The Heaven Trilogy

by Ted Dekker

  A knock on the door about launched her into orbit. She sat up and nearly slipped from the bed.

  He walked in then. Shannon. Or Casius, or whoever he really was. The tall, rugged killer with green eyes and firm muscles. She wanted to shrivel into the corner.

  He walked to the dresser, snatched a small backpack from it, and fastened it around his waist. “Okay, lady,” he said. “Pull yourself together. We’re taking a walk.”

  “A walk? To where?”

  “A walk to hell. What does it matter? We both survived, fine. Now you’re going to see how things work in this screwed-up world of ours. Get up.”

  He walked over, grabbed her by the arm, and yanked her to her feet roughly, eyes flashing.

  Tanya felt a stab of pain rip up her arm and she gasped. He relaxed his grip and pulled her toward the door. She stumbled after him.

  “I’ve seen your world. Let go of me!”

  “And now you’re going to see why I do what I do. I owe you at least that much, don’t you think?”

  “You don’t have to hurt me. Let me go!”

  This time he did. She followed. She would play his absurd game for the moment. She wasn’t sure why. But she had to find out what had caused the love of her life to be transformed into this . . . creature. Shannon led her from the hotel. She stopped at the street, but he continued walking. He shot her an angry glare and she followed.

  They walked to the outskirts of Soledad. She expected him to turn into a side street and show her his “screwed-up world” at any moment. But he didn’t. He walked past the last road and turned onto a thin path snaking into the jungle.

  “Wait a minute,” she objected. “I’m not about to go back into the jungle with you. Are you nuts? You think you—”

  He spun back, grabbed her by the arm, and propelled her before him.

  She fought an urge to whirl around and slap him. “Okay!”

  Then she lost comprehension of what his intentions might be. He passed her once they entered the forest and she followed, thinking she would turn back at any moment and return to the town.

  But she didn’t. For one thing they had switched paths several times and she quickly realized that she could hardly navigate her way back. For another thing, she was drawn by the bare-chested man ahead of her, leading her like a wild savage. Not drawn to him, of course, but by him, like a homing beacon faintly red in the distance.

  That it was Shannon leading her into the jungle and not Casius made her think that she might follow him to hell if he asked her to. Deep in her heart, Shannon was still her lost love.

  But she hardly considered the notion before replacing it with the notion that he deserved to be sent to hell.

  Dear God, help me!

  She was panting within the hour. Shannon didn’t bother looking back to check on her. If anything he walked faster, more deliberately, intent on punishing her maybe. She determined then not to give him the satisfaction. She had kept up with him once—she could do it again. As long as he let her, of course.

  Tanya walked behind him, watching his muscles roll over his bones with each footfall. To think she had once loved this man so passionately. Shannon. How had he grown so strong? Not that he wasn’t strong before, but this . . . this man ripping through the jungle ahead of her was as powerful as they came in the human species.

  And she hated him for it because those once tender fingers had been replaced by claws. Those emerald eyes she had once gazed into with a weak heart now slashed and cut with an unquenched fury.

  And what would you expect from a boy traumatized by his parents’ slaughtering? Eight years of nightmares?

  No. That would be you, Tanya.

  Tanya gritted her teeth and rebuked the sentiment. He had become one of them. Walking the world seeking whom he might destroy. This demoniac now leading her into hell.

  The thoughts whirled unchecked.

  The moon rose behind them and highlighted his glistening back. Still he refused to look at her. He could smell her perhaps, like some ruthless animal who knew when it was being followed. And she could smell his sweat—musky and sweet in the humid night.

  She stopped in the trail and spoke for the first time since entering the jungle.

  “Where are you leading me? It’s dark.”

  He walked on, ignoring her.

  “Excuse me!” Anger flashed up her spine. “Excuse me, it’s dark, if you hadn’t noticed.”

  His voice drifted back amid the screaming of cicadas. “I suggest you stay close if you don’t want me to leave you here.”

  She mumbled angrily under her breath and ran to catch up. He had led her into danger without consideration for her safety and now he was threatening to leave her behind.

  Tanya caught him and pounded on his shoulder. “Stop it!” she shrieked. “What are you trying to prove? This is crazy!”

  He swung around, fists clenched. “You think so? You think this is crazy? Then listen to me, Tanya. This is nothing!” She could see that he was trembling. “This is two people walking along a path in the real world. I’ll tell you what’s crazy. Watching a bunch of men shoot holes into your mother and father while you stand by powerless. That is crazy. And that’s the real world. But then you’re not used to the real world, are you? You’re too busy running from your nightmares, I suppose. Explaining away the death of Mommy and Daddy. Trying to make sense of it all? There’s only one thing that makes sense now and it’s got nothing to do with your God.”

  He turned around and left her standing, her mouth agape. Running from my nightmares? She followed quickly, fearing the dark alone.

  And he had called her Tanya.

  He’s wounded, Tanya.

  He’s an animal.

  He’s a wounded animal, then. But he needs my love.

  They walked in silence for hours, stopping only periodically for rest and water. Even then they did not talk. Tanya let her mind slip into a numb rhythm that followed the steady cadence of her feet.

