“Such as?” I asked.
“You will understand that we are brothers.”
“Your painting will prove that we are brothers?”
“Y-yes.”
“Well then,” I said moving across from the frame, “by all means.”
Basil’s face became calm. “The big deep heavy,” he whispered. As he moved to uncover the work, a loud knock came upon the door.
“Dr. Newirth! Dr. Newirth! Are you here?”
“Yes, Carol, what is it?” I called.
The metal disc at the center of the door twisted and that strange groan came from the hinges again. As the door widened I could see Carol, and beside her two police officers. Carol’s eyes were filled with tears. “Doctor,” she cried. “Oh, Doctor. I didn’t think you were back from lunch yet—”
I stepped out of the office and closed the door behind me.
“Carol,” I gasped moving to meet these new visitors, “what’s the matter?”
“She’s dead,” Carol whispered. “She’s dead.”
“Who’s dead?” I exclaimed.
“Dr. Loche Newirth?” One of the officers said stepping forward.
“Yes. . .”
“Doctor, Bethany Leona Winship was found on the lake shore about a half hour ago. She’s drowned.”
My mouth opened, but no words came. The policeman went on, “We are very sorry to have to inform you of this. Would you like to sit down?” I looked at Carol. Her eyes glistened with tears. She avoided my gaze. I looked to the officers. Their expressions were patient and sympathetic. One of them reached out and placed his large hand on my shoulder. “Would you like to sit down?”
I took two delicate steps away from the policeman’s touch. “No,” I replied. “What? What has happened?”
“Beth Winship,” said the shorter officer, “we have reason to believe that she has committed suicide—but we’ve begun an investigation.”
I looked away and let my eyes follow the long lines of the hallway into the lobby.
“Her husband told us that she had come in to see you this morning. Was she here today?” I nodded an affirmation. “Have you been here all day?” I again nodded, still too stunned to speak. “Doctor, would you like to sit down?”
“No,” I said, “I—I am with a client currently. If you will excuse me I’ll end our session.” I turned, opened the door and stepped into my office. The policemen followed close behind. I noticed the chill in the room. The sheer curtain was swaying gently beside the open window. Basil Fenn was gone.
“What do you want to know?” Helen asked.
“Everything,” I answered.
“Everything?” She looked nervous.
“Yes, everything.”
“Let me put Edwin to bed. I’ll be right back.” The little boy pulled his hand out of my wife’s grasp, ran over to me and leapt heavily onto my lap. He kissed my cheek and returned to his mother. “Good night, Edwin,” I smiled.
“What has he told you?” Helen asked descending the stairs.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Then, what’s the big deal about Basil? We had our relationship, we broke up. What else do you want to know?”
“How did you meet?” I asked taking a seat at our dining room table.
Helen gave a sigh. She put one hand on my shoulder and began to gently rub. “Are you alright? Your call today freaked me out.”
“A lot has happened today, Helen.” I bowed my head. “I’ll share everything with you after you tell me some things.”
“So, what are those things?”
“How did you meet?”
Helen took a long pull from her cigarette and placed it in the ashtray in front of me. Placing her other hand on my shoulder she pressed down, rubbing into my fatigue.
“I shouldn’t have invited him over the other night,” she said. “Loche, you’re not jealous, are you?”
The incredulity of my reply was thick, “Helen. . .no. That’s not it.”
“When I bumped into him I found myself in an awkward position. We agreed to get together. Remember?”
“Helen,” I said with patience, “just tell me about him. That’s all.”
“Why? What’s the big deal?” she pleaded. Helen was obviously reluctant to answer my questions.
“He came to see me today, Helen, and I’d like to know a little more about his background.”
I could feel Helen’s eyes on the back of my head. The long pause told me that she was considering a reply. She reached over my shoulder and took another drag of her cigarette and then placed it back into the ashtray.
