Storming Heaven (38 page)

Then her mind would wander forward. To her wedding. The pain of the birth of her first child. Finding her first gray hairs.

And one night, far in the future, she would walk, slightly stooped, to her bed. She would have just talked to her daughter and son-in-law on the phone. Their son—her grandson—was expecting his first child. She’d turn off the light that night and lie down. Then, smiling into the dark, she would close her eyes for the last time.

“Y
OU’RE DRIVING ME CRAZY WITH THAT
thing, Mark,” Ernie said, turning her chair away from him and covering her ears.

Beamon pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He’d finally turned it back on a few hours ago—worried that he’d miss something important. It had been pretty much ringing off the hook ever since.

“You’re either going to have to answer it or turn it back off,” Ernie said, hands still over her ears.

Beamon sighed and punched the button to pick up. “Yeah.”

“What the fuck are you doing!”

He moved the phone to a more reasonable distance from his ear. “Jake. What can I do for you?”

“Kate Spelling told me you pulled a gun on them!”

“Melodramatic, but accurate.”

“Look, Mark—I know you like to play the maverick, but you’ve gone too far this time. We’re not just talking about your job now. We’re talking about putting out an APB and making this thing public. The director’s getting fucking hourly reports on this, and I’m not going to be able to keep him out of it for much longer. Let me help you.”

Beamon rolled his eyes. “You want to help me.”

“Okay, Mark. You say you like plain talk, so I’m
going to give it to you. I could give a shit about you. The thought of you getting run over by a bus gives me a hard-on. But despite all that, I’m probably the best friend you’ve got.”

Sad, but possibly true, Beamon knew.

“Look, neither one of us wants this thing with you to blow up in the papers. Me because I’ve got a shot at an assistant directorship and this isn’t going to help me; you because it’s your life. Now, get your ass in here, and let’s try to get control of this thing before it goes too far.”

“I appreciate the honesty, Jake, but it’s already gone too far.”

“No it hasn’t, Mark. Just—”

“Relax, Jake. Life as a fugitive doesn’t suit me.”

“When are you coming in?”

“I don’t know yet. Soon. I’ve got some loose ends that need to be tied up.”

“That’s not good enough, Mark. The director is flying in to meet with me on the first, and you can be goddamn sure I’m going to have something for him. The gloves are coming off.”

“You do what you’ve gotta do, Jake. I understand. The gloves are off.”

Beamon pushed the button cutting off the connection and looked down at Ernie. “This just keeps getting worse, hon. I think it’s time for you and me to part ways.”

She looked horrified. “No! How can you say that? I’m as much a part of this as you are—you can’t do it without me. I
have
to stay with you.”

“Because God told you to?”

“You laugh at me behind my back, I know it. You and Jack both. But it’s what I believe. How can you be sure there’s no God? And that He hasn’t brought
us together to save His church? How can you?”

“I can’t,” Beamon said honestly. “I’m not sure. I’m never sure about anything. Look, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me and I admit that I wouldn’t be anywhere with this investigation if it weren’t for you. But things are going to start to escalate and I don’t want to put you in harm’s way.” Beamon pointed at the computers behind her. “We’ve got a phone feed going into Mr. Goldman’s apartment where I’m staying. We can monitor things from there—”

She shook her head violently and pushed her wheelchair forward until they were as close together as they could be, considering her chosen mode of transportation. “What more can they do to me, Mark? Look at me! Look around you! I haven’t left this house since I moved in. And look what I’ve done to myself—I can barely walk. You and Jack are probably the best friends I have in the world—and I just met you. What more can they do?”

“They could kill you, Ernie. As long as you’re breathing, you can change things. Take back what they took from you.”

“You think I’m afraid to die?” she said indignantly.

“I hope you are, Ernie. I am.”

Her face broke into a slow smile. “Thank you. Thank you for caring about what happens to me. But you really shouldn’t worry. That dream I keep having, the one I told you about in the beginning. It goes on a little longer every night. Albert’s in it now. He’s waiting for me.”

Beamon’s eyes widened. “Ernie, you’re starting to scare me now. You’re not going to die.”

