“Why is that?” Rearden asked curiously.
Uncertain how to explain it, I lamely shook my head. “His work is dangerous.”
“I see,” Rearden nodded. I sensed a faint tone of condescension. “Dangerous how?”
The eyes of my mentor were studying me as I would study a client. It’s no wonder that he practices his psychotherapy from behind, where a client can’t see the concern on his face.
“This all seems like a dream,” I said. “So much has happened.” Rearden’s expression was still observant. Start with William Greenhame an inner voice suggested. As I elaborated on Greenhame’s claims to immortality, his breaking into my home and his ranting about my writing, the old doctor’s nodding and squinting seemed to tell me that he was following the story with his usual feigned sympathy. At the mention of my writing Rearden tilted his head. He was not aware of my interest in stories and poetry. However, the further I went, the less he nodded. He lifted his gin and tonic to his lips more often as I labored on in the telling. It wasn’t until I arrived at Basil’s portrait that he stopped me with, “Wait a moment.”
I paused, wanting to carry on the story. He held up one hand and said again, “Wait a moment.”
I shook my head, “Marcus, I know this sounds—”
“Stressful?” he added.
“No, not stressful, I—”
“Loche,” his smile was laced with mock sincerity, “You’ve been under a lot of stress since you returned from the lake. This tragic situation with Mrs. Winship is not easy to bear.” He chose his next words carefully. “Maybe you should take some time off.”
It hit me as if my body was thrown down a deep well into cutting dark waters. His voice trailed off and mingled with the countless conversations that surrounded us in the busy pub. Watching him speak I could only catch phrases, suicide, relax, take some time to think things through, it will pass. . . Dr. Marcus Rearden didn’t believe me. Nutty as a shit-house rat.
He motioned to the barman for another drink and suddenly asked, “How long has Mrs. Winship been in your care?” It was asked with authority.
I shook my head with a puzzled expression. The gesture said, You know we can’t discuss that.
Acknowledging me with a nod he added, “Come now, Loche. It’s me you’re talking to. I can help you.” His tone rose slightly, as did the speed of his speech, “I’m not saying that these things that you’re telling me aren’t true, though we must consider another way—”
“Marc,” I said looking at my watch and rising to my feet, “I’ve got to go.”
Rearden stopped speaking and glanced up at me.
“Thanks for the drink,” I said as genuinely as I could, “I sure needed it today. I’ll be in touch.”
The old man nodded, but kept silent, holding my eyes in his. I turned and walked away feeling angered and betrayed. Still, I was strangely relieved that I didn’t elaborate upon the aspect of gods and their frighteningly real relationship with Basil and me. At the door I looked back to see my friend Marcus dialing a number on his cell phone. Worry had darkened his eyes.
Rearden leans over and takes a quick look at the page. “Yes,” he says turning back to the road, “all of those things he writes there about Basil and William Greenhame, none of that happened. He was certainly acting strange that afternoon, and I was concerned about him. However, those things didn’t come up. Everything else is accurate. But his recently found brother, and this Greenhame, supposed immortal client—no.”
“I don’t understand,” Julia says.
“I don’t either. I have my theories. After I read the book this morning, I figured that his written additions to our conversation were things that he had wanted to tell me, but somehow couldn’t. A kind of subconscious plea. If Loche was having a mental break, such a withholding seems plausible. Writing what he was really thinking—for me to find later—is some token of hope that he knows he is in need of help, and that he trusts me. That’s a comfort.” Rearden broods and then says, “Or he’s just making up stories to suit his delusion.”
“Every exchange that he’s written about between us is accurate,” Julia states. “I remember every word, every second we’ve shared together.”
Rearden weighs Julia’s words carefully. “And Basil,” he asks, “did you know they were brothers?”
“Basil told me.”
Rearden turns to Julia and grins. “Good,” he says. In his voice is a tone of relief.
“Do you think he kept quiet because he was being watched?”
