Ivena locked the door and stepped past her rosebushes onto the sidewalk. A black car rolled by slowly, headed in the same direction as she, toward the park three blocks west. A man looked absently at her from the side window. Thunder rumbled on the far horizon. The breeze swept through a row of huge leafy spruce trees across the street, like a green wave. Yes, it would rain soon but she wanted to walk for at least a few minutes.
Her mind buzzed with the awareness that he was near. That God was near. In fact, not since the days following Nadia's death so many years ago had God been so close. And when God was near, the human heart did not fare so well, she thought. It tended to turn to mush.
Ivena looked back to her small house with its greenhouse hidden behind the tall white fence. He was certainly in there, crawling all over his jungle of love. She stopped and faced the house, tempted to return to the garden. To the flowers and the aroma that could no longer be contained by the glass walls. The green vines had taken over not only the garden but her own heart, she thought. To step into the room was like entering the inner court, the bosom of God. She'd smelled the flowers a block from home once and feared someone had broken in. She'd run all the way only to find them swaying in the light breeze that sometimes moved through the room. She never had found its source.
Ivena turned and continued on her walk; she needed the exercise.
She could not be gone from the garden too long without being overcome by a yearning to return. And she had noticed something else. She was remembering things very clearly for some reason. Remembering the expression on her daughter's face when that beast Karadzic had pulled the trigger. Remembering the even drawing of Nadia's breath. And the slight smile. “I heard the laughter,” Nadia had said.
“Oh, Father, show me your laughter,” she mumbled quietly, walking with her arms wrapped around herself now.
Boom!
Ivena flinched. It was thunder, but it might as well have been the bullet to Nadia's head.
She sighed. “You know that I love you, Father. It still does not seem right that you've taken Nadia before me. Why must I wait?”
One day she would join her daughter and that day could not possibly come quickly enough. But it would not be today. For one thing, her body was showing no signs of slowing down. It might be another fifty years before natural causes took her. For another thing, she had a part to play in this drama about her. This passion play. She knew that like she knew that blood flowed through her veins, unseen but surging with life.
Nadia had heard the laughter of heaven, and the priest had
laughed
the laughter of heaven, right there on the cross, begging to go. Now Janjic had heard the heavens weeping.
And then Christ had planted his love for Helen in Janjic's heart.
Once Ivena understood that, she'd known that she was in a passion play. They were walking through Solomon's Song. Solomon's garden, more likely. A sprinkling of love from heaven, for the benefit of the mortals who wandered about, oblivious to the desperate longing of their Creator.
“And what of me, Father? When will I hear so clearly?”
Nothing but distant rumbles answered her. She reached the park's entrance and decided to walk once around before returning home, hopefully before the rain.
This drama unfolding behind man's eyes was a great thing. Much greater than the building of grand cities or towering pyramids. Greater than the winning of wars. It had a feel of far loftier purpose. As if the destiny of a million souls hung in the balance of these few lives. Of Janjic's story,
The Dance of the Dead
. Father Micheal, Nadia, Ivena, Janjic, Helen, Glenn Lutzâthey were the main players here on earth. And the masses lived in ignorance of the struggle, while their own future was being decided.
The how and why were lost on Ivena. Only this vivid sense of purpose. But one thing she did know: This passion play was not over. Janjic may make his movie, but the story was not yet complete. And now she was being called to play a larger role. She did have the benefit of the garden, but as astounding as that was, she yearned for more. For a glimpse of heaven itself.
“Show me, Father. You cannot show me? You showed Nadia and Father Micheal and Janjic. Now show me. Don't leave me out here in the wind by myself.”
The park was vacant except for her, she saw. That car she'd seen drive by sat parked near the outbuildings to her right, but she saw no people. It was a warm wind that blew through her hair, carrying the smell of freshly mowed grass. It reminded her of the smells from the garden in which Janjic and Helen were wed. A smile bunched her cheeks at the memory. Janjic had invited some of his closest friends and all of his employees to a dinner party, explained his heart and then presented his fiancée.
