There was blood on her face, bare legs and hands. Her chiffon top was splattered with red. One of her velvet platforms was cracked and broken. The hair on the left side of her head was matted and caked with dried blood. But there was not a single trace of a laceration, no scars, punctures or tears in her skin. Jimmy moved toward her and picked up the wet washcloth that was wadded up on a stainless steel prep table. He took it to the sink, rinsed the blood out. Kneeling before her he softly pressed the cloth against her forehead and scanned for something that would explain why she was still breathing.
Helen stared at him. She was frightened, but her heart raced on the edge of bliss—for the man of her dreams held worry in his eyes—worry for her.
“Helen,” Jimmy asked almost in a whisper, “can you tell me what is happening? We watched you fall from the top of the hotel. You are not hurt, and for that I am grateful and elated. But, I don’t understand. Can you tell me what you remember?”
Helen felt the memory of pain. It was a flash in her mind, brief but shocking—and she winced. Her tiny frame quivered as if from a sudden chill. Then she was still again. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. Confusion drifted across her face and she looked down at the dried blood smeared along her bare arms. She lightly brushed at her left forearm with trembling fingers as if trying to uncover what was beneath the skin.
“Both of my arms broke. The pain was awful. My wrist bones were poking out. That’s where the blood came from,” her voice was quavering. “I saw the bones. My right leg too, both my thigh and ankle. And I could feel something wet on the side of my head.” Her hand rose to her matted hair. “Really wet. It must have been my head. It was a lot of blood. When I saw pools of it around me, I passed out.”
The face of Jimmy Page was unflinching. She looked at him, “And when I woke up, I was on my feet, walking to the bench. I felt sort of, well, tired and foggy. Like I just woke up in the middle of the night to get a drink of water—but I wasn’t really quite awake. Maybe like sleepwalking or something. Then, Richard was standing beside me and he was trying to pick me up. I was so tired that I let him.” Helen glanced over Jimmy’s shoulder to the window in the door. “Then I woke up a little more, and I’m here.”
Richard entered the room and stood beside the door. He was still pale. “Still feeling alright, love?” he asked Helen. She nodded without looking at him—a hint of disgust crossed her face. “Right,” Richard carried on, “well it is again, time to go.”
She read confusion in Jimmy’s face. What did this mean? How did she survive the fall? Why was he a witness to this? She could see his fascination.
Why and how—two of Jimmy Page’s most used words. Jimmy was a seeker, she knew that. Hell, the whole world knew that, and the media was getting an enormous amount of mileage when it came to the mysterious guitarist from Led Zeppelin and his dealings with the occult. Of course, most of their so called facts were imagined and misunderstood, but it was a great story, after all. And for whatever it was worth, the devilish image sold records, fascinated fans and best of all, scared the hell out of the God fearing Christians. They had painted a picture of a man searching for answers to life’s biggest questions in evil places—places that had been demonized—rituals that were medieval and dark. They called him a worshiper of Lucifer, a student of black magic and he may have even taken part in human sacrifice. Whatever. She could imagine Richard telling him, “Fuck it. If stories of Old Nick make us a few extra quid—where do I sign my soul over? Collect your books, Jimmy, I need a new car.” But fans knew that Jimmy Page was indifferent to the media’s depiction of his pursuits. Despite the dark prince image, he was purely curious. Why? How? It was true that last year, 1971, he had purchased Allister Crowley’s Boleskine House—and it was indeed filled with a sinister mood, pagan artifacts and a multitude of books about gods long vanquished by the so called One God. He had also opened his own occult bookshop and publishing house in London. Conventional folk considered his inquiries into the nature of things as dangerous, but Jimmy would shrug and say, “You don’t quite get it.” He had been quoted as saying that his interests were liberating and uniting once you eliminated the stigmas that had been bred by the Church. The basic principle of Crowley’s, do what thy wilt, had been taken out of context so many times that he finally gave up trying to explain to the media. Instead he merely played the mystic, studied deeper into his fasciation and remained open to a wider view of humanity, and whatever else.
