The Invasion of Heaven, Part One of the Newirth Mythology

by Michael B. Koep

  I kept the antique key to the tower on a hook hidden behind the pillar of the spiral stair. It was still there. I climbed the stairs and saw again my office door, smashed and thrown aside. I stared at the empty bookcases and broken cabinets. I wondered if I would ever see my writings again. The key I placed in my pocket.

  When I returned to Greenhame and Samuel, they had already picked up the fallout from our brawl. The thought of them being right under my nose for all these years was unnerving. They were in the kitchen opening a bottle of wine as if it were their own home. Greenhame seemed to exude more ownership than Samuel. The two chatted over the events like old friends. William was dressed smartly, as usual, in an ivory waistcoat with brown wooden buttons and an overlarge olive-green bow tie. His long hair was tucked behind his ears. He and Samuel plinked their wineglasses together. It was a reuniting of friends.

  I was glad to see William alive. Glad beyond words.

  “I won’t say welcome home, Loche,” Greenhame offered as I approached.

  “Whose home are you speaking of?” I asked.

  “It couldn’t be helped,” William replied simply. “There was no better place to keep watch over you than from right under your feet.”

  I let my eyes fall to my floor (or their ceiling).

  “But I must say this,” Samuel inserted, “we never had any audio or video surveillance, save your telephones. If we entered the house there was always cause. That cause being your protection. We merely made sure that if they came, you wouldn’t be alone.”

  “And what about the night Helen and Edwin were taken?”

  “Taken?” Greenhame gasped. “Have you figured nothing out, yet? My dear Doctor, she left with Edwin of her own free will. Not without wrecking the house a bit first, setting the computer up for you to meet Ravistelle for the first time and stealing your private volumes of original verse. Of course she did this on the same night that we were a bit busy watching Basil’s studio. There isn’t an army of us, Loche. There are few of us Orathom Wis left. Some of us are still here in Idaho. The rest are keeping watch with George in Italy. We are immortal, but we are far from perfect.”

  “And Helen? Is she included in that number?”

  “No,” Samuel said. “She is but one of a great many immortals that have turned to darker goals.”

  Spread out on the counter before him was a newspaper. His index finger gently tapped at it. “Seems there has been a development in the Winship case,” he said.

  I read the headline at his fingertip, Beth Winship Suicide or Murder?

  “What is this?” I cried.

  “Looks as if Ravistelle is playing his turn. He knows you you are with the Orathom Wis, but he knows not whether you have escaped with them or you’ve been kidnapped by them. He will employ every set of eyes to find you again. The lawyers that represent both the Winship family and you are owned by Ravistelle.”

  I yanked the paper out from under Greenhame’s hand and read it.

  Sandpoint, IDAHO. Investigators have uncovered new evidence involving the death of Bethany Leona Winship. Winship’s body was found by hikers along Lake Shore Beach at approximately 2:30 p.m. on October 2nd. Believed at first to be a suicide, investigators say that an autopsy revealed that Winship’s blood held traces of a powerful mood enhancement drug. Also discovered were several bruises on her neck and wrists. Investigators suspect foul play. Winship’s therapist, Dr. Loche Newirth of Sandpoint is not yet a suspect, but is considered a person of interest. He has been unavailable for comment. During an inquiry yesterday morning, Dr. Newirth’s attorney, Alan Chatfield, made this statement, “Dr. Newirth is taking some time away to grieve the loss of his client, Mrs. Winship.” Spokesman from the police department said that Dr. Newirth’s failure to make contact could lead to a warrant for his arrest. The Winship family has filed a malpractice suit against Dr. Loche Newirth.

  “This is nonsense,” I growled. “I was in my office all day seeing clients. They need only check with Carol, my secretary,” I said with certainty.

  “Ah, sweet Carol,” Greehame said. “Carol is owned by Ravistelle.”

  “What? I don’t believe it.”

