The Heaven Trilogy

by Ted Dekker

  She looked up and saw that his eyes were closed. A lump rose in her throat. “It’s all I have, Bill. It’s all anybody really has. It’s all Noah had, building his impossible little boat while they mocked him. It’s all Moses had, holding his rod over the Red Sea. It’s all Hosea had and Samson and Paul and Stephen and every other character of every other Bible story. Why should it be so different for us today?”

  She saw his Adam’s apple bob. He nodded. “Yes, I think you’re right. And I fear my faith is not so strong.”

  He was beginning to see, she thought. Which meant his faith was stronger than he realized. It could use a nudge. She’d read somewhere that eagles would never fly if their mothers did not push them from their nests when they were ready. Even then they would free-fall in a panic before spreading their wings and finding flight.

  Yes, maybe it was time the pastor got a little shove.

  “Would you like to see more than you’ve seen, Bill?”

  “See what?”

  “See the other side. See what lies behind what you see now.”

  He stiffened a little. “What do you mean, see? It’s not like I can just flip on a light and see—”

  “It is a simple question, Bill, really. Do you want to see?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you would be willing to let go a little?”

  “I think so. Although I’m not sure how you let go of something you can’t see.”

  “You forget about how important you are, put aside your narrow field of vision; you open your heart to one thing only. To God, in whichever way he chooses to reveal himself, regardless of how it might seem to you. You let go.”

  He smiled nervously. “Sounds a bit risky, actually. You can’t just throw out all doctrine for some experience.”

  “And what if that experience is God, the creator? What is more important to you, an encounter with God or your doctrine?”

  “Well, if you put it that way—”

  “As opposed to which way?”

  “You’ve made your point. And yes, I think I could let go a little.”

  She smiled slowly. “Then let’s pray.”

  Helen watched him close his eyes and bow his head. She wondered how long the posture would hold. “Father in heaven,” she prayed aloud and closed her own eyes, “if it would please you, open this child’s eyes to see what you have called him to. May he have the power to see how wide and how deep and how high your love is for him.”

  She fell silent and closed her eyes to darkness. Please Father, let him feel your presence. At least that, just a taste of you, God in heaven.

  An image of Kent filled her mind. He walked down a long, deserted street, aimless and lost. His hair was disheveled, and his eyes peered blue above dark circles. For a moment she thought it might be his spirit, like some kind of ghost wandering the streets of her mind. But then she saw that it was him, really him, bewildered by the vacancy of the street on which he walked. And he was lonely.

  She forgot about the pastor for the moment. Maybe she should walk. Maybe she should just leave Bill and go for another walk—pray for Kent. Yes, at least that. Her heart swelled in her chest. Oh God, save Kent’s soul! Do not hide your face from this man you made. Open his heart to your spirit. Speak words of love to his ears, drop your fragrance in his mind, dance before his eyes, show him your splendor, wrap your arms around him, touch his cold skin with a warm touch, breathe life into his nostrils. You fashioned him, did you not? So now love him.

  But I have.

  Helen dropped her head at the words and began to weep. Oh God, I’m sorry. You have! You have loved him so much. Forgive me!

  She sat bunched in her chair for several long minutes, feeling waves of fire wash through her chest. It was a mixture of agony and desire—a common sentiment these days. The heart of God for Kent. Or at least a small piece of it. The piece he chose to reveal to her.

  She suddenly remembered Bill and snapped her head up.

  He sat on the green chair, head bent back like a duckling begging food. His Adam’s apple stuck out prominently on his neck, his jaw lay open, his mouth gaped wide, his nostrils flared. And his body shook like a ragged old cloth doll. Something somewhere had been opened. His eyes, maybe.

  Helen relaxed and leaned back into her cushions. A smile split her face wide. Now he would understand. Maybe not any details of Kent’s plight, but the rest would come easier now. Faith would come easier.

