The Heaven Trilogy

by Ted Dekker

  Helen smiled sweetly. Kent looked at her with mild interest now. She continued.

  “The boy was murdered by some of his own peers. It about killed the father. Reminds me of you. Anyway, they caught the one who killed his son. Caught him red-handed with the weapon in his hand. He was homeless and uncaring—headed for a life behind bars. But the father did not press charges. Said one life had been taken already. His son’s. Instead, he offered love for the one who’d killed his son.”

  She looked at Kent’s eyes for a sign of recognition. They stared into her own, blank. “The unexpected affection nearly broke the young killer’s heart. He went to the father and begged his forgiveness. And do you know what the father did?”

  Kent did not respond.

  “The father loved the killer as his own son. Adopted him.” She paused. “Can you believe that?”

  Kent’s lip lifted in a snarl. “I’d kill the kid.” He took a swig from that drink of his.

  “Actually, the father had already lost one son. To crucifixion. He wasn’t about to let another be crucified.”

  He sat there like a lump on a log, his eyes half closed and his lower lip sagging. If he understood the meaning behind her words, he did not show it.

  “God the Father, God the Son. You know how that feels, don’t you? And yet you have murdered him in your own heart. Murdered the son. In fact, the last time I was in here, there was a picture of you above the fireplace.” She motioned to the whitewashed wall where the picture had hung. “You were the one holding the hammer and nails. Looks like you got tired of looking at yourself.”

  She grinned.

  “Anyway. Now he wants to adopt you. He loves you. More than you could ever know. And he knows how this all feels. He’s been here. Does that make sense to you?”

  Kent still did not respond. He blinked and closed his mouth, but she wasn’t about to start interpreting his gestures. She simply wanted to plant this seed and leave.

  For a moment she thought that he might actually be feeling sorrow. But then she saw his jaw muscles knot up, and she knew better.

  “Think about it, Kent. Open your heart.” Helen turned from him and walked toward the door, wondering if that was it.

  It was.

  “Good-bye, Kent,” she said, and walked out the door.

  She suddenly felt exhilarated. She realized that her heart was pounding simply from the excitement of this message she had delivered.

  Her Pinto sat on the driveway, dumb and yellow. She withdrew her keys and approached the car door. But she didn’t want to drive.

  She wanted to walk. Really walk. An absurd notion—she had been on her feet enough already, and her knees were sore.

  The notion stopped her three feet from the car, jingling the keys in her hands. She could not walk, of course. Helen glanced back to the front door. It remained closed. The sky above hung blue in its arches. A beautiful day for a walk.

  She wanted to walk.

  Helen turned to her left and walked to the street. She would walk. Just to the end of the block. Granted, her knees were not what they once were, but they would hold her that far if she walked slowly. She hummed to herself and eased down the sidewalk.

  KENT SAW the door swing shut, and its slam rang like a gong in his mind. He did not move except to swivel his head from the entry. But his eyes stayed wide open, and his fingers were trembling.

  Desperation swept in like a thick wave, and on its face rose a wall of sorrow that took his breath away. His throat tightened to an impossible ache, and he grunted to release the tension in the muscles. The wave engulfed him, refusing to sweep by alone, carrying him in its folds.

  Then Kent’s shoulders began to shake, and the sobs came hard. The ache worked on his chest like a vise, and he was suddenly unsure if it was sorrow or desire now squeezing the breath out of him.

  Spencer was right.

  Oh, God! Spencer was right!

  The admission erupted from his mind, and Kent felt his mouth yawning in a breathless cry. The words came out audibly, in a strained croak.

  “Oh, God!” He clenched his eyes. Had to—they were burning. “Oh, God!”

  The words brought a wash of comfort, like a soothing anesthetic to his heart. He said it again. “Oh, God.”

  Kent sat in the wave for a long time, strangely relishing each moment of its respite, aching for more and more. Losing himself there, in the deepest sorrow, and in the balm of comfort.

