by Ted Dekker
He stared up at her, a dumb smile spreading across his face.
Helen leaned over his face. He felt her hot tears fall on his cheek. Then her warm lips on his own. And on his nose.
“I love you, Janjic.”
She kissed him again, around his eyes.
“I love you, Jan Jovic. I will love you forever. With Christ’s love, I love you.”
She began to cry again and Jan lost consciousness, in the arms of an angel. In the embrace of true love.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Six Months Later
A LIGHT New England breeze swept over the tall black cliffs that held the Atlantic Ocean at bay, and lifted Helen’s hair from her shoulders. Before her, as far as she could see, whitecaps dotted the blue sea. In either direction, green grass rolled with the hills. It was the ideal setting to convalesce, she thought. Beautiful and healthy and perfectly peaceful.
She sat in the gazebo across the small glass table from Jan and breathed the salty air deep into her lungs. He sat in his wheelchair and stared at the ocean, wearing a loose cotton shirt and looking stunningly handsome.
Fifty yards behind them, their white colonial house sat stoically on the lawn. She would be in there preparing supper for them about now if it weren’t for her knees. But they’d hired Emily to do more than nurse them to health, Jan insisted. On a day as bright as today Emily would probably serve them on the sprawling veranda.
Helen faced Janjic. “I love you, Jan.”
He turned to her and his hazel eyes reflected the sea’s green, smiling in their wrinkles. “And I’m mad about you, my dear.” He extended a hand and rubbed her pregnant stomach. “And you, Gloria.”
They’d already decided it would be a girl and they would call her Gloria, because of the glory that had set them free.
Helen smiled. “Thank you for bringing me back.”
“What, to America?” He chuckled. “Did I have a choice?”
“Sure. We could have stuck it out in Bosnia.” She looked out to sea. “Of course, you wouldn’t have gotten the new book deal for When Heaven Weeps. Nor the movie.” She smiled.
“And I wouldn’t have the luxury of living my life in peace with my bride and my child,” he added. “Like I said; did I have a choice?”
“No, I guess not.”
“My only regret is that you’re not well enough to serve me hand and foot.” He smiled wide. “A celebrity deserves no less, don’t you think?”
“Jan Jovic, how could you say such a thing? Don’t worry, my knees are better by the day. I’ll be at your beck and call before you know it.” They laughed.
Helen stood and walked behind him. Ivena’s red-and-white flowers cascaded over the thatchwork, spreading their sweet, musky scent. They’d brought a shoot with them six months ago and planted it along the south wall of the house and here, by the gazebo. Only Joey’s Garden of Eden also featured the new species of lily and there it had nearly taken over the botanical garden’s east wall.
Helen drew Jan’s hair back, bent over and kissed behind his ear. “It’s you I worry about, my dear. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
“Then let’s make sure you don’t have to live without me,” he said. “I’ve lived through worse. You think a hole in my liver will hold me back?”
He said it with courage and she smiled.
Helen leaned over and kissed his other ear. “Well, I promise that I will love my wounded solider until the day that I die. And I have no intention of going anytime soon.”
She laid her head on his hair and closed her eyes. How could she have possibly betrayed this man? The memory of her treachery sat like a distant pain at the back of her mind—always there but incomprehensible. An insatiable love for this man had replaced her addiction in whole.
The details of the last few months were written in black-and-white for the world to read in Jan’s new book. The fact that Glenn’s estate owned the legal rights to The Dance of the Dead was now irrelevant. His old book wasn’t the complete story—he’d told them clearly enough at the news conference. When Heaven Weeps was. And as a new property it wasn’t under the restrictions of the old contract he’d signed with Glenn’s company.
Neither Roald nor the council could argue with that. Jan had graciously omitted their most ugly moments from the story. But not the woman that they had scorned. Not Helen. Jan had put her on nearly every page, both her ugliness and her beauty. Mostly her beauty, Helen thought.
She kissed the crown of his head.
He pulled her hand. “Come here.”
She walked around the chair and sat in his lap.
He took her chin and looked into her eyes. “You’re everything to me. You’re my bride. You make my heart pitter and my knees weak. You think I would leave that for the grave?”
“No. But maybe for the laughter.”
“I have the laughter already. I carry it in my heart, and it’s for you.”
Helen smiled and leaned forward. “You’re very sweet, my prince.” She kissed him lightly on the lips and then pulled back. His eyes were on fire with love.
“I love you. More than life,” he said.
“And I love you. More than death.”
She kissed his lips once again. She could not help herself. This love of theirs— this love of Christ’s—was that kind of love.
SHOWDOWN
Just keep telling yourself.
“IT'S ONLY A BOOK.”
