Fire Of Heaven Book II Threshold

by Bill Myers

  “I’m Lewis,” the voice said, “Lewis Thompson. My car ran out of gas in front of your house, and I was wondering if I could use your telephone.”

  Gerty paused a moment before slowly rising to her feet. She pushed the chair back, and it squeaked against the worn floor.

  “Ma’am?” the voice persisted.

  “I’ll be right there.” She started toward the door. As she approached she felt a peace settling over her. A peace that was beyond any understanding. It was a quiet confidence. A resolve that filled her entire body.

  The boy’s face came into view through the screen. She immediately recognized the short, nearly shaved hair, the red goatee, and the crooked teeth. This was the child at the church, the one who had attacked Brandon, the one she had sent racing off. She couldn’t tell whether he recognized her; he seemed too agitated to recognize anything. He pulled at the door, but the tiny hook and eyelet kept it closed. She could refuse him entrance, but he would only rip the door open and there was really no need to ruin it. She took the remaining steps to the screen door and flipped up the hook.

  He pulled it open. He was nervous and sweaty, but he managed to speak. “Yeah, run outta gas right here in front of your house.”

  His right hand was wrapped in gauze. He saw her staring at it and twitched a nervous grin. “Got attacked by a dog this afternoon,” he said, holding up his hand so she could get a better look. The gauze had dark spots where the blood had soaked through.

  Gerty nodded, and they stood facing one another in silent confrontation. He was sweating, agitated, ready to explode. She could still stop this. She could still exercise her authority and send him running. But to do that would mean disobedience. It would mean using her powers outside of God’s will. The temptation wasn’t a surprise. She remembered how the Lord himself had been tempted to turn stone into bread, to oppose his Father’s will in the garden, to call down legions of angels as he hung on the cross. She thought of Stephen, or the thousands of other martyrs who had gone before her. God could have delivered any one of them — if it had been his will.

  With steely determination, she took her eyes off the boy. She turned and headed toward the refrigerator. “Phone’s over on the wall,” she said. “Can I get you somethin’ to drink?”

  He gave no answer. She could hear him waiting, preparing to attack.

  “Still mighty hot,” she continued. “Never seen nothin’ like it in all my days.” She arrived at the refrigerator, opened it, and reached for the beige Tupperware pitcher of iced tea. She could hear the brush of his clothing as he moved toward her. Without looking, she closed the refrigerator door and crossed to the cupboard for a glass. She’d washed the dishes earlier that afternoon. No sense having others clean up after her. She pulled down a glass, the one with the little sunflowers on the side. She’d had it for years. Won it at the County Fair dime toss.

  The boy moved closer. She could hear him breathing now. Short, labored gasps.

  She no longer felt fear. Only compassion and pity. Compassion for the boy and pity over what he would have to live with in the years to come. Unless …

  Maybe she could still help him. Maybe there was still a way to prevent his pain. She poured the iced tea. “So tell me, you ever go to church?” she asked.

  No answer.

  “Sunday school?” She turned and was startled to see how close he was. His face was wet and his eyes were wide and wild. She thought she saw him nod but wasn’t sure. She held out the glass. He looked down at it, confused. Finally he took it.

  She moved past him and headed back to put away the pitcher. “Remember how they was always talkin’ ’bout Jesus? How he suffered and died on the cross? How he shed his blood for the forgiveness of our sins — for everything you and I ever done wrong?”

  Her back was to him again and she heard movement, a shifting of weight. The topic obviously made him uncomfortable. Either him or the multitude that she knew lived inside of him.

  “I just want you to know, son, that there’s nothing you can do that’s too bad for him to forgive. You just remember that. It’s never too late to ask his forgiveness, and to let him come in and be your Lord.”

  She opened the refrigerator door, placed the pitcher back on the top shelf, and closed it. Now she headed toward the table. “’Cause he loves you, son. Don’t you ever be forgettin’ that. No matter what happens, remember he loves you.”

  She could hear him approaching, his breath faster, heavier.

  “All you got to do is ask.”

  There was a snapping sound, something being unfastened. Then the sound of steel sliding from leather.

  “And I forgive you, too. Remember that. I forgive you, too.”

  He stood behind her, so close she could feel his ragged breath against her neck. She looked at the ground. She was there. Right where it would happen, right between the refrigerator and table. And she was ready. She had told him the truth, the only truth that mattered, and now she was ready.

  She heard the rustle of clothing as he raised his arm and then a faint grunt as his hand flew toward her. She cried out, but not in agony. It was in anticipation. The pain would only be a moment. The joy would be eternal.

  “Did you hear him shout?” Frank asked as he leaned over the table toward his two buddies. He scrunched up his face and gave a mournful howl. “Townies-s-s …”

  Del chuckled and Frank broke into his infectious laughter, stopping just long enough to finish off another beer. He turned to the locals who were listening. “It was beautiful, man. A work of art. Ol’ Brandon here, this time, he really outdid himself.”

  Del pushed up his Coke-bottle glasses and nodded as Brandon shook his head in modesty. But Frank was right; it had been a great idea, and they had pulled it off beautifully. Only twenty minutes ago the country club had undergone an attack that would go down in the history books.

