Fire Of Heaven 03 - Fire of Heaven

by Bill Myers

  “How convenient.” It was a good-natured tease and she appreciated the camaraderie. But she also rose to the occasion. She took the straw she’d been holding and laid it on the table.

  “If this straw was a two-dimensional creature living on this table, it would understand length” — she indicated the length of the table — “and it would understand width.” She motioned to the width. “But it would have no idea of depth, of up and down, since up and down doesn’t exist in its world. In fact it would see none of this.” She motioned to the rest of the room.

  “Nor would it see us,” Lucas added.

  “Exactly.” She took the straw’s wrapper and laid it on one side of the straw. “No matter how many walls it built around itself” — she took a napkin and laid it on the other side — “we could still see it.”

  “Since it doesn’t know there is any ‘above’ to build a roof over itself.”

  “Precisely.” She lowered her face closer to the straw. “And no matter how close we got, it would never know we were here.”

  “Unless?” Lucas asked.

  “Unless we moved something that it could see in its own dimension.” She blew the paper out of the way.

  Lucas stared at the paper, slowly formulating his thought. “And you believe that Eric is starting to see into these other dimensions?”

  “Yes. I believe that somehow your DNA experiment has made his nervous system more susceptible to their influence.”

  “Their influence.”

  “The spirits … the inhabitants of this other dimension.”

  “But is that so wrong?”

  “Not if they’re the good guys.”

  “Good guys … you mean like angels?”

  Sarah nodded. “Unfortunately there are other inhabitants of that world … ”

  Lucas listened intently.

  “Judaism, Christianity, other religions — many acknowledge their existence and have names for them. Our culture calls them … demons.”

  Lucas frowned. “And you believe that this is what Heylel may be?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think in a few days we’ll need to find out.”

  “But he’s been so helpful, so generous.”

  “I understand.”

  “So much of what we have been able to accomplish has been through his counsel.”

  Sarah waited as Lucas explored the idea. It was a lot to digest at one time, but if any man was capable of doing so in an intelligent and unbiased manner, he was the one. As she watched, she again found herself wondering what would have happened if she’d have connected earlier with a man of such strength and maturity, a man who knew exactly who he was and where he was going … instead of someone so young who, although incredibly kind and compassionate, was still … so young.

  She pushed the thought out of her mind as she had a hundred other times. But, as always, it came back. Initially, she had tried to replace it with memories of Brandon. She’d even tried to pray them away. It helped some, but when it came to praying to a God that, at times, she barely understood, or daydreaming about one of the most dynamic men in the world, well, there was little contest.

  “What do you propose we do?”

  She glanced up, momentarily forgetting where they were. “I, uh, we’ve already completed the psychological aspects of his testing. In just a few days we will be through with the physiological as well.”

  “And then?”

  “Then I’d like to move toward the spiritual. I’d like to speak with Heylel directly. I’d like to convince him to reveal more of his identity.”

  “Many of us have tried.”

  “I appreciate that, and I may be equally as unsuccessful. But my experience in these areas might give me a slight advantage.”

  Lucas nodded quietly.

  Sarah took a deep breath and let it out. The meeting had been more taxing than she had anticipated. Then again, she was always nervous with Lucas. She glanced back up and caught him smiling at her.

  “What?” she asked self-consciously.

  “I appreciate your candidness, Doctor. Many would be reluctant to openly voice such opinions, especially ones of such unconventional nature.”

  Sarah caught herself tugging at her hair and stopped. “And that’s all they are,” she emphasized. “Opinions.”

  “For now.”

  “Yes, for now.”

  He remained smiling.

  Realizing the meeting had come to an end, Sarah reached down and gathered her papers. “Well, then, that’s the direction we’ll pursue.” She started to rise. “I’ll let you get back to work now and —”

  “Please.” He motioned for her to sit. “I have one other area to discuss with you. If you have the time.”

