Eli Read online

  Eli-updated4ebooks 6/13/01 11:10 AM Page 2

  Books by Bill Myers

  Fire of Heaven

  Threshold

  Eli

  Blood Hounds Inc. (children's mystery series) Faith Encounter (teen devotional) The Dark Side of the Supernatural Novellas

  Then Comes Marriage (with Angela Hunt) When the Last Leaf Falls

  Click on the title below to read an excerpt from another book by Bill Myers.

  Blood of Heaven

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  A

  N O V E L

  BILL MYERS

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  Eli

  Adobe Glassbook Format

  Copyright © 2000 by Bill Myers

  Requests for information should be addressed to: Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available for the print edition of this title.

  ISBN 0-310-24414-5

  All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible: New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680

  Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.

  Interior design by Melissa Elenbaas hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 5

  For Eve Roberts,

  who helped me understand the power of drama Eli-ebookcontent 5/24/01 11:10 AM Page 6

  C o n t e n t s

  Preface

  vi

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  3

  Chapter 2

  23

  Chapter 3

  53

  Chapter 4

  73

  Chapter 5

  99

  Chapter 6

  123

  Part 2

  Chapter 7

  149

  Chapter 8

  165

  Chapter 9

  183

  Chapter 10

  201

  Chapter 11

  215

  Part 3

  Chapter 12

  231

  Chapter 13

  247

  Chapter 14

  265

  Chapter 15

  283

  Chapter 16

  299

  Chapter 17

  317

  About the Author

  340

  Excerpt from Blood of Heaven,

  Book One in the Fire of Heaven Trilogy

  342

  Other books by Bill Myers

  349

  About the Publisher

  352

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  P r e f a c e

  THIS IS FICTION, NOTHING MORE. IT’S MERELY AN ATTEMPT TO EXAMine some issues and to get us thinking about others. It is certainly no substitute for the real thing. Those familiar with my fiction know that I believe storytelling’s greatest strength lies in its ability to stir up our thoughts. By putting the gospel in a contemporary setting, I’ve moved Christ out of my comfort zone and put him back in my face where he can test me, challenge me, and encourage me. By stripping away the historical and cultural trappings that I hide behind to insulate myself from his truths, I allow him to become more of the radical life-changer he was the first time I encountered him.

  Unfortunately, the attempt also brings with it some failures. First, by removing the rich Jewish heritage of the gospel, I’ve deprived the story of much of its depth. There were times, for instance, when I wanted to elaborate on the hundreds of Old Testament prophecies and symbolism that speak of Christ, but this novel was not the forum for that.

  Still, that failure and others only underline the fact that this is merely an appetizer. For those who haven’t yet enjoyed the feast, don’t waste time here—go to the real banquet. Read the book that most of antiquity and today’s scholars still insist is the greatest piece of writing in human history. If it’s been a while since you cracked open a Bible, or if you’ve never really explored it, start off with the gospel of John. In one sense, it’s the easiest, in another, the most profound.

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  And since I’m in a confessional mood, there’s another shortcoming you need to be aware of as you read this novel.

  To accurately portray a world in which Christ has not yet come would be to create a society so dark and ugly that it’s doubtful any of us would recognize it, let alone relate to it.

  To do so would have again defeated my purposes. So, I didn’t.

  If you’re interested in the impact Jesus Christ has had upon our society, Kennedy and Newcombe’s book, What If Jesus Had Never Been Born, gives interesting insights on how different our society would be today if Jesus had not come.

  A final note. Scripture makes it clear that the Christ would come as a man born of woman only once. It states that his second coming will not be like his first. The first was the meek servant who washed our feet and died for our failures.

  According to Scripture, the second time he comes it will be as a conquering King. In fact, Jesus himself warned that if someone born into our world today claimed to be the Christ (even with accompanying miracles) he would be a counterfeit, the antichrist prophesied long ago. According to Jesus Christ, when he appears the next time it will be from the heavens, accompanied by the glory of God.

  Now, to the thanks. Grateful appreciation goes to Debbie Setters, my research assistant Doug McIntosh, my agent Greg Johnson, Dave Lambert, Lori VandenBosch, Joel Carlson, Tony Myles, Tina Schuman, Sue Brower, Sherry Guzy, Nancy Rue, Lissa Halls Johnson, Nancy Hargiss-Tatlock, Lynn Marzulli, Vincent Crunk, Craig and Sue Cameron, Dr. Di, and Janey DeMeo. A special thanks also to my children Nicole and Mackenzie who would indulge me in playing the “What If Jesus Were Here Today” game (a sneaky way for their dad to get ideas). And finally and always to my friend and partner in life, Brenda.

