by Ted Dekker
“Her choice to die for you will set her free,” Karadzic stated with a glint in his eyes. “But her choice to live will hand her over to Lutz. Or I could just kill you both and collect the money already offered.”
“You could.”
Karadzic stared at him for several long seconds. Then he backed out of the room. “We will see,” he said, and he was gone.
The door closed and Jan slumped against his straps.
KARADZIC ENTERED the dimly lit quarters beneath the earth and stared at the large American seated cross-legged in his leather chair. The man stood to his feet and faced him. He looked albino in the yellow light; very white from his blond hair to his pale skin, this pig. Karadzic had never suspected that another man could send a chill down his spine, but Glenn Lutz did, every time he turned those black eyes his way. He did not like that.
“Well?” Lutz asked.
“He has a proposal for you,” Karadzic said, walking for his liquor cabinet.
“He knows that I’m here?”
“No. Of course not. He thinks I will call you.”
“He’s not exactly in a position to give proposals, is he? What’s his proposal?” Lutz demanded.
“He says that you will pay me double for the woman’s heart.”
Glenn breathed loudly in the chamber. “I didn’t make a thirty-hour trip to cut out her heart. I came to kill her. Straight and simple. Once she’s dead, I don’t care what you do with her. He’s ranting.”
“He’s not suggesting that I cut her heart out. He’s suggesting that I play a game with her.” Karadzic poured scotch into a glass and faced the bulky American. “The same game that I played with the priest in the village.”
Lutz stared dumbly. He wasn’t connecting. “I paid you to bring them in. Fifty thousand American dollars for each. Now I’m going to kill them both. I’m not interested in games.”
“And what if the game gave you Helen back? Hmm? What if she came willingly to you as yours and yours alone? What would you pay for that?”
Glenn pulled and pushed the stale air through his nostrils as if they were old bellows. His eyelids fell over those black eyes like shutters and then snapped open. The man had lost a part of himself somewhere, Karadzic thought.
Karadzic spoke again. “He says that you will pay me two hundred thousand dollars if I’m able to persuade her to renounce her love for Janjic. He says that if she renounces her love for him in the face of death, she’ll lose her will to love him and return willingly to you.”
Glenn stared at Karadzic for a long time without moving his eyes. Finally he spoke. “And if she refuses?”
“Then we set her free. We kill only Janjic.” He took a sip from the glass.
“I came to kill them both,” Glenn said, but his conviction seemed tempered.
“Janjic is right. If the woman renounces her love for him, her spirit will be broken. She will be yours for the taking.” Karadzic smiled. “But either way I will kill him. You will have her alive or dead. Either way you will win.”
“I thought the game was to set her free if she chooses to die.”
“That was Janjic’s request. But if she chooses to die rather than renounce her pathetic love for one man, then we will give her that wish.” It really was like the priest, wasn’t it? Karadzic felt his pulse thump through his veins. A sort of vindication.
“And why should I pay you—”
“Because you could not do it,” Karadzic interrupted, suddenly angry. “She would never renounce her love with you standing there.” He had no idea if that was true or not, but suddenly the money was sounding very attractive. And playing the game again carried a poetic justice that was starting to gnaw at his skull. “I will kill Janjic regardless. And I am offering you the chance to have your woman alive and willing. It’s your choice. One hundred thousand for both dead, or two hundred thousand for Janjic dead and Helen in your arms.”
Glenn turned from him and put his hands on his hips. The man wasn’t beyond trying to kill him, Karadzic thought. Lutz would pull the trigger without a thought. But this was Bosnia, not America. Here the American would play by his rules. Or die. If it wasn’t for the promise of the money Karadzic would have killed the fat slob already. It would be a pleasure to watch the pig die.
“I’ll double my payment for Helen,” Glenn said, turning. “One hundred thousand for her if you can make her curse the preacher. I’ll pay you our agreed fee of fifty thousand for the preacher. That’s one hundred fifty thousand. No more.”
