The Heaven Trilogy

by Ted Dekker

  Anybody with half a brain would have thought, that’s who would have thought! He should have brought his own food. Although he was two hours out of Denver. Who that he knew could possibly be here at midnight? But that was just the point, wasn’t it? What would he be doing here at midnight?

  Kent slunk back into the shadows and climbed into the cab he’d made home for the last sixteen hours. He lifted a 7-Up can he’d purchased four hours earlier at the Utah border and swallowed the flat dregs in one gulp. There would be plenty of time for food and drink later. Now he needed sleep.

  But sleep did not come easily. For one thing, he found himself craving a real drink. Just one quick nip to settle the nerves. Grady’s could probably oblige him with at least a six-pack of beer.

  “Don’t be a fool,” he muttered and lay down on the bench seat.

  It was then, parked outside of Grady’s, two hours from Denver, that the first major flaw in his plan presented itself to him like a siren in the night. He jerked upright and stared, wide eyed, out the windshield.

  Helen! Helen had moved in after he’d laid out the timetable. When the rest of his plan was put into play, they would question her, and that questioning rang through his head now, clear and concise—and as condemning as a judge’s gavel.

  “You’re saying he left you a note stating he’s going fishing on Saturday but he never comes back? Not even on Sunday?”

  “Yes, officer. As far as I can tell.”

  “So he goes fishing—we know that from the neighbor who saw him—and goes straight to the office in his fishing gear thirty-six hours later, without bothering to come home. No pun intended here, but doesn’t that smell a little fishy?”

  He had decided not to return for the simple reason that he had the body to contend with. He couldn’t very well drive up to his house in the meat truck. Neither could he drive around town with a body in the trunk of the Lexus for a whole day. At some point things would be smelling more than just fishy.

  But that was before Helen.

  An alarm went off in his head. Stupid, stupid, stupid! He had to get to Denver. Get home somehow.

  Kent brought the truck to life and roared back to the freeway, once again bouncing on the edge of the seat like some kind of idiot.

  An hour later, rumbling into the outskirts of suburban Denver, he conceded to the only plan that made sense in the morning’s wee hours. A new element of risk threatened now, but nobody ever said stealing twenty million would be light on the risk factor.

  Kent slowly wound his way back to the Front Range Meat Packers compound south of 470 and entered the industrial maze of metal buildings. He killed the lights and crept forward, his eyes peeled for motion, his muscles rigid, his fingers wrapped white on the wheel.

  Two minutes later, Kent eased the Iveco into its original space and pulled the ignition wires free. The engine sputtered to silence. By the watch on his right wrist, it was two o’clock in the morning.

  For five minutes he sat in the silence, allowing the distant highway drone to settle his nerves. He finally climbed from the truck and walked behind. The roll door remained latched. He eased the lever up and pulled the door up. The box lay on the floor, swirling in a cold mist. He closed the door.

  It took him another fifteen minutes to repair the cut wire in the steering column and return the cab to its original condition. Satisfying himself that he no longer needed access to the cab, he locked the doors and shut them quietly. Come Monday morning, if Cruiser had an inkling to pull truck 24 in for service, he would hopefully find her just as he’d left her. Now, if the truck would be kind enough to keep his body hidden and free from rot for another twelve hours without its cooling unit in operation, all would be well.

  Kent had made it halfway back to the storage unit housing the Lexus before realizing he’d left the McDaniel’s Mortuary signs on the truck. He hastily retreated and tore them free, cursing himself for the oversight. If he could have stopped somewhere and flogged the stupidity from his mind he would have done it without consideration. Evidently he was discovering what most criminals discover midcrime: Stupidity is something that comes upon you during the crime, not before. Like the rising sun, you cannot escape it. You can only hope to do your dirty deed before it fries you.

  Kent headed back to the storage units, hauling his briefcase in one hand and the rolled-up signs in the other. Sweat soaked his shirt, and he let stealth slip a little. You can’t very well pretend to be invisible lugging ten-foot rolls of vinyl under your arm. He plopped the load on the asphalt before the storage door, retrieved the rivet poppers from his briefcase, and made quick work of the fasteners he’d installed earlier.

