The Heaven Trilogy

by Ted Dekker

  “Hmm?”

  “No, really. Look at us. I still remember the first day you skipped into the bank, what, seven years ago?” He chuckled and sipped at the martini on his tray. “You were as green as they come, man. Hair all slicked back, ready to set the office on fire. Not that I was any more experienced. I think I had a whole week on you. But we came in at the bottom, and now look at us. Making triple digits, and still climbing. And then you take someone like Tony Milkins. He came six months or so after you and he’s what? A teller.” Will chuckled again and sipped his drink.

  Kent shrugged. “Some want it more. It all comes down to the price you’re willing to pay. You and I put our dues in, worked long hours, got the right education. Shoot, if I were to sit down and calculate the time and energy I’ve put into making it this far, it would scare most college kids right out of school and into boot camp.”

  “No kidding.” Will sipped again. “Then there’s a few like Borst. You look at them and wonder how in God’s name they ever sneaked in. You’d think his old man owned the bank.”

  Kent smiled and looked out the window, thinking he’d have to be careful what he said now. One day it would be him that people like Will talked about. True enough, Markus Borst was misplaced in his position, but even those well suited for their positions bore the brunt of professional criticism from the lower ranks.

  “So, I guess you’ll be moving up now,” Will said. Kent glanced at him, noting a hint of jealousy there.

  Will caught the look and laughed it off. “No, well done, my friend.” He lifted a finger and raised his brows. “But watch your back. I’m right behind you.”

  “Sure,” Kent returned with a smile.

  But he was thinking that even Will knew that the notion of Will doing any such thing was an absurd little piece of nonsense. The loan manager could look forward to nothing but slipping into eventual obscurity, like a million other loan managers throughout the world. Loan managers simply did not become household names like Bill Gates or Steve Jobs. Not that it was Will’s fault, really. Most people were not properly equipped; they simply did not know how to work hard enough. That was Will’s problem.

  It suddenly occurred to Kent that he’d just come full circle on the man. He thought of Will in the same way that Will thought of Tony Milkins. A slacker. A friendly enough slacker, but a dope nonetheless. And if Will was a slouch, then people like Tony Milkins were slugs. Ham-and-eggers. Good enough to collect a few bills here and there, but never cut out to spend them.

  “Just watch your back too, Will,” Kent said. “Because Tony Milkins is right there.”

  His friend laughed and Kent joined him, wondering if the man had caught his offhanded dig. Not yet, he guessed.

  The plane touched down with a squeal of rubber, and Kent’s pulse accelerated a notch. They deplaned, found their luggage, and caught two cabs to the Hyatt Regency in downtown Miami.

  A porter dressed in maroon, with a tall captain’s hat and a nametag that read “Pedro Gonzalas” quickly loaded their bags on a cart and led them through a spacious foyer toward the front desk. To their left, a large fountain splashed over marble mermaids in a blue pool. Palm trees grew in a perfect circle around the water, their leaves rustling in the conditioned air. Most of the guests walking about had come for the conference. Left their branches across the globe to gather in dark suits and gloat over how much money they were all making. A group of Asians laughed around a smoking table, and Kent guessed by their demeanor that they might be near the top. Important men. Or at the very least, thinking themselves important. Some of his future peers, perhaps. Like the short, white-haired one drawing most of the attention, sipping an amber drink. A man of power. Filthy rich. Two hundred and fifty dollars a night for a hotel like this would come out of his tip fund.

  “Now this place is first class,” Todd said beside him.

  “That’s Niponbank for you,” Borst agreed. “Nothing but the best. I think they took the whole hotel. What do you think that cost?”

  “Geez. Enough. You think we’ll have open access to those little refrigerators in the rooms?”

  Mary turned to Todd with a raised brow. “Of course we will. What, you think they lock them up for the programming staff ? Keep their minds clear?”

  “No. I know they’ll be open. I mean free. You think we’ll have to pay for what we take?”

  Borst chuckled. “Don’t be a moron, Todd. They cover the entire trip, and you’re worried about free booze in little bottles. I’m sure there’ll be plenty to drink at the reception. Besides, you need to keep your head clear, boy. We’re not here for a party. Isn’t that right, Kent?”

