by Ted Dekker
Helen chuckled, relieved. “Pedal to the metal, mama. So where to?”
“To Janjic’s,” Ivena said. “We will go to Janjic’s mansion.”
GLENN SAT in the town car’s rear seat, fussing and fuming, screaming long strings of obscenities while Buck steered the car with his one good arm and used the other as a guide. Sparks hadn’t been so lucky; it would be a month before the man would have use of his arm. But Buck’s bullet had done nothing more than slice into his shoulder. A few inches lower and it would’ve drilled a hole through his heart; the fact hadn’t been lost on him.
“Up ahead, sir,” Buck said.
“Where?” Glenn leaned forward. The light was already failing.
“Should be one of these houses up on the left.”
A car peeled from a driveway ahead; an old gray Bug. Some lowlife teenager showing off his new ride. They slowed and followed the numbers. 115 Benedict, Beatrice had said. 111 . . . 113 . . . 115. “Stop!” It was a small house surrounded by a hundred bushes blooming with white flowers. And if he was right, there would be one flower in that house ripe for the picking. Or squashing, depending on how it all came off.
“Isn’t this the driveway that Bug came from?” Buck said.
Bug? The gray Bug! Glenn spun to the street. “Yes!” It couldn’t be far. Had it turned left or right at the end? “Move, you fool! Don’t just sit here, get after it!”
They squealed into pursuit and caught it thirty seconds later, cruising west. Glenn leaned over the seat, breathing heavy beside Buck and peering through the dusk. He recognized her head, immediately—that light blond head he had held just last night. If he could reach her now he would take a handful of that hair and shake her like a rag doll, he thought. And he would do that soon enough now, because he had found her! He’d found the tramp. Sweet, sweet Helen. It now made little difference whether she intended to hide back at the house of flowers or at the Bug’s current destination. This time he would take care of things right. It would have to be a plan that lasted. One that took her completely off balance and thoroughly persuaded her to stay in her cage. Or better still, a plan that lured her back of her own choosing. Because she loved him. Yes, she did love him. Here, kitty, kitty.
It occurred to Glenn that his mouth hung open over the leather seat before him. A string of drool had fallen to the back of the seat. He swallowed and sat straight.
“Back off!” he snapped. “Back off and follow that car until it stops. You lose it and I swear I’ll put a bullet through your other arm.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Q: “What does this kind of love feel like?”
A: “The love of the priest? Imagine mad desperation. Imagine a deep yearning that burns in your throat. Imagine begging to be with your lover in death. King Solomon characterized the feeling as a sickness in his songs. Shakespeare envisioned it as Romeo’s death. But Christ . . . Christ actually died for his love. And the priest followed him gladly.”
Q: “And why do so few Christians associate love with death?”
A: “Just because they’re Christians does not mean they are necessarily followers of Christ. Followers of Christ would characterize love this way because Christ himself did.”
Jan Jovic, author of bestseller The Dance of the Dead
Interview with New York Times, 1960
JAN PACED the entryway and padded across the polished rust tile in stocking feet, feeling screwed into a knot without knowing exactly why. Ivena was on her way, bringing Helen with her. So the woman had come back after all. Ivena was right; they should show her Christian love. Christ had dined with the vagrants of his day; he had befriended the most unseemly characters; he’d even encouraged the prostitute to wash his feet.
So then, why was Jan reluctant to embrace Helen?
Father, what is happening here? You touch me with this woman; you give me this mad sorrow for her, but for what reason? Unless it was not you but me, conjuring those feelings in my own mind.
Perhaps it wasn’t reluctance he felt at all, but fear. Fear for what the woman did to him both times he’d seen her. Karen’s face flashed through his mind, smiling warmly. Even she had concluded that he ought to show friendship to Helen, although the conclusion had not come so easily.
Jan stopped his pacing and breathed deeply through his nose. The strong odor of vanilla from the three lit candles filled his nostrils. He’d turned the lights down, a habit ingrained during Sarajevo’s siege. Turn the lights down and stay low. Of course, this wasn’t Sarajevo and there was no siege. But this was Helen, and he had not imagined those two men chasing her in the park. She was in more danger than she let on.
The doorbell chimed and he started. Here already!
Jan stepped to the door and pulled it open. Ivena bustled in with Helen in tow. “Are you quite sure this is necessary, Janjic?” Ivena asked.
Jan closed the door, turned the deadbolt, and faced them. “Maybe not, but we can’t take the chance of being wrong.” He turned to Helen, who stood in the shadows. “Hello, Helen. So what do you think? Is this necessary?”
She stepped forward into the yellow light; the petite woman with short blond hair and deep blue eyes, dressed in a wrinkled pink dress. It was hard to imagine that she was the cause of all this commotion. She was just a junkie. She wore no shoes and her feet were dirty—that gave her away. On closer inspection so did the round bruise on her left cheek. She’d been hit very hard there. Jan’s heart was suddenly thumping in his chest.
“It could be,” she said.
“And what kind of danger are we talking about?” He swallowed, acutely aware that she was affecting him already; afraid that she might drown him with his own compassion. Father, please.
“I don’t know . . . anything. You saw the men that chased us.”
“Then we should call the police.”
“No.”
“Why not? This man has abused you. You’re in danger.”
“No. No police.”
Ivena turned for the living room. “Standing here will do us no good. Come in, Helen, and tell us what has happened.”
