The Heaven Trilogy

by Ted Dekker

  Ben Giblet studied the jungle below them. “It would be tight. Yeah.”

  Graham looked at Parlier with skepticism. “We gotta get down there, Rick, and you know it. What’s the big deal? We got us a compound with a bunch of druggies down in the valley. I don’t see the danger in taking the cliffs.”

  “That’s not the point. We have our orders.”

  Parlier peered into the dim light below. Graham was right, of course. But the orders had been to stay away from the cliffs. Meaning what? Meaning the face of the cliffs or the lip of the cliffs? If it came down to it, he might do some interpreting of his own on this one, he thought.

  THE PRINCESS cruise ship rested in the green harbor waters under a black sky. The ship bustled with passengers who scurried up and down her planks like ants to and from their nest. Yuri Harsanyi boarded the luxury cruiser bound north for San Juan and headed quickly for his cabin. The short-notice fare had cost him three thousand dollars and he had barely made the ship before its scheduled departure at 10 P.M. But he was safe. And the suitcase was with him.

  He glanced nervously down the narrow hall before opening the door to his assigned cabin on the third level: #303. There was no way anyone would find him here. He fumbled with his key, unlocked the cabin door, picked up the heavy bag, and entered his room. He boosted the case onto one of the double beds and walked across the cabin to the small bathroom. He looked in the mirror and stretched his neck, thinking he should shower, shave, and then go for dinner. He stepped from the cramped room and removed his shirt.

  He shed his slacks and eyed the black case. It contained enough power to vaporize the ship in less than two-thousandths of a second. One minute here, the next—poof—gone. Six inches of steel hull disintegrated like the sides of a soap bubble. That man had ever discovered how to harness this incredible power was a miracle. He wondered briefly if any damage had come to the devices during the trip out of the jungle. But the suitcase hadn’t left his side.

  Yuri reached into the shower and turned the hot water on. His dirty clothes lay strewn on the floor. After testing the water, he stepped into the shower.

  But his shaving kit was still in the suitcase.

  Yuri stepped from the shower and walked quickly over to the suitcase. He hesitated, watching water drip from his wet face onto the hard case. Then he reached down, released the straps, sprung the latches, and opened it.

  For a brief moment Yuri’s eyebrows scrunched at the sight within. The two spheres he had placed in the case were gone. Instead a square box rested among the clothes. And then his eyes sprang wide. Abdullah had found him out! Taken his bombs and put this . . .

  In that moment, two tungsten contacts fell together, sending a surge of DC current into a detonator that ignited C-4 explosive. An explosion shredded the room precisely three seconds after Yuri opened his case. No nuclear explosion—just plastic explosive that had been substituted for Yuri’s bombs.

  Even then the explosion was no laughing matter. Ten pounds of high explosive incinerated the cabin in a single white-hot flash. The explosion rocked the port side of the ship. Fire, smoke, and debris spewed out of the porthole that had erupted under the impact of the blast. Amazingly the flame-resistant mattresses, although gutted of their stuffing, did not burn.

  But then Yuri Harsanyi could not be aware of these small details. His life had already ended.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  SHERRY KEPT to the painted man’s heels, depending on his movements to guide her through the brush. What sight they did have in the dark seemed more instinctive than a function of sensory perception. An instinct the man had obviously developed. An instinct that neither she nor Petrus had. The father was strong and he kept up, but at this pace, he was hardly better than she.

  She was a medical intern from Denver, Colorado, who should be following a doctor on his rounds through whitewashed halls right now. Not running through a nightmare, behind some crazed lunatic. Maybe it was just that— another nightmare grabbing at her boots and slapping at her face instead of real tree roots and leaves clawing at her. She prayed she would bolt up in bed soon.

  Actually the dream idea made some sense. She couldn’t remember waking, which could mean she still slept. She’d gone to her room to retire; she remembered that. And then the gunshots and the images of killing and now this man leading her like a rabbit through the jungle. The thoughts careened through her skull as she struggled to keep him in sight.

