“Yes,” the priest replies.
Julia’s eyes flash with a stab of angry light. “Another bit of news that I’m just hearing. Funeral tomorrow?”
Rearden doesn’t answer.
“Do you think Loche will be there?” Julia demands.
“Yes,” Rearden says. “It would be a good strategy to make an appearance to further his case. If he attends it will show that he cared for her and her family’s well-being—and that to him, the legal case is secondary. A move I myself would make.”
“You don’t believe that he is responsible for her death, do you, Marcus?”
The doctor has rehearsed the answer to this question many times, and he is surprised it took so long for Julia to ask it. “It’s not a question of whether he’s responsible for it. It’s a question of whether he breached our Code of Ethics. Did he do something wrong? Yes, Julia, he did. He failed to follow protocol. But as you and I both know,” Rearden glances quickly at Father Whitely then back to Julia, “all of this seems small compared to what Loche is now dealing with.” Julia feels the cold leather cover of the journal beneath her fingertips. “He’s going to need us.”
“Father Whitely,” Julia turns, “I’m afraid we’re in need of a place to stay. May we spend the night here?”
The priest’s body language is hesitant, but in his voice is what both Rearden and Julia long to hear. He says soothingly, “This is a house of God—all are welcome.”
Outside the wind has picked up, and a grey evening is drooping in the trees. Rain has begun to fall turning the day’s snow to a messy slush. The radio weather report is predicting a warming trend, and as the young groundskeeper finishes shoveling the last of the walks, he adjusts his headphones under his stocking cap and heads toward the garage. As he enters, the evening news broadcast is beginning.
He hangs the snow shovel up by its handle on the wall. Turning, he notes the wrecked and dented side of the visitors’ car. Leaning down to take a closer look he can tell that the accident must have been recent because the paint is still flaking in areas. There is no damage on the other side, but above the rear wheel he notices several splattered spots, and a smear of red.
The radio newsman reports—Two murdered—Doctor Marcus Rearden is a suspect. License plate number—
A moment later he is running toward the church, pulling his headphones down around his neck.
The sound of Rearden’s snoring in the next room is calming. Perhaps knowing he is asleep allows Julia’s nerves to relax. He is a handful. And frightening. And she wonders if she can trust him. But, given all that has transpired, she is not entirely sure she trusts herself.
It feels good to remove her heavy clothes. She slips her bare legs beneath the sheets, lays back and opens the book. She will finish it tonight.
The clock read 5:32 a.m. Helen was sound asleep—or was she? Sliding my feet down under the sheets and lying back, I could smell the familiar warmth of her skin—the musk of home. My stomach ached for some answer that my mind could not resolve, and raising my fingertips to my eyes, I wiped away tears. It was the pain of missing. The sweet rising scent of my slumbering wife was, to me, the paragon of intimacy—the silent lines of love that words or pictures could not express. We had exchanged vows, we had made love, we had brought a child into the world, we had shared our lives, memories, hopes and fears together—even in the dim hours of sleep, our communication had always carried on. Home was tangled up in the air around us as we were laced together beneath the blankets of sleep.
Corey’s last statement pinched at the nerves of my fragile sanity, “You must not confront Helen with the information you are now privy to. Play along. Play along as if all is well. And remember what I’ve told you—she is not who you think she is and would kill you if she were ordered to do so. Think of your son. Don’t let your emotions get in the way of what you must do.”
My son. What will this mean for him? Then a shock wave rattled through me. I recalled the image of Albion and his daughter on the dock as we floated out and away. Crystal. Helen embraced that young girl. “Edwin and Crystal will take to each other like brother and sister,” He had told us. Is Helen Crystal’s mother?
How long? How long had they been together?
Helen rolled over and faced me. Her eyes were still closed, and she draped an arm over my chest. On her hand was her diamond wedding ring. It sparked in the dull light of morning. I suddenly felt my own wedding band tightening like a stranglehold. “Good morning,” she whispered sleepily. “Where have you been?” I could feel my hands tighten into fists. I released them and sighed as naturally as possible. An exhausted sigh.
