Eli (43 page)

Jake heard him too. He gave a half glance before directing his attention back to the mound and taking another practice swing.

“Watch for the outside corner pitch,” the stranger repeated.

Now it was Suzanne’s turn to look, the sun also causing her to squint.

Conrad looked back at the mound. Robert stared up into the stands, a little miffed. The stranger had created a problem. If he threw an outside corner lob, would his brother be expecting it? Or would Jake expect just the opposite since it had just been broadcast from the stands? It was an interesting dilemma, a choice both would have to make.

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Back at the plate Jake crouched, preparing for the pitch.

Beads of sweat reappeared on his face.

Robert started his wind-up ritual—rolling his head and squinting at the plate. The runners on their bases prepared to take off. This was it. Two strikes, bases loaded. It was now or never.

Jake took one more practice swing, focused, and waited.

At last Robert pitched the ball. As it came toward the plate, Jake stepped forward, preparing for an outside corner lob. He guessed correctly.

CRACK!

The ball flew off the bat, sailing high into the air. Everyone froze. No one believed their eyes—most of all, Jake. It was a home run, a grand slam!

“Atta boy, Jake!” Suzanne shouted. “Run, Jake, run!”

But Jake barely heard. Instead, he turned toward the stands and looked up at the stranger standing in the sun. A grin spread across his face. Then, still holding the bat, he started to run. But not toward first. Instead, he started around the backstop toward the stands.

“Jake!” Suzanne shouted.

But the man didn’t stop, he didn’t even slow. “Eli!” he cried, and continued to lumber forward.

Conrad whirled around and stared up into the stands. Of course. Why hadn’t he recognized him before? His heart began to pound. It had been six days since Eli’s last appearance. For Conrad, each visit was more meaningful than the last. And for good reason. That was his life standing up there, his purpose for living. Still holding Suzanne’s hand, he also started toward the bleachers, at least a dozen steps ahead of Jake.

They reached the bottom of the steps and started up. Eli remained standing in the sun, some thirty, forty feet above them. As they ran, that same children’s song started to ring in Conrad’s ears, the one he and Suzanne used to sing to their Sunday school class so many years before. He wasn’t sure where it came from or why he was hearing it now, but it was definitely there.

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Jesus loves me, this I know,

For the Bible tells me so.

The steps were steep, and Conrad could already feel the strain in his legs. Apparently so did Suzanne. That’s why after only a dozen or so she let go of his hand. “You go on,” she panted. “I’ll catch up.”

Conrad nodded and continued. His heart beat harder now; he could hear it pounding in his ears.

Little ones to Him belong,

They are weak but He is strong.

His breathing grew more difficult. He definitely wasn’t as young as he used to be. But he wouldn’t stop. After all, that was Eli standing up there in the sun, stretching out his arms to him.

Yes, Jesus loves me.

Conrad’s legs became more and more unsure. The pounding in his ears grew louder. And his breathing became more difficult. He could feel the burn in the back of his throat. Felt his lungs crying for more air. But still he ran.

Eli was just ahead. In the blinding glare of the light Conrad could see him opening his mouth. He was saying something, but they were still too far apart for Conrad to hear.

Yes, Jesus loves me.

His legs started to lose feeling. Again Eli spoke, and again Conrad strained to listen. But there was only the song and the pounding in his ears. The thunderous, rapid pounding. And it was no longer a steady rhythm. Now it had become erratic, out of sync.

He breathed harder, gasping for air, trying in vain to fill his lungs.

Yes, Jesus loves me.

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His legs turned to rubber, becoming foreign objects. And still he ran. He was less than ten feet away now. Ten feet from Eli, who stood arms outstretched. Even in the sunlight, Conrad could see him grinning. And Conrad grinned back.

Despite the exhaustion, despite the lack of air, he couldn’t help grinning.

The pounding grew wild, deafening. Out of control.

Again Eli spoke, and again Conrad strained to hear. But he could not. Not yet.

Yes, Jesus loves me.

They were six feet apart.

Suddenly his legs were gone, no feeling, no control. His right one almost buckled, nearly throwing him into the steps.

But he kept pushing. His lungs burned like fire, screaming for air, but he continued.

Four feet.

Eli stretched his arms wider, preparing for the embrace.

The Bible tells me so.

One step to go. Conrad stumbled, began to fall. But he was close enough that it didn’t matter. He was close enough for Eli to catch him. And he did. He fell into Eli’s arms and they embraced. Conrad clenched his eyes against the tears. It was so good to hold him, so good to be held.

And then, suddenly, the erratic pounding in his ears stopped. Now there was only silence. Lovely, tranquil silence.

His lungs no longer burned. They no longer needed air—as if being in Eli’s arms gave him all the air he needed. He tightened his embrace, burying his face in Eli’s neck. Nothing else mattered. Not his hopes, not his desires, not even his breath.

Only Eli.

After a long moment, he opened his eyes. The light behind Eli now surrounded him, surrounded
them
. It had wrapped its brilliance about them. Blinding, overpowering, yet full of love—full of the same love as Eli’s embrace. In fact hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 338

338 ... it
was
Eli’s embrace. Part of Eli held him in his arms, while another part enveloped both of them in his light. Eli was both the light and the embrace.

