Gaining the chest high stage I heaved my body up and rolled onto it. Painfully gathering my balance I looked down and saw streams of blood leading to a body heaped on the floor. It was my brother. Crouched beside him was Greenhame, one hand on Basil’s chest, and the other pressed to his own heart.
Behind me Ravistelle’s men stopped at the edge of the stage and beckoned to me, “Doctor, running is pointless.”
I backed away with my sword held out and peered over the piazza. There were four paintings still standing, and around each there were melees and flashing lines of steel.
Suddenly, Corey was at my side, along with two others dressed all in black. One stood at an intimidating 6’5”. The size of a mountain. Beside him stood a woman with eyes like slivers of moon. Her sword was drawn.
“I don’t think the Doctor is taking patients today,” she hissed.
As quickly as they had come, Albion’s men retreated back into the crowd. The mountain and the moon lurched into pursuit.
I lowered myself onto the stage with Corey’s help and laid my bloody sword down. Greenhame still crouched over Basil.
Barely audible was the sound of William humming a tune through sobs and tears, and that once bewildering melody was now known to me. A lullaby of his own making. A melody that I knew by heart, and heart only, from a time when memory was only a feeling. He was singing it to Basil.
“There you are,” he said without looking at me. His ageless face was torn by anguish, and for a brief flash I saw him as an elderly man, pained, sorrowful and hopeless. Yet in his voice was the sinew of authority. “You should be on the boat.”
Basil’s face had been covered by Greenhame’s vest. Blood pooled around it.
“He was my son.” William said. “And so are you.”
I stared at the man and believed. My body had no feeling save the tingling wave of vertigo crashing through my heart.
“How could this happen?” William cried. “Why did he do this? A son I have watched from afar—always have I wanted to aid him, show him the way, give him guidance. But it was too dangerous. Never did I think he would take his own life.”
Corey knelt beside Greenhame and laid a comforting hand upon his shoulder. His face burned with anger and confusion. “William,” he said gently, “we must depart. There is a time to grieve, but it is not now.” He fixed me with an expression I could not identify, “Answers to your questions will come, but not now. Come away, we will bear the body.”
My soul shook with dread. Both men looked up to see my unconscious movement, a quavering moan. “Was this your plan, Loche?” William asked, “Is this your gift?” The gun laid heavy on the stage floor. I cowered and crawled backwards. I had killed my father’s son. I then stood and backed away, crying, loathing the sight of these men huddled on the stage—blood stained swords upon the planks, a man cradling his dead son, his friend weeping beside him—all beneath a glaring spotlight. I hid my eyes.
“Loche,” my father called to me, “where are you going. It’s not safe. Stay with us—”
I retreated, bolting through the arches and across the back landing of the Uffizi. Without a thought I hurled myself off of the ten-foot ledge and rolled onto the pavement below, my wound burning at the impact. I didn’t look back when I gained my footing, but I could feel that Corey stood at the edge of the landing watching me run. He was letting me go.
Get to Edwin! Get to Julia! my mind screamed. And go home. Home.
Hours later, I looked down at my sleeping son, caught in a dream, somewhere distant. The train was threading through the narrow passes of the Swiss Alps to Zurich. The high peaks tipped with caps of ice scratched the steel colored sky. They passed across the fogging window like ancient palaces—like the homes of gods. I imagined Julia’s little craftsman home cut into a tiny dale—a candle shining from the window.
It was Crystal that brought my little boy to me. She met me at the back gate of the hotel. “Basil said you would be here tonight. He said you’d be here to take Edwin home, but you wouldn’t come in through the front door. He just knew.”
Edwin had clasped his arms around my knees.
“Thank you, Crystal. Thank you.” I knelt down—his tiny dark eyes sparkled in the streetlight. He grinned at me. “Heavy, Dad,” he said.
I grinned back, “Where did you learn to talk like that?”
“Uncle Basil,” he said.
Tears stung my eyes. Basil, as usual, was steps ahead of me.
