faithful. Good old Drool. At the moment, the animal’s devotion was being rewarded by Brandon’s absentminded scratching behind his ears.

  It had been seven months since Brandon had killed his little sister. Seven months of self-torment by day and agonizing dreams by night. Everyone had said that the dreams would go away, that he’d get better.

  Well, everyone was wrong.

  After the incident on the road last night, the fragments of conversation at the printing plant, and the weird whatever-that-was at church this morning, it was clear that not only were the dreams not going away — they were starting to plague him even when he was awake.

  What had happened with Lori Beth this morning made no sense at all. But what he’d seen the other night out on the road, that was different. It had been Jenny. And that meant that the Bible was wrong — the dead do come back, at least in her case. But what did she want? What was she trying to say?

  Brandon shook his head and let out a long, slow sigh as he surfed the channels.

  Outside, on the porch, he could hear Momma talking to someone. Probably just another “concerned” neighbor or church member dropping by. Yes, sir, good news traveled fast in little Bethel Lake. He hit the mute button for a better listen.

  “I’m sorry,” Momma was saying, “but he needs his rest and I —”

  “He’s entering his season, Meg.” It was an older woman’s voice — thin and crackly. “You knew this day would come.”

  “It’s been a very tiring morning for him — well, for all of us. Perhaps if you stopped by another time.”

  Bored, Brandon threw his feet over the side of the couch. He stepped over Drool and shuffled toward the screen door.

  “If you’d just let me look in on the boy. Maybe offer a few words of encouragement. Let him know that …” The woman’s voice trailed off as Brandon arrived at the screen. She was a frail old woman. Black skin, graying hair, dressed in her Sunday best, which wasn’t much. Besides a print dress of tiny flowers, she wore slightly yellowed gloves and a small white hat. Brandon was sure he hadn’t met her before, and by the way Momma stood on the porch, blocking the woman’s approach, it was clear that things were going to stay that way.

  As the woman stared at him, a look of wonder slowly spread across her face. Momma glanced over her shoulder at him. But before she could make the introductions, the old woman began to quietly quote: “ ‘Behold, I will send you Elijah before the great and dreadful day of the Lord.’ ”

  Brandon glanced quizzically to his mother, but she was already looking away.

  The old woman continued: “ ‘And he shall turn the hearts of the fathers to the children and the hearts of the children to their fathers.’ ” She stopped, then slowly smiled at him.

  Momma glanced at him again and cleared her throat. “Uh, sugar — this here is Gerty, Gerty Morrison. An old and dear friend of the family’s. She used to attend your father’s congregation. ’Course that was a long time ago, when you were just a baby.”

  “Eli.” The woman’s eyes filled with moisture. “Eli, we’ve been waitin’. Waitin’ over twenty years for —”

  “Brandon,” he interrupted.

  “’Scuse me?”

  “The name is Brandon.”

  The woman glanced at Momma, then nodded. “Yes, of course.” She continued: “The Lord would say much to you, Brandon.”

  “Now, Gerty,” Momma warned her, “you promised.”

  “But he must be warned of the counterfeits.” She turned back to him. “You do understand the difference? How to discern the spirits, and how to prepare for the battle you’re about to —”

  “Gerty, please!” Momma’s outburst surprised them all, and she immediately struggled to recover her civility. “You promised, now. Remember? You promised.”

  Brandon continued to watch. He knew that most church circles had one or two well-meaning fruitcakes who insisted that they could hear God speaking. It came with the territory. At best, they were harmless — just folks looking for attention. At worst, they could be deluded, even dangerous. Brandon wasn’t sure which category this old woman fell into.

  “Yes.” Gerty was nodding to Momma. “Yes, you are right, I did give you my word.” She broke into another smile. “And I thank you for this opportunity, Megan. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

  Momma nodded, still keeping a wary eye on the woman.

  Gerty turned back to Brandon. “It was a pleasure meetin’ you, Brandon.”

  He nodded.

  She nodded back. Then, in the silence, she turned and started down the porch steps. But, when she reached the bottom, she turned back to him, a look of concern filling her face. “Your shield,” she asked. “You won’t be forgettin’ your shield of faith?”

