Fire Of Heaven Book II Threshold

by Bill Myers

  The reverend answered, “The doctors say Brandon is suffering from acute guilt — compounded by his inability to accept his sister’s death.”

  “So he dreams about her?” Sarah asked.

  “They say it’s a release.”

  “But weird dreams,” Mrs. Martus explained. “Not healthy at all.”

  The reverend nodded.

  Sarah continued a bit more tentatively. “Were they ever — the dreams — were they ever partially manifested?”

  The reverend frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Have they ever contained facts or bits of information that, later, seemed to come true?”

  Mrs. Martus shifted slightly. Sarah couldn’t be certain, but it seemed she’d grown more uneasy.

  Once again the reverend answered. “Why do you ask, Dr. Weintraub?”

  “Well, the average person spends a total of six years of his life dreaming, and —”

  “Usually emotional or psychological in nature,” he interjected. “Unless, of course it’s just plain fantasy.”

  “Not always,” Sarah corrected. “PSI studies indicate that precognitive skills — the ability to perceive an event before it happens — most often occur when we’re in the dream state.”

  Mrs. Martus and the reverend exchanged a discreet glance. Sarah noted it, then continued. “What about premonitions? Feelings that he’d been someplace, seen something before the event actually occurred?”

  “Dr. Weintraub.” The reverend quietly set down his drink. “We appreciate your interest, particularly given your area of expertise. But let me assure you, Brandon’s experiences have nothing to do with what you folks refer to as ‘the paranormal.’ ”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “Brandon has suffered a severe emotional loss, and he holds himself responsible. To encourage him, to suggest that these experiences come from anything else, much less the supernatural — well, it would only do him more harm than good.”

  “But you do believe it is possible?”

  He took a breath and folded his hands. “I believe the human mind is a remarkable instrument, capable of far more than we give it credit. But to think of these incidents in the context of the supernatural — well …” He gave a little smile. “I’d like to think we’ve all grown past those days of superstition, wouldn’t you?”

  Sarah looked at him, unsure whether to be offended. “Still,” she insisted, “as a minister, as a man of faith, you’re aware of these things. I mean, your own Bible talks about dreams, prophets —”

  “The Bible was written a long time ago, Dr. Weintraub. Certainly, it contains great wisdom and insight into the human condition, not to mention its poetic grace and beauty. However, I’m sure you are aware of the problems created when people start taking it too literally, when they begin treating it as if it were infallible, the final word of authority in any type of social, historical, or even scientific issue.”

  “Certainly, but as a —”

  “If that were the case, where would we stop?” he chuckled. “Would you also have us believing in a six-day creation, or handling snakes, or raising people from the dead?”

  “All I’m suggesting is that, as a minister, you’re certainly aware of —”

  “As a minister, I’m aware that it is my responsibility to care for my flock.” His voice grew more firm. “And if that means protecting them occasionally from half-baked theories or the latest fads in pseudo-science, then so be it.”

  Sarah felt her ears growing hot with anger. “Excuse me?”

  “What I mean to say is that —”

  “Gracious me,” Mrs. Martus laughed, as she held out her hands, making it clear that the discussion was at an end. Sarah and the reverend looked at her. She chuckled. “Yes, sir, there’s nothing like a lively debate between friends.” She reached over and poured more tea into Sarah’s glass. “I guess it’s like my momma always said, if you want some spice in the conversation just add a little religion and politics.”

  The interruption gave Sarah a moment to cool down. She stole a glance at the reverend. He was doing the same. She’d obviously hit a nerve. But what?

  “Brandon will be fine,” Mrs. Martus cranked up her smile a little higher. She patted Sarah’s hand. “He just needs a little rest, that’s all. Just a little rest and he’ll be as good as new. Mark my words.”

  Mrs. Martus and the reverend reached for their iced tea. The cubes in their glasses clinked, and Sarah watched as they raised the drinks to their mouths in almost perfect unison.

