Storming Heaven (20 page)

She felt his hand fall away from hers and his
eyes fix on the ceiling above him. “There’s nothing that can stop it now, Albert. Your granddaughter
will
take your place on Good Friday—God’s new Messenger. I have a beautiful ceremony planned for her ascension. I think you’d approve.”

Sara released his arm and turned away, staring into the darkness of the room and listening to the increasingly erratic tone of the heart monitor. The church was hers now. Hers.

She heard a low moan from behind her and turned to see Albert Kneiss struggling to lift his head one last time.

“I prayed for you, Sara. Just like I prayed for all the others.” He began to sink back onto the pillow. “But every time must have its Judas.”

The pulse of the heart monitor slowed, finally fading to the steady tone that signaled the end of the Messenger’s time on earth and a new era for her church.

M
ARK BEAMON TOOK ANOTHER SIP OF HIS
coffee and continued to watch the young man through the window of the cafe. He was impeccably dressed—blue topcoat, white shirt, red-and-green- striped tie. And he had the look of clean-cut optimism Beamon had come to expect in the followers of Albert Kneiss. That confident but solicitous carriage that proclaimed, “I know something that you don’t.”

Beamon scraped up the last of the cream cheese that had dribbled from the bagel he had just wolfed down and popped it in his mouth. It wasn’t biscuits and gravy, but he was actually starting to get used to the things.

The young man’s pattern hadn’t changed since he’d taken his position on the sidewalk across the street almost an hour ago. Eye contact, a confident sentence or two, hand the pedestrian a pamphlet, then attempt to shake hands and engage them in conversation.

From the looks of it, he worked that comer regularly. He’d received and returned at least a hundred silent nods from the early-morning foot commuters, bantering with some he knew well, thanking those who refused a flyer, and giving an occasional impassioned
speech to anyone who stopped and expressed interest.

He wasn’t doing too badly, either. In the last hour or so, three people had been interested enough to let him lead them through the stained-glass door of the Church of the Evolution bookstore/office behind him. Within a few minutes, he would reappear out front, but without the interested party.

Perhaps they had already been sacrificed in some hedonistic ritual that involved snakes and naked virgins? Only one way to find out. Beamon tossed back the rest of his coffee and went out through the doors of the cafe and into the cold Flagstaff morning. The clouds had parted and the sunlight was beaming through the thin mountain air with an almost tangible force. Beamon slipped on his sunglasses as he jogged across the street and began walking up the sidewalk toward the despicably enthusiastic young man.

“Have you read the latest on human evolution, sir?” he asked, establishing forcible eye contact.

Beamon stopped and took the proffered flyer. The first page was a glossy reproduction of the cover of a recent
National Geographic
containing a story relating to the anthropological discovery that many years ago, various species of humans shared the earth. Across the bottom a quote had been artistically superimposed on the cover:

Beamon flipped through the pamphlet’s reproduction of the
National Geographic
article, now modified with occasional italicized passages from Kneiss’s Bible corroborating the theories described there.

“People laughed when they first read the New Bible, just like they mocked Jesus and his teachings. But now science is catching up with us, proving that our truth is the universal truth.”

The boy’s voice carried a deep sincerity, but Beamon suspected that if he were at a Kneissian recruiting station in New Zealand instead of Flagstaff, he’d be getting precisely the same well-thought-out spiel. It wasn’t cocky or condescending, it stayed cozy with the science that people had come to trust and rely on, and finally, it smoothly worked in Jesus so as not to scare off America’s devout Christian contingent.

“You know, I read something about this awhile back,” Beamon said in as earnest a tone as he could conjure up.

“Then you’re familiar with our beliefs, sir?”

Beamon shook his head. “Not really. I’m just visiting Flagstaff. I’m from Kansas City. I wish I could remember where I read …”

The boy stroked his chin thoughtfully. “There’s been a lot of publicity about this lately. Could have been almost anywhere. The fact that science has
turned a hundred and eighty degrees to agree with the Bible isn’t a common occurrence.” He gave a short, self-assured laugh that made Beamon feel like he was in on the joke.

