Blood of Heaven

Note from the Author:

Dear Reader,

In this allegory I wanted to explore:

The following chapter is the first in the novel. It captures the evil of Coleman's old nature, while introducing the other characters in the drama. It is my prayer that you will find the book as thought provoking in the reading as I did in the writing.

Blessings, Bill

"You dis me."

There was no response.

"You hear what I say? You disrespect me."

Michael Coleman didn't have to look up from his Thanksgiving meal of turkey loaf and yams to know who was talking. It was Sweeney. Big, brooding, tattoos across the back of his bald head. As a member of the Aryan Brotherhood, he had been convicted for stabbing a Jew to death during last year's Nazi rally in Omaha. He'd come onto the Row a week ago, and this was his move.

"You hear me, Cole?"

Imperceptibly, Coleman tightened the grip on his spoon. He cursed himself for not slipping a homemade shank into his waist-band before coming to mess. He'd known a power play was coming; he just hadn't expected it so soon. Still, if a spoon was all he had, then a spoon would have to do. Already his senses were tightening, sharpening. The contrast between the orange yams and the green fiberglass meal tray grew vivid. The eight other men stopped eating and looked in Coleman's direction. In the sudden silence, the hum from the overhead heating duct grew to a consuming roar.

"Sit down." Coleman's command came strong. He was grateful he didn't have to clear his throat. That would have betrayed weakness, and weakness could spell death.

Sweeney shifted slightly.

Good.

Coleman finally raised his eyes. But not to Sweeney. It was to the inmate sitting across from him. A young black man, almost a boy, who'd made the mistake of hitting a white man one too many times in a bar fight. He wouldn't even have been here if he could have afforded a real lawyer. The kid quickly rose and moved out of the way so Sweeney could take his seat.

This was Coleman's gauntlet. If Sweeney obeyed, if he sat, that meant he honored Coleman's position and really did want to talk. If he didn't, then this was clearly a challenge of Coleman's authority.

Sweeney didn't move.

Coleman wasn't surprised. His heart pounded-but not in fear. This was exhilaration. An exhilaration he would carefully hold in check until the perfect moment.

Again Sweeney shifted, but this time to brace himself for what was coming. "You disrespect Garcia and me."

Hector Garcia was the weakest on the Row, which made him the most vulnerable. A bomb freak, he had inadvertently killed an elderly couple who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Thanks to Oklahoma City, that put him near the bottom of the prison food chain, barely above a child molester.

Sweeney had come onto the Row and immediately made Garcia his punk. No one seemed to mind, not even when he forced Garcia to shave his legs and start wearing jockey shorts dyed pink from cherry Kool-Aid. But after the boy's third or fourth beating, Coleman finally drew the line. He knew Sweeney had clout: major outside heroin connections. In fact, he'd even heard that Sweeney was supplying one or more of the baton-wielding hacks inside, which would explain why they looked the other way during Garcia's beatings.

Still, enough was enough. Maybe it was the memories of his own childhood, his own father. Coleman wasn't sure. But he had passed word down the chain of command that there would be no more beatings. And now Sweeney stood there, not only challenging his decree, but his position as well.

Coleman had several options. Talk it out, which would be read as weakness, or-well, there was really only one other choice. And by the electricity shooting through his body and the razor-sharp focusing of his senses, he knew there was no time like the present.

Sweeney didn't know what hit him. Coleman's five-foot-eleven frame was off the bench and going at him before the man could move. Deliriously out of control, adrenaline surging, Cole-man was a wild man, punching and stabbing and tearing and kicking in a euphoric, overwhelming rush.

He barely noticed the hacks descending on him, pulling him off, doing their own brand of kicking and beating. Nor did he really care-although he couldn't help noticing that at least one of them was Sweeney's client. He saw Sweeney stagger back to his feet, flashing a newly acquired, toothless grin, and brandishing a pair of aluminum knuckles. Coleman tried to move, but the hacks held him in place as Sweeney came at him. Apparently the man had more connections than Coleman had thought.

There was some solace that it took two guards to hold him as Sweeney did his work. But even as the punches fell and consciousness slipped away, a plan was forming in Coleman's mind. It would take more than this to oust him from power. This was child's play. An excuse for revenge. And revenge would come swiftly. It always did. For Michael Coleman, revenge was not a dish best served cold, but rather piping hot, full of rage, and in a manner they would never forget. That was Coleman's style. That was what made him great. That's why they feared him.

