He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “Today, it seems that love has been born in me as well. I who saw the martyr’s death, I who saw the love of Nadia am myself learning their love. We all are, I suppose. But to feel the love of the Father, it is something that will undo a man.”
Jan fell silent for a few moments, judging their response. But they just stared at him with round eyes, eager for him to continue.
“I tell you this to help you understand what I will say now. I am taking my bride back to Bosnia.”
The room suddenly felt evacuated of air.
“I won’t be returning to America. Ivena, Helen, and myself are leaving for Bosnia to live. In Sarajevo.”
They sat like mannequins, unmoving. Perhaps they didn’t understand what he was saying. “But . . . but what about the movie?” John asked.
“The movie is gone.”
Now a gasp ran through the gathering. “What? Why? That’s impossible!”
“No, I’m afraid it’s not impossible, my friends. You see, I was given a choice. The producer doesn’t think my marriage . . . benefits the movie.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” John said. “What does your marriage have to do with the movie?”
Choose your words, Janjic
. “Nothing. Nothing at all. And yet they disagree. They seem to think that my character is in question.” He put his hand behind Helen’s head and she blushed.
“I would like to wring their necks personally!” It was Betty again.
Jan did not laugh. “Believe me, I understand the sentiment.”
“So they can do that?” John demanded. “They can insist that?”
“They can and they have.”
Lorna spoke the question undoubtedly on all of their minds. “And what does that mean for the ministry?”
“I’m afraid we’ll have to return what we’ve been paid to the movie studio. It means that we have no choice but to close the ministry.”
The cry of outrage came immediately from every corner of the room. “No! They can’t do that! Never!” Even Karen looked stunned. Yet surely she knew this was coming.
“Can’t we fight this?” Steve demanded. “Can’t we get a lawyer or something?”
Jan looked at the wiry old man. The ministry had become his life. Helen lowered her head as if she was beginning to understand the price being paid for her.
“We could, but I am told that technically the producers are within their rights. It comes down to a choice that I must make. And I’ve made that choice. The ministry must close its doors. I’m sorry. The time has come for me to return to my homeland.”
“What about Roald?” John asked. “Can’t he do something?”
“Actually, I’m afraid even the council is deserting us this time. Not everyone sees the church in the same way, and now they see it differently than I do.”
“I never did like that stuffed shirt!” John said.
“Please understand me, my friends. I don’t want to leave you. But it’s the call God has put in my heart. My story isn’t finished, as Ivena has insisted for some time now, and the next chapter does not occur on American soil.”
“And what will happen in Bosnia?”
“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 question—even 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 dance—a 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 I—”
“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 butchered—
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 8:6–7 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 heaven—the 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.”