The Heaven Trilogy (71 page)

“What does this have to do with me?”

“You
own
the building.”

“That's right. I
own
it. I don't build them, I buy them.”

“They're saying it'll go over budget in excess of a million dollars.”

“I don't care if it goes over budget two million. Right now I don't care if it goes over five million!”

She blinked at the outburst. “Fine. Then I guess you won't be interested in the rest of these matters either. What's a few million?” She was trying to bait him.

“That's right, Beatrice. And if anybody does anything stupid, I'll deal with them later. But not now.”

She unfolded her legs as if to stand. “Yes, not now. Now you're taking care of more important business.”

“Don't step over this line, Beatrice.”

“She'll ruin you, Glenn.”

“She's my life.”

“And she'll be your death. What's come over you with this woman?”

Glenn didn't respond. It was a good question.

Beatrice looked at him and shook her head. “I've seen them come and go, Glenn, but never like this one. She's controlling you.”

Shut up, you witch!
He remained silent while her words spun through his mind. She was right in a small way. He could hardly understand his obsession with Helen himself. Helen had waltzed into his life only a few short months ago, a ghost from his past, and now she had possessed him. But Helen . . . Helen wasn't so easily possessed. She held that power over him, and his desire for her ran like fire through his blood, in spite of—or maybe because of—her refusal to be possessed.

“You want her only because you can't have her,” Beatrice said. “She's nothing but a piece of trash, and you're slobbering over her like a dog. Come on, Glenn. You're neglecting your own interests. Look at you; you look like a pig.”

“Out,” he snarled, trembling now.

She stood with a
humph
and walked for the door. She was the only being on the planet who would dare make such statements. Glenn watched her bulging profile and fought an urge to leap after her and pound her into the tile. Beatrice turned at the door. “When was the last time you took a bath?”

“Out! Out, out!” he thundered.

She drilled him with a sharp stare and then strutted off with her chin level and proud, as if she'd somehow set him straight.

Glenn slammed a fist onto the desk and stormed for the far wall. He hit the glass with both palms and it shuddered under the blow. One of these days it would break and send him tumbling to his death. He pressed his forehead against it and peered at Atlanta, stretched out like a toy city. Nothing down there seemed to have changed in the last few minutes. It was still gray and green and scampering with ants.

“Where are you, Helen?” he muttered. “Where are you?”

THE CADILLAC rolled through Atlanta's western business district, silent except for the air conditioner's cool blast. They passed a large shiny Woolworth's storefront on their right; pedestrians strode along the sidewalk smartly dressed in dark business suits and dresses. Jan collected his thoughts before turning to Helen.

“So. Who were they?”

She looked out her window. “Do preachers always drive such expensive cars?”

“I'm not a preacher. I'm a writer. I wrote a book that did well.”

“I suppose you take it any way you can get it. Not that I don't approve; I do. I just didn't expect your shiny white ride to fly in just when it did, that's all.”

“I'm glad I could be of service. Which leads us back to my first question. Who were those two men?”

She shifted her eyes back to the passing road. “Where are we going?”

“To a friend's house. If I'm not mistaken, I just risked my neck back there for you. The least you can do is tell me what for.”

“They were two of Glenn's men.”

“And Glenn? Tell me about Glenn.”

“You don't want to know about Glenn, Reverend.”

“Please don't call me Reverend anymore. And again, I think I've earned the right to know about Glenn.”

She smiled at him, a tad condescending. “Yes, I suppose you have, haven't you? But trust me, you don't
want
to know about Glenn. He's like a prison—just because you've earned a stay doesn't mean you
want
to go. But then you've probably never been to prison, have you?”

The notion to wallop her upside the head with one of his books crossed his mind. And then another thought: that even a year ago the impulse wouldn't have entered his mind at all. He stared at a hardcover copy of his book that peered at them from the seatpocket netting. Its surrealistic image of a man's bloodstained face stretched in laughter against a bright red sky even now seemed to mock him. Ivena was right, he'd seen too much.