“So, Albert Kneiss wrote this stuff over fifty years ago?” Beamon said, looking down at the pamphlet.

“I’m really not as much of an expert as some of the people inside. If you’ve got a few minutes for a cup of coffee, I’m sure I can dig up someone who could answer your questions with a lot more authority than I can.”

Beamon shrugged. “Sure, I guess I have a minute.”

The boy grinned and led Beamon through a set of double doors and into the tastefully decorated outer office. “This gentleman would like to speak with someone about the article,” he said to the woman behind the counter and then turned back to Beamon. “I’m sorry, I forgot to ask your name.”

“Mark.”

He offered his hand. “Todd.”

Todd hung around and chatted until a woman came out and politely stood off to the side until Beamon finished what he was saying.

“Mark, this is Cynthia,” Todd said. “Cynthia, Mark.”

Beamon turned to the woman and took her hand. “Very nice to meet you, Cynthia.”

She was quite striking, with a long, straight nose and blonde hair covering her shoulders in a tumble that somehow didn’t look random. Just by looking at her, Beamon would have put her in her early thirties, but the way she carried herself made him adjust upward a bit.

She led him through the door of a spacious but cozy room full of antique furniture and pleasantly worn rugs and offered him a chair next to a roaring fire. As he settled into the soft leather, she slid a tray with two steaming mugs on it toward him. He ignored the cream and sugar on the platter as he reached for one of them.

“Me too,” she said- “I’d go intravenous if I could.”

Beamon smiled and took a sip. He expected it to be good, and it was. He pulled out a cigarette he had rolled at the bagel shop, more to see her reaction than anything else. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

As he lit it, she opened a thick leather book and laid it on the table between them. “Would you care to sign our guest book?”

He hesitated, once again to judge her reaction. “I’d rather not. Not just yet.”

“That’s fine,” she said with an easygoing flair, closing the book and sliding it down next to her chair. “So, Mark, how familiar are you with our church?”

“Not very, Cynthia. I mean, I know the basics. That you believe Albert Kneiss is a messenger from God who comes down to earth every couple of thousand years to teach.”

“That about covers it. Want to join?”

They both laughed. Beamon was confident that if he had actually been there for the reason she thought, the remark would have done exactly what it had been designed to do—relieve any tension he might have felt.

“Seriously, you’re right,” she continued. “But in order for someone to teach, he or she has to take into consideration the abilities of the students. You don’t try to teach a toddler calculus.”

Beamon nodded his understanding, prompting her to go on.

“So when God’s word was first written down in a coherent way—in the original Bible—a lot of parables and analogies were used. God revealed of himself only what the people of that time could digest.”

The woman was starting to look a little peaked from his smoke, so Beamon tossed the cigarette into the fireplace. “Just can’t seem to completely kick the habit.”

“We have wonderful programs for that,” she said. “I’m told they have the best success rate of any in the world.”

Beamon took a sip from his mug, washing the taste of tobacco from his mouth. “So the new Bible—your version—tells the whole truth. Throws out the superstition and cuts right to the chase. The nature of God, what He wants from us, why we’re here.”

She smiled engagingly and shook her head. “Oh, no. We’ve come a long way in the last two thousand years, but unfortunately not that far. We still aren’t prepared to fully understand God. Albert has simply given us God’s teachings in the current context, so that we can understand more about Him. In another two thousand years, Albert will be back, under another name, to explain as much as he can based on what we’ve learned over the next two thousand years.”

She was good. She exuded the calm confidence and sense of belonging that everyone was after. On another level, she was very attractive and roughly the right age for Beamon. He wondered if his spirit guide would have been some dashing hunk if he were a woman.

“I’ve read a few articles about your church in Germany. That they seem to think you’re breaking the law—some kind of threat.”