  Kent wanted to step away from the group, disassociate himself from their small talk. They sounded more like a boy scout troop than programmers who had just changed history. He glanced around, suddenly embarrassed and hoping they had not been overheard.

  “That’s right,” he offered and drifted a few feet to his left. If he was lucky, the onlookers wouldn’t put him with this group of clowns.

  They’d come to the long, cherrywood check-in counter, and Kent stepped up to a Hispanic dark-haired woman, who smiled cordially. “Welcome to the Hyatt,” she said. “How may I help you?”

  Well, I have just become rather important, you see, and I am wondering if you have a suite . . .

  He terminated the thought. Get a grip, man. He smiled despite himself. “Yes, my name is Kent Anthony. I believe you have a reservation for me. I’m with the Niponbank group.”

  She nodded and punched a few keys. Kent leaned on the counter and looked back toward the men laughing in the lounge chairs. Several were shaking hands now, as if congratulating themselves on a job well done. Excellent year, Mr. Bridges. Stunning profits. By the way, have you caught wind of the young man from Denver?

  The programmer? Isn’t he here somewhere? Brilliant, I’ve heard.

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  Kent blinked and turned back to the counter. It was the check-in clerk. The pretty dark-haired one. “Kent Anthony, correct?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “We have a message for you, sir.” She reached under the counter and pulled a red envelope out. Kent’s pulse spiked. It was starting already then. Someone other than the bonehead troop under Borst’s command had sent him a message. They had not sent it to Borst; they had addressed it to him.

  “It’s marked urgent,” she said and handed it to him.

  Kent took the envelope, flipped it open, and withdrew a slip of paper. He scanned the typed note.

  At first the words did not create meaning in his mind. They just sat there in a long string. Then they made some sense, but he thought they had made a mistake. That they had given him the wrong message. That this was not his Gloria to which the note referred. Couldn’t be.

  His eyes were halfway through the note for the second time when the heat came, like a scalding liquid searing through his veins from the top of his head right down his spine. His jaw fell slack, and his hand began to quiver.

  “Are you all right, sir?” a voice asked. Maybe the clerk’s.

  Kent read the note again.

  KENT ANTHONY:

  YOUR WIFE GLORIA ANTHONY IS IN DENVER MEMORIAL HOSPITAL STOP

  COMPLICATIONS OF UNDIAGNOSED NATURE STOP

  CONDITION DETERIORATING QUICKLY STOP

  PLEASE RETURN IMMEDIATELY STOP

  END MESSAGE

  Now that quiver had become a quake, and Kent felt panic edge up his throat. He whirled around to face Borst, who had missed the moment entirely. “Markus.” His voice wavered.

  The man turned, smiling at something Betty had just said. His lips flattened the moment he laid eyes on Kent. “What is it?”

  Yes indeed! What was it? Leave these in power about him to their excesses before he’d had a chance to help them understand who he was? Leave the party in Borst’s hands? Good grief ! It was a preposterous notion!

  Surely Gloria would be fine. Just fine.

  Please retur
n immediately, the message read. And this was Gloria.

  “I have to go. I have to return to Denver.” Even as he said it, he wanted to pull the words back. How could he leave now? This was the pinnacle. The men laughing over there by the fountain were about to change his life forever. He had just flown two thousand miles to meet them. He had just worked five years to meet them!

  “I’m sorry. You’ll have to take the meeting for me.” He shoved the note at his boss and stumbled past him, suddenly furious at this stroke of fate.

  “Great timing, Gloria,” he muttered through clenched teeth, and immediately regretted the sentiment.

  His bags were still on the cart, he realized, but then he didn’t care where his bags were. Besides, he would be right back. By tomorrow morning, perhaps. No, tomorrow evening was the Paris trip. Maybe on the way to Paris then.

  Okay, Buckwheat. Settle down. Nothing has happened here. Just a little glitch. A bug. She’s only in the hospital.