“We met in high school,” she said with an exhale of smoke. “Basil was, for the most part, a geek. He didn’t have many friends. We had a biology class together, and he sat right behind me. Always wearing black, always looking as if he had just gotten out of bed, and he always had those damn headphones wrapped around his head.
“One day—spring time, just before we got out for the summer, he leaned up behind me and asked me if I liked art. When I turned around I saw something in his eyes I couldn’t describe.” Helen reached around me and lifted her cigarette to her lips. I could feel her look away to some distant place. “I still can’t describe it. I told him yes. Then I asked him, what kind of art?” She dug her left hand into my tight shoulder, “Any kind of art, he said in that Basil sort of way. You know, sort of flippant. I said, sure. He leaned back in his chair and smiled at me, nodding. I turned back around and pretended to look busy when I felt his breath in my hair. Then he told me that I would marry an artist someday.
“I remember turning shades of red right there. When our teacher excused us, I turned around to try and catch a glimpse of those brown eyes of his, but he was already gone. From that day on I had a crush on what they call the artsy type.”
“Then what?” I asked, turning to watch her speak.
Her expression quickly changed from a thoughtful gaze to a fake smile. “He finally asked me out that August. He told me that he spent the first part of the summer with his folks in Olympia, Washington. He said that he thought of me the whole time he was gone, and I was the first one he called when he got back.”
“What about that John Whitely friend of his?” I reminded.
“Oh yes, John. He was around during that time, too. We did our share of partying. Though, I guess John is now a priest.”
“You said Basil’s parents lived in Olympia? Did you ever meet them.”
“Once.”
“What were they like?”
“They were nice people. His adopted father, Howard, he was in an accident that put him in a wheelchair.”
“Where did you meet them?”
“Here in Sandpoint. Basil took me to their house.”
“They had two homes?” I asked. “Did they have a lot of money?”
“Not that I know of. I never really thought about it. Basil didn’t like us spending time with his family. He said they wouldn’t understand.”
“Understand what?”
“You know, that was one of our big problems. He used to tell me his parents didn’t want him to get involved with anyone at such a young age. It seemed to me that they knew how weird he could be, so they were either afraid that I would hurt him, or that I might get hurt.”
“How did they receive you?”
“Like I said, they were very nice and polite to me, but sad. I can’t explain it. Those were strange times.” She pushed her cigarette into the ashtray. “His dad is a college professor— teaches English at North Idaho College and he taught some courses at Evergreen State College in the summertime.”
“I see.”
“I recall something about his father, Howard,” Helen circled around me and sat down. “His father was close to his family. Still is, I would guess. Basil told me that his father thought that the highest, most noble thing a person could do is stay close to, and care for family.”
“What about his mother?” I asked.
“Don’t know much
about her,” came her flat response. “Dead now,” she said, as she crushed her cigarette. I watched her hand kill each ember in the tray. “As far as I know, anyway.” When I looked up she studied my face.
I shook my head and replied lightly, “Dead you say? Do you know how?”
“What is this all about Loche? I’ve answered you, now you answer me.”
I stood up and crossed the room. With my back to her I replied, “Basil stopped in to see me today.”
“That’s what you said. What did he want?”
“He came by to show me one of his paintings.”
I heard Helen rise from the table, pick up the ashtray and walk briskly into the kitchen. When I turned around I could see her standing at the sink staring into the drain. She set the ashtray into the basin and stood motionless. “He wanted to show you one of his paintings?” she echoed.
“Yes,” I said as I walked into the kitchen and stood behind her, leaning my back against the far wall.
“And what did you think?” she asked quietly.
I dropped my gaze down to her heels. “What’s the matter, Helen?”
“Nothing is the matter,” she cried, whirling around. “What did you think?”
Surprised by her sudden movement I stood up straight. “I didn’t have the chance to see his painting. Something came up.”
“You mean he opened up to you—offered a glimpse at his work, and you didn’t take it?” Disbelief filled her expression.