Of all the novels Ted Dekker has ever written.
this one
TAKES YOU FURTHER . . .
CUTS DEEPER . . .
PLAYER FOR KEEPS.
From the mind of Ted Dekker.
the ultimate Showdown
HAS BEGUN.
PRAISE FOR TEDDEKKER’S NOVELS
BLESSED CHILD
“Blessed Child is the best novel I’ve ever read.”
LOWELL W. PAXSON, chairman, PAX-TV
“Bill Bright and Ted Dekker have written a fast-paced thriller of apocalyptic dimensions. The book will move you to wonder.”
CHARLES W. COLSON
“What a beautiful picture of the love God has for us.”
TIM LAHAYE
“Blessed Child is a letter from God’s heart to every Christian! A cutting edge call to the church. It confronts us with towering truth.”
JACK HAYFORD
“I enthusiastically recommend Blessed Child. It is a compelling story of the transforming power of the Holy Spirit.”
JOSH MCDOWELL
“A good novel with a strong message.”
SIR JOHN M. TEMPLETON
“. . . stimulating and enlightening reading . . . Congratulations . . .!”
D. JAMES KENNEDY, Ph.D.
“ A real page turner . . . a captivating portrayal of God’s unwavering commitment.”
JAMES ROBISON
“Blessed Child is most inspiring and amazing . . . a must read . . .”
PAUL CROUCH
“A brilliant and heart-touching novel . . . powerful writing . . . I commend it to everyone. I believe it will have a lasting influence . . . on every reader’s life!”
ORAL ROBERTS
HEAVENS WAGER
“[Heaven’s Wager is] genuinely exciting . . . fast paced . . . spine-tingling . . .”
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
“Well, well, guess what I’ve found. A fiction writer with a rare knack for a compelling story, an expansive reservoir of clever ideas, and a unique dry wit that makes me laugh.”
FRANK PERETTI, best-selling author
“Rarely does a novel grip a reader’s heart and soul the way Heaven’s Wager does. Dekker is among a very small number of writers who have mastered the challenge of blending sound theology with knock-your-socks-off storytelling.”
ROBERT LIPARULO, novelist and contributing editor of New Man magazine
“Readers will be lining up for the next sequel. Strongly recommended.”
CHRISTIANITY.COM
“Easily one o
f the most visionary, gripping and inspiring Christian novels ever written.”
MARK OLSEN, author and fiction editor
“From the opening paragraphs of Heaven’s Wager, I was caught in the human drama where life intersects with spiritual reality. It’s a page-turner and I look forward to many more books from this talented writer.”
W. TERRY WHALIN, best-selling author and fiction reviewer, journalist
“Not since the day a manuscript called This Present Darkness came to me for consideration have I come across a story as gripping and with such spiritual insight as Heaven’s Wager.”
JAN DENNIS, editor and publisher,
This Present Darkness, Piercing the Darkness, The Prophet
JACK HAYFORD
WHEN HEAVEN WEEPS
“When Heaven Weeps displays more of God’s love than any other book I’ve read, save the Bible. It’ll make anyone who is forgiven stand up and shout. It is a beautiful story . . . exquisite.”
STEPHEN BLACKMON, ConsumingFire.com
“Ted Dekker is one of the most remarkable creative writers of our time . . . engrossing and spiritually inspiring . . . highly recommended!”
BILL BRIGHT, Founder and President, Campus Crusade for Christ International
“When Heaven Weeps is a first in Christian fiction: a bold, knock-your-socks off, four-hankie, romantic supernatural thriller. And a brilliantly written one to boot. Hang on for something brand new.”
MARK OLSEN, author and editor
“Although I don’t read much Christian fiction, this romantic thriller had me turning page after page.”
JOSH SPENCER, editor, Stranger Things magazine
“Dekker is a brilliant storyteller.”
JEREMY REYNALDS, Assist Communications
THUNDER OF HEAVEN
© Copyright 2002 by Theodore R. Dekker
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Thomas Nelson, Inc. titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Dekker, Ted, 1962–
Thunder of heaven / Theodore R. Dekker.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-8499-4517-5 (repak)
ISBN 978-0-8499-4292-1 (sc)
I. Title.
PS3604.E53 T48 2002
813'.6dc21 2002016712
Printed in the United States of America
07 08 09 10 11 12 RRD 11 10 9 8 7 6 5
LETTER FROM THE PUBLISHER
The story you are about to read is a part of the Martyr’s Song series because the events of Tanya’s life would not have been possible if the events recorded in The Martyr’s Song had never happened as they did.
