Blood of Heaven

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An actual sample of Christ's blood is found on an ancient scrap of cloth. Researchers investigating its DNA makeup find a convicted murderer on death row who is willing to allow them to convert his blood to that DNA makeup.

Mysterious blood has been discovered on the remains of an ancient religious artifact. Some believe it is the blood of Christ. And experiments with specific genes from the blood have ...
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Overview

An actual sample of Christ's blood is found on an ancient scrap of cloth. Researchers investigating its DNA makeup find a convicted murderer on death row who is willing to allow them to convert his blood to that DNA makeup.

Mysterious blood has been discovered on the remains of an ancient religious artifact. Some believe it is the blood of Christ. And experiments with specific genes from the blood have brought surprising findings. Now it's time to introduce those genes into a human.

Enter Michael Coleman: multiple killer, death-row resident . . . and, if he is willing, human guinea pig.

There are no promises. The effects may kill Coleman or completely destroy his sanity. He agrees to the experiment, with results so astonishing that the research must continue—but not in prison. Given a new identity and new employer, Katherine Lyon, Coleman reenters society. And that's when a plot far darker than science alone could construct begins to emerge.

A carefully researched science and psychological thriller, Blood of Heaven is a nonstop page turner that looks deep into the heart of man, examining the nature of good and evil, flesh versus spirit, and the ever-growing controversy over genetically determined behavior.

Author Biography: Bill Myers is the best-selling author of a number of books, including Eli, When the Last Leaf Falls, and the series McGee and Me! and is coauthor with Angela Hunt of Then Comes Marriage. He is a writer and director whose work has won over forty national and international awards and whose books and videos have sold nearly five million copies.

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Editorial Reviews

Romantic Times
Recommended. -- Romantic Times
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780310201199
  • Publisher: Zondervan
  • Publication date: 10/1/1996
  • Series: Fire of Heaven Trilogy
  • Pages: 336
  • Product dimensions: 5.48 (w) x 8.42 (h) x 0.92 (d)

Meet the Author

Bill Myers (www.Billmyers.com) is a bestselling author and award-winning writer/director whose work has won sixty national and international awards. His books and videos have sold eight million copies and include The Seeing, Eli, The Voice, My Life as, Forbidden Doors, and McGee and Me.

Bill Myers (www.Billmyers.com) is a bestselling author and award-winning writer/director whose work has won sixty national and international awards. His books and videos have sold eight million copies and include The Seeing, Eli, The Voice, My Life as, Forbidden Doors, and McGee and Me.

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Read an Excerpt

Blood of Heaven

Christ's DNA Has Been Discovered ... Now It's Time to Introduce It into a Human.
By Bill Myers

Zondervan

Copyright © 2003 Zondervan
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0310251109


Chapter One

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 waistband 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, Coleman 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 inde-cision, 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 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."

"An incident?"

"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 underdeveloped 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 U.S. 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.

A biotech 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.

(Continues...)



Excerpted from Blood of Heaven by Bill Myers Copyright © 2003 by Zondervan
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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Table of Contents