Jan spoke without removing his eyes from the book. “Actually, I have spent time in prison. Five years.”

Her grin softened slowly. Jan spoke while he had the advantage. “And yes, I do want to know about any man who threatens my life, regardless of the situation.”

“What prison?”

“Tell me.”

She turned away. “I told you. Glenn Lutz.”

Now they were getting somewhere. “Yes, but you didn't tell me
who
Glenn Lutz is.”

She looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “I can't believe you've never heard of Glenn Lutz. The developer? He's even on the city council, although God knows he's got no business there.”

“And he's the kind of man that would have henchmen?”

“He's got money, doesn't he? When you've got money, you've always got something going on the side. In Glenn's case he's got a whole ton of money. And if people knew what he had going on the side . . .” She let the statement go. “Trust me, Preacher, you don't
ever
want to know him.”

She flipped her stringy tangles back and ran her fingers through them in a futile combing attempt. Her pale skin was smooth; her jawline sloping back to a fair neck, like a delicate wishbone. She closed her eyes, suddenly sobered by her account of Glenn Lutz.

If this young woman was a junkie, which she surely was, she wasn't meant to be a junkie, Jan thought.

“And what does this man have to do with you?” he asked.

“I really don't want to talk about him, if you don't mind. He wants to kill me; isn't that enough?” Her voice wavered and suddenly Jan felt regret for having asked the question at all.

“He's your boyfriend?” Jan asked.

“No.”

He nodded and looked through the front windshield. They were winding through an industrial part of town now, not so far from Ivena's house. Red-brick buildings passed on either side. Steve's reflection smiled at him in the mirror. He nodded and returned the man's gesture of support.

You did what?

I rescued a junkie from two goons in the park, but she really has no business being a junkie. Really she is quite witty.

And if not a junkie, what should she be?

I don't know.

Jan turned back to Helen. “You said Glenn wanted to—”

“Actually, I thought I said I didn't want to talk about the pig.” She looked at him apologetically. “Didn't I say that? I mean, it wasn't two minutes ago and I could swear I asked you not to speak about the man.”

Jan glanced to the front. Steve had lost his smile.

“Look, Reverend. I know you don't run into my type every day. I'm sure this is quite a shock to you—riding in your white Cadillac beside some lowlife running for her life. But in my world you can't just go around talking about every deal that goes down or you might find yourself on the wrong end of one of those deals.” Her voice had softened. “If you knew what I'd been through in the last twenty-four hours, you might not be so critical.”

He turned to her. “And if you knew what I had been through in the last twenty-four years you would not be so defensive.”

They looked at each other for a long moment, each caught in the other's direct stare. Her eyes brimmed with tears and she turned.
Easy, Jan. She's a wounded one. You know about wounding, don't you? Perhaps she's not so different from you.
He cleared his throat and sat back.

They rode in an awkward silence for a few minutes.

“So,” he finally said. “Now that I've saved your neck, is there any particular place you would like to go?”

The brick buildings had evolved into a heavily treed suburban neighborhood and Helen studied the homes. “He's got eyes everywhere.”

“Glenn?”

She nodded.

“Then perhaps my friend can help until you decide what to do.”

Helen looked at him. “Is he as kind as you?”

“He is a she. And yes, she is very kind.”

“Girlfriend?”

“No.” Jan smiled. “Heavens no. We're just very close.”

“Then I think that would be okay.”

“Good.” Ivena would know what to do. Jan would drop Helen off at Ivena's house and ask her to set the girl on a course that removed her from any immediate danger. Perhaps call the authorities if Helen would allow it. He breathed deep. It was a thing to think about, this strange encounter. Something to think about, indeed.

CHAPTER TEN

Q: “You've been criticized by some for your attention to detail in the suffering of the martyrs. They say it's not decent for a Christian writer to dwell on such pain. Do you cross the line between realistic description and voyeurism?”

