“We will be free to love each other.” He glanced at Helen.
Jan stated it simply and firmly, but they did not swallow it so quickly or easily. They went back and forth for another full hour, the more outspoken employees speaking their minds repeatedly, some arguing that Jan was right, others questioning what they saw as a preposterous suggestion. How could a whole ministry just shut down because of one deal gone bad?
In the end it was Lorna, biding her time for most of the debate, who brought the room to stillness once again. She simply outlined the financial state of the ministry. Without the movie deal, they would be lucky to get out of their lease without legal action. They were flat broke. Payroll was out of the questionâeven the one coming this Friday. And Jan? Jan would have to give up his house and his car, not to mention possibly being forced into bankruptcy. They might all be losing their jobs, but Jan was losing his life.
That silenced them all.
They stared at Jan with sad eyes now, finally understanding the full purpose of the meeting. For five long years they had given their lives to
The Dance of the Dead
. And now the dance was over.
They cried and they hugged and in the end they smiled. Because Jan could not hide the glint in his eyes. He was sure that they finally did believe him: It was indeed God who had placed this new tune in his heart. So he would dance a new danceâa dance of life, a dance of love.
And now that he thought about it, Jan could hardly stand to remain on American soil a second longer. It was time to go home.
GLENN SAT cross-legged like a brooding beast on top of his desk. A dull pain throbbed relentlessly under the sling that held his right arm. A single white bandage sufficed for the finger on his left hand, but at times its pain overshadowed that of his shoulder.
They had scoured the northern outskirts of Atlanta for nearly two days without finding a sign of Helen following her disappearance. She'd come to him, and that had been a slice of heaven. But she had also left, and then lost the tail he'd put on her. Worse, the preacher had not followed through with his promise to meet Charlie. Charlie had tipped his hand, and Glenn had nearly taken his head off telling him so.
But they couldn't hide forever. Now it would be better to kill them all. One way or another he would at least kill the preacher and the bag of bones. And the next time he laid hands on Helen, he would maim her. At least.
The door suddenly cracked and Beatrice stepped in. “Sir, I have some news.”
“Well, give it to me. You don't have to be so theatrical,” he growled.
She ignored him and made her way to the guest chair. Only when she'd seated herself and smoothed out her black skirt did she speak. “They've left the country,” she said.
Glenn sat, speechless. What was the wench telling him? They had fled to Canada? Or Mexico?
“The preacher has signed ownership of everything over to a manager for liquidation and he's taken the women out of the country.”
A panic washed over his back.
He's taken her? He's taken her for good?
Glenn shoved himself off his desk, hardly aware of the pain that shot through his bones. His phone crashed to the tile. “He can't do that! He can't do that, can he? Where? When?”
Beatrice shrank back. “To Yugoslavia. Yesterday.”
“Yugoslavia? Bosnia?” Glenn strode quickly to his left and then doubled back to his right. The preacher had taken Helen back to Bosnia! It was impossible! “He can't just leave! He owes me over a million dollars. Don't they know that?” He was having difficulty breathing, and he stopped to pull air into his lungs. “Doesn't that imbecile Charlie have any control at all?” He swore.
Think. Think!
“We have to stop them.”
“I'm not even sure Detective Wilks knows it's happened. I received a call from the man in charge of the liquidation. He told me not to bother suing; he's already been instructed to funnel all proceeds from the sale to satisfy your debt.”
“But she went with him?”
“Relax, Glenn. It's not the end of the world. You stand to lose a lot of money on the movie deal. That should concern you more.”
He whirled to her. “And you know nothing, you witch!” He spit savagely to his right. “I'm losing her!”
She did not respond.
Glenn suddenly pulled up. “They are in Bosnia?”
“That's what Iâ”
“Shut up! Maybe it's better this way. I'll have them killed in Bosnia! They can't touch me!”
But that was not true.
Nothing
could be better this way!
Beatrice sat back. “Killed in Bosnia? All of them?”
“If I can't have her, I have no choice but to kill her. You know that.”
