Fire Of Heaven 01 - Blood of Heaven

by Bill Myers

  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.

  By now the helicopter had crabbed to the right, bringing him into full view, once again blinding him with its light.

  “This is the Snohomish County Sheriff. Cease your activity and exit the building at once. This is your final warning.”

  He gave no indication that he’d heard the commands, much less intended to obey them, as the drum continued to empty. Now the fumes were burning his nose. Try as he might, he couldn’t avoid inhaling them. Already he could feel his head growing light.

  Then he saw it. A little red dot, smaller than a dime, first reflecting off the ductwork to his left, then quickly darting toward him. A sniper in the helicopter was taking aim.

  Frantically, he looked over to the broken skylight just fifteen feet away. It was how he’d gotten onto the roof, and now it was his only way off. But a wide pool of toluene lay between him and the skylight. He knew that the fumes hadn’t had time to work their way deep into the building. He also knew that, if he ran across that pool and the sniper missed him, hitting a piece of ductwork, there was a good chance a spark would end the show before it even began.

  His only hope was to circumvent the toluene — to go around it to the skylight. That would be far more dangerous, and meant an extra thirty or so feet of exposure, but it would have to do.

  The drum finally emptied, and he gave it a push across the roof to join the other. His clothes were saturated with toluene, making it impossible to avoid breathing the fumes. Their effects grew stronger. He crouched low, prepared himself, then sprang forward, putting every bit of his concentration, every ounce of strength, into speed.

  The first shot missed and thumped into the thick tar.

  The helicopter adjusted.

  Coleman was nearly there — ten feet, eight, five — when the second shot found its mark. His left leg exploded with pain, sending him crashing onto the roof and sliding across the shattered glass.

  But he was there. The skylight was within reach. He grabbed the busted-out frame and dragged himself toward it — the jagged, wire-reinforced glass dug into his arms, then his chest, but he continued to pull. Suddenly the entire frame gave way and he tumbled the twelve feet down to the next floor, missing the steel frame of the forklift by mere inches.

  The fumes inside the building and from his own soaked clothes were nearly overwhelming. He ripped off his shirt, found a dry section, and tore it in two, using half as a tourniquet to tie off his bleeding leg, the other half as a filter to breathe through. It did little good. Already his head was spinning, his vision blurring.

  It was too early; the fumes hadn’t completely spread through the building. But he had no choice. He had to do it now, while he could still think. He reached into his pocket for the matches. When he felt them he went cold. He pulled them out. They were soaked, completely saturated with liquid toluene.

  His mind groped. He knew there was another book downstairs in the gym bag. He’d been smart enough to throw in two. But the chances of making it downstairs through these fumes were slim. No way could he stay conscious, let alone remain coherent long enough to make it back to the third floor.

  Still, what choice did he have?

  With stubborn resolve — and a prayer — he steeled himself and half-limped, half-dragged his body past the roaring air-conditioning fans toward the freight elevator.

  The fumes took their toll. His mind was drifting now, starting to float. He entered the elevator and pressed three. The doors rattled shut and the elevator descended.

  Mikey, please…It’s so cold…please don’t leave me here.

  Coleman spun around. It was his brother’s voice. Was he hallucinating? Yes, of course. No, it sounded too real.

  Mikey…

  He clenched his eyes, forcing the voice out of his head.

  It took forever for the elevator doors to finally open.

  When he stepped out, his vision was worse, colors twisted and blurred into one another. Still, he was able to make out the form of Murkoski’s body lying on the floor in front of the burned out passenger elevator. Not far away sat the gym bag.

  He staggered forward. Time was distorting, telescoping, moving in painfully slow motion.

  He floated down to his knees beside the bag and his unfeeling hands began searching for the matches. He was drifting, high and far away, on automatic pilot. Yet his hands kept working.

  They found the second book — just as the footsteps began; construction boots against tile. His father’s boots.

  Michael…Michael…

  He could smell the stench of whisky.

  “Help me,” he whispered. “Dear God…help me…”

  He pulled out the matchbook. It felt damp. The overhead sprinklers had done their job too well. An alarm bell began ringing. It sounded like the one in the Quickie Mart where he’d shot the clerk. He couldn’t tell; it was too far away. The guitar licks from “Hotel California” wafted through his head. So real, so clear, so lovely.

  Michael…

  He felt his fingers opening the matchbook cover, more from impulse than from will. He saw them pulling off the first match and dragging it across the striker.

  Nothing.

  His fingers were wet. They’d soaked the head of the match. He saw his hands wiping themselves on the dry part of his shirt he’d used as a tourniquet. They tried again, this time ripping out a wad of four matches.

  Michael…

  You are mine.

