The Heaven Trilogy (40 page)

It was not the whole story, of course. If the pastor knew the whole story he would be slobbering on the floor in a pool of his own tears, she thought. Because the whole story was as much her story as the soldier's, and it stretched the very limits of love. Perhaps she would give him the book Janjic had written before he'd died,
When Heaven Weeps
. Then he would know.

“The experience profoundly changed his life,” she said, looking at Bill. His eyes were misty, staring at the floor. “And ultimately it changed my life, and Gloria's and Spencer's and even yours and countless others. And now Kent's, possibly. But you see, it all began with death. The death of Christ, the death of the priest. Without these I would not be here today. Nor would you, Pastor. It is how I see the world now.”

“Yes.” He nodded, gathering himself. “You do see more than most of us.”

“I see only a little more than you, and most of that by faith. You think I wear the face of God?”

He blinked, obviously unsure if he was meant to answer.

“You see me walking around, disturbed, worried, with a furrowed brow. You think it's the face of God? Of course not! He is furious at sin, no doubt. And his heart aches over the rejection of his love. But above it all he rolls with laughter, beside himself with joy. I see only the hem of his garment and then only at times. The rest comes by faith. We may have different giftings, but we all have the same faith. Give or take. We are not so different, Pastor.”

He stared at her. “I've never heard you say those things.”

“Then maybe I should have spoken sooner. Forgive me. I can be a bit mule-headed, you know.”

He smiled at her. “Don't worry, Helen. If you're a mule, may God smite our church with a thousand mules.” They chuckled.

For several minutes they just sat there and thought in silence. Their glasses clinked with ice now and then, but the gravity of the moment seemed to want its own space, so they let it be. Helen hummed a few bars of “The Martyr's Song” and stared out to the field beyond her house. Autumn would come someday. What would walking be like then?

“Are you still walking?” Bill asked the question as if it had been the real reason for his visit and he was just now getting around to it.

“Yes. Yes I am.”

“The full distance?”

“Yes.”

“But how? I thought you were walking and praying for Kent's soul?”

“Well, that's the problem. That's where things don't seem to be what they seem. I'm still walking because I've felt no urge not to walk and because my legs still walk without tiring and because I still want to pray for Kent.”

“Kent is dead, Helen.”

“Yes. So it seems. But the heavens are not playing along. I walked that first day after the fire, seeking release. It was to be expected, I thought. But I found no release.”

She glanced at him and saw that he'd tilted his head, unbelieving.

“And then there's the dream. Someone's still running through my head at night. I still hear his breathing, the soft pounding of feet through the tunnel. The drama is still unfolding, Pastor.”

Bill gave her a small, sympathetic smile. “Come on, Helen. I talked to the lead investigator myself two days ago. He told me very specifically that the coroner clearly identified the body as belonging to Kent Anthony. Same height, same weight, same teeth, same everything. FBI's records confirmed it. That body we buried three days ago belonged to Kent. Maybe he needs help in some afterlife, but he is no longer of this earth.”

“They did an autopsy, then?”

“An autopsy of what? Of charred bones?”

“DNA?”

“Come on, Helen. You can't actually believe . . . Look, I know this is hard on you. It's been a terrible tragedy. But don't you think this is going a little too far?”

Her eyes bore into his with an unmoving stare. “This has nothing to do with tragedy, young man. Am I or am I not walking eight hours a day without tiring?”

He didn't answer.

“Is it some illusion, this walking of mine? Tell me.”

“Of course it's no illusion. But—”

“Of course? You sound pretty sure about that. Why is God making my legs move like this, Pastor? Is it that he has discovered a new way to make the tiny humans below move? ‘Hey look, Gabriel, we can just wind them up and make them walk around forever.' No? Then why?”

“Helen . . .”

“I'm telling you, Pastor, this is not over. And I mean, not just in the heavens, but on Earth it's not over. And since Kent was the main object of this whole thing, no, I don't think he is necessarily dead.”