A: “Of course not. Realism allows us to participate in one's suffering and voyeurism takes pleasure from it. The two are like white and black. But many Christians would shut the suffering of the saints from their minds; it's not what Christ had in mind. He knew his disciples would want to forget, so he asked them to drink his blood and eat his body in remembrance. The writer of Hebrews tells us to imagine we are there, with those in suffering. I ask you, why is the church so eager to run from it?”

Jan Jovic, author of bestseller
The Dance of the Dead
Interview with Walter Cronkite, 1961

THE TINY green shoot at the base of Nadia's dying rosebush had grown two inches overnight. Two inches of growth was too much for one night. Unless her memory of the previous morning was a bit fuzzy and it had already been two inches then.

Ivena bent over the blackened plant and blinked at the strange sight. The small shoot curled slightly upward, like a relaxed finger. The texture of its skin was different from any rose stem she knew of. Not as dark either.

She gently stroked the base of the shoot. By all appearances it was a graft, which could only mean one thing: She had grafted this shoot into Nadia's rosebush.

And then promptly forgotten it.

It was possible, wasn't it? She could've been so distressed over the prospect of Nadia's bush dying that her mind had wiped out a whole sequence of events. It could've been a week ago, for that matter, and judging by the growth it had been a week ago. At least.

The doorbell chimed and Ivena jerked up, startled. It was a delivery, perhaps. The bulbs she'd ordered last week. She pulled off her gloves, wiped her hands on her apron and wound her way through the small house to the front door.

She peeked through the viewer and saw two forms on the porch, one of which was . . .
Janjic! What a pleasant surprise!
She opened the door.

“Janjic! Come in, come in!” She leaned forward and allowed him to kiss each cheek. He was dressed in a well-worn beige shirt without a collar, Bosnian style, and his cologne smelled spicy when he bent for her kiss.

“Ivena, I would like you to meet Helen.”

The dark lines around Janjic's eyes wrinkled with a nervous smile. He ran a hand through his hair. Ivena looked at the young woman beside Janjic. Any friend of Jan's would be a friend of hers, but this one was odd to be sure. For starters, the blue-eyed girl looked as though someone had drained the blood from her face. She smiled nicely enough, but even her lips were pale. And her hair hadn't been washed in several days at the least. The T-shirt and jeans made her look very young. Gracious, what was Janjic up to?

“Hello, my dear. My name is Ivena. Come in. Please, come in. And what of Steve?” she asked, looking to the Cadillac. “Will he join us?”

“No, I can't stay long,” Janjic said, smoothing his brow.

They entered the house and followed her to the small dining room. She had bread in the oven and its warm scent wafted through the house. Why Americans purchased their bread when they could make it easily enough Ivena could not appreciate. Bread was to smell and to feel; it was to make, not just eat.

“Would you like a drink, Janjic?”

“I'm not sure—”

“Of course you would. We must have a drink together while you tell me of your new friend.” She turned and winked at Jan.

“Yes. Yes, all right.” Jan pulled a chair from the table, and Ivena could see that his cheeks had reddened slightly. Helen did not respond. Her eyes darted nervously about the house. She looked like a wild bird newly caged. A dove, maybe, with her soft white skin, but skittish and uncomfortable just the same.

“Sit, my dear. It's okay. I'll get us some tea.”

Five minutes later they sat around a small blue pot and three porcelain cups of steaming tea, sipping the hot liquid. But really, only Jan and Ivena sipped. The girl picked hers up once and brought it to her lips, but she replaced it on the saucer without drinking. Ivena smiled politely and waited, wondering at the presence of this strange woman sitting between them.

Jan looked as though he wasn't quite sure how to begin so Ivena helped him out. “Just tell me, Jan. What would you like me to know about Helen?”

“Yes. Well, we have a problem here. Helen's in some trouble. She needs help.”

Ivena looked at Helen and smiled. “But of course you do, my dear. I could see this much the moment I opened the door.”