  Bill Myers

  www.billmyers.com

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  “The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I have come that you might have life, and have it to the full.”

  Jesus Christ

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  P A R T O N E

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  C H A P T E R

  O N E

  MONDAY WAS AN INCONVENIENT TIME TO DIE. COME TO THINK OF IT, Tuesday through Sunday weren’t all that agreeable either.

  Conrad Davis had too many important things to do. Too many fires to put out. Too many producers to plead with, cajole, and, if necessary, circumvent.

  Not interesting? Too cerebral? What were they talking about? Did they honestly think TV audiences were that stupid?

  “Give us another multibirth story,” they’d said. “Those McCaughey septuplets, don’t they have a birthday coming up? Or how about another psychic piece—some mother visited by her dead daughter; those always work.”

  “Guys . . .” Conrad glanced around the table in the smoke-filled war room. He could already feel the back of his neck beginning to tighten. “We’re talking about a major scientific breakthrough here.”

  But the other producers of the prime time news magazine, Up Front, continued without hearing. “Or how ’bout another crippl
e story,” suggested Peggy Martin, one of the few females on staff. “Some guy in a wheelchair climbing Mount Everest or something.”

  3

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  “Guys . . .”

  “We did that last November.”

  “Guys!”

  “Listen, Connie.” It was Phil Harrison, the show’s exec.

  He took a drag off his cigarette and motioned to the monitor where they’d just viewed a rough cut of Conrad’s segment.

  “All we’re saying is that this piece is too cerebral. I mean,

  ‘Parallel Universes’? Come on, who cares?”

  Leo Singer, a rival producer, snickered. “Next time he’ll be doing a piece on quantum physics.”

  The rest of the room chuckled. It was supposed to be good-natured, but Conrad knew that nothing in this dog-eat-dog world of TV journalism was good-natured. One or two missteps, like producing a worthless segment that no one cared about, could spell disaster—especially with five thousand kids half his age waiting in the wings for his job.

  “Is that what you would have said about the Wright Brothers at Kitty Hawk?” Conrad argued. “Or the moon landing, or the invention of the light bulb—that it’s too cerebral? What we’re talking about is the existence of other realities right here beside our own, worlds identical to ours but with minor, or sometimes major, differences.”

  “Worlds we can’t even see,” another producer pointed out.

  “How convenient,” Singer sighed.

  Peggy Martin added, “And worlds that have no effect upon the lives of our viewers.”

  Conrad glanced at the faces around the table. He was going down for the count, and his colleagues, better known as competitors, were doing their best to keep him there. But he’d been in this position a hundred times before, refusing to dish out pabulum for the masses, insisting upon truth and relevancy. That’s how he’d earned the two Emmys and those countless other awards.

  “Connie.” It was Harrison again. “This professor that you interviewed . . . what’s his name?”

  “Endo.”

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  “All this Professor Endo has is theory, right?”

  “Plus support from top world physicists,” Conrad corrected, “not to mention some staggering mathematical formulas.”

  “Oh, mathematics, that’ll kick up the ratings,” Singer scoffed. Others around the table agreed. The tension from Conrad’s neck crept into the base of his skull.

  Harrison continued. “If there was something tangible, something you could show on tape, then you’d have a story.

  But this . . .” Harrison shook his head and dropped his cigarette into the half-empty can of Diet Coke. It hissed quietly as he turned to the next producer. “Wolff, how’s that toxic-waste segment coming?”

  The meeting had been less than two hours ago, and Conrad was already back on the 101 heading north out of Los Angeles. Professor Endo lived an hour outside the city in the town of Camarillo. If they wanted something tangible, he’d get something tangible. Not because this story was a great passion of his, but because he needed it. Despite his twenty-five years in news, despite past accolades, a setback like this could seriously cripple a career. That’s how the business was. There was no resting on your laurels. You were only as good as your last segment. And if your last segment was a failure . . .

  It had started to rain, the first time since early April. Conrad reached over and turned on his wipers. The blades had rotted from last summer’s sun, and their first few passes left dirty smears. How ironic. Here he was driving a $72,000

  Jaguar but couldn’t find the time to replace its wiper blades.

  But that’s how it was with everything in his life—too busy winning the prizes to enjoy them. And he had won them, won them all, everything he’d ever wanted and more: great job, great pay, esteem from his peers, plenty of toys, beautiful wives (although a few more than he’d intended), and the list went on. Yet over the past several years, the list had begun to grow more and more meaningless. And, though he tried his best to ignore it, an empty hollowness had begun gnawing hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 6

  6 and eating away at him. He’d won the game, all right; the only problem was that neither the victory nor the prizes meant anything.