  The Lexus gleamed silver in the moonlight, undisturbed. Kent stuffed the signs in the trunk, tossed the briefcase into the passenger seat, and climbed into the familiar cockpit. He made it all the way to the industrial park’s entrance before flipping on his lights. It was 2:38 Sunday morning when he finally entered highway 470 and headed for home, wondering what other small mistake he had made back there.

  Yet he had made it, hadn’t he? No, not really—not at all. Really he had not even started.

  Kent left his Lexus on the street where it would be seen—right in front of the red No Street Parking sign by his house. The small black letters below promised that violators would be towed, but they’d never actually hauled any car off that he knew of, and he doubted they would begin on a Sunday.

  He entered the house, flipped his shoes off at the front door, made a little noise in the kitchen, moved a few items around, and headed for his bedroom. The trick was to clearly show his presence without actually engaging Helen. He did not want to engage Helen. Not at all.

  And, considering the old lady’s walking obsession, which he assumed was an everyday affair, missing her might not be so difficult. On the other hand, today was Sunday. She might not walk on Sundays. If she did not, she would at least leave for church. He would have to be gone by noon.

  Kent locked the door to the master suite, peeled off his clothes, and fell into bed. He slowly drifted into a fitful sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  HELEN SLIPPED out onto the porch after the doorbell’s first ring.

  “He’s here, Bill.”

  The pastor did not respond immediately.

  “Let’s walk.” She stepped past him and strolled to the street. The silver Lexus sat along the street beside the driveway. She turned left at the sidewalk and walked briskly past it.

  “He came home last night.”

  “He catch any fish?” Bill asked, beside her now.

  “Don’t know. He’s hiding something.”

  “Hiding what? How do you know?”

  “I don’t know what he’s hiding, but I’m going to find out the minute I get home. They’re on pins and needles up there; that’s how I know. Death is in the air. I can feel it.”

  “You mind if we slow down a little, Helen? You’re walking pretty fast here.”

  “We have to walk fast. I’m cutting it short today. Real short. I’ve got to get back there.” She glanced down at her Reeboks and noted they were wearing thin in the toes.

  “You want to pray, Bill?”

  “Sure.”

  “Pray, then. Pray out loud.”

  KENT AWOKE with a start. Something was wrong. His chest felt as though a jackrabbit had taken up residence there and was testing its thumpers. Only this was his heart—not some bunny. Which meant he’d had another dream.

  He could remember nothing—not even why he was in his own bed.

  Then he remembered everything, and he leapt from the bed.

  Yesterday he had stolen a truck, driven to Utah, stolen a dead body, and returned to Front Range Meat Packers, where the body now lay dead; slowly warming in the back of truck 24. He’d come back to the house because of Helen. Dear Mother-in-law Helen.

  It was this last tidbit that had awakened him to the drumming of Thumper’s feet—this bit about Helen. He could not allow Helen to see him. An
d that was a problem because Helen was close. Imminent. Maybe at the bedroom door right now, waiting for the sound of his stirring.

  He grabbed the khaki slacks and shirt he’d thrown off last night and pulled them on. For the second morning in a row he faced the task of leaving the room as though he fully intended to return. He made a quick circuit, rubbing some toothpaste on his teeth with his forefinger and tossing the tube in the drawer; throwing the covers loosely over the bed, half made; moving the Grisham novel forward a few pages. And he did all of it without knowing precisely what he was doing.

  No matter—Helen was coming.

  Kent cracked the door and listened for the sound of movement downstairs with stilled breath. Nothing. Thank God. He slipped into the hall and flew down the steps two at a time. In a matter of sixty seconds flat he managed to pull out the orange juice, slop some peanut butter on a bagel, down half of both, and hopefully leave the general impression that he had enjoyed a leisurely breakfast on a Sunday morning. He snatched up a pen and, taking a deep breath to still his quivering hand, wrote over the note he’d left yesterday.

  Hi, Helen.

  Sorry I missed you. Had a great day fishing. All too small to keep. If not home by six, don’t wait.