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First Chapter

'You come in here with some story about the blood of Christ, and you — '
'No one said we had the blood of — '
' — expect me to be your guinea pig?'
'Please, Mr. Coleman . . .' Murkoski swallowed. He appeared to be regrouping, trying to start again. He threw a nervous look at O'Brien, who sat beside him in one of the three fiberglass-molded chairs. They had been in the attorney/client room with Coleman for only thirty minutes, and the killer already had Murkoski on the ropes, looking like a fool.
And not just Murkoski. O'Brien had underestimated the man as well. They had carefully researched him, studied his psychological profile, medical workup, X rays, blood chemistry; they had even run covert EKGs, EEGs, PETs, and a CAT scan on him last summer. Clinically, they knew everything they could know about the man.
But, like most people, they had erred in assuming that multiple killers were ignorant animals with underdeveloped mental skills. After all, here he sat — ribs taped, nose broken, one eye still swollen shut. How could somebody like this possibly be an intellectual equal? Unfortunately, neither of them had taken into account an inmate's worst enemy: time. Next to sleeping, the best killers of time were reading, writing, and learning the skills of fellow prisoners. Whether it was the careful, step-by-step procedure for making a bomb, courtesy of Hector Garcia, or the intricate nuances of the Nebraska legal system, garnered from the books in the prison library, years of reading and listening had sharpened Michael Coleman's intellect to a razor's edge. Then, of course, there was the psychological gamesmanship he'd acquired in running the Row. All this to say, that in less than half an hour, he had reduced Murkoski, the boy genius, into an agitated knot of frustration.
The kid was flailing; O'Brien decided to step in. 'Mr. Coleman. Regarding the identity of the blood. We can only say that it is extremely old, and that — '
' 'A couple thousand years,' you said.'
'Yes, but — '
'So how were you able to keep it from disintegrating? And don't tell me you found it inside some mosquito embalmed in tree sap. I saw that movie, too.'
O'Brien took a long breath, but before he could answer, Murkoski jumped back into the fray. The kid never gave up. 'The blood was sealed in candle wax. A small section of vine with fragments of bloodstained thorns was encased in the substance. We suspect it was revered as some sort of religious artifact for centuries. Kept on an altar where dripping candles inadvertently covered and sealed a portion of it.'
'And what altar would that be?'
'Pardon me?'
'Where?'
'The southern deserts of Egypt. A monastery. The same one that claims to house St. Mark's bones.'
'How convenient.'
'No, it wasn't convenient. Not at all, Mr. Coleman.' Murkoski's voice rose, trembling. 'A lot of people risked their lives to bring it to us, and if you're not interested in helping, then we'll find somebody who is. In case you don't know, there are three thousand other inmates on death row.'
Coleman opened his hands and closed them quietly. 'Three thousand twenty-six. Perhaps you should contact one of them.'
Murkoski blinked. Coleman had just called his bluff. Of all the nerve. Murkoski appeared livid, but O'Brien was more impressed than angry. Coleman had no idea how many months they'd researched him, nor the time constraints they were now working under. And yet he'd uncovered Murkoski's vulnerable underside, pressed all his buttons, and taken control of the conversation — in record time. The man was far more clever than they had imagined.
O'Brien cleared his throat and tried again. 'Mr. Coleman — whoever's blood it is, and we can't say for certain, we do know that this individual had a genetic makeup slightly different from the rest of us.' He could feel Coleman's eyes searching him, looking for a crevice, for a weakness to take hold of. But he held Coleman's stare and kept his voice even as he went into the details. 'Human DNA molecules consist of over six billion base pairs. If strung out in a line, that's enough to stretch to the moon and back 16,000 times. In the ancient blood sample we have, most of those have not survived. But what portions we do have, those that have remained intact, have proven quite interesting.'
'How?'
This was the hard part. The part O'Brien rarely shared. But it was Coleman's body they were asking to experiment on, and it was certainly his right to know. 'As far as we've been able to tell, the blood contains all the usual maternal genes, but there are some fairly unusual genes we've discovered on the male side.'
Coleman raised an eyebrow, waiting for more.
Murkoski moved in. 'Certainly a man of your intelligence knows about X and Y chromosomes?' It was a patronizing question, and it was met only by Coleman's silence. Murkoski continued. 'Two X's together make a female, while an X and Y chromosome determines a male?'
More silence.
'The X chromosome carries up to five thousand genes, while the lowly Y chromosome, that which makes us men, contains only a little over a dozen. So far science has only determined the function of one of those dozen-plus genes, the one that tells the embryo to develop testes instead of ovaries. The remaining male genes appear totally useless.'
'Until now,' O'Brien corrected. 'We don't know how or why, but for some reason the portion of those Y genes that we were able to recover from the blood have a totally different makeup than any other male gene.'
'Meaning?'
Murkoski leapt to the punch line. 'Whoever's blood this was could not have had a human father.'
Silence settled over the room. O'Brien watched Coleman. Not a muscle moved. Murkoski, on the other hand, leaned back in his chair, obviously assured that the playing field had once again been tilted to his advantage.
The silence continued. O'Brien coughed slightly then resumed. 'Most of these new genes still appear useless, but one in particular has stood out. When it is introduced into other organisms — when we replicate it in the blood of say, mice, the creatures' behavioral patterns shift dramatically.'
Coleman's voice grew strangely quiet. 'You've done this with other animals?'
'Yes. Mice first, then more recently primates.'
'And?'
'The mortality rate has been higher than we'd like, but for those who have survived, the results have been staggering.'
Murkoski continued. 'They are no longer concerned with what's best for themselves. Instead of focusing on their own needs, they act in a manner that's best for their community.'
Coleman sat motionless. Although he didn't take his eyes off the men, it was obvious that wheels were silently turning.
Unable to endure any silence for too long, Murkoski continued. 'And now we're ready to take the next step. To introduce this blood into a human being.'
she stomped good and hard just in case he had missed her point. More training from Gary.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 12, 2003

    Blood of Heaven review

    The book Blood of Heaven in my opinion was a fairly good book. The storyline is strong, with good characters and a clear plot. The book had a lot of lulls, and it was never very suspenseful, even though it is a suspense/ficton novel. The book has a lot of twists, and the writing of the book was good. The idea of Christ's blood being found and injected into a death row inmate, and being able to watch the results from several different characters point's of view was a good idea. Bill Myers knows how to wrie a good book, but I'd only recommend this book to someone who was looking for a good, quick read.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 19, 2000

    What a Page Turner!

    What a great book. I received it in the late morning...and had it completely read that same day. This is a Christian book...but with a wonderful scientific angle. Bill Myers sure knows how to write a great story! Get this book!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 11, 2000

    Exciting and Shaking

    I read this book with my husband and have now told several other people to read it. It is not, Christian Fluff, it is book that actually deals with issues of today and now.

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