She seemed so serene, sitting there in her chair.
“It doesn’t matter. I know what I have to do, and I know why. For the first time, really. You can’t imagine what it feels like to know—to be absolutely sure—that there is a God. And to know that you’re important to Him. That you’ve been chosen by Him.” She pointed at Beamon. “He’s chosen you, too, Mark. But you’ll never believe it, will you?”

“I guess I’ve never had much use for God, Ernie.”

“But he’s got use for you.”

She turned her chair and wheeled it to a table that had been recently cleared of its normal complement of computer-related debris and pointed to a new blue phone. “The eight-hundred number comes in here.”

“The bogus helpline on that e-mail update you sent?” Beamon said, consciously letting her change the subject.

She nodded. “They haven’t called yet. But I’ve been praying.”

Beamon smiled politely. What the hell was he going to do with her? He’d always made a practice of trying to do what he thought was right—no matter how much of an ass it made him look like or how disastrous the consequences. But what was the right thing here? He could walk out right now, have Goldman cut off the phone patch to her and never see her again. She’d probably be safe then, but without her help would he be able to find Jennifer? And how much danger was Ernie really in? He’d been so careful to keep her involvement from the church…

A phone started ringing, and Beamon’s eyes darted to the blue one on the table.

“Sorry, Mark,” Ernie said, picking up the green one next to her computer. “Hello? Oh, hold on, let me put you on speaker.”

She laid the handset down on the table and punched at her keyboard. “Jack, can you hear me? Mark’s here.”

“Loud and clear, Ernie. How you doing, Mark?”

He sounded very strange—happy. Giddy might be a better word. Maybe it was just the reverberation of the computer’s speakers.

“I’m okay, Mr. Goldman. How about you? You sound a little funny.”

“I’m great. Having a wonderful evening. Ernie, I’m downloading something into your system on the seven-three-four-two number. Could you confirm that you’re receiving?”

Ernie wheeled to another computer and tapped the mouse with her index finger, lighting up the monitor. “Yes, I’m receiving.”

“FAN-tastic.”

Beamon shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He’d never heard Goldman sound anything like this. Could he be finally losing it? At his age, senility was definitely starting to look overdue. “What is it you’re sending, Mr. Goldman?”

“We were right about Vericomm, boy. I’m sending audio files of some of their more interesting tapes.”

Beamon stood and walked hesitantly to Ernie’s side. Leaning close in to the microphone next to her computer, he said, “Come again?”

“Vericomm
has
been taping the NickeLine longdistance calls—we were right. I’m dumping their archive to Ernie’s computer.”

“Are you screwing with me?”

“Of course not.”

Beamon grabbed one of the speakers on the table and spoke directly at it. “You are a fucking
genius, Mr. Goldman. I always knew you were. The best there ever was.”

“I’m starting with the One-A-A stuff,” Goldman said. “If I can get it all sent, I’ll work on the lower- priority tapes.”

“One-A-A?”

“Oh, Mark, this system is a thing of beauty. You wouldn’t believe it.” His tone had changed from giddiness to something between admiration and awe. “All calls made on NickeLine come through the computer system here at the central office. They’re instantly given a number code based on who’s calling. They know ‘cause of the PIN you dial. Priority one means the person is important. You, for instance, as the head of the Flagstaff office, would be a priority one. A senator might be another example.”

“What are the letters for?”

“The first one relates to keywords. The computer has some really spectacular voice recognition software. It listens for interesting words.
Bribe, sex, kill, Kneiss, Evolution,
and
money
are a few. Various swear words, too. It also measures volume, on the premise that if people are shouting, they’re probably saying something interesting. If an important person hits on the right keywords, the conversation is given the code of one-? and it’s sent down to a group of listeners who get right on it.”

“Have I mentioned that you’re a genius?” Beamon said, feeling for the first time in a week that he might just weasel his way out of this thing with his skin still wrapped around him. “What’s the last letter for?”

“Oh, that signifies that it’s been listened to and tells you how interesting it actually turned out to be.” “So we’re getting the good stuff.”

” “So we’re getting the good stuff.”

“Oh, yeah. I think you’ll find it to be interesting listening. Could you hold on for a second?”

Beamon and Ernie both jumped at the loud crack that came over the speakers. It was followed by a muffled whimpering.