And sitting before him now was a kind of gift—a kind of answer to the speculative texts, the mythic tales, the wonted leap of faith—here before him was a person that was impervious to injury, that could heal at miraculous speed—and had no conception of how or why.
Richard’s voice was louder this time, “Now, Jimmy. We shouldn’t waste anymore time.” Then to Helen, “It’s time to go, love.”
“She can’t leave looking like this, Richard,” Jimmy said blankly, still studying the young girl. “We should get her a room so she can clean up—and a change of clothes.”
One of the hulking bodyguards stepped into the room and relayed a message. “The police are on their way again—I don’t think it’s about this,” he nodded to Helen, “but there’s been some complaints about the festivities upstairs.”
“That does it,” Richard blurted. “Bring the robe. Is the cab waiting?”
“Yeah, it’s outside. He’s waiting at the service entrance,” he said. The bodyguard leaned out of the door and received a plastic wrapped bathrobe from the other massive bodyguard. He handed it to Richard.
Richard tore the plastic off, shook the fabric out and held it up by the shoulders for Helen to thread into. “Alright, my sweet—it is time. Jimmy, help me here.”
Jimmy bowed his head. She could see him struggling. His curiosity was completely engaged. Why did they meet? What is her purpose? “I think she should stay,” he said finally.
“Cops are here,” came the muffled voice of the bodyguard outside the room.
“Fuck this!” Richard cried as he nodded to the bodyguard. The huge man moved quickly over to Helen and stood her on her feet, whirled her around and backed her into the waiting bathrobe. Jimmy stood up and laid hold of her wrist. Richard, said, “Damn it, Jimmy. Let go. Let me do my job. If you want jail tonight, a reputation darker than what you have already and federal charges, by all means, drag this out! If you want to keep playing guitar and writing songs, let me get her out of here!”
After the guard had tied the robe tightly around her waist he lifted her up in his arms and moved toward the door. Helen didn’t resist. She trained her eyes on Jimmy hoping he would stop them.
“Wait,” Jimmy said. “How can we get in touch with you, Helen? Do you have a telephone number?” Helen shook her head. At Richard’s prompting, the guard stepped through the door and started down the service hall with haste. Jimmy started after them but Richard and the other guard blocked his pursuit, and held him forcibly back. “Richard, let me go!” he yelled, struggling to break through.
“Let me do my job. Let me do my job.”
Jimmy stood still. Richard’s hands were still pressing the guitarist’s shoulders.
“Sorry, mate,” Richard said as easily as he could manage. His sweaty, wide-eyed face hovering uncomfortably close. “But you must understand—of course you understand—it would be this kind of thing that would end us in the States.”
Jimmy shoved Richard back and glared at him. “Fine,” he said flatly. “This may not be the place—but you find out where she’s been dropped. I will meet with her again. You arrange that. Do you hear me?”
The car door slammed shut. Helen pressed her hand to the window and spread her fingers. Jimmy waved at her. As red and blue lights flashed against the white brick of the alley, the cab screeched away. Helen’s eyes stayed on Jimmy until the turn onto Sunset.
Ransom
November 4, this year
Verona, Italy
Julia’s eyes flip open. She feels
the cold of a window against her forehead. There is the flavor of blood. Outside are streaming lights of passing cars, neon signs tracing in long smears, and a blurring landscape speeding by. She flinches—the memory of the beating—Loche Newirth’s wife looming over her—then gripping fingers turn her chin from the window to the seat beside. Helen Newirth lets go and caresses Julia’s cheek.
“It appears I lost my temper,” Helen says. The light of a street lamp angles across Helen’s eyes. Two sparkling lights stare into Julia’s face. Julia jerks away. Helen’s hand pulls back for an instant. Once the initial shock recedes, Julia feels the woman’s long fingers again touching her, an airy fragrance of flowers, the soft skin of her fingers—tipped with finely polished nails. “Take it easy, take it easy,” Helen offers.
There is no color in the eyes piercing her—grey and deep as the stone sky overhead. There is age somehow, Julia thinks. Age that does not match the attractive shape of her mouth, smoothness of her skin, or the sincerity of her expression. No, it is seated deep within the woman’s gaze, behind her eyes, perhaps. Julia suddenly feels young. Like a child beside an elderly lady—an elderly, thirty-looking-gorgeous-something.