  Unfortunately, the celebration was short-lived.

  “Looks like you’ve got company,” Del said.

  Brandon glanced up to see him staring out of the window into the parking lot. Sarah had pulled her Escort alongside his pickup and was climbing out. Part of him leaped at seeing her again. But an equal part was cautious.

  His eyes followed her as she crossed to the doors of the pizzeria, threw one open, and entered. He made no effort to get her attention. He figured she would find him soon enough. He was right.

  She headed toward his table with obvious determination. By the looks of things, she’d been working all evening, and even though she was disheveled, he still found her very, very attractive.

  “Hey, Sarah.” Frank raised his glass as she approached.

  She ignored him and focused directly upon Brandon. “May I speak to you? Alone.”

  “They’re my friends.”

  She hesitated, then dragged up a chair to join him. “Okay, have it your way. I just came back from Lori Beth’s house.”

  He didn’t like the urgency in her voice and braced himself for more. “So?”

  “So, she’s dead.”

  “What?”

  “Lori Beth Phillips?” Frank asked in equal surprise.

  “She committed suicide. Her teacher had been sexually assaulting her — just like you saw. She couldn’t find any way out.”

  Brandon stared, still trying to digest it.

  Sarah continued, just as determined but a little softer. “They’re coming true. Lori Beth, the guy at your plant.”

  “No.” He began shaking his head. “It’s not — look, I’m finally getting better, all right?”

  “Better?” She looked around. “You call hanging around these slackers better?”

  Frank, who was definitely feeling the beers, allowed his anger to surface. “Listen, sweetheart, I don’t know who you think you are, or what your problem is —”

  She ignored him, speaking only to Brandon. “What about Jenny?”

  The question hit Brandon almost as hard as the news about Lori Beth.

  She persisted. “Wha
t about Jenny?”

  He finally looked back at her. “That thing wasn’t Jenny. It never was.” He fought to keep his voice even. “I don’t know where she is, I’m sure someplace good. But that thing — that thing was evil.”

  “Out on the road, didn’t it try to save you?”

  “Or get me killed.”

  Sarah leaned forward. That dogged persistence that so infuriated him and that he found so attractive focused directly upon him. “What about Lori Beth? What about your friend’s hand? You could have saved them both. You could have —”

  “I was in hell!” The outburst surprised them both.

  The room grew quiet. He tried to pull back his anger but didn’t quite succeed. “I saw the fire, all right? I saw the burning bodies. How can you tell me that’s not evil?”

  His anger only fueled Sarah’s intensity. “But if there’s a hell, then there’s a heaven. Don’t you see? ‘Perpendicular Universe,’ remember? If there’s a below then there’s got to be an above. An evil, then a good. If there’s a counterfeit, then there’s got to be the real thing.”

  “What about the church?” he insisted. “I’ve seen that — that thing two different times now. It’s just as real, and it’s scarier than all of the others combined. And nothing, nothing’s ever happened there.”

  Her eyes darted up to him. She took a breath, obviously trying to keep her voice even and in control. “Then I’d say it’s just about time, wouldn’t you?”

  They held each other’s gaze. A sinking sensation filled his stomach. She was right. Something was going to happen at the church. Something awful and powerful …

  He noticed a new look coming over her face. A realization. “Your mother.” She spoke more urgently. “Your mother said that the last service in the church — it was tonight. Right? Is that what she said?”

  Brandon lowered his eyes.

  “Is that right?”

  He looked away, somewhere, anywhere but at her. He could hear the wheels turning, knew her next thought.

  “Brandon —”

  “No.”

  “But —”

  “There’s nothing I can do.” He turned back to her. “Even if it’s true, there’s nothing I can do.”

  “What about that black woman? Gerty? The one with the sketches?”

  “No.”

  “I’ve got her address, maybe we could go —”

  “No.”

  “Maybe she could help, tell you how —”

  “No!”

  “We’re talking innocent people!”

  “Leave me alone! Why can’t you just …” He turned directly to her now, but already he could feel his anger dissipating. “Why can’t you just leave it alone?”

  She held his gaze until he had to look away, down at the glass in his hand.

  “Brandon, I’m not talking about the experiment now. I don’t give a rip about the work. I’m talking about —”

  Suddenly Frank had her arm. “All right, sweetheart, you heard the man. I think it’s time —”

  She wrenched herself free, spilling his beer onto the table. The restaurant grew quiet. She rose to her feet, still speaking to Brandon, who was still staring at his glass.

  “You may have been to hell, Brandon. But there’s another kind of hell.” She paused, waiting. When he didn’t respond, she continued. “We’ve both, you and I, we’ve both lived there.”

  He looked up at her, knowing exactly what she was talking about. The hell of his purposelessness. The hell of her driving ambition. Both trapped in the never-ending loop of guilt, and self, and pain.

  “I just thought …” She took a deep breath. “I was just hoping that you might have wanted out.”

  He tried to think of something cool to say, something flippant. But there was nothing. She waited one more moment before finally turning and heading for the door.