There is no order to the Martyr’s Song novels, you may read any in any order. Each is a stand alone story that in no way depends on the others. Nevertheless, if there is one book we recommend you read first, it is The Martyr’s Song, the story that started it all.
For LeeAnn, my wife,
without whose love I
would be only a shadow
of myself. I will never
forget the day you saw heaven.
Table of Content
Letter From the Publisher
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Epilogue
PROLOGUE
Eight Years Ago
“It’s starting again, Bill.”
“Again? These things start every time we turn around.”
She ignored the pastor. “I had another vision.”
The line was silent for a moment.
“You’re walking again?”
“No. But I’m praying. I want you to join me.”
“What was the vision?”
Helen paused. “I’m not sure.”
“You had a vision but you’re not sure what it was?”
“Something terrible is happening, and somehow its outcome rests in my hands. In our hands.”
“Our hands? God can’t deal with this on his own?”
“Please don’t be smart. I’m too old for games.”
“Forgive me.” He let out a long breath. “I’m not sure I’m ready for another round, Helen.”
“I don’t think anyone is this time.” A tremor laced her voice. “He who is faithful in little will be given much. This feels like much. And, frankly, I’m a little scared.”
The line was silent.
“Who is it?” Bill finally asked.
“Tanya,” Helen said.
CHAPTER ONE
THOSE WHO know call that part of the jungle the hellhole of creation for good reason. And they call the Indians who live there the fiercest humans on earth for even better reason. It’s why no one wants to go there. It’s why no one does go there. It’s why those who do rarely come out alive.
Which is also why the lone American girl who ran through the jungle really had no business being there. At least according to those who know.
Tanya Vandervan jogged to a halt atop a cleared knoll and tried to still her heavy breathing. She’d run most of the way from her parents’ mission station, hidden by trees a mile behind, and in this heat, a mile’s run tended to stretch the lungs.
She stood still, her chest rising and falling, hands on hips, her deep blue eyes sparkling like sapphires through long blond hair. The rugged hiking boots she wore rose to clearly defined calves. Today she had donned denim shorts and a red tank top that brightened her tanned skin.
Still drawing hard but through her nose now, she lifted her eyes to the screeching calls of red-and-blue parrots flapping from the trees to her left. Long trunks rose from the forest floor to the canopy, like dark Greek columns supporting tangled wads of foliage. Vines dripped from the canopy—the jungle’s version of silly string. Tanya watched a howler monkey swing suspended by a single arm, whether provoking or protesting the parrots’ sudden departure, she could not tell. She smiled a
s the brown mammal reached a flimsy arm out and nabbed a purple passionfruit from a vine before arching back into the branches above.
A gunshot suddenly echoed through the valley and she jerked toward the plantation. Shannon!
An image of him filled Tanya’s mind and she ran down the knoll, her heart thumping steady again.
To her right, the clearing butted against hills that rose to a black cliff, looming a mile to the plantation’s north. The Richtersons’ large two-story white house sat still in the midday air, white like a marshmallow on a sea of green.
On Tanya’s left grew fifty acres of the plantation’s exotic crop: Cavash coffee beans, commonly regarded among connoisseurs as the finest coffee in the world. Shannon could be there working the fields, but she doubted it—he’d never taken much interest in his father’s farming.
His father, Jergen, had fled Denmark and carved out this living because of his hatred toward the West. The West is trampling out the earth’s soul, he would say in his booming voice. And Washington’s leading the charge. One of these days America will wake up and their world will be different. Someone will teach them a lesson and then they might listen. They were just words, nothing else. Jergen was a coffee farmer, not a revolutionary.
Shannon spouted his father’s rhetoric on occasion, but really, it was love, not hate, that drove his world. Love for the jungle.
And love for Tanya.
The thunder of gunfire boomed again. Tanya smiled and broke to her left, sprinting around the fields toward the firing range.
Tanya saw them when she cleared the last coffee bush—three blond Scandinavian heads bent over a rifle with their backs to her. Shannon’s father, Jergen, stood on the left, dressed in khaki green. The visiting uncle, Christian, stood to the right, a brother look-alike.
The bare-chested young man between them was Shannon.
Tanya’s heart jumped at the sight and she pulled up, stepping lightly.
Shannon stood tall for eighteen, over six feet, and wrapped in muscles that seemed to grow larger each day. Countless hours in the sun had darkened his skin and lightened his long blond hair. She often teased him, suggesting he take a comb to his head, but in reality she rather liked the way those loose strands fell down his neck and into those bright emerald eyes. It meant she could sweep his hair aside with her fingers, and she liked touching his face that way. His pectoral muscles flared from a rippling stomach and met broad shoulders. Today he wore only loose black shorts—no shoes on this man.