“Let’s call my husband, shall we?” Helen says, holding up Julia’s cell phone. “I think he’s worried about where you are.”
Julia does not answer. She continues to stare at Helen.
“I see that you’re healing just fine. The bruises are going away.” Her tone is motherly as she gently paws at the last traces of Julia’s disappearing cuts. “I suppose you’ve never been beaten like that? Probably not,” she says. “Not yet used to the pain, are you? Not used to the thrill of being hurt and healing so quick. Not used to wanting more.” Helen lowers her hand and places it upon Julia’s thigh. She squeezes it, “Would you like more, darling?”
Julia is silent.
“Because our kind must learn to live with pain, you know. The reality of torture has a very different meaning. You see, regular folks that deal with pain, beatings, torture, will eventually pass away. Die. For example, if I were to, say, carve into your tummy with my knife, dawdle around in there for a couple of hours—get fucking medieval with you—” Helen inhales with a wincing hiss, “Ouchie.”
Julia feels her hands begin to shake.
“The next day?” Helen says, raising her eyebrows. “All better.” She shrugs. “Then we start all over again. And again. And again.”
Julia hears her voice and is surprised that it does not quaver, “No such thing as all better after something like that, Helen.”
“Oh,” Helen smiles, “you’ll survive. And you’ll be sorry you did—” She shifts her body, scoots close and lifts Julia’s cell phone so that they can both see it. Loche’s latest text:
I love you, Julia. Please come back. William has sent some of his people to look for you. Call me.
“It is nice to be loved,” Helen mocks. She swipes the screen with her thumb to Loche’s contact information. “Ah, he has a new number, and he didn’t share it with his wife—the mother of his child. How irresponsible.” Helen taps Loche’s number into her own phone.
She then leans her lips to Julia’s ear. Her breath is warm and as she whispers it brings a terrible, prickling chill, “I can do anything I want to you. I will tear the skin from your face—pull handfuls of hair from your head—slice your tits off. You’re mine now.” Julia feels Helen’s tongue gently glide into her ear, hot and wet. The woman then turns Julia’s eyes to hers. “We can prevent torture, Julia. We can prevent a lot of things, that is, if you’ll do as I ask.”
“What do you want?”
Helen’s phone lights up. Julia sees Loche’s number. Helen presses send. “I want my son back.”
Look Here
November 3, this year, Coeur d’Alene, Idaho
Greenhavens Retirement Community
Emil leans into the saw and the blade tears through the tendons with the first push. Samuel Lifeson’s face infuses with red heat and tears. Leonaie struggles to turn away but the man grabs hold of her head and forces her to look. Samuel cries in a fury-filled whisper, “Look in my eyes darling. Look in my eyes. Oh sweet Alya mine, look in my eyes.” Leonaie obeys.
The second push with the saw digs deep into the wrist bones. Blood gushes onto the plastic and runs into the tile troughs. “Eyes here,” Samuel whispers again. “It does not hurt. It only hurts seeing. Only when you let yourself see it.”
Leonaie’s vision mists at the edges. Her legs weaken. Her captor tightens his hold and keeps her flat to the wall.
Emil’s last two thrusts with the bone saw sever the hand from the arm. He lifts the hand up, dangles it before Samuel’s face and then forms it into a fist. Flipping the index finger out he points it to the ceiling. “We’ll use this to keep track, shall we?” Emil hisses. “The hand says, number one. Cut one is complete.”
“Fuck you,” Samuel spits.
“No,” Emil replies, “that looks like this.” He flicks up the middle finger of the bloody hand. “The long bone. That is what we used to call it.” Emil dashes the hand heavily down onto Samuel’s chest and aligns the bone saw at the bicep.
“Why not go for the throat and end this,” Samuel says. “I can’t feel a thing with my spine severed. Makes for a rather comfortable cutting, I should say. I’m not feeling the pain you had so badly wanted. Why prolong this?”
Emil waits upon the notion. He looks from the saw to the motionless body before him to Samuel’s face. “True,” he says. “True.” He lifts the saw. “Bring her to me,” he says over his shoulder.