Dr. Philip O' Brien had a problem. His briefcase was packed with so many papers and files that it left no room for the framed picture of Beth and the kids. Now what? Here he was, CEO of the fastest growing biotech firm in the Pacific Northwest, and his brain was gridlocked over what to take and what to leave behind on a forty-eight-hour business trip. In anger and contempt over his indecision, he pulled the core group's "Toxicity of Epidermal Growth Factor" out of his briefcase, tossed it on his desk, and scooped up the photo.

He turned and headed out of his office toward the elevators. Tall, on the downhill side of his forties (though the gray hair made him appear closer to mid-fifties) he still had a boyish, Jimmy Stewart charm. Except for the quiet padding of his Nikes on the carpet and the occasional brush of blue jeans against his briefcase, the hallway was absolutely silent. Just as it should be. No one worked holidays at Genodyne. Except for Security, and the die-hard kids down in Research, the six-story complex would remain closed until Monday. So would the manufacturing plant a quarter mile away. That was O' Brien's style, his vision from the beginning. Happy employees make relaxed employees make imaginative employees make significant breakthroughs in genetic engineering-a theory spawned in the brain of a Berkeley biochem student back in the early eighties. But after dozens of patents and one, soon to be two, products out on the market, it was a theory that had led to a hundred and seventy-five million dollars' worth of business last year alone.

Biotech companies come and go. Of the fifteen hundred or so that had started, only fourteen had actually placed a product on the market. And for good reason. With the public paranoia over genetic engineering, as well as impossible FDA guidelines and innumerable testings, it cost between one hundred and three hundred million dollars to develop a single drug. But, as Genodyne had proven, once a drug hits the market, it can become a blockbuster overnight.

O' Brien passed on the elevator and took the stairs. So why was he here? Why had he, head of this flourishing, feel-good company, rushed through Thanksgiving dinner, leaving his wife and two kids alone for the remainder of the weekend? O' Brien arrived at the next floor landing, pushed open the door, and beheld his answer.

"Glad you could make it." It was a twenty-four-year-old kid, well built, with black hair that always hung in his face, and, according to Sarah, O' Brien's twelve-year-old daughter, a major babe. "The freezer and lab equipment have already been loaded. The jet's been on the runway half an hour. "Where have you been?" It was Kenneth Murkoski. Murkoski the Terrible. Murkoski the Ambitious. Murkoski the Boy Genius.

"I had some pumpkin pie to finish."

The man-child didn't smile. "Got a call from Lincoln. There was an incident on the Row."

"That's what they called it."

"Was our guy involved?"

"Big time. They said we should hold off a few days."

"And?"

"I said, 'No way.'"

"Kenny..." He saw Murkoski wince. He knew the kid hated the name, so he used it only when necessary. He'd handpicked Murkoski right out of M. I. T. almost eighteen months ago. He was the country's brightest, best, and most ambitious. He was also a showboat and publicity hound-a volatile combination, but O' Brien had decided to take the risk. Actually, he hadn't had much choice. Having to continually oversee Research and Development, Manufacturing, Administration, Sales, Marketing, and Logistics had sapped all of O' Brien's creativity. If the company was to survive, O' Brien needed a blue-skyer, some fresh blood (not to mention fresh brain cells) to run the Gene Therapy Division. In short, he needed someone who would think like O' Brien used to think back when he'd had time to think. Of course, that meant more than the usual amount of fires to put out and ruffled feathers to smooth. (Murkoski's social skills were as under-developed as his humility.) It also meant losing control of more and more of the details-details that O' Brien occasionally felt Murkoski deliberately hid from him. Still, despite the risks and frustrations, the kid was worth it. Even now.

"You sure we're not pushing too hard?" O' Brien asked. "What did they say?"

"What could they say? They're not playing around with some 'B' league biotech firm anymore. We've got the whole Mom-and-apple-pie US government on our side."

"But if they suggest we wait, what's the hurry?"

Murkoski scowled but was interrupted by the ringing of a phone. He reached into his Italian linen sports coat and pulled out the cellular as he answered O' Brien's question. "By the time we get there, things will settle down. The truth is, it will probably make him more willing to play ball with us." He turned and spoke into the phone with a demanding, "Yeah?" The expression on his face shifted, and he turned to walk away. "So what are you saying?" he asked, lowering his voice. It was obvious the kid wanted some privacy, and O' Brien was happy to oblige. Besides, he wanted to check in on Freddy before they left. So as Murkoski continued his conversation, O' Brien headed down the hall.

