The Heaven Trilogy (86 page)

Glenn glanced at the clock in his office. It was now 5:00 P.M. He hadn't been home in four days. It was a new vow he'd fallen into: He would only go home to shower on days after seeing Helen. The rest of the time he could conduct business on his terms, caking on the deodorants if a meeting necessitated, but otherwise staying pure until her return. It occurred to him in moments of clarity that he had become a demented man over time; that any man on the street who knew how Glenn Lutz lived his life would go white as a sheet. But they were not him, were they? They didn't possess the power he did, the self-control. They did not have his past with Helen. And so they could go drown themselves in their holy water, for all he cared. There was a time to conquer the world and there was a time to conquer a woman. He'd had his fill of conquering the world; it was a woman who begged to be conquered now. Truth be told, a far nobler task.

It was time to fetch Helen. He wouldn't break into the preacher's house, of course. Breaking and entering involved neighbors and alarms and physical evidence that proved risky. It was always better to snatch a person outside of their home.

Glenn stood, wiped the sweat from his face and flung his fingers out, dotting his desk with droplets of moisture. This time . . . this time he would have to deposit a greater reservoir of motivation in her. If she expected him to sit and wait in death, then she would have to give a little of her life to sustain him. He smiled at the thought. Clever. Very clever.

A knock sounded on the door and he started. That would be either Buck or Beatrice. No one else would dare, even if they could get to the top floor. “Come.”

Beatrice walked in. She'd stacked her hair a foot high and it looked absurd, exaggerating her sloping forehead. She was clearly a witch.

“What?” he asked.

“I have a surprise for you.” Her teeth seemed large for her mouth, but that too could've been an illusion cast by the hairdo.

“What?”

“She's in the Palace.”

“She . . .” The meaning of her words hit him then and he lost his voice.

“Helen's in the Palace,” she said.

“Helen?” His voice came out scratchy. Impossible! He spun to the door that led across to the West Tower. “She . . . Helen?”

The witch refused to smile. “She's waiting.”

The relief washed over him like a wave of warm water. Immediately his entire body began to tremble.
Helen!
His flower had returned!

Glenn was breathing heavily already. His face drained and his lips quivered. He broke from his stance and lumbered for the door that would lead him to her.

HELEN SAT on the edge of the dance floor in the Palace, fidgeting with her hands, terrified for having come. After nearly five days without him she'd come back, powerless to stop herself, it seemed. And powerless because her legs were trembling and her body was convulsing from withdrawals. It made her stomach float and her mouth salivate. If she wasn't physically addicted, then she was addicted in a worse way, from the soul up.

But she had to return by five-thirty. Yes, she had to get back to Jan, she couldn't go crazy here—it would ruin her. She'd spent the day a nervous wreck, fighting desperately for control until she finally decided that one hit would not hurt. One dip back into the waters. She was, after all, still a fish, and fish could not stay up on the shore forever. One taste of . . . this.

That priest Ivena had sent her to had talked about stability in terms of loyalty and trust. But what could he possibly know of her?
This
was her loyalty and trust; the drugs. And Glenn. The beast. Beauty and the Beast.

The door to her right slammed open and she leaped to her feet. He stood there with his arms spread like a gunslinger, panting and sweating.

Helen stood. “Glenn.” She should go now, she thought. Or she should run to him and throw her arms around him. Helen smiled, partly with seduction, partly in amusement at herself. “I missed you, Glenn.”

He dropped to his knees and started to cry. “Oh, I missed you too, baby. I missed you so much.”

She felt an odd blend of empathy and disgust, but it did not stop her. She went for him, and when she reached him, knelt down and kissed his forehead. He smelled of sick flesh, but she was growing accustomed to his peculiarities.

Then Helen put her arms around his huge frame and together they toppled over backward.

CHAPTER TWENTY

“The love that I saw in the priest and in Nadia was a sentiment that destroyed desire for anything less than union with Christ. If you say you love Christ, but are not driven to throw away everything for that pearl of great price, you deceive yourself. This is what Christ said.”