A thin smile crossed her mouth. She stared at him over her horn-rimmed glasses. “Who do you know in Eastern Europe?” she asked.
Glenn closed his eyes and desperately tried to settle himself. How could this have possibly happened? He groaned and exhaled a lungful of stale breath. He walked to the desk and ran his hand along its high-gloss finish. He would see her again, he swore it to himself. Dead or alive he would see her again.
His hand came to rest beside a notepad. He lifted it. The preacher's book stared up at him, its red cover mocking him in full-throated laughter.
The Dance of the Dead
. He picked it up. To think that this maniac had actually made a fortune from his tale of death. They were not so different, he and the preacher. And the other pig, the one who had butcheredâ
Glenn froze. A chill snaked down his spine. The notion exploded in his mind like a white-hot strobe and he stood with a limp mouth.
“Glenn?”
“I want you to do something, Beatrice,” he said softly and turned to face her. “I want you to find someone for me. Someone in Bosnia.”
“Who? I have no idea how to find anyone in Bosnia,” she said.
Glenn smiled as the idea set in. “You will, Beatrice. You will find him. And you will learn about him in this book.” He held it toward her with a shaking hand.
“Who?” she asked again, taking the book.
“Karadzic,” Glenn said. “His name is Karadzic.”
“Love is as strong as death,
its jealousy unyielding as the grave.
It burns like blazing fire,
like a mighty flame.
Many waters cannot quench love;
rivers cannot wash it away.
If one were to give all the wealth of his house for love it would be utterly scorned.”
S
ONG OF
S
ONGS 8:6â7 NIV
Sarajevo, Bosnia
Four Weeks Later
IVENA STOOD at the graves where they'd buried Father Micheal's and Nadia's bodies. She stared up at the pitted concrete cross. It was her third visit in as many weeks since their return. Already the vine she'd brought from Joey's garden curled around the graves and wound up the lower half of the cross in a delicate embrace. The large white flowers seemed totally natural now, reacting as she had expected to the rain and the sun that spurred their growth.
The small village had faded over the years, now hardly more than a collection of vagrants who eked out an existence off the land and lived in the crumbling houses. The church's blackened spire stretched against the sky, a burned-out backdrop to the overgrown graveyard she stood in. Most towns had managed to recover after the war's atrocities. Most.
Some of the others who had been there that day still visited regularly, but they could not keep the grounds up. The locals couldn't care for the grave of an old dead priest, no matter how horrible the tale of his death. The country was simply littered with a hundred thousand stories as terrible.
Ivena sank to her knees and gripped the foot-high grass in both hands. The dirt felt cool under her knees.
Father, are you taking care of my beloved? Is she keeping you company?
She looked up at the cross, still stained with the priest's faded blood. Their bones were under the dirt, but they themselves were laughing up there somewhere. Ivena let the images from that day string through her mind now, and they obliged with utmost clarity. The priest's face beaten to a bloody pulp by Janjic; her Nadia standing and staring into the commander's face without a trace of fear; the marching of women under their crosses; Karadzic's furious snarl; the boom of his gun; the priest hanging from this cross, begging to die. His laughter echoing through the cemetery and then his death.
A tear crawled down Ivena's cheek. “I miss you, Nadia. I miss you so much, my darling.” She sniffed and closed her eyes.
Why did you take her and not me, Father? Why? I would go now. What kind of cruelty is it to leave me here while my daughter's allowed this frolic of hers? I beg you to take me.
She'd nearly found her way there a month ago, in those Twin Towers of Lutz's. But it had not been God's timing, so it seemed. She wasn't finished in this desert yet. Still, she could not escape the hope that her time would come soon. If nothing else, that she would die of old age.
Now she lived with her brother on the very edge of Sarajevo, not so far away from her little village, really. She'd lost everything in Atlanta, but the quick departure felt more like a cleansing than a loss. In her mind it was more good riddance. Janjic and Helen had taken an apartment downtown where he had sequestered himself to write. Ivena saw them every few days now, when she went to visit. By all appearances God still had a firm grip on Janjic's heart. It seemed that the extraordinary play of God's wasn't over yet, and knowing it made Ivena long for heaven even more.