They were a conservative lot for the most part, and they had gawked at dear Helen as if she were from a newly discovered culture. But Betty, the motherly one, had given a rousing speech in the defense of love. It had quelled their doubts, she thought. At least some of their doubts. The rest had slowly faded in the weeks following. It was not every day that a man as respectable as Janjic reversed his engagement for another woman. Especially after only two weeks.
The ceremony had been simple and stunning. The setting was idyllic, yes, with all those flowers and perfectly manicured bushes, but it was the sight of Janjic and Helen together that turned the event into an unforgettable day. Her dear Serb simply could not keep his eyes from his bride. He stumbled through the day grinning from ear to ear, responding slowly when spoken to, terribly shy and thoroughly smitten. It was enough to keep the entire party in a perpetual blush. If only they knew the truthâthat this display was nothing less than a clumsy mortal's attempt to contain a few cells from God's heart in his own.
Their love hadn't stopped there, of course. The two were inseparable. Yet, regardless of Janjic's love, he was still human. As human as ever and sometimes more, Ivena thought.
And Helen . . . Helen was categorically human.
A shadow shifted to her left and Ivena turned. Two men approached her, large men dressed in black cotton pants, looking past her at something. They had appeared rather suddenly, she thought. A moment ago the park was empty, and now these two strode toward her, now less then ten feet off. How was that possible? She continued to walk and turned to her right to see what had caught their attention. But there was nothing.
Ivena had just started to turn back when a hand clamped around her face. They had come right to her! “Hey!” Her cry was stifled by a piece of cloth. The man was suffocating her!
Oh, dear God, these men are attacking me!
“Hey!” she cried again, both arms flailing. Her voice was completely muffled by the hand this time, but she did manage to hit something soft and she heard a grunt.
A sharp metallic smell stung her nostrils, right through her sinuses. They were drugging her! Ivena's mind began to swim. Thunder rolled again, louder this time, unless that was how it felt to be drugged. Black clouds obscured her vision. She screamed at them then, but she knew that nothing was coming out. It was a wail in her own dim world.
Am I dying? Am I dying?
she asked.
But Ivena did not know, because her question stopped in a pool of darkness. She slumped in her attacker's arms.
THE RAIN crashed down in sheets, bringing twilight an hour early to Atlanta. Helen stood by the sliding door to the backyard and watched droplets dance furiously on the pool's surface. Behind her the house lay in dim shadows, silent except for the dull roar of rain. She should really turn on the lights, but she lacked the motivation to move just now.
Jan had left for New York. He would be up to his eyeballs in meetings right now, being important. Being the star.
I need you, Jan. I need . . .
You need what, Helen? Jan? Or the feelings he will bring you? Call Ivena.
She ground her teeth. The urges had started at noon, a muddled mix of desire and horror stuffed in her chest. She wasn't physically addicted, she knew that because she'd broken her addiction in those first four weeks of abstinence, with the help of a drug counselor, as Jan called him. Still, her mind was craving; her
heart
seemed hooked. She didn't understand how all of that worked, but she did know that her mind was hooked. She couldn't break the mad desperation that raged through her veins. Physical dependence would've been easier, she thought. At least with it, she would have an excuse people might understand.
But this craving was maybe worse. It was through her whole being.
Yet it was more than just the drug. Helen wanted the Palace. That horrible, terrible, evil place. That wonderful place. It was this realization that made her cringe.
You should call Ivena, Helen
.
No! Helen spun from the door. She made her decision in that moment, and the shackles of her desperation fell away. She ran for the phone and snatched it from the wall. Now it was only desire that flooded her mind, and it felt good. God, she had missed that feeling. No, not God . . . She sealed the thought from her mind.
The witch answered the phone. “Beatrice. It's Helen.”
Glenn's assistant drew a breath. “Yes?”
“Can you send a car?”
“The wench wants to return, is that it? And what if Glenn's not here?”
“Is he?”
Silence. The woman obviously wanted to say no. But her silence had answered already. “You don't know what you're messing with, honey.”