  In the end it was only prayer that soothed her frazzled spirit.

  Father . . . dear God, I’m lost down here. Forgive me. I’m lost and lonely and confused. I hate this man and I hate that I hate him. And I don’t even know if that’s possible! What are you doing? What is your purpose here?

  She stepped without caution on the path behind Shannon now, trusting his leading.

  I hate this man.

  But you must love this man.

  Never!

  Then, you would be like him.

  Yes, and I’m a fool either way.

  A picture of Jesus spread on the cross hung in her mind. Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do. The image brought a knot to Tanya’s throat.

  Then her mind returned to the vision. What significance her life now played in this insanity was far beyond her. The thought of a bomb’s mushroom cloud barely registered out here in the heavy forest. For all she knew the whole notion was absurd. Shannon certainly thought so.

  Her mind returned to him. God, help me.

  With each step, she resigned herself to the knowledge that this was indeed a part of some symphony conducted by God himself. In some absurd way it did make sense. In the end she would see that. The realization gave her strength.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Saturday

  THEY HAD come far in the eight hours—farther than Shannon would have guessed the woman would last. He stopped by the Caura, five miles down-river from the plantation, and stood in the morning sun with a clenched jaw. The river was only twenty feet wide here and it curled around this meadow. It would be the safest place to leave her. She would have greater visibility of any approaching animals, and if he failed to return, she could find her way to safety down the river. It would also give him a way to reach her quickly once he’d finished.

  Tanya.

  She hardly registered as Tanya any longer. She was “that woman.” It was what his mind called her now. And then on occasion the other part of his mind would call her “Tanya,
” and his heart would break a little. The voices pushed him at a relentless pace.

  Ahead, the mountain rose and then fell over the cliff to the plantation. A Year bird cawed long and sober above him, and Shannon lifted his gaze to the canopy. The black bird’s foot-long beak rested open. A yellow eye studied him. Shannon lowered his head and looked at the trees cresting the rise ahead. Abdullah waited there. A killing waited there—a throat begging for the blade. He imagined the thick brown cords of Abdullah’s neck, parting under the edge of his knife. The man’s eyes were smiling.

  Shannon’s breathing thickened. The plan was well laid and ticking along like a clock. Friberg would be moving by now. A chill flashed up his spine. He wanted to be there, facing the man who’d killed his mother and father, feeling the pounding of his heart, tasting his blood.

  “Can we rest?” The sound of the woman’s voice jerked him back to the river. Yes, that woman. Tanya. He could hardly remember why he had brought her. To share this part of his life with her, of course. To bring her into a holy union with death. To hate her so that she could love him. It was something that made no sense to weak minds, but to others it made perfect sense.

  In the black fog.

  You’ve lost your sanity, Shannon.

  Have I? The world is insane.

  He turned to her. She stood twenty feet off, haggard and dripping wet and looking near collapse. She gazed at him steadily. Her mind wasn’t as weak as her body, he thought.

  “You’ll wait here,” he said. “If I don’t return, take the river east to Soledad.”

  He heard his voice from a distance, as if he were floating over his own body, and it sounded strange. Like the words of some dark priest summoning a body for sacrifice.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked softly.

  “To help you understand,” he said.

  “Understand what? That you’re a tortured soul?”

  Shannon forced a grin. The fog swam in his mind.

  “You see? Even now you insist on berating me,” he said. “Don’t you want to understand how your beloved Shannon turned out to be so wicked? I’m going to show you how.”

  “Shannon . . .” She stopped.

  She called you Shannon.

  “You’re showing me only one thing,” she continued. “You’re showing me that you need help. I’ll admit that I may have overreacted back there, but you’ve gone over the edge. You need help.”

  “Maybe it’s you who need help. Have you considered that possibility? Or is your mind too full of nightmares to consider that?”

  He saw her swallow. “Be careful what you say. My name’s Sherry. Or Tanya. You remember that name, don’t you?”

  “And my name is what?”

  “Shannon,” she said softly. “We’ve both had a difficult time with things. I’ll give you that. I’ve spent eight years reliving the nightmare of those three days, trapped in the box. But now there’s only one right way. You think our meeting out here in the jungle is purely chance? You think my dreams are stupid?” She paused. “I suppose you do. But that doesn’t change what we should do.”

  “And what should we do?”

  “I don’t know. But not this.”

  “This? You don’t even know what this is,” he said. “This, Tanya, is the shedding of blood. This, Tanya, is the bull and I hold the sword. Without the shedding of blood there can be no forgiveness of sin. Isn’t that in your Bible? Half the world sits on padded pews singing pretty songs about the blood of Christ. Well, now you will see what it means to shed blood in the real world.”

  As he spoke, threads of confusion wrestled in his mind. He should not talk to her like this. She was extending a hand of peace. Maybe more. And what was he offering her? Only anger. Hatred.

  “You’ve given yourself to Satan, Shannon. Can’t you see that?” Her voice sounded deeply saddened. “I was wrong to be angry with you. Forgive me. I pity you.”

  Pity? Any illusion he harbored about her offering him peace shattered with her words. Revulsion swept through his gut like a wave crashing to shore.