“Possibly. Though what I find curious and frighteningly intuitive is the way he wrote about how I would react. In fact, as I read it the first time, I found myself almost mouthing the responses that he wrote for me. Thinking the words before I read them. He knows me well. And he knows that I wouldn’t likely accept his stories during such a traumatic time. Stranger still, it takes a lot of concentration for me to remember that conversation rightly. I drift from what really happened to what he wrote, and I have some difficulty remembering the truth from his fiction. Certainly, the matter of Bethany Winship has unhinged him,” he says. “He’s a possible suspect in this case—you know that, right?”
“I’ve been keeping up with the news, yes. But I don’t believe it.”
A shadow angles across Rearden’s face. “You don’t?” He feels his pulse quicken. He could see Beth Winship at the water’s edge. A nightmarish sky above the frigid waters. Beth had just left Loche’s office. She went to swim. He told her to swim. “Well, Julia, you are a comfort in all of this. Your company and association brings me a clearer focus. Because of you, Loche’s writing convinces me of things beyond my wildest dreams. And you are, in the end, the key to my part in all of this.”
Julia studies his gaunt face. There’s something haunting there. He has spent his life studying horrifying crimes. Rearden must suspect Loche of some wrong doing, she thinks. How could he not? She shivers and draws her focus back to the book in her lap.
Daylight was fading and cold air was rushing up the valley. The drive home seemed shorter than it ever had. At each turn I saw the Center, the drowning god, Beth’s tears, Basil’s eyes, Rearden’s disbelief—repeating over and over like waves slapping the shore. Arriving at my driveway these thoughts disappeared.
The front door to my home was wide open. I sprang toward the house and called out, “Helen! Edwin! Helen! Answer me.”
Inside all was dark save one small desk light down our long hallway to the stairs. Clicking the light switch next to the door I found a horrifying sight. Chaos. Furniture was overturned, drawers were open and their contents littered across the living room floor. Lamps were toppled and broken. Hurrying down the hall toward the desk my eyes scanned the disorder.
Upon the desk was one of our home computers. The screen was a glowing, deep red, and in the center there were small blinking words, Loche, click here.
I glanced around the room and cried out again, “Helen, Edwin! Where are you?” Silence and a cold breeze from the open door was the only reply. I shivered.
The letters still flashed, Loche, click here.
Grabbing the mouse I moved the cursor over the link and clicked. The screen’s window changed to black, then fading in was a blue sky. The scene descended slowly and peaks of buildings came into view. As the picture panned back I could see that the setting was Venice, Italy. Two long gondolas were slowly paddling toward the camera. Then a face moved into the frame from the left. A young man, probably in his twenties. He acknowledged me with a nod, looked to his right gesturing an affirmation, and then disappeared from the screen.
Then another face appeared. His eyes stared directly into mine, and he was smiling. Mid-fifties, I thought. Light brown and grey hair, thinning and combed back. He wore a brown coat and tie. An elegant looking gentleman. The smile on his lips slowly faded. He continued to stare into the lens, and into my face.
“Dr. Loche Newirth, greetings,” he spoke finally in a thick Italian accent. “My name is Albion
Ravistelle.” His face turned away, and he gestured to the beautiful city behind him, “I am speaking to you from Venice, Italy, and as you can see, today is lovely.” His gaze returned to the camera. “I am afraid your day may not be as beautiful, and for that we take some of the blame. My most sincere apologies for the manner in which you are receiving this message, but I assure you, it is for the best and for your safety.” He paused as the camera pulled back. He seated himself on an iron bench beside the canal.
“I would first ask, Doctor, that you sit down in the seat that has been provided for you.” He waited. Behind me was a chair. I lowered myself slowly onto it. He continued, “It is paramount that you listen very carefully and follow my instructions without fail. I am trusting that your years as a psychologist will prove useful in what I am about to tell you. Attempt to stay calm.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but he raised his hand to halt me. “I’m afraid, Doctor, that we have disabled your microphone. We have done this to insure that you will indeed listen. You and I will speak together soon enough.