  Kent

  Kent laid the note on the counter and ran for the entrance. The microwave clock read 9:30. He opened the front door carefully, begging not to see Helen’s smiling mug. Sunlight stung his eyes, and he squinted. His Lexus sat idle on the street. Helen’s yellow Pinto was parked in the garage and a third car, a green Accord, sat in the driveway behind the Pinto.

  A friend’s car. In the house? No, he had not heard a sound. Helen was out walking with a friend who owned a green Accord. Which meant Helen would be walking down the street with said friend, ready to run off to church. And church started at ten, didn’t it?

  Kent pulled the door shut and walked for his Lexus, head down, as nonchalantly as possible. If they were down the street, he would ignore them. Had to. Why? Because he just had to. He’d awakened with that realization buzzing through his skull, and it hadn’t quieted just yet.

  He brought the Lexus to life without looking up. It was when he started the U-turn that he saw them—like two figures on the home stretch of the Boston Marathon, arms pumping. He knew then what it felt like to jump out of your skin, because he almost did. Right there in the tan leather seats of the Lexus. Only his frozen grip on the steering wheel kept him from hitting his head on the ceiling, which was good because they might have seen the movement. You can’t just throw your arms up in surprise and then pretend not to see someone— it just doesn’t come off as genuine. Kent’s foot jerked a little on the accelerator, causing the car to lurch a tad, but otherwise he managed to keep the turn tight and smooth.

  He had a hard time removing his eyes from Helen. She and the man were about a block off, leaning into their walk, waving at him now. She wore a yellow dress that fluttered in the breeze, clearly exposing those ridiculous knee-socks pulled up high.

  Should he wave back? It was obviously a Stop-the-car wave by its intensity, but he could pretend he’d mistaken it for a Have-a-good-day wave and return it before roaring off into the sunset. No, better to pretend not to have seen at all.

  Kent’s foot pressed firmly on the gas pedal, and he left them just breaking into a run. His neck remained rigid. Goodness, what did they know? They pulled up and dropped their arms. “Sorry, guys, I just didn’t see you. I swear I didn’t see a thing. You sure it was me?”

  But he wouldn’t be asking that question anytime soon, would he? Never. He glanced at the dash clock: 9:35. He had ten hours to burn.

  It took Kent a good ten minutes to calm down, nibbling on blunted fingernails, thinking. Thinking, thinking, thinking. In the mirror his face stared back unshaven and wet. He should have cleaned up a little—at least thrown on some deodorant. Only a slob or a man in a great hurry would neglect basic body care. And he was beginning to smell. Kent sniffed at his armpit. No, beginning was far too kind. He reeked. Which would not present a significant problem unless he ran into someone who took note. And even then what could they do? Call the local police and report the reeking swamp thing tooling about town in the silver Lexus? Not likely. Still, it might leave an impression in some clerk’s head.

  “Did he appear normal to you?”

  “No sir, officer, I daresay not. Not unless you consider walking around with radishes for eyes and smelling of rotted flesh at thirty feet normal.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “That bad.”

  Kent decided he would drive to Boulder for a burger. He had the time to burn, and on further thought, he needed the miles on his car. It had just gone on a fishing trip.

  Two hours later he pulled into a truck stop ten miles south of Boulder, where he managed to splash some water under his pits and purchase a dry sandwich without incident. He spent three hours on the back lot mulling over matters of life and death before pulling out and cruising back toward Denver the long way. And did he use his credit card? No, of course he didn’t use his credit card. That would be brain dead. Stupid, stupid. And he was done being stupid.

  Darkness had enveloped Denver by the time Kent nosed the Lexus back into the industrial park holding Tom Brinkley’s dead body.

  Matters were considerably simpler this time around. He shut off his lights, thankful for a three-quarter moon, and idled through the alleys to the back fence. Truck 24 sat faithfully next to its two cousins, and Kent squeezed his fist in satisfaction. “You’d better be there, baby,” he whispered, staring at the truck’s roll door. “You’d better be right where I left you.” This, of course, was spoken to the dead body, hopefully still lying in the plywood box. And hopefully not yet rotting. Things were smelling bad enough already.

