Storming Heaven

by Kyle Mills

  “I’ve still got it. I can get it out today if you can take it to town and get it shrink-wrapped.”

  Goldman grabbed a half-full drinking glass from the table next to him and threw it across the room. Beamon ducked involuntarily as it smashed against the wall. “We can’t afford to waste time like this! That little girl is going to die while you two are screwing around! We’ve got to get to Vericomm!”

  “What the hell, Mr. Goldman! What do you want me to do? Blow the place up? I would, but it wouldn’t even do us any good!”

  Goldman grabbed his coat and headed for the door. “Somebody’s got to get off their ass and do something,” Beamon heard him grumble as he passed by.

  “Jack, wait,” Ernie said, but Goldman had already disappeared down the hall.

  “Jesus,” Beamon said when he heard the front door slam. Ernie wheeled her chair to face him and looked at him sternly

  “What?”

  “Don’t you think you’re being a little hard on him, Mark?”

  “Don’t bust my ass, Ernie. The guy was throwing shit around the room and cussing us out for no reason.”

  “He’s having a tough time, Mark. I think you could try to be a little more compassionate.”

  Beamon couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He was the one whose life had been completely trashed. It’d be dumb luck if he didn’t find himself in jail or lining a shallow grave somewhere by this time next month. And now, on top of all that, now he was expected to coddle Jack Goldman, one of the most difficult SOBs to ever take a breath.

  “Mark, you’ve got to understand that for the first time in his life. Jack’s being beaten at his own game. The church has created a bugging system that he can’t dismantle, expose, or subvert. He’s feeling old.”

  “He is old,” Beamon said, completely exasperated now.

  “He’s doing the best he can, Mark, but he’s feeling like a dinosaur. He wants so desperately to do one more thing that really matters. And he wants to protect you. I don’t think you realize how much he admires you. How much he cares about you.”

  Beamon was about to come to his own defense, but she held her hand up before he could open his mouth. “He can also save Jennifer. It’s hard to explain. He didn’t have children and he almost feels like if he can save the two of you, that you’ll be a little piece of immortality for him.”

  “Where do you get this stuff, Ernie?”

  “He tells me things.”

  Beamon had never heard Jack Goldman tell anybody anything other than how incompetent they were. “Look, in my own way, I love the old guy. I really do. But I don’t know what he wants from me.”

  “Not that much, Mark. Your respect. Maybe a little friendship.”

  48

  VERICOMM’S HEADQUARTERS BUILDING LOOKED like a ghost. Most of the lights in its glass facade had gone out over the last hour and now it just reflected the darkness and the swirling of snow though the thin mountain air.

  Jack Goldman adjusted himself into a more comfortable position in the cramped car seat and let his mind wander into the past, as it seemed to want to do more and more every day. Back to the simple elegance of analog phone lines. Before digital transfer, encryption, and computer systems that were a thousand times as fast as he was and ten times as smart. Back to the time of closet-sized listening posts that reeked of coffee, tobacco, and sweat, and the reel-to-reel tapes filled with voices of glamorous hoods bragging endlessly about women, money, and death.

  The building in front of him was a testament to the new age that he didn’t want to be part of. It housed a system so grand in its scale that his ancient mind could have never dreamed it up. A system that stole the art from his vocation and turned it into pure digital science.

  He was buried too deep in his own thoughts to notice the security guard’s approach, but wasn’t startled when he heard a knock on the window. He rolled it down about halfway and treated the guard to his most grandfatherly smile. “Hello, young man.”

  He saw the man’s expression change from stoicism to mild concern. Goldman’s age had turned into an increasingly effective tool over the last twenty years, but it was one he detested using.

  “Uh, this is reserved parking, sir. You’ll need to move your car.”

  “I’m so sorry. I was driving by and started feeling a bit ill. I just pulled in to rest for a few minutes.” He reached for the key dangling from the ignition. “I didn’t realize I was illegally parked.”