  He recalled a scene that played on the walls of his mind like an old, eight-millimeter film. It was Gloria and Spencer, dancing in the living room, late one evening. They held hands and twirled in circles and sang about streets that were golden. His camera eye zoomed to their faces. They gazed at each other in rapture. He had discarded the moment with a chuckle then, but now it came like the sugar of life. And he knew that somewhere in that exchange lay the purpose of living.

  The memory brought a new flood of tears.

  When Kent finally stood and looked about the living room, it was dusk. Spent, he trudged into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator without bothering to turn on the lights. He pulled out a day-old pizza, slid onto a barstool, and nibbled on the soggy crust for a few minutes.

  A mirror glared at him from the shadowed wall. It showed a man with sagging cheeks and red eyes, his hair disheveled, wearing the face of death. He stopped his chewing and stared, wondering if that could be him. But he knew immediately that it was. There was the new Kent—a broken, discarded fool.

  He turned his back to the mirror and ate part of the cold pizza before tossing it and retiring before the television. Kent fell asleep two hours later to the monotones of some Spanish soccer commentator.

  The alarm clock’s green analog numbers read 11 A.M. when his eyes flickered open the following morning. By noon he had managed a shower and clean clothes. He had also managed a conclusion.

  It was time to move on.

  Only six days had passed since Spencer’s death. Four weeks to the day since Gloria’s passing. Their deaths had left him with no one. But that was just it— there was no one left to mourn with. Except Helen. And Helen was from another planet. That left only him, and he could not live with himself. Not just himself.

  He would have to find death quickly, or go off and find some life.

  Killing himself had a certain appeal—a kind of final justice to the madness. He had mulled over the idea for long hours in recent days. If he did kill himself, it would be with an overdose of some intoxicating drug; he’d already concluded that after discarding a hundred other options. Might as well go out flying high.

  On the other hand, something else was brewing in his head, something set off by Helen’s words. This God business. The memory lingered like a fog in his mind, present but muddled. The emotions had nearly destroyed him. A sort of high he could not remember having felt.

  He remembered thinking, just before falling asleep the night before, that it might have been his love for Spencer that triggered the emotions. Yes, that would be it. Because he was desperate for his son. Would give anything—everything— to give him life. How incredible that one little life could mean so much. Six billion people crawling over the globe, and in the end, the death of one ten-year-old boy caused him to ache so badly.

  Kent left the house, squinting in the bright sunlight.

  It was time to move on.

  Yes, that was the conclusion.

  But it was really no conclusion at all, was it? Move on to what?Working at the bank carried as much appeal as a barefooted trek across the Sahara. He hadn’t had contact with any of his coworkers for a week now. How could he possibly face Borst? Or worse, fat-boy Bentley? They no doubt carried on, soaking in acclamations of a superb job, reaping his rewards while he sat dead in the water, surrounded by two floating bodies. If he had even a single violent bone in his body he’d take that nine-millimeter pistol his uncle had given him for his thirtieth birthday and walk on down to that bank. Play postal worker for a day. Deliver some good will.


  He could sue, of course—fire a few legal projectiles their way. But the thought of suing with Dennis Warren’s assistance now brought a sickness to his gut. For one thing, Dennis had gone off to lala land that last day. His attorney’s words still rumbled through his mind: I don’t think you are ready. I don’t think you are ready at all, my fine friend. Perhaps this afternoon you will be ready.

  This afternoon? Then Spencer had died.

  No, Dennis was out of the question, Kent concluded. If he did sue the bank, it would be with another attorney.

  That left finding another job, a thought that sickened him even more than the notion of suing. But at least he would be able to continue paying the bills. A lawsuit might very well suck him dry.

  Either way, he should probably talk to Helen again. Go back for some of the comfort she seemed to have a handle on. God. Maybe Spencer was right after all. Kent felt a knot rise to his throat, and he cursed under his breath. He wasn’t sure he could stomach too many more of these emotional surges.

