The Heaven Trilogy

by Ted Dekker

  “But . . . But. . . .” Borst was sputtering.

  “Shut up, Borst! That ain’t the half of it.” Kent delivered his indictment in long staccato bursts now. “It’s how the program was used that tops the cake. Actually very clever, that one. A run of small, untraceable transfers to see if anyone notices and then hit them with the big one. Bam!” Kent smacked his palm with a fist, and they both jumped.

  “One million dollars in a single shot, and no one knows where it’s gone to. Unless you peek inside the accounts hidden conveniently on Borst’s and Bentley’s computers! Why lookie here! A million dollars all neatly tucked away for a rainy day. Not a bad plan.”

  “That’s impossible!” Bentley was steaming red and dripping wet. “We did none of that! You can’t be serious!”

  “No?” The rage Kent had felt first while stomping up the bank’s steps roared to the surface. He was suddenly yelling and jabbing his finger at them, and he knew that he had no reason to yell. They were both sitting five feet from him. “No? Well you’re wrong, Porky! Nothing, and I mean nothing, is impossible for greedy slobs like you! You confiscate another man’s fortune and guess what— someday you can expect yours to be confiscated as well!” He breathed hard. Easy, boy.

  “It’s all there, you idiot.” He pointed at Bentley’s computer. “Every last detail. You can read it like a mystery novel. Say what you want, but the data does not lie, and they already have the data. You two are going down!”

  They gawked at him, thoroughly stunned.

  “Do you understand this?” Kent asked, stabbing his forehead. “Is this information sinking in, or are you madly trying to think of ways to save your miserable necks?”

  They couldn’t respond, by the looks of it. Borst’s eyes were red and misty. He was badly unraveled. Bentley was leaking smoke out of his ears—invisible, of course, but just as apparent.

  Kent lowered his voice. “And let me tell you something else. The evidence is incontrovertible. Trust me; I put it together. If you want to get out of this you’re gonna have to convince the jury that some ghost from the past did it all in your place. Perhaps you could blame it on that programmer you screwed. Maybe Kent Anthony’s ghost has come back to haunt you. But short of an insanity plea along those lines, you’re toast.”

  They still were not talking. Kent felt like saying more, like slapping them both back to life. But he had said what he’d come to say. It was the card he’d dreamed of playing for many long nights, and now he’d played it.

  Kent strode for the door, past Bentley and Borst who sat unmoving. He hesitated at the door, thinking to put an exclamation mark on the statement. Maybe knock their heads together. Thump! And don’t forget it either!

  He resisted the impulse and walked from the bank. It was the last time he would see them. What happened to them now would be up to someone else, but in any scenario, things would not go easy for the porky twins. Not at all.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  HELEN WALKED alone on Monday, beside herself with contentment, unable to settle the grin bunching her cheeks. Light was crackling around the seams of heaven. She knew that because she closed her eyes and saw it almost without ceasing now. Yesterday, even Bill had seen the phenomenon. Or felt it, really, because it wasn’t about physically seeing. It was more like knowing God’s love, which in itself took a supernatural power. She mulled over one of the apostle Paul’s prayers: “And I pray that you may have the power to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ . . .” It was something not easily grasped, that love. Something imagined with a certain degree of confidence, really. Certainly not heard or touched or seen or tasted or smelled. Not usually, anyway.

  The light was like that, not easily grasped. But Pastor Bill was getting a grip on things these days. He was getting better at imagining the world beyond what most see and touch and taste. And he was imagining with belief. Faith. Believing having not seen, as the apostle put it.

  Helen hummed the Martyr’s Song. It was the song of life to her. I’ve been waiting for the day when at last I can say . . . you are finally home . . . Song of Zion . . . Daughter of mine . . .