She turned away from him. Goodness, listen to her. It was sounding absurd. She had peeked in the coffin herself and seen the blackened bones. “And if you think it makes sense to me, you are wrong. I'm not even saying he
is
necessarily alive. It is just easier to believe he's alive, given the fact that I'm still praying long days for him.” She turned back to him. “Does that make sense?”

Bill Madison took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. “Well, Helen.” He shook his head. “I guess so.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, staring off in different directions, lost in thought. His voice broke the stillness.

“It's very strange, Helen. It's otherworldly. Your faith is unnerving. You're giving your life to impossibilities.”

She looked up and saw that his eyes were closed. A lump rose in her throat. “It's all I have, Bill. It's all anybody really has. It's all Noah had, building his impossible little boat while they mocked him. It's all Moses had, holding his rod over the Red Sea. It's all Hosea had and Samson and Paul and Stephen and every other character of every other Bible story. Why should it be so different for us today?”

She saw his Adam's apple bob. He nodded. “Yes, I think you're right. And I fear my faith is not so strong.”

He was beginning to see, she thought. Which meant his faith was stronger than he realized. It could use a nudge. She'd read somewhere that eagles would never fly if their mothers did not push them from their nests when they were ready. Even then they would free-fall in a panic before spreading their wings and finding flight.

Yes, maybe it was time the pastor got a little shove.

“Would you like to see more than you've seen, Bill?”

“See what?”

“See the other side. See what lies behind what you see now.”

He stiffened a little. “What do you mean,
see?
It's not like I can just flip on a light and see—”

“It is a simple question, Bill, really. Do you want to see?”

“Yes.”

“And you would be willing to let go a little?”

“I think so. Although I'm not sure how you let go of something you can't see.”

“You forget about how important you are, put aside your narrow field of vision; you open your heart to one thing only. To God, in whichever way he chooses to reveal himself, regardless of how it might seem to you. You let go.”

He smiled nervously. “Sounds a bit risky, actually. You can't just throw out all doctrine for some experience.”

“And what if that experience is God, the creator? What is more important to you, an encounter with God or your doctrine?”

“Well, if you put it that way—”

“As opposed to which way?”

“You've made your point. And yes, I think I could let go a little.”

She smiled slowly. “Then let's pray.”

Helen watched him close his eyes and bow his head. She wondered how long the posture would hold. “Father in heaven,” she prayed aloud and closed her own eyes, “if it would please you, open this child's eyes to see what you have called him to. May he have the power to see how wide and how deep and how high your love is for him.”

She fell silent and closed her eyes to darkness.
Please Father, let him feel your presence. At least that, just a taste of you, God in heaven.

An image of Kent filled her mind. He walked down a long, deserted street, aimless and lost. His hair was disheveled, and his eyes peered blue above dark circles. For a moment she thought it might be his spirit, like some kind of ghost wandering the streets of her mind. But then she saw that it was him, really him, bewildered by the vacancy of the street on which he walked. And he was lonely.

She forgot about the pastor for the moment. Maybe she should walk. Maybe she should just leave Bill and go for another walk—pray for Kent. Yes, at least that. Her heart swelled in her chest.
Oh God, save Kent's soul! Do not hide your face from this man you made. Open his heart to your spirit. Speak words of love to his ears, drop your fragrance in his mind, dance before his eyes, show him your splendor, wrap your arms around him, touch his cold skin with a warm touch, breathe life into his nostrils. You fashioned him, did you not? So now love him.

But I have.

Helen dropped her head at the words and began to weep.
Oh God, I'm sorry. You have! You have loved him so much. Forgive me!

She sat bunched in her chair for several long minutes, feeling waves of fire wash through her chest. It was a mixture of agony and desire—a common sentiment these days. The heart of God for Kent. Or at least a small piece of it. The piece he chose to reveal to her.

She suddenly remembered Bill and snapped her head up.

