by Ted Dekker
“Helen!” He strode for her door and shoved it open.
At first he thought she was in the shower because the bed sat empty; a tangle of sheets half torn from the mattress. He grinned and tiptoed across to the bathroom. It too was empty. Steamy from a recent shower, but vacant. The kitchen, maybe.
Unless . . . The thought that she might have fled again first crossed his mind then. A flash of panic ripped up his spine. He grunted, whirled from the bathroom and lumbered across the floor to the third room in the small apartment. He grabbed the corner and spun onto the kitchen floor. It was empty!
Impossible! The witch had just checked!
Glenn turned back to the main room and fixed his gaze on the wastebasket where he’d thrown her pink dress, muttering obscenities. But the basket gaped empty. The dress was gone. He knew it then with certainty; Helen had fled.
Unless she really hadn’t fled but was hiding somewhere, to play. “Helen!” He ran back to the main room, screaming her name. “Helen! Listen you dope, this is not funny! You get yourself out here right now or I swear I’m gonna tan you good, you hear?”
The room’s silence seemed to thicken around him; he wheezed, pulling at the air as if it would run out at any minute. “Helen!” He ran to the double doors and yanked on the handles, only to discover they were locked as he’d instructed. Then how? He bounded for the drawer under the bar, pulled it open and grabbed at the contents.
But the key was missing! The wench had taken the key and fled!
A red cloud filled Glenn’s vision. He would kill her! The next time he laid hands on that puke he would skin her alive! Nobody . . . nobody did this and survived. His limbs were shaking and he grabbed the bar to steady himself.
Easy, boy, you’re gonna pop your cork here.
As if it had heard, his heart seemed to stutter. A small shaft of pain spiked across his chest and he clutched at his left breast. Easy, boy. He breathed steadily and tried to calm himself. The pain did not repeat.
Glenn staggered over to the wall phone, wiping the sweat from his brow. He punched the witch’s number. She picked up the interoffice line on the tenth ring.
“Mr. Lutz has gone home for the day. Please call back—”
“Beatrice, it’s me, you idiot! And what were you doing while our little pigeon was busy flying the coop?”
“She . . . she’s gone?” she stammered in response.
“Now you listen to me, you fat witch. You get me Buck now. Not in five minutes, not in three minutes, but now! You hear? And tell me you ran that reverse trace I told you to yesterday.”
“I have the address.”
“You’d better hope she shows up there. Now get over here and unlock this cursed door!” He slammed the phone into its cradle. This time he’d make sure things got done right, if he had to do them himself.
Glenn lifted his hands and covered his face. Helen, Helen. What have you done? The ungrateful dope would learn her lesson this time. He would not bear this nonsense any longer.
Could not.
THE STRANGE vine in Ivena’s greenhouse had grown wild, adding a foot to its length in each of the last two days. She’d continued thinking it might be a weed of some kind, overtaking the rosebush in Amazonian fashion. But today she knew that something had changed.
It was the smell that greeted her when she first cracked the door to the greenhouse. The poignant aroma of rose blossoms, but sweeter than any of her flowers had ever offered.
She pushed the door open and looked in. To the right, the tall orchids glistened yellow after their misting. Three rows of pink roses lined the opposite wall. The red tulips were nearing full maturity along the kitchen wall. But these all registered with the vagueness of a gray backdrop.
It was the bush at the center of the left wall that captured Ivena’s attention. Nadia’s rosebush, which was hardly a rosebush at all now. A single flower perched above the green vines. A flower the size of a grapefruit and Ivena knew that the sweet scent came from this one bloom.
She stepped into the greenhouse and walked halfway to the plant before stopping. “My, my.” The sight before her was an impossibility. She swallowed and searched her memory for a flower that resembled this one. A white flower with each petal edged in red, round like a rose but large like a trumpet lily.
“My, my.” Dear God, what have we here?
The aroma was strong enough to have been distilled from flowers, as in a perfume. Too strong to be natural. Ivena stepped lightly forward and bent over to view the vines beneath the flower. They hadn’t grown so much since yesterday, but they had yielded this stunning flower.