  “You’re not really illegally parked,” the guard said, starting to sound a little uncertain. “It’s just that it’s reserved. It’s actually not a problem if you stay for a while. The guy who’s assigned this space won’t be back till tomorrow.”

  “I don’t want to cause you any problems,” Goldman said, holding his hand far enough from the keys so that the guard could see it shake.

  “Not a problem. Really. Is there someone I could call? Maybe you’d like someone to pick you up? You’re welcome to leave your car overnight in one of the unassigned spaces.”

  Goldman shook his head. “That’s kind of you, but I’ll be fine. At my age, you just have to rest every now and again.”

  The guard straightened and tapped the top of the car. “Okay, then. If you change your mind or if you need any help, I’ll be just inside the front doors.”

  Goldman watched the man walk back toward the building as a wave of pain and nausea seized him. He leaned forward onto the wheel, his breath coming in short gasps. The attacks were getting longer and the time between them shorter as the cancer digested what was left of his stomach and continued its march through his other vital organs.

  Two years ago, he’d ignored his doctor’s gloomy six-month prediction, but now he felt it coming in the brief flashes of peace and numbness that overwhelmed him after the pain had, for the moment, stopped. He couldn’t be sure, but he guessed that was death working to get a grip that he wouldn’t be able to break.

  There wasn’t much time now. Just long enough to get Mark out of the quicksand he’d trapped himself in. And to save the girl.

  Goldman smiled as he remembered Beamon as a first office agent. Smart. Jesus, he’d been smart. But even back then he’d had a gift for taking careful aim at his foot and shooting himself in it. Goddamned miracle he could still walk.

  Goldman snapped himself back into the present and focused on a small man with a briefcase walking from the glass doors at the front of the building. He’d never laid eyes on Eugene Marino, Vericomm’s tech manager, but this could be him.

  Goldman had parked next to one of the few remaining cars in Vericomm’s expansive parking area. The curb in front of it had “MARINO” stenciled in bright yellow letters, partially obscured by the snow.

  “Mr. Marino?” Goldman said, opening his door and relying heavily on his cane as he eased himself out into the cold.

  The man looked up and pulled his keys from his pocket as Goldman struggled across the icy asphalt toward him. “Yes, I’m Eugene Marino. Can I help you?”

  Goldman stopped three feet from the man, ignoring the pain in his legs and another attack building in his stomach. “Yes, I think you can.” He pulled a gun from his jacket and, holding it low enough that it couldn’t be seen from a distance, aimed it at the man’s stomach.

  Marino’s eyes widened, but it was clear that he didn’t know what to make of the situation. “Is this … is this a mugging?” he said in a disbelieving voice.

  Goldman could barely keep himself from laughing. He hadn’t mugged anyone in over seventy years.

  49

  JENNIFER DAVIS LOOKED DOWN AT THE plate of food in her lap and forced herself to take another bite. She chewed purposefully, but had to concentrate not to gag when she swallowed. It had been getting harder and harder to eat. Harder and harder to sleep. To exercise. To do anything.

  Her entire body quivered now, from the time she woke up to the time she finally turned out the lights and prayed for sleep to overtake her. It seemed like her brain was slowly leaking
adrenaline—just enough to keep her constantly on edge but not enough to give her any strength.

  Days and nights came and went—she knew that only because of her makeshift clock in the sink. As Good Friday got closer and closer, her own internal clock—the intuition that told her when she was tired, when she was hungry—had failed her.

  Only seven days left.

  The hope of escape that had kept her going had slowly died in her. She had seen no one since that day Sara had come and asked her to meet with the Elders. The plate of food appeared only once every twenty-four hours now—every night when she was asleep.

  She fell back onto the bed and closed her eyes, trying to quiet the butterflies that flew tirelessly in her stomach all the time now. How could this be happening to her? She was only fifteen and she’d never done anything to hurt anyone.

