The Heaven Trilogy

by Ted Dekker

  “Then follow me.” The man turned and walked into the building. Helen crossed the threshold, her mind screaming foul. But still her legs seemed to control her movements, as if they possessed a mind of their own. That was foolishness, of course; she was telling her legs to move because she wanted desperately to move forward. Into this dungeon.

  The hall was very dim, dressed in the same peeling paint that covered the outer door. They passed several limp bodies, strung out on the floor. He led her into a stairwell where he stepped aside and pointed down a flight of steps. Helen glanced up the stairs that ascended to her right, but he stabbed his index finger into the darkness below.

  “Down,” he said.

  She swallowed and began her descent. The door banged behind her and she turned to see that the man had left her. She was alone, surrounded by silence. A dull consistent thump came from the walls—the sound of heavy pulsating music. Or the sound of her heart.

  She lowered her foot to the next step, and then the next, until the steps ended in a landing before another door. She knew at a glance that the heart of the building lay here. Anton was here, beyond this fortified entry, sealed into thick concrete. A small window on the door grated open, exposed a pair of bloodshot eyes for a couple of seconds, and then snapped shut. The door swung in.

  This is it, Helen. If you enter now you won’t be able to make it back in time to peel the potatoes.

  She stepped inside and stopped.

  Helen stood in a tunnel roughly hewn from the rock beyond the building. Red and amber bulbs strung along the ceiling not three feet over her head cast an eerie light down the passage. Wet concrete ran underfoot, curving to the right twenty feet ahead. The dusty odor of mildew mixed with the smell of burning hair filled her nose. Her senses tingled with anticipation.

  “Hello, Helen.”

  She spun to her right where another smaller tunnel gaped in the shadows. The man who called himself Anton stepped from the dark, smiling with a square jaw. He wore a black robe over the white shirt now, like some kind of vampire. The orange light glinted off his round eyes.

  “I did not expect you to come so quickly.” He reached a hand out to her. Behind him, tiny feet scurried along the tunnel. Rats. The tinkle of water was louder here too, she noted. That sewer water was making its way down somehow.

  Helen hesitated and then took his hand.

  He chuckled and the sound of his voice carried down the hall. “I promise you that I will not disappoint you, my dear.” Anton kissed her hand with thick red lips. “Come.”

  She walked forward on soles tingling numb. The sound of her own heart thumped with the faint music. He led her along the dimly lit passage to a door made of wood with heavy cross members. He gripped the wooden latch, winked at her, and shoved the door open. “After you, my dear.”

  Helen stepped past the large man into a smoke-filled room. The sweet smell of hashish wafted through her nostrils. Here the yellow lights peered through a haze of the stuff, casting a soft glow about the room. The ceiling hung low, seemingly hewn from sheer rock and supported by a half dozen pillars. Bright red-and-yellow rugs covered the stone floor, nearly wall to wall. Thick white candles blazed on old wooden end tables. Tall earthen pots filled with purple and green feathers stood by each of the pillars; brass and silver plates adorned the walls, reflecting the myriad of flickering flames. It was a gothic kind of psychedelia.

  A dozen bodies reclined on stuffed pillows and chairs, unmoving to fuzzy throbbing music, but fixated on her. Helen gazed at them and immediately felt a kinship—their eyes swam with a language she knew well.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder, and she twisted her head to meet Anton’s black stare. He smiled thinly but did not speak. His eyes lowered to her arm and he traced it lightly with a thick finger. Something about the way those eyes sparkled sent a shiver down her spine and she shifted her gaze from him.

  One of the figures—a man—rose and walked slowly toward her, grinning dumbly.

  “What’s your price?” Helen asked.

  Anton chuckled softly. But he didn’t answer.

  The other man walked up to her and lifted a hand to her cheek. His finger felt hot. You’re in this now, Helen. You’re home. Whether you like it or not, you are home.

  “You want to know what the price is?” the man said. A large scar ran across his right cheek and it bunched up in a knot when he smiled. “I am Kuzup. I am your price, princess.” He bit the tip of his tongue.