  The day passed in a haze, divided between the park and the house, but at least Kent was thinking again. It was a start. Yes, it was time to move on.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE VISION came to Kent that night in the early morning hours, like a shaft of black through the shadows of his mind.

  Or maybe it wasn’t a vision. Maybe he was actually there.

  He stood in the alley behind the bank. Steam rose from the grate; the dumpster lay tipped on its side, reeking foul, and Kent was watching that vagrant slurping at his bagged bottle. Only now he wasn’t tipping the bag back. He was sticking a long, pink tongue down the bottle’s neck and using it like a straw. It was the kind of thing you might expect in a dream. So yes, it must have been a vision. A dream.

  The vagrant no longer wore faded clothes but a black tuxedo with shiny shoes and a pressed shirt. Downright respectable. Except for the straggly hairs growing off his chin and neck. It appeared as though the man was attempting to cover up a dozen red warts, but the long strands of hair only emphasized them, and that certainly was not respectable. That and the tongue trick.

  The vagrant-turned-respectable-citizen was rambling on about how lucky Kent was with his fancy car and big-time job. Kent interrupted the prattling with the most obvious of points.

  “I’m no better off than you, old man.”

  “Old man?” The vagrant licked his lips wet with that long pink tongue. “You think I’m old? How old do I look to you, fella?”

  “It’s just an expression.”

  “Well, you are right. I am old. Quite old, actually. And I have learned a few things in my time.” He grinned and snaked his tongue into the bottle again without removing his eyes from Kent.

  Kent furrowed his brow. “How do you do that?” he asked.

  The tongue pulled out quickly. “Do what?”

  “Make your tongue do that?”

  The vagrant chuckled and fingered one of the warts under his chin. “It’s one of the things I’ve learned over the years, boy. Anybody can do it. You just have to stretch your tongue for a long time. See?” He did it again, and Kent shuddered.

  The man pulled his tongue back into his mouth and spoke again. “You ever see those tribal people who stretch their necks a foot high? It’s like that. You just stretch things.”

  A chill seemed to have descended into the alley. The white steam from the grate ran along the ground, and Kent was thinking he should get on in to work. Finish up some programming.

  But that was just it. He didn’t want to walk through that door. In fact, now that he thought about it, something very bad had happened in there. He just couldn’t quite remember what.

  “So what’s keeping you, boy?” The man peered at the door. “Go on in. Take your millions.”

  “Huh? That’s what you think?” Kent replied. “You think people like me make millions slaving away for some huge bank? Not even close, old man.”

  The grin left the vagrant’s face, and his lips twitched. “You think I am stupid? You call me old man, and yet you talk as though I know nothing? You are a blathering idiot!”

  Kent stepped back, surprised by the sudden show of anger. “Relax, man. I don’t remember calling you a fool.”

  “Might as well have, you imbecile!”

  “Look, I really didn’t mean to offend you. I’m no better off than you, anyway. There’s no need to be offended here.”

  “And if you think you’re no better off than me, then you’re really a fool. Furthermore, the fact that you’re not yet even thinking of doing what I would do in your place proves you are a moronic idiot!”

  Kent furrowed his brows, taken aback by the vagrant’s audacity.

  “Look. I don’t know what you think you would do, but people like me just don’t make that kind of money.”

  “People like you? Or you? How much have you made?”

  “Well that’s really none of your . . .”

  “Just tell me, you fool,” the man said. “How much money have you rightfully made in that cement box over there?”

  “How much . . . rightfully?”

  “Of course. How much?”

  Kent paused, thinking about that word. Rightfully. Rightfully he had made the bonuses due from AFPS. Millions. But that hardly counted as income. And it was certainly no business of this weirdo, anyway.

  A sly grin lifted the vagrant’s lips. He tilted his head slightly and narrowed his eyes. “Come on, Kent. It’s really not that difficult, is it?”

  Kent blinked at the man. “How do you know my name?”

  “Oh, I know things. I’ve been around, like I said. I’m not the fool you might think. I say you’ve made millions, boy. And I say you take your millions.”