  Dr. Reichner started awake. He blinked, once, twice, before finally getting his bearings. He sat up. His face was wet with perspiration and his heart hammered in his chest. He took several breaths, literally forcing himself to calm down and relax. It had been five years since his heart attack and he did not intend to have another.

  It was only a dream, that’s all. A flashback to his encounter with the python. He reached over and snapped on the light.

  See, the room was empty. Only his Siamese cat lay at the foot of his luxurious, satin-sheeted bed. Nothing else. And definitely no python.

  Still the words of the boy guru’s voice had seemed so real, echoing in Reichner’s head as clearly as the first time he’d heard them:

  “We’ve chosen you to help him … to unlock his gifts …”

  There had been no other communication from Nepal. Not by fax, nor e-mail, nor phone. But that’s how it had always been. Besides the money that was wired every month into the Institute’s account, there was virtually no other communication with the cartel. They definitely liked their privacy, and that was fine with him. The less interference the better.

  Of course he was required to keep his financiers up-to-date on his research through semiannual reports and by copying them on all published articles, but that was about it. That’s why the summons to Nepal and his conversation (if you could call it that) with the boy guru had been so significant. For three years the money had always been there when he needed it. And, except for their insistence that the Institute be built here in Indiana, they’d pretty much given him free rein.

  Until now.

  And yet it was a simple request. Find some young man with pronounced PSI abilities and run a few tests on him. No problem — virtually a carbon copy of what he’d done with Lewis. Although it would be fine with Reichner if they could forego the “voices” this time.

  No, it wasn’t the request that bothered him as much as it was the method in which it had been made.

  More and more, he had begun to regard his initial vision in Nepal as legitimate. It was too vivid, too precise, to have been induced by drugs or the exotic environment. And he’d certainly read about such things happening — not only in Eastern mysticism but in the West as well, where shamans supposedly communicate with the spirits of animals. And there was at least one famous psychic in the States who claimed to receive her prophecies through a talking snake. The concept certainly wasn’t new. In fact, it was as old as the Garden of Eden myth. But Reichner had never personally experienced anything like that, and it had definitely left him unnerved.

  Then there was the other matter: this sudden urgency. The boy guru obviously believed something was going to happen. And judging by the pressure he was exerting, he believed it was going to happen very soon.

  But all of that had little to do with tonight’s experience. Tonight it had simply been a dream. Reichner had merely dreamed that the python was curled up on his silken sheets repeating the phrases. Phrases Reichner had obviously pulled from his memory. Phrases that his subconscious was using to urge him to begin the search. Of course it would have been easier to believe this if it hadn’t been for that other phrase, the new one still ringing in his ears, the one that hadn’t been used in his encounter in Nepal — the phrase that had finally awakened him.

  “If you do not help,” the voice had whispered, “we will lose him. And if we lose him, you will pay.”

  Reichner shook his head. It was only a
dream. He glanced at the alarm on his bed stand: 12:11. He reached over to turn off the light, then hesitated. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to sleep with it on, just for tonight. Angry at the thought and at the weakness it betrayed, he snapped off the light and lay back down.

  But sleep would not return.

  Nor did sleep come for Brandon. It had been nearly three hours since Momma had helped him up to his room. The medication she’d given him hadn’t even taken the edge off his torment. How could it? How could two little pills be expected to stop a living nightmare? The storm, the vaporous head with horns, the fountain of blood, the lampstand, the sign — they all seemed vaguely familiar, like pieces from forgotten dreams, or stories he’d heard as a child. But nothing made sense. His mind raced — to where, he wasn’t certain. How to stop it, he hadn’t a clue. The only things he could be sure of were the tears, his increasing confusion, and his ever-growing anger.

  Sometime after midnight, he got up, dressed, headed out to his pickup, and quietly drove into town. Unsure where to go, he eventually found himself back at the church. He didn’t expect to find any answers there, but he did expect to vent some rage.