  “If I have the time? Well, yes, certainly.” She sat back down.

  “As you know, the Cartel is in the final stages of bringing together the world powers. In a matter of days, and for the first time in history, we may have finally secured world peace.”

  “A remarkable accomplishment. And as their chairman, you should be quite proud.”

  Lucas shrugged off the compliment. “A figurehead, that’s all I am.” Before she could disagree, he continued. “Your work has proven very interesting these past several weeks.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And this business of bringing science and the supernatural together is quite intriguing. I’m wondering if it wouldn’t be prudent for us to investigate a similar union here at the Cartel. As we enter this new paradigm of history, many things will change. Perhaps it would be well to create our own department bringing these two disciplines together. And what person would be better to head it up than yourself?”

  Sarah chuckled. “Is the chairman offering me a job?”

  He looked at her, his intense eyes making her feel a little uneasy at the joke. A little uneasy and a lot weak. He spoke quietly. “I know your clinic has closed.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “It is my job to know everything … especially concerning the people I care about.” He hesitated, appearing uncertain if he should go on. “And I care about you, Sarah. By now, you must know I care about you very much.”

  Sarah’s heart stopped. Everything froze as she tried to grasp what she’d just heard. She opened her mouth, but no words would come. She tried moving her lips. Nothing happened. Then, as always, Lucas, the gracious and understanding one, came to the rescue.

  “I am sorry. I have embarrassed you.”

  “No, that’s —”

  “I was out of line. Thinking only of myself. Please forgive me.” For the first time she could remember, he seemed flustered, unsure. “I don’t know what I was thinking. It is just …” He leaned forward, staring at his palms. “In my position, there are so few people that I trust, that I can confide in.” He paused, then continued. “And sometimes, ever since Julia died, sometimes this loneliness —” He glanced up and saw her discomfort. “Ah, but I have done it again. Please, please, I apologize. What you must think of me. And you, a married woman with such deep convictions. Please, accept my apologies. I don’t know what I was thinking. When it comes to world powers, I have a good understanding. But these matters of the heart, I guess they’ll always be foreign to me.”

  Sarah looked on, stunned and moved. The more he struggled, the more endearing he became. Here was a major world power, suave, sophisticated, countries bowing at his feet, yet he had suddenly turned to jelly when speaking from his heart. A heart that had apparently placed much of its affections upon her.

  He shook his head, unable to look at her. “I am sorry.”

  “No.” She cleared the hoarseness from her throat. “That’s okay. Really.”

  He continued shaking his head.

  “Lucas?” He looked up. There were those eyes again. For a moment she forgot to breathe. “Don’t worry about it. I’m not offended. Actually, it’s quite a compliment.” She reached down and regathered her things, preparing to leave. “Most women would consider
it an honor.” Somehow she was able to rise to her feet and actually stand. “But you’re right, I am a married woman and I am committed to my husband.”

  “Certainly.” Lucas also rose to his feet. “I understand completely. Believe me.”

  She smiled. “I do believe you.”

  He nodded, but kept his eyes riveted on hers.

  “Well.” Again she cleared her throat as she checked her papers. “If I have your permission then, when we finish Eric’s neurological tests, we’ll change gears to see if there’s anything spiritual.”

  “Yes, certainly, whatever you think is best.”

  “Good.” She shifted the papers to her other hand and suddenly reached out to shake his. It was an odd gesture, a little clumsy, but it was the best she could think of considering the circumstances. “Well then, good afternoon, Lucas.”

  He took her hand and they shook. “Good afternoon.”

  She moved past him. She heard the click of her pumps against the marble tile, and knew she was making progress toward the glass doors, but she wasn’t sure how. He was still staring, she sensed it. She arrived, pushed open the doors, and stepped into the main building. Somehow she was able to continue forward.