  “Believe it. She’s making a hell of a lot of money for keeping tabs on you, and she’ll say whatever Albion wants her to say. And, by the way, she was not in your office for most of that morning, if you remember.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Lay low and find your gift.”

  “Was Beth murdered?”

  Greenhame’s answer was not what I expected.

  “We don’t know for sure.”

  “What does that mean?” I yelled.

  “Loche, relax and listen. Ravistelle has set you up perfectly. The death of one of your clients serves him in two ways. First, to keep you from escaping—or at least it makes your running more difficult. And two—it causing you emotional pain. He wants nothing more than to hurt you, to bring you to your knees so that in the end, all you can do to release the anguish is to write. He wants the strong, conservative doctor to crack open so he can poke at the delicate, vulnerable poet underneath. Shaking your world to its core is part of his strategy.”

  “It’s working.”

  “Well,” Greenhame said at length, “that can be bad, but it can also be good.”

  “Why would he want me to be convicted of murder?”

  Samuel laid his hand on my shoulder with a chuckle. “Many good books have been written in prison. Besides, Albion has connections—he can get to you no matter where you end up —except with us.”

  I stared at the man and shuddered.

  “We won’t let that happen, Loche,” William consoled.

  “What am I going to do?”

  “I understand that you are meeting Julia tonight.”

  “Yes.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “No.”

  Greenhame shifted slightly in his stance—his long brown hair in his eyes.

  “Trust me,” I said. “I need to see her, and I need the two of you to watch my back.”

  Samuel laughed quietly at my words. “And when haven’t we been doing that, mate?”

  “Very well, Loche,” William acquiesced. “But we haven’t much time. You said that your coming home would in some way aid you toward developing your writing. It would be a nice gesture to give us old folks an idea of how that might transpire.”

  “I don’t know just yet,” I admitted. “You’ll have to trust me.”

  “Be careful not to tell her too much. She might think you are mentally unstable.”

  “She wouldn’t be too far off the mark.”

  He handed me a cell phone. “Take this.”

  I took the phone, folded the newspaper article and slipped them both into my jacket.

  I was happy to find my car in the garage. Greenhame explained that after the raid on Basil’s home, he and his old cronies had taken great pains to clean up the mess, making sure that my car was not included in any police report. I pulled out onto the road and began my twenty-minute journey to meet with Julia. Samuel and William stayed close behind in their black sedan—at times, uncomfortably close. I did my best to try to forget that they were there.

  Julia Iris was just stepping from the restaurant and into the rain when I pulled up. I hurried out and around the car and opened the door for her with a nervous, “Hi.” She smiled. She wore fashionable suede boots with heels and a long dark overcoat.

  I caught the light scent of her perfume—citrus and sandalwood oil.

  “Great weather,” she laughed, “typical.”

  “Yes,” I agreed closing my door. “Typical Idaho.”

  I looked into the rearview mirror. The black sedan was like a shadow against the black lake.

  “So where would you like to go?” she asked.

  I turned to her. “I need to tell you something first.”

  “What’s that?” she said absently as she dug for something in her bag.

  “I don’t think it would be sm
art for me to be out in public. Have you heard about what’s going on with my practice?”

  “I know a little. Only what was in the paper.”

  “You haven’t heard the latest?”

  “No.”

  “If I’m seen out and about it could be taken the wrong way.”

  Julia smiled, “Without your wife you mean?”

  I stammered. “No, well yes, there’s that, too. But what I have to speak with you about isn’t really meant for a public place.”

  “Sounds mysterious, Loche.”

  “You have no idea,” I said with care.

  She looked out the windshield. “Well, where would you like to talk then?”

  “Your place?” I hoped I didn’t blurt it out too quickly.

  “My place?” she replied with a hint of surprise.

  “Listen, forgive me if this seems strange. We’ve only just met, I know, and I would very much like to get to know you, but since the day we met I’ve been wrapped up in something that is difficult to explain.” I paused and leveled my voice. “Really, Julia. Much of what I need to speak with you about is Basil. Something he left with you.”