She looked sadly into the fire for a moment. “Obviously, the Germans have a poor history of accepting diverse faiths. Our followers have had to struggle there, it’s true. We’re giving them all the help we can, but as you know, not all countries put the same premium on freedom that we do.”

A perfect answer, Beamon concluded. It attacked the attacker instead of defending the victim and it brought up the rather intangible concept of freedom that was guaranteed to get any American’s red blood pumping.

“I have to admit, though,” she continued, “we are a pretty close-knit group. The church provides business networking, counseling if you need it, help for the needy, health care, and hundreds of other things. Do you have children?”

Beamon shook his head.

“Too bad. We’ve built some of the finest schools in the country. We’re really dedicated to education—probably more than anything else, we cherish that.”

“I hear it’s pretty expensive to be a member of the church,” Beamon interjected.

A look of mild suspicion crossed her face and
then was gone. “Not particularly. Obviously, with all the services we like to provide and our commitment to charities, we do ask for some support from our members.”

“Does Albert Kneiss ever appear in public?”

The look of suspicion stayed a little longer this time. “Are you a reporter?”

Beamon was a little surprised by the abruptness of the question, but then remembered Chet Michaels’s difficulty in dredging up press articles on the church.

“A reporter? No. No, I’m not.”

There was a long pause and Beamon began to wonder if the interview was over.

“Albert meditates,” she said finally. “As I’m sure you’ve heard, his time with us is nearly over.”

Beamon stood and pulled another cigarette from his pocket. “I really appreciate your time, Cynthia. I learned a lot.” He pointed to a stack of Kneissian Bibles by her chair. “I’d love to have one of those if you can spare it.”

She handed him one, somewhat reluctantly. “I hope it touches you as much as it did me.”

Beamon flipped through the book and smiled. “I have no doubt that it will.”

B
EAMON COASTED INTO HIS SPACE, MANAGING
for once to avoid sliding into the trees in front of it. He left the car running as he lit a cigarette and pulled his new notepad off the windshield. Turning on the interior light, he began flipping through the pages.

Reluctant to dismiss Hans Volker’s views on the church, Beamon had begun to watch for cars that could be tailing him. Every time he saw one that might be popping up behind him more often than probability dictated, he jotted down the color, make, model, license number, time, and approximate location. Then, every night when he arrived home, he’d check to see if there were any matches.

So far there had been nothing exciting—other than the fact that he’d almost run over two pedestrians and a border collie while trying to juggle a cigarette, a cup of coffee, and the pad of paper.

Beamon ran his finger down the list of four cars he’d entered that day, memorizing their make and model, then shuffled back through the prior pages. He stopped at an entry on a red Taurus and flipped back to that day’s record.

The license numbers matched, but that didn’t mean anything. Could be just a neighbor who left for work at the same time. He compared the time of day. Nine
A.M
. and 3:45
P.M
. Location: One between
his home and the office, the other nowhere near either.

Beamon leaned back and blew a smoke ring at his rearview mirror. It could be a coincidence, of course, but that seemed unlikely. The real question was whether or not it was the church and if it was, whether it had anything to do with Jennifer Davis. If Hans Volker was right and the Kneissians were generally paranoid about the government’s enforcement machine, it seemed likely that they would keep an eye on the head of the FBI’s Flagstaff office on principle alone.

Beamon kicked his feet up onto one arm of his sofa and worked his head into the soft pillow covering the other.

The Kneissian Bible that the church had been kind enough to provide him appeared to be separated into four books—Nature, Old Testament, Jesus, and The Future. Each book had at least twenty subheadings.

Beamon flipped to the last page. Number 1,212. Probably better just to skim.

It took him about an hour to figure out the significance of each book. Nature took the place of Genesis, describing the creation of the universe, as well as the evolution of man and the “lesser species,” from a significantly more scientific standpoint than the original Bible. In the universe according to Kneiss, God breathed life into the primordial soup that existed on Earth—as well as on an undisclosed number of other planets in the universe—and then waited to see what happened.