  Tears fell in streams down the pastor’s cheeks, and she saw that his shirt was already wet. Looking at the grown man reduced to a heap of emotions made her want to scream full throated. It was that kind of joy. She wondered how it was that she had never had a heart attack. How could a mortal, like Bill there, all inside out, endure such ravaging emotion, busting up the heart, and not risk a coronary? She smiled at the thought.

  On the contrary, his heart might very well be finding some youth. Her legs had, after all.

  Helen began to rock gently. “Do you want to see, Bill?” she whispered.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  LACY CARTWRIGHT nibbled at her fingernail, knowing it was an unseemly habit and not caring. The truth be known, she had not cared for much during the last week. She glanced at the clock: 8:48. In twelve minutes the doors of Rocky Mountain Bank and Trust would open for customers.

  Jeff Duncan caught her eye from across the lobby, and she smiled politely. Now, there was a man who was maybe more her type after all. Not so impulsive as Kent, but alive and well and here. Always here, not running in and out of her life every twelve years. Not pulling some impossible disappearing trick and expecting her to just get on with life. But that was just the problem—Lacy honestly didn’t know if Kent had really disappeared or not. And what she did know was giving her waking fits.

  Kent had come to her two nights before the big fire in Denver; that much she had not imagined. He had sat across from her and told her that he was going to do pretty much what happened. Or at least what could have happened. But reading the papers, what happened was not what could have happened at all. In fact, what happened, according to the papers, was precisely what Kent had said would happen. A robbery attempt, a death, and most important, his disappearance. He had neglected to mention that it would be his death, of course, but then she doubted he’d planned that much.

  Then again, what actually happened was anybody’s guess, and she found herself guessing that something else entirely had happened. Maybe Kent had not been surprised by some wandering robber that night, because maybe Kent himself was the robber; he’d suggested as much himself. So then what seemed to have happened must not have happened at all. Which was downright confusing when she thought too much about the matter.

  Either way, he had left her again. Maybe this time for good. Well, good riddance.

  There was one way to determine if that charred body in the Denver bank fire belonged to Kent Anthony or to some other poor soul everyone thought was Kent Anthony. If Kent had actually pulled off this incredible theft of which he’d spoken, he had done it brilliantly, because as of yet, no one even suspected there had been a theft. On the other hand, no one knew to look, much less where to look. All eyes were on the fire damage and the search for a loose murderer, but no one had mentioned the possibility that a robbery had actually occurred. And no wonder— nothing had been taken. At least not that they knew.

  But she, Lacy Cartwright, might know differently. And if she did discover that Kent was alive and well and extremely wealthy—would she be compelled to tell the authorities? It was the question that had kept her tossing at night. Yes, she thought so. She would have to turn him in.

  If he was indeed alive and if he had left even the slightest of trails, she would find it on the computer screen before her, in some log of ATM transaction fees. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on the hour, eight days of looking had shown her nothing. And slowly, her anger at him rose to a boil.

  “Morning, Lacy.”

  Lacy started and jerked her head up. Jeff
smiled broadly at her reaction. “Strung a bit tight this morning, are we?”

  She ignored him.

  He chuckled. “I guess. Well, welcome back to the land of the living.”

  The comment momentarily thrust Lacy back into the land of the dead. “Yeah,” she responded politely, shifting her eyes from him. Maybe that was the problem here, she thought. Maybe this land of the living here in the bank with all the customers and meaningless talk and overstuffed maroon sitting chairs was more like death, and the land that Kent had trotted off to was more like life. In a way she was a bit jealous, if indeed he was not actually in hell but roaming the earth somewhere.

  Jeff leaned on the counter. “You coming to Martha’s party this weekend? It might be a good thing, considering the fact that all the top brass will be in attendance.”

  She pulled herself back to this reality. “And this should bring me to my knees? When is it?” Actually she had no plans to attend the affair and knew precisely when it was, but Jeff was the kind of guy who liked giving out information. It made him feel important, she guessed.

  “Friday at seven. And yes, you might consider paying a little homage.”

  “To them or to you?”

  He smiled coyly. “But of course, I’ll be there as well. And I’d be disappointed if you were not.”