He was also the motion. Conrad was not sure when it had started, but they were moving. It could be a thousand miles per second, it could be gentle drifting, he wasn’t sure, but they were definitely moving. He looked about, caught up in the splendor and wonder of what he saw. Finally, he whispered, “Where are we going?”

Eli smiled warmly. And then in that tender, loving voice of his, he answered,
“We’re going home, my friend. We’re
going home.”

v

It had been ten minutes since Conrad Davis had stopped breathing. Ten minutes of tears, quiet reflection, and, just moments ago, a little prayer that Julia had asked Ken to say.

The request for a prayer had surprised her almost as much as it had surprised Ken. But the past forty-eight hours had brought many surprises.

The ICU nurse entered and silently placed a rolled-up towel under her father’s chin to keep his mouth from sagging open. Then she turned and quietly exited, letting them have the time to themselves. A moment later, Ken prepared to slip out. Sensing her need to be alone, he encouraged Cody to say his goodbyes, then turned to Julia and said, “We’ll wait for you in the lobby.” He gave her a slight embrace, and she patted his hand in thanks.

Now it was just mother and daughter standing in the room. Neither said a word. After a long moment, Julia’s mother slowly bent down and kissed his cheek. The words she spoke were quiet, so soft that Julia nearly missed them.

“Sleep well, my love. Sleep well.” And then, with quiet dignity, she rose, looked down upon him one last time, and turned to walk out of the room.

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Now Julia stood all alone. There wasn’t even the ragged breathing to disturb the silence. Her mind churned with a thousand conflicting thoughts and emotions. So much had happened in such a short time. It would take weeks—

months—to sort it out, but something had changed. Inside her. Something deep. And although there was intense sadness, there was also a lightness. A weight had been removed.

A weight heavier than anything she had ever imagined.

She stepped closer to the bed, unsure what to do. After a moment she reached out and gently stroked his exposed arm with the back of her hand. It was already growing cold.

“Goodbye, Daddy,” she whispered. She looked down at the bandaged face. “I guess I’ll see you a little later.” It was a simple statement, but the only one she could think of. She took another breath, let it out, then turned and started for the door.

But she stopped in the doorway. Another thought had come to mind. Something closer to her heart. She turned back and spoke. “I know you’re not perfect. I guess none of us are.

But . . . I love you, Dad.” She swallowed hard and continued.

“I will always love you.” Then, slowly raising her hand, she crooked her little finger. And, smiling through brimming tears, she added, “Pinkie swear.”

With that, she turned and headed out of the room to join her family. The family that had been waiting for her all these many years.

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A B O U T T H E A U T H O R

Bill Myers (www.billmyers.com) is the author of the best-selling trilogy
Blood of Heaven, Threshold,
and
Fire of Heaven,
as well as the series McGee and Me!, The Incredible Worlds of Wally McDoogle, Forbidden Doors, and Bloodhounds, Inc.

He is a writer and director whose work has won over forty national and international awards and whose books and videos have sold nearly five million copies.

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Enjoy this excerpt from

Blood of Heaven,

Book One of

Bill Myers’s

Fire of Heaven

Trilogy

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“You come in here with some story about the blood of Christ, and you—”

“No one said we had the blood of—”

“—expect me to be your guinea pig?”

“Please, Mr. Coleman . . .” Murkoski swallowed. He appeared to be regrouping, trying to start again. He threw a nervous look at O’Brien, who sat beside him in one of the three fiberglass-molded chairs. They had been in the attorney/client room with Coleman for only thirty minutes, and the killer already had Murkoski on the ropes, looking like a fool.

And not just Murkoski. O’Brien had underestimated the man as well. They had carefully researched him, studied his psychological profile, medical workup, X rays, blood chemistry; they had even run covert EKGs, EEGs, PETs, and a CAT scan on him last summer. Clinically, they knew everything they could know about the man.

But, like most people, they had erred in assuming that multiple killers were ignorant animals with underdeveloped mental skills. After all, here he sat—ribs taped, nose broken, one eye still swollen shut. How could somebody like this possibly be an intellectual equal? Unfortunately, neither of them had taken into account an inmate’s worst enemy: time. Next to sleeping, the best killers of time were reading, writing, and learning the skills of fellow prisoners. Whether it was the careful, step-by-step procedure for making a bomb, courtesy of Hector Garcia, or the intricate nuances of the Nebraska legal system, garnered from the books in the prison library, years of reading and listening had sharpened Michael Coleman’s intellect to a razor’s edge. Then, of course, there was the psychological gamesmanship he’d acquired in running the Row. All this to say, that in less than half an hour, he had reduced Murkoski, the boy genius, into an agitated knot of frustration.

The kid was flailing; O’Brien decided to step in. “Mr. Coleman. Regarding the identity of the blood. We can only say that it is extremely old, and that—”

“‘A couple thousand years,’ you said.”

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“Yes, but—”

“So how were you able to keep it from disintegrating? And don’t tell me you found it inside some mosquito embalmed in tree sap. I saw that movie, too.”