  Hadn’t he said something about going south on the river? She had no idea where they headed, but this was no river. An image of Father Petrus popped into her mind. Living is about dying. His words echoed in her mind.We all live to die.

  “So do you think I have been brought to the jungle to die?” she’d asked, barely serious.

  “Are you ready to die, Sherry?” The words suddenly struck her with clarity. Was she ready to die? No, she wasn’t. Right now all she felt was a strong urgency to survive. God, save us. Please save us.

  Casius had killed with the ease of a man shooting pool, she thought. Which made him what?

  On the other hand, he had saved them. Without Casius she would be back in that yard now, lying in her own blood. Which made him her angel in the night. But could an angel kill the way this man had killed?

  She suddenly slipped hard to her seat and grunted. Mud oozed through her denim shorts. She scrambled to her feet before Petrus reached her. She ran forward, realizing that Casius hadn’t even paused to see if she was okay. He was there, not ten feet ahead, his back still rising and falling like a shadow. A branch smacked her face and she threw an arm against it, tempted to rip it off the tree and stomp it underfoot. She swallowed the frustration growing like a knot in her throat and pushed forward.

  Sherry followed relentlessly, stumbling quite regularly, several times to her seat. Twice she lost Casius and was forced to call out. Each time Petrus ran into her and muttered apologies. When it happened, the man had been no more than five yards from them. If he made more noise, it would have been much easier, but he seemed to glide like a ghost. Tracking both him and the ground proved nearly impossible.

  She explained the problem to him defensively the second time. He stared at her through the dark for a few seconds, as if trying to comprehend. Then he turned and continued, but this time awkwardly brushing his hands against the foliage to make some noise as he passed. That helped her. But then the rain came, and what had seemed nearly impossible became downright ridiculous.

  Sherry let the tears come to her eyes again, wiping constantly to clear her vision. But she would not let the man hear her silent sobs as she pushed on.

  Oh, God, please let me wake up.

  THE JOURNEY had been an easy one until the rains began. And even that wouldn’t have been such a problem if it hadn’t come as they began a sharp descent into a valley. The dark, steep jungle, now wet, proved to be the limit. Their pace slowed to a crawl. Casius stopped frequently and waited for the woman to catch up, slipping and sliding her way down the mountain.

  He pitied her, after a fashion. Poor woman had come to the jungle probably thrilled to visit, and now she had been thrust into this impossible world. And led by him of all people. He was no ladies’ man. If she didn’t already know it, she would soon enough.

  Her strength surprised him. She might not have developed the skills to navigate through the foliage with ease, but she had the will of a jaguar.

  Midpoint down the descent, Casius admitted bitterly that reaching the plantation before dawn would not be possible with the two. Fortunately, the rain would wash most of their tracks away, which was good considering the jungle would certainly be searched at first light. The attack had been no random pillaging. On his own he would press on, night or day, search or no search. But not with this woman and priest crashing through the brush behind him. They would be spotted from the sky, smashing into trees and shaking their limbs.

  Which meant they would have to hide out during the day. With a woman. And a priest.

&nb
sp; “All right, mister,” the woman suddenly snapped through the darkness. “This is too much. We’re cut, we’re bruised, and we’re exhausted. Will you stop for just a minute and let me rest?”

  He spun. “Why don’t you hoist a flag above the trees while you’re at it? Just in case they missed your voice.” She peered at him angrily through the darkness. “We will rest soon,” he said and turned back down the hill.

  They had traveled seven or eight miles from the mission when Casius found the cave. Overgrown vines coated with moss covered its mouth but the lay of the rock clearly suggested a break. He walked past it twice before pulling the matted brush aside enough to make out a small cavern. He pried the covering aside to create a hole for them to crawl through. “Crawl in,” he said, waving them forward.

  The woman came close, her mouth wide, gazing into the damp darkness. “In there?” she asked.