  In all honesty she was not certain why the light was shining so brightly beyond the sky, but she had an idea. Things were not what they seemed. The death of her daughter, Gloria—such a devastating experience initially—was not such a bad thing at all. Neither was the death of Spencer such a bad thing. She had said so to Bill a dozen times, but now Helen was feeling the truth. Their lives were like seeds, which, having died in the ground, were now bearing a splendor unimaginable in their former puny vessels. Like the martyr who had been slain in Serbia. Somehow the seed was bearing fruit decades later in lives not yet born when that priest gave his life. How that fruit actually looked she did not know yet. She could not see as much. But the light spilling out of heaven was being pushed by peals of laughter.

  “Good God, take me!” she mumbled and skipped a step. Her heart pounded with excitement. “Take me quickly. Let me join them, Father.”

  She had heard many times of how the martyrs walked willingly to their deaths, overjoyed and eager to find the life beyond. She herself felt the same way for the first time in her life, she thought. It was that kind of joy. A complete understanding of this life stacked up against the next life. And she would gladly jump into the next if given the opportunity.

  Now this death of Kent, it was not quite so clear. He had died; he had not died. He would die; he would live; he would love; he would rot in hell. In the end she might never even know. In the end it was between Kent and God.

  In the end Kent was every man. In the end the pounding feet in her dreams were the feet of every man, running from God.

  She knew that now. Yes, there was this grand commotion over Kent in the heavens because of the challenge cast. Yes, a million angels and as many demons lined the sky, peering on his every move. But it was the same for every man. And it was not a game, as she had once suggested to the pastor. It was life.

  “Glory!” she yelled, and immediately spun around to see if anybody had been surprised by that. She could see no one. Too bad—would’ve been nice to treat another human to a slice of reality. She chuckled.

  Yes indeed. What was happening here in this isolated petri dish of her experience was no different from what happened in one form or another to every last human being who lived on God’s green Earth. Different in the fact that she had been enabled to participate with her walkathon intercession, perhaps. Different because she saw more of the drama than most. But no different up there where it counted.

  The truth of it all had descended upon her two days earlier, and now she wanted one thing like she had never wanted anything in the sixty-four years her little heart had managed to beat. She wanted to cross that finish line. She wanted to step into the winner’s circle. She wanted to walk into glory. If given the choice to live and walk or to die and kneel before the throne, she would scream her answer: “the throne, the throne, the throne!” Jumping like a pogo stick. She would do it in her running shoes and tall white socks, not caring if a park full of baseball players saw her do it.

  She wanted it all because now she knew without the slightest sliver of doubt that it was all about God’s love—so desperate and consuming for every man. And she also knew that Gloria and Spencer were swimming in God’s love and screaming with pleasure for it.

  “God, take me home,” she breathed. “Take me quickly.”

  Frankly, she didn’t know how Kent could resist it all.

  Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he had.

  Either way, the light was bright and crackling around the seams.

  “Glory!” she chirped and skipped again.

  IT STRUCK Kent that Sunday, two days after Lacy had spit him out like raw quinine, that it had been almost two months since he’d become a millionaire. Actually it didn’t strike him at all, because the thought barely crept through his mind, like a lethargic slug hoping for safe passage. He rolled over and noted that he’
d slept on top of the covers again. A dim light glowed around the room’s brown drapes, and by the sounds of traffic he knew it was well past morning. Not that it mattered—day and night had lost their significance to him now.

  It is said that money cannot buy happiness. It is one of those axioms often spoken but rarely believed for the simple reason that money does indeed seem to bring with it a measure of happiness. At least for a while. Bono’s assertion that all paths end in the grave might be true, but in the meantime, surely money might ease the journey. It was the meantime part that Kent was having difficulty with. Because for Kent, the conclusion of the matter—the bit about the grave—took up early residence inside him. Like a hole in his chest.

  It was all a bit unusual, possibly. Not in the least fair, it seemed. But hollow and black and sickening just the same. And this all without Pinhead the cop entering the picture. Throw his mug into the mix, and it was flogging desperation.