Crystal asked, “Is Basil coming back here? I was going to play him this new song.”
I stared at her, unsure of what to say.
“Probably not ’til late? Yeah? Well, I gotta go. They’ll wonder where I am. See ya’.” She hurried back inside.
“Goodbye, Crystal. I hope we see each other again.”
At each train stop I held Edwin a little tighter. The chances of us being picked up and hauled back to either Ravistelle or to Greenhame were very real, and more or less accepted by me at this point. I was traveling with the papers that had been given to me by Corey the night before I escaped Ravistelle—and with a simple phone call I could be detained at any border. But it was all I could do. Part of me wanted to be found—the other part of me hoped that they would let me go. Either way, I was prepared.
Thankfully, Corey had chosen a rather forgettable traveling name for me, and he told me to memorize it and learn to answer to it. The name, Bill Hagenemer, was printed on each of my official documents along with my picture. It was one of my father’s many names. I recalled reading the name in the documents that Ravistelle had provided for me when we arrived in Venice. At least there was some comfort that if I was wanted by the police for my absence in the Winship case, my true identity would be hidden, for the time being anyway. I read the name over and over again on the passport—Bill Hagenemer. Then a sad smile crossed my lips as I scrawled the anagram on a piece of paper—
BILL haGENEmeR
WILLIAM GREENhame
He’d been my client for years and had never once lied. He just didn’t tell me the secrets before my very eyes.
I laid my head back and tried to sleep.
In closing,
I’ve written it all down. It is my version. I’m sure that there will be others. From the many perspectives will come interpretations and ultimately the truth will be twisted to suit the teller. But as it is now, so shall it be—for me.
My actions were human. At least that is what I tell myself. Some men might have risked their lives for “the answer” as my father called it. I have risked mine.
Am I a coward for running? Could I have made a difference? Were my actions wrong? Perhaps. I planted in my brother the seed of suicide so that humanity might survive. It allowed the rest of us the chance to live on in the world that we know. The Life-The Alya. The skies will not fall. Not yet, anyway.
But in that sacrifice, I am nothing. My desire to cure mental illness has left me clinging to my own sanity, for every moment of every day while I wrote this chronicle, I saw Basil’s final canvas. His blood has stained my will to search for the cure.
Marcus. The game is on. The pawns, the knights, the bishops and the kings are calling us. You have always been too smart for me to beat. Your past has captured you. Make your move, but beware. Searching for the hands that move us will bring your kingdom to its knees. Like me, you crave to defeat the disease, and like me you will find written across your heart a forgery. Something that will lose you the game. You will become what you’ve struggled to cure. Words and pictures, Marcus. There are always two.
October 31st is Beth Winship’s funeral. I will be there.
Julia closes the book and looks over at Rearden sleeping. The old man’s chest rises and falls in uneven, gentle waves. A quiet rasp flutters in his breathing. Outside a grey glow slowly nudges the shadows back. The landscape is a flat and colorless wash. Julia leans her head back against the seat and closes her eyes. “I will find you today,” she whispers.
Loche Newirth st
ands in the rain outside the cemetery. He looks down at his black suit, tie and deep gray overcoat. Water has leaked into his leather shoes. An open umbrella is spread out over his head. The heavy sky mirrors his mood and he is reluctant to step into the view of the gathered mourners. His shoulder burns. As he moves through the gate and down the slushy path he sees them look his way. One by one.
Bethany Winship’s voice drifts into his memory. She had shared her family history during several of their sessions. The city of Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, knows the Winships. Three generations have grown up in this lakeside town, and in that time they have built themselves a reputation as a hardworking, conservative family—good kids, good parents, reliable people.
Loche marches steadily toward the huddled group, mindful that every step is more difficult than the last.
He sees Roger Winship, Bethany’s husband, striding out to meet him. His pace is rigid and determined, arms tight to his sides, hands clenched into fists.