Ivena sat on her knees and began to hum. Americans did not understand death, she thought. They were not eager to follow the footsteps of Christ. In reality, joining Christ was a terrifying notion for most churchgoing Americans. Oh, they would quickly snatch up the trinkets he tossed down from heavenâthe cars and the houses and such gifts. But talk to them about joining Christ beyond the grave and you would be rewarded by a furrowed brow or blank eyes at best.
Even Helen, after her incredible encounter with Christ's love, was still confused. Even after being on the receiving end of Jan's love she still did not know how to return that love for the simple reason that she wasn't yet willing to die to her own longings.
Love is found in death. Love is found only in death.
They had come to Bosnia and all seemed well enough; Helen had not gone back to her ways. But she was not a transformed woman either. Not really. She had made it about as far at the average believer, Ivena supposed. But you would think that after such an overt display of love, she would be clambering for Jan. When else in history had Christ actually placed his love for the church in a man? When else had a woman been the recipient of that love in such a unique way?
Ivena sighed and opened her eyes. “Well, I will join you, Father. Call me home now and I will come gladly.” She smiled. “I love you, Christ. I dearly love you. I love you more than life.”
The sun was dipping in the west when she stood. “Good-bye, Nadia. I will visit next week.”
She walked for her brother's old black Peugeot. The town lay in a dusky silence found only in the country. A dog was barking incessantly across the village. At a squawking chicken by the sound of it. “Ah, my Bosnia, it is good to be home.”
Ivena climbed into the car, shut the door and reached for the key. The faint odor of petrol filled the cab. Half the cars in Bosnia were either parked on their axles or patched with twine and wire. Blasco's was no exception. At least it ran. Though with gas or whatever caused this terrible smell leaking it was a wonder it didn't blow skyâ
A hand suddenly clamped over her mouth and yanked her head back into the seat. Her fingernail caught on the key ring and tore. She cried out but the sound was muffled by the rag the perpetrator was trying to jam past her teeth. She instinctively bit down hard and heard a grunt of pain.
The strong hand shoved the rag into her mouth and she felt she might gag. Another hand gripped her hair and pulled her head backward. She stared at the bare metal ceiling and screamed from her throat. Blackness covered her eyesâa blindfold, strapped tightly to her skull.
Hands shoved her onto her belly and then bound her wrists behind her back. It was only then, blinded and tied facedown, that Ivena stopped reacting and scrambled for some reason.
Her kidnapper had climbed over the seat and now he fired the car. The Peugeot lurched forward.
Suddenly the sentiments that had preoccupied her mind over the past hour were gone. Another took their place. The desire to live. The desperate hope that nothing would harm her. She cried out to God again, but this time the words were different.
Save me, my Father
, she prayed.
Don't let me die, I beg you!
HELEN WALKED over the concrete slab in bare feet, holding a cup of tea close to her chest. She approached the square window in the tenth-story flat and peered out to the sprawling city of Sarajevo, dimmed by the late-day overcast. Behind her, the living room clacked with Jan's incessant typing.
Clack, clack, clack . . .
Square houses bordered thin streets in the Novi Grad district in which she and Jan now lived. The frequent rains made the trees green enough, but the cold that accompanied them could hardly be in greater contrast to Atlanta's smothering heat. And it was not the only contrast. Her whole existence here was one giant contrast.
For starters, the flat. Janjic's uncle Ermin had offered the place to them for a pittance, a thousand dollars for the year, paid up-front of course. Jan had brought the ten thousand dollars in cash with them and given three thousand to Ivena. The remaining seven thousand was enough to live comfortably in Sarajevo for a year, he'd said. They had spent three thousand already, most of it on the rent and outfitting the top-floor apartment with amenities that helped Helen feel more at home. A toaster oven, stuffed furniture, a real refrigerator, rugs to warm the floors. A typewriter, of course. Jan was a writer once again; they had to have the typewriter. By Sarajevo standards they had done well with the place.