The Dance of the Dead, 1959

JAN THREW safety to the wind and roared toward Ivena's house. Put a man who'd relied too heavily on a chauffeur for most of his driving career behind the wheel and stir his heart into panic and you'd better warn the public. A car blared its horn to his right, and Jan punched the accelerator. The Cadillac shot through the intersection safely. He'd just run a stop sign. He braked hard and heard a squeal; those were
his
tires!
Settle down, Janjic!
Ivena's was just around the corner.

It was jealousy that raged through his blood, he thought. And he really had no business courting jealousy. Especially over Helen. Not so soon. Not ever! Goodness, listen to him.

But there it was: jealousy. An irrational fear of loss that had sent him into this tailspin. Because Helen was missing. Helen was gone.

It had been a good day, too. The conference call with Karen could have been awkward, but Roald's ever-present booming voice had preempted any opportunity for private talk. Karen announced her news: In light of the movie deal, their publisher, Bracken and Holmes, had agreed to publish another edition of
The Dance of the Dead,
with updates that tied into the movie
.
And they were underwriting a twenty-city tour! What does this mean? Jan wanted to know. “It means, dear Jan, more money, I'd say,” Roald had boomed. Karen then told them that the publisher had arranged a dinner with Delmont Pictures Saturday evening. They wanted Jan there. Where? New York, of course. New York again? Yes, New York again. It would be huge, better than anything she could have wished for.

Jan had joined them in their enthusiasm and then hung up, feeling stretched at the seams. His mind had become a rope, pulled at by two women. Karen the lovely one, deserving of his love; Helen the unseemly one, suffocating him with her spells of passion. The craziness was enough to send any man to a psychiatrist's couch, he thought.

But that had been the least of it.

Jan had rushed home at five-thirty, found Helen gone and a note from Ivena on his fridge. She would be back in a couple of hours. But there was no word of Helen. He quickly showered while he waited for her return.

He'd dressed in the same black suit he'd worn on their last outing, but with a yellow tie this time. An hour had ticked by. Then two, while he paced the floor. And then he knew that she would not return, and his world began to crumble. He'd called Ivena, swallowing back the tears so that she couldn't hear.

Helen was missing. Helen was gone.

He brought the Cadillac to a halt in front of her house and climbed out. He still wore the black suit, less the tie. His shiny leather shoes crunched up Ivena's sidewalk, loud in the night. He would have to tell her everything—he could no longer walk around carrying these absurd emotions alone.

She greeted him quietly. “Hello, Jan. Please come in.”

He stepped past her, sat on the sofa, crossed his legs and lowered his head into his hands. A strong scent of flowers filled the room—perfume or potpourri perhaps. It was nearly suffocating.

“Ivena—”

“Why don't I get us some tea, Janjic. Make yourself comfortable.”

Ivena walked straight for the kitchen and returned with two cups of steaming tea. She put his on the lamp table at his elbow and sat in her favorite chair.

He looked white in the face and he ignored his tea. “Thank you. Ivena, there is something that I have to tell you. I really—”

“So, Janjic, I was not wrong about the
pitter
?”

He looked up, surprised. “No, you weren't.” He stood and paced three steps and then returned to his chair. “I don't know what's happening to me. This crazy idea for Helen to stay in my house wasn't the best.”

“You're upset, I can see. But don't take your frustration out on me. And if you must know, I approve.”

“You approve?”

“I do approve. I didn't at first, of course, when I first saw you looking at her, I thought you must be mad, being engaged to Karen as you are.”

He stared at her, unbelieving.

“But no, you weren't mad. You were simply falling for a woman and doing so rather hard.” She sipped her tea and set the saucer on the table. “So now you are in love with Helen.”

“I can't believe you're talking this way. It's not that simple, Ivena. I'm not just
in love
with Helen. How can I suddenly be
in love
with a woman? Much less this . . . this . . .”

“This improper woman? This tramp?”

