Storming Heaven (24 page)

T
HE PATTERN HAD COME CLEAR OVER THE
weekend. Three cars. All Ford Tauruses—one blue, one green, and one red—rotating daily.

Beamon had dropped the red one in town almost an hour ago. It really wasn’t difficult to lose a tail; the problem was making it look like an accident. They’d find out he knew they were watching eventually, but he preferred to put that off for as long as possible.

Beamon checked his rearview mirror one more time, looking back over the empty road and flat, snow-dusted desert behind him. Satisfied that he was the only thing moving for miles, he decided to cover the last quarter-mile or so on foot and pulled his car to the curb.

Despite the fact that all the houses in this oasis of a neighborhood looked the same, Beamon found the one he was looking for with little difficulty. After almost a minute of pounding on the door, though, there was still no answer. He stepped back and double- checked the numbers between the garage and front door. They were the ones given to him that morning when Ernest Willard’s former book agent had called him out of the blue and told him that the man who had written the now-unavailable exposé on the church had agreed to a meeting.

Beamon thought he heard a dull scraping sound coming from inside the house and stepped back onto the porch. “Hello?”

“May I see your ID?” came a muffled voice on the other side of the closed door.

Beamon pulled out his credentials, but the door didn’t open. He stepped back and, finding a peephole oddly located about halfway up the door, held them up to it.

A moment later, the door swung open and he was faced with what looked a little like a small tank in a sunflower print muumuu.

The woman backing up to give him a clear path into the house seemed impossibly fat. The garish tent/dress she wore went from her thick neck to her knees in what looked like a perfectly straight line. Her legs, where they appeared under the dress, resembled gigantic sausages in tan nylon casings. What gave her that true tanklike feel, though, was the wheelchair she had, by some strange anomaly of physics, managed to stuff her rear end into.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Beamon. I was in the back.” She diverted her gaze to the chair for a moment. “It takes me a little longer to make it across the house than it used to.”

“I’m the one who should apologize, I didn’t mean to attack your door like that. I thought maybe you couldn’t hear me,” Beamon said, closing the door and following her as she wheeled through the hallway toward the back of the house. “Is Ernest Willard in?”

She pulled to a stop in a small room overflowing with computer equipment, newsmagazines, and reference books. There wasn’t a single surface that hadn’t been used to haphazardly route cables or
wasn’t covered with some piece of high-tech machinery or phone book-thick document.

“About Ernest Willard,” Beamon prompted again, “I think he agreed to see me?”

“I did,” the woman said, turning her wheelchair to face him. “I’m Ernest Willard. Well, actually I’m Ernestine Waverly. But I wrote the book you’re interested in.”

“A nom de plume,” Beamon said, moving a stack of computer disks from a chair and taking an uninvited seat.

“At the time, it seemed like a good idea.”

“Well, I’m glad we have the opportunity to talk. When my associate called your agent a while back, he was told that she hadn’t heard from you in years.”

She smiled. “I provide her with books—computer tech manuals now—and in turn, she protects me.”

“Protects you? Prom what?”

“The church has … held a grudge. They can be very difficult. I don’t see anyone anymore.”

“You’re seeing me.”

She used her thick arms to propel herself toward him, stopping a few feet from where he sat. “I dream about you, Mr, Beamon.”

Beamon shifted uncomfortably in the chair as the woman stared at him. “I’m not quite sure how to respond to that.”

“It started a few months ago,” she explained. “I couldn’t see you clearly at first, but every night your face became a little sharper. Of course, I didn’t know who you were, until I saw you on TV.”

“And what am I doing in these dreams?” Beamon asked, not sure he really wanted to know.

“Different things. Tell me, Mr. Beamon, do you believe in God?”

“That’s a complicated question.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Let’s say I have an open mind.”

His answer seemed to satisfy her. “That’s more than most people can say. Now what is it I can do for the FBI?”