  Brandon had been ravenous. And the lunch of cheese, flat bread, cucumbers sprinkled with lemon juice, and a large bowl of yogurt with a glob of unprocessed honey plopped in the middle was a welcomed feast. Once again the food came compliments of Salman’s swift tongue. This time he’d convinced the restaurant owner that it would bring him great fortune to feed the “holy man and his disciple.” That had been half an hour ago. After that, word quickly spread through the city of Bergama. Now it seemed every time Brandon glanced up from their sidewalk table he caught more faces staring at him. Concerned faces. He’d smiled politely, then did his best to ignore them. And still the crowd continued to grow.

  A thousand feet above them on a mountaintop overlooking the city stood another acropolis. It had once been called Pergamum and was the address of the third letter. Of all the locations so far, this one made him the most nervous. He wasn’t entirely sure why, though he suspected much of it had to do with Jesus Christ calling it “the throne of Satan.”

  “Some more drink?” Salman held out a bottle of sweet cherry juice, a favorite of Turks. Brandon shook his head and watched as the young man set it down and refilled his glass from another bottle. Its blue and white label read “Raki.” It was also a favorite, but with a bit more kick — a forty-five-proof kick, to be exact.

  “I’m still not sure how you pulled this off,” Brandon said, marveling at the food before him.

  “Take a look around you, my friend. We are in the Bakir Valley — the most fertile in all of Turkey. Nowhere in the world do they grow finer tobacco or cotton.”

  “But what’s that got to do with —”

  “Their livelihood, it depends upon farming. And the drought, it is wiping them out.”

  Brandon looked back up at the faces. “But what’s that got to do with me?”

  “Mr. Brandon, you’re the man who called down this drought.”

  “What?”

  “Please, I saw it on TV — ‘My anger and fury will be poured out on the trees of the field and the fruit of the ground and it will burn and not be quenched.’ ”

  “But that didn’t necessarily mean —”

  “So if you can call down a drought from heaven, then you can call it back up and make it rain again.” He leaned forward with a smile. “As long as they don’t make you too angry.”

  “Is that what you’re telling them?”

  Salman shrugged and broke into a grin.

  Now the anxiety on their faces made sense. So did the growing crowd. “Salman, I

  didn’t —”

  “Well, looky who we have here.”

  He glanced up and saw Tanya Chase approaching. Looming beside her, his hands stuffed into his pockets and looking miserable in the heat, was her sullen and balding cameraman, the one from L.A.

  “We figured you’d show up,” Tanya said as she peeled off a 500,000 lira bill, amounting to about two U.S. dollars, and handed it to the boy who had brought her. “It was just a matter of time.” She pulled up a chair and joined them. The cameraman followed suit. “You remember Jerry, don’t you?”

  Brandon and the cameraman exchanged nods.

  “Waiter, waiter.” She motioned to Salman’s glass. “I’ll have whatever he’s having. Oh, and one of those cheese and honey desert things.” She turned to Salman. “What are they called?”

  Struck by her beauty and her boldness, Salman was only too happy to be of assistance. “Hershmalem. It is called Hershmalem.”

  “Yeah,” Tanya called, “one of those Hersh-whatevers.”

  “Make that two,” Jerry muttered.

  The waiter nodded and disappeared into the crowd. Brandon watched as Tanya reached for an olive on his plate. “How did you find me?” he asked.

  “We knew you’d gone to Turkey. Figured it wasn’t exactly a family vacation, with your wife leaving you and all.”

  Brandon ignored the barb.

  “Hometown rumor has it you fancy yourself one of the two witnesses in Revelation. So …” She reached for another olive. “Doing our best to think like a delusionist, we figured you’d head for Patmos, the island where the book was written. When you were a no-show there, Jerry here guessed you’d be hitting the seven churches.” She glanced at her cameraman. “Nice work.”

  He shrugged and said nothing.

  She glanced around the sidewalk. “You seem to be drawing quite a crowd.”

  Brandon did his best to keep his voice steady. “What do you want from me?”

