The Heaven Trilogy by Ted Dekker Page B

parked in the driveway, was indeed very real.
    It made him sad again, because in this world his mom was dead.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Week Four
    KENT PUNCHED the numbers again, hoping that this time, Borst would be in his office. In the last two weeks he’d left three messages for his supervisor, and the man had yet to return a call. He had called the first week and left word with Betty that he would be taking two or three weeks off to collect himself, put things in order.
    “Of course,” she’d said. “I’ll pass it right on. Do what you need to do. I’m sure everyone will understand. Our hearts are with you.”
    “Thank you. And could you ask Borst to give me a call?”
    “Sure.”
    That had been seventeen days ago. Goodness, it had not been he who’d passed on. The least they could do was return a call. His life was in enough disarray. It had taken all of two weeks for him to take the first steps back to reality. Back to the realization that aside from Spencer, and actually because of Spencer, his career was now everything.
    And now Borst was avoiding him.
    The phone rang three times before Betty’s voice crackled in his ear. “Nipon-bank Information Systems; this is Betty.”
    “Betty. Hi. This is—”
    “Kent! How are you?” She sounded normal enough. Her reaction came as a small wave of relief.
    “Okay, actually. I’m doing better. Listen, I really need to speak with Borst. I know he must be busy, but do you think you could patch me through for a minute?” It was a lie, of course. He knew nothing of the kind. Borst had not had a busy day in his life.
    She hesitated. “Uh, sure, Kent. Let me see if he’s in.” A butterfly took flight in his belly at her tone. Borst was always in . If not in his office then in the john, reading some Grisham novel. Let me check? Who did they think he was?
    Betty came back on. “Just a minute, Kent. Let me put you through.”
    The line broke into Barry Manilow’s “I Write the Songs.” The music brought a cloud to Kent’s heart. That was one of the problems with mourning; it came and left without regard for circumstances.
    “Kent!” Borst’s voice sounded forced. Kent imagined the man sitting behind that big screen in his office, overdressed in that navy three-piece he liked to wear. “How are you doing, Kent?”
    “Fine.”
    “Good. We’ve been worried about you. I’m sorry about what happened. I had a niece who died once.” Borst did not elaborate, possibly because he’d suddenly realized how stupid that sounded. Don’t forget your pet ferret, Monkey Brains. It died too, didn’t it? Must’ve been devastating!
    “Yeah. It’s tough,” Kent said. “I’m sorry for taking so much time off here, but—”
    “No, it’s fine. Really. You take all the time you need. Not that we don’t need you here, but we understand.” He was speaking quickly. “Believe me, it’s no problem.”
    “Thanks, but I think the best thing now is to get back to work. I’ll be in on Monday.” It was Friday. That gave him a weekend to set his mind in the right frame. “Besides, there are a few clarifications I need to make on the funds processing system.” That should spark a comment on the Miami conference. Surely the reception to AFPS had been favorable. Why was Borst not slobbering about it?
    “Sure,” his supervisor said, rather anemically. “Yeah, Monday’s good.”
    Kent could not contain his curiosity any longer. “So, what did they say to AFPS?” he asked as nonchalantly as possible.
    “Oh, they loved it. It was a real smash, Kent. I wish you could have been there. It’s everything we hoped for. Maybe more.”
    Of course! He’d known it all along. “So did the board make any mention of it?” Kent asked.
    “Yes. Yes, they did. In fact, they’ve already implemented it. System wide.”
    The revelation brought Kent to his feet. His chair clattered to the floor behind him. “What? How? I should have been told. There are some things —”
    “We didn’t think