The group takes the work in. There is a subtle victory in Rearden’s eyes as horror spreads across their faces. An elderly woman faints, dropping to her knees and then to the ground. He sees several expressions shadow—mouths agape. Loche wonders if Rearden is waiting The Silk to appear in his periphery—a thread of light for each set of eyes.
Then their faces, one by one drift from the painting to Rearden in visages of disgust and malice. Marcus takes a sudden step back, the force of their collective glare like a frigid wind. With the gun still pressing against Julia’s head he casts a hesitant look at the painting.
There he sees his own countenance, twisting in hues of red and black—a monstrous, lurid smile, lips of thin blood like scars mingled with gargantuan, murderous eyes bearing down upon another face, a pale, sleeping form. Bethany Winship. Around her throat are gripping, claw-like fingers. A wounded, bleeding sunset fills the background glowering down and mirroring itself upon a still body of water. Reflecting in the water are the two figures, but instead of the foreground’s strangling embrace, the figures are intertwined and intimate—delicate and pure. The right corner of the work holds a signature—L. Newirth. And below that, the title— Marcus Rearden Murderer.
Marcus freezes. Color fades from his face.
Julia drops to her knees and kicks backward, knocking Rearden’s right leg out from under him. He tumbles against the casket and the gun fires. Loche thrusts the tip of his umbrella into the hand that holds the gun. It drops into the mud. Three men rush the old man and tackle him. They all crash into the casket and then to the ground. Beth Winship’s body arches halfway out of the coffin as it thuds to the wet grass.
Rearden twists free. He reaches out and pulls the weapon back into his grip, gets his feet beneath him and springs up. He bashes his way through the circle of onlookers and reels across the muddy patches of grass and snow.
Rearden’s shot had hit its target. Loche stares helplessly at Julia. She is gasping for breath, lying on her back. Her hands are bearing down on her stomach. The blood is bright red and welling up between her fingers. A woman cradles Julia’s head. Loche kneels down and presses his hands upon the wound. He feels the heat of her blood.
“Loche,” Julia whispers. Her face is whitening. Her eyes are wide and frightened.
“Someone help us,” Loche calls to the gathering. Two more people join him on the grass.
“Help is on the way,” one of them says.
“I love you,” she says to Loche. “I love you.” She then winces. “Say something, Loche. Please say something.” He stares at her face. Her eyes are amber brown. There is something missing. Waves roll behind his forehead. He feels his hands numbing—the fall—he watches the surface of the lake flicker to an iris, the center abyss opening through the Earth—it widens and churns—he sees the tip of his pen and ink pooling, draining into the white paper. His thought begs, Do I know this woman?
“I am sorry,” he whispers. Tears pour from his eyes. She is fading. “I am sorry.”
She grips his arm. Her other hand clutches at her chest— at something beneath her coat. “Loche, don’t let Marcus get away. Don’t let him get away.” Julia’s hands stop moving and fall.
He turns his head, straining to see where Rearden has gone. He looks back down at Julia. “I am sorry,” he says again. He climbs to his feet and pursues Rearden into the graveyard.
Marcus Rearden makes anxious, random ninety degree turns, steadily dropping down the hill into the older section of the cemetery. The high tombstones hide his escape. His knees ache. He cranes his neck, looking back. He can no longer see the funeral tent. Distant sirens quicken his pace.
Thick bursts of dread quake through his frame at each nervous footfall. He continues farther down the slope where the grey and aged monuments grow in size. Better cover, comes his inner voice, and from out of that shadow within his mind he sees a slight flicker of hope. A hope that he may escape. But as he descends, a wet chill cuts at his ankles, and then his feet. Cold grains of ice fall into his boots. The snow is getting deeper the lower he goes, and he can sense the zigzag trail he is leaving behind.
When he reaches the bottom his feet slide to an unsteady stop. Between wheezing gasps for air he strains to listen. The sirens are closer now. Surrounding all above are countless crucifixes and headstones rising up out of the snow like decaying teeth. He stands in the lowest point of the basin as if the burial ground is pulling him down into its mouth.