  “You wanted to rest. You can’t just flop on the ground and fall asleep. They’d find you for sure. We’ll be safe in there.” He jabbed a finger into the blackness.

  “It’ll be safe? What if something else is in there?” Her voice came ragged and breathy; her cold was worsening.

  “Just don’t threaten it. Go in slow,” he said.

  She pulled back and shifted her hazel eyes to his.

  Father Petrus stepped up, looked up at him, and slid into the cave without a word.

  “You go,” Sherry said. “I’ll hold this for you.” She slid behind him and grabbed the tangle of vines at his hand, gripping his forefinger with them.

  He pulled himself free and shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he returned and slipped through the opening. The cave immediately opened up to a small enclave, perhaps seven feet square. A damp moss blanketed the ground, providing for a fairly comfortable bed. The sound of critters scurrying confirmed that they were not alone—spiders by their light ticking. But most spiders would scatter, not attack. They would be safe enough. He could barely see her outline against the dark sky as she entered haltingly.

  “As long as we’re stopped, we should sleep,” he said matter-of-factly. “In the morning I’ll try to get you something to eat. As soon as we’re sure the jungle is clear, we’ll leave.”

  “I want to thank you for what you did back there,” Father Petrus said.

  “I wouldn’t thank me just yet, Father. We’re not exactly in the Hilton yet.”

  “Actually, I’m not thinking of my own comfort. But God—”

  “This has nothing to do with God.”

  That shut the man up. Casius found himself wishing he’d left the priest in his bungalow.

  “Get some sleep,” he said.

  Sherry sat cross-legged, quiet for a moment, peering around in the darkness. “I’m not sure I can sleep,” she finally rasped. “I said I was tired and bruised, not sleepy. I’m not sure if you happened to notice with all of that testosterone floating through your veins, but we’ve been just a bit traumatized here.”

  No, not soft-souled at all. Not this one. “Suit yourself,” he said as calmly as possible. He patted the moss with his open palm and turned his back to her, as though she were already the furthest thing from his mind. He dropped to his side and closed his eyes without the slightest interest in sleep now.

  The priest followed his example, whispering encouragement to the woman. For several minutes the cave remained quiet behind him. And then the woman lay down, but by her ragged breathing, he knew she was not acclimating well. In fact, she now seemed at her worst. Surely, at some point exhaustion would take her.

  Casius ground his teeth and forced his mind to run through his options for the hundredth time.

  SHERRY WOKE to the smell of burning wood. She started and pushed herself to her arms. Three feet away a small fire managed to burn through damp wood, filling the cave with smoke.

  The vision had come again and raged with its intensity, soaking her with sweat. And now she had awakened. Which clearly meant that the rest of this was not a vision or a nightmare or any other such supernatural episode. The attack, the escape, and now this cave—they were all real. Sherry swallowed and sat all the way up.

  Father Petrus slept on one side, head facing the wall away from her.

  How Casius had managed a fire of all things, she didn’t know, but he bent over it now, blowing into the coals as rising white ash filtered through his hair. A single small flame flickered lazily over red embers. Smoke drifted past him, bent at the cave’s ceiling, and then wandered out the small opening through which they had crawled in the night. The tiny firelight flickered amber on the rough stone walls, highlighting a dozen plum-sized insects fixed to the cave’s interior. Sherry swallowed again and turned her eyes to a dead lizard lying limp next to the man.

  “Good morning,” he said without looking up from the flame. “The fog is thick outside, so I lit a small fire. It will mask the smoke. You need some food, and I didn’t think you’d want to eat it raw. We’ll wait here until the search parties have come and gone.”

  “What search parties?”

  “They know we escaped. They will send out search parties.”

  Made sense. “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “I’m taking you to safety,” he replied.

  “Yes, but to where?”

  “The Caura River. We’ll find a boat that can take you to Soledad.”

