Fire Of Heaven 01 - Blood of Heaven

by Bill Myers

  “I couldn’t very well go around turning everybody into killing machines, now could I? Not unless I wanted to raise a lot of unwanted questions and risk having the project shut down. And why bother? It’s the same gene, just reversed. The biological effects will be the same, so why not study them in passive, easy-to-control individuals, instead of killers?”

  O’Brien gestured toward the baboon swinging from the gym set. “What about Freddy? His behavior is changing.”

  “Best I can figure, he’s gone into some sort of regression.”

  O’Brien looked at him.

  Murkoski shrugged. “I suspect it has something to do with the junk DNA we introduced. He’s gradually reverting to his original state.”

  O’Brien sadly turned back to the baboon. “And Coleman?”

  “He’s regressing, too. Of course, it won’t be stopping there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Wolff noticed it first. There’s something about emotional trauma that stops the process. Once they’ve been exposed to extreme emotional stress, degeneration rapidly sets in. As it progresses, it neutralizes any normal anti-aggression chemistry they may have.”

  “Meaning…”

  “Freddy and Coleman are both on their way to becoming far more aggressive than they’ve ever been.”

  O’Brien could only stare. “Emotional stress?”

  “Probably some sort of defense mechanism of the body’s. I guess if you have your teeth busted in enough, it’s time to stop hugging and to start fighting. I saw it coming, though. In fact that’s why I set up Coleman with one of his victim’s wives. See how far we could push him.”

  “You did what?”

  “Sure. It was a bonus to find her, but you know me, always the opportunist. Once that little bombshell explodes, it should be enough to push him over the edge. Truth is, my sources say he’s already started regression.”

  “So we’ve released a multiple-murderer back into society who will become worse than he was?”

  “Relax, Phil. He’s being taken care of. Even as we speak.”

  O’Brien eyed the kid, afraid to ask exactly what he meant. “And Freddy? What caused him to revert? What was his trauma?”

  “Wolff’s death, of course. I’m sure it wasn’t easy for this poor creature to see his best friend die before his very eyes.”

  O’Brien had heard enough. He reached into his pocket for his cellular.

  Murkoski made no move to prevent him. “And now you’re going to put a stop to it all by calling the authorities, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I don’t think so, Phil.” Murkoski unbuckled his satchel. “I mean, seeing as you’re such a family man and all.”

  O’Brien’s eyes narrowed, his voice suddenly steel hard. “If you’ve done something to my family, if you’ve so much as touched —”

  “Oh, not me, Phil, not me.” He pulled a pile of 8 x 10 black-and-whites from the satchel and tossed them at O’Brien’s feet. “I haven’t harmed your little family unit. But if you’re not careful, you could.”

  O’Brien stared at the photos. They were of Tisha and himself out in the parking lot, beside his open car, talking, passionately embracing, hungrily kissing. Suddenly he felt very weak. Rage and helplessness poured in, mixing and swirling together. He barely noticed Murkoski reaching back into his satchel.

  “I’ve been talking to the board. Riordan, McGovern, all the others.”

  O’Brien finally looked up.

  The kid held a single piece of paper in his hand. “Seems they feel your resignation is in order.”

  “You — you can’t do that.”

  “I’m afraid it’s already done.” He shoved the paper toward him. “Not to worry though. Besides a generous severance package, they assure me that you’ll be able to keep all of your stock options. Not a bad deal when you consider how our value will skyrocket when this new drug hits the open market. All that plus — and here’s the kicker — the cartel is offering you a cool fifty million. Sort of a thank-you gift, not to mention an assurance of your discretion.”

  O’Brien’s head swam. “And if I don’t sign this?”

  “Oh, there’s no if, Phil. You can either resign now or wait until later. In which case, I imagine the offer will be far less generous.”

  O’Brien stared at him numbly.

  Murkoski forced a smile and pulled a pen from his sports coat. “It’s a no-brainer, Phil. A win/win.”

  The kid held the pen out to him, but O’Brien could not yet take it.

