by Ted Dekker
“So,” he finally said. “Now that I’ve saved your neck, is there any particular place you would like to go?”
The brick buildings had evolved into a heavily treed suburban neighborhood and Helen studied the homes. “He’s got eyes everywhere.”
“Glenn?”
She nodded.
“Then perhaps my friend can help until you decide what to do.”
Helen looked at him. “Is he as kind as you?”
“He is a she. And yes, she is very kind.”
“Girlfriend?”
“No.” Jan smiled. “Heavens no. We’re just very close.”
“Then I think that would be okay.”
“Good.” Ivena would know what to do. Jan would drop Helen off at Ivena’s house and ask her to set the girl on a course that removed her from any immediate danger. Perhaps call the authorities if Helen would allow it. He breathed deep. It was a thing to think about, this strange encounter. Something to think about, indeed.
CHAPTER TEN
Q: “You’ve been criticized by some for your attention to detail in the suffering of the martyrs. They say it’s not decent for a Christian writer to dwell on such pain. Do you cross the line between realistic description and voyeurism?”
A: “Of course not. Realism allows us to participate in one’s suffering and voyeurism takes pleasure from it. The two are like white and black. But many Christians would shut the suffering of the saints from their minds; it’s not what Christ had in mind. He knew his disciples would want to forget, so he asked them to drink his blood and eat his body in remembrance. The writer of Hebrews tells us to imagine we are there, with those in suffering. I ask you, why is the church so eager to run from it?”
Jan Jovic, author of bestseller The Dance of the Dead
Interview with Walter Cronkite, 1961
THE TINY green shoot at the base of Nadia’s dying rosebush had grown two inches overnight. Two inches of growth was too much for one night. Unless her memory of the previous morning was a bit fuzzy and it had already been two inches then.
Ivena bent over the blackened plant and blinked at the strange sight. The small shoot curled slightly upward, like a relaxed finger. The texture of its skin was different from any rose stem she knew of. Not as dark either.
She gently stroked the base of the shoot. By all appearances it was a graft, which could only mean one thing: She had grafted this shoot into Nadia’s rosebush.
And then promptly forgotten it.
It was possible, wasn’t it? She could’ve been so distressed over the prospect of Nadia’s bush dying that her mind had wiped out a whole sequence of events. It could’ve been a week ago, for that matter, and judging by the growth it had been a week ago. At least.
The doorbell chimed and Ivena jerked up, startled. It was a delivery, perhaps. The bulbs she’d ordered last week. She pulled off her gloves, wiped her hands on her apron and wound her way through the small house to the front door.
She peeked through the viewer and saw two forms on the porch, one of which was . . . Janjic! What a pleasant surprise! She opened the door.
“Janjic! Come in, come in!” She leaned forward and allowed him to kiss each cheek. He was dressed in a well-worn beige shirt without a collar, Bosnian style, and his cologne smelled spicy when he bent for her kiss.
“Ivena, I would like you to meet Helen.”
The dark lines around Janjic’s eyes wrinkled with a nervous smile. He ran a hand through his hair. Ivena looked at the young woman beside Janjic. Any friend of Jan’s would be a friend of hers, but this one was odd to be sure. For starters, the blue-eyed girl looked as though someone had drained the blood from her face. She smiled nicely enough, but even her lips were pale. And her hair hadn’t been washed in several days at the least. The T-shirt and jeans made her look very young. Gracious, what was Janjic up to?
“Hello, my dear. My name is Ivena. Come in. Please, come in. And what of Steve?” she asked, looking to the Cadillac. “Will he join us?”
“No, I can’t stay long,” Janjic said, smoothing his brow.
They entered the house and followed her to the small dining room. She had bread in the oven and its warm scent wafted through the house. Why Americans purchased their bread when they could make it easily enough Ivena could not appreciate. Bread was to smell and to feel; it was to make, not just eat.
“Would you like a drink, Janjic?”