Abiotech company landing a government contract in gene therapy research was unheard of. So was the amount of money they were throwing around. But this was big. Very big. And, in less than a year, the results had proven staggering. No wonder Murkoski kept pushing. It wasn't because of competition-who was there to compete with? It was simply impatience. What they had uncovered, when it was finally developed and ready for the public, would quite literally change the world.

O' Brien arrived at B- 11. He held his wallet containing the mag ID against the little black box. He then entered his six-digit PIN. An electronic bolt snapped back, and he pushed open the door.

The room was twenty by forty. The right end looked like an outdoor playground with swing set, monkey bars, slide, and half a dozen boulders of different sizes scattered about. The walls were painted in cartoon-style trees and hills, and the ground was covered in real grass sod that had to be replaced every six weeks. In the far corner a dead tree with three gnarled limbs was held in place by inch-thick cable. The other side of the room resembled a kitchen: cupboards, counters, stools, several toys, and a child-sized table with four chairs. Everything was painted in bright pinks, blues, purples, and greens.

O' Brien allowed the door to shut behind him, then crossed to a park bench near the center of the room. "Freddy," he called. "Freddy, where are you?"

A three-and-a-half-foot baboon scurried up over the rocks and loped toward him. He weighed sixty-five pounds and had a long snout, dark brown, gray-tipped fur, and eyes so close together they almost looked crossed. The animal kept his tail arched high over his back and put on an affected swagger that was almost comical. This was intentional, a baboon's way of saying, "Hi there, look how goofy I am, I can't possibly be a threat." And for good reason. Even though Freddy weighed less than seventy pounds, baboons can be fierce fighters, with the strength of half a dozen other creatures their size.

O' Brien placed the briefcase on the bench and sat down. "How you doing, boy?"

Freddy hopped up beside him and immediately began exploring the briefcase. His long, black hands, almost human, ran over the textured surface, fingering the brass latches, flipping the handle back and forth, looking for some way inside.

O' Brien chuckled. "Sorry. There's nothing of interest in there. Believe me."

But Freddy would not be put off. Now he was lifting the case, looking under it, checking its sides, searching for some means of entrance.

O' Brien watched in silent amusement. The animal had joined the experiment fifteen weeks ago. He was not the first. There had been two other primates before him. Neither had survived. Too many complications. But Freddy had pulled through. And, like the mice in the earlier experiments, his behavior had dramatically changed.

O' Brien reached over and probed the animal's chest. The fur was coarse and bristly. Freddy stretched out for what he obviously hoped would be a good scratch and rubdown.

"Let's see how that sternum is coming, shall we?" O' Brien adjusted his glasses and carefully studied the shaved section encircling what had been a small needle puncture where they had extracted the bone marrow. There had been a minor infection several weeks ago, but now it was completely healed.

"Looking good, dude."

Freddy's response to O' Brien's kindness was instant; he released the briefcase and wrapped both of his arms around O' Brien's arm. It was an embrace. Common among females in the wild, and even between males and babies. But never between male and male. And never with another species; there was too much fear. Yet here he was-a full-grown male embracing and nuzzling O' Brien as if they were father and son.

This wasn't the first time. Freddy had been embracing for almost a month now. But every time it happened, O' Brien felt his heart swell just a little. This was why they were doing what they were doing. This was why he endured Murkoski, why he left his wife and children during a holiday weekend. They were disappointed about his frequent absences now because they didn't understand. But in a matter of a few years, before his children were grown, they would understand, and they would rejoice with him just as he was rejoicing now.

O' Brien began parting Freddy's fur and gently kneading the skin. This was grooming. In the wild he would be searching for fleas or lice or flakes of salt, another sign of affection among baboons. And the more O' Brien kneaded the animal's fur, the more Freddy nuzzled in and hugged his arm.

How odd, O' Brien mused. As a scientist he had been taught that baboons occupied a necessary step in the process of human evolution as they made the transition from swinging in trees to walking the open savannas. And now, once again, these same animals were necessary to make what O' Brien hoped would be an equally astounding leap in evolution. A leap just as important, and perhaps even more necessary for the survival of the human race.

O' Brien thought again of Beth and the children. He would call them. In the car on the way to the plane, he would call and say how much he loved them. But first he needed to sit just a moment longer. To sit, to dream, and to savor Freddy's affection.

Katherine Lyon hated Thanksgiving. For that matter, she wasn't too fond of Christmas, Easter, or the Fourth of July. It wasn't so much the holidays as the memories they brought-along with the blitz of TV and magazine ads: All those perfect little families gathered around their perfect little turkeys, or Christmas trees, or whatever.