He sat on the green chair, head bent back like a duckling begging food. His Adam's apple stuck out prominently on his neck, his jaw lay open, his mouth gaped wide, his nostrils flared. And his body shook like a ragged old cloth doll. Something somewhere had been opened. His eyes, maybe.

Helen relaxed and leaned back into her cushions. A smile split her face wide. Now he would understand. Maybe not any details of Kent's plight, but the rest would come easier now. Faith would come easier.

Tears fell in streams down the pastor's cheeks, and she saw that his shirt was already wet. Looking at the grown man reduced to a heap of emotions made her want to scream full throated. It was that kind of joy. She wondered how it was that she had never had a heart attack. How could a mortal, like Bill there, all inside out, endure such ravaging emotion, busting up the heart, and not risk a coronary? She smiled at the thought.

On the contrary, his heart might very well be finding some youth. Her legs had, after all.

Helen began to rock gently. “Do you want to see, Bill?” she whispered.

CHAPTER THIRTY

LACY CARTWRIGHT nibbled at her fingernail, knowing it was an unseemly habit and not caring. The truth be known, she had not cared for much during the last week. She glanced at the clock: 8:48. In twelve minutes the doors of Rocky Mountain Bank and Trust would open for customers.

Jeff Duncan caught her eye from across the lobby, and she smiled politely. Now, there was a man who was maybe more her type after all. Not so impulsive as Kent, but alive and well and here. Always here, not running in and out of her life every twelve years. Not pulling some impossible disappearing trick and expecting her to just get on with life. But that was just the problem—Lacy honestly didn't know if Kent had really disappeared or not. And what she did know was giving her waking fits.

Kent had come to her two nights before the big fire in Denver; that much she had not imagined. He had sat across from her and told her that he was going to do pretty much what happened. Or at least what
could
have happened. But reading the papers, what happened was not what
could
have happened at all. In fact, what happened, according to the papers, was precisely what Kent had said would happen. A robbery attempt, a death, and most important, his disappearance. He had neglected to mention that it would be
his
death, of course, but then she doubted he'd planned that much.

Then again, what actually happened was anybody's guess, and she found herself guessing that something else entirely had happened. Maybe Kent had not been surprised by some wandering robber that night, because maybe Kent himself
was
the robber; he'd suggested as much himself. So then what seemed to have happened must not have happened at all. Which was downright confusing when she thought too much about the matter.

Either way, he had left her again. Maybe this time for good. Well, good riddance.

There was one way to determine if that charred body in the Denver bank fire belonged to Kent Anthony or to some other poor soul everyone
thought
was Kent Anthony. If Kent had actually pulled off this incredible theft of which he'd spoken, he had done it brilliantly, because as of yet, no one even suspected there
had
been a theft. On the other hand, no one knew to look, much less
where
to look. All eyes were on the fire damage and the search for a loose murderer, but no one had mentioned the possibility that a robbery
had
actually occurred. And no wonder— nothing had been taken. At least not that they knew.

But she, Lacy Cartwright, might know differently. And if she did discover that Kent was alive and well and extremely wealthy—would she be compelled to tell the authorities? It was the question that had kept her tossing at night. Yes, she thought so. She would have to turn him in.

If he was indeed alive and if he had left even the slightest of trails, she would find it on the computer screen before her, in some log of ATM transaction fees. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on the hour, eight days of looking had shown her nothing. And slowly, her anger at him rose to a boil.

“Morning, Lacy.”

Lacy started and jerked her head up. Jeff smiled broadly at her reaction. “Strung a bit tight this morning, are we?”

She ignored him.

He chuckled. “I guess. Well, welcome back to the land of the living.”

The comment momentarily thrust Lacy back into the land of the dead. “Yeah,” she responded politely, shifting her eyes from him. Maybe that was the problem here, she thought. Maybe this land of the living here in the bank with all the customers and meaningless talk and overstuffed maroon sitting chairs was more like death, and the land that Kent had trotted off to was more like life. In a way she was a bit jealous, if indeed he was not actually in hell but roaming the earth somewhere.