Storming Heaven (48 page)

“Midnight, Jen. They don’t want you as their new messiah. I hear they’re looking for someone with a college degree and some practical experience.”

Dumb humor didn’t seem to be working, so he tried the ice cream again. Women weren’t supposed to be able to resist the stuff. “It’s Ben and Jerry’s.
Cherry Garcia.” He stuck the extra spoon in the carton and wiggled it seductively. “Won’t last much longer.”

She looked like she was going to crumble into another crying fit, and Beamon felt his stomach tense. He just wasn’t built for this kind of thing. He hoped to hell that he could get his job back so he could return to the good old days of finding ‘em and instantly turning ‘em over to the Bureau’s shrink.

Fortunately, the spell passed with only a hint of a tear visible in the corner of her right eye. Beamon shook the carton again.

This time she took the spoon. “Thanks. For everything.”

“W
ON’T THE
FBI
BE LOOKING FOR YOU
here, Mr. Beamon?” Jennifer asked, lifting herself off the car seat and yanking at one of her pantlegs. The jeans he’d purchased for her were apparently less than a perfect fit.

Beamon looked up at the front door of his condo. “Doubt it. FBI’d probably assume I wouldn’t be stupid enough to come back here while they were looking for me.”

“So you’re a lot stupider than they think.”

He pointed to her wide grin as he stepped from the car. “That looks good on you, smartass.”

Beamon pulled off his sunglasses and squinted against the bright mid-morning sun. “Can you see my gun?” he said, turning his back to Jennifer and adjusting his sweater.

”No. But this is a problem.” She reached over and buttoned his collar. “There. You look good.”

He gave a short nod and started up the walkway.

“You all right?” Jennifer asked, following alongside him.

“Why?”

“I don’t know, you look a little nervous. You really like her, don’t you?”

Beamon rolled his eyes.

“You should tell her you’re sorry.”

“I think we may be beyond that, Jen.”

“Nah. Women go in for apologies in a big way. Trust me on this.”

Beamon took a deep breath and knocked on Carrie Johnstone’s door. It opened a moment later.

“Mark!” Carrie threw her arms around him and kissed him hard on the mouth.

“Probably don’t need to bother with that apology,” he heard Jennifer mumble as he tried to keep from stumbling.

Carrie pulled back and turned toward her. “Oh my God. You’re Jennifer Davis, aren’t you?”

“Uh-huh. It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Johnstone. You’re all Mr. Beamon talks about.”

“I don’t think that’s really true,” Beamon stammered as Carrie put her arm around Jennifer and guided her in the door.

“Are you all right, honey? Maybe you’d like to talk?”

“Mr. Beamon!” Emory squealed as she ran around her mother and attached herself to his leg. He peeled her off and picked her up. “How are you, honey? The Easter bunny didn’t bring you healthy candy, did he?”

She bobbed her head as he produced a chocolate moose from the pocket of his jacket and kicked the door closed behind him. “Don’t tell your mother.”

“Mark, I want to hear everything. Are you hungry?”

Beamon looked skeptically at the casserole cooling on the stove. It looked normal, but he knew that it was a trick. “Uh, sure, Carrie, thanks.”

“Jennifer, hand me that spatula over there,
please,” Carrie said, pointing to a copper bucket full of cooking utensils.

She scooped a large piece onto a plate and handed it to Beamon. “This is a great recipe. I just make a few substitutions and it turns out perfect.”

Beamon smiled weakly and shoveled a forkful into his mouth. “Can’t tell a bit,” he said through a glob of something that tasted a little like an empty styrofoam cup.

“Mark’s such a liar,” Carrie said to Jennifer. “He hates my cooking, but doesn’t have the guts to tell me. I admire that kind of cowardice in a man.”

Jennifer accepted an even larger piece and retreated with Emory to the small table in the kitchen.

Carrie laid her plate on the counter and began speaking in a voice low enough that the girls couldn’t hear. “Where did you find her, Mark? I haven’t seen anything on the news about it. Are you back with the FBI?”

“You’re the only person who knows. And no, I’m not back with the FBI. I may never be.”

“You found her on your own?”

Beamon thought of Ernie and Jack Goldman. “I had some help.”

She looked over at Jennifer, who was helping Emory cut up the food on her plate. “Is she okay, Mark? Did she actually see her parents murdered? Was she abused?”

Beamon took another bite of the casserole and chewed slowly. “Her parents weren’t murdered—her father shot her mother and then himself right in front of her, and yes, she was physically and mentally abused. Not sexually, though.” He leaned
a little closer to her. “I have no idea what to say to her, Carrie. I’ve tried, but you’ve got to help me here.”

Carrie waved at Jennifer. “Finished? Why don’t you help me with the dishes while Mark takes Emory for a walk and explains why it would be wrong for her to eat that chocolate moose he gave her?”

“You told?” Beamon said as Emory flew off the chair and disappeared down the hall to bundle up. Beamon stepped aside as Jennifer carried the dishes into the kitchen. “There’s one more thing I’m going to need your help with, Carrie. Maybe we can talk about it when I get back.”

T
HE SUNLIGHT WAS BARELY STARTING TO
appear over the mountains as Beamon pulled a Post-it note out of his pocket and slipped his glasses onto his nose. He read the address written on it and checked it against the one stenciled on the neatly kept house in front of him. This was it.

He knocked on the door and waited impatiently as muffled footsteps became audible on the other side. The man who answered was dressed in a meticulously pressed white shirt and gray wool slacks. An unimaginatively tasteful maroon tie was hanging untied around his neck.

It took a few moments—probably because Beamon was backlit by the rising sun—but recognition began to slowly register on the man’s face. He tried to back away, but Beamon reached out and grabbed him by the collar, just as a woman wearing a long green robe appeared in the hallway. “Who is it, honey?”