“Basil’s studio,” I answered. “He had some questions about a painting.” I reached out to my robe to make sure the contents were still in the pocket—passport, money, given to me by Corey. Comforted I brought my fingertips to the soft skin of her wrist and gently caressed.
“How did you sleep?” I asked.
“Heavenly,” she whispered.
“Have you met with Anthony?” Ravistelle asked. We stood at an espresso counter in the main lobby near the lift.
“Yes,” I said. Anthony, another of the Saved, was currently housed in the glass house in Basil’s studio. “Basil is working now.”
“Very good,” Ravistelle said.
I felt a quick jolt of panic and then mastered it. I was about to take my first step toward escape. I must sound natural, I thought.
“I’ve come to let you know that I’ll be visiting the city today.”
Albion’s polished manner did not faulter. “Ah, I see. May I ask why?”
I held his eyes with mine. “I’ve been writing.”
Ravistelle set the tiny cup of espresso down. “That is well,” he said. “And?”
“And I need to walk and think. Simple as that, really. I have some problems to solve for a piece I’m struggling with. Something is different about what I’m producing. I can’t say for sure, but I think—I think it’s happening.”
“Dr. Newirth,” he jubilated. “What wonderful news. Your gift is evolving.” He reached out with both hands and set them on my shoulders like a proud father to his son. “Yes, please, go. Take your time. Will you be taking Helen with you?”
Helen, I nearly crumbled. “No,” I said nonchalantly, looking at the woman behind the espresso stand. I nodded to her, and she began grinding a coffee for me. “I need some alone time,” I said, knowing that I wouldn’t be alone.
“Yes,” he agreed. “That is to be expected.”
“I may find a hotel for the night, as well,” I ventured, making sure that my tone sounded like a request.
Ravistelle asks, “But what of the work that needs to be done with your brother?”
“I think he will be fine until tomorrow afternoon. I need to find out if what I’m writing is—”
“Yes, yes, of course. This certainly takes priority. Go, Doctor. And may your muse walk beside you.”
“Thank you,” I said.
In the glass room Anthony slept. Basil was busy with his brush. I closed the studio door and he looked up.
“Did daddy say it was okay?” he asked. By my silence he knew that Albion had agreed to my request. He set his brush down, and limped around the easel toward me. “Don’t worry, Loche,” he said, “I’ll take care of Edwin. Corey says he’ll make sure that he’s safe. And Diana. . .”
“I still think that I should take Edwin with me.”
“No,” he disagreed, “like Corey says, it’ll be too dangerous. Ravistelle won’t use him. At least not until he needs to. And hopefully by then you’ll have developed your gift.”
“What if it doesn’t happen?”
“It will,” Basil said. “Is the plan clear?”
I nodded.
“Don’t lose your nerve.”
Basil looked over at Anthony. The poor man had stirred in his sleep and was now curled up into a ball.
“There’s one more thing,” he said.
“What?�
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“Ravistelle thinks he has all of my work. But he doesn’t. I have a single painting stashed away that only one person knows about. She hasn’t seen it—I made her promise not to look at it. I felt the painting was important. That feeling was so strong that I separated it from the rest of my work.”
“Who has it?” I asked.
A slight smile curved into his expression. “Julia.”
Julia’s face appeared before my eyes. I shook my head at the thought. “Julia has one of your works?”
“That’s right. I trust her. There’s something about her I’ve always liked.”
“Does Corey know about this?”
“Nope. But I’m sure he’ll find out eventually. You’ve got to get to that painting. You have to enter it.”
“Why?”
“You’ll understand when you see it. It’s one of my latest pieces. Weird thing about it is that I couldn’t finish it. I started it the day I left your office, when the police showed up, remember that?”
I nodded.
“Well, I went right home and started it. It’s very weird— different from my other work—like it is still being painted somehow. Like someone, or some thing is moving the paint. It blows me away.”