“No, Helen. Something very serious happened today that prevented—”
“Like what?” she cooly interrupted.
“A client of mine drowned today.” My tone was sober. I said it as if I had never known Bethany.
Helen raised her hands to her mouth. “Oh God. . . Oh God. . . Loche. . . A woman was reported drowned today. Was she your client?”
The lines in the tiled floor began to waver. My eyes felt heavy. I slid down the wall and heaped myself onto the floor.
“Loche, I’m sorry.”
“Drowned,” I mumbled. “Gone. We had come so far. She did what I told her to do. I tried to help her.”
“Loche,” Helen said, “what happens now?”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you spoken to her family?”
I shook my head.
Helen continued to look at me in silence. My vague explanation of the day’s events was perplexing her, it was easy to sense, and I could tell that she found it difficult to voice her confusion. “Loche,” she appealed, “what’s going on? Why didn’t you tell me about this at first? What’s going on with Basil? I don’t understand.”
I rolled my eyes up to her, paused and held my breath. “I don’t understand either.” Sitting up, I pressed my fingers into my stinging eyes. The image of the tightly gathered envelopes that Beth had left behind flashed into my memory. They were in my briefcase beside the stairs to my office. “Right now, Helen, I need to think awhile. I need to consider what is to be done. Beth was unwell, and my advice to her may be seen by those close to her as dangerous. There will be an inquiry. The Mental Health Board will want some answers. So will the police. I have the feeling this terrible tragedy may be. . .”
“May be what, Loche?” Helen pursued.
“The end.”
“The end? What do you mean? How could you be responsible? They can’t blame you, can they? Was it an accident?”
“No. Or, at least it appears that it wasn’t an accident. It looked like a suicide. She left a note on the shore. A very short note—it said, It is time for all of this to stop.
“That isn’t your fault. They can’t blame you—”
I let out a heavy sigh, “Yes, dear, they can blame me. But that’s only part of the issue here. My care, my words, my ideas lead to her death.” I stood up, crossed the kitchen and looked out the window. “It matters little to me what they will do. The question is, what will I do? My counsel was wrong. I missed something very important about Beth—it was my job to help her, to keep her from doing harm, not. . .not to lead her to the water.” I paused. “This is really happening, isn’t it?”
Helen nodded and looked at the floor.
When Helen and I designed the house I had one request, albeit, a lofty one, castle-like. Since my childhood and my visits to many European castles I had been obsessed with building my own stone fortress. Of course, building a castle in all of its manifestations would be well beyond our budget, but we managed to build a structure that was at least a nod to the best parts of that old architectural style. After all, castles by definition were not places of comfort and warmth—they were for protection and security. The cold of the stone made them nearly impossible to heat. What light that made it into the interior was quite dim due to the windows that were mere slits in the walls. But given the advent of electricity, running water and some major breakthroughs in design and architecture over the centuries, plus my own processing as to how one might overcome the past’s unsavory characteristics, our castle would have both the aesthetic as well as comfort and warmth.
The foundation was heaped on a ten-acre plot in the woods of Sagle, Idaho. A realtor might describe the home starting from the basics—a four bedroom, two bath with a huge recreation room, living room, two car garage and an upstairs study. But then that description would shift into things like, a wide, deep green lawn, and up and out of its center jut age-worn gray stones that form the two story facade of the building. Three proud, high-peaked roofs crown its top. Below the raised center peak inlaid in the stone, is a Roman arched entrance with a round-topped wooden door with brass fittings. The exterior shines with huge windows. Rising up from the right side of the structure is the turret, a tall stone cylinder with a winding stair that leads to the circular study above. And above are the battlements that provide a view just over the surrounding treetops.
Inside, the home had three fireplaces, soft pillows, hardwood floors and open spaces—all the modern conveniences, but the look of a stronghold from the ancient past.
My study was to me the most coveted space for there I could escape my vocation. The one place I could write.