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Beamon’ said, dragging the man through the door. “I just want a quick word with your husband.”

“Gary,” she called in a worried voice, “is everything all right? Should I call someone?”

“Just finish getting the kids ready for school. It’s okay.”

Beamon smiled and waved at her, then pulled the door shut.

“You just aren’t real bright, are you, Beamon,” the man said, trying to jerk away. There was a quiet ripping sound, but Beamon easily kept hold of his shirt. “You still have no idea what you’re dealing with, do you?”

Beamon didn’t say anything, but dragged him across the driveway and shoved his face into the passenger window of the car idling there, resisting the urge to break the glass with the man’s nose.

“You haven’t been informed as to the new world order, I take it,” Beamon said, looking through the windshield at Carrie. She nodded nervously.

He pulled the man away from the car and released him. Instead of backing away, he stepped forward, bringing his face to within inches of Beamon’s. “What’re you going to do, Beamon? Arrest me? Oh, no, wait. You can’t do that anymore, can you?”

Beamon smiled engagingly and stomped hard on the man’s foot. He howled in pain and surprise and limped back a few paces. Beamon turned back to the car and shrugged. Carrie looked horrified.

There had been no prints on the Child Safety Administration’s business card other than his and Carrie’s, but the eighth stationery store Beamon called had had a record of printing the offending card. “Guess you shouldn’t have had the printer mail those cards directly to your home, huh, dumb- shit.”

The man looked like he was going to charge, but Beamon stopped him by sliding a hand suggestively beneath his parka. The gesture seemed to have the desired effect.

“I have to admit to being a little impressed,” Beamon said. “For fifty dollars in business cards and a few hours’ work, you could irretrievably fuck up hundreds of people’s lives. How many times have you used this little trick?”

The man straightened up and looked Beamon directly in the eye. “As many as we wanted to.”

“M
ARGIE! HOW YOU DOIN’, HON?” BEAMON
said jovially.

Jake Layman’s secretary bolted upright at her desk and then jumped to her feet. “Oh my God. Mark! What are you doing here? I mean, they’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

Beamon put his hand on Jennifer’s back. “Margie, I’d like you to meet the girl everyone’s been talking about—Jennifer Davis.”

The woman’s eyes widened as Jennifer fidgeted uncomfortably and tried to get behind Beamon. “Don’t stare,” he said. “I think she’s a little uncomfortable that I bought her clothes in the Junior-Miss section of Kmart.”

“And … and who’s this?” Margie stammered, looking at the man standing next to Beamon.

“This is my friend from the Child Safety Administration. He has a story he wants to tell—”

Beamon suddenly noticed that the dull roar of the FBI’s Phoenix office had gone dead, replaced by the quiet hush of intermittent whispers. When he turned around, all motion had stopped. It looked like he was viewing the office on a VCR with a stuck Pause button.

“Uh, I hear that the director’s here talking about me,” he said, turning back to her. “Where?”

“I’ll tell them you’re here.”

“Don’t bother,” he said. “Just point.”

“They’re in Conference Room Two.”

He stepped back and motioned to Jennifer and the increasingly nervous-looking man who had accused him of child molestation. They started down the hall ahead of him.

“Gentlemen,” Beamon said as he walked through the conference room door without knocking. “And Chet.”

“Beamon!” Layman said, standing abruptly and almost upsetting the coffee mug on the table. Chet Michaels pumped a fist in the air and silently mouthed, “Yes!” The director just stared.

“Don’t look so surprised, Jake. I told you I’d come in when I tied up a few loose ends.” He looked out the open door. “Don’t be shy.”

When Jennifer self-consciously shuffled in, Layman fell back into his chair.

“The first of my loose ends. Jennifer, I’d like you to meet Jake Layman and William Calahan. You probably remember Chet Michaels.”

She smiled politely.

His other guest hovered outside the door, forcing Beamon to reach out and haul him into the room. “Sit,” he ordered. The man complied silently.

“That’s my other loose end, but I’ll explain later.” Beamon patted the chair next to him. Jennifer sat down and placed the computer disks she’d been carrying on the table in front of her. Beamon nodded toward them, and she slid them across the table.

“What are these?” Layman said quietly.

“Audio from an interesting little setup the Church of the Evolution had going. I figure it’s
enough to keep your whole office busy for about five years.”

“The Kneissians?” Calahan said, speaking for the first time. “What the hell’s going on here? And where did she come from?”

“Director Calahan, I—” Layman started.

“Shut up, Jake. I didn’t ask you. Beamon’s talking now.”

In writing this novel I had the arduous but fascinating task of creating my own religion. To accomplish this, I borrowed snippets from many faiths and added a healthy dose of my own imagination and the spirit of George Orwell.

Because all faiths have certain common threads, it might be possible to see parallels to any number of present-day belief systems. Let me assure you that if these parallels do indeed exist, they were completely unintentional.

In no particular order, I’d like to thank Elaine Mills for her increasingly professional editing work and for keeping an eye on the competition for me. Darrell Mills, for lending me his technical expertise and in anticipation of his continued marketing effort. My wife, Kim, for all her insight and effort, but mostly for tolerating the occasional panic attacks that I think grip all novelists on their second try. Laura Liner, for providing the soundtrack. Robert Gottlieb and Matt Bialer at William Morris, for their enthusiasm and hard work. And finally, John Silbersack, Caitlin Blasdell, and the rest of the gang at HarperCollins, for all the amazing things they’ve done for me.

KYLE MILLS lives in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, where he spends his time skiing, rock climbing, and writing books. He is also the author of
Rising Phoenix, Free Fail
and
Burn Factor.

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RAVES FOR KYLE MILLS’S
STORMING HEAVEN