  Kent had walked long and slow that Thursday night, away from Lacy. A limousine stuffed with squealing teenagers had nearly run him over at one point. The near-miss had nearly scared him out of his skin. He had hailed a taxi then and returned to the dungeon in Denver. The sun was already graying the eastern sky when he paid the driver.

  Friday. Friday had been the big day of living dangerously, taking out his last few breaths of fury on the porky twins and then submitting his findings to the bank. They had delivered his fee as agreed. Bentley and Borst would undoubtedly find their just reward. Revenge is sweet, so they say. Kent didn’t know who they were, but he knew now that they knew nothing. His victory was hardly more than a distant memory by two o’clock that afternoon.

  He spent a good portion of the next two days—or nights, really, because he didn’t roll out of bed until 5 P.M.—trying to plot a comeback. Not a comeback to Lacy; she was dead to him. But a comeback to life. He had eighteen million dollars stashed, for heaven’s sake. Anybody who had eighteen million dollars stashed without knowing how to spend it was the better part of a moron. The things one could do with such wealth. Granted, Bill Gates might consider the cash chicken feed, but then Mr. Bill was in a different reality altogether. Most normal human beings would have trouble finding ways to spend even one million dollars, short of purchasing some jet or yacht or some other toy that cost the world.

  Kent had considered doing just that. Buying another bigger, fancier yacht, for example, and sailing it to a deserted tropical cove. The idea actually retained some luster for the better part of a beer before he discarded it. He had already purchased one yacht, and he had left it behind. Maybe he’d buy a small jet. Fly around the world. Of course he would be landing and partying at all stops, discovering the local flavors and laughing with the natives. On the other hand, most local flavors were available at specialty restaurants around town—no need to traipse around the world. And laughter was not coming so easily these days.

  Perhaps he could visit a few great sporting events. Sit in the stadium with the other rich folk who could afford to drop a few C notes for the pleasure of watching men bat, or throw, or bounce a ball around. Yes, and maybe he could take his own ball and play catch with a few celebrities. Gag. Thing of it was, three months ago the idea would have thrilled him. Now that he had the money, he could not remember why.

  On Monday another emotion found its way into Kent’s mind. Panic. An unearthly desperation at the prospect of finding no solution to this dilemma. A day later the panic settled into a dull hopelessness. He stopped feeling then and just continued his trudging through what he now saw clearly as the wastelands of life. Life without Gloria and Spencer. Life without Lacy. Life without Kent. Life without any meaning at all.

  Kent climbed from bed on Wednesday and pulled the drapes aside. A light drizzle fell from a dark, gray sky. Could be morning, could be afternoon, could be evening. Looked nasty whatever time it was. He dropped the heavy curtain and trudged to the bathroom, shoulders drooping. The fluorescent bulb blinked brightly, and he squinted. Toothpaste stains ringed the sink, and he thought it might be good to clean the bathroom. He’d slept in the apartment for almost two weeks now without cleaning the kitchen or the bathroom. What would Helen say to that?

  Helen, dear old Helen. A lump rose to his throat at the thought of the woman. So sincere, so steady, so sweet, so gentle. Well, not always so sweet or gentle, but sincere and truthful. She’d likely walk in here and land a loud slap on his cheek.

  A tear sprang to Kent’s eye. What was this? He was actually missing the old wench? Maybe, maybe not, but either way the tear felt good, because it was his first tear in five days. Which meant that his heart was still alive in its prison of bones.

  But the sink and the kitchen and the rest of it could wait. Helen was not here. In fact, no one was here. Nor would anyone be here soon. He could buy the place and burn it to the ground. That would clean it up good. Yes, maybe he’d do that when this was over.

  When what is over, Kent?

  He looked up at the mirror and stared at his disheveled reflection. The face Lacy had rejected. Three days’ stubble. Maybe four days’. The face of Kevin Stillman, still bearing scars from the surgery, if you knew where to look.