  In the last week, she’d spent her waking hours trying to live an entire life in the time she had left. She created elaborate fantasies about a future she would never see, infusing them with such intricate detail that sometimes they almost seemed real. She imagined her high school graduation: the sound of the principal’s voice as it echoed across the auditorium, the bright pink high-top tennis shoes peeking out from beneath her black gown. She could feel the late-summer sun on her face as she watched herself packing her car and driving to college. She saw what her dorm room would look like. The silly arguments she’d have with her roommates. What it would be like the first time she made love.

  Then her mind would wander forward. To her wedding. The pain of the birth of her first child. Finding her first gray hairs.

  And one night, far in the future, she would walk, slightly stooped, to her bed. She would have just talked to her daughter and son-in-law on the phone. Their son—her grandson—was expecting his first child. She’d turn off the light that night and lie down. Then, smiling into the dark, she would close her eyes for the last time.

  50

  “YOU’RE DRIVING ME CRAZY WITH THAT thing, Mark,” Ernie said, turning her chair away from him and covering her ears.

  Beamon pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He’d finally turned it back on a few hours ago—worried that he’d miss something important. It had been pretty much ringing off the hook ever since.

  “You’re either going to have to answer it or turn it back off,” Ernie said, hands still over her ears.

  Beamon sighed and punched the button to pick up. “Yeah.”

  “What the fuck are you doing!”

  He moved the phone to a more reasonable distance from his ear. “Jake. What can I do for you?”

  “Kate Spelling told me you pulled a gun on them!”

  “Melodramatic, but accurate.”

  “Look, Mark—I know you like to play the maverick, but you’ve gone too far this time. We’re not just talking about your job now. We’re talking about putting out an APB and making this thing public. The director’s getting fucking hourly reports on this, and I’m not going to be able to keep him out of it for much longer. Let me help you.”

  Beamon rolled his eyes. “You want to help me.”

  “Okay, Mark. You say you like plain talk, so I’m going to give it to you. I could give a shit about you. The thought of you getting run over by a bus gives me a hard-on. But despite all that, I’m probably the best friend you’ve got.”

  Sad, but possibly true, Beamon knew.

  “Look, neither one of us wants this thing with you to blow up in the papers. Me because I’ve got a shot at an assistant directorship and this isn’t going to help me; you because it’s your life. Now, get your ass in here, and let’s try to get control of this thing before it goes too far.”

  “I appreciate the honesty, Jake, but it’s already gone too far.”

  “No it hasn’t, Mark. Just—”

  “Relax, Jake. Life as a fugitive doesn’t suit me.”

  “When are you coming in?”

  “I don’t know yet. Soon. I’ve got some loose ends that need to be tied up.”

  “That’s not good enough, Mark. The director is flying in to meet with me on the first, and you can be goddamn sure I’m going to have something for him. The gloves are coming off.”

  “You do what you’ve gotta do, Jake. I understand. The gloves are off.”

  Beamon pushed the button cutting off the connection and looked down at Ernie. “This just keeps getting worse, hon. I think it’s time for you and me to part ways.”

  She looked horrified. “No! How can you say that? I’m as much a part of this as you are—you can’t do it without me. I have to stay with you.”

  “Because God told you to?”

  “You laugh at me behind my back, I know it. You and Jack both. But it’s what I believe. How can you be sure there’s no God? And that He hasn’t brought us together to save His church? How can you?”

  “I can’t,” Beamon said honestly. “I’m not sure. I’m never sure about anything. Look, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me and I admit that I wouldn’t be anywhere with this investigation if it weren’t for you. But things are going to start to escalate and I don’t want to put you in harm’s way.” Beamon pointed at the computers behind her. “We’ve got a phone feed going into Mr. Goldman’s apartment where I’m staying. We can monitor things from there—”

  She shook her head violently and pushed her wheelchair forward until they were as close together as they could be, considering her chosen mode of transportation. “What more can they do to me, Mark? Look at me! Look around you! I haven’t left this house since I moved in. And look what I’ve done to myself—I can barely walk. You and Jack are probably the best friends I have in the world—and I just met you. What more can they do?”