  He knew he couldn’t allow her the satisfaction of seeing the impact of her words, but his hands were shaking already. Surely she could see that. The knife was at his waist—he could flip it out to her in the space of a single breath— pin her to the tree behind.

  He blinked. What was he thinking? It was Tanya there!

  Shannon lifted a trembling finger. “We’ll see who should pity whom. I don’t have time for this. Stay here by the river. I’ll be back tonight.”

  He spun away and broke into a jog, knowing he should tell her how to avoid the crocodiles, but too furious to bring himself to it. She would have to depend on her God.

  THOUGHTS CRASHED through Shannon’s mind as he ran under the trees, confused and furious. Slowly the images of the woman were replaced by images of Abdullah. Slowly the lust for his blood crept through his mind, like an antiseptic numbing this other pain. Slowly Shannon climbed back into his old skin and prepared himself for the end of this long journey.

  The first indication that he wasn’t alone on the mountain came at the base of the black cliffs. A flock of parrots took to the air down valley, squawking loudly. He immediately pulled up and changed direction.

  Shannon eased his way through the bush to the right of the disturbance. He moved from tree to tree, carefully measuring the jungle before him. The wind shifted and a light breeze brushed his face. He dropped to the ground as the strong smell of fish—tuna fish—filled his nostrils.

  Humans. Whites.

  Then he saw the soldier. Through the brush, still about fifty yards off, to his left, a single man dressed in the stripped-down military garb typical of the Special Forces. Close-cropped hair topped the man’s camouflage-painted head. An automatic rifle crossed at his waist.

  Shannon stared through the foliage at the hidden warrior and quickly considered his options. This was probably the perimeter guard of a post farther ahead. The cliff likely.

  He studied the man carefully for a full five minutes before moving forward. He slowly edged his way closer to the shifting guard. For Shannon, armed with only a knife, stalking a trained killer armed with an automatic weapon, stealth would be the difference between life and death.

  He stopped, crouched low behind the foliage, and studied the husky man. Regardless of their confidence, most of these white boys didn’t belong in the jungle—at least not this jungle.

  Shannon drew back his knife, held it for a second, and then hurled it at the man’s exposed head. The startled soldier had barely started his turn when the butt of the knife smashed into his temple and dropped him. Shannon waited for a few moments, allowing the adrenaline in his veins to ease. Confident that no alarm had been raised, he slid next to the unconscious Ranger, retrieved his knife, and quickly removed a nine-millimeter revolver from the man’s waist. He left the man on his back and slipped through the trees toward the cliff pass.

  Laying the Ranger out hadn’t been necessary, of course. He could’ve just as easily made his way past the team unnoticed. But since the CIA had gone as far as inserting Ranger forces to stop him, the least he could do was let them know he appreciated the gesture.

  He thought of the woman briefly, like a distant memory now. No, you can’t change what I am, Tanya. And I am a killer. It’s what I do. I kill. I do not die. There has been enough dying. Dying is for fools.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  LUMBER LOADING dock D on the southern tip of Miami Harbor received the order to close six hours after the director drafted the recommendation. Three of those hours had been spent chasing down the proper naval authorities, who were evidently indisposed at a convention in Las Vegas. It had taken the port authorities another two hours to implement the orders. In sum total, the ports along the southern tip of Miami closed their doors to business eight hours after the decision had been made to do so.

  Not bad for a monolithic bureaucracy. Too slow, considering the stated operational goals of Homeland Sec
urity.

  During the last two hours of operation at loading dock D, a large converted fishing vessel bearing the name Marlin Watch unloaded the last of her cargo and pulled back out to sea for its return voyage to Panama. No one paid much attention to the unmilled Yevaro log set among the others. It was, after all, just a log.

  Thirty minutes after it had been unloaded from the ship, the mid-size log was put aboard an eighteen-wheeled lumber rig with six other imports and transported to the Hayward Lumberyard on the outskirts of Miami proper.

  Six hours later, an eighteen-wheel International rumbled into the yard, loaded the log, and left without filing any paperwork.

  Farther north a clipper named Angel of the Sea moved steadily up the northeastern coastline of the United States.

  Farther south, just entering U.S. waters, another ship, a larger one called the Lumber Lord, steamed up Florida’s eastern coastline.

  “HOW MANY?” Abdullah demanded, dropping his empty glass on the desk.

  “Eighteen. The men passed the perimeter security line at the base of the cliffs three minutes ago, three groups in single file.”

  Abdullah whirled around and slammed his fist onto the desk. “They don’t believe me? They’re attacking?” He glared at the wall map. “Eighteen men, single file—they are professional soldiers. How long until they reach us?”

  “An hour, if they move quickly. An hour and a half if they are careful,” Ramón responded.

  So then, they were coming for him. Eight years of waiting and now it was happening. The Americans weren’t taking him seriously.

  He shuddered, as if a nerve had been touched in his back. But then a nerve had been touched by the heat that rose through his spine. Maybe it was better this way. They would have their guard down and the blasts would rock their smug little world. Even if they did bring him down in the process, they would still feel a little heat.