The Heaven Trilogy

by Ted Dekker

  He could waltz right into Borst’s personal account if he so desired. Leave nasty messages on his bank statements. Scare the fool right into the arms of God. Ha! Kent smiled. A thin sheen of sweat covered his upper lip, and he drew an arm over his mouth.

  He imagined Bentley’s eyes when he opened a statement and, instead of that hundred-thousand-dollar bonus, found a notice of an overdraft. He would stiffen like a board. Maybe go purple and keel over dead.

  Kent blinked and shook the thoughts from his head. Absurd. The whole notion was absurd.

  Then again, everything in his life had become absurd. He had lost his resolve to live. Why not go for a piece of glory, pull off the crime of the century, steal a wad from the bank that had screwed him? It might give him a reason to live again. He’d lost a lot in the recent past. Taking a little back had a ring of justice.

  Of course, doing it without getting caught would be nearly impossible. Nearly impossible. But it could be done—given enough planning. Imagine!

  Kent did that. He imagined. Till dawn brought shape and color to his surroundings he imagined, wide eyed, with his legs bunched and a pillow under his chin. Sleep was out of the question. Because the more he thought about it, the more he realized that if ROOSTER still lived, he could be a wealthy man. Filthy rich. Start a new life. Make some of his own justice. Risk life in prison, to be sure, but life nonetheless. The alternative of plodding along the corporate trail again struck him more like a slow death. And he’d had enough of death.

  It was Wednesday. Today he would go to the bank and casually find out if the ROOSTER still lived. If it did . . .

  A chill ran right through Kent’s bones. It was indeed time to move on. And what of Helen’s little guilt trip? This God business? It would have to wait, of course. If the mighty red ROOSTER lived, he had himself a banquet to plan.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  KENT DROVE past the bank at eight-thirty, parked on a side street, and walked briskly toward the back alley. It occurred to him that the vagrant might be there, hiding in the dim light. The thought spiked his pulse. He pulled up at the entrance and peered around the brick wall, blinking against an image of a long pink tongue poking through the neck of a bottle. But the alley appeared empty except for that dumpster, which had been emptied. Kent made straight for the rear door and slipped into the bank. He breathed once deeply, checked his tie, and strode for the Information Systems suite.

  Betty’s eyes popped when he opened the door and stepped in. He smiled and dipped his head, purposefully courteous. “Morning, Betty.”

  Her mouth opened, but no sound come out.

  “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue? Borst in?”

  She nodded. “Good morning. Yes.”

  “Good morning,” he repeated and walked for Borst’s office.

  He tapped on the door and stepped in at the sound of a muffled call. Borst sat behind his desk, all dressed up in a new dark brown suit. The toupee had made a comeback, covering his bald spot with slick black hair. Jet black. Bright red suspenders rounded out the look.

  Borst’s eyes bulged out, and he bolted from his seat as though an electrode had juiced him there. The suspenders pulled his slacks snug into his crotch when he straightened. He looked like a clown.

  “Good morning, Borst.” This would have to go smoothly. Easy now. Step by step. “I’m back. I assume that I do still work here, right?”

  The man blinked and licked pink lips. “Good night, Kent! You scared me. I had no idea you planned on coming in this morning. We didn’t hear from you.” His lips twitched to a grin. “Yes. Sure you still work here. Have a seat. How are you?”

  “Actually, I’d like ten minutes to get situated. That okay?”

  “Sure. I leave for Phoenix at noon.” The man’s eyebrows lifted. “You here to stay, then?”

  Kent turned from the door. “Give me a few minutes. We’ll talk then.” He pulled the door closed and saw that Borst was already reaching for the phone. Reporting in to Bossman, no doubt. Kent’s heart pounded.

  Did they know?

  Of course not. How could they know of a dream? He had done nothing yet.

  Kent nodded at an oogle-eyed Betty and slid into his office. He locked the door. The exotic yellow fish still grazed placidly on his screen. His fingers trembled badly when he lowered them to the keyboard, and he squeezed them into fists.