Ivena turned and hurried from the room, retrieved a thick book of horticulture from her living room and returned, flipping through the same pages she’d scanned three times already in as many days. She simply had to identify this fast-growing plant. And now that it had flowered it should not be so difficult. A flower was a plant’s most striking signature.
She’d run through the pages of roses without a match. She turned the last page of roses without finding any similar. So, then, a lily. Perhaps even an orchid, or a tulip, somehow cross-pollinated from her own, which was impossible. Nevertheless, she was out of her realm of knowledge.
It took her three quarters of an hour to exhaust the reference book. In the end she could find nothing that even remotely resembled the strange flower.
She closed the book and leaned on the frame that housed the plant. “What are you, my dear flower?” she whispered. She would have to bring Joey in for a look. He would offer an explanation. You didn’t become a master of botanical gardens without knowing your flowers.
Ivena lowered her nose to the petals. The aroma drew right into her lungs; she thought she could actually feel it. It was more than a scent—it was as if an aura was being emitted by the petals, something so sweet and delightful that she found herself not wanting to leave the room.
“My, my!”
She lingered for another ten minutes, mesmerized by the unlikely invasion into her world.
HELEN APPROACHED Ivena’s house from the north, sprinting down the sidewalk in the dress, oblivious to her appearance. She had to get in that house; it was all that mattered now. Ivena and Jan would know what to do; she had spent the last few hours convincing herself so.
The plan, if she could call it a plan, had proceeded like clockwork. Of course the plan was only an hour old and it would end in less than thirty seconds when she knocked on Ivena’s door. Beyond that she had no idea what to do. What she did know was that she had woken from her night of indulgence at 1:00 P.M. with the absolute knowledge that she had to leave Glenn’s pigsty.
She had felt the same way before, of course, and she’d left. But this time . . . maybe this time it was for good. Images of Jan and Ivena wandered about her mind, calling to her. It had been good, hadn’t it? Sitting like a real lady, eating sausage and kraut and discussing issues with such a real man. Such a sophisticated, kind man. And when had she ever spent a day with someone so wise as Ivena? Despite her ancient tastes, the woman had a mind books were written from.
Helen had spent four hours lying on the bed feeling sick and lonely and impossibly useless. She’d climbed out twice to throw up, once after allowing her mind to recall the way Glenn had slobbered over her during the night, and once from the drugs. She was in bed when the witch came to check her at five, and she decided to play dead. It was then, when Beatrice left, that she conceived of her plan. The trick was to throw herself together, get out using his key, and put as much distance as possible between herself and the Palace before the pig came back. She figured she would have an hour; Glenn wouldn’t have sent Beatrice if he was on the way.
Helen had hit the street and boarded a bus before the possibility that Ivena might not welcome her with open arms even crossed her mind. Ivena did not strike her as the kind who would extend a second chance so easily. On the other hand, she and Jan were the kind who would forgive and forget. Or at least forgive.
She
cast a quick look back down the street one last time, saw no cars, and ran up to the door. Breathing as steadily as possible, she lifted a trembling hand to the doorbell and pushed it. The bell’s faint chime sounded beyond the door. She smoothed her dress—the dress Ivena had insisted she buy—and waited, wanting very badly to step into the warm safety of this house.
The door swung in and Ivena stood there, wearing a light blue dress. “Hello, Helen,” she said as though nothing at all was strange about her reappearance. She might have continued with a question, like, Did you get the milk I asked for? Instead she stepped aside. “Come in, dear.”
Helen moved past Ivena.
“Come into the kitchen; I’m making supper.” Ivena strolled ahead. “You can help me, if you like.”
“Ivena. I’m sorry. I just—”
“Nonsense, Helen. We can speak of it later. You’re not hurt?”
Helen shook her head. “No. I’m fine.”
“Well you do have a nasty bruise on your cheek. From this Glenn character, yes?”
“Yes.”
“We should put some cream on it.”
