by Ted Dekker
“Fantastic job, Kent!” Todd lifted his glass, which was empty, and threw it back anyway. By the looks of it, Todd had a few hidden vices.
Kent’s mind flashed back to the two-year stint during graduate studies when he himself had taken to nipping at the bottle during late nights hovering over the keyboard. It was an absurd dichotomy, really. A top honors student who had found his brilliance through impeccable discipline, now slowly yielding to the lure of the bottle. A near drowning on one of his late-night runs had halted his slippery slide back to Stupid Street. It had been midwinter, and unable to muscle through a programming routine, he’d gone for a jog with half a bottle of tequila sloshing in his gut. He had misjudged a pier on the lake for a jogging path and run right off it into freezing waters. The paramedics told him if he’d not been in such good shape, he would have drowned. It was the last time he’d touched the stuff.
Kent blinked and smiled at Todd. “Thanks. Well, I’ve got some work to finish, so I’ll see you guys tomorrow, right?”
“Bright ’n’ early.”
“Bright ’n’ early.” He nodded, and they stepped aside as though on strings. Kent walked past them to the first door on the left, across from the one through which Borst had disappeared.
This was going to be all right, he thought. Very much all right.
HELEN HOBBLED along beside her daughter in the park, eyeing the ducks waddling beside the pond, nearly as graceful as she. Walking was a thing mostly of the past for her wounded legs. Oh, she could manage about fifty yards without resting up for a while, but that was definitely it. Gloria had persuaded her to see an orthopedic doctor a year earlier, and the quack had recommended surgery. A knee replacement or some such ridiculous thing. They actually wanted to cut her open!
She’d managed a few hours of sleep last night, but otherwise it was mostly praying and wondering. Wondering about that little eye-opener God had decided to grace her with.
“It is lovely here, don’t you think?” Helen asked casually. But she did not feel any loveliness at all just now.
“Yes, it is.” Her daughter turned to the skating bowl in time to see Spencer fly above the concrete wall, make a grab for his skateboard in some insane inverted move, and streak back down, out of sight. She shook her head and looked back at the pond.
“I swear, that boy’s gonna kill himself.”
“Oh lighten up, Gloria. He’s a boy, for goodness’ sake. Let him live life while he’s young. One day he’ll wake up and find that his body doesn’t fly as well as it used to. Until then, let him fly. Who knows? Maybe it brings him closer to heaven.”
Gloria smiled and tossed a stick toward one of the ducks swaying its way in search of easy pickings. “You have the strangest way of putting things, Mom.”
“Yes, and do you find me wrong?”
“No, not often. Although some of your analogies do stretch the mind.” She reached an arm around her mother and squeezed, chuckling.
“You remember that time you suggested Pastor Madison take the cross off the church wall and carry it on his back for a week? Told him if the idea sounded silly it was only because he had not seen death up close and personal. Really, Mother! Poor fellow.”
Helen smiled at the memory. Fact of it was, few Christians knew the cost of discipleship. It would have been a fine object lesson. “Yes, well, Bill’s a fine pastor. He knows me now. And if he doesn’t, he does a fine job pretending as though he does.”
She guided her daughter by the elbow down the path. “So you leave tomorrow, then?”
“No, Saturday. We leave Saturday.”
“Yes, Saturday. You leave Saturday.” The air seemed to have grown stuffy, and Helen drew a deliberate breath. She stopped and looked around for a bench. The closest sat twenty yards away, surrounded by white ducks.
Gloria’s voice spoke softly at her elbow. “You okay, Mother?”
Suddenly Helen was not okay. The vision strung through her mind, and she closed her eyes for a moment. Her chest felt stuffed with cotton. She swallowed hard and turned away from her daughter.
“Mother?” A cool hand encircled her biceps.
Helen fought back a flood of tears and narrowly succeeded. When she spoke, her voice warbled a bit. “You know that things are not what they seem, Gloria. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes. I know that.”
“We look around here, and we see all sorts of drama unfolding about us— people marrying and divorcing and getting rich and running off to Paris.”