  He pumped the washer fluid a few times and the smearing on the windshield thinned. Glancing at his speedometer, he eased back to 70. Besides the oil that had accumulated on the pavement these many rainless weeks, there was also the recurring amnesia Southern Californians suffer whenever it comes to remembering how to drive on wet roads. He’d been in several fender benders since moving to L.A., many of them thanks to the rain.

  He rolled his head, trying to work out the tension in his neck. He pulled a bottle of Motrin from his coat pocket, popped another handful into his mouth, and glanced around for something to wash them down. Nothing. Just a couple empty Taco Bell bags, some wadded up Big Mac wrappers, and a stale bag of corn chips. Ah, the glamorous life of a TV

  reporter. He held the pills on his tongue until he accumulated enough saliva to swallow one. Then he repeated the process for the next, and the next, and the next—each one going down a little harder than the last.

  A sign read 23 Freeway North. Good. Just a couple more miles, then down the steep grade into Camarillo. He’d already put in a call to his favorite cameraman, Ned Burton, as well as to the lighting and sound guys, to meet him there. And, before that, to Professor Endo, who was only too happy to oblige with another interview.

  “Something tangible?” the doctor had asked in his faint Japanese accent.

  “Exactly,” Conrad said. “Your theories and formulas, they’re all very interesting, but we need something we can show on tape, something the audience can grasp.”

  “Certainly, that will be no problem.”

  “Really? Like what? Eyewitnesses? People who have seen these—”

  The old man chuckled. “I am afraid that if there are eyewitnesses to such universes, you would find them locked up in insane asylums, or involved in drug rehab programs.”

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  “Then what?” Conrad asked. “How can you physically prove the existence of parallel universes if no one has seen them?”

  “It is an old experiment, really. I am sorry I did not mention it to you before.”

  “What do you need to set it up?”

  “I have all that is necessary at the lab. Just a board with two small slits cut into it and a low-powered laser.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That is all. We shine the laser onto the two slits and record how many slits of light appear on the wall behind it.”

  “I don’t understand. Two slits in the board will cast two slits on the wall.”

  “Actually, they will cast several more than two.”

  “Several? That’s impossible.”

  “You will see for yourself. And if we cut two more slits in the board how many will appear on the wall?”

  Conrad frowned. “I’d say four, but you’re going to tell me twice as many as whatever the two slits were.”

  “Actually, with four slits there will be half as many bands of light as if there were only two slits.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Yes, if you are thinking in terms of a single universe. But ask today’s best scientific minds, Stephen Hawking and others, and they will say invisible light beams from other worlds similar to ours that are involved in the very same experiment at the very same time are actually interfering with some of our beams.”

  “And you can prove this?”

  “I shall be waiting for you in the lab.”

  Even as he thought over the conversation, Conrad shook his head. To think that there was another one of him traveling to another Camarillo to meet with another professor at this exact same moment—it was incomprehensible. And not just one of him, but millions, all iden
tical. Well, not exactly identical, because according to Endo, each of his counterparts still hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 8

  8 had a free will to make different decisions along the way. One Conrad Davis could have waited to ride with his crew.

  Another could have agreed with his boss to cancel the segment. Or another could have decided to pursue philosophy in college instead of journalism. And on and on it went, the possibilities infinite.

  Then there was the matter of time . . .

  “It is my personal belief,” Endo had said, “that these various realities may also be traveling at different velocities. For some, an entire lifetime of seventy to eighty years may be lived in just a few of our hours. For others, it may be just the opposite.”

  “You’re telling me that there’s someone exactly like me in another reality who’s only living a few hours?”

  “A few hours by our standards, yes. But by his, it will be the full eighty years.”

  No wonder Harrison and the others thought the story was over everyone’s head. But if this sort of thing could be proven in the lab and actually captured on videotape . . .

  The rain came down harder, and he turned the wiper speed to high. Conrad was nearly fifty years old, but the methodic swish-swish, swish-swish of the wiper blades still brought warm memories of his childhood in Washington State, where the sound of windshield wipers was a part of many a car trip.

  He crested the ridge and started down the steep grade into Camarillo. Even shrouded by clouds, it was a beautiful sight.

  The coastal mountains rose on either side, giving one last burst of rock and cliff before dropping suddenly to the flat coastal plain seven hundred feet below. In the distance, the furrowed fields of onions and strawberries stretched all the way to the ocean, or at least as far as the newest housing development that encroached upon them.

  Swish-swish, swish-swish . . .

  The left lanes of traffic had slowed, so he threw a look over his shoulder and pulled into the far right where there hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 9

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  was less congestion. He glanced up through the windshield.

  It was still there. Up to the left. The jagged rock formation that looked like the profile of a noble Indian surveying the valley.