  When what is over, Kent?

  The lump swelled in his throat, like a balloon. Another tear slipped from his right eye. I’m sorry, Gloria. God, I’m sorry. His chest was aching. I’m sorry, Spencer.

  Yes, and what would Spencer think of you now?

  His shoulders shook, and the mirror dissolved in a single sob. I’m so sorry.

  It’s over, Kent.

  He sucked at the air and caught his breath. The notion popped in his mind with sudden clarity. Yes, it was over, wasn’t it? There was nothing left to do anymore. He had spent his life. He had drained it of meaning. Now it was time to step aside and let the others have a try.

  It was time to stop trudging. It was time to die.

  Yes, it’s time to die, Kent.

  Yes, let the other fools bloody their fingers climbing up life’s cliff. Let them claw over the edge to find the wastelands stretching like a dusty graveyard. In the end it was all the same. In the end it was the grave.

  Yes. You’ve come home, Kent. Welcome home, Kent.

  It was the first touch of peace Kent had felt in weeks, and it tingled down his spine. Now I lay me down to sleep . . . Right beside the others who wasted their lives climbing this cliff called life and then lay down to die on barren wastelands. Salmon fighting their way up the river. Lemmings rushing to the cliff. Humans dying in the wastelands. It all made sense now.

  Kent brushed his teeth. No sense dying with dirty teeth. He dropped the toothbrush half finished and spat the foam from his mouth. He didn’t bother running any water to clean the mess.

  The easiest way to slip into the grave would be through some sort of overdose; he’d thought so a hundred times. But thinking of it now, it seemed there ought to be more to the matter. It could be a month before they found his rotting body, maybe longer. Maybe he’d do the deed in a place that made a statement. The bank, for instance. Or in the steeple of a church. On the other hand, did he care? No, he did not care at all. He simply wanted out. Done. Over. He wanted to end. Find Bono’s graveyard. Find a priest . . .

  Confess.

  Kent was halfway across the room, headed nowhere, when the thought dropped into his head. He pictured Bono telling him that. “Confess, my son.” The word hollowed his chest. It seemed to carry a sense of purpose. And a suicide with purpose felt better than a senseless one. It would be something like leaning over that cliff and calling down to the million fools struggling up the stone face. “Hey, fellas, there ain’t nothin’ up here but ashes and tombstones. Save yourselves the energy.”

  Confess to a priest. Find a church, find a man of the collar, confess the crime, then drift off to the wasteland. Maybe meet Helen’s God. The thought brought a tightness to his chest again. I’m sorry, Helen. Dear old Helen.

  Kent sat on the bed and rested his forehead on his hands. A
n image of Helen filled his mind, and he swallowed against the knot in his throat. She was pointing to the bare spot above his fireplace—the spot that had once graced a painting of Christ. “You crucified him, Kent,” Helen was saying. Only she wasn’t yelling it or stuffing it down his throat. She was crying and smiling.

  “Yes,” he muttered beneath his breath. A tear slipped down his cheek. “And now I’m going to crucify myself, Helen.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  HELEN CALLED Bill at six that morning, pacing in small circles while she waited for him to answer. “Come on, Bill.”

  The dream had changed last night. The sound of running had quickened; the breathing had come in gasps. She had awakened wet with sweat and rolled from bed, the fingers of panic playing on her spine.

  “Get up, Bill. Pick up the phone!”

  A groggy voice spoke through the receiver. “Hello.”

  “Something’s up, Bill.”

  “Helen? What time is it?”

  “It’s already six, and I should’ve been walking half an hour ago, but I started praying in my kitchen and I’m telling you, I could hardly stand it.”

  “Whoa, slow down, Helen. Sorry, I had a late appointment last night.”

  She stopped her pacing and peered out the window. A fine drizzle fell from a dark gray sky. “I don’t know. But it’s never been like this before.”