“What do you mean?”
A puzzled look crossed his face. “It was finishing itself—or better yet, it was changing by itself. The Center was still there, but its configuration was, well, moving. I mean, the interior of the Center was literally moving. I couldn’t explain it and thought it was better not to wonder much about it. And every time it changed, it got heavier, and heavier. Like, I could hardly even pick it up.”
“So you stashed it at Julia’s?”
“Yeah. It freaked me out so much that I wanted it out of my studio. I took it to her that day, before me and John went to your house—and we ended up here.”
“What was the image—the subject matter?”
“Someone drowning.” He looked away, troubled. “There’s something evil in it.”
The blue god—pupils of stars swirling—entered my thoughts as if I were again witnessing his struggle in the black waters. I turned toward the door and Basil followed me.
“Take this,” he said handing me an envelope. Julia’s name was scrawled across the sealed flap.
“What is it?”
“You’ll need it to get the painting. I made her promise that she would keep that work a dead secret. Without this letter you’d be talking to a wall.”
“Is that all it says, let Loche see the painting?” I asked.
“Sure,” he grinned. I took the envelope.
“Take care,” I said.
“Don’t worry about me,” Basil smiled. “I’ll be right here painting. And don’t worry about any of us, bro. As long as I play along we should be fine. Just figure out how to stop this mad shit.”
I pulled Basil into a hug. Our embrace was long, and I wondered if we’d ever see each other again.
Basil smiled turning and hobbling back toward his paints and brushes. As I closed the door I could hear the stereo volume rise. Through the door Mick Jagger’s possessed cackle crooned—
Pleased to meet you, won’t you guess my name?
Pockets of stench—boat fuel, raw sewage and other unsavory smells rose from the canal as I moved briskly down the boardwalk. But the odors were soon forgotten as I took in the extraordinary beauty of Venice.
I was out and away.
I relished the brief moments of freedom. But they were replaced by the overwhelming feeling of being watched. Ever since the day in my office when Basil shared his paranoia, I’d not been free of it. Then, Venice. Seeing the gothic architecture that I have long admired, and passing along the countless lanes stained with centuries of age and charm, I was able to smile.
Leaving Helen was surprisingly easy. I told her what I had told Albion, and she responded with his exact sentiment. Perhaps the most difficult aspect of our parting was my sudden desire to confront her—to show her my broken heart. Throughout my career as a psychologist I knew that anger had a role in our lives —and there was a way to use anger despite its wonted negative results. I chuckled gloomily at how many times I’d condemned anger as a weakness. Doctor heal thyself.
I tried to keep Edwin from sensing my grief at our parting. I laughed with him, held him close and kissed him. But in his face was a shadow of knowing my thoughts, though he couldn’t express it in words. He knew I was going away. Our last embrace was enough to nearly change the plan that Corey had laid out for me. But it was when Edwin said, “Bye, Dad. Can I go play?” that I knew I must go—for him, so he could play. If I failed, there would be no more play—for any of us.
I reached into my coat pocket and produced Corey’s hand written map. My walking course from the gondola stop had taken some unexpected turns. The buildings, the colors of the signs blending in like camouflage, and the many possible routes now all washed together. I mused that navigating this city must be like navigating a coral reef. It all looks the same, but intoxicatingly beautiful.
I was lost. I knew the way back to the canal and that was some comfort. The map was now becoming worn and moist with the sweat from my hands. Scanning the sky I could see that it was evenly divided between a crystal blue and a deepening grey in the West. Cold raindrops began to touch down. It was difficult to determine if the sun would prevail. Either way, it was chilly and I wanted to find my destination. Then, below a weathered clock, LORD BYRON was embossed in the greenish brick of a building. I had found it. I recalled Cory’s instructions: When you see the sign, you’ll see a wine bar near. Stop and have a glass—I think by that time, you’ll need one.
