Fire Of Heaven 02 - Threshold

by Bill Myers

  Before she could finish, Reichner interrupted. “But at least she has one. At least she has a purpose.”

  She threw him an outraged look, but he ignored her. He’d already sniffed out the boy’s weakness, and now he was going for the kill. “But tell me, son. If you walk out that door, what exactly do you have? Hmm? What purpose? What reason do you have for living?”

  Sarah turned back to Brandon. He was looking down. Somehow he seemed a little smaller, a little more lost. He stood a long moment, his back to them. Then, without a word, he walked out the door, never to return.

  Part Three

  CHAPTER 12

  SARAH KNEW IT WAS only a dream. Nothing weird or paranormal — just churning bits of emotions. It started with another shouting match with Samuel. Of course it was about the abortion. Only now he was no longer Samuel. Suddenly he had become Reichner — using that same smooth logic, the same manipulative reasoning. Only now she was no longer in her apartment but lying helplessly on a table as he stood beside her in a surgical gown, poking and prodding inside her with the vacuum nozzle, trying to calm her with his cool, relaxing voice, assuring her that everything was okay, that it was all in the name of science, only somehow the nozzle was now inside her brain, sucking something from her mind as the vacuum machine grew louder, screaming with sucking air until suddenly she looked up to the clear surgical tubing and saw that it was Brandon being sucked through it, his face distorted in a scream, but instead of his voice it was hers, crying hysterically, trying to move but somehow paralyzed by Reichner’s soothing voice until she could stand no more, and then —

  Sarah awoke. She was breathing hard, and her cotton nightshirt clung to her damply.

  Four minutes later she stood in the shower. It was only 5:30 Sunday morning. But that was late enough. It was time to get to work. She tilted back her head and let the shower rinse the shampoo out of her hair.

  She’d felt something with Brandon — something she hadn’t felt in years. Something had come back alive, and she had hoped that it would offer a reprieve, an escape from her prison. But she’d only fooled herself. There was no way out for her. It was the same song — the same guilt and driving ambition — only in a different key. It would always be that way. Gradually, week by week, month by month, it would continue to destroy her.

  And two days ago it had nearly destroyed Brandon.

  The shower took longer than normal. She felt a need to lather up again. She wasn’t sure why, but she just didn’t feel clean enough.

  And somewhere, in the back of her mind, Sarah Weintraub guessed that she never would.

  “ ‘What profit hath a man of all his labour which he taketh under the sun? One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth for ever.’ ”

  Brandon thought it was odd for the reverend to read from the Bible this Sunday. He seldom did. But, after urging everyone to attend the farewell service that evening, and reminding them that the top religious leaders of the community would be there to show their respect, he had opened up to Ecclesiastes and was again demonstrating his impressive oratory skills:

  “ ‘The sun also ariseth, and the sun goeth down, and hasteth to his place where he arose.’ ”

  But it didn’t matter to Brandon. He was already zoning out — back in his pickup, sitting with Sarah, remembering how he had enjoyed her company and how for a brief moment she had given him hope.

  “ ‘All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full; unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again.’ ”

  And what about Jenny? What had happened to her? Why had she become a wolf? Is that what death did to you? Or was that thing Jenny at all? “Beware of seducers.” That’s what that old lady had said. “Keep your eyes open for counterfeits.” Was that what she’d meant? Was that what he’d experienced — not Jenny, but a counterfeit? Was that whole experiment just another way of entering that dangerous region she’d called the occult? And if so, if she’d been right about that, then what about —

  A gentle breeze stirred through the church. It caught Brandon’s attention and drew him back to the sanctuary. The candles on the altar were flickering.

  “ ‘The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun.’ ”

  Directly above the reverend, at the apex of the sanctuary ceiling, there was some sort of movement. Brandon looked up and watched as a gray, swirling mist began to form.

  Brandon closed his eyes. But when he reopened them, the mist had grown larger and was taking a shape — slowly whirling into faces that twisted and melded into one another. The same swirling faces he had seen in the storm outside the church with Sarah.

  “ ‘There is no remembrance of former things; neither shall there be any remembrance of things that are to …’ ”

  Again Brandon closed his eyes, this time clenching them tight, concentrating, trying to make the image disappear. When he reopened them he saw that he had at least stopped the thing’s growth. Encouraged, he stared at it, trying by sheer concentration to make it go away. He scowled hard until, slowly, stubbornly, the cloud began to recede.

  It was exhausting, but he would not stop. This was his life, and he didn’t have to put up with this. He would deny these illusions, these intrusions. He would make them leave for good. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his mother turn toward him, cautiously watching. She took his hand, but he would not look at her, he could not look at her. Not until he forced the thing away.

  “ ‘And I gave my heart to seek and search out by wisdom concerning all things that are done under heaven …’ ”

  The cloud continued to recede. So did the faces — until they were only a thinning mist, growing fainter by the second. A moment later, the wind slowed to a stop, and the mist was completely gone.

  Brandon closed his eyes. He took a long, deep breath and let it out. He had won. It had taken every ounce of his will, but he had won. He turned to his mother; she gave him a questioning smile. He returned it, then directed his attention back to the reverend.