“Marcus.” Loche’s voice stabs at his ears. He spins around toward the call with the firearm pointed. His eyes flit, scanning for movement within the monolithic landscape— movement in the city of the dead.
“Now you’ve killed two people, Marcus,”
“So she’s dead, eh? And only two? Try four. Soon to be five, Loche.” Marcus hisses, searching the landscape.
The old man whirls around again as Loche’s voice echoes from the stones. The gun trembles in his grip. Panic rises to his throat and a slow, maddening moan issues from his chest. His frantic thoughts flash desperately, Where is this voice coming from? Is it Loche or is it my other voice? Tormenting seconds pass, and Rearden can feel that he is teetering on the edge of a fathomless pit. Is it Loche or is it my other voice? Chatter, laughter, madness in his head.
“So you’ve read my book?” the voice comes again.
His lips are numb, but he hears himself respond, “Yes, you are The Poet. The Wordsmith.”
“Well, I suppose so.” The voice is now directly behind him, close enough to feel the heat of his breath. He swings around with the gun outstretched and stops with the barrel aiming directly between Loche’s eyes.
Loche Newirth stands calmly. One hand is in his pocket and the other rests upon his planted umbrella. Rearden senses several police officers taking positions on the edge above. “Please, put the gun down, Marcus,” Loche says.
The old man risks a quick glance to the surrounding rim. He sees several rifles spiking out from the stones. “How fitting,” he says, raising his other hand to support the outstretched weapon, “here we stand at the Center. At the end.”
“This is the end,” Loche agrees.
“There is more to come,” he says, slowly snapping the firing pin back. “I’m so glad that you followed me here. We’ll soon both be joining the surrounding dead, and maybe, just maybe we’ll see Heaven before it becomes Hell. The Orathom.”
“The Orathom. That’s right. The Dream.”
“We’ll make our own Center, our own departure. I’m afraid, dear friend, that you’ll have to go first. After that, I’ll place this gun below my chin and follow you.”
“Like Basil?” Loche asks carefully. “Like it says in my book?”
“Yes, like the brother you’ve slain.”
Loche slowly raises his right hand with his palm out. He exhales a deep breath that mists between them. His face is pleading. “Marcus,” he says, “there is no Basil. There is no Center.” Rearden glares. A shadow crosses his thought. “What you have read,” Loche continued, “is not real. My book, is not what you think it is.”
Rearden’s eyes dart up the hill again, then return to Loche’s. He squints.
“Marcus, the writing is fiction. It is a story. I wrote it to trap you.”
Rearden shakes his head and spits in disbelief. “Don’t be a fool—”
“I am telling you the truth. What you’ve read—some of it truly happened—most of it I made up.”
Rearden stares. His breathing is irregular. “No. No. Julia, Julia knows.”
“Julia? I don’t know who you are talking about. Marcus, I made Julia up. I made Basil up.”
“Don’t try to make a fool of me,” he yells. “You just saw Julia. I just shot Julia.”
“I don’t know the woman that you’ve killed, Marcus.”
Rearden lets out a qualmish laugh. “You expect me to believe that you don’t know Julia?”
“I made up a character named Julia. I made up an entire story—and I see now th
at my plan worked beyond my hopes. How else could I bring you to justice, Marcus?” Loche says. He holds his hands out. “How could I beat you if I just turned you in? You who have every advantage when it comes to politicians, judges—even your friends and connections in law enforcement. It would be impossible to get a conviction. As we both know, you’re the best. You could get away with murder. I had to come up with another way. I had to figure a way for you to incriminate yourself. I wrote the book for you. I wanted you to think that I had a mental break. I wanted you to believe.”
“Nonsense!” he shouts. “What about Helen?”
“What about Helen?”
“Where is she?” Rearden watches Loche’s face. He sees Loche struggling with something. “I would think she is still at our home,” Loche replies. “I told her that I needed some time to figure out what to do, that I would be away for a few days.”
Rearden blinks. He feels tears. “Basil’s painting killed my wife. You delivered it. You put it in our house!”