I walked a minute or two and came upon the quaint wine bar, complete with a gated patio and the deep wood hue of an old room. I entered and immediately felt the comforting warmth of a fire burning in the hearth near the kitchen. I moved to a seat at the bar. The path behind me looked clear. There was no sign of being followed. I motioned to the woman behind the bar, and she immediately poured me a glass of wine. Within moments I felt its sensual touch, and it eased my anxiety. In the dim glow I surveyed the room. Tucked into the corners there were patrons sipping quietly. One was reading, two lovers were huddled together behind a solitary candle and another man sat at the far end of the bar with his head tilted slightly up. He was listening to the soft voice of Joni Mitchell that drifted through the air like smoky incense.
The last time I saw Richard was Detroit in ’68
And he told me
All romantics meet the same fate
Someday—
Cynical and drunk and boring someone
In some dark café.
I knew the song well. It was also the song that Corey told me to listen for when I arrived. “If you hear it, you’ll know you’re in the right place,” he had said.
Was this man at the end of the bar the one I was to meet? Corey didn’t say what would happen after the song played. The only comfort that eased my rising panic was the red wine, and after a long pull from my glass I ordered another, keeping one eye on the man to the right of me.
He reached down to his side, and from a bag slung over his shoulder he pulled out a package of cigars. Lifting one to his mouth he noticed me watching him. He held the package out and offered me one.
I shook my head.
“I love Joni Mitchell,” he said so that I could hear him. His thick Italian accent ended with, “Amore, amore.”
I nodded and watched him place the package of cigars back into his bag. Over his knee hung a closed umbrella.
“Do you know this song?” he asked.
I nodded, nervously.
“Ah,” he said, “very good.” Lifting his wineglass he drained it and set it back down. The barmaid filled it up a second later, and the man smiled at her. She placed the bottle on the bar and sang along with Joni’s refrain.
“I am both cynical and drunk now,” he said to me. “But I promise not to bore you.” He then narrowed his focus and r
ested his eyes on mine. A pained smile shadowed his expression, “Why look, Maria, he’s eyes full of moon. Ah, all good dreamers pass this way, you know. Here in this dark café. Just a cocoon before your wings? Yes? Yes.”
Love so sweet, the man joined the melody, When you gonna get yourself back on your feet?
A cool midmorning breeze filtered softly into the room. A door behind us had opened. The man set his glass down and tilted his head upward toward the music again and sighed. Before I could turn to the door I heard the shrill sound of metal sliding against metal, and a command, “Dr. Newirth, please step away from the bar and toward the door!”
Turning, I saw a tall figure standing just inside the room. He held a sword at his side. His glaring eyes weren’t directed at me, but rather at the man smoking the cigar, his head still tilted to the music.
“Oh, good heavens,” the man said through an exhale of smoke, but now with an English accent. “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this.” He stood up with a slight stagger and with his glass in one hand and the umbrella in the other he addressed the man in the doorway. “Boun Journo, Felix. Felix Wishfeill,” he greeted haughtily, “I am in the middle of boring this young man. Won’t you come another time? We don’t want to do this, do we?”
“Just protecting what is ours, Samuel” Felix replied.
Samuel turned back to the bar and motioned for his glass to be refilled. “Why not punch a song into the Wurlitzer over there, Felix. Choose a tune that’s floaty and sad, and drink with us. Or go and drink at home with all your house lights up bright.” He drank again, “Why don’t you rush home to that figure skater wife of yours?”
“Dr. Newirth, please step this way,” Felix commanded again.
In a flash, the handle of Samuel’s umbrella unsheathed a long, thin silver blade. “Let’s not, Felix. I’m in no mood. You can turn and call this day a failure and live to see tomorrow—or I’ll piece you up and spread you around. I will put your candle out. Simple choice.”
Felix weighed the thought. Fear tugged at his eyes. “Dr. Newirth, please come with me,” Felix said again. I was paralyzed. The few people in the room backed themselves against the walls. Maria stepped into the shadows.
The Invasion of Heaven, Part One of the Newirth Mythology Page 25