  The doors were unlocked. They always were. It was a policy his father had started way back when the church had first opened. And, over the years, it was a policy that potential thieves and vandals usually respected. Brandon stepped into the foyer. Everything was deathly still. This time, the sanctuary doors were open. There were no fountains, no olive trees, no lampstands, and definitely no hanging sign. Everything was real.

  He entered the sanctuary and made his way down the slight incline of the aisle toward the altar. He didn’t bother turning on the lights. He’d grown up here. The diffused glow from the outside streetlight provided what little illumination he needed.

  He stopped just a few feet from the pew he’d sat in every Sunday for over twenty years. He glared up at the cross hanging on the wall, the same absurd symbol he’d seen each of those Sundays. The symbol of death and sacrifice and futility.

  When he spoke, his voice quivered with rage. “What do you want from me?”

  Silence.

  Again he spoke, louder. “What do you want?”

  But, of course, there was no answer. Just his own echo as it faded into the silence. A tightness grew in his throat. He tried to swallow it, but it wouldn’t go away. Tears sprang to his eyes, but he fought them back. Not here. Not now.

  He spoke again — a final, harsh whisper. “What do you want?”

  “Maybe he just wants you to believe.”

  The sound spun Brandon around. He peered into the darkness, searching for its source. There. Almost at the back, near the center, a small sitting figure.

  “Who’s there?” he demanded.

  With some difficulty the figure rose from the pew.

  “Who are you?” he asked again. “What are you doing here?”

  Slowly, the figure made its way toward the center aisle. “I’m here ’cause I knew you’d be here.” It was a woman’s voice — craggy and old. It sounded familiar.

  “Who are you?” he repeated.

  “I s’pose I could be askin’ you the same question, Brandon Martus.”

  The figure stepped into the aisle. A faint pool of light spilled across her face. Now he recognized her. “You’re the old woman. The one who stopped by the house yesterday.”

  Gerty started toward him, hobbling painfully down the aisle. “And you’re the boy who refuses to believe.”

  Brandon watched in silence as she approached. She spoke again. “I’m sure gonna miss this place. Hear they’re gonna be tearin’ it down for a — what’d they say? Some sorta bank building?”

  Brandon said nothing.

  She continued, “Did you know that right there, right where you’re standin’ in front of that altar, your momma and poppa dedicated you to the Lord? You musta been only seven, maybe eight days old.” She stopped halfway down the aisle to catch her breath.

  Brandon said nothing.

  “Believe you me, that was one special morning. ’Course we knew before that, before you were even born we knew that the Lord had his hand upon you.” She chuckled softly. “Yes, sir, that was one special day. We were all standin’ around singin’ and believin’ somethin’ real special was gonna happen, right then and there. ’Course nothin’ did. But still …”

  Her voice trailed off and Brandon quietly answered. “A lot of things people believe don’t happen.”

  At last she arrived and looked up at him. “But that don’t mean you stop believin’.”

  Brandon carefully eyed her.

  “Your belief, that’s what makes it happen, Brandon Martus. All you need to do is the believin’. He’ll take care of the rest. But you gotta believe. Do you hear me, son? You got to believe. Faith, that’s your only shield.”

  “Well, then, I’ll have to do without.”

  She looked at him.

  He glanced away, then mumbled, “The only thing I know about faith is I don’t have any.”

  The old woman watched him, saying nothing. Finally she looked past him to the cross on the front wall. “There are two types of faith, child. Earthly faith and heavenly. The earthly faith, that don’t mean a thing. It’s just man-made, just a way to try to make the good Lord do what you want him to.” Her eyes fell back on him. “But there’s another type. The type that surrenders to his will. Completely. And once it learns what that will is, it speaks it into existence. And that type of faith, anyone can have.”

  Brandon closed his eyes. He’d heard religious double-talk all his life. “Yeah,” he said, preparing to move past her, “well, I’m fresh out of both.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  Her comment angered him. “What?”