Helen looked at the older lady and felt a pleasure she had rarely known, an unconditional acceptance of sorts. It swept through her chest and clamped down on her heart for a moment. She couldn’t help the dumb drop of her jaw. “So then, you aren’t angry?”
“I was, child. But I released it last night. You were hoping for anger?”
“No! Of course not! I just . . . I’m not used to being . . .” She let her voice trail off, at a loss for words.
“You’re not used to being loved? Yes, I know. Now, why don’t you see how the stew is doing while I make a quick phone call.”
“Sure.” Ivena simply welcomed her back as if she had just run down to the corner for some milk. “You like?” Helen asked, curtseying in the dress.
Ivena grinned. “You wore the best for your little trip, I see. Yes, I like.”
Helen let Ivena make her phone call while she peeked under the pot of simmering stew. The smell brought a rumble to her belly; she had not eaten since leaving yesterday. Ivena was speaking in excited tones now. To Jan! Meaning what? Meaning they were celebrating the return of their little project? Or meaning that Jan disapproved of Ivena’s— “Helen?” Ivena called.
“Yes.”
“Did you use the phone yesterday?”
To call Glenn; she’d forgotten. “Yes,” she said.
There was another moment of conversation before Ivena hung up and bustled into the kitchen, turning off the burner and placing the warm pot in the refrigerator. “Come along, dear. We must leave,” Ivena said.
“Leave? Why?”
“Jan says that it’s too risky. If Glenn is as powerful as you say, he may have traced your call. Do you know, would he do such a thing?”
Helen swallowed. “Yes.”
“And there would be a problem if he came looking for you?”
“Yes. Good night, yes!” Helen spun around, panicked by the thought. It was true! He was probably on his way at this moment. “We have to get out, Ivena! If he finds me here . . .”
Ivena was already pushing her to the front. “Get in my car quickly.” She snatched a ring of keys from the wall and gently nudged Helen out the door. They stopped and peered both ways before running across the lawn and piling into an old gray Volkswagen Bug with rusted quarter panels. Ivena didn’t so much pile as climb and Helen urged her on. “Hurry, Ivena!”
“I am hurrying! I’m not a spring chicken.”
Ivena fired the car up and pulled out with a squeal. “Thankfully I drive faster than I run,” she said and roared down the street.
Helen chuckled, relieved. “Pedal to the metal, mama. So where to?”
“To Janjic’s,” Ivena said. “We will go to Janjic’s mansion.”
GLENN SAT in the town car’s rear seat, fussing and fuming, screaming long strings of obscenities while Buck steered the car with his one good arm and used the other as a guide. Sparks hadn’t been so lucky; it would be a month before the man would have use of his arm. But Buck’s bullet had done nothing more than slice into his shoulder. A few inches lower and it would’ve drilled a hole through his heart; the fact hadn’t been lost on him.
“Up ahead, sir,” Buck said.
“Where?” Glenn leaned forward. The light was already failing.
“Should be one of these houses up on the left.”
A car peeled from a driveway ahead; an old gray Bug. Some lowlife teenager showing off his new ride. They slowed and followed the numbers. 115 Benedict, Beatrice had said. 111 . . . 113 . . . 115. “Stop!” It was a small house surrounded by a hundred bushes blooming with white flowers. And if he was right, there would be one flower in that house ripe for the picking. Or squashing, depending on how it all came off.
“Isn’t this the driveway that Bug came from?” Buck said.
Bug? The gray Bug! Glenn spun to the street. “Yes!” It couldn’t be far. Had it turned left or right at the end? “Move, you fool! Don’t just sit here, get after it!”
They squealed into pursuit and caught it thirty seconds later, cruising west. Glenn leaned over the seat, breathing heavy beside Buck and peering through the dusk. He recognized her head, immediately—that light blond head he had held just last night. If he could reach her now he would take a handful of that hair and shake her like a rag doll, he thought. And he would do that soon enough now, because he had found her! He’d found the tramp. Sweet, sweet Helen. It now made little difference whether she intended to hide back at the house of flowers or at the Bug’s current destination. This time he would take care of things right. It would have to be a plan that lasted. One that took her completely off balance and thoroughly persuaded her to stay in her cage. Or better still, a plan that lured her back of her own choosing. Because she loved him. Yes, she did love him. Here, kitty, kitty.