Beamon let out a quiet sigh of relief. He wasn’t really looking to spend the day debating theology with a woman who seemed to have a less than iron grip on reality. “I’m interested in the Church of the Evolution and I’m told you’re probably the most knowledgeable resource in the world.”

“May I ask what this is about?” she said, though there was something strange in her voice that made Beamon think she already knew.

“Nothing in particular. I’m just looking for general background information.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Beamon,” she said, suddenly sounding like a surgeon telling someone that they had a week to live. “I did do a significant amount of research into the church before I wrote
Betrayal.
But that was in 1986—more than a decade ago.” She looked down at the floor and shook her head sadly. “I don’t know if I can help you anymore …”

“Hey, it’s okay, Ernie,” Beamon said, reaching out and patting her soft shoulder. She looked like she was about to start crying for some reason. “I’m sure you’re going to be a lot of help.”

Beamon picked up an old copy of the
Wall Street journal
lying on the table next to him. He recognized the issue as one containing an article on the church’s business dealings. “It looks like you still keep up.”

“Only superficially. I’ve let myself get distracted by work.” She punched herself in the leg. “And by my own stupid problems. If only I’d known earlier that you were coming …”

Beamon looked over at a wood-framed photograph propped on the table next to him. It depicted a pleasantly plump woman with what rooked like a touch football team. “You?” he said, trying to distract her before her mind wandered so far it got lost.

“In happier times.”

“When you were with the church?”

She nodded slowly. “When I was an official member of the church.”

“What was it that drew you in, Ernie?”

She cocked her head for a moment and then waved a thick arm around at the computer systems that surrounded her. “I’m a programmer, Mr. Beamon. A mathematician and formerly a Baptist. Like many people, I suppose, I had a hard time devoting six days a week to the study of science and technology and then forgetting everything I’d learned on the seventh so that I could be with my God.”

“So it was the church’s mix of science and theology that appealed to you.”

“Initially, yes. Then I read Albert’s Bible.” Beamon noted the reverent drop in her voice at the use of Kneiss’s name.

“I’ve read it,” Beamon said. “Brilliant. He even had me going there a couple of times. And that’s not easy.”

“Have you ever seen him speak, Mr. Beamon?”

“Please call me Mark. On TV.”

She shook her head sadly. “It’s not the same. I can’t imagine anyone seeing him in person and still doubting that he is who he says he is.”

“God?”

“God’s messenger. But then, you know that.”

“So it was seeing him that hooked you.”

“There’s so much more, Mark,” she said, struggling into a more comfortable position. “It’s hard to explain to someone who’s never been involved. After you show initial interest, they barrage you. Invitations to dinners, picnics, promises of important business connections, as well as more personal introductions. If you have children, they’re invited on camping trips and other activities. I guess they gave me a sense of belonging that I wanted but had never had.”

Beamon looked down at the picture again and at the other faces staring out of it. They all had that clean-cut look of optimism that stamped them as Kneissians. “How long were you involved with the church?”

“As a member? Four years.”

“Really?”

“You sound surprised.”

Beamon laid the picture down. “I guess I expected you to say six months or something. I understand that you wrote a pretty scathing exposé. I assumed you joined, hated it, and left.”

She shook her head. “As efficient as the Kneissians are at getting you into the church, they’re even better at keeping you there. You have to understand that your entire life is wrapped up with them. I worked as a freelance computer consultant at the time. After a few years, probably eighty percent of my customers were members of the church. I met my boyfriend at a church function. You become too intertwined. And then, of course, there are the psychological factors …”

“Psychological factors?”

She looked at him with a strange intensity that was really starting to make him feel uncomfortable. “Are you aware that the Kneissian Bible you buy publicly is only a portion of Albert’s writings? That more books exist?”

Beamon took off his jacket and pulled a pad and pen from the pocket. “If by more books, you mean other sections to the Bible, no, I’d never heard that. What’s in them?”

“I don’t know. You see, it’s all a matter of levels. When you enter the church you go in as a Novice or Level One. You’re encouraged to take classes and go to counseling sessions in order to improve your standing—your level. Of course, they’re quite expensive and you rarely pass the first time.”

