Fire Of Heaven Book II Threshold

by Bill Myers

  Unnerved and shaky, Brandon eased himself from the bed. Several of the sketches tumbled to the floor. He made it out to the hallway and used the handrail for support as he moved down the stairs and into the kitchen. He grabbed the phone book off the counter, found her number, and dialed. It rang twice before she answered.

  “Hello?” a groggy voice mumbled.

  Brandon hesitated. He wanted to say something.

  “Hello?”

  Then ever so slowly, he reached down and pressed the disconnect button.

  He replaced the phone and eased himself into the nearest chair. He would sit there until dawn.

  CHAPTER 11

  BRANDON PASSED THROUGH THE kitchen on his way to the truck. The room still smelled of the bacon, pancakes, and warmed maple syrup Momma had served earlier for breakfast. While he was eating, she had spoken of last night’s intruder. Brandon had listened with concern, even insisted that she call the sheriff. Initially she had declined, saying that the young man wasn’t as threatening as he was confused.

  “In fact,” she’d said, “when he ran off, he looked more frightened than I was!”

  But Brandon had insisted, and reluctantly she had agreed.

  That had been fifteen minutes ago; the sheriff was on his way. Now, Momma was upstairs making beds and Brandon was heading for the Institute. He didn’t tell her where he was going; he knew she’d only be worried and scared. And the way he figured it, he was scared enough for both of them.

  His father sat in the wheelchair, staring out the door, the early morning sun striking his face. Brandon started to squeeze past him, then hesitated. He paused a moment to look down. Finally, with great effort, he spoke.

  “Pop …”

  Of course there was no response. Brandon knelt. He glanced at the silver-and-turquoise watch he had given his father so many years earlier, the one Momma still insisted he wear, as if to prove he still loved his son. Once again Brandon hesitated. He knew the words would be difficult, but he also knew they needed to be said.

  “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

  The man stared off into space.

  Brandon swallowed. “You and me, we haven’t done a lot of talking lately.”

  More silence.

  “But you’re always in my mind, somewhere — you’re always there in the back of my mind. You, Momma, Jenny …” Brandon glanced away and swallowed again. This was harder than he’d thought. “I know — I know what a disappointment I am to you, Pop. And I don’t blame you.”

  Before he knew it, emotion began to well up from somewhere deep inside. “Pop … Oh, Pop …” He tried to swallow it back, but it kept coming. “I’d give anything to bring her back. Anything.”

  His eyes burned. He blinked hard, but they continued to fill with moisture. Something had opened up inside of him, and he couldn’t seem to close it. “I used to plead with God — when she was in the coma, I used to beg him, ‘Take me! I’m the screw-up, I’m the failure. Take me, not her.’ ”

  Angrily, he swiped at the tears, but they continued to come. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  And then, all alone in the kitchen with his father, Brandon did something he hadn’t done since he was a little boy. He lowered his head and laid his face down upon his father’s lap. “I’m sorry,” he choked, his throat aching beyond belief, “I’m so sorry.”

  He lay there, for how long he didn’t know. His father’s hands were just inches from his face. He would give anything to feel them touch him, stroke his head, offer some sort of comfort.

  But, of course, there was none. Not for him.

  At last Brandon raised his head. Through blurry eyes he looked up at his father. “I’m not going to let you down,” he whispered hoarsely, “not anymore. I’m going to make you proud of me, Pop. You, Jenny, Momma — I’m going to make you all proud.”

  His father did not reply.

  Slowly, he rose to his feet, wiping his face with his sleeve. He started out the screen door. Then, hesitating, he turned back. “You don’t have to love me, Pop.” He swallowed. “But you won’t have to be ashamed of me, either. Not anymore.”

  Once again there was no answer, and once again Brandon understood the condemning silence. Quietly, he shut the door behind him and headed for the pickup.

  “Are you the woman who called?”