“I’m not sure—”
“Of course you would. We must have a drink together while you tell me of your new friend.” She turned and winked at Jan.
“Yes. Yes, all right.” Jan pulled a chair from the table, and Ivena could see that his cheeks had reddened slightly. Helen did not respond. Her eyes darted nervously about the house. She looked like a wild bird newly caged. A dove, maybe, with her soft white skin, but skittish and uncomfortable just the same.
“Sit, my dear. It’s okay. I’ll get us some tea.”
Five minutes later they sat around a small blue pot and three porcelain cups of steaming tea, sipping the hot liquid. But really, only Jan and Ivena sipped. The girl picked hers up once and brought it to her lips, but she replaced it on the saucer without drinking. Ivena smiled politely and waited, wondering at the presence of this strange woman sitting between them.
Jan looked as though he wasn’t quite sure how to begin so Ivena helped him out. “Just tell me, Jan. What would you like me to know about Helen?”
“Yes. Well, we have a problem here. Helen’s in some trouble. She needs help.”
Ivena looked at Helen and smiled. “But of course you do, my dear. I could see this much the moment I opened the door.”
“That bad, huh?”
Ivena nodded. “I’m afraid so. What is the problem, child? You’re hurting, I see.”
Helen blinked.
“No offense, dear. But you look as though you just crawled from a sewer,” Ivena said.
The skin around Jan’s hazel eyes wrinkled with an apologetic smile. “You’ll have to forgive Ivena, she doesn’t really like to mince words.”
“And would you rather I minced words, Janjic?”
“Of course not. But Helen might prefer some discretion.”
Ivena tilted her head. “I may have passed my fiftieth year, but honestly, it hasn’t yet affected my sight.” She faced Helen. “And my sight tells me that the last thing your dear Helen needs is the mincing of words. She might very well need a bath and some hot food, but she’s seen enough of wordsmithing, I’m sure.”
Helen watched them with wide eyes, turning from one to the other.
“What do you say, dear?” Ivena asked.
“Wha . . . About what?”
“Would you like me to speak directly or mince my words?”
Helen glanced at Jan, then gathered herself. “Speak directly.”
“Yes. I thought as much. So where did my famous author find you?”
“Actually, Jan may have saved my life,” Helen said.
Ivena raised her eyebrows. “Saved your life? You did this, Janjic?”
“She was being chased in the park and I had the Cadillac. It was the least I could do.”
“So now you have brought her here for safekeeping, is that it?”
“It wasn’t my idea, I swear,” Helen said quickly. “He could’ve dropped me off on a corner. Really.”
Ivena looked at the girl carefully. For all the dirt and grime hovering about her, she possessed a refreshing look in her face. A certain lack of presumption. “Well, I would certainly agree with him, my dear. I can see that the corner is no place for you. He was right in bringing you here, I think. Did Janjic tell you how I came to be his friend?”
“No. He said that you were as kind as he.”
“Indeed? And do you find him a kind man?”
“Sure. Yes, I do,” Helen said, looking at Jan, who smiled awkwardly.
“Then I suppose that there’s hope for everyone,” Ivena said. “That includes you, my dear.”
“You’re saying I need help? Like I said, the corner would’ve been fine. I’m not askin’ for your help here.”
“Maybe not. But you would like it, wouldn’t you?”
Helen held Ivena’s gaze for a moment and then shifted her eyes and shrugged. “I can manage.”
“Manage what?”
“Manage like I always managed.”
Ivena lifted an eyebrow, but she held her tongue. Perhaps this little ragged junkie had been led to them. Perhaps Helen played a part.
“What do you think, Janjic?”
“I don’t know,” he answered.
Helen gazed from one to the other.
Ivena nodded. “And you want me to keep her?”
“Maybe.”
“Wait a minute,” Helen said, glancing between them. “I don’t think—”
“Well, she certainly can’t stay at the office,” Ivena interrupted. “Karen would have none of it, I can promise you that.”
“Karen?” Helen asked.