Leonaie’s body tenses. She tries to pull away. The man is too strong. She sees the painting still beneath his foot.
“You won’t do that. You won’t do that,” Samuel says.
“Yes, in fact, I will. She’s not far from the end anyway. Tell me, would it hurt you to see her hand cut from her arm?”
“You son of a bitch.”
“No. Thanks to you, just a fatherless son. Bring her. Lay her wrist over his throat. I think by watching that pain, Samuel, you’ll cry out. You’ll feel that, yes? That will make you wail for your actions. For your loss.” Leonaie hears triumph in Emil’s voice as if he has finally gained the initiative. “Don’t worry, Samuel, after that, the rest is silence.”
“Emil,” the shorter man says, “just finish him. We are out of time. We are here to take him—she is of no concern of ours.”
“Do as I say!” Emil commands.
Leonaie can feel that the man will obey. He easily lifts her away from the wall and pushes her down onto the blood slicked floor. He takes a step to the side. His foot lifts off of the canvas. On her knees, she falls forward and stretches out on her stomach to seize it.
The man watches her. Leonaie’s fingers find the wood frame. She slides the small piece into her hand.
“You want this, I see,” the man says.
“What is she doing?” Emil asks. “What is that she’s reaching for?”
She rolls over onto her back and thrusts the face of the painting before the man’s eyes. Leonaie’s voice is coarse, “Look here.”
The painting’s weight is like a large stone. She raises her other arm up to support it. She thinks the light in the room changes—some kind of glitter or strobing pulse sparkles just outside of her focus.
There is a low thud to her right. She turns her head to see Emil’s head locked in between Samuel’s knees. Emil is tearing at the stump of Samuel’s arm. She jerks her focus back to the man above her, scooting her body so that she can see his face. What she sees there she never forgets. Pulled like clay from the chin and forehead, his visage warps and lengthens. His eyes, like swollen black pools filling ever wider with dread and defeat, begin to tear with blood. A strange, thin string of light from the painting touches the center of each inky hole, as if lightning could linger and dance upon a midnight lake. A low, mournful moan issues from his chest as his strength gives out. Unconscious, he drops vertically onto his knees and topples
forward, pinning Leonaie.
Emil wheezes struggling for breath. Samuel then begins a gruesome series of blows to the assassin’s head with both his fist and the stump of his other arm. Blood and a white foam splatter with each strike. She sees Samuel’s expression. He is calm, focused and without emotion.
“Samuel,” Leonaie breaths out. “Samuel.” Her right rib and hip begin to throb with sharp pains. The dead weight of the man is crushing the air from her lungs. “Samuel.”
Samuel then sees her and halts. Fear shadows his face. The hesitation gives Emil the chance he had been waiting for, and he twists free and rolls with clawing effort a few feet away toward the window. His fingers wiping at his bloodied eyes.
Samuel crawls to Leonaie and hefts the unconscious man to the side. He casts a brief appraising glance across Leonaie’s face and body. “Breathe darling,” he nods. He then reaches up to the bed and pulls the dagger into his remaining hand.
Emil is now staggering to his feet. He kicks at the lower portion of the shattered window. The jagged glass breaks and falls out. He hurls one leg over and maneuvers the rest of his body through. Before he drops out of view he glares back and raises Samuel’s severed hand. He waves the mutilated appendage like a child would wave goodbye to a father. “Until we meet again, Mr. Lifeson. I’ll hang on to this for you.” He then falls away. Samuel staggers in pursuit. But at the window he stops, drops to his knees and stares after him.
Leonaie sits up. She manages to roll over and slowly stand. With a few delicate steps she joins Samuel at the window. Emil pauses beside a waiting vehicle. Its door is open. He peers back at Samuel and Leonaie before climbing in.
“Are you alright, darling?” Samuel asks.
Leonaie looks at his maimed arm, still dripping with a white foam. “Oh this?” he says, hiding the sight of it. “I will be fine. It is not the first time I’ve had to deal with a missing hand. Not easy, but I’m fine. But are you okay?”
Leaves of Fire: Part Two of the Newirth Mythology Page 9