  Gerty nodded and adjusted the large parcel she carried under her arm. The young man before her wore a dirty army shirt, worn jeans, and he sported a week-old stubble across his face. He opened the door wider; it creaked as Gerty stepped into the apartment.

  The place was an electronics graveyard, Radio Shack thrown into a blender. Stacks of chassis lay here, gutted TVs there, pieces of stereos, cannibalized computers, circuit boards, transformers, half-empty spools of wire, monitors — all dumped and stacked throughout the dimly lit room. Gerty didn’t recognize any of them, but she knew filth and squalor when she saw it. Empty pizza boxes, fast-food bags, half-crushed aluminum cans … along with the distinct aroma of spoiled food, body odor, and a cat box that definitely needed to be emptied. At least she hoped it was a cat box.

  The man kicked a pile of junk mail out of his path and crossed toward the dining-room table, which was covered in more circuit boards and monitors. He didn’t say a word. Nor did Gerty as she followed. She wasn’t intimidated by him, nor by his environment. Knowing that she was soon going home to her Lord did a lot to keep things in perspective. She was here for a purpose. And, regardless of its appearance, this was where she had been sent to accomplish that purpose.

  The young man sat down before three large computer monitors. Two of them were glowing. There was no chair for Gerty, and he didn’t offer one. To his immediate right sat a pile of magazines with naked women on the cover. Gerty glanced away, embarrassed. But she felt neither revulsion nor disgust for the young man. Only pity. And compassion.

  He sniffed loudly and wiped his nose with his hand. “Did you bring the data?”

  “Data?” she asked.

  “The information you wanted me to enter.”

  “Oh, yes.” She pulled the two-inch stack of papers from her arms — the letters she’d been writing, some new, some decades old.

  He took them in his thin white hands and plopped them next to the magazines. Again her eyes caught a cover photo, and again she felt embarrassed. For the briefest moment she wondered if she had heard wrong. How could her Lord possibly want her to work with someone like this? He had promised her that her letters would be used for holy purposes. But here? In this place? With this man? She looked at him and was once again filled with compassion. Not her compassion. This was deeper. It was the Lord’s. He was not looking at the boy’s crippledness. He was looking past the sickness to a heart, a heart that he longed to heal.

  Gerty smiled quietly. In all the years she had known him, her Lord had never changed. He was still drawn to the dregs of society, to the outcast, to those who knew they were sick. Yes, sometimes it was difficult for her not to judge, but if he had chosen her, with all of her weakness, then he could and would use anybody. Even this boy.

  She nodded in silent awe. Yes, her Lord was good.

  The young man carelessly flipped through her stack of papers. Each page had a date on top, followed by a few Bible verses, and then some insight or practical observation on how to apply those verses.

  “These dates here at the top.” The man sniffed and wiped his nose again. “That’s when you want him to get them?”

  “Yes. He’ll soon be havin’ a computer and those are the dates I want him to be readin’ these letters.”

  “Kind of a timed-release thing?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand your —”

  “You don’t want him to have access to all of this stuff at once. Just on the date you’ve written here at the top.”

  Gerty nodded. “Yes. They’re lessons from the Bible, each one needs to be buildin’ upon the next.”

  The young man gave her a skep
tical look. “The Bible?”

  She nodded.

  He smirked, then riffled through the pages. “Sure got a lot here.”

  She sensed his hesitation. “The price you quoted me over the phone, it was —”

  “The price I quoted you was to scan this stuff into the computer, then design a program that would release it to your boy through e-mail at the right time. You didn’t tell me it was all handwritten.”

  “Will that cause a problem?”

  “Take more time, that’s all. I have to manually type in all of this junk with the keyboard.”

  Now Gerty understood. “How much more do you want?”

  She watched as he ran his hand through his greasy hair. “I don’t know. We’re talking quite a few man-hours here.”

  “How much?” Gerty persisted.

  He looked at her, gauging. “I’d say — probably an extra hundred and fifty, maybe two hundred bucks.”