  Anton seemed to find humor in the man’s statement. “This one’s beyond you, Kuzup. She’s too rich for your blood.”

  Helen smiled with them, but her skin tingled with fear. “And even if you could afford me, I’m not for sale,” she said.

  They both laughed. “Down here we’re all for sale,” Kuzup said.

  A small prick flashed up Helen’s arm and she jerked. Anton’s big hand closed over her mouth from behind. “Shhhhh. Let it go, princess.”

  He’d put a needle into her arm. His hand was not rough, only coaxing, and she let herself go.

  “Shhh.” His hot breath washed over her ear. It smelled like medicine. “Do you feel it?”

  The warmth ran through her body in comforting waves. “Yes,” she whispered. She didn’t know what Anton had given her, but the drug quickened her pulse. This was good. She was into this. I’m flying now, baby.

  He released her and the room swam. Kuzup was giggling. Anton held a small syringe, which he tossed into a pot to his right.

  Helen sauntered out onto the floor and eased herself onto a thick cushion. The music worked its way through her body like a massage. An obscure thought occurred to her, the thought that Jan would like this. Not seeing her with strangers like this, but feeling the euphoria that drifted through her bones now.

  “How much?” she heard Kuzup asking.

  “Are you made of gold? Because you’ll need a mountain of it to match what I’ve been offered for this one.”

  “Bah!”

  Helen lost interest in their babbling. To her right, a woman lay on her back, staring wide at the ceiling. Mucus ran from her nose and for some reason Helen found some humor in the sight. The woman was beautiful, with golden hair and brown eyes, but she’d been reduced to a stiff board, gawking at the low-hung black stone. Did she know how absurd she looked, sweating on the floor?

  And you, Helen? You’re less foolish? She rolled into a ball, feeling suddenly euphoric and sick at once. Like a self-conscious dog, lapping at some vomit—such a comforting treat, as long as no one knew. But he would be home soon, wouldn’t he? Jan would be home to tell her about the blue car his uncle had sold him. They could take romantic trips to the countryside now.

  A high-pitched cackle cut through Helen’s thoughts. She saw a woman dressed in red with her arms entwined about Anton’s neck. Her hair was long and black. She was kissing him on the nose, and then on the forehead and down his cheek, whispering words through pursed lips. The woman threw her head back and laughed at the ceiling. They both looked at Helen, pleased with themselves.

  “So she has come without a fight, our American beauty,” the woman said, loudly enough for Helen to hear. Then the woman turned to Anton and licked his right cheek with a wet tongue. He did not flinch. He only smiled and watched Helen. The lady in red was speaking to him, calling him names. Names that made no sense to Helen.

  Except one name. She cooed it in a low voice.

  Karadzic.

  She called him Karadzic and that name rang a bell deep in Helen’s mind. Perhaps an endearing term Janjic had called her once. Yes, Janjic Jovic, her lover.

  Karadzic.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  SHE WAS gone when Jan burst into the flat to announce his smart dealing over the car. He’d struck a deal with his uncle Ermin: no money for thirty days, and if the car still ran, he would pay one hundred a month for six months. It was a good trade, given the unavoidable fear that the rattling deathtrap might fly apart at any moment.

  But Helen wasn
’t in the flat. His breast-beating would have to wait until she returned from the market. Darkness was falling outside, and she didn’t often go down to the street after sunset. She hadn’t cooked yet either.

  Jan sat at the table and picked away at his typewriter. He was nearing the end of the book. One more chapter and it would be ready for the editor. Not that he had an editor. No publisher, no editor, not even a reader. But this time the book was for him—for the writing. It was a purging of his mind, a cleansing of his soul. And it all came down to this last chapter. Ivena would have to live with the fact that his story was now done. Not his full life, of course, but this ravishing love story of his was now over. It had found its fulfillment back here in Bosnia.

  He glanced at the pile of completed pages, stacked neatly beside the typewriter. The title smiled across the cover page. When Heaven Weeps. It was a good name.

  If there was a real caveat, it was in the simple realization that he didn’t know what he would write in this last chapter. Up to this point the book had fairly written itself. It had rushed from his mind and his fingers had hardly kept pace.