  “You know, Phil, from what I hear, Beth’s not that thrilled with your marriage these days. Something like this could either destroy it, or be the perfect opportunity to bring it together again. All that money. All that time with the family.”

  O’Brien felt himself weakening.

  “Then three, five years from now, who knows — maybe you could start up another company.”

  O’Brien looked back down at the letter.

  “I don’t have all day, Phil. We’ve got sort of a deadline coming up here.”

  “What type of deadline?”

  “Let’s just say that, even if you wanted to stop things, it’s too late.”

  O’Brien held his gaze a moment, then looked back at the pictures on the ground.

  “You’re all set. A lifetime of wealth. Familial bliss. And for what? For just turning your head and doing absolutely nothing.” Murkoski shoved the pen closer to him.

  O’Brien glanced up from the photos and stared at the pen. It was an expensive Japanese brand. Ceramic. Not all that different from the one Beth had given him for their last anniversary.

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER 13

  THE GLARE OF THE he glare of the high beams irritates him. He adjusts the mirror. He doesn’t know who’s behind him; he doesn’t care. No one can touch him. The crack has made him invincible.

  Flashers behind him; a siren squawking. Cops. He glances at his speedometer: 65. He smiles. A bit fast for downtown Council Bluffs. He thinks of outrunning them. Omaha is just across the river. But he’s been careful, he has nothing to hide. He chalks up the paranoia to the coke.

  He forces himself to relax. He pulls the Nova over to the side of the road. Gravel crunches and pops under the tires as he comes to a stop.

  He rolls down his window, waits forever, tapping his fingers on the wheel. Anxious. Wanting to get on with it.

  In the mirror he sees the approaching officers. They split, one to each side. A flashlight blinds his eyes. Cop One’s pleasantries are false and insincere. “Sir” this, “Mr.” that. “May I see your license, please.”

  On the other side Cop Two shines his light through the passenger window, searching. Coleman smiles. He is a professional. They will find nothing.

  He hands Cop One his license. It’s fake, but too good to tell.

  “May I also see your registration, please?”

  Coleman reaches for the glove compartment as Cop Two directs his light to the backseat. He hears words spoken over the roof but cannot make them out. Cop One’s flashlight darts to the back. It’s the shotgun. Peeking out from under the blanket. Coleman meant to throw it in the trunk, but the Quickie Mart alarm made him nervous, sloppy.

  “Will you step out of the vehicle, Sir?”

  Coleman’s senses focus razor sharp. He hears his door handle being opened, the hinges groaning, the whoosh of a passing car.

  “Sir?”

  His hand is still in the glove compartment. On the surface are crumpled French fry bags with their printed rows of orange, gold, and brown arches. Below that, dozens of lotto tickets, red letters on gray, and of course the candy wrappers. His heart pounds in his ears. He reaches under the trash and pulls out a 9mm Browning High Power, semiautomatic.

  Cop One goes for his gun. Coleman is too fast. The Browning recoils. Pants and knee cap explode four feet from his face. Coleman squeezes off a second round, but he is distracted by the shattering of the passenger window. Cop Tw
o is trying to be a hero.

  Cop One is down. Yelling. One more round would silence him, but Cop Two is coming in from the other side.

  Coleman turns. He sees the fear in the eyes. He fires point-blank, feels the bullet as it smashes into Cop Two’s chest. He screams. He fires again. He feels the second impact, ripping, searing. Cop Two opens his mouth, but it is Coleman who screams. He fires a third round, again feeling its explosion. But he will not stop, he fires a fourth, a fifth, shrieking in agony, as he tries to kill his own pain.

  Now someone is on the roof. Pounding. “Michael…Michael!” It’s his father’s voice. Drunk. Angry. He will kill Coleman.

  Coleman rolls onto his back. He fires into the roof again and again, like a madman. There is a pathetic groan as a shape tumbles past the window and to the ground. Coleman hears him crawling and knows he’s still alive. He leaps out of the car to finish him off. He races around to the other side, raising his gun. But it is not his father who is crawling on the ground.

  It is himself.