“Your wife and child are safe, and by safe I mean they are in our care.” I felt a scream inside my head, but no sound from my lips. Panic crashed through my thoughts as my hands gripped the table before me. Tears stung my eyes. “Stay calm,” Ravistelle reminded. The words kept me from flipping the table over and smashing the computerized face to shards.
“Again, Doctor, it is of the utmost importance that you focus and control your fear. If you do as I say, all will be well.” My shaking hands wiped the tears away and I could hear a pained and enraged moan rise from out of my gut. Control, my mind demanded.
“You see, Dr. Newirth, in the last few days you have been introduced to a very important young man—a man that has come to mean a great deal to you, I’m sure.” Albion looked up and over the lens and mused, “I wonder what that must be like—to discover that one has found a brother that he didn’t know he had.” He looked again at Loche, “Moreover, a brotherhood of unimaginable gifts. You must have had much to think about in the last forty-eight hours. Yes, indeed.
“But now, to the purpose. Your involvement with Mr. Basil Fenn is of great interest to us. We are, you might say, guardians of the greatest of human artistic endeavor. I represent a group of curators and a highly affluent aristocracy of art collectors that have been waiting for the right time to procure Basil’s work. And yours as well, Dr. Newirth. It seems, however, that your talents have not yet reached their full potential, though, I might add,” he gave a bit of a chuckle, “I do appreciate your attempts at verse, so far. But it is not quite divine. How do we know, you ask? Many of us have perused your poetry and I’m afraid we find it to be, how shall I say, not yet fully developed. Bland. Not all is lost, there are some lovely themes and thoughts, but it lacks the silk of your Brother’s work.
“You’ll find it missing from your office. We have taken your work away along with your family.
“Your brother’s work, on the other hand, is something beyond our wildest dreams, to say the very least. It is his work that we are most interested in possessing. Unfortunately, Mr. Fenn keeps his work very well protected. No, not in the conventional sense by lock and key, but rather, it is protected by militant group of fellows that are terribly difficult to remove. You have met one of these men, Mr. William Greenhame. Doctor, I must warn you to take precautions against this man and his colleagues. We have attempted to communicate with Mr. Greenhame, but he has made it obvious to us that he is unwilling to cooperate. Thus, we have been forced to use other methods. Now, don’t mistake me, Doctor, we are not kidnappers. I like to think of our involvement in this endeavor as a necessity to the rounding out of the collective human spirit. We have only the best intentions for the human condition—and, unfortunately, this can sometimes seem ugly. But always, things work out for the best. Always for the best.”
“Why is this happening?” I yelled at the face in the monitor.
Albion paused and watched me. He appeared to revel in my hopelessness. I dropped my forehead down upon the desk.
“I am sorry, Loche. But do pay attention. William Greenhame and his cohorts were involved in the first assassination attempt in Moses Lake when you were quite young. The car accident was no accident. They felt that the gifts that you and Basil possess were too powerful to be a part of this Earth. They wanted you dead. Where they failed, we have succeeded. Not only by saving both of your lives, but also by protecting you so that your talents would bear fruit. We seek only to help you, but with Greenhame and his people involved yet again, the situation has become dire, and the world risks losing the both of you. Their intention is to seize and manipulate the work of your gifted brotherhood and use it to set up their own power structure and control us all. They wait only for you to find your muse. In short, Doctor, we have arranged for you to escape from the watchful eye of Greenhame and his schemes.
“A car awaits you at your office that will transport you and your brother Basil to a private plane. Basil’s father, Howard, is currently en route to Venice, along with Helen and Edwin.” Ravistelle paused and laced his fingers together. “I have been informed that Basil’s paintings will be in our possession within the hour. The pilots will wait, and they will see to it that you arrive here safely, but you must hurry...” His face filled the screen. “The authorities, Loche, should not be contacted,” he droned slowly, “they only confuse matters. Please keep this in mind for the sake of keeping those you love safe.
“I wish for you to comply. Here in Venice you will discover your worth—you will finally come home. We have built an entire world around you and your brother. Come home, Loche. Until we meet, I wish you safe travels.” The screen went black.