  She watched me speak with the glint of the streetlamp crossing her face. By her expression I could tell that she knew I was nervous. She smiled genuinely, “That’s fine, Loche. Basil has said nothing but wonderful things about you. I’m not worried about anything. I live just up the hill.”

  “Well, should you take your car and I’ll follow you?”

  “No, I walked here this morning.”

  I glanced down at her slender legs and the high heeled boots, “In those?”

  “Hey,” she laughed, “I thought we were going out. I keep some emergency girly stuff in my office.”

  I put the car in gear and placed both hands on the wheel. When I turned to her to ask for directions, she was looking at my hands. “You are married aren’t you?” she asked.

  I saw the empty indent on my ring finger and said, “I thought I was.”

  Julia owned a craftsman home built on the side of a high hill overlooking Lake Pend Oreille. Mountainous crags, purple in the late afternoon light, loomed up across the wide lake. I was reminded of a train ride I took when I was a child through the majestic bones of rock and mountain heights of the Swiss Alps. It was strange to think that such beauty existed so near to my own home. In her small yard stood an enormous crimson leafed Chinese maple tree. It towered over both her house and the street. She spoke fondly of the neighborhood and how much she liked the quiet nights. Way down below was the two-lane highway. “Being up here the cars sometimes sound like wind,” she said. “Or the ocean.”

  On the way to the front door I glanced back to see my hidden companions parked just down the street. I had to strain my eyes to see the car.

  She opened the door and clicked the light on. The living room was humble and delightfully comfortable. Colors of green, gold and red leapt from the walls like light on trees. The furniture all looked to be refurbished garage sale items. Old wood chairs, a sofa from the 1940s, and a collection of worn but decorative accessories crowded shelves and tabletops. In the far corner was an upside-down barstool on newspaper. Beside it was a can of wood stain and a brush.

  “I like your work,” I said.

  “Yeah, I’m into bringing old things back to life. It doesn’t take much really—especially with a little creativity. Cheaper, too. I can’t see spending hundreds of dollars on new furniture. Seems like a waste.”

  She removed her coat and hung it on a hook beside the door then turned, holding out her hand for my coat. My eyes quickly scanned her shape. She wore a thick, dark red sweater that clung to her slender form, and deep brown velvet pants flared at the bottoms, giving the impression of a skirt. I handed her my coat and as she turned to hang it, I allowed my eyes to study her again. She was beautiful. Too beautiful. I abruptly stepped into the living room and searched for something to divert my attention.

  “What can I get you?” she called as she disappeared into the kitchen, “I’ve got wine, beer, a little brandy?”

  “Wine sounds good.”

  “Got it,” and I could hear her opening a drawer and fumbling for a wine opener.

  The framed pictures on the wall of family and friends brought a smile to my face. In each of the photographs Julia looked happy. Sitting on a table beside the sofa was a photo of Julia and her restaurant crew. Tucked in the back row was Basil peering off to the left, dressed in his white dishwashing attire.

  “How long have you known Basil?” I asked.

  “About three years,” she called from the kitchen. “I’ve wanted to promote him, but he wouldn’t let me.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He said he didn’t want the responsibility. I’ll never forget,” she said, entering the living room with two glasses of wine and handing one to me. “He told me, ‘Julia, I paint, and if I become a prep cook or a cook, I’ll have to spend too much energy learning that stuff—it would take away from my art.’ I remember shrugging and saying that it was fine.” Seeing my expression, she anticipated my next question. “No, I’ve never seen anything he’s painted. I’ve never understood why he was so weird about that.”

  “Yes, he is weird about that.”

  “So tell me what this Italy business is all about,” she said cheerfully. She sat down on the couch and crossed her legs. I sat in the chair opposite her.