Loche does not reply. Rearden’s eyes are now racing between his prey and the police moving slowly inward.
“That is true,” Loche says. “But I painted it. I painted it. It was not my intention for that to happen—to hurt Elanor. There is no such thing as a Center, Marcus. There is no supernatural element to the painting. It is just a piece on the chess board.”
Rearden sees the painting in his memory, the gargantuan, murderous eyes bearing down upon another face—Bethany’s face. It is a picture of the murder itself, a hated voice cackles in his head. He shakes it off.
“But. . .” Marcus cries, his quivering lips arching into a smile of disbelief.
“Marcus, you were trying to frame me. I’m afraid that you’ve fallen into the trap that I have laid for you.” Loche bows his head. A tear trails along his cheek. “The painting was a warning to your wife—I regret that the shock of it—” He then glares at Marcus, “You murdered Bethany Winship. You didn’t want your weakness to be discovered. You did not want the truth to be discovered. And because of that you allowed my fiction to feed your delusions. You’ve placed faith in a myth, Marcus. Myths won’t save you.”
Rearden’s spittle drops onto his shirt, and he begins to cry openly. “And my signed letter?” he manages in sobs.
“She mailed it the day you drowned her. It was Bethany’s final word. The picture was clear to me. Words and pictures, Marcus. There are always two. They were only words and pictures.”
“Turn around, Loche,” the old man hisses.
Loche freezes.
“Please. Like the old days.” Rearden watches as Loche slowly understands the request. Rearden always sat behind, listening. He hears the faint echoes of Loche’s idealistic ramblings—his desire to end mental illness.
“Marc,” Loche starts.
“Turn your back,” Rearden orders.
Slowly, Loche turns away and stares up the hill. Rearden struggles to see through Loche’s eyes—to sense his fear. Will this rim of gravestones be Loche’s final sight?
The gun is now heavy. Rearden can feel the police rifles trained on his every move. “Say something,” Rearden demands.
Loche does not respond, and the silence is maddening. He hears breathing. It is his own. Unsteady—a panting, fearful sound like a wild animal caged.
“Speak!” Rearden demands again, taking a step forward and pushing the weapon against Loche’s scalp, pushing his head downward. “Say something.”
Loche says quietly, “The big deep heavy.”
Rearden lets out a slight chuckle. “Perfect,” he says. He pulls the barrel away from Loche’s head. Marcus crimps his eyes shut, points the gun into his own temple and tears at the trigger. Click, click, click. The pistol’s empty cylinder circles around as the hammer snaps against hollow chambers. He had failed to reload the weapon since his journey began, and now, dropping to his knees, he continues to pull the trigger with the vain hope that one bullet remains—the one that will kill at least one side of him.
Loche steps backward as the police rush in and force Rearden face down in the snow.
“A little waker-upper!” his menacing cry echoes. “A little waker-upper! It can all be true! It can all be true!”
Loche walks up and out of the headstones and he can see the strobing lights of several police cars. Two ambulances are parked just outside of the fence line, yards from the funeral marquee. The area has been partitioned by yellow police tape. Several officers are taking statements. Roger Winship is lying on a gurney. A paramedic is rolling him toward an ambulance. Loche steps over the yellow tape as two men notice him.
“Dr. Newirth.” one of them says. “I am Detective Stiddam.”
“Yes?” Loche answers.
“We would like you to accompany us to the station. We have some questions for you.”
Loche nods. “I will help in any way I can.”
“Good,” Stiddam says.
Loche searches the confusion surrounding them. “Where is the woman that was shot? Is she okay?”
Stiddam does not answer, but instead points to another gurney that is being rolled away. The figure’s face is covered with a blanket. “I’m sorry,” Stiddam says.
Loche watches the paramedics wheel the woman to the ambulance. They lift her body into the back. The doors shut and the vehicle speeds away.
“She managed to tell the woman that was with her at the end to make sure you got this. It was around her neck.” Stiddam reaches into his coat and pulls out an antique key. The broken chain is dangling from his fingers. He puts it in Loche’s palm.