  Okay, settle down, man. All you’re doing is checking on a piece of your own code. Nothing wrong with that.

  The plan was simple. If ROOSTER remained intact, he would go in there and suck up to Borst. Buy himself some time to think this out. If they had closed ROOSTER down, he would resign.

  A touch on the mouse made the fish wink off. A dozen icons hung suspended against a deep blue underwater oceanscape. Kent drew the mouse over the red-and-blue AFPS icon to an explorer icon. Entry into the system would be tracked—at least any entry through the doors of which they were aware. And if he was lucky they had not expanded their security measures to cut off his terminal completely.

  His heart thumping loudly in the room’s silence, Kent flew through the menus to a hidden folder requiring his own password for entry. He punched it in. The contents sprang to life. He scrolled down and scanned for the file in which he’d placed ROOSTER. The list ran by too quickly, and he repeated the scan, reading more methodically. Come on, baby. You have to be here.

  And then it was there, throbbing in his vision: MISC. He dragged the mouse over the name and double-clicked.

  The screen snapped to black. Kent caught his breath, aware that his legs trembled slightly now. He was on his toes under the desk, and he lowered his heels to settle the quaking. Come on, baby.

  The monitor flashed white, riddled with black letters and symbols. Code. Kent exhaled loudly. ROOSTER’s code! A living, viable, untraceable hook into the funds processing system, right here at his fingertips.

  He stared at it without moving for a minute, awash with relief that he’d had the foresight to add this final whistle to the package. It wasn’t pretty. No colors or boxes yet. Just raw code. But now another question: Would it still link to the system? Kent suddenly felt the heat of panic wash down his back. What if they had found it and left the code but removed its hook into the system?

  He hit a key and entered a single word: RUN. A new line immediately appeared, asking for a password. He entered the name. R-O-O-S-T-E-R.

  The screen darkened for a second and then popped up with the familiar blue menu he’d worked from for so many years. Kent blinked at the screen. He was in AFPS! Beyond security. From here he could do what he wished without the knowledge of another living soul.

  In the right hands, it was a security measure in itself, designed to deal with sabotage and viruses. In the wrong hands it was a way into the bank’s vaults. Or worse, a way into every account tied to the bank.

  Kent backed out quickly, handling the mouse with a sweating palm. He watched the menus retrace their steps to the deep blue ocean scene, then he lowered his hands to his lap. Even now, short of dusting for prints, Borst could not discover that anyone had even touched this computer, much less peeked up the bank’s skirt.

  He breathed deeply and stood. It was insane. These crazy thoughts of stealing money would be the end of him. Preposterous. They would bury him. He thought suddenly of Spencer and lifted a hand to his brow. It was all madness.

  Either way, he now had his answer.

  A fist pounded on the door, and Kent bolted a full foot off the carpet. He spun to the computer and scanned the keyboard. No, there was no trace. Relax. Relax, relax!

  “Who is it?” he called.

  “Cliff.”

  Cliff. Better than Borst. Kent let him in. “Sorry, I didn’t know it was locked,” he lied.

  “What are you doing in here, Kent?” The new recruit smiled. “Anything I should know about?” He nudged Kent as if they shared an understanding.

  “Yeah, right.” Kent willed his heart to settle. He sat and crossed his legs. “
So what can I do for you?”

  “Nothing. Betty just told me you were back. I figured you needed a welcome.” The grin straightened. “I heard what happened. You know . . . to your son. I can hardly imagine. Are you okay?”

  “Actually, I’m not sure what okay means anymore, but I’m ready to get back to work, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I’m sure it’ll take some time. Maybe getting your mind on work is the best way to pass it. And speaking of work, I’ve dug pretty deep since you were last here.” He smiled again. “You’d be proud of me. I’ve found things I’m sure only you know about.”

  A chill broke over Kent’s crown at the words. ROOSTER? “Yeah? Like what?”

  “Like links to the Chinese banking codes that are still inactive. Now, that’s what I call foresight, man.”