  It was time to quit, to give in. To let that lovely music carry him off.

  You are me.

  The euphoria lulled him, lifted him…

  “No! NO!”

  His shout cleared his head long enough for him to struggle to his feet. He looked down at his hands. He was still holding the wad of matches. Four of them. He tried striking them all at once.

  Too wet. He threw them away.

  You are me.

  Michael…

  He tugs at the remaining matches, hands shaking now so badly that he can barely rip them out. He is drifting again, floating, floating…

  The matches tear away.

  Michael…

  We are one.

  He drifts back for a moment, long enough to try one.

  Nothing.

  Another.

  Nothing.

  There is only justice. The sound of Steiner’s voice startles him.

  “NO!” Coleman cries. His shout brings him back long enough to see that he is holding a match — the la
st one. He forces his hand to drag it across the striker.

  Michael…

  Nothing.

  He is gone, in another world, no cares, no pain.

  Michael…

  “Please,” he hears himself mumble.

  Michael…

  His hand starts to strike it again, but it cannot. He is on his knees, his throat knot-tight in emotion.

  You are mine.

  Justice…

  Michael…

  “Please.” The words barely spoken. “Dear God, help me.”

  Again he feels the match. It is still between his fingers. But it no longer matters, it is time to —

  Michael…

  Something deep inside him stirs.

  Michael… Again he feels the match between his thumb and forefinger. He tries one last time. He is dragging the sulfur head across the striker. It is sparking, flaming to life…

  A spherical shock wave, consisting of supercompressed air, CO, and water vapor, forms at the match head. It rapidly expands until it reaches the walls of the hallway; at that point it is traveling at a detonation rate of 4000 feet per second and has a density equal to that of very hard wood. It slams into the walls, demolishing them and continuing to move outward.

  But that is only the beginning.

  The trail of exploding solvent vapor roars up the air-conditioning ducts at almost four times the speed of sound, rupturing them as it moves through them to involve every room in the building. The shock wave of expanding gas crushes tile and splinters wood. Most importantly, it creates what is referred to by Hector Garcia as “overpressure.” In this case, several hundreds of pounds of overpressure per square inch. It disintegrates the concrete walls and twists the steel support girders until they are unrecognizable — until even areas of the building that have not been touched by the blast collapse and tumble under their own weight.

  The research building of Genodyne Inc. no longer exists.

  Michael… Michael…

  Coleman looks up. At first it is his father’s voice, but then it isn’t. Unlike the other times, this voice resonates with kindness and compassion. Coleman is awestruck.

  He’s unsure where he is. But there is light, everywhere light. Standing above him is a figure. It is his father, but it isn’t. It is inexplicably tender, carved from a light brighter than the other light. It is the source of the light, of all light. But the figure is more than light; it is love, a consuming, all-encompassing love. It reaches down to Coleman, taking his hands, gently helping him to his feet.

  Unable and unwilling to stop himself, Coleman falls into the light, feeling its arms wrapping about him, its love permeating his body.

  He hears three words. Spoken yet unspoken. Powerful, roaring like thunder, tender as breath. They thrill him, but he is afraid to believe. They say he will never again be alone. He will never again be a shadow, dancing, searching, aching to belong. He does belong. Completely. Intimately. Eternally. They are only three words, but they tell him all of this and much, much more. They simply say: “Welcome home, son.”

  CHAPTER 19

  KATHERINE RESTED ON THE rested on the tailgate of the sheriff’s van, wrapped in a blanket and sipping some very bad coffee. Eric sat up front, checking out the cool radio equipment. A hundred yards away, on the other side of the police barricade, the media lights glared as reporters filed their stories with the hollowed-out shell of Genodyne Inc. as their backdrop.

  Katherine knew that her name had been leaked to the press and that it was just a matter of time before she would have to face them. But for now, it felt awfully good to simply sit and close her eyes.

  “You doing okay?”

  She looked up to see O’Brien standing beside her, trying to drink the same coffee.

  “Yeah,” she said, scooting over to let him sit. The movement caused the cut in her right cheek to throb slightly, and she reached up to explore the two-inch gash with her fingers.

  “You should have them look at that,” he said. “You’ll probably need stitches.”

  She said nothing. There was a lot she should do.

  “They’ll want to talk to you, you know.”

  She nodded. “What did you tell them?”

  “Not much. I don’t work here anymore, remember?”

  She gave him a look. He shrugged. “I didn’t give them a name. I just said he was some friend of Murkoski’s. Very angry, very confused, and with a history of mental instability.”

  Katherine turned away, deeply saddened by the thought. Coleman had given everything he had, everything he was, and he wouldn’t even be allowed to have a name. Worse than that, he would be labeled now and forever as some lunatic.