  Helen isn’t back, Jan.

  Jan stood from the table and walked to the window. The market closed at eight, but the shoppers had thinned already. Where are you, dear Helen? He glanced at the watch on his hand. It was ten past seven.

  And what if she’s gone, Jan?

  His pulse quickened at the thought. No. We are beyond that. And where would she go? Father, please, I beg you for her safety. I beg you, don’t allow harm to come to her.

  It occurred to him that he was sweating despite the cool breeze. He spun from the window and rushed from the flat. He would go to the market and find her.

  Jan entered the open-air market three minutes later, quelling memories that brought a mutter to his lips. He strode quickly through the street, craning for a view of her. Of her unmistakable blond hair. Please, God, let me see her.

  But he did not see her.

  He approached Darko’s vegetable kiosk, where the big man was busy filling boxes with squashes for the night.

  “Darko, have you seen Helen?”

  The man looked up. “No. Not tonight.”

  “Earlier, then? At dusk?”

  He shook his head. “Not today.”

  “You are sure?”

  “Not today, Janjic.”

  Jan nodded and glanced around. “She was home three hours ago.”

  “Don’t worry, my friend. She will return. She is a beautiful woman. Beautiful women always seem to find distractions in Sarajevo, yes? But, don’t worry, she is lost without you. I have seen it in her eyes.”

  A distant voice snickered in Jan’s mind. And if she is beautiful, keep her away from him. It was Molosov, and he was suddenly laughing. Heat washed down Jan’s back. He fought off a surge of panic. He spun to Darko, whose grin softened under his glare.

  “You know Molosov?” he demanded.

  “Molosov? It’s a common name.”

  “A big man,” Jan said impatiently. “Brown hair. From the east side of Novi Grad. He was here yesterday. He said he had a friend in the market.”

  “No.”

  Jan slammed his palm on the merchant’s table and grunted. Darko looked at him with surprise. Jan dipped his head apologetically and ran from the kiosk. Please, Father. Not again, please! I cannot take it.

  He stopped at the next kiosk and questioned vigorously of Helen and Molosov to no avail. But that small voice in his head kept snickering. He ran through the market, fighting to retain control of his reason, desperate now to find either Helen or Molosov. Of course it was just a hunch, he kept telling himself. But the hunch burrowed like a tick in his skull.

  If anyone knew Molosov, they weren’t talking easily. Until he spoke to the beggar at the west side of the market.

  “You know Molosov? A big man with dark hair from the east end of—”

  “Yes, yes. Of course I know Molosov.” A smile came to his ratty face.

  “Tell me where to find him.”

  “I can’t—”

  “You think I’m playing? Tell me, man!”

  The beggar pushed Jan’s hand aside. “Perhaps a little money will loosen my memory.”

  Jan shoved his hand into his pocket and snatched a fistful of bills. He held them in front of the beggar’s growing eyes. “Take me to him and this will be yours.”

  Twenty minutes later, Jan stood before Molosov in a small tin shack with a dozen men betting on a game of cards. A bare bulb burned above them. At first mention of Karadzic’s name, Molosov ushered Jan outside by the arm. “You’re trying to have me killed?” he demanded.

  “I have to know where he is! You know—you must tell me!”

  “Lower your voice! What’s this about?”

  Jan told him, but Molosov wasn’t forthcoming. Karadzic’s place was not common knowledge. He tried repeatedly to dismiss Jan’s fears, but the quick shifting of his eyes told of his own fears. In the end, it took the thousand dollars Jan had pocketed for the car to persuade the big soldier. Jan withdrew the wad and offered it to the man. “Take it. It will buy your passage to America. Tell me where he is.”

  Molosov looked at the money and glanced around nervously again. “And what if she’s not there?”

  “It’s a risk I’m willing to take. Hurry, man!”

  Molosov took the bills and told him, swearing him to tell no one.

  Jan turned then and ran into the night, east toward the Rajlovac.

  And what if Molosov is right? What if Helen isn’t there? What then, Jan?

  Then I will weep for joy.