  “They could kill you, Ernie. As long as you’re breathing, you can change things. Take back what they took from you.”

  “You think I’m afraid to die?” she said indignantly.

  “I hope you are, Ernie. I am.”

  Her face broke into a slow smile. “Thank you. Thank you for caring about what happens to me. But you really shouldn’t worry. That dream I keep having, the one I told you about in the beginning. It goes on a little longer every night. Albert’s in it now. He’s waiting for me.”

  Beamon’s eyes widened. “Ernie, you’re starting to scare me now. You’re not going to die.”

  She seemed so serene, sitting there in her chair. “It doesn’t matter. I know what I have to do, and I know why. For the first time, really. You can’t imagine what it feels like to know—to be absolutely sure—that there is a God. And to know that you’re important to Him. That you’ve been chosen by Him.” She pointed at Beamon. “He’s chosen you, too, Mark. But you’ll never believe it, will you?”

  “I guess I’ve never had much use for God, Ernie.”

  “But he’s got use for you.”

  She turned her chair and wheeled it to a table that had been recently cleared of its normal complement of computer-related debris and pointed to a new blue phone. “The eight-hundred number comes in here.”

  “The bogus helpline on that e-mail update you sent?” Beamon said, consciously letting her change the subject.

  She nodded. “They haven’t called yet. But I’ve been praying.”

  Beamon smiled politely. What the hell was he going to do with her? He’d always made a practice of trying to do what he thought was right—no matter how much of an ass it made him look like or how disastrous the consequences. But what was the right thing here? He could walk out right now, have Goldman cut off the phone patch to her and never see her again. She’d probably be safe then, but without her help would he be able to find Jennifer? And how much danger was Ernie really in? He’d been so careful to keep her involvement from the church…

  A phone started ringing, and Beamon’s eyes darted to the blue one on the table.

  “Sorry, Mark,” Ernie said, picking up the green one next to her computer. “Hello? Oh, hold on, let me put you on speaker.”

  She laid the handset down on the
table and punched at her keyboard. “Jack, can you hear me? Mark’s here.”

  “Loud and clear, Ernie. How you doing, Mark?”

  He sounded very strange—happy. Giddy might be a better word. Maybe it was just the reverberation of the computer’s speakers.

  “I’m okay, Mr. Goldman. How about you? You sound a little funny.”

  “I’m great. Having a wonderful evening. Ernie, I’m downloading something into your system on the seven-three-four-two number. Could you confirm that you’re receiving?”

  Ernie wheeled to another computer and tapped the mouse with her index finger, lighting up the monitor. “Yes, I’m receiving.”

  “FAN-tastic.”

  Beamon shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He’d never heard Goldman sound anything like this. Could he be finally losing it? At his age, senility was definitely starting to look overdue. “What is it you’re sending, Mr. Goldman?”

  “We were right about Vericomm, boy. I’m sending audio files of some of their more interesting tapes.”

  Beamon stood and walked hesitantly to Ernie’s side. Leaning close in to the microphone next to her computer, he said, “Come again?”

  “Vericomm has been taping the NickeLine longdistance calls—we were right. I’m dumping their archive to Ernie’s computer.”

  “Are you screwing with me?”

  “Of course not.”

  Beamon grabbed one of the speakers on the table and spoke directly at it. “You are a fucking genius, Mr. Goldman. I always knew you were. The best there ever was.”

  “I’m starting with the One-A-A stuff,” Goldman said. “If I can get it all sent, I’ll work on the lower- priority tapes.”

  “One-A-A?”

  “Oh, Mark, this system is a thing of beauty. You wouldn’t believe it.” His tone had changed from giddiness to something between admiration and awe. “All calls made on NickeLine come through the computer system here at the central office. They’re instantly given a number code based on who’s calling. They know ‘cause of the PIN you dial. Priority one means the person is important. You, for instance, as the head of the Flagstaff office, would be a priority one. A senator might be another example.”