  “What about the kidnapping?” she asked.

  “That one’s up to you. I did suggest he might somehow be responsible for that, as well.”

  “And they bought that?”

  “For now. Keeps everything nice and tidy. ’Course I’ll be in Mazatlán by the time they realize the pieces don’t quite fit.”

  Katherine nodded, wondering where she would be, how her life would ever come back together.

  Silence stole over the two as they sat in the damp air, with the bad coffee, staring vacantly at the remains of the building. A handful of investigators were already beginning to scramble over the rubble and sift through the debris. On the horizon, the sky was beginning to glow with the promise of another dawn.

  O’Brien took a long, deep breath and slowly let it out. “Poor soul,” he muttered. “Poor, poor soul.”

  Katherine looked to him. “Why do you say that?”

  “He came so close to winning.”

  “You don’t think he did? You don’t think he won?”

  O’Brien glanced at her. “He destroyed the project, sure. In that sense, I suppose. But, dying —” He shook his head. “Not much victory for him in that.”

  “How can you say that?” Katherine felt herself growing defensive. “All he wanted was to be kind and loving and giving. All he wanted was to defeat the old Coleman with the new, loving one.”

  “And you think he did that? In the end, do you think he overcame the old Coleman?”

  “He gave up his life for us, didn’t he?” She motioned to the crowd across the parking lot. “For all of them. You don’t get any more loving and giving than that.”

  O’Brien looked at her.

  “ ‘No greater love has a man than he lay down his life for his friends,’ ” she quoted softly.

  O’Brien nodded. “I’ve heard that.”

  “Me, too. All of my life. But now…” Her voice dropped off.

  “But now?” O’Brien repeated.

  “Now I think I’m finally starting to understand.” She paused a moment to look up to the brightening sky. “Coleman won, Dr. O’Brien. Maybe not by your standards, maybe not by mine. But he won.”

  O’Brien started to answer, but fell silent. He had much to think about.

  “Mom! Hey, Mom.”

  Katherine turned. Eric was standing just outside the van.

  “Mom, check it out.”

  She rose wearily to her feet and walked to him. He was pointing toward a tall pine tree. “Look at that,” he said.

  At first she saw nothing. “What?”

  “There?”

  “I don’t —”

  “Right there.”

  She kneeled down to his level. It was only then, when her face was beside his, that she saw it. The moon was rising just above the top set of branches.

  “Isn’t that cool?”

  Katherine stared, her throat tightening.

  “Isn’t it?” he repeated.

  He was right; it was cool, very cool. She wanted to tell him so, but she didn’t trust her voice. Instead, she wrapped her arms around her son and held him tight. Once again she felt her eyes beginning to burn with tears.

  Eric turned to her. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded as the tears spilled onto her cheeks. The wetness stung the cut in her face and s
he winced slightly, raising a hand toward it.

  “It’s okay, Mom,” he said, reaching out to touch her face. “You’ll be okay.”

  The concern in his little eyes and the tender touch of his hand were almost more than she could bear. She reached up and took his fingers. They felt warm, almost on fire as she kissed them. He was right, she would be okay. She had her son, she had her life. And she had something else. A glimpse, a taste of the eternal had started to return. She looked back up to the moon. At that particular moment, it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

  “Cool,” her son repeated joyfully.

  But when she turned to him, he wasn’t looking at the moon. He was looking at her, practically beaming as he stared at her cheek.

  It was then she noticed how warm her face felt, almost as hot as his fingers. She reached up to touch the cut, but couldn’t find it. She ran her fingers over her face, but she couldn’t feel it anywhere. Only the heat.

  Eric’s grin broadened.

  “What?” She rubbed her cheek again, searching for it. “What did you do?”

  He giggled. “I’m not sure, but it’s gone, Mom. It’s not there.”

  She looked at him in rising astonishment. Then spotting the side-view mirror of the van, she moved to it to see.

  But there was nothing. The wound was gone.

  “How?” she asked. “That’s not possible.” She turned to him. “How did…”

  He shrugged, and smiled. “Got me.”

  She turned back to the mirror.

  “But that’s not all,” he said thoughtfully. “Something else is kinda weird, too.”

  She turned back to him.

  “Lately, when I look at people — real deep and stuff? Well, it’s kinda like I know what they’re thinking.”

  Katherine could only stare.

  “Isn’t that weird?” he said. “That’s how I knew those kidnappers were lying. And those old people who brought me here? I could tell that they were good and that they’d help me just by looking at them.”

  Katherine knelt by her son and held his shoulders. “When,” she swallowed, fighting to stay calm, “when did this start to happen?”