Katherine sighed wearily as she ran her hand through her cropped, auburn hair. It wasn't the most flattering cut for her, but she didn't care. She hadn't cared for a long, long time. She crossed to the front of the store, set the alarm, and peered back into the darkened interior. Over on the side wall, past the latest-model boom boxes, stereos, and color TVs, she could see the telltale glow from one of a dozen displayed computer monitors.

"Let's go, Eric, I'm not telling you again."

The blue-green light was instantly extinguished, and the head of a blonde, bespectacled eight-year-old floated above the center display of telephone answering machines. How fiercely she loved this boy. Of course the resemblance to his father brought back other memories and emotions. But whenever she looked at him, those feelings of bitterness and loss mellowed into a dull, longing ache.

The rest of his body emerged from behind the display. Slight, skinny, elbows and knees mostly. He was already the object of ridicule from some of the tougher third graders. She couldn't help thinking how he must have looked like Gary when Gary was that age. Until Gary had grown up and filled out into his impressive six-foot-two frame.

"Come on, let's go." Her hoarseness carried a weary impatience. But what else could she expect at the end of another ten-hour day of complaining customers, salesmen on the make, IRS letters, and threatening landlords.

"Got your homework?" She tried to sound pleasant, but it fell flat.

The boy nodded silently and slipped past her to the out-side. She followed, pulled the door shut, and inserted the key into the dead bolt. As usual, it was a fight to get the thing to click into place. And, as usual, she cursed softly and promised to complain to the owners. The way they hassled her over the slightest delay in rent, she was entitled to expect a few things in the building to work.

"Lyon Computer and Electronics" was wedged into a tiny strip mall on old Highway 99. The shops surrounding her included the obligatory video rental store, hair salon, music hangout, and Szechwan restaurant. All were closed for the holiday except the Albertson's supermarket at the far end, its dull blue-and-white glow spilling out into the unlit parking lot.

Katherine glanced to the sky. It was dark gray and hung just above her head like wet cement. Another typical evening in Everett, Washington. How she hated this place. But the city, located on Puget Sound, was the furthest she could get away from Iowa. And "getting away" was something both she and Eric had desperately needed.

As the lock finally clicked in, Katherine grew aware of a presence three doors down. He sat on the sidewalk, back against the building. She didn't look. She didn't have to. She knew he was one of the homeless men who haunted the area at night. It's not that she resented these guys. In fact, more than once, when she and Gary had found the rare opportunity to grab a lunch together, she had begged him to buy an extra Big Mac to share. But that was back when life was kinder, back when she was a devoted wife and the loving mother of a newborn, back when she was naive and weak and didn't know how hard and cold the world could be.

She turned toward the parking lot. Her Datsun, a gray beater with a crease running along its back fender, was parked thirty feet away. "Come on," she said, giving her son a nudge.

Eric slouched forward and obeyed. As they stepped off the curb, Katherine discreetly reached into her purse. Somewhere amid the clutter was her leather-cased pepper spray. A gift to herself last Mother's Day. No bigger than a tube of lipstick, it was supposed to be attached to her key ring, but she'd never found the time to do it.

Then she heard it. The scrape of shoes and the rustle of clothes. He was getting up. She kept her stride even and continued digging into her purse.

"Ma'am?"

She fought the panic. She was halfway to the car. Even if she broke into a run, there was no way she could unlock the door and get both her and the boy inside.

Eric turned to look.

"Don't turn around, " she whispered.

"But, Mom-"

"Keep walking." Eric obeyed.

"Ma'am, excuse me..." The sound grew louder. Worn tennis shoes scuffing gravel. They were heading toward her. Katherine picked up her pace. So did he.

She continued digging. Where is that stupid spray? What this? Lipstick? No! Mascara? No! Where is it?

"Excuse me?"

The car was ten feet away, but the footsteps were nearly on top of her. He was so close she could hear his breathing. There! She found it.

Hand still in the purse, she felt for the little red safety tab and clicked it over to the right. Now it was armed. Let him try what he would-she was ready.

Fingers closed around her arm from behind. This was it. If there was one thing Gary had stressed, it was to never be forced into a defensive position. Always play offense. In one quick move, she spun around, pulled out the spray, and fired the thin orange line directly into the assailant's face.

The young man let out a scream and covered his eyes. "What are you doing?" he yelled, dropping to his knees.

Katherine moved in, continuing to unload the spray on his face. It'll be a long time before he tries this again, she thought.

"Are you crazy? What are you doing?" Blindly he pushed at the stream, trying to shove it back with his hands. It was then that she noticed the checkbook he was holding. Her checkbook.