He said it all as a man used to authority, and Karadzic almost told him to swallow his money. But he didn’t. He might do that later.
“Fine,” he said, and walked for the door. “I will expect you to keep your promise.” Lutz was boring into him with those black eyes when he turned back to him. “Do not leave this room,” Karadzic said. He left and a chill of fury ripped down his spine.
Maybe he would just kill them all. When it was over and he had his money. But now he would play. The thought brought a grin to his lips.
Poetic justice.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
HELEN FELT hands moving her, jostling her around, but her mind still drifted in lazy circles. They had changed her position, she knew that much, and now she grasped for threads to the real world. The room with all of its colored lights and feathers wasn’t easily distinguished from her dreams.
She was standing, or lying on her back. No, standing, with her arms thrown to either side, immobile. Odd. Helen turned her head slowly and closed her eyes against the tiny flames of light. The candles looked like fireflies skittering across her horizon. She moaned. When the pinpricks behind her eyes cleared, she looked again and the room came into soft focus.
The black walls glistened with the glow from several dozen white candles staggered at various heights, their flames flickering like jerky dancers. A couple of figures moved in the shadows but most of the others she’d seen were no longer present. Helen tried to shift her feet to rid a tingling there, but she found she couldn’t. She lowered her head and studied her bare feet. Yes, they were bare. And pressed side by side, hanging limply. Off the ground.
The last detail cleared her mind and she blinked. Her feet were bound together, suspended off the floor! Her arms . . . She lifted her head quickly and looked at her right arm. Half-inch rope had been wrapped around her forearm and a huge crossbeam. She turned her head. Her left arm was bound to the same beam.
A chill ran up her spine. What was happening to her? She pulled against the restraints, but they didn’t give, and her head throbbed with pain for the effort. They’d ripped her tan cotton slacks at the knees, baring her calves. The white of her blouse was smudged with dirt, and the sleeves shredded to her armpits.
What is happening? Helen began to whimper, not because she wanted to whimper, but because she wanted to ask and nothing else would come from her mouth. She desperately searched the room and caught the looks of the two men, but they only stared, unblinking.
“H . . . help.” Her cry squeaked like a pathetic little toy, and she began to weep softly through trembling lips. “Please help.” But the room was empty except for these two men calmly looking at her.
She knew then that her life was about to end. There was a feel to the air unlike any she’d ever known. A biting chill but hot, so that her skin glistened with sweat. She shivered. The room smelled like rotten meat, but tinged with a medicinal odor she recognized as heroin. Evil filled this dungeon, dark and lurking, but very much alive. And she had come here eagerly.
Helen’s body shook with fear and shame. Oh, Jan, dear Jan, what have I done? I am so sorry.
How many times had she said that?
She bit her lip, hard enough to draw the tangy taste of blood.
The door opened to her left and a large figure stood in the frame, backlit by the hall’s orange light. Karadzic.
Suddenly she knew who this man was. He was Karadzic! The Karadzic! He was Jan’s commander in the book!
A w
oman was shoved past him, stumbling to her knees. Her dress was ripped up one side, but it looked vaguely familiar. The two men who’d been in the room stepped forward and hauled the woman to her feet.
Helen saw her face, streaked with blood so that it looked torn along a jagged line. She caught her breath.
It was Ivena! Ivena was here!
“Ivena!”
Ivena turned her head slowly and looked at Helen. Then her eyes widened and immediately wrinkled with empathy. Ivena’s mouth parted in a silent cry. “Dear Helen . . . Oh, dear Helen, I am so sorry.”
Helen turned to the door where Karadzic still stood in shadows. “What are you doing to her? She’s an old woman. You can’t—”
“Don’t be afraid for me,” Ivena said, now with a soft voice. Helen faced her. There was a glint in Ivena’s eyes and it wasn’t from the firelight. “I fear for you, dear Helen. For your soul, not for your body. Don’t let them take your soul.”
A white light flooded Helen’s mind with that last word, as if a strobe had been ignited. She jerked her head up.
The room had vanished. She gasped.