“Janjic’s agent,” Ivena said with a small grin. “His fiancée.”
Helen looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Have you considered the possibility that I might not want to stay here?”
“And you would go where?” Ivena asked. “Back to whoever put that bruise on your neck?”
Helen blinked. “No.” She obviously hadn’t expected that.
“Then where else?”
“I don’t know. But I can’t stay here! You people have no idea what my life’s like.”
“You don’t think so? Actually, it seems pretty plain. You’ve never understood love and so in your search for it you’ve managed to mix with the wrong people. You have abused your body with drugs and unbecoming behavior and now you are fleeing that life. And perhaps most importantly you are now sitting between two souls who understand suffering.”
Helen stared at Ivena as if she had just reached a hand across the table and slapped her. Ivena spoke softly. “You are fleeing, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know,” Helen said.
“You despise your past, don’t you? In moments of clarity, Helen, you hate what has happened to you and now you would do anything to get away, wouldn’t you? You would risk your own life to escape this monster breathing down your back.”
A heavy blanket seemed to fall over them. Their breathing thickened. It was her simple way with the truth. Yes, of course she’d managed to offend some in her time. But truth-seekers always welcomed her direct approach as they might welcome a spring of water in the hot desert. And she certainly didn’t have the stomach to handle the truth with kid gloves; it seemed rather profane when held next to her own schooling in Bosnia. When stood up next to Nadia’s death.
“You have been badly wounded, dear child. I see it in your eyes. I feel it in my spirit. It’s something we share, you and I. We’ve both had our hearts torn out.”
A mist covered Helen’s eyes. She blinked, obviously uncomfortable, perhaps panicked at the emotion sweeping through her.
A knot rose to Ivena’s throat and she swallowed. In that moment she knew that a child screamed to be free before her. Deep behind those blue eyes wailed a soul, confused and terrified.
She looked over to Janjic. He was staring at Helen, his mouth slightly agape. He too had seen something within her. His Adam’s apple bobbed. Ivena turned back to the girl. A tear snaked down her right cheek.
“You’ll be safe with me, Helen.”
Helen looked quickly about the room, scrambling for control now. She wasn’t used to showing her emotions, that much was obvious. She cleared her throat.
“It’s okay. You may cry here,” Ivena said.
It proved to be the last straw. Helen lowered her head into her hands, stifling a soft sob. Ivena rested a hand on her shoulder and rubbed it gently. “Shhhh . . . It’s okay, dear.”
Helen cried and shook her head. Veins stood out on her neck and she struggled to breathe.
“Jesus, lover of our souls, love this child,” Ivena whispered. She let her own emotions roll with the moment. This sweet, sweet sorrow that grew out of the pit of her stomach and flowered in her throat.
She looked at Janjic.
His eyes stared wide in shock.
It occurred to Ivena that he was not necessarily seeing or feeling what she was seeing and feeling. Ivena inquired with raised brows. What is it, Janjic? What is the matter?
Janjic swallowed and cleared his throat. He pushed his chair back and rose unsteadily, gathering himself. “Maybe I should leave you two,” he said. “I have a meeting with Karen that I should get to.” He nodded at Ivena. “I will call you later.”
Helen did not lift her head. Ivena continued to rub her shoulders, wondering at Janjic’s odd behavior. Or perhaps she was reading more into it than was warranted. Men often felt uncomfortable around weeping women. But Janjic was not usually such a man.
“Thank you, Janjic. We will be fine.”
He took one more look at Helen and then walked out.
Ivena heard the front door open, then close. She let Janjic’s oddity leave her for the moment and addressed the young woman bent over her table. “There’s nothing to fear, dear child. Hmmm?” She ran a finger along Helen’s cheek. “We will talk. I will tell you some things that will make you feel better, I promise you. Then you may tell me whatever you like.”
Helen sniffed.
A fleeting image of her dead rosebush with its strange new graft flew through Ivena’s mind but she dismissed it quickly. Perhaps she would show Helen her garden later.