  Gerty held his eyes as she reached down and opened her purse. She pulled out a wad of bills. It was the last of her money, but that was okay. She wouldn’t need it where she was going. “There’s one hundred and eighty-five dollars here. It’s all I have.”

  He reached for the money. “One hundred eighty-five will be just fine.”

  But she held it firmly in her grip until his eyes again met hers. “You’ll be typin’ it in yourself?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “No one else? Just you?”

  “Every word.”

  She nodded and finally released the cash. He took the wad and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. “I’ll start on it right away,” he said as he turned back to the computer.

  Gerty stood in silence, once again feeling a faint smile cross her face. This was why her Lord had chosen him. And this was why, over the years, regardless of how absurd his requests seemed, Gerty had always obeyed. Because, when she obeyed, he always amazed her. Now she understood. As this lost young man typed in the Holy Scriptures she had written, he would be exposed to their life-changing truths. Truths that would give him the opportunity to be healed.

  Gerty’s smile broadened. Yes, her God was good. He was very, very good.

  • • •

  Brandon lay stretched out on the leather recliner. He was wearing the Ganzfield goggles, and his face was bathed in the glow of the red floodlights. Dozens of fine wires ran to the sensors taped to his temples, eyelids, face, arms, fingertips, chest, back, stomach, legs, and feet.

  He was in Lab One. The instruments in Lab Two were being recalibrated; they wouldn’t be up and running until the end of the day. Reichner had refused to wait, so they were once again using the first lab, the one Sarah had been attacked in. The pieces of shattered one-way mirror had long ago been cleaned up, but its replacement hadn’t yet arrived, so clear window glass had been temporarily installed.

  Up in the observation room, Sarah kept a careful eye on the monitors and readouts. The heart rate, respiration, GSR, EMG, EEG, all were registering as before. Directly behind her, two DAT machines ran, one to record the multiple readings coming in, the other to serve as backup. This was too important to risk losing the records to a malfunction.

  Reichner sat immediately to her left, speaking into the console’s mike. As before, his voice was calm and soothing: “Like a leaf, Brandon. Like a leaf floating on the surface of a quiet pond.”

  “Yes.” Brandon’s answer was barely above a whisper.

  “No thoughts…just quiet, gentle floating.”

  “He’s reached level,” Sarah said, motioning to the EEG. “Theta is up to where it was before.”

  Reichner looked at the monitor, surprised. They both glanced up at the digital timer. The read-out glowed: 2:20.

  Sarah blinked in surprise. He’d reached level in under three minutes — nearly four times faster than yesterday.

  Reichner turned back to the mike. “Excellent. That’s very, very good, Brandon. Now, Brandon, keeping your mind free and empty, I want you to search for that light again. I want you to find Jenny.”

  There was no response.

  “Brandon? Brandon, stay with me.”

  Still, no answer.

  “Brandon.” Reichner’s voice remained soothing but carried an edge of authority. “Brandon.”

  Sarah leaned forward to look through the glass. Down below Brandon’s face registered the slightest frown.

  “Brandon.”

  Finally he answered. “I don’t see anything. I don’t —”

  “You’re trying too hard,” Reichner gently interrupted. “Relax. Let her come to you.”

  Sarah watched as Brandon took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. She knew he was trying to obey, to clear and release his mind. Again the thought made her just a little uneasy. And again she wished she could see and hear what he was experiencing …

  Brandon floated in the deep, crimson void. There was no sensation, no up, no down, only the faint brushing of wind against his face and its gentle whispering in his ear. But it was more than wind. This time he recognized it to be something else, something tender, something encouraging, something — alive.

  Then he saw the flicker. Like a welding spark. Just as bright as before, and just as brief. It happened again, but longer — a blinding shaft of light cutting through the emptiness. And with that light came the tug, the pulling of the current. He knew it was Jenny holding the light, and he knew if he gave himself over to the current, it would carry him toward her.

  After a moment’s hesitation he slowly began releasing his will. The wind increased; the current began moving him. There was another flash, a little closer. And then another as Brandon released more and more control to the current and began to pick up speed.