"Are you crazy?" he kept shouting. "Are you crazy?"

"What-"

He coughed and gagged. "You dropped this-back there, You dropped this!"

Katherine released the spray. The man threw the checkbook at her as he remained on the asphalt, coughing and choking.

She stepped back and took a deep, ragged breath. As her fear drained away, so did her strength. She wanted to cry, but she wouldn't. Katherine Lyon had not cried in years.

Coleman's hospital bed was located in the north end of the Nebraska State Penitentiary Administration Building. The long, two-and-a-half-story brick building stood at the front of the prison, overlooking the parking lot. Besides the hospital and medical facilities, it housed all the administration offices, attorney/client conference rooms, and a large general visiting area that seated three hundred people. It also contained the execution chamber with the electric chair and adjacent witness room.

As Coleman lay in the evening's silence, he couldn't help thinking that, should his appeals fail, this would be the same room in which they'd prepare him for execution. In less than seven weeks, should the Supreme Court refuse to hear his case, should the three-person pardons board refuse to offer a stay of execution, this room in which he now lay was the exact room in which they would spruce him up so that he could take the fifty-two steps necessary to reach the execution chamber for his ride on 0l' Sparky.

Coleman turned, trying to push the thought out of his head, and pain shot through his body. He had two cracked ribs, a broken nose, and a mild concussion. Yet when they'd brought him into the hospital tonight, he had refused all painkillers. In fact, even before the X rays and stitches, he had insisted on making a phone call. That was nearly four hours ago. Now Coleman forced himself to remain awake, and to wait.

Forty-five minutes later, his vigilance was rewarded. The wall across from the window began reflecting red-yellow-orange, red-yellow-orange. Coleman didn't have to rise and look out to know that it was an ambulance. Someone else in the prison had been injured, but far worse than he. So badly, in fact, that the assistance of an outside hospital with its bigger and better-equipped ER facility would be needed.

Coleman smiled. His phone call had paid off.

He heard a tray rattling down the hall. They were bringing him food. Here, in the hospital, in the middle of the night. A moment later the overhead fluorescent flickered on. He winced at the light. "What's going on?" he demanded.

"Cook said you'd want this." A trustee in a gold shirt and khaki pants pushed the cart toward Coleman. He removed the lid to reveal an enormous portion of tomorrow morning's sausage and eggs.

Coleman sat up, fought the pain in his head, and reached for the cart. He was starved. "What's the action with the ambulance?"

"Your buddy Sweeney. Guess he dealt some bad dope to one of the hacks. The guy OD'd at home couple hours ago."

"Dead?"

"Coma."

Coleman's appetite quickly increased. He dug into the eggs.

"And Sweeney?"

"The other hacks weren't too thrilled about it."

"Too bad," Coleman said, cramming his mouth full of food. "Guess these things happen."

"Guess so. Anything else?"

"Tell the cook thanks."

The trustee nodded.

"Oh, have the guys on the Row take up a collection for Garcia."

"A collection?"

"Yeah. Tell him to burn those jockey shorts and get some real underwear."

The trustee smiled and headed out of the room. Coleman inhaled his food ravenously. Once the rage and aggression were spent, they gave way to an incredible hunger. It had always been that way with Coleman. Ever since he was a little boy.

Beep.

Katherine sat on the kitchen floor listening to the answering machine. These were not new messages. They were from an older tape she had saved from seven years ago. A few of the voices belonged to her, or her friends and family, but most were Gary's:

"If you get this before noon call me, and let’s grab some Chinese."

The linoleum floor was hard and cold. She leaned against the fridge and felt its vibration against her back. Staring vacantly into her glass, she slowly swirled the Cabernet, watching as the vanishing patina slipped back into the liquid. It had been thirty months since she'd had a drink. The three and a half years before that, the ones immediately following Gary's death, were pretty much a blur. Unfair to Eric and definitely unfair to herself. But with the help of a few friends, she'd gotten back on her feet, changed locale, opened a store, and joined the masses of single parents fighting to keep their heads above the emotional and financial waters.

She usually succeeded. But tonight, with the work hassles, the holiday loneliness, the attack in the parking lot-well, the glow from Albertson's and their acclaimed wine department had been more than she could handle.

Katherine had never seen the dog. Somewhere in the confusion of that evening, then the week long vigil at the hospital and the funeral arrangements, the dog was neither seen nor heard of again.

Katherine held the glass closer and stared into the crimson liquid. Finally she raised it to her lips and began to drink.

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