  “Well, it is a global system, Cliff. So what else have you dug up with that long snout of yours?”

  “A few anecdotal notes buried in the code—things like that. Borst has the brain of sausage.” He grinned wide.

  “Good night, you found that? That was buried. I should probably pull it out.”

  “No, leave it in. He’ll never find it.”

  They nodded, smiling.

  “Anything else?” Kent asked.

  “That’s it so far. Well, it’s good to have you back.” Cliff stood and walked to the door. “After you get settled I have some code to run by you. You up for that?”

  “Sure.”

  The younger man slapped the wall and disappeared. Now, that was close. Or was it? Actually, the chances of Cliff or anybody finding ROOSTER would be akin to picking a particular grain of sand from a bucket full of the stuff. Either way, he’d have to keep an eye on the man.

  Kent settled his nerves with a few long pulls of air and walked into Borst’s office.

  “Have a seat, Kent.”

  Kent sat.

  “We weren’t sure we’d see you again.”

  Yeah, I’ll bet. You and your pal Bentley both. “Well to be honest, I wasn’t so sure myself. So, how were things in my absence?” he asked, thinking the question stupid but unable to think of a better way to begin this sucking-up thing to which he had now committed himself.

  “Fine, Kent. Just fine. Boy, you’ve been through hell, huh?”

  Kent nodded. “Life can deal some pretty nasty blows.” He suddenly despised being here. He should stand now and walk away from this foolishness.

  “But I’m back. I need to work, Markus.” That’s right, get personal with him. Appeal to his need for friendship. “I need it bad. All I really have left is my career. I miss work here. Can you understand that?” His voice came soft and sensitive.

  “Yes. Makes sense.” The man had taken the bait. He paused and shifted his eyes. “Look, Kent. I’m sorry about the misunderstanding about AFPS. I just . . .”

  “No. You don’t need to say anything. These things happen. And I apologize for blowing up the way I did. It was totally uncalled-for.” Gag. If you only knew, you slimeball.

  Borst nodded, delighted behind that controlled smile, no doubt. “Well, we all got a bit off line, I think. Perhaps it’s best we just put the incident behind us.”

  Kent crossed his legs. The sweat was drying cold on his neck. “You’re right. Water under the bridge. So how is AFPS these days?”

  Markus brightened. “In a word? Incredible. We put together a doozie, Kent. They’re already saying that it will save a third of the manpower the old system used. Price has estimated the overall savings to the bank at over twenty million annually.”

  Price? First-name basis now. Partners in crime. Probably had dinner together every night. “Great. That’s great. No bugs?”

  “Sure. Plenty. But they’re minor. Actually, you’d probably be best suited to start working on them.” The Information Systems supervisor had honestly fooled himself into full ownership of the system, Kent thought.

  The man shifted the conversation back to what was apparently his favorite topic these days: money. “Hey, I still haven’t allocated that twenty-five-thousand-dollar bonus,” he said with a glint in his eyes. “At least not all of it. I’m giving Betty, Todd, and Mary five thousand each. But that leaves ten thousand. You need any spare change these days, Kent?” He jerked his brows high a few times. “Hmm?”

  Kent nearly lost the charade then. Came within a gnat’s whisker of leaping over the cherrywood desk and strangling his boss. For a few seconds he could not respond. The other three? Betty was getting a five-thousand-dollar spiff too? But that was just fine, of course, because he, Kent Anthony, the creator of said program, was to get double that. Yes sir! A whopping ten grand. And Borst? What would bug-eyed Borst’s cut be? Oh, well, Borst was the main man. He would get 10 percent of the savings for ten years. A mere fifteen, twenty million. Chump change.

  Sounded like a good, round number. Twenty million.

  “Sure,” Kent said. “Who couldn’t use ten thousand dollars? I could cut my Lexus payment in half.” That last comment slipped out before he could reign it back. He hoped Borst did not catch his cynicism.

  “Good. It’s yours. I’ll talk to Price this afternoon.”

  “I thought you were going to Phoenix today.”