“How many levels are there?” Beamon asked.

“Eleven last time I counted. I was a Three when I left the church.”

“So you’re learning what’s in these secret books in order to move up?”

“Not exactly. Actually, getting to Level Two has nothing to do with God or religion. The class you have to pass is on—how would you describe it? Manners? General conduct?”

Beamon raised his eyebrows. “Come again?”

“You’ve got to understand the philosophy of the church, Mark. They’re very interested in growth, but they’re also interested in quality membership. I guess you could call their first class ‘communications.’ You learn how to dress, firm handshakes, looking people in the eye when you talk, what fork to eat with at a nice restaurant. That kind of thing. I know it sounds ridiculous, but it works. You’ve probably noticed that Kneissians project a pretty uniform image.”

Beamon nodded and she continued.

“So getting to Level Two isn’t very hard. Moving up through the later levels involves more theological training and very strenuous counseling sessions. Those are a lot like the Catholic confession. But, of course, there are other factors.”

“Other factors?”

“I started getting a bit disillusioned when I was working on my Four. Level Four, that is. I flunked twice. That’s twelve thousand dollars’ worth of classes for nothing. I should tell you that at the time, I was making about forty-five thousand dollars a year and living in a one-bedroom apartment with two other women because all my money was going to the church. Despite that, though, it wasn’t the money or the time that bothered me, it was the people who were passing. Many of them had done much worse than me in the class.”

“Politics,” Beamon said knowingly. “It always comes down to politics.”

“You’re exactly right. I found out later that some of these people were doctors and lawyers and politicians. I was just a lowly programming consultant. In the scheme of things, not that useful to the church.”

“And for you, moving through the levels was important?”

“Oh, yes. It is to everyone. I really can’t stress how important. Your level and how long you’ve been a church member are public knowledge, so it’s really embarrassing if you’re not doing well. The flip side of that is, if you are doing well, there are all kinds of bragging rights. There’s a pervasive obsession with levels that the church really encourages.”

“What about these other books to the Bible?”

“You don’t start getting to look at those until you’re a Seven. The rumor is that they’re sections from the Bible that will be given to humanity when the Messenger returns.”

“Two thousand years from now?”

She nodded. “Obviously, you must be very evolved to understand them. People who are Sevens and higher are treated like royalty. Everyone wants to learn what’s in those books.”

“The meaning of life,” Beamon said.

“Perhaps. I’ve met very few people who have reached above Six. The ‘counseling’ sessions become increasingly strenuous and expensive. I’ve even heard rumors of the use of psychoactive drugs in high-level sessions.”

“I find it hard to believe that anyone would submit to that.”

“I would have.”

Beamon leaned back in his chair and chewed the end of his pen for a moment. “I went to one of the recruiting stations a few days ago. The woman they set me up with must have gone through your ‘communications’ training. She was very good. Not very taken with me, though, I’m afraid.”

Ernie smiled and reached into the small fridge she had parked her chair next to. “Diet Coke?”

Beamon held a hand out and caught the ice- cold can.

“I’m sure you’re right on both counts,” she said, popping the top on her can and taking a quick sip. “You can’t work a potential recruit unless you’re at least a Two. And I can almost guarantee that she wasn’t, as you say, very taken with you.”

Beamon held his hands out innocently. “How can you say that? People love me.”

The thick folds in Ernie’s face rearranged themselves into a nervous smile. “I’m sure they do, but, again, it’s all about levels. Let me guess: you didn’t want to sign the register—what they call the guest book.”

“Uh, I think I did pass on that.”

“You just got a One there. Ask a few tough questions? Tell her you’d heard some negative things about the church?”

“Yeah, probably. A few.”

“Well, the first negative question you asked got you a Two. The second, a Three. When you hit Four she’d have asked if you were a reporter.”

“She did!” Beamon said, impressed. “She did ask me that.”

“They hate reporters. Afraid the press might shine too bright a light into their organization.”