“How could this possibly happen to me? I'm engaged to Karen!”

“I've been asking myself that same question, Janjic. For three days now I've asked it. But I believe it's beyond you. Not entirely, of course. But it is more than your making. You care for Karen, but do you love her?”

“Yes! Yes, I love Karen!”

“But do you love her the way you love Helen?”

“I'm not even sure I
do
love Helen. And what do you mean ‘the way'? Now there are different ways to love?” He immediately lifted a hand. “Don't bother answering. Yes, of course there are. But I'm no judge between them.”

Ivena sat quietly.

“You should be outraged,” he said, and truly
he
felt outraged. Outraged at his confusion and angry at Helen's disappearance. “And how do you suppose that I love Helen?”

“With passion, Janjic. She takes your breath away, no?”

The words sounded absurd, spoken out loud like that. It was the first time the matter had been presented so plainly. But there was no doubting the matter. “Yes. Yes, that's right. And what kind of love is that?”

Ivena smiled. “Well, she's quite a stunning woman, under all the dirt. It's not so confusing really.”

He just looked at her for a minute. “I'm saying things that I shouldn't be saying, and you are counseling me as if this were a high school crush.”

Ivena didn't respond.

“She had an impossible grip on my heart from the first, you know. I didn't look for it,” Jan said.

Ivena only nodded, as if to say,
I know, Janjic. I know.

“And there's something else you should know. I took her out. Before I brought her here on Sunday night we went to the Orchid for dinner. I didn't ask, mind you. She asked
me!
She'd laid out my suit—this suit.” He jabbed his breast, suddenly grinning at the memory. “It was incredible. I could hardly eat.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“She told me,” Ivena said with a slight smile.

“She did? She told you that I could hardly eat?”

Ivena nodded. “And she said that you excused yourself to the rest room to gather yourself because you were—how did she put it—coming apart at the seams, I think.”

“She told you
that?”

“It's true?” she asked with a raised brow.

“Maybe, but I can't believe she would tell you that. She picked that up?”

“She's a woman. You're a man. The love between you carries its own language. Love is impossible to hide, Janjic. And Helen is far more intelligent than you seem to realize.”

“You're right, she is.” Jan sat back and cradled his face with both hands. “So you know everything then. You know that I'm madly in love with her.” He said it and it felt good to say. He lowered his hands and leaned forward. “That I've never loved another creature with so much passion. That I can hardly think of anything but her. That every time I look into her eyes, my knees grow weak and my tongue feels thick. I can't breathe properly when she's in the room, Ivena.” He suddenly felt that way now, he thought. “My heart aches and fills my chest. I am—”

“I think I get the point, my young Serb.”

“And now she's gone back to him.”

Ivena lifted her porcelain cup and drank slowly, as if tasting her tea for the first time. She set the cup in her lap. “Yes. And it's not the first time.”

“What do you mean?”

“She went back the night you left for New York. Only for a few hours, but I could see it in her eyes.”

What was she saying? “You could see
what
in her eyes?”

“I could
smell
it. And she held her head in pain the next morning. I'm not an idiot, Janjic.”

Rage mushroomed in Jan's skull. He stood from his chair. “I swear if I ever . . . I'll kill that devil!”

“Sit, Janjic.”

“He's beating her, isn't he?” His face flushed with blood. “He's abusing her! How could she go back to him!”

“Sit, Janjic. Please sit down. I am not the enemy.”

He sat and buried his head in his hands. It was madness. It was more than madness now. It was horror. “And who
is
the enemy?” he asked.

“The thief who comes to steal and destroy,” she said.

Yes, of course. He knew that, but it made nothing easier.

“Do you think Father Micheal's love came out of his own heart?” Ivena asked.

“No.”

“Of course you don't, Janjic. You've told the whole world the same. Do you forget your own words?”

Jan looked at her. “No, I don't forget my own words. We're speaking of Helen here, not the priest. This isn't about fighting for our lives against some madman named Karadzic. This is about ridiculous emotions that are driving
me
insane!”