  Kent boarded a Yellow Cab and left the bustle at Miami’s Hyatt Regency behind. Gloria would be okay. Had to be. She was in good hands. And what was one conference? A dread fell into Kent’s gut, and he swallowed.

  This had not been in the plans. Not at all.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE WAITING room in Denver Memorial’s ICU wing was decorated in a rust color, but in Helen’s mind it was red and she wondered why they would choose the color of blood.

  Helen gripped pastor Bill Madison’s arm at the elbow and steered the much larger man toward the window. If anybody could understand, it would be the young, dark-haired Greek who had attracted her to the Community Church in the first place ten years earlier. He had been fresh out of seminary then—not a day over twenty-five and bubbling with love for God. Somewhere in there the church bureaucracy had tempered his passion. But Pastor Madison had never been confused about his beliefs.

  He had arrived in the night sometime, but she could not remember precisely when because things were fuzzy now. They were all exhausted, that much was clear, and her knees throbbed with a dull pain. She had to sit. Behind them, Spencer sat like a lump on one of the blood-rust waiting chairs.

  Helen knew her strained voice betrayed her anxiety, but given the circumstances, she hardly cared. “No. I’m not telling you I think I’ve seen this. I’m telling you I did see this.” She squeezed hard, as if that might help him understand. “You hear me?”

  Bill’s dark eyes widened, but she didn’t know if it came from her announcement or her squeezing. “What do you mean, you saw this?” he asked.

  “I mean I saw this!” She stretched a shaking arm toward the swinging doors. “I saw my daughter in there, on that bed, that’s what I saw.” The anger came back as she recalled her vision, and she shook with it.

  He eyed her with a raised brow, skeptical to the bone, she saw. “Come on, Helen. We all have impressions now and then. This is not a time to stretch perceptions.”

  “You are questioning my judgment then? You think I did not see what I say I saw?”

  “I’m just saying that we shouldn’t rush to conclusions at times like these. This is a time for caution, wouldn’t you say? I know things are difficult, but—”

  “Caution? What does caution have to do with the fact that my daughter is in there spread on the table? I saw it, I’m telling you! I don’t know why I saw it or what God could possibly mean by showing it to me, but I saw it, Pastor. Every last detail.”

  He glanced about the room and steered her toward the window. “Okay, keep your voice down, Helen.” A thin trail of sweat leaked past his temple. “When did you see this?”

  “Two days ago.”

  “You saw all of this two days ago?”

  “Isn’t that what I just said?” she demanded.

  “Yes.” He turned from her and sat on the windowsill. His hands were shaking. Helen stood by the window.

  “Look, Helen. I know you see things differently than most—”

  “Don’t even start, Pastor. I don’t want to hear it. Not now. It would be insensitive.”

  “Well, I’m trying to be sensitive, Helen. And I’m thinking of the boy over there. No need to bury his mother just yet.”

  Helen looked toward Spencer, who sat, chin on palms, legs swinging under the chair. Dark circles looped under his bloodshot eyes. Through the night he’d slept a fitful hour, at most.

  “I’m not burying my daughter, Bill. I am confiding in you. I saw this, and it terrifies me that it is precisely what I saw.”

  He did not respond to that.

  She stared out the window and folded her hands. “The fact is I like it even less than you. It’s gnawed at me like a cancer since that first moment. I can’t seem to wrap my mind around this one, Bill.” A lump rose to her throat. “I can’t understand why God is doing this thing. And you would think I should know, of all people.”

  His hand reached out and rested on her shoulder. The gesture brought a sliver of comfort. “And how can you be certain it is God?”

  “It doesn’t matter. It is God by default. What he allows, he does.”

  “Maybe, but only if he is truly God. Omnipotent. All powerful. And if so, it is for him to decide why he would do such a thing.”

  “Yes, I know that, Bill! But it’s my daughter in there hooked up to a machine!” She lowered her head, confused and angry at the emotions boiling up within her.

  “I’m very sorry, Helen.” Bill’s voice sounded strained.