  “ ‘I have seen all the works that are done under the sun; and, behold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit …’ ”

  Reichner settled himself comfortably behind the expensive mahagony desk and turned on his home computer. It had been a good morning. Earlier he’d met a girl at Kroger’s supermarket. Some pre-med college student. She looked barely twenty and came with all the accessories — good legs, a pert body, and long, gorgeous hair. Just the way he liked them.

  Of course she’d heard of the Institute, and of course she was flattered by his attention — particularly when he commented on her strong ESP potential. She had declined his offer for dinner, but his persistent charm had eventually paid off. By the time they’d reached the parking lot, she’d agreed to stop by the townhouse with a friend, later that evening.

  Things were getting back to normal.

  Reichner logged on to his Internet server and opened his e-mail box. There was the usual correspondence: a handful of fellow researchers, a film producer who wanted to do a documentary, and some loony-tune in Great Britain who needed his CD player exorcised. Reichner saved the letter from Nepal for last. He popped it onto the screen and started to read.

  Doctor:

  You have failed. He will no longer listen to you.

  There was more, but Reichner had to pause. Not only was this a reference to the past encounter he’d had with the boy guru or python or whatever. But now the kid was speaking of events he couldn’t possibly have known about. Not yet.

  A lucky guess? Perhaps, but Reichner had his doubts. There really had been a young man in this area who really had proven to be exceptionally gifted. And now, just as the e-mail pointed out, Reichner had let him slip through his fingers.

  If this was remote viewing that the boy guru was practicing, then Reichner had never seen anything quite so accurate. Granted, the U.S. military had trai
ned and used remote viewers for decades. But they had only been able to observe physical sights like military installations, or specific events such as missile launches. They’d seldom if ever observed a situation involving relationships.

  The letter continued:

  Perhaps he’ll listen to one of his own. She could do more harm than good, but time is running out. Visit Gerty Morrison. Convince her to reason with him. Your window of opportunity is nearly closed, Doctor. If we lose him, you will pay.

  Eric

  Reichner had no idea who this Gerty Morrison was but figured he could track her down easily enough, especially if she was local. But it was the last phrase that caught his attention. “If we lose him, you will pay.” It seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Obviously, it was a reminder that if he failed, the Institute would suffer financially. But why did it seem so familiar? What about it —

  And then he remembered. It was from his dream. The one with the python on his bed. Those were the identical words the thing had used as it had departed, just before Reichner had awakened with his heart beating like a jackhammer.

  “But the important thing is, you were able to resist it,” the reverend insisted. “You were able to fight it off. And the next time it will be easier, and the time after that, easier still.”

  Brandon poked at the green beans on his plate. It was Sunday afternoon and, as happened at least once a month, the reverend was over for Sunday supper.

  Momma sat across from Brandon, lifting another spoonful of potatoes to her husband’s mouth. “And with that determination,” she said, “along with the help from your medicine, we’ll finally be able to close this awful chapter once and for all.”

  Brandon watched as she slipped the spoon into his father’s mouth and encouraged him to chew. Then he turned to the reverend. “I have a question.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Weren’t visions and dreams — didn’t prophets, like in the Bible and stuff — didn’t they have them?” He didn’t miss the look between Momma and the reverend before the reverend cleared his throat and answered.

  “The prophets were a long time ago, Brandon. And even if they did exist, we have no way of verifying whether they actually had such insights or whether their ‘future predictions’ were simply written after the fact.”

  Brandon glanced at his mother. Was it his imagination or was she doing her best not to look at the reverend?

  The man continued. “To believe in the miraculous or the supernatural today, in this age of scientific reasoning, well, I’m afraid those days of superstition and folklore have long passed. Yes, I know that doesn’t agree with the latest trends and TV talk shows, but the supernatural has never been proven, Brandon — whether it’s good or evil, it’s never been proven.”

  “So what is there?” Brandon asked. “I mean if you don’t believe in —”

  “I believe in man. And his choices. What we choose to make of ourselves. Anything more than that is simply wishful thinking, striving after wind.” The reverend reached for a biscuit and broke it apart. “Now it’s true there are many people who would take issue with that. Good, sincere people, like your father there.”

  Brandon looked at his father, who continued to chew and stare off into space.

  “He was quite a believer in those early days, wasn’t he, Meg?”

  Momma nodded and turned to Brandon. “When you were first born, things got a little crazy around the church there for a while.”

  Brandon frowned, not understanding.

  She continued. “Truth be told, we all got a little carried away. Some of us were even sayin’ things like the world was gonna come to an end.”

  Brandon stared at her. “The world coming to an end?”

  Obviously embarrassed, she reached for the green beans and began to dish up seconds. “It was all anyone talked about back then — how we were all supposed to be taken up to heaven, how the Antichrist was supposed to be comin’, and how some end-time prophets were gonna rise up and fight him.”

  Drool, who had been asleep near the back door, suddenly lifted his head. The movement attracted Brandon’s attention. The poor animal was so deaf he could barely hear, but now he was staring up at the ceiling. Brandon ventured a look and was grateful not to see anything. He turned back to his mother. “You said this all happened when I was born?”