“Really?” Roger says approaching Loche, his voice hushed, quavering with fury. “You son of a bitch. You decide to reappear now, at her funeral? You’re not wanted here. The police, however, would very much like to have a word—” Roger raises his cell phone and points his finger to dial.
“Wait,” Loche says. “Please, Roger. Please listen. I’m sorry that I haven’t been available to comment—”
“Comment?” Roger cries. “Comment? You’re wanted as a suspect in this.”
Loche raises his hands. In one hand is the red envelope. “Please, give me one moment to explain.”
“Your disappearance has explained plenty.” Roger turns away, dialing.
“Roger,” Loche says, pulling on his arm. Roger shrugs it off. “Read this letter. My absence has been spent trying to discover the truth and I think I have. Though I’m afraid it won’t comfort you. Please, just read this letter.”
Roger turns back to Loche and stares at him. He grabs the envelope angrily, tears it open and reads. Loche watches his face. When Roger reaches the end of the letter he lowers his arms. “How can this be?’
“There’s one last confirmation to make,” Loche says quietly.
“So there you are!” a voice shouts from within the marquee. “There you are, Dr. Loche Newirth!”
Both Loche and Roger look back at the gathering and see Marcus Rearden beneath the funeral tent. He is on his tiptoes with his head high and his gaze pointed toward his old friend. Under his arm is Loche’s book. Behind him looms a large black rectangle of fabric, leaning against the coffin.
Loche places his hand upon Roger’s arm and says quietly, “Let me deal with this, Roger, won’t you?” Roger does not answer. The two men walk back toward the tent.
“Marcus,” Loche acknowledges, moving through the group and positioning himself before the old man.
“My wife is dead,” Marcus says, smiling. “Elanor is gone.”
“I know,” Loche replies. “I’m sorry.”
There is a pause. Marcus’ smile vanishes. “You killed her.”
Loche does not respond, but the gathering shifts uncomfortably.
“Do you know what it is like to lose the one you love? Do you know the madness that settles upon the mind when there were still words to share? Confessions? Confessions to make?”
“Like Bethany?” Roger’s voice cries from beside Loche. “I have here a letter written to Bethany—by you! A love letter, much like the ones you gave the authorities. Only this one is signed by you. The only one with a signature!” The old doctor does not seem to hear him. “You son of a bitch. You told Beth to never use your name in her letters to you, and you never signed your name! That made it easy to frame Loche. When she wanted out, you wouldn’t let her go, so she threatened to tell your wife. You killed her. You murdering son of a bitch!”
Roger raises the typed letter up for every witness to see. Rearden’s bold signature is scratched below the words, All of my love.
In Marcus’ face is a trace of pity for the man.
A deafening pop jolts through the assembly. Roger’s left shoulder explodes, and he drops heavily to the ground. The sickening report of the firearm in Marcus’ hand sends a surge of panic through the group.
But Marcus speaks before there is time for anyone to scream. “She never loved you, Roger,” he hisses at the groaning man.
Loche steps forward, his umbrella in his grip. “Marcus, put the gun down.”
“I’d hoped it didn’t have to come to this,” the old man says mournfully. “I didn’t come here today to hurt Roger. I feel sorry for the poor bastard. He had no idea how to love Beth. I knew how to love her. I discovered a new passion in my life, and it was her. I decided that I wanted to begin living my life again. And sweet Bethany was the doorway that led away from the darkness. She made me a new man. She was the answer I’d been looking for. And Roger—Roger is partly correct, I couldn’t let my wife know about our love, but I also couldn’t allow my career to be scandalized. Only I know the truth of what we shared, and I can’t let my peers, the public or my clients twist our love story to pieces. Passion, I’ve learned, has no bounds.”
“Marc,” Loche speaks calmly, “put the gun down. There’s no way you can keep from scandal now. Put it down before you hurt anyone else.”
“How rational of you Dr. Newirth, but you must forgive me. We aren’t through just yet.” He scans the terrorized faces. “Please don’t move, any of you. There’s more to see.”