It occurred to Glenn that his mouth hung open over the leather seat before him. A string of drool had fallen to the back of the seat. He swallowed and sat straight.
“Back off!” he snapped. “Back off and follow that car until it stops. You lose it and I swear I’ll put a bullet through your other arm.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Q: “What does this kind of love feel like?”
A: “The love of the priest? Imagine mad desperation. Imagine a deep yearning that burns in your throat. Imagine begging to be with your lover in death. King Solomon characterized the feeling as a sickness in his songs. Shakespeare envisioned it as Romeo’s death. But Christ . . . Christ actually died for his love. And the priest followed him gladly.”
Q: “And why do so few Christians associate love with death?”
A: “Just because they’re Christians does not mean they are necessarily followers of Christ. Followers of Christ would characterize love this way because Christ himself did.”
Jan Jovic, author of bestseller The Dance of the Dead
Interview with New York Times, 1960
JAN PACED the entryway and padded across the polished rust tile in stocking feet, feeling screwed into a knot without knowing exactly why. Ivena was on her way, bringing Helen with her. So the woman had come back after all. Ivena was right; they should show her Christian love. Christ had dined with the vagrants of his day; he had befriended the most unseemly characters; he’d even encouraged the prostitute to wash his feet.
So then, why was Jan reluctant to embrace Helen?
Father, what is happening here? You touch me with this woman; you give me this mad sorrow for her, but for what reason? Unless it was not you but me, conjuring those feelings in my own mind.
Perhaps it wasn’t reluctance he felt at all, but fear. Fear for what the woman did to him both times he’d seen her. Karen’s face flashed through his mind, smiling warmly. Even she had concluded that he ought to show friendship to Helen, although the conclusion had not come so easily.
Jan stopped his pacing and breathed deeply through his nose. The strong odor of vanilla
from the three lit candles filled his nostrils. He’d turned the lights down, a habit ingrained during Sarajevo’s siege. Turn the lights down and stay low. Of course, this wasn’t Sarajevo and there was no siege. But this was Helen, and he had not imagined those two men chasing her in the park. She was in more danger than she let on.
The doorbell chimed and he started. Here already!
Jan stepped to the door and pulled it open. Ivena bustled in with Helen in tow. “Are you quite sure this is necessary, Janjic?” Ivena asked.
Jan closed the door, turned the deadbolt, and faced them. “Maybe not, but we can’t take the chance of being wrong.” He turned to Helen, who stood in the shadows. “Hello, Helen. So what do you think? Is this necessary?”
She stepped forward into the yellow light; the petite woman with short blond hair and deep blue eyes, dressed in a wrinkled pink dress. It was hard to imagine that she was the cause of all this commotion. She was just a junkie. She wore no shoes and her feet were dirty—that gave her away. On closer inspection so did the round bruise on her left cheek. She’d been hit very hard there. Jan’s heart was suddenly thumping in his chest.
“It could be,” she said.
“And what kind of danger are we talking about?” He swallowed, acutely aware that she was affecting him already; afraid that she might drown him with his own compassion. Father, please.
“I don’t know . . . anything. You saw the men that chased us.”
“Then we should call the police.”
“No.”
“Why not? This man has abused you. You’re in danger.”
“No. No police.”
Ivena turned for the living room. “Standing here will do us no good. Come in, Helen, and tell us what has happened.”
Helen kept her eyes on Jan for a moment before turning and following Ivena. Jan watched them go. Ivena had indeed adopted Helen, he thought. They sat in a triangle—Helen on the couch, Ivena on the love seat, and Jan in his customary leather armchair—and for a moment no one spoke. Then Helen twisted her hands together, pulled them close as if to hold herself, and smiled. “Boy, it smells good in here. Is that vanilla, Jan?”