  She smiled kindly. “Well, we’ll see.” Maybe it would be a good idea, after all. Get her mind off this Kent madness. “I’m not crazy about parties doused in alcohol.” She studied his face for reaction.

  “And neither am I,” he said without missing a beat. “But, like I said, the brass will be there. Think of it as a career move. Reaching out to those who determine your future. Something like that. And of course, an opportunity to see me.” He winked.

  Lacy stared at him, surprised by his boldness.

  Jeff shifted awkwardly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so—”

  “No. It’s okay. I’m flattered.” She recovered quickly and smiled.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Well, I’ll take that as a sign of promise.”

  She nodded, unable to answer for the moment.

  Evidently satisfied that he’d accomplished his intentions in the little exchange, Jeff stepped back. “I have to get back to work. Mary Blackley is waiting anxiously for my call, and you know Mary. If it’s one penny off, she’s ready to declare war.” He chuckled. “I swear, the old lady does nothing but wait by her mailbox for her statement. I can’t remember a month when she hasn’t called, and I can’t remember a single complaint that has borne true.”

  Lacy pictured the elderly, hook-nosed lady wobbling through the doors, leaning on her cane. She smiled. “Yeah, I know what you mean. What is it this time? A missing comma?”

  “Some ATM fee. Evidently, we’re robbing her blind.” Jeff laughed and retreated across the floor.

  The heat started at the base of Lacy’s spine and flashed up through her skull as if she’d inadvertently hit a nerve. Some ATM fee? She watched Jeff clack along the lobby floor. The clock above his head on the far wall read 8:58. Two minutes.

  Lacy dived for her keyboard, hoping absently that no one noticed her eager- ness. She ran a quick search for Mary Blackley’s account number, found it, and keyed it in. She ran a query on all service charges. The screen blinked to black, seemed to hesitate, and then popped up with a string of numbers. Mary Blackley’s account. She scrolled quickly down to the service charges levied. She lifted a trembling finger to the screen and followed the charges . . . six ATM transactions . . . each one with a fee of $1.20. A dollar-twenty. As it should be. Mary Blackley was chasing ghosts again. Unless . . .

  She straightened and ran a search on the first transaction fee. According to the record that popped up, Mary had used her card at a Diamond Shamrock convenience store and withdrawn forty dollars on August 21, 1999, at 8:04 P.M. The servicing bank, Connecticut Mutual, had charged her $1.20 for the privilege of using its system.

  So then, what could have prompted Mary to call?

  Lacy backed out of the account quickly and walked across the lobby to Jeff ’s cubicle. He was bent over the keyboard when she stuck her head in and smiled.

  “Lacy!” He made no attempt to hide his pleasure at seeing her materialize in his doorway.

  “Hi, Jeff. Just walking by. So, you straighten Mary out?”

  “Nothing to straighten out, actually. She was not overcharged at all.”

  “What was her problem?”

  “Don’t know. Printing mistake or something. She was actually right this time. Her statement did have the wrong fee on it—$1.40 instead of $1.20.” He lifted a fax from his desk. “But the statement in the computer shows the correct fee, so whatever happened didn’t really happen at all. Like I said, a printer problem, maybe.”

  Lacy nodded, smiling, and turned away before he could see the blood drain from her face. A customer stepped through the doors, and she made her way back to the tellers’ windows, stunned and lost and breathing too hard.

  She knew what had happened then with a dreadful certainty. Kent had done that! The little weasel had found a way to take Mary’s twenty cents and then put it back as he had said he would. And he had done it without tipping his hand.

  But that was impossible—so maybe that was not what had happened at all.

  Lacy returned to her station and lifted the closed sign from her window. The first customer had to address her twice before she acknowledged.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. What can I do for you today?”

  The older woman smiled. “No problem. I know the feeling. I would like to cash this check.” She slid a check for $6.48 made out to Francine Bowls across the counter. Lacy punched it in on autopilot.