  They remained silent for a few long moments, face to face with the impossibilities of the matter. Helen wasn’t sure what she expected from him. Certainly not a pithy statement of inspiration. Now, now there, Helen. Everything will be just fine. You’ll see. Just trust in the Lord. Heavens! She really ought to know. She’d been here before, facing the threat of death like this.

  “So then, you saw more?” Bill was speaking. “Did you see her die?”

  She shook her head. “No, I did not see her die.”

  She heard him swallow. “We should pray then,” he said.

  Helen tried to still her emotions. “I did not see her death, but I did see more, Bill.”

  He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice came haltingly. “What . . . what did you see?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t say, really. I . . . I don’t know.”

  “If you saw it, how could you not know?”

  She closed her eyes, suddenly wishing she had said nothing to the man. She could hardly expect him to understand. “It was . . . hazy. Even when we see we don’t always see crystal clear. Humanity has managed to dim our spiritual eyesight. But you already know that, don’t you, Bill?”

  He did not respond immediately, possibly offended at her condescension. “Yes,” he finally offered in a weak voice.

  “I’m sorry, Pastor. This is rather difficult for me. She is my daughter.”

  “Then let’s pray, Helen. We will pray to our Father.”

  She nodded, and he began to pray. But her head was clogged with sorrow, and she barely heard his words.

  KENT BROWSED through the trinkets in the airport gift shop, passing time, relaxing for the first time since he’d read that message eight hours earlier. He’d caught a connection to Chicago and now meandered through the concourse, waiting for the 3 A.M. redeye flight that would take him to Denver.

  He bent over and wound up a toy monkey wielding small gold cymbals. The primate strutted noisily across the makeshift platform, banging its instrument and grinning obnoxiously. Clang-ka-ching, clang-ka-ching. Kent smiled despite the foolishness of it all. Spencer would get a kick out of the creature. For all of ten minutes possibly. Then it would end up on his closet floor, hidden under a thousand other ten-minute toys. Ten minutes for twenty dollars. It was skyway robbery.

  On the other hand, it was Spencer’s face grinning there for ten minutes, and the image of those lips curved in delight brought a small smile to his own.

  And it was not like they didn’t have the money. These were the k
inds of things that were purchased by either totally irresponsible people, or people who did not bother with price. People like Tom Cruise or Kevin Costner. Or Bill Gates. He would have to get used to the idea. You wanna live a part, you’d better start playing that part. Build it, and they will come.

  Kent tucked the monkey under his arm and sauntered over to the grown-up female trinkets neatly arranged against the wall beside racks of I love Chicago sweaters. Where Gloria had picked up her fascination with expensive crystal, he did not know. And now it would no longer matter, either. They were going to be rich.

  He picked up a beveled cross, intricately carved with roses and bearing the words “In his death we have life.” It would be perfect. He imagined her lying in some hospital bed, propped up, her green eyes beaming at the sight of the gift in his hand. I love you, Honey.

  Kent made his way to the checkout counter and purchased the gifts.

  He might as well make the best of the situation. He would call Borst the minute he got home—make sure Bonehead and his troop were not blowing things down there in Miami. Meanwhile he would stay by Gloria’s side in her illness. It was his place.

  And soon they would be on the plane to Paris anyway. Surely she would be able to travel. A sudden spike of panic ran up his spine. And what if the illness was more serious than just some severe case of food poisoning? They would have to cancel Paris.

  But that had not happened, had it? He’d read once that 99 percent of people’s fears never materialize. A man who internalized that truth could add ten years to his life.

  Kent eased himself into a chair and glanced at the flight board. His plane left in two hours. Might as well catch some sleep. He sank deep and closed his eyes.

  SPENCER SAT next to Helen, across from the pastor, trying to be brave. But his chest and throat and eyes were not cooperating. They kept aching and knotting and leaking. His mom had gone upstairs after seeing Dad off, saying something about lying down. Two hours and an exhaustive run through his computer games later, Spencer had called through the house only to hear her weak moan from the master bedroom. His mom was still in bed at ten o’clock. He’d knocked and entered without waiting for an answer. She lay on her side, curled into a ball like a roly-poly, groaning. Her face reminded him of a mummy on the Discovery Channel—all stretched and white.