  The wounded Coleman reaches out to him. “Michael.” It is his father’s voice, but it is Coleman’s body. It has always been his body. Since the beginning it has been Coleman pursuing Coleman.

  He fires into the bleeding Coleman, feeling each bullet as it bursts into his chest, his belly. But the wounded Coleman will not give up. He reaches out and clutches Coleman’s ankle. Coleman fires at point-blank range. The riddled body jolts with each impact, but the grip will not release.

  The wounded Coleman grabs Coleman’s knees, pulling himself up. “Michael!”

  Coleman staggers under his weight.

  “You’re mine…”

  “No!” Coleman tries to break free, but the hold is too strong. “Let me go!”

  “You are me…”

  “No!” He is losing his balance.

  “You are mine…”

  He is falling. “Nooo…”

  Coleman sat up with a start. As reality forced its way back and his vision cleared, he saw that he was surrounded by marsh grass. Acres and acres of it. He rose stiffly to his knees. The drawbridge lay three hundred yards away. The first signs of rush hour were already beginning to appear on it.

  His clothes were soaked from the mist. There was the taste of salt on his lips. But he barely noticed. He was still thinking of his dream. He understood it now, and it terrified him.

  He was losing ground.

  He had felt it in the hallway with Steiner, with the two thugs at the door, and later in the overturned car. The old man was returning. The rage, the uncontrollable fury, it was all fighting to return, to take over.

  You are mine.

  And with each assault, it grew harder to resist.

  You are me.

  The monster would not stop until it had regained complete control.

  Coleman’s mind raced. Thoughts spun, whirled. Memories of murders, laughter with Katherine, unspeakable violence in prison, gentle sparrings with Eric, they all tumbled and thundered and cried in his head — along with Katherine’s haunting words, “Old things are passed away, behold all things are become new.”

  He rose to his feet. The mountains were glowing pink and orange as dawn began to spread across their peaks. He recalled the pristine beauty of the snow in the exercise yard, the lonesome wail of the freight train. The exhilaration of breaking bones, smashing cartilage.

  Old things are passed away.

  He saw Katherine’s eyes, the vulnerability, the love.

  Behold all things are become new.

  He recalled the Bible, their talks about it.

  “This ache inside me — it’s like he understands.”

  “I guess that’s why he called himself the ‘Bread of Life.’ ”

  He is a new creature.

  “My faith was the only thing that kept me sober.”

  Old things are passed away.

  “Like he somehow is able to meet my hunger…”

  Behold all things are become new.

  You are mine.

  “I suspect it has more to do with a person’s faith…”

  If any man is in Christ, he is a new creature…

  You are mine…

  Old things are passed away…

  You are me.

  A new creature…

  You are me.

  Old things are passed…

  You are…

  All things are…

  You…

  “Noooo!”

  Coleman’s cry startled a lone crane, causing it to rise up from the marsh and take flight. Its wings beat the air as it rose noisily into the sky.

  He took a step. “Please…” Then another. He raised his head toward heaven and shouted, “Do you hear me? Do you hear me!”

  There was only silence.

  He started to run, but the ground was soft and uneven. He fell. He staggered back up, but only for a few more steps before falling again. He rose and stumbled forward, still trying to run. Where, he wasn’t sure. For how long, he didn’t know.

  “Help me,” he gasped, then fell again. And rose again. His vision blurring with hot tears. Three, four, a half-dozen more steps before he fell again. He rose one last time, but his energy was spent, the fight gone. Slowly he sank back down to his knees.

  “I can’t…” He fought to breathe. “I need…” Tears streamed down his cheeks. “Please, I don’t want this. Please…help me… Whoever you are, whatever you want, I’m yours— take me…make me yours…”

  Katherine snapped on Eric’s computer. She hit a few keys and waited for the modem to connect. She noticed her hands trembling. When she was done, she’d have to have another glass of wine. Across the room the radio alarm glowed 6:39 a.m.