GLENN LUTZ paced the black tile floor, running his fingers along his stubble, feeling as though his stomach had been cinched to a knot. Waiting for any news at all. He should call up Charlie and have him put his police cruisers on the street looking for her, that’s what he should do. But he’d never asked the detective and his cronies to go that far before, not for a girl. Charlie would never understand. Nobody would understand—not this.
But men had died for love before. Glenn thought he understood why Shakespeare had written Romeo and Juliet now. He felt the same kind of love. This feeling that nothing in the world mattered if he couldn’t take possession of the love he wanted.
And when he did haul Helen in he would have to teach her some gratitude. Yes, she needed to understand how destructive this crazy game of hers really was. If what Beatrice said about his business interests suffering was true—and of course it was—then it was really Helen’s doing, not his. It was her doing because she had possessed him. And if she had not possessed him, then Satan himself had possessed him.
A rap sounded. Glenn jerked his head toward the double doors. “Come.” He took a deep breath, gripped his hands behind his back, and spread his legs.
Buck and Sparks walked in. They were already back—alone. Which could only mean one thing. Glenn swallowed an urge to scream at them, now, before they spoke—he knew what they would say already. Fresh beads of sweat budded on his forehead.
The men stepped lightly on the tile, though walking lightly was not an ordinary thing for men weighing over two hundred and fifty pounds. They reminded him of two buffaloes dressed in ridiculous black suits, tiptoeing through a bed of tulips, and again he suppressed his rising fury. Of course they were nothing of the kind, and he knew it well. He employed only the best, and these two were that and more. Either one of these two could crush him with a few solid blows, and he was not a small man. Still, he would think of them as he liked. It was how he warded off intimidation, and it worked well.
They came to a stop across the room and faced him, still wearing their sunglasses.
“Get those ridiculous things off your faces. You look like two schoolchildren caught smoking in the can.”
They obliged him, but they still didn’t offer a reason for their unsolicited appearance. For a few moments Glenn just stared at them, thinking he really should go over there and bang their heads together. He turned his head slowly to the side, keeping his eyes on them. He cleared his throat and
spat on the floor. A glob of spit splattered on the tile. Still they said nothing.
“You’re afraid to tell me that she’s gone, is that it?” Of course that was it and their silence sent heat up his neck. “You’re standing there petrified because you’ve allowed a single girl, weighing no more than one of your legs, to get away from you, is that it?” He squinted at them.
But they still didn’t speak.
“Speak!” Glenn yelled. “Say something!”
“Yes,” Buck said.
“Yes? Yes?”
A thought rudely interrupted his intended barrage—She’s gone, Glenn.
He held his tongue, breathing in shallow pulls. They’d let her go and for that they would have to pay. But what did that mean? That means that Helen’s gone. Gone! A streak of panic ripped up his spine. A deep terror that brought a quiver to his hands.
It was followed immediately by another fear that these two pigs had seen his dread.
“Where?” he snapped.
“In the park, sir. A man took her in his car.”
Now the heat mushroomed in his skull. He dropped his hands to his sides. A man? He could not steady the tremor in his voice. “What do you mean, a man? What man?”
“We don’t know, sir.”
“He drove a white Cadillac,” Sparks interjected.
“You’re telling me that she left in another man’s car?”
“Yes.”
Glenn fought a wave of nausea. The room drifted out of focus for a brief moment. “And you followed them? Tell me you followed them.”
Sparks glanced at Buck. It was all Glenn needed to know. “But you did get a license plate number?” His voice sounded desperate, but for the moment he no longer cared.
“Well, sir, we tried, but it all happened very quickly.”
“You tried?” Glenn whined mockingly, frowning deep. “You tried!” he screamed. He was slipping over a black cliff in his mind—he realized that even as he lashed out. “I didn’t pay you to try. I paid you to bring her back! Instead she’s escaped you three times in two days. And you’ve got the gall to walk into my office and tell me you didn’t even have the sense to take down a license number?”