  “I’m just a reporter after a story.”

  “Haven’t you done enough damage already?”

  “Me? Haven’t I done enough damage? Look around you, Brandon. Look at all these people suffering. And not just them. What about the thousands that have been killed in the Pacific Northwest? What do you have to say to —”

  “Wait a minute. What thousands?”

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard? The volcanoes. Baker and Hood, they’ve both gone off. Washington and Oregon look like war zones. Twelve thousand dead and counting. And Mount Bandai is getting ready to blow in Japan.”

  “And you think … I’m responsible?”

  “You tell me. That’s why I’m here. And while you’re at it, maybe you can explain again why you believe this God of yours, who’s supposed to be an all-merciful, loving Father, has reduced Himself to the level of throwing cosmic temper tantrums.”

  Brandon blinked in surprise. But before he could respond, a little girl’s scream suddenly cut through the din of the sidewalk and traffic. Another followed. People turned, looking across the cobblestone road toward the plaza on the other side.

  There was another cry, only this one was from a woman.

  Other guests at surrounding tables rose, stretching their necks for a look. The screaming continued.

  “What is it?” Brandon asked as he stood, trying to see. “What’s going on?”

  Then he spotted her across the street. A young mother was being held by two other women as she shouted and pointed. Twenty, maybe thirty feet beyond, pressed against the base of an Ataturk statue, was her two-year-old daughter. She was screaming in terror at the fifty-pound mongrel crouched in front of her, snarling. And the more she screamed, the more incensed the dog became.

  “He’s rabid!” Salman said.

  “What?”

  “Look at the foam. The dog, he has rabies.”

  Now Brandon saw it, the white foam frothing and falling from the animal’s lips. For the briefest second he wanted to move to action, to try and help. But he felt a check in his spirit. Something told him to be still and to simply watch.

  Those closest to the plaza began backing away. Some crowded into the safety of doorways. An older gentleman was doing his best to ease the hysterical mother away.

  But the dog saw none of it. His
attention was focused only upon the little girl and her awful noise.

  A handful of men, four to five, began shouting. They stepped out from the crowd, waving their arms, their hats, doing anything they could to draw the animal’s attention. But the girl’s cries were too loud, too immediate. The men moved closer, pleading with her to be calm, to be quiet, but she would have none of it. She started toward one of them. The dog immediately crouched, ready to spring. The man shouted for her to stop and she froze, still crying.

  Another yelled and started running toward the animal. He came within ten feet before the dog saw him and spun around. The distraction worked, but only for a moment. Because as the man veered off for safety, the little girl’s cries drew the dog’s attention back to her.

  Another one tried. Approaching slower. Shouting louder. Waving his arms until he caught the animal’s attention. The dog turned and the man ran. But again the little girl’s cries focused the animal’s attention back on her. It crouched lower, snarling at the insufferable noise.

  Others, near the safety of doorways or behind open windows, shouted and hollered, but they were too far away. The animal was focused only upon the girl, when suddenly —

  “Sevim!”

  Heads jerked around to see another man running toward the plaza. He was a farmer, dressed in dark clothes, racing directly for the animal.

  “Sevim!” It was obviously her name. He shouted other things in Turkish that Brandon did not understand.

  “What’s he saying?”

  “He is the father,” Salman explained.

  “Sevim!”

  The crowd murmured as the man raced across the dead grass and dirt of the plaza. By the look of things he had no intention of stopping.

  “What’s he going to do?” Tanya yelled. “Is he crazy?”

  Salman’s response was the same. “He is the father.”

  The man closed the remaining distance. The dog spun toward him snarling, white froth dripping from its fangs. But, before it could attack, the man leaped at the beast with a ferocious cry.

  The dog was strong, fifty pounds of crazed muscle — lunging and biting, clawing and tearing. But the father fought relentlessly, crying out in pain and rage, as he tried to grab the animal’s head.