A field of white flowers stretched out before her, surrounded by a brilliant blue sky.
Her vision snapped back to the room, where the big man, Karadzic, was stepping in, followed by the woman in red. They both wore clown grins.
But Helen remained here less than a second, before the white world popped back to life like a flashbulb. The flowers swayed, delicate in the breeze, bowing to a prone figure not ten feet away. She heard what sounded like a child sobbing quietly, and Helen quickly scanned the surreal sky. It was turquoise now and it flowed like a river toward the horizon.
Helen dropped her eyes. The woman on the ground was dressed in a pink dress with little flowers and . . .
It was her! It was her, Helen!
The soft sobbing halted for a brief second, leaving only deathly silence. The world had frozen with Helen in it, standing agape, lying near death.
And then the screaming started. A hundred thousand voices wailed at once, desperate in their agony. In her mind’s eye Helen covered her ears and doubled over. The sound ripped through her nerves like a razor. They were weeping for that prone figure. For her.
“God, dear God, forgive me!”
Instantly she was back in the dim room, with her last cry echoing around her. Karadzic and his black-haired woman stared at her, their smiles gone. They had heard her.
“God can’t hear you, fool!” The big man was dressed in a black robe with the lady in red at his arm. Two others had followed them in and now took their posts to Helen’s right. Then Karadzic stepped to the center of the room and faced her. “You think calling out to God will save you? It didn’t save the priest, and he was better than you.”
The two men who’d waited near the back had Ivena by her arms now. They jerked her to the side where they stood her up facing Helen. But the glint in Ivena’s eyes did not fade.
The candles flickered silently. Helen sagged from the cross, heaving with emotion. But it really wasn’t from the madness in this room, was it? It was from that vision. It had left her sight, but the weeping still crashed through her heart.
Karadzic approached Helen, wearing a twisted grin again. He was very tall, so that his face came level with Helen’s. He lifted a thick hand and ran his fingers down Helen’s cheek.
“Such soft skin. It’s a shame, really.” Karadzic spoke very softly, and he wiped the tears from Helen’s cheek. It made little difference; fresh tears spilled in silent streams. He leaned closer, and Helen could smell the musty odor of his breath.
“Today you will die. You know that, don’t you?” he whispered.
Karadzic’s eyes were no more than six inches from Helen’s; they roved in their sockets, searching Helen’s face. He ran a thick tongue delicately over his teeth; sweat glistened on his upper lip. “In one hour you will be dead. After we’ve had our fun. But you can save yourself. You’re going to decide whether or not you want to stay alive now. Do you understand?”
He looked into Helen’s eyes, waiting.
Helen nodded. A squeak of air escaped her throat. Fear spread through her bones, replacing the sorrow brought on by the vision. She glanced over at Ivena, who stared at her with that fire in her eyes.
“Helen,” Karadzic whispered. His mouth popped lightly with the parting of his lips and tongue. “Such a pretty name. Do you want to stay alive, Helen? Hmm? Do you want to go back to your lover?”
Helen nodded. She glanced over Karadzic’s shoulder and saw that the others hadn’t moved. The faint hiss of burning candlewicks played over her mind. The man was breathing deliberately through his nostrils.
“Say it, my darling. Tell me you want to stay alive.”
“Yes,” Helen said. But it came out like a whimper.
Karadzic smiled. “Yes. Then you remember that, because if you don’t, I’m going to let Vahda break your fingers off, one by one. It will sound very loud in this room. You will think that you’re being shot, but it will only be your bones snapping loudly.” Somewhere in there his smile had vanished.
Helen realized that she was no longer breathing.
Karadzic turned and walked back. A pistol was shoved in his belt, large and black. Helen’s breath came in sudden short pants. Chills swept over her skull. Oh, God! Please save me. I’ll do anything!
Karadzic turned around by the woman, Vahda, and for a long moment they stared at Helen, unmoving. Shadows flickered with the candle flames, dancing across their faces.
Karadzic reached out to the guard on his right and took a revolver from him.