  “God, help me,” she muttered aloud. She glanced at Mrs. Bowls and saw her raised eyebrow.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  Mrs. Bowls smiled.

  Lacy did not.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  One Month Later

  Wednesday

  KENT SAT on the edge of the lounge chair, staring at the Caribbean sunrise, his stomach in knots over what he was about to do.

  He rested his hands on the keyboard and lifted his chin to the early morning breeze. The sweet smell of salt swept past his nostrils; a tall tumbler filled with clear liquor sparkled atop a silver platter beside the laptop. The world was his. Or at the very least this small corner of the world was.

  From his perch on the villa’s deck, Kent could see half of the island. Luxurious villas graced the hills on either side like white play blocks shoved into the rock. Far below, sun-bleached sand sloped into emerald seas that slapped gently at low tide. The ocean extended to a cloudless, deep-blue horizon, crystal clear in the rising sun. The Turks and Caicos Islands rose from the Caribbean Sea like brown rabbits on the blue ocean, a fitting likeness, considering the number of inhabitants there who were on the run. Whether fleeing taxes or the authorities or just plain life, there were few destinations better suited to a man on the lam.

  But none of this mattered at the moment. All that mattered now was that some satellites had graced him with a clear connection. After all these weeks of lying low, he was rising from the dead to wreak just a little havoc in the lives of those two fools who’d taken him for a sucker not so long ago. Yes indeed. This was all that mattered for the moment.

  Kent lowered his eyes to the laptop’s screen and ran his fingers over the keys, taking the time to consider. It was a commodity he had plenty of these days. Time.

  He’d paid $1.2 million cash for the villa four days earlier. How the builders had managed to erect the house in the first place remained a mystery, but nothing short of a monster sledge hammer swung from heaven would knock this small fortress from its moorings. On either side, tall palms bustled with a dozen chirping birds. He turned back to the living area. Large flagstones led to an indoor dipping pool beside the dining area. With the flip of a single switch the entire front wall could be lo
wered or raised, offering either privacy or exposure to the stunning scenery below. The previous owners had constructed a dozen such villas, each extravagant in its own way. He’d never met them, of course, but the broker had assured Kent that they were of the highest caliber. Arabs with oil money. They had moved on to bigger and better toys.

  Which was fine by him—the villa offered more amenities than he imagined possible in a four-thousand-square-foot package. And it now belonged to him. Every stick of wood. Every brick. Every last thread of carpet. Under a different name, of course.

  Kent took a deep breath. “Okay, baby. Let’s see what our two porky friends are doing.” He began what he called phase two of the plan, executing a series of commands that took him first into a secure site and then to Niponbank’s handle. He then entered a request that took him directly into a single computer sitting idle, asleep in the dark corner of its home, as well it should be at 4 A.M. mountain time. Borst and company had moved to a different wing of the bank following the fire, but Kent had found him easily enough. Beginning within the week of the theft, he had made breaking in to both Borst’s and big-boss Bentley’s computers a regular routine.

  There was always the off chance that someone intelligent was at one of the two computers at 4 A.M.—someone with the capability to detect the break-in in real time—but Kent lost no sleep over the possibility. For starters, he’d never known Borst to work past 6 P.M., much less in the wee morning hours. And if he would be in there, poking around his computer at four in the morning, Porky was not so stuffed with intelligence as he was with other things. Such as pure, unadulterated drivel.

  Kent entered Borst’s computer through a backdoor and pulled the manager’s hard drive up on his screen. The directory filled his screen in vivid color. Kent chuckled and sat back, enjoying the moment. He was literally inside the man’s office without the other having a clue, and he rather liked the view.

  He lifted a crystal glass from the table and sipped at the tequila sunrise he’d mixed himself. A small shudder ran through his bones. A full thirty days had passed since his night of terror in the bank, lugging that ridiculous body around. And so far every detail of his plan had fallen into place as planned. The realization still made regular passes through his mind with stunning incredulity. To say that he had pulled it off would be a rather ridiculous understatement.