The weapon traces across the crowd slowly. Every frightened set of eyes follows the barrel. The eerie, playful movement sways to the right and then to the left until it finally stops, aiming into the center of the congregation. “Julia, my dear, will you please join me.”
A woman steps forward with slow, focused steps. Loche studies her briefly and then looks back to Marcus. She pauses beside Loche and grabs hold of his hand, squeezing desperately. Loche looks down at their hands and then to her face. “Loche?” she says. He flinches, catching his balance—his body recalling the fall, the icy water, the black pupil below.
“Ah, how touching,” Marcus says. “Julia, step away from him. Now.”
Loche squints at the name Julia.
Marcus grabs the woman’s shoulder, pulls her to him and then wrenches her around so that she is facing Loche. The cold steel barrel is pressed to the back of her head. “Feel that?” Marcus growls at Loche, “Feel the pain of want? You want to hold her, but you are separated by the fear of death. Loche, I’ve struggled to find you for one reason, and one reason only. So you, too, can feel what it is like to lose the one you love and not be allowed to tell her everything. As I was robbed of words for Elanor, your words will never reach Julia. Your love will never be fulfilled.”
Julia’s face is pleading to Loche.
“Marcus, let her go,” Loche says finally.
“In the end, it was you that took my wife from me.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about, Marc,” Loche says carefully.
“Elanor! The painting, you fool.” Marcus raises his opposite hand and holds up the leather bound journal. “I read your book, and I know what Basil’s paintings can do. Elanor broke into that crate of Basil’s because she suspected something. You, good Doctor, knew of my affair. Bethany was your client for God’s sake! You planted that painting with me to get my wife thinking! To expose our affair!”
Loche remains silent.
“Today, I will be at peace. The only peace I can provide myself is your punishment.”
Marcus clicks the steel hammer back. Julia’s eyes squeeze shut.
“Wait,” Loche says. “What does this woman have to do with it? Let her go.”
“This woman?” Rearden sneers. “Really, Loche? Are you going to pretend that you don’t know who she is? Seriously?”
“I don’t know who she is,” Loche says. “Just let her go.”
Julia’s eyes open. Her expression is confused.
“Ah,” he says to Julia, “do you hear that, my dear? T
he love of your life doesn’t know you.” He then hisses at Loche, “You can play whatever game you like, Dr. Newirth, but don’t take me for a fool. I am well aware of how you feel about this woman.” He holds the book up again. “You’ve shared your heart quite amply within these pages. We’ll see just how well you know her when I put a bullet through her brain.”
“Loche,” Julia whispers.
Loche’s eyes shift to hers. He lingers there. She is struggling to say more—something only the eyes can convey—as if he should understand—he should know.
“And her death,” Rearden says, “will almost pay for what you’ve done to my wife.”
“Marc,” Loche pleads, “your wife had a heart attack. Nothing more. We can be done now. It’s over.”
“Far from it, Loche. You see,” he says with ease, “the best part about this situation is that I’ll walk from here without fear or regret. When I pull the shroud away, everyone present will forget what they’ve seen. They will forget my name—hell, their own names for that matter. Your spilled blood will be wiped clean by the Center.”
Loche sighs nervously. “Okay. I see that my writing has truly made an impression. I hoped that it would. Then why take the chance?” he offers. “Why not blind them now and be sure that you have no witnesses?”
The question crosses the old doctor’s face. He considers Loche’s tone. Loche seizes on the momentary pause.
“Basil said that there was something special about it,” Loche continues, “and I’ve seen it myself. It is ever changing. Do you want to take the chance?”
Marcus drops the book onto the muddy grass and grabs a corner of the black fabric. “I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen,” he says to the congregation. “I’m afraid we can’t have you witness a killing. You’ll be glad you didn’t. Enjoy the journey, and again, my apologies.”
His hand yanks the fabric away as he pulls Julia to the side so that every set of eyes can view Basil’s harrowing work.
The Invasion of Heaven, Part One of the Newirth Mythology Page 34