Helen’s heart crashed into her throat. Her breathing shortened—she was hyperventilating. Glenn’s eyes were black. No, it was Karadzic, and his eyes were like holes. Why were they doing this? What had she done to anger them?
“Now, Helen, we brought you here to kill you. And we’re going to do that.” He spoke very softly, very matter-of-factly. “But since your husband was kind enough to tell my story to the world and bring me such fame, I’ve decided to give you a choice. You did read his book, didn’t you?”
She didn’t respond. Couldn’t.
“Good. Then you’ll remember that I gave the priest a choice. You do remember that?”
Karadzic took a step forward. “Look at me, Helen.” She did, still trembling. “Here is your choice. It’s quite simple. If you renounce your love for Janjic, I will set you free.”
She blinked at the man. Renounce her love? For Janjic! She could do that easily—they were just words.
“Do you understand? Tell me that you don’t love him—that you would curse him if he were here—and I’ll set you free. Do you understand?”
She nodded impulsively.
You can’t renounce your love, Helen.
Of course I can. I have to! She refused to look at Ivena, but she could feel the woman’s eyes on her.
“Very good.”
“You . . . you won’t hurt him?” Helen asked.
“Hurt him? If you reject him, what will it matter? He’ll be dead to you anyway.”
Her head began to throb. She closed her eyes, desperate to wake up from this nightmare.
“Helen.”
She opened her eyes. Karadzic had lifted the gun and rested its barrel on his cheek. He tilted his head, and looked past his bushy eyebrows at her.
“You know what happened to the priest. I know you do. I killed him.”
She didn’t move. The air felt very still.
“But I want you to be sure that I will do what I say. I want you to know that when I say I’m going to kill someone, I will kill them.” His mouth was open in a slight smile.
“Look at Ivena, Helen.”
Helen turned toward Ivena. The older woman looked directly at Helen with an eagerness in her eyes and the hint of a smile on her lips. There was no fear; there was only this absurd confidence that glowed about her. A fresh surge of tears spilled from Helen’s eyes.
Th
e guards stepped aside and Ivena stood on her own feet, wavering.
“Do not weep for me, Helen. The weeping is for you,” Ivena said.
From the corner of her eye Helen saw Karadzic lift his arm to Ivena. A boom! crashed through Helen’s skull and she jerked back. Ivena’s neck folded back. The side of her head was gone. She fell to the floor like a sack of flour.
Then Helen’s mind began to explode with panic. There was laughter, but she couldn’t remove her eyes from Ivena’s limp body to see where it came from— maybe from Karadzic and his woman. Maybe it was from her.
Ivena! Dear God, Ivena was dead!
Oh, God, please save me! I please beg you to save me! Please, please!
JAN STRAINED against the ropes, ignoring the pain that throbbed in his joints. It had begun, he knew that much. He could feel the tension in his gut, and it made him nauseous.
Dear Father, I beg you, save her. I beg you!
He heard a distant report: a gunshot far away. Had they shot her? Jan dropped his chin to his chest and groaned aloud. Bile filled his throat and he threw up. He spit the bitter taste from his mouth and groaned again. It was too much.
Karadzic would do whatever possible to encourage Helen’s denouncement of love, even if it meant harming her. And Ivena, what would he do to Ivena? The thought of that bullhead touching Helen revolted Jan, actually made his body quiver on its moorings.
He let his head loll and begged God for the moments to pass quickly. If she renounced her love, she would be gone forever and Jan thought he might as well die without her. Which was precisely what would happen. Karadzic would butcher him.
But if Helen chose death instead? Karadzic might break his word and kill her. But there were no other options. At least they would die as one, in love.
Father, you cannot allow her to die. She is your Israel; she is your church; she is your bride.
A picture from the Psalms, of a giant eagle screaming from the sky to protect its young, spun through his mind. You have cast this madness, Father. Now save us. You have made me Solomon, desperate for the maiden; you have made me Hosea, loving with your heart. Now show me your hand.
Silence.