  “Millions? It’s not like I can just waltz into the vault and take a few million.”

  “No. But you have a key, now, don’t you?”

  “A key? Don’t be stupid, man. A key to this door has nothing to do with the vault. Besides, you obviously know nothing about security. You don’t just walk into a bank and steal a penny, much less a million.”

  “Stop calling me stupid, you spineless idiot! Stop it, stop it, stop it!”

  Kent’s heart slammed in his chest.

  The vagrant barely moved now. He glared at Kent, and his voice growled low. “Not that key, you fool. The key in your head. The backdoor to that software. You have the only backdoor code. They don’t even know it exists.”

  The alley grew still. Deadly still. It occurred to Kent that he had stopped breathing.

  “I won’t tell. I promise,” the man said through his grin. He opened his mouth wide and began to cackle. The sound of his laughter bounced off the tall brick walls.

  Kent jumped back, stunned.

  That mouth widened, showing a black hole at the back of the vagrant’s throat. His tongue snaked like a long road leading into the darkness. It grew like a vortex and swallowed the alley in echoing chuckles.

  Kent bolted upright.

  Silence crashed in on him. Darkness met his wide eyes. Wet sheets stuck to his stomach. His chest thumped like an Indian war drum.

  He sat in bed, wide awake, paralyzed by the thought that had awakened him so rudely. The images of the vagrant quickly dwindled to oblivion, overshadowed by the singular concept he’d dropped in Kent’s mind. Not a soul had known of the backdoor he’d programmed into AFPS that last week. He’d meant to tell Borst in Miami, complete documentation on it as soon as they returned. That was before.

  ROOSTER.

  That was the code he’d temporarily assigned to the security entry. With it, any authorized banking official could enter the system through an untraceable handle, tackle any security issue, and leave without affecting normal operations. Of course, not just any banking official would be authorized. Only one or two, perhaps. The president and vice president, who would have to guard the code in the strictest confidence. Under lock and key.

  Kent swung his legs from the bed and stared into darkn
ess. Outlines of the room’s furniture began to take vague shape. The realization of ROOSTER’s significance ballooned in his mind like a mushroom cloud. If the bank had not discovered the backdoor, then it would still be open to anyone with the code.

  And he had the code. The vagrant’s key.

  ROOSTER.

  What could an operator accomplish with ROOSTER? Anything. Anything at all with the right skills. Software engineering skills. The kind of skills that he himself possessed with perhaps greater mastery than anyone he knew. Certainly within the context of AFPS. He’d written the code, for heaven’s sake!

  Kent pushed himself from the bed, quaking. He glanced at the clock: 2 A.M. The bank would be deserted, of course. He had to know if they’d found ROOS-TER during the program’s initial implementation. Knowing Borst, they had not.

  He went for the closet and stopped at the door. What was he thinking? He couldn’t go down there now. The alarm company would have a record of his entry at two in the morning. How would that look? No. Out of the question.

  Kent turned for the bathroom. He had to think this through. Slow down, boy. Halfway to the bathroom he spun back to the bedroom. He didn’t need to use the bathroom. Get a grip, man.

  On the bed again he began to think clearly for the first time. The fact of the matter was that if they had overlooked ROOSTER, he could enter AFPS and create a link with any bank on the federal reserve system. Of course, what he could do once he was there was another matter altogether.

  He couldn’t very well take anything. For starters, it was a federal crime. People grew old in prison for white-collar crime. And he was no criminal. Not to mention the simple fact that banks did not just let money walk without tracing it. Each dollar was accounted for. Accounts were balanced, transactions verified.

  Kent crossed his legs on the bed and hugged a pillow. On the other hand, in implementing AFPS prematurely, without his help, Borst not only had inadvertently opened his flank but he had left the barn door open on a billion accounts throughout the world. Kent felt a chill run through his veins. Niponbank’s accounts alone numbered nearly one hundred million worldwide. Personal accounts, business accounts, federal accounts—and they were all there, accessible through ROOSTER.