  She said nothing, which only irritated him more.

  “Look, I don’t have any faith, okay? Not anymore.” She remained silent. He continued, “Maybe once, when I was a kid, sure. But I’ve gotten a little older now. And smarter, if you know what I mean. I understand a lot more.”

  “You understand nothing.”

  His irritation grew. “I don’t have faith, all right?”

  The woman shook her head. “You’re wrong, Brandon Martus.”

  He tossed his hair back in frustration. “What’s with you, anyway?”

  She held his look. “Anyone can believe who wants to believe. You just don’t want to.”

  This was absurd. What was he doing arguing with a nutcase in the middle of the night? “I can’t believe.” His voice grew louder. “You got that? I cannot believe.”

  “You will not believe.”

  He took a breath, holding back his anger.

  “Your will is the key. If you’d turn that key, God would give you his faith. He is the author of faith, Brandon Martus, not you. You need only surrender to him.”

  Brandon shook his head. There was no reasoning with this type. He’d run into them before. It was best just to let them go on and live out their little delusions. “Look, I should have never stopped by here in the first place.” He started to pass her. “Why don’t you just — go back to whatever you were doing and —”

  She grabbed his arm. Her grip was weak, but he let it stop him.

  “Your will is the key, Brandon Martus. You just got to surrender.”

  He looked at her, then down at the hand on his arm. She released it and he started back up the aisle.

  “Brandon Martus.”

  He kept walking.

  “Beware of the seducers. Be keepin’ your eyes open for the counterfeits.”

  He slowed to a stop.

  “If you refuse the Lord’s way, your adversary will be tryin’ to seduce you down other roads.” He turned to her and she continued. “There’s only one path, Brandon Martus. His path. And it’s narrow. Beware of the broader ways. Don’t be reachin’ for heaven with the arm of the flesh. Such ways lead to the occult, to destruction. All paths but the Lord’s lead to destruction.”

  He held her look another
moment before turning and continuing back up the aisle. Maybe it was good they were tearing down the place. Who knew what type of wackos were starting to show up.

  He exited through the foyer and walked outside into the sultry night air. The moon was nearly full, but its edges were blurred by a faint haze. He headed down the steps and crossed the grass to his pickup. Then he heard footsteps behind him. Apparently the old gal could move a lot faster if she set her mind to it. He turned, ready to confront her one last time. “Look, I —”

  That’s when he was hit. Someone jumped him from behind and they both crashed into the side of his truck. Before Brandon could recover, his attacker was already landing punches. Brandon raised his arms to block the blows and staggered back, away from the truck.

  He saw a young man with a shaved head, red goatee, and wild eyes. Crazed eyes, like an animal’s.

  “We knew you’d return!” the assailant screamed, spittle flying. “We knew!” But it wasn’t a single voice. It was like the patient’s at the Institute. Multiple voices. Dozens of voices. Dozens of voices all shouting and directing their anger at him.

  “Look,” Brandon said, catching his breath, bracing for another assault. “I don’t know who you are, but I don’t want any trouble, all right? So why don’t —”

  Once again the attacker leaped at him, and they tumbled to the ground. As they rolled, Brandon swung his fists, striking ribs, kidneys, gut, but nothing mattered. The assailant seemed oblivious to pain. They rolled one way, then the other, until the attacker wound up on top, and Brandon found himself pinned. He tried to buck him off, but the man seemed to have superhuman strength.

  With Brandon’s arms pinned by his assailant’s knees, the man began landing punches squarely into his face. Blow after blow, sharp and powerful. Brandon did his best to resist, trying to roll, trying to throw him off, but it did little good. Lights began dancing across his vision. A loud ringing filled his head.

  With the attacker’s blows came the swearing. Vile oaths, all directed at Brandon. But they were sounding farther away, fading…as was Brandon’s pain. He was passing out. Any second now and he would —