  I weighed my thoughts as I would weigh my footing on a steep and rocky slope. One wrong word and I could trip an avalanche. I didn’t want to lie to her but at the same time I couldn’t involve her in the dangers that lay ahead.

  “Tricky,” I said trying to smile. “But I’ll do my best. Have you been reading the paper?”

  “I try not to,” she laughed, “but I’ve read a bit about your situation.”

  I reached into my jacket and produced the newspaper article. “I’d like you to read this, and understand that there are some things I can’t explain—things I’m not permitted to talk about. Okay?”

  “Alright,” she said faintly. Her face remained unmoved as she read the article. A moment later her eyes peaked over the top of the paper. “Should I be nervous right now? Are you a fugitive or something?”

  “Fugitive, no. But they are looking for me to answer some questions,” I stated. “I just want to be as honest as I can with you. As you can see, my world has been a bit complicated as of late.”

  “I’m sure. So why haven’t you made contact with any of these people?”

  “I wish it were that simple.”

  “Do you think this Bethany woman was murdered?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Well, what can you say?”

  “That I’m in trouble.” I sighed deeply and struggled to form a clear picture for her. “The day Beth died I was in my office all day. Learning of her death was terrible. Terrible. I decided that I needed to get away for a while. Like the article said, to grieve. So my wife and I accompanied Basil to Italy. While we were in Venice, I discovered that my wife had a lover. I saw the two together on a security video. It was almost too much for me. I left both her and my son behind. The only place I could think of to go was—” To you, Julia, my mind screamed. “Home,” I said quietly.

  “Loche, I’m so sorry.”

  “I don’t want to burden you with all of this. But for the record, I want you to know. When you asked about Helen and our marriage—I thought we were married. But as more time passes, I’m beginning to realize that we never really were. We have been living a lie for years. I’ve learned that she has been unfaithful for longer than I’d like to say.”

  “How long?” she asked.

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  “Let’s just say since the day we met.”

  Julia let out a quiet gasp. “Oh my god.”

  I nodded and almost smiled. “Indeed, oh my god.”

  “More wine?”

  “Not just ye
t. Listen Julia, there’s more. In spite of the crazy things that have happened in the past couple of weeks, I feel more alive than I ever have. I’m glad that I finally know the truth about Helen. And I’m now prepared to handle the situation with Beth Winship.” As I looked into her eyes I felt as if I might topple over and fall into them. They held an aspect of Basil’s Center—fathomless and tempting beyond measure. “And I am happy to be here, with you.” She held my gaze.

  There was a long silence. “Well, it looks like I need more wine,” she said finally.

  When she rounded the corner to the kitchen, I stood and began to pace, fidgeting like a smitten teen. The conservative psychologist was eclipsed in her presence. All the dire circumstances of my visit faded. I didn’t want anything to do with Basil, Ravistelle, writing, or art. I wanted to take her hand and run.

  “Refill?” she asked. She stood behind the sofa with the bottle in hand, and a knowing smile.

  “Yes, please,” I said, sitting down again.

  She circled around the table, topped my glass off and then set the bottle down.

  “May I ask you a question?” I ventured.

  “Sure.”

  “I don’t understand why someone like you doesn’t have a —” I faltered.

  “A boyfriend or husband?”

  I nodded, feeling the expression of thankfulness stain my face.

  “Who said I didn’t?” she fixed me with a serious look.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to pry, I just didn’t notice that—”

  Julia laughed lightly and held up her hand, “I’m only kidding. You aren’t the first person to ask me that.” She shrugged, and added, “I suppose I haven’t been in the right place at the right time. I was in love a couple of times, but it wasn’t meant to be.”

  “It sounds to me like you believe in fate.”

  “Does it? I guess so. Aren’t inexplicable things like love controlled by fate? I mean, I know I’m speaking with a psychologist, and you’ve probably got an opinion on stuff like that, but—I guess so, yeah. I believe in fate. But I also believe I have a little control, too.