  “Yes. We are. I’ll talk to Price on the plane.”

  It was an unstoppable freight train with those two. Kent swallowed his anger. “Thank you.” He stood. “Well, I guess I should get started. I want to talk to the others—you know, make sure there are no misunderstandings.”

  “Good. Splendid idea. It’s good to have you back.”

  Kent turned at the door. “One more thing, Markus. I kind of blew it with Bentley the other day. You wouldn’t mind putting in a word for me, would you? It was just a bad week.” He swallowed deliberately and was surprised at the sudden emotion that accompanied it. They said the grief would last a year, gradually easing. Evidently he was still in the stage where it could be set off with a mere swallow.

  “Sure, Kent. Consider it done. And don’t worry. He and I are rather tight these days.”

  Yes, I’ll bet you are, Kent thought. He left before the revulsion had him doing something silly, like throwing up on the man’s carpet.

  PASTOR BILL Madison parked his gray Chevy on the street and strode up to Helen’s door. She had sounded different on the phone. Almost excited. At least peachy. Like someone who had just been handed some very good news. Or like someone who had flipped their lid.

  Given the last few weeks’ events, he feared the latter. But then this was Helen, here. With Helen you could never know. The New Testament characterized followers of Christ as peculiar. Well, Helen was just that. One of very few he would consider peculiar in their faith. Which was in itself strange when he got right down and thought about it. Perhaps they should all be rather unusual; Christ certainly was.

  She had asked him to pray, and he had indeed prayed. But not simply because of her request. Something was happening here. He might not have the spiritual eyes that Helen claimed to possess, but he could sense things. Discernment, some called it. A spiritual gift. The ability to look at a situation and sense its spiritual origins. Like, This face sends chills up my spine; it must be evil. Not that he always operated in the most accurate mode of discernment. He had once felt chills peck at his heart, looking at a strange, alien-looking face on the television screen. To him it looked downright demonic. Then his son had informed him that it was a closeup of a friendly little creature found in the Amazon. One of God’s creatures.

  That had confused him a little. But this thing with Helen—it was more than just a weird face on the boob tube. It was an aura that followed her around in much the same way he imagined an aura might have followed Elisha or Elijah around.

  He rang the doorbell. The door swung in immediately, as if Helen had awaited his arrival with her hand on the knob.

  “Come in, Pastor.” She wore a yellow dress, tube socks, and running shoes, a ridiculous sight for one who had trouble walking even around the house.
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  “Thank you, Helen.” Bill stepped in and closed the door, glancing at her legs. The musty scent of roses hung in the air. The old lady’s perfume was everywhere. She left him for the living room, smiling.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked, following.

  She did not respond directly but walked across the carpet humming her anthem, “The Martyr’s Song.” She had told him once that the song summed it all up. It made death worthwhile. Bill stopped behind her large, green easy chair, fixated on the sight of Helen walking. She was seemingly oblivious to him.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Shhhh.” She hushed him and lifted both hands, still pacing back and forth. Her eyes rested closed. “You hear that, Bill?”

  Bill cocked his head and listened, but he heard nothing. Except her faint humming. “Hear what?”

  “The laughter. Do you hear that laughter?”

  He tried to hear laughter, but he heard only her soprano hum. Let me to Thy bosom fly . . . And he smelled roses.

  “You might have to open your heart a little, but it’s there, Pastor—very faint, like the breeze blowing through trees.”

  He tried again, closing his eyes this time, feeling a little foolish. If one of the deacons knew he was over at Helen Jovic’s house listening for laughter with her, they might very well begin the search for a new shepherd. After hearing nothing but Helen for a few moments, he gave up and looked at her.

  Helen suddenly stopped her pacing and opened her eyes. She giggled and lowered her hands. “It’s okay, Pastor. I didn’t really expect you to hear anything. It’s like that around here. Some days it’s silent. And then some days he opens up my ears to the laughter and I want to walk around the house kissing things. Just kissing everything. Like today. Would you like some tea?”