“Would you please shut up already? Try to be a man, for God’s sake.” Goldman’s voice, but it was clear that he wasn’t speaking to them.

“Mr. Goldman! Hello? Mr. Goldman? What the hell was that?”

“Huh? Oh, sorry, Mark. Just giving ‘em something to think about.”

Beamon realized that he’d been so elated by Goldman’s coup that he hadn’t really considered how he’d pulled it off. “Where are you, exactly?”

“Vericomm’s tech center. Hold on for just one more second.”

There was another crack that Beamon now knew was a gunshot.

“Yeah, you want some of that? Put your head out there again!” Goldman’s voice taunted over the speakers.

“What’s happening, Mark?” Ernie said, an expression of fear and confusion playing across her distorted features.

He held up his hand as Goldman’s voice started, giddy again. “Their security boys are looking pretty upset, I’ll tell you. Don’t think it’s going to be long before they figure out how to get that door the rest of the way open, though.”

“Jesus Christ, Jack, get the hell out of there,” Beamon said.

“Only one door out, Mark, and you can believe me when I tell you that they’ve got it covered.”

The gunfire that sounded over the speakers this time was fully automatic.

“Damn!” he heard Goldman shout. There was rustling and the sound of things being knocked over as the old man took cover.

“What the fuck. Jack! You must have had a plan when you went in there,” Beamon shouted desperately.

“I did. I planned on it being a one-way trip. I’ll keep the feed going as long as I can. Been good knowing you, boy. Good-bye, Ernie. Oh, and Ernie? Lose some weight and find a man, for God’s sake.”

The phone went dead and Ernie wheeled to the screen behind her. Tears began running down her round face as she stared at it.

After a little less than a minute she made a quiet choking sound. “The feed’s down.”

S
ARA RENSLIER DIDN’T TURN WHEN THE
footsteps began echoing off the walls behind her, but continued to concentrate on the large cross hanging above the altar on invisible wires. A symbol of everything she had built. “Was there any damage?” she said when the footsteps stopped.

“Yes. A substantial amount of audio material was transmitted. All recent. All highly sensitive.”

Sara took a deep breath and felt the burn of bile rise in her throat. “Were you able to trace the phone number it went to?”

Silence.

She turned and faced Gregory Sines, the head of the church’s security force. His face was sunken and pale, accentuating the narrow pink scar that ran from his mustache to his right eye.

“Did you trace it?” she repeated.

“The call went to a hotel room, where it was connected to another number.”

“What number?”

“There’s no way to tell. Whoever set up the transfer knew what he was doing.”

“Who was he?” she said.

“The man who got into Vericomm? We don’t know yet. White male. Probably well into his eighties …”

“His eighties!” Her breath was coming short now. She closed her eyes and forced herself to calm down.

“He wasn’t carrying any identification. We found the car he was driving, but it had been rented under an alias. We’ve fingerprinted his body and sent copies to one of our people at the FBI. We should know more soon.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Beamon’s behind this. That man was working for him.”

Their private investigators hadn’t been able to dig up anything substantial to use against Beamon—he was unmarried so no affairs, he wasn’t a closet homosexual, no history of drug use or any other illegal activity. What they did find, though, was his drinking, his self-destructive behavior, and his lack of close friends or family—suggesting that he was a weak man with no foundation. A man the church’s psychologists insisted would be easily diverted.

It was clear now that they had underestimated him. And she knew that she had accepted their analysis too easily, considering Beamon a relatively small player in another one of the government’s hopeless bureaucracies.

Over the last decade, as the church’s power had grown, she had begun to discount the power of the world’s governments. Organizations led by men and women of shockingly limited intelligence who could be bought and sold with little more than glass beads. Beamon didn’t seem to fit into that category.

She backed away from Sines and sat down on the steps leading to the altar. There was no turning back. She had created a nearly perfect plan to maintain her power over the church. But the plan didn’t
include a way out. When she had spoken her version of Kneiss’s dying wishes to the Elders, she had set something in motion that couldn’t be stopped. Jennifer had to die on the appointed date with all the Elders present. If she died before her time, the Elders—many of whom were already silently suspicious of her—would begin to put things together.