“Loche!”
I spun around to see Basil, and someone I didn’t recognize standing in the doorway. Their eyes reflected the confusion of the disheveled room. “What the fuck is this?” Basil cried.
“Who’s with you?” I said standing up.
Basil stepped into the room and took in the view, “My friend, Father John Whitely.” The man gestured a hello while scanning the chaos. He was dressed all in black. A clerical collar around his neck.
I turned back to the computer and grabbed the mouse attempting to replay Ravistelle’s invitation. But the machine would not respond. Panic struck.
“What is it?” Basil demanded as he navigated his way toward me.
“Helen and Edwin are gone.”
“What do you mean, gone?”
I didn’t answer. Lifting my horror stricken eyes away from the monitor I saw a framed picture of my family shattered on the floor. “We’ve got to go.”
Seconds later we were tearing across the dark countryside back to the city. A cold rain was falling. Basil sat in the passenger seat of my car and Father Whitely sat behind him. The priest’s eyes were wide with shock. Basil kept shaking his head in fear and disbelief as I shared the recent events. As I told him of Ravistelle’s plot to take Howard, he locked his eyes on the road ahead and said nothing. Pain was in his face.
“When did you last see him?”
“I dropped him off at his house an hour ago.”
Anger pulsed through my vision. “He’s gone,” I whispered.
“Why didn’t they just come for us?” Basil asked. “I don’t understand.”
“Nor do I.”
John Whitely sat in the back seat. “We should go to Basil’s studio,” he said.
“They want us to go to my office,” I replied. “Ravistelle said there’s a car waiting there to take us to a private plane.”
Raindrops were glittering in the headlights like a meteor shower. “No,” Basil said. “John’s right. We’ve got to get to my studio, now! It’s the paintings they really want—and if they get them, we might as well forget saving anyone.”
I leaned harder on the accelerator.
We parked the car two blocks from the main house. As the three of us walked to the private gate sloping up to Basil’s door we could see sever
al shoe prints ahead of us in mud. Each set trailed off in different directions—over the yard, down the dripping fence line and through the gate. “Looks as if someone has been here,” came John’s hushed voice. I looked up the dark hill to see a single lamp shine through the studio windows and out into the gloom of the trees. No movement. Silence.
As I reached for the gate latch Basil nudged my arm, “Wait,” he hissed. “This way.” He limped off, hurrying as best he could down a trail along the fence line to the south of the property. A minute later Basil stopped and whispered, “Watch your step,” and slowly staggered into the brush. He bent down, ducking underneath a gap in the broken fence. Once we were through he looked down searching for tracks. None.
We started up the hill on a narrow trail that was barely visible. We were twenty yards from the studio when a voice I knew well came from the left. “Do not move another step.” The outlined shadow of a man stood leaning against a tree. He held a pistol. “Come, come, William Greenhame at your service,” he said softly, prompting us to leave the trail and join him. “We wouldn’t want the artists getting hurt, would we?”
Cautiously, we stepped behind the tree next to him. He held the gun pointed at us. Its black barrel was fixed with a silencer. “Not a good time to be creeping home, Mr. Basil Fenn.”
Basil didn’t answer, but looked at me. Before I could say a word William pointed to the studio, “Watch this.”
More shadowy figures began to scramble through the tree line, each armed with what looked to be automatic weapons. They took siege positions around the flat.
William moved his hand to his throat and touched a small transmitter, “Samuel,” he sighed. “Oh, Samuel. I see five poorly dressed robbers.” A moment later he chuckled, “Yes, I’m sure they are not salesmen.” He looked amused as his eyes returned to us. “The artists have just joined me, plus one priest. May have to sit this one out.” He listened and nodded, “Will do, out. It seems that a number of art fanatics are looking to pick through your collection, Mr. Fenn. Not to worry. They won’t make it beyond the-”
The Invasion of Heaven, Part One of the Newirth Mythology Page 16