  The phone on the other end rang twice before the modem connected with three irritating tones followed by a coffee grinder buzz. It had been a while since her cyber-hacking days. Installing a hard disk or listening to complaints about the configuration of the latest software wasn’t quite the same as when she and the guys at NORAD had spent their time fooling around on the Internet. That had been years ago, before the civilians had come in and taken it over. She just hoped they hadn’t messed it up too badly. She needed to get in there and do some serious skulking.

  The menu popped up, followed by a little red box in the corner of the screen, a sign that Eric had received some electronic mail. Katherine started to skip past it. The last thing she wanted was to read some yick-yack from one of Eric’s electronic pen pals. But it was up there, it would only take a moment, and who knows.

  She brought it up and gasped.

  >MOM

  >DONT WORRY. IM OK. THEY TOOK PHONE FROM ROOM BUT LEFT COMPUTER. STUPID HUH? IM READING FILES. LOTS OF SKAREY JUNK. MEET ME IN COMPUTER FORUM LOBY 9:00. ILL HAVE MORE STUFF THEN. DONT WORRY.

  > :-) ERIC

  Katherine took a long, deep breath. He was alive. Her eyes darted up to the message’s time of transmission: 6:14 a.m. He was alive and wherever they were keeping him had taken less than an hour to get to.

  She reread the message two more times. Eric had access to a computer and was reading someone’s files. She was to meet him on the Internet in an area called the Computer Forum at 9:00. Immediately she hit the reply command and started typing an answer.

  >ERIC

  >WHERE ARE YOU? CAN YOU SEE OUT A WINDOW? ARE THERE ANY LANDMARKS THAT YOU CAN IDENTI

  But the modem suddenly clicked and she was disconnected from the Internet. A phone call was coming in. Eric had complained for months about the disadvantages of having only one phone line, and how call waiting always disconnected him. Now she understood. She hit Alt X to escape and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Katherine?” It was Coleman. His voice filled her with a mixture of rage, concern, excitement, guilt.

  “Where are you?” she demanded.

  “Just north of Everett.”

  “They took Eric.”

  No response.

  “Did you hear what I said? They kid
napped Eric.”

  “Yes.” Pause. “We’ve got to…we’ve got to get together. We’ve got to figure things out.”

  The last thing she wanted was to get together with the monster who’d killed her husband, who’d destroyed her life. And yet —

  “Katherine?”

  “They said if I stayed quiet for twenty-four hours nothing would happen. They said they’d return him if I just —”

  “And you believe that?”

  “I – I don’t know. No, of course not. I don’t know.”

  Another pause. “It’s wearing off, Katherine.”

  “What?”

  “The experiment. It’s…”

  She could hear him swallow back the panic.

  “Katherine, I’m slipping back to what I used to be.”

  A cold fear gripped her.

  “Katherine?”

  At last she found her voice. “But you can fight it, right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Katherine wanted her son back. And, like it or not, she needed Coleman’s help. “You can fight it,” she ordered. “You’ve got to fight it.”

  The voice responded. Weak and hoarse. “I’m trying. I – I’ve even been praying. But…”

  Katherine’s head spun. She closed her eyes, trying to get her bearings. “Okay, listen —”

  “I don’t think I can —”

  “Listen to me!” He grew quiet and she continued. “You’re right — we’ve got to get together. But not here.” She tapped the desk, thinking. It couldn’t be public. It had to be somewhere with a computer and access to the Internet, someone who would let her —

  And then she saw it. Eric’s report card. And on the top line, the name of his teacher: Mr. Thaddeus Paris.

  Mr. Paris’s cramped twenty-nine-foot Avanti cruiser looked and felt like any other bachelor apartment, including but not limited to the distinct aroma of old socks, old grease, and Old Spice. Katherine knew he’d been picking up the place since she first called, and she kept a cautious eye on the bulging closets lest they fly open and bury her in dirty clothes or empty pizza boxes.

  She had arrived with a knapsack of books about the Internet. After enduring the pleasantries and sidestepping the curious questions, she was finally able to scoot behind the computer that sat on his kitchen table and go to work. Several times he offered his assistance, and several times she made it clear that his help was neither needed nor appreciated. Finally, he took the hint and packed up his briefcase for work.