  “Gerty… ,” Momma warned.

  “No, ma’am,” Brandon answered kindly. It was obvious this old-timer fell into the harmless category, so it wouldn’t hurt to play along. “Got it right here in the house where it’s good and safe.”

  Gerty nodded, though it was clear she was confused by his answer.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Brandon offered helpfully. “I never leave home without it.”

  Still confused, she smiled nonetheless. Then, slowly, she turned and hobbled toward her car.

  Brandon watched, quietly amused and a little sad.

  But not Momma. Even with her back to him, he could see the nervous tension in her body — a tension that remained even after the old woman was in her car and heading down the lane to the main road.

  Dr. Reichner took another long sip of coffee — his third cup since he’d left the Fort Wayne airport ninety minutes ago.

  “How long were the police here?” he asked.

  Sarah Weintraub knelt beside the console in Lab One, examining a patch of blood-stained carpet. “About an hour.”

  “They have any idea who it was?”

  Sarah shook her head. “If they did, they weren’t saying.”

  Reichner fingered the jagged shards of glass still protruding from the one-way mirror that separated the lab from the observation room. He was exhausted, but he could not, would not sleep. It had been seventy-two hours since his encounter with the boy guru, or python, or whatever it was back in Nepal, and he was still a little shaken.

  Initially, he had chalked up the experience to some sort of hallucination, an imagined mystical encounter. He had certainly been in the right place for it. That along with the drugs, the exotic location, and a person’s normal susceptibility to suggestion — well, it was definitely a plausible explanation. Then there’d been that mantra and the Eastern meditation thing. Some medical studie
s he’d read hypothesized that the chanting of mantras and meditation was simply a way of depriving the brain of oxygen while increasing carbon dioxide. Since the temporal lobe of the brain is sensitive to the delicate balance of O and CO, altering that equilibrium can easily create a sense of well-being, the so-called Eastern mystical experiences, or even that tunnel sensation so many “near-death” participants babble about.

  At least that’s what the medical books said. But after his experience on the flight back home, he had begun to question the textbook explanation. It had only happened twice. During the New Delhi to O’Hare leg of his flight. But twice was enough. Reichner had closed his eyes, drifting into that in-between state of sleep and wakefulness, when he had suddenly seen the pale yellow eyes of the python floating before him. It had no doubt been some reaction to his dramatic earlier encounter with the guru. At least that’s what he told himself. Yet it had seemed so real. Then, of course, there had been those parting words from the Nepal vision: “I will always be with you.”

  In any case, for the time being at least, he preferred to throw down a few more cups of coffee and stave off sleep just a little bit longer.

  “Maybe we should get this typed,” Sarah said, indicating the blood on the carpet.

  Reichner stooped beside her for a better look. She smelled nice. Her hair was still damp from the shower she’d been taking when he’d called. He could smell the scented soap on her skin. Some sort of berry. Yes, very nice indeed.

  Of course, he’d tried talking her into bed when she’d first joined the Institute. But she’d made it clear from the get-go that she was not interested in another relationship, especially with her employer. He knew that he could have manipulated her, worn her down (nobody said no to Reichner, unless he wanted her to), but she was already approaching thirty, which meant she really wasn’t his type anymore. After all, he did have his standards.

  Besides, she was an overachiever, a workaholic — the type who buried themselves in their job, looking to their work for all of their fulfillment and self-esteem. He had run a background check on her that hadn’t been conclusive, although he assumed that her workaholism was a reaction to something unpleasant in her not-so-distant past. But the reason made little difference. The point was that someone like this could be exploited in far more profitable ways than for a little roll in the hay. And it was so easy. All he had to do was appear unsatisfied with her work and imply that she could do better. Or toss a brief compliment her way if she had nearly killed herself over a project. “Praise junkies,” he called them. Like devoted dogs, they would kill themselves just to hear a kind word from their master. Everybody had an Achilles’ heel, and by exploiting hers, Reichner was able to squeeze out twice the amount of work he would have gotten from a healthier employee.