  Kent backed the Lexus to within two feet of the truck, hopped out, and popped the trunk. He pulled on a pair of surgical gloves, unlatched the Iveco’s door, and yanked up. A heavy musty smell filled his nostrils—musty more like wet socks than musty like a dead body, he thought, although he’d never smelled musty like a dead body before. Still, it was not the smell he’d read about.

  The back of the truck opened like a yawning jaw, dark to the throat, with a tongue resting still and brown in the middle. Only the tongue was the box. Kent exhaled in relief.

  He pulled a crowbar from his trunk and jumped into the truck. The coffin had been screwed shut, making the prying-open part of the plan a little noisy, but within three minutes the lid lay at an angle, daring him to topple it off.

  The sensations that struck next had not been well rehearsed. In fact, not planned at all. Kent had his hand under the lid, ready to flip it casually off, when it occurred to him that he was about to stare into the face of the fish. But it wasn’t a fish at all. It was a dead body. He froze. And he wasn’t going to just stare, but he was going to touch and lift and hoist that cold, gray flesh around. A chill cooled his neck.

  A few seconds tripped by in silence. He should get the plastic first.

  Kent jumped from the truck and grabbed a roll of black plastic from the car’s trunk. He climbed back into the truck and stood over the coffin. Now or never, buddy. Just do it.

  He did it. He kicked the lid off and stared into the coffin.

  Tom Brinkley lay gray and slightly swollen with a hole the size of a fist in his gut. His hair was blond, and his eyes were open. For a full five seconds Kent could not move. It was those two eyes staring at him like marbles—glinting with life in the moonlight, but dead. Then the scent wafted past his nostrils. Faint, oh, so very faint but reaching right through to his bones, and his stomach was not responding so happily.

  By the looks of it, Tom Brinkley’s stomach had not responded so happily, either. It appeared as though he’d used a bazooka to end his life, judging by the size of that hole. His message to the funeral home flashed through his mind. Not a problem. Will pick up as is. Now he was staring at “as is,” and it was a problem.

  Kent spun away and
grabbed the metal shelving. Goodness, this was not in the plan. It’s just a body, for heaven’s sake! A dead thing, like a fish, with a big hole in its stomach. Get on with it!

  And what if he couldn’t get on with it? What if he simply did not have the stomach to slump this body around? He stared at the gloves on his hands; they would shield him from any lingering disease. Any danger he imagined was only in his mind. Right?

  The thought forced Kent into a state of bumbling overdrive. He grabbed a lungful of air, whirled back to the body, reached into the coffin, and yanked Mr. Brinkley clean out in one smooth motion.

  Or so he’d intended.

  Problem was, this cadaver had lain dormant for a good forty-eight hours and was not so eager to change its position. They call it rigor-mortis, and the dead man had found it already.

  Kent had not aimed his hands as he dived into the casket; he’d just grabbed, and his fingers had closed around a shoulder and a side of ribs, both cold and moist. The body came halfway vertical before slipping from Kent’s grip. Mr. Brinkley turned lazily and landed on the edge of the coffin. His stiff upper torso slipped clean out and landed on the truck’s floor boards with a loud, skull-crushing thud. Now the body slumped over the casket, belly down and butt up in the moonlight with its hands hanging out of the rear as though paying homage to the moon.

  Kent swallowed the bile creeping up his throat and leapt from the truck, grunting in near panic. If there really was a God, he was making this awfully difficult. None of the books had made mention of the clammy, slippery skin. Had he known, he would have brought towels or something. Of course the books had not featured chapters on the preferred methods of lugging around dead bodies. Usually these things stayed peacefully on their tables or in their caskets.

  Standing on the ground, he glanced up at the body in the back of the truck. It was gray in the dim light, like some kind of stone statue memorializing butts. Well, if he didn’t get that butt into the trunk soon, there’d be a dozen cops shining their flashlights on that monument, asking silly questions. Questions like, “What are you doing with Mr. Brinkley, Kent?”