As I pushed the heavy, planked door open, I paused in the center of the room and stared at my oak desk. My mind cycled through what lay within each drawer. How did William Greenhame find his way to my work? I turned and looked at the windows. None of them had been forced. Everything was just as I had left it.
I let my eyes trace the parallel lines of shelves that lined the walls from floor to ceiling. On the shelves were the books that my wife and I had collected over our time together. She had a knack for finding extremely beautiful hardbound classics. They all looked undisturbed and ordered. Sitting down behind my desk I scanned the surface for any anomaly. Seeing nothing of note, I reached into my pocket and produced the key to the third drawer down. I slid the key into the lock and twisted. The click of that lock was a familiar sound. From the drawer I drew out another key that allowed access to the dark oak standing cabinet across the room. I moved to it. With my hand on the cabinets’s iron handle I paused and thought, What will I do if my written work— my papers—my life—is missing? Unable to imagine such a thing, I flung the door open and threw my hands inside, groping. They were there, and I began to breathe again.
I ran my index finger across the bindings until I came across the volume I sought and tilted it out into the light. Laying the book down on my desk I flipped through the pages, keeping a tight focus on each fold, crease and sound the book made. The poem titled The Grid, the piece that Greenhame had recited to me was near the center of the book. I followed my hand-scrawled lines and knelt down in front of my desk reciting, as if in prayer, “. . . order in Necropolis is King.” I lowered my head down atop the book’s spine. I could hear my heart’s dull thud and the sound of my breathing.
“What do you write?” came a familiar voice near the door, from the shadows. I sprang to my feet and spun around. “Don’t be alarmed, though I’m sure I’ve quite startled you.” William
Greenhame was crouched down beneath a window, inside the room. His shape was hidden in shadow.
I backed away reaching for something heavy. Identifying my distress he stood up and held his hands out. “Loche, I’m sorry I startled you. But it was necessary. You don’t know how careless you are. Ha, and I thought my clamor would have raised the dead.”
My fingertips found a pen and I held it out like a knife. “H-how long have you been there,” I demanded with horror. “W-what in the hell are you doing?”
Greenhame lowered his hands and smiled. “I’m watching out for you.” He leapt to the center of the room and seated himself on the floor. “I love this room, Loche. You’ve got exquisite taste. I also like your choice of weapon. But you won’t need a weapon. Not yet anyway.” With his long hand, he patted a spot on the floor in front of him.
“Greenhame,” I exclaimed, “you get the hell out of here—”
My words were stifled by his shaking head and his calm patting of the floor. “Come, please. All is well. Let me explain.”
I lowered my pen and glared at the man. “I’ll stand. Say what you have to say.”
“So be it,” he said lightly, “this is, after all, your home, you should do what you like.” He looked up at the high ceiling and smiled broadly. “So, how does it feel to have a brother? A brother you didn’t know you had?” He wrinkled his nose at my fierce expression. “Loche, please don’t glare at me, it’s not polite. I assure you, you have nothing to fear from me.”
“And whom should I fear?” I retorted.
“Why, the Enemy of course,” he answered simply. “Ah, but you don’t know whom, or rather, what the Enemy is, do you? Listen, Loche, you need to relax and sit down. I need to talk with you about your brother. He is in danger. Eyes are watching him.”
“Yes, I know, he told me that much. You have been watching him.”
“Did he say that?” William said, surprised. “I didn’t think he knew it was me. I shall have to be more careful.” He scratched his chin and looked back up at the ceiling. “Yes, I admit, I have been watching him. Or I should say we. Or rather, I should say, we have been watching over him. But we are not the only ones that have an interest in your brother. There are shadows watching him. We’ve driven them back, but they still come, and they won’t stop until they’ve made contact. And when they do,” he looked at me with anguished eyes, and broke off.
The Invasion of Heaven, Part One of the Newirth Mythology Page 10