The Heaven Trilogy by Ted Dekker

as the handlers . But it was them, the processors , who really made banking work—everyone knew that.
    Kent breathed deeply once, walked straight down the hall, and opened the door to his little corner of the world.
    Betty Smythe was there at her desk on the left—bleached, poofy-white hair and all. She had a tube of bright red lipstick cocked and ready to apply, one inch from pursed lips already too red for Kent’s taste. Immediately her face went a shade whiter, and she blinked. Which was how he supposed some people might respond to a waking of the dead. Only it was not he who had died.
    â€œHi, Betty,” he said.
    â€œKent!” Now she collected herself, jerked that red stick to her lap, and squirmed on the seat. “You’re back.”
    â€œYes, Betty. I’m back.”
    He’d always thought that Borst’s decision to hire Betty had been motivated by the size of her bra rather than the size of her brain, and looking at her now he was sure of it. He glanced about the reception area. Beyond the blue armchairs the hall sat vacant. All four oak office doors were shut. A fleeting picture of the black nameplates flashed through his mind. Borst, Anthony, Brice, Quinn. It had been the same for three years now.
    â€œSo how are things going?” he asked absently.
    â€œFine,” she said, fiddling with the latch on her purse. “I don’t know what to say about your wife. I’m so sorry.”
    â€œDon’t say anything.” She had not mentioned AFPS yet. He turned and smiled at her. “Really, I’ll be fine.” So much for the blaring reception.
    Kent walked to the first door on the left and entered his office. The overhead fluorescent stuttered white over his black workstation, tidy as he had left it. He closed the door and set the briefcase down.
    Well now, here he was. At home once again. Three computer monitors rested on the corner station, each displaying the same exotic-fish screensaver in unison. His high-back leather chair butted up to the keyboard.
    Kent reached for his neck and loosened his collar. He slid into his chair and touched the mouse. The screens jumped to life as one. A large three-dimensional insignia reading “Advanced Funds Processing System” rolled out on the screen like a carpet inviting entry. “Welcome to the bank,” the last of it read. Indeed, with this little baby, an operator had access to the bank in ways many a criminal would only dream of through fitful sleep.
    He dropped into his chair, punched in his customary access code, and dropped a finger on the ENTER key. The screen went black for a moment. Then large yellow letters suddenly popped up: ACCESS DENIED.
    He grunted and keyed in the password again, sure he had not forgotten his own son’s name: SPENCER.
    ACCESS DENIED, the screen read again. Borst must have changed the code in his absence. Of course! They had integrated the program already. In doing so, they would need to set a primary access password, which would automatically delete the old.
    Kent hesitated at the door to his office, thinking again that he had been in the office for a full five minutes now and not one word of congratulations. Borst’s closed door was directly across the hall. He should walk in and let the man bring him up to speed. Or perhaps he should make an appearance in Todd’s or Mary’s office first. The two junior programmers would know what was up.
    At the last moment he decided to check in on Will Thompson in the loan department instead. Will would know the buzz, and he was disconnected.
    He found Will at his desk, one floor up, bent over his monitor, adjusting the focus.
    â€œNeed any help with that?” Kent asked, grinning.
    Will looked up, surprised. “Kent! You’re back!” He extended a quick hand. “When did you get back? Gee, I’m sorry.”
    â€œTen minutes ago.” Kent reached down and twisted a knob behind the monitor. The