Helen kept her eyes on Jan for a moment before turning and following Ivena. Jan watched them go. Ivena had indeed adopted Helen, he thought. They sat in a triangle—Helen on the couch, Ivena on the love seat, and Jan in his customary leather armchair—and for a moment no one spoke. Then Helen twisted her hands together, pulled them close as if to hold herself, and smiled. “Boy, it smells good in here. Is that vanilla, Jan?”
Her voice played over his mind as if it possessed life. Goodness! It was happening again! And she had said what? Is that vanilla, Jan? Yet those words—the simple sound of her voice—and the image of her huddled on the couch played like fingers on the chords of his mind.
“Yes,” he answered. “From the candle.”
She was looking around. “So this is the mansion Ivena keeps talking about. It’s nice.”
“It’s too much,” Jan said.
“You live here alone?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re right; it’s too much.”
Ivena humphed. “I’ve always told him the same. He needs a good woman to make this a home. Now tell us, Helen. Why did you leave yesterday?”
There it was; Ivena had opted for the direct approach, like a good mother.
And Helen did not seem to mind this time. “I don’t know. I was lonely, I guess,” she said.
“Lonely? Lonely for this fellow who put that bruise on your cheek?”
She shrugged and bit her lip.
Ivena glanced at Jan. “And why did you come back?” she asked.
Again Helen shrugged. She stared at one of the floor lamps, and Jan saw her eyes glisten in the amber light. She was as confused and desperate as they came, he thought. A child so categorically lost that she did not even know she was lost. A woman strung out by an impossible childhood and left to dangle by a single thread. In her case it might be a thread of pleasure. Give her pleasure, any form of pleasure, and
she would cling to you. But give her love and she might fly away, confused by the foreign notions of trust and loyalty. Her leaving and coming were as much a matter of habit as desire.
Jan stared at her and felt his heart ache. Helen, Helen. Sweet Helen. He wiped a thin sheen of sweat from his palms. “You don’t need to be afraid, Helen. You will be safe, here. I promise.”
She lifted her blue eyes. “I hope so.”
“But we should know more about Glenn, I think. We’re involved now; we should know more.”
Helen nodded slowly and then she told them about Glenn. The simple truth, from her own eyes, of course, but honesty hung in her voice. Slowly she unveiled the ugly truth about her relationship with the demented drug dealer. And slowly, as she talked, Jan felt his ache for her increase. He arose once to check the street, but came back reporting nothing unusual.
Glenn was a man who lived for control, and beneath the city’s layers he pulled a lot of strings . . . Helen believed him. She’d heard him—seen him—manipulate men much more powerful in the public eye. But really it was Glenn who pulled the strings with his huge fistfuls of money. It was a power as intoxicating as the drugs. It was a give-and-take relationship—they both gave and they both took.
Her voice droned sweetly through Jan’s mind, like an airborne drug—playing on his emotions as no voice had ever played. He listened to her and his heart seemed to physically swell. It grew and ached with every new sentence she spoke. So much so that toward the end of her story, he stopped hearing her altogether.
It wasn’t the way she looked. It was more, far more. It was her voice; the look beyond her eyes. A fire deep in her pupils that mesmerized him. It was her sloppy English and her giggle and her plain way with the truth. There was not a shred of plastic about her.
But more even. It was the fact that her heart was beating. She was sitting there on his couch and her heart was beating and somehow his own heart was beating with it. The thought made his palms wet.
He imagined telling Karen about this. Oh, Karen. This woman is so wounded. She’s in such need of love. The love of God. Christ’s love.
Helen, sweet Helen, was no ordinary woman, he knew that now. And the realization began to soak the back of his shirt with sweat.
“. . . will I stay?” Helen asked.
She had asked the question of him. “What? I’m sorry, what?”
“What do we do now? Have you been listening, Jan? Because you do look distracted. Doesn’t he look distracted, Ivena?”
“Of course, I’ve been listening,” he said and blushed. Helen was smiling slyly as if she’d caught him, and he suddenly felt very self-conscious. She is beautiful, he thought. Wrinkled pink dress, scraggly blond hair and all. Quite beautiful. Stunning actually. Even with her bare feet. They are tender feet.
Stop it, Jan! Stop it! This is absurd! You are nearly married and here you are ogling a young woman.
He faced Ivena and heard his voice as if at a distance. “What would you say, Ivena?”
She had lowered her head and was looking at him past her eyebrows. “I would say that I detect a pitter, Janjic.”
She was referring to his heart! Good heavens, she was accusing him right here before Helen! “Good enough. You will stay the night then. It could be dangerous to return to your house alone. Use the apartment.”
“Apartment?” Helen asked.
“There’s a fully equipped suite in the basement. Old guest quarters. Actually no one’s used it since Ivena occupied it for a few weeks while we found her house. It has its own entrance but it’s well locked. Ivena knows the ropes.”
Jan glanced at Ivena and saw that she held a raised eyebrow.
The shrill ring of the phone saved Jan from any further comment. He stood quickly and strode for the kitchen. Ivena had gone too far this time. He would speak to her about this pitter nonsense.
But she is right, Janjic.
He grabbed the receiver from the wall. “Hello.” She could not be right.
“Jan Jovic?” a low voice asked.
“Yes?”
The man on the phone took a deep breath, but did not speak. Jan’s heart spiked. “May I help you?”
“Listen to me, you little punk. You think you can keep her?” A few pulls of heavy breathing filled the receiver and Jan spun away from the women. A small strobe ignited in his mