The Heaven Trilogy (6 page)

“Until she puked.”

“Gross, Dad!”

“Don't look at me. Look at your mother.”

Gloria just smiled. “Don't forget to tell him who won, dear.”

“Yes, your mother did whip me good that day—before she puked, that is. I think I fell in love with her then, while she was bent over by the far net post.”

“Gross!” Spencer giggled.

“Fell in love, ha! As I remember it, you were head over heels for some other thing in a skirt at the time.”

“Perhaps. But it all began between us then.”

“Well, it took you long enough to come around. We didn't even date until you were out of school.”

“Yes, and look at where we are today, dear.” He stood, slid his dish into the sink, and returned to kiss her on the cheek. Her skin was warm. “I think it was worth the wait, don't you?”

She smiled. “If you insist.”

Twenty minutes later, Kent stood by the front door and saluted them, packed bags in hand. “Okay, you guys have the itinerary, right? I'll see you at five o'clock tomorrow night. We have a plane to catch at six. And remember to pack the camera, Honey. This is one trip that's going down in Anthony family history.”

Gloria walked to him, still wrapped in her pink bathrobe. “You take care of yourself, my prince,” she said and kissed him gently on the cheek. “I love you.” For a moment he looked into those sparkling hazel eyes and smiled.

He bent and kissed her forehead. “And I love you. More than you could possibly know, Sweetheart.”

“See you, Dad,” Spencer said sheepishly. He walked over and put a flimsy arm around his father's waist.

Kent ruffled his hair. “See you, Chief. You take care of Mommy, you hear?” He kissed him on the forehead.

“I will.”

He left them standing at the door, his son under his wife's arm. There was a connection between those two he could never entirely grasp. A knowing glint in their eyes that sapped his power, made him blink. It had been painfully obvious yesterday around the dinner table. But he had just made them rich; it was to be expected, he supposed. They kept exchanging glances, and when he'd finally asked them about it, they'd just shrugged.

Man, he loved them.

The flight from Denver International to Miami was an eventful one. At least for Kent Anthony it was eventful, if for no other reason than because every waking moment had become eventful. He had become a new man. And now in the DC-9 cabin, even his peers recognized him in a new light. Five others from Niponbank's Denver branch were making the belated trip to Florida for the conference. He'd meandered about the aisle, talking to all of them. And all of them had looked at him with a twinkle in their eyes. A glint of jealousy, perhaps. Or a spark of hope for their own careers.
Someday, if I'm so lucky, I will be in your shoes, Kent,
they would be thinking. Of course, there was always the possibility that the glint was actually light—a reflection from the oval windows lining the fuselage.

His boss, Markus Borst, sat three rows up with his shiny bald spot poking just above the seat like an island of sand in a black sea. Borst had worn a toupee over that bald spot all last year, discarding it only after the underhanded comments had driven him to hide for long days with a DO NOT DISTURB sign on his closed door. What the superior did behind that door, Kent could not fathom. He was certainly not breaking records for coordinating software design, as his title suggested. And when he did emerge from his cave, he did little but look over Kent's shoulder and wish he'd thought of this, or mumble about how he could have done that.

And now, within the week Borst could very well be working for him. Kent ran a finger under his collar and stretched his neck. The red tie had been a good choice. It accented the navy suit well, he thought. The perfect attire for meeting the real powerhouses in the bank's upper echelon. They would have heard about him by now, of course. Young man, firm grip, broad shoulders, brilliant mind. From the western United States. He's got the stuff.

An image of a podium facing a thousand executives around dinner tables formed in his mind. He was at the microphone.
Well, it wasn't so difficult once I constructed the advanced timing paradigm. Of course, it's all a matter of perspective. Brilliance is a function more of the destination than of the journey, and let me assure you, my friends, we have arrived at a destination never before imagined, much less traveled.
The conference hall would shake under thunderous applause. He would hold up his hand then, not emphatically but as a slight gesture. It did not take much to command.

Not so long ago, a man named Gates—Bill Gates—introduced an operating system that changed the world of computing. Today Niponbank is introducing the Advanced Funds Processing System, and it will change the world of banking.
Now they would be standing, pounding their hands together. Of course, he wouldn't take direct responsibility for the work. But they would understand, just the same. At least those at the top would understand.

Beside him Will Thompson cleared his throat. “Hey, Kent. You ever wonder why some people move up the ladder so quickly and others stay put their whole careers? I mean people with the same basic skills?”

Kent looked at the forty-year-old loan manager, wondering again how the man had finagled his way on this trip. Will insisted that his boss, already in Miami, needed him to explain some innovative ideas they had been working on to some higher-ups. But Kent didn't know Will to have an innovative bone in his body. His colleague's black hair was speckled with gray, and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses sat on his nose. Yellow suspenders rode over a white shirt in good East Coast fashion. If he considered anyone at the bank a friend, it was Will.

“Hmm?”

“No, really. Look at us. I still remember the first day you skipped into the bank, what, seven years ago?” He chuckled and sipped at the martini on his tray. “You were as green as they come, man. Hair all slicked back, ready to set the office on fire. Not that I was any more experienced. I think I had a whole week on you. But we came in at the bottom, and now look at us. Making triple digits, and still climbing. And then you take someone like Tony Milkins. He came six months or so after you and he's what? A teller.” Will chuckled again and sipped his drink.

Kent shrugged. “Some want it more. It all comes down to the price you're willing to pay. You and I put our dues in, worked long hours, got the right education. Shoot, if I were to sit down and calculate the time and energy I've put into making it this far, it would scare most college kids right out of school and into boot camp.”

“No kidding.” Will sipped again. “Then there's a few like Borst. You look at them and wonder how in God's name they ever sneaked in. You'd think his old man owned the bank.”

Kent smiled and looked out the window, thinking he'd have to be careful what he said now. One day it would be him that people like Will talked about. True enough, Markus Borst was misplaced in his position, but even those well suited for their positions bore the brunt of professional criticism from the lower ranks.

“So, I guess you'll be moving up now,” Will said. Kent glanced at him, noting a hint of jealousy there.

Will caught the look and laughed it off. “No, well done, my friend.” He lifted a finger and raised his brows. “But watch your back. I'm right behind you.”

“Sure,” Kent returned with a smile.

But he was thinking that even Will knew that the notion of Will doing any such thing was an absurd little piece of nonsense. The loan manager could look forward to nothing but slipping into eventual obscurity, like a million other loan managers throughout the world. Loan managers simply did not become household names like Bill Gates or Steve Jobs. Not that it was Will's fault, really. Most people were not properly equipped; they simply did not know how to work hard enough. That was Will's problem.

It suddenly occurred to Kent that he'd just come full circle on the man. He thought of Will in the same way that Will thought of Tony Milkins. A slacker. A friendly enough slacker, but a dope nonetheless. And if Will was a slouch, then people like Tony Milkins were slugs. Ham-and-eggers. Good enough to collect a few bills here and there, but never cut out to spend them.

“Just watch your back too, Will,” Kent said. “Because Tony Milkins is right there.”

His friend laughed and Kent joined him, wondering if the man had caught his offhanded dig. Not yet, he guessed.

The plane touched down with a squeal of rubber, and Kent's pulse accelerated a notch. They deplaned, found their luggage, and caught two cabs to the Hyatt Regency in downtown Miami.

A porter dressed in maroon, with a tall captain's hat and a nametag that read “Pedro Gonzalas” quickly loaded their bags on a cart and led them through a spacious foyer toward the front desk. To their left, a large fountain splashed over marble mermaids in a blue pool. Palm trees grew in a perfect circle around the water, their leaves rustling in the conditioned air. Most of the guests walking about had come for the conference. Left their branches across the globe to gather in dark suits and gloat over how much money they were all making. A group of Asians laughed around a smoking table, and Kent guessed by their demeanor that they might be near the top. Important men. Or at the very least, thinking themselves important. Some of his future peers, perhaps. Like the short, white-haired one drawing most of the attention, sipping an amber drink. A man of power. Filthy rich. Two hundred and fifty dollars a night for a hotel like this would come out of his tip fund.

“Now
this
place is first class,” Todd said beside him.

“That's Niponbank for you,” Borst agreed. “Nothing but the best. I think they took the whole hotel. What do you think
that
cost?”

“Geez. Enough. You think we'll have open access to those little refrigerators in the rooms?”

Mary turned to Todd with a raised brow. “Of course we will. What, you think they lock them up for the programming staff ? Keep their minds clear?”

“No. I know they'll be open. I mean free. You think we'll have to pay for what we take?”

Borst chuckled. “Don't be a moron, Todd. They cover the entire trip, and you're worried about free booze in little bottles. I'm sure there'll be plenty to drink at the reception. Besides, you need to keep your head clear, boy. We're not here for a party. Isn't that right, Kent?”

Kent wanted to step away from the group, disassociate himself from their small talk. They sounded more like a boy scout troop than programmers who had just changed history. He glanced around, suddenly embarrassed and hoping they had not been overheard.

“That's right,” he offered and drifted a few feet to his left. If he was lucky, the onlookers wouldn't put him with this group of clowns.

They'd come to the long, cherrywood check-in counter, and Kent stepped up to a Hispanic dark-haired woman, who smiled cordially. “Welcome to the Hyatt,” she said. “How may I help you?”

Well, I have just become rather important, you see, and I am wondering if you have a suite . . .

He terminated the thought.
Get a grip, man.
He smiled despite himself. “Yes, my name is Kent Anthony. I believe you have a reservation for me. I'm with the Niponbank group.”

She nodded and punched a few keys. Kent leaned on the counter and looked back toward the men laughing in the lounge chairs. Several were shaking hands now, as if congratulating themselves on a job well done.
Excellent year, Mr. Bridges. Stunning profits. By the way, have you caught wind of the young man from Denver?

The programmer? Isn't he here somewhere? Brilliant, I've heard.

“Excuse me, sir.”

Kent blinked and turned back to the counter. It was the check-in clerk. The pretty dark-haired one. “Kent Anthony, correct?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“We have a message for you, sir.” She reached under the counter and pulled a red envelope out. Kent's pulse spiked. It was starting already then. Someone other than the bonehead troop under Borst's command had sent him a message. They had not sent it to Borst; they had addressed it to him.

“It's marked urgent,” she said and handed it to him.

Kent took the envelope, flipped it open, and withdrew a slip of paper. He scanned the typed note.

At first the words did not create meaning in his mind. They just sat there in a long string. Then they made some sense, but he thought they had made a mistake. That they had given him the wrong message. That this was not
his
Gloria to which the note referred. Couldn't be.

His eyes were halfway through the note for the second time when the heat came, like a scalding liquid searing through his veins from the top of his head right down his spine. His jaw fell slack, and his hand began to quiver.

“Are you all right, sir?” a voice asked. Maybe the clerk's.

Kent read the note again.

KENT ANTHONY:

YOUR WIFE GLORIA ANTHONY IS IN DENVER MEMORIAL HOSPITAL STOP

COMPLICATIONS OF UNDIAGNOSED NATURE STOP

CONDITION DETERIORATING QUICKLY STOP

PLEASE RETURN IMMEDIATELY STOP

END MESSAGE

Now that quiver had become a quake, and Kent felt panic edge up his throat. He whirled around to face Borst, who had missed the moment entirely. “Markus.” His voice wavered.

The man turned, smiling at something Betty had just said. His lips flattened the moment he laid eyes on Kent. “What is it?”

Yes indeed! What was it? Leave these in power about him to their excesses before he'd had a chance to help them understand who he was? Leave the party in Borst's hands? Good grief ! It was a preposterous notion!

Surely Gloria would be fine. Just fine.

Please return immediately,
the message read. And this was Gloria.

“I have to go. I have to return to Denver.” Even as he said it, he wanted to pull the words back. How could he leave now? This was the pinnacle. The men laughing over there by the fountain were about to change his life forever. He had just flown two thousand miles to meet them. He had just worked
five years
to meet them!