  Momma nodded. “Thereabouts. People thought they were havin’ all sorts of visions, and prophesyin’. Some even believed there would be a major showdown right there inside our own church.” She gave a nervous chuckle. “I’m afraid we definitely got a little carried away.”

  Brandon scowled. “Why didn’t somebody — why didn’t you ever mention it?”

  Momma shrugged as she brought another spoonful of potatoes to her husband’s mouth. “It’s not really somethin’ we’re proud of, sugar. Fortunately, it only lasted a few months. When nothin’ happened, things finally settled down. ’Course your daddy here, he was always hopin’ some of it was true.”

  Brandon looked at his father.

  “And that’s certainly no reflection on him,” the reverend interjected. “It’s not every man who can start a congregation from scratch. But without the proper education, the proper checks and balances — well, something like this can spread through a church like wildfire.”

  Brandon turned back to the reverend. “But visions and stuff, I mean, they could happen, couldn’t they? I mean, what about all this talk about angels and the Devil —”

  “Brandon,” the reverend gently interrupted. His voice was quiet, and he spoke earnestly from his heart. “You must believe me, son, these things just don’t happen — not to the educated, not to the rational. And not to the …” He hesitated. “Not to the healthy.”

  Brandon searched his face. The man was sincere, there was no doubt of that. But before Brandon could continue, Drool suddenly broke into a fit of barking. All three gave a start as the animal lumbered to its feet.

  “Drool,” Momma scolded.

  But the animal continued barking as it hobbled out of the kitchen toward the living room.

  “Drool, come back here.”

  They exchanged looks, and Brandon rose to investigate. “Hey, fella,” he called as he headed out of the room. He found the dog standing at the foot of the stairs looking up, barking.

  “What’s wrong, boy?”

  More barking.

  “What’s the problem?” Momma asked, as she and the reverend entered.

  Brandon shook his head, then started up the stairs to see for himself.

  “Could be a squirrel,” she offered hopefully. “You know how they’re always playin’ on the roof outside our windows.”

  The dog continued to bark but remained at the foot of the steps, refusing to follow his master.

  Brandon arrived at the top of the stairs and headed down the hall. Before him was the bathroom, his bedroom, his parents’ room — and finally Jenny’s. For some time now, Momma had been promising to clean out Jenny’s room, to save a few mementos, maybe store the bed and furniture up in the barn. There had even been talk of turning it into a guest room. But Brandon knew that would never happen. She didn’t have the heart. There were still those times, late at night, when he heard her slip into her little girl’s room and have a quiet cry. It had been seven months since her death, and so far the only change had been that they kept her door closed.

  Until now. Now it was open. Not by much. Just a few inches. But a few inches was enough. Brandon slowed his pace. He approached, carefully avoiding the floorboards that he knew would creak.

  Downstairs, Drool continued his incessant barking.

  “Brandon,” Momma called. “Brandon.”

  But he didn’t answer. He’d heard something. A tiny tinkling — breezy, far away. And the closer he approached, the louder it grew. It was music. One of Jenny’s music boxes had been opened, and it was now playing a song.

  He continued down the hall until portions of her room came into view — a
canopy bed, her vanity. The afternoon sun struck the pulled window shade and bathed everything in a dim, ivory-yellow glow. As the melody grew louder, he began to recognize it. Something from one of those Disney movies she loved so much.

  He caught a glimpse of her bookshelf, then the corner of the dresser. At last he arrived. He nudged the door open a bit further. There on the dresser sat the music box — glass with gold trim and a red rose etched upon the open lid. Other than the music, everything was completely still.

  Against his better judgment, Brandon heard himself quietly whisper, “Jenny?”

  There was no answer. Only the music.

  He pushed the door farther until he saw the entire room — the stuffed animals on her bed, the ballerina poster, the dolphin mobile hanging from the ceiling.

  He took a tentative step inside.

  “Jenny.”

  And then another.

  “Jen —”

  It lunged at him from behind the door. He fell hard, crashing to the floor. Somebody was on top of him. In the dim light he saw the glint of steel — a knife coming toward his chest. He raised both hands and barely caught the wrist in time.

  “Impostor!” a chorus of voices screamed.

  Adrenaline surged through Brandon as he struggled to push the knife away. Now he saw the face behind it. Short red hair, goatee. The young man who had attacked him at the church.

  Brandon squirmed, throwing his body hard to the left, then to the right. The kid toppled off, and for a brief moment the knife disappeared. Brandon struggled until he was on top. But only for a second. He was thrown off, flying through the air until his shoulder slammed hard into the dresser. He heard the popping and shattering of china dolls as they fell to the floor around him.

  The attacker lunged again. Brandon rolled to the side, momentarily dodging him. He scrambled to his feet but was broadsided. They fell and rolled — Brandon on top, then underneath. The knife reappeared. Coming down hard, this time toward his face. Brandon jerked his head to the right and heard the blade thud into the wood an inch from his ear.