“Shut up, you old witch. Just get me a car. And don't take all day.”
She heard a few mumbled expletives. The phone went dead.
Helen hung up and retreated to the window, biting at her nails. Her heart thumped in anticipation now. The rain pelted in sheets, covering the concrete in a thick mist of its own splatter. It was like a shield, this dark rain. What happened now would be gone when the sun came out.
She ran about the house, turning on lights with trembling hands. She changed quickly into jeans and a yellow T-shirt. When the car pulled up fifteen minutes later, Helen bolted from the house, yanked the rear car door open, and plowed in. The driver was Buck. She leaned back in the safety of the dark cabin and breathed deep. The rich smell of cigarette smoke filled the car.
“Got a cigarette I can bum, Buck?”
He handed a pack of Camels back without answering. She lit one and drew on the tobacco. Rain thundered on the roof. The smoke filled her lungs and she smiled. She was going home, she thought. Just for a visit, but she was definitely going home.
They parked in the Tower's garage ten minutes later and rode the private elevator. It clanged to a stop at the top floor, and Helen stepped in the causeway that led to the Palace. “Go on in,” Buck said. “He's waiting for you.”
He was waiting? Of course he was waiting! Glenn would be waiting on his knees. And Jan . . . She snuffed out the thought.
She crept down the empty hall, expecting to see the witch at any time. But Beatrice wasn't here to greet her. Helen stopped at the entry door and tried to calm herself. But her pulse was having none of it.
This is insane, Helen. This is death.
It was the last thought before the door swung in under the pressure of her hand.
Helen entered the Palace.
Music greeted her. A soft rhythmic saxophone; the sound of Bert Kampfort, Glenn's choice of sensual tunes. The lights glowed in hues of red and yellow. It was hard to believe that she'd been here just last weekend and still the atmosphere was crashing in on her like a long-lost wave of pleasure. The dance floor reflected slowly turning pinpoints of light from the overhead mirrored ball.
“Helen.”
Glenn! She spun toward the voice. He stood by the couch under the lion's head.
“Hi, Glenn.” Helen stepped onto the floor. He wore his white polyester slacks, barefoot on the thick carpet. A yellow Hawaiian shirt hung loosely on his torso. His sweaty lips were peeled back in a wide grin, revealing his crooked teeth. This part of himâthis dirty smelly partâhad not stayed in her memory so well, but it came raging to the surface now. She needed the drugs. They would dull the edges.
Helen stopped three paces from him and saw for the first time the wet streaks on his cheeks. He had been crying. And it was not a grin but a grimace that twisted his face. His legs were shaking.
“Glenn? What's wrong? Are you okay?”
He sat heavily to the couch, crying openly now.
“Why are you crying?”
“You're killing me, Helen,” he growled through clenched teeth. And then like a lost boy, “I can't stand it when you're gone. I miss you so much.”
He was sick, she thought, and she wasn't sure whether to feel sorrow or revulsion for him. Large sweat stains darkened the pits of his shirt and she smelled the stench from his underarms. “I'm sorry, Glenn . . .”
He grunted like a hog and shot out of the seat in a blur of rage. His fist slammed into her solar plexus and she folded over his arm. Pain speared through her stomach. His fist crashed down on the crown of her head and she fell flat to the floor.
“You are killing me!” he screamed. “Don't you know that, Helen? You're killing me here!”
She curled into a ball, trying desperately to breathe.
“Helen? Do you hear me? Answer me.” He knelt over her, breathing hard. “Are you okay, dear?” He leaned close, so that his breath washed over her face. She caught a snatch of air and moaned.
A hot wet tongue slid up her cheek. He was licking her. Licking her face. She squelched a sudden urge to turn and bite his tongue off. It would be her death.
“Helen, my dear, I missed you so much.”
She could breathe now and she feigned a giggle. “Glenn, dear. Give me some dope. Please.”
“You want some dope, honey?” he asked, as if she were his baby.
“Yes.”
“Beg.”
“Please, Glenn.” She kissed him.