  But dread pounded through his chest. He didn’t expect to be weeping for joy. Weeping, perhaps, but not for joy.

  THE DEAD-END street Molosov had directed Jan to was pitch black when he swung into it thirty minutes later. He pulled up and flattened his palms on his chest as if by gripping it he could ease the burning of his lungs. His breathing sounded like bellows echoing from the concrete walls.

  A flag, Molosov had said. With skulls. Jan could see nothing but foreboding black. He stumbled forward and then stopped when the dim outline of the banner materialized over a door, thirty yards ahead. Three bundled bodies lay on the sidewalk, he saw. Another in the gutter, either dead or wasted.

  A picture of Karadzic filled his mind, square and ferocious, screaming at Father Micheal. He had fought that image for twenty years now. The notion that Helen was in there with the beast suddenly struck him as preposterous.

  Jan walked forward. And if he is inhuman, what is Helen?

  He grunted and rushed forward. Lights flashed in his peripheral vision; the war was coming to his mind again and he blinked against it. Jan shoved the door open and stepped into a dark hall. The faint beat of music carried through the walls. He stood and willed his eyes to adjust; his breathing to slow.

  At the end of the hall stairs rose to his right and descended to his left. Down. With Karadzic it would be down. He crept down the steps and ran into another entry. The music sounded louder, keeping beat with his heart. He tried the door. It was locked.

  A small window suddenly grated open, casting a shaft of yellow light over his chest. Jan stepped back. The door swung open.

  You don’t belong here, Janjic.

  No one appeared. Ahead a tunnel had been carved from the rock, lit by colored lights. Whoever had opened the door probably stood behind it, waiting. Jan stepped through. The music thudded now.

  You really have no sense in coming here, Janjic.

  The door slammed behind him and he whirled around. He could see no one. Another door led into the wall behind the entrance and he tried it quickly. It was locked.

  “Lover boy has come for his woman?”

  The voice echoed in the chamber and Jan spun around. Father, please! Give me strength.

  “Janjic. After so long the savior has returned home. And to save another poor soul, no less.”

  This time he could not mistake the familiar rumbling voice
; it was tattooed on his memory. Karadzic! Steady, Jan. Hold yourself. He took a deliberate breath and let it out slowly. He stood and gripped his hands into fists.

  Feet crunched faintly and then stopped directly in front of him. He took a step backward in the darkness. Pale yellow light suddenly flooded the tunnel.

  The figure stood before him, an apparition from a lost nightmare. He was tall and boxy, balanced on long legs and dressed in black, with a wicked grin splitting a square jaw. It was Karadzic.

  Two distinct urges collided in Jan’s mind. The first was to launch himself at the larger man; to kill him if possible. The second urge was to flee. He had faced Karadzic once and lived to tell the story. This time he might not be so lucky.

  Jan moved his foot a few inches and then stood rooted to the earth, tensed like a bowstring.

  “So good to see you again, my friend,” Karadzic said softly. “And you have come so quickly. I had expected to force your hand, but now you have jumped into my lap.”

  Jan couldn’t speak. He could only stare at this incarnation of terror. The man had lured him here. He’d used Helen against her will to bring him in, he thought.

  Jan spoke quietly. “You always had your way with women. You prey on the weak because you yourself are only half a man.”

  “And you still have a tongue, do you?” Karadzic said. “I did not bring your woman here, you poor fool. She came to me, perhaps in search of a man. I can see why she left you.”

  “You lie! She did not come on her own.”

  “No? Actually I had planned on luring her with the old woman, but it wasn’t necessary.”

  The old woman?

  An arm suddenly clamped over Jan’s mouth and yanked his head back. He swung his elbow back and was rewarded with a grunt. A hand punched his kidneys and he relaxed to the pain.

  “Perhaps you would like to see your Helen?”

  The arms from behind jerked his hands behind him and lashed his wrists together with rope. They shoved a rag in his mouth and ran a wide strip of tape over it. Karadzic walked slowly up to him. His old commander breathed heavily, his lips parted and wet. Sweat glistened on his forehead. Without warning his arm lashed out and he struck Jan on his ear. He gasped in pain.