Loche stares at it. It is the key to his tower office.
“What was her name?” Loche asks.
“The name was Julia. Julia Iris. She’s from up north, Hope, Idaho.”
Loche’s eyes rise to the detective. Stiddam returns the stare, but his face quickly turns to concern. He braces Loche’s shoulders, steadying him, “You okay, Dr. Newirth? You don’t look so good.”
Loche Newirth drops to his knees and loses consciousness.
Art is a lie that reveals the truth.
PABLO PICASO
Now to ’scape the serpents tongue,
We will make amends ere long;
Else the Puck a liar call:
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Life, he thought, is a blatant act of imagination.
JESS WALTER
The black ink spreads open like a pupil in the dark. Loche Newirth wakes up.
He can see red slashes hemmed in black. He struggles to focus. The blurring marks tighten into the shape of an eye— slathered in paint on the cedar ceiling. He shifts slightly and knows that he is at his lake cabin. Turning his head he sees the picture window is filled with a pale blue sky. He sits up with difficulty.
Beside him, beneath the blankets is a sleeping form. She is turned away.
“Helen?” Loche says. His side aches—hands are cold. “Helen, what time is it?” The digital clock on the bedside table is blinking 12:00. White sunlight is streaming through the window. “Helen?” he says again leaning over her. He pulls the covers back. The woman lying beside him is not his wife. The sheets are stained with blood and the woman’s hands are resting upon her midsection.
Loche’s body lurches away in shock.
“I am glad to see that your confrontation with Marcus Rearden has ended with you still alive.” William Greenhame sits in the corner of the room with the leather bound book upon his knee. Behind him in the kitchen are two other men. One is seated at the table, the other is standing at the sink sipping from a coffee cup.
Loche struggles to stand and falls against the cedar log walls. He holds his hands up in front of him. “Please, help me,” he cries, “please, help me—I don’t—I can’t—”
William stands and says gently, “Take it easy, son. Take it easy.”
“He’s reached his limit,” one of the men in the kitchen says.
Loche scowls and shakes his head, “William, what are you doing h
ere? How did—I’m scared—”
“I know, Loche. I know. Please, you are safe here. You are safe. And I think I know why you are scared. Please. . .” He motions for Loche to sit.
Loche’s tears fall in long lines. “How did I get here?”
“Do not fear, Loche. You passed out. The police released you to us. We then brought you here.”
“Where is Helen? Edwin?”
“Edwin is at a Halloween party with friends from his preschool, you dropped him off this morning before Bethany’s funeral, remember? I do not know where your wife is, exactly.”
Loche’s raised hands slowly drop and ball into fists at his side. He looks down at Julia. “She was shot.”
“Yes. Still is shot.”
“Why is she here?” Loche cries.
“You will know in time.” William sighs deeply and moves to the foot of the bed and kneels. “Loche, please sit down.” Loche remains standing.
“It seems that you have a gift after all, or I should say, before all.” Greenhame laughs gently. He sets the book upon the bed. “I suppose it is to be expected that you should not understand anything just yet. Your gift? Your writing? Your power that you thought dormant? Well, reading your latest work has revealed much,” Greenhame pats the book’s cover. “And what a magnificent work it is. Perplexing, diabolical and truly divine. It is inspired. Let me test my theory, yes?” William asks. Loche nods. “Very good. Do you know who I am?”
Again, Loche nods.
“I have been your client for quite some time?”
Loche’s eyes appear to agree.
“I am not really, immortal, right?”
“No.”
“Am I your father?”
Loche shakes his head slowly. “No. I wrote that you were my father.”
“Yes, I read that. I’m flattered.” William says. “Do you know these men in your kitchen?”
Loche studies the two men. “No,” he says, “I’ve never seen them before.”
The two men look at each other—a hint of surprise in their faces.
Greenhame grins. “The man on the right is Samuel Lifeson. Seated at the table is Corey Thomas.”
The Invasion of Heaven, Part One of the Newirth Mythology Page 35