“Mother . . .”
“And all along, the drama unfolding in the spirit world is hardly noticed but no less real. In fact, it is the real story. We just tend to forget that because we cannot see it.”
“Yes.”
“There are a lot of opposites in life, you know. The first will be last, and the last, first.” Gloria knew this well, but Helen felt compelled to say it all, just the same. To speak like this to her only daughter. “A man finds the whole world but loses his soul. A man who loses his life finds it. A seed dies, and fruit is born. It is the way of God. You know that, don’t you? I’ve taught you that.”
“Yes, you have, and yes, I do know that. What’s wrong, Mother? Why are you crying?”
“I am not crying, Honey.” She faced Gloria for the first time and saw her raised eyebrows. “Do you see me weeping and wailing?” But her throat was aching terribly now, and she thought she might fall apart right here on the path.
She took a few steps into the grass and cleared her throat. “Death brings life. In many ways, you and I are already dead, Gloria. You know that, don’t you?”
“Mother, you are crying.” Her daughter turned her around as if she were a child. “You’re trying not to, but I can hear it in your voice. What’s wrong?”
“What would you think if I were to die, Gloria?”
Gloria’s mouth parted to speak, but she said nothing. Her hazel eyes stared wide. When she did find her voice, the words came shaky.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s a simple enough question. If I were to pass on—die—and you buried me, what would you think?”
“That’s ridiculous! How can you speak to me like that? You’re nowhere near dying. You shouldn’t think such thoughts.”
The tension provided Helen with a wave of resolve that seemed to lighten her emotion for the moment. “No, but if, Gloria. If a truckdriver missed his brakes and knocked my head off my shoulders—what would you think?”
“That’s terrible! I would feel terrible. How can you say such a thing? Goodness! How do you think I would feel?”
She looked directly at her daughter for a few seconds. “I didn’t say feel, Honey. I said think. What would you suppose had happened?”
“I would suppose that a drunken truckdriver had killed my mother, that’s what I’d think.”
“Well, then you would think like a child, Gloria.” She turned away and feigned a little disgust. “Humor me in my old age, dear. At least pretend that you believe what I’ve taught you.”
Her daughter did not respond. Helen cast a sideways glance and saw that she had made the connection. “Mother, there is no end to you.”
“No. No, I suppose there isn’t, is there. But humor me. Please, darling.”
Gloria sighed, but it was not a sigh of resignation—it was a sigh that comes when the truth has settled. “All right. I would think that you had been taken from this world. I would think that in your death, you had found life. Eternal life with God.”
“Yes, and you would be right.” Helen turned to face Gloria and nodded. “And what might that be like?”
Gloria blinked and turned to the pond, lost in a hazy stare. “It would be . . .” She paused, and a smile curved her lips ever so slowly. “. . . like what we saw yesterday. Laughing with God.” Her eyes grew wide, and she faced Helen.
“So, then, would you want me to find that?”
Her daughter’s eyebrows narrowed in question for a fleeting moment, and then she nodded slowly.
“Yes. Yes, I suppose I would.”
“Even if finding it meant losing this life?”
“Yes. I suppose so.”
Helen smiled and drew a deep, satisfied breath. “Good.”
She stepped close to Gloria, put her arms around her daughter’s waist, and pulled her close. “I love you, Sweetheart,” she said and rested her cheek on her daughter’s shoulder.
“I love you too.”
They held each other for a long moment.
“Mother?”
“Yes?”
“You’re not going to die, are you?”
“Someday, I hope. The sooner the better. Either way, our worlds are about to change, Gloria. Everything is turning inside out.”
CHAPTER FIVE
KENT WOKE at 6 A.M. on Friday, instantly alert. His plane departed at nine, which gave them two hours to dress and make their way to the airport. He flung the sheets aside and swung his legs to the floor. Beside him, Gloria moaned softly and rolled over.
“Up and at ’em, Sweetheart. I’ve got a plane to catch.”
Gloria grunted an acknowledgment and lay still, milking the waning seconds for the last of sleep, no doubt.