  Another flash. Now he could see the light silhouetting a distant form. The form of his sister. His heart swelled as he drew closer. Soon he was able to see her features — her blonde hair blowing in the wind, her white gown — and, as he approached, the smile, that sweet, understanding, angelic smile.

  As before, she reached into the folds of her garment and pulled out the lantern. Its brightness stabbed his eyes, forcing him to raise a hand and shield them. With the greater intensity of the light came increasing speed, and with the increasing speed his fear returned. Once again he began to resist the current, willing himself to slow. With all of his concentration and with great determination, he was able to decrease his speed until he came to a stop. The current continued to tug and pull, but he refused to go any further.

  Jenny was a dozen yards away. Once again she held out the lantern to him. He knew she wanted him to approach and take it. But he couldn’t. He hated himself for it, but he was still too afraid — afraid of coming any closer, afraid of giving in, of losing control.

  She nodded, her eyes full of understanding. Then, as before, she raised the lantern high over her head and dropped it to the ground. It hit, and the light spilled out like liquid. As it spread into a large, molten pool, Brandon could feel the force of the current increasing, pulling him harder. The light churned and boiled upon itself, growing in width and height, until it formed the glowing rectangle that had towered over him the day before.

  The current increased, and Brandon fought even harder to keep his footing. With rising panic, he struggled, exerting all of his will to resist being drawn in. Frightened, he looked up at the rectangle. It was solidifying, its liquid light turning into a doorway, the Threshold. The intense brightness dimmed slightly, as if the structure were cooling. Now he could see detail: intricate carvings on the pillars of the doorway, words and symbols he had never seen before.

  And just inside the opening, waiting patiently, was little Jenny.

  The gentle whisperings around him grew louder, clearer. They were voices, low and sustained, like singing.

  And still the current increased, and still he resisted.

  “Let it go, Brandon.” He wasn’t sure if it was Reichner’s voice or the voices of the wind. “Let it go …”

  He looked back a
t Jenny. So much love and compassion filled her eyes. This was where he had failed her before, where he had panicked, where he had shown his cowardice and stopped the experiment.

  The wind and voices grew even stronger. He wanted to stop it; there was no need for him to cross through the Threshold. Let the Sarah Weintraubs of the world be the heroes, let them change civilization. Just let him continue to live his life of — he tried to block her words, but they came before he could stop them: pointless. That’s what she had said about his life. A pointless waste.

  She had been right. And yet …

  Perspiration broke out across his forehead. He could still stop this, he should stop it. But what about Jenny? He looked up. She waited so patiently, so lovingly. And what about his father? And Sarah?

  You’ve got to believe in something …

  “Let it go, Brandon. Let it go …”

  … a pointless waste, no meaning or purpose …

  And his father. “I’m going to make you proud,” that’s what he’d told him. “I’m going to make you all proud.”

  “Beware of the broader paths.” Memories of the old woman’s voice surprised him and did little to ease his fear. “All paths but the Lord’s lead to destruction.”

  He closed his eyes, shaking his head. “I have no faith,” that’s what he’d told her. “I have no faith anymore.”

  Pointless, a waste …

  I’m going to make you proud of …

  No meaning or purpose …

  I’m going to make you all —

  Other paths lead to destruction.

  “Let it go, Brandon, let it go.”

  A waste.

  “Let it go, Brandon …”

  Beware of the broader —

  You don’t have to be ashamed … I’m going to make you —

  Such ways lead to the occult. Beware of the —

  No! Brandon’s mind screamed. No! He turned his head, shutting off the old woman’s voice, refusing to listen. With great purpose he forced himself to look back toward Jenny. It was time to end the cowardice. It was time to put aside his fears, to end the old way of believing. It was time to finally make something of himself. Slowly, with determination, Brandon raised his arms. There was one last moment of hesitation, of fear, and then Brandon Martus gave up his will.