  Her words burned in his ears. Frank was saying something, but Brandon didn’t hear. He watched as she walked outside, climbed into her car, and tried to start it. But it wouldn’t kick over. He could hear it grind and grind but with no success. She grabbed the papers from the front seat and threw open her door.

  He lowered his head, preparing for another onslaught. But she didn’t come back in. Instead, he suddenly heard his own truck roar to life. He looked up just in time to see the headlights blaze on.

  “Hey!” Del shouted. “She’s got your truck!”

  She found reverse and pulled out.

  “She’s got your truck!” Del repeated as he leaped to his feet and started for the door. “She’s got your truck!”

  Brandon rose as Sarah threw his pickup into gear, stomped on the accelerator, and fishtailed onto the main road.

  CHAPTER 14

  SARAH CLUNG TO THE pickup’s steering wheel with one hand while trying to unfold the map with the other. She knew Gerty Morrison lived on Sycamore. The address suggested that it was a mile or so outside of town, probably past the gravel pit. But she needed to check the map to be sure.

  Blinding lights suddenly appeared around the bend, letting her know that she had drifted into the wrong lane. She grabbed the wheel with both hands and swerved back as the passing car blasted its horn in anger.

  Sarah blew the hair out of her eyes and again reached for the map. If Brandon’s precognitive skills were as accurate as they had been in the past, then something was about to happen at the church. Something dramatic, terrible — and, since this was the final service in the church, it would probably be tonight. There was nothing Sarah could do to stop it, but if this Gerty had had a similar premonition, if she had some sense of what was about to occur …

  Sarah glanced at the speedometer. She was doing nearly seventy. She let up some, but not much.

  The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

  The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea,

  The plowman homeward plods his weary way,

  And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

  Momma sat in the front pew, keeping her eyes fixed on the reverend as he recited another one of his favorite poems. The farewell service was more difficult for her than she had anticipated. But it would be her final act as the church’s cofounder, and then it would be over.

  Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,

  And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

  Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,

  And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.

  She turned to steal a glance back at the rest of the church. She was pleased to see so many folks. This was the end of nearly twenty-five years of hard work and tradition, and it brought out some of the dearest and best. Leaders of the religious community, like Reverend Jacobsen over there from the Lutheran church, Father Penney, Pastor Burnett, Pastor Smith, even Rabbi Cohen — none of them to gloat over another church’s failure but to bid it a fond farewell.

  There were only a handful from this church. That’s all that ever attended now. In its heyday, before her husband’s stroke, they’d had nearly four hundred members. They’d even had to go to two services. But that had been a long, long time ago.

  Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower

  The moping owl does to the moon complain

  Of such as, wand’ring near her secret bower,

  Molest her ancient solitary reign.

  Momma turned back to face the front, but not before glancing at her husband. She was grateful that he couldn’t comprehend what was happening, that he didn’t understand what had become of all their hard work, of the promises and prayers that had never been fulfilled.

  Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree’s shade,

  Where heaves the turf in many a mold’ring heap,

  Each in his narrow cell forever laid,

  The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

  Henderson turned the Firebird onto SR 15 and headed north. He and Reggie had started out searching the major roads, but if they had to, they would work their way down to the smalle
r streets and avenues. The guy had to be out there somewhere. The half-ton with the broken running light was out there, and they would find it. If they had to travel every highway and back road in Kosciusko County, they would find it.

  It was more cottage than house, and even at night Sarah could tell that it hadn’t seen a paintbrush in years. A faint light shone from somewhere deep inside, nearly obscured by the drawn shades, dirty windows, and overgrown shrubs.

  Sarah stepped out of the pickup and into the warm night air. She was struck by the sudden silence. She figured much of it was due to the surrounding woods and thick vegetation. Even the perpetual hum of Highway 30 was dulled and absorbed by the jungle of maples, mulberries, and sprawling junipers. At one time it must have all been very picturesque and park-like; now it was a jungle that seemed on the verge of swallowing up the entire house.

  She waded through the knee-high grass along what she thought to be a walkway. At the front porch, she carefully made her way up the stairs and knocked loudly on the blistered door.

  There was no answer.

  She tried again. “Hello,” she called. “Gerty? Gerty Morrison?”

  Strange. There was a light on inside and two cars parked in the driveway.

  She knocked again. “Hello?”

  She pushed at the door. It was locked. She moved to the nearest window and tried to peek inside. The pulled shade blocked her view, but she could tell the light was coming from somewhere in the back. She turned, made her way down the porch, and walked around the house. For a second she thought she caught movement inside, the flicker of a shadow. But it was gone before she could be sure.

  From the rear of the house, the light was clearly visible. It came from the kitchen. The back door was open, and the light spilled from the kitchen through the screen door and onto the porch.

  Not wanting to scare the old lady, Sarah called from the yard. “Hello? Mrs. Morrison?”

  She walked up the weathered steps to the screen door. “Hello.” Through the screen she could see the kitchen counter. Off to the right was a table cluttered with papers. She reached out and knocked on the door. It bounced and clattered, apparently unlatched. Her instincts told her to stop, that something wasn’t right. Still, she had come this far.