  His voice tweaked a raw nerve in Sherry’s spine, reminding her that she had decided she did not like him. She stared at the wide yellow strip running from the creature’s snout to its tail. If she had woken hungry, her appetite had already made a hasty retreat. She looked up at the man as he quickly skinned the lizard with a large knife and lay strips of its flesh in the coals.

  The firelight danced off broad, muscled shoulders. He knelt over the coals and she thought his calves must be twice the size of her own. The broad band of tape still clung to his thick thigh. A makeshift Band-Aid perhaps. Dark hair lay close to his head. His eyes glimmered brown in the dim light. Camo paint was still plastered on his face, unwashed by the rain.

  Whoever he was, she doubted he was simply a DEA scout who’d grown up in Caracas. In another world he could easily bear the title “the Destroyer” or “the Emancipator” or some other such stage name. The likeness resonated.

  Smoke stung her eyes. “Is there a way to get rid of the smoke?” she asked. Her cold had worsened through last evening’s rain. She cleared her sore throat.

  He looked at her and blinked once. “No.” He returned to the preparation over the fire, and she realized he would probably insist she eat the meat.

  She unfolded her cramped legs and stretched them before her, leaning back on her hands. Mud had dried on her shins and thighs, no doubt covering a dozen cuts and bruises. She rested one boot over the other and edged close to the fire, watching the man’s face. He glanced at her legs quickly and then back to the lizard meat now simmering in the red coals.

  “Look, Casius.” She cleared her throat again, thinking she sounded like a husky man with the cold. Her chest felt as though a vise had moved in over night. “I realize this is all a terrible inconvenience for you. We’ve crashed some terribly important mission you were dying to complete. Life-and-death stuff, right?” She flashed a grin, but he merely glanced at her without responding. A wedge of heat rose behind her neck.

  “The fact is, we are together. We might as well be civilized.”

  He pulled the meat from the fire, laid it on the moss, and sat back to his haunches. “You’ve thrown a kink in my plans.” He lifted his eyes and studied her for a moment.

  Sherry shoved herself up and crossed her legs. “Is that how you see us? A kink?”

  He dropped his eyes to the fire and she saw his jaw muscles clench. Now that was good, Sherry. Go ahead, alienate the man. He’s obviously a brute with the social skills of an ape. No need to enrage him. Just toss him a banana and he’ll be fine. He saved your life, didn’t he?

  Then again, she wasn’t exactly the queen of social graces either.
“You know, the thing of it is, I didn’t choose this. And I don’t mean just this, as in running through the jungle with some . . . Tarzan, but coming to the jungle in the first place.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “A week ago I was a medical intern, studying with top honors. And then my grandmother convinces me that I have to get to this mission station two hundred miles southwest of Caracas. Something terrible is about to happen, you see. And I’m somehow a part of it. I’m having terrible nightmares about something that’s going to happen. So I rush down here, only to be thrown into a bloodbath. Do you know how many men you killed back there or don’t you count?”

  He looked up at her. “Some men need to be killed.”

  “Some?”

  He held her eyes for a few seconds. “Most.”

  The word seemed to fill the enclave with a thick silence. Most? It was the way he said it, as if he really meant it. As if in his opinion, most people had no business living.

  “You are right,” Father Petrus said. Sherry turned to see that he’d awoken and faced them. “In fact, all men need to be killed—one way or another. But not by you they don’t. You are the hand of God?”

  The corner of Casius’s mouth lifted. “We are all the hands of God. God deals in death as well as life,” he said.

  “And to whom do you deal death?” Father Petrus asked.

  Casius looked as though he might break off the conversation. He dropped his eyes and stirred the coals. But then he looked up.

  “I deal death to who he tells me to kill.”

  The fire crackled.

  “Who tells you to kill?”

  Casius stared, eyes blank. “Your God, as you call him, doesn’t appear to be so discriminating. He slaughtered whole nations.”

  “Are you directed by God?”

  No response.

  “Then, you are against him,” Petrus said. “And in the grand scheme of things, that’s not such a good place to be. But still, we are grateful for what you did. Now, what’s for breakfast?”