Kent walked under the arch into their spacious bathroom and doused his head under the tap. Fifteen minutes later he emerged, half dressed, expecting to make a trip to the kitchen to ask Gloria about his socks. But he was spared the jaunt downstairs—he would not find Gloria down there because she was still in bed with an arm draped over her face.
“Gloria? We have to leave, Sweetheart. I thought you were up.”
She rolled toward him and sat up groggily. “Oh, goodness! I feel like a freight train hit me.”
Her complexion looked rather peaked, at that. He sat beside her and ran a finger under her chin. “You look pale. Are you okay?”
She nodded. “Stomach’s a bit upset.”
“Maybe you have a touch of the flu,” Kent offered. He rested a hand on her knee. “Why don’t you take it easy. I can get to the airport alone.”
“I wanted to take you.”
“Don’t worry about it. You rest up. We have a big trip tomorrow.” He stood. “The twelve-hour flu has been making the rounds at the office. Who knows? Maybe I brought it home. Do you know where my navy silk socks are?”
Gloria motioned to the door. “In the dryer. Honestly, Honey, I’m fine. You sure you don’t want me to take you?”
He turned and gave her a wink. “Yes, I’m sure. What’s a trip to some lousy airport? We have Paris to think about. Get some rest—I’ll be fine.” Kent bounded down the steps to the laundry room and rummaged around until he found the socks. He heard the clinking in the kitchen and knew then that Gloria had followed him down.
When he rounded the refrigerator, Gloria was scooping grounds into the coffee machine, her pink housecoat swishing at her ankles. He slid up behind her and slipped his arms around her waist. “Really, Honey. I have this handled.”
She dismissed the comment with a flip of her wrist. “No. I’m feeling better already. It was probably that asparagus I ate last night. You want some coffee? The least I can do is send you away with a decent breakfast.”
He kissed her on the neck. “I’d love some coffee and toast. Thank you, Sweetheart.”
They ate together on the dinette set, Kent neatly dressed, Spencer rubbing sleep from his eyes, Gloria looking like she had risen from her coffin for the occasion. Coffee gurgled, porcelain clinked, forks clattered. Kent eyed Gloria, ignoring the concern that whispered through his skull.
“So, you have tennis today?”
She nodded. “One o’clock. I play Betsy Maher in the quarterfinals.” She lifted a white cup to her lips and sipped. “Assuming I’m feeling better.”
Kent smiled gently. “You’ll be fine, Honey. I can’t remember the last time you missed a match. In fact, I can’t remember the last time you missed anything due to illness.” Kent chuckled and bit into his toast. “Man, I remember the first time we played tennis. You remember that?”
His wife smiled. “How could I forget with your reminding me every few months.”
Kent turned to Spencer. “You should’ve seen her, Spencer. Miss Hotshot with her tennis scholarship trying to take on a runner. She might have been able to place the ball where she wanted, but I ran her into the ground. She wouldn’t stop. And I knew she was getting tired after the fourth set, because I could barely stand up and she was over there wobbling on her feet. I’d never seen anybody so competitive.” He glanced at Gloria. Some color had come back into her face.
“Until she puked.”
“Gross, Dad!”
“Don’t look at me. Look at your mother.”
Gloria just smiled. “Don’t forget to tell him who won, dear.”
“Yes, your mother did whip me good that day—before she puked, that is. I think I fell in love with her then, while she was bent over by the far net post.”
“Gross!” Spencer giggled.
“Fell in love, ha! As I remember it, you were head over heels for some other thing in a skirt at the time.”
“Perhaps. But it all began between us then.”
“Well, it took you long enough to come around. We didn’t even date until you were out of school.”
“Yes, and look at where we are today, dear.” He stood, slid his dish into the sink, and returned to kiss her on the cheek. Her skin was warm. “I think it was worth the wait, don’t you?”
She smiled. “If you insist.”
Twenty minutes later, Kent stood by the front door and saluted them, packed bags in hand. “Okay, you guys have the itinerary, right? I’ll see you at five o’clock tomorrow night. We have a plane to catch at six. And remember to pack the camera, Honey. This is one trip that’s going down in Anthony family history.”
Gloria walked to him, still wrapped in her pink bathrobe. “You take care of yourself, my prince,” she said and kissed him gently on the cheek. “I love you.” For a moment he looked into those sparkling hazel eyes and smiled.
He bent and kissed her forehead. “And I love you. More than you could possibly know, Sweetheart.”
“See you, Dad,” Spencer said sheepishly. He walked over and put a flimsy arm around his father’s waist.
Kent ruffled his hair. “See you, Chief. You take care of Mommy, you hear?” He kissed him on the forehead.
“I will.”
He left them standing at the door, his son under his wife’s arm. There was a connection between those two he could never entirely grasp. A knowing glint in their eyes that sapped his power, made him blink. It had been painfully obvious yesterday around the dinner table. But he had just made them rich; it was to be expected, he supposed. They kept exchanging glances, and when he’d finally asked them about it, they’d just shrugged.
Man, he loved them.
The flight from Denver International to Miami was an eventful one. At least for Kent Anthony it was eventful, if for no other reason than because every waking moment had become eventful. He had become a new man. And now in the DC-9 cabin, even his peers recognized him in a new light. Five others from Niponbank’s Denver branch were making the belated trip to Florida for the conference. He’d meandered about the aisle, talking to all of them. And all of them had looked at him with a twinkle in their eyes. A glint of jealousy, perhaps. Or a spark of hope for their own careers. Someday, if I’m so lucky, I will be in your shoes, Kent, they would be thinking. Of course, there was always the possibility that the glint was actually light—a reflection from the oval windows lining the fuselage.
His boss, Markus Borst, sat three rows up with his shiny bald spot poking just above the seat like an island of sand in a black sea. Borst had worn a toupee over that bald spot all last year, discarding it only after the underhanded comments had driven him to hide for long days with a DO NOT DISTURB sign on his closed door. What the superior did behind that door, Kent could not fathom. He was certainly not breaking records for coordinating software design, as his title suggeste
d. And when he did emerge from his cave, he did little but look over Kent’s shoulder and wish he’d thought of this, or mumble about how he could have done that.
And now, within the week Borst could very well be working for him. Kent ran a finger under his collar and stretched his neck. The red tie had been a good choice. It accented the navy suit well, he thought. The perfect attire for meeting the real powerhouses in the bank’s upper echelon. They would have heard about him by now, of course. Young man, firm grip, broad shoulders, brilliant mind. From the western United States. He’s got the stuff.
An image of a podium facing a thousand executives around dinner tables formed in his mind. He was at the microphone. Well, it wasn’t so difficult once I constructed the advanced timing paradigm. Of course, it’s all a matter of perspective. Brilliance is a function more of the destination than of the journey, and let me assure you, my friends, we have arrived at a destination never before imagined, much less traveled. The conference hall would shake under thunderous applause. He would hold up his hand then, not emphatically but as a slight gesture. It did not take much to command.
Not so long ago, a man named Gates—Bill Gates—introduced an operating system that changed the world of computing. Today Niponbank is introducing the Advanced Funds Processing System, and it will change the world of banking. Now they would be standing, pounding their hands together. Of course, he wouldn’t take direct responsibility for the work. But they would understand, just the same. At least those at the top would understand.
Beside him Will Thompson cleared his throat. “Hey, Kent. You ever wonder why some people move up the ladder so quickly and others stay put their whole careers? I mean people with the same basic skills?”
Kent looked at the forty-year-old loan manager, wondering again how the man had finagled his way on this trip. Will insisted that his boss, already in Miami, needed him to explain some innovative ideas they had been working on to some higher-ups. But Kent didn’t know Will to have an innovative bone in his body. His colleague’s black hair was speckled with gray, and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses sat on his nose. Yellow suspenders rode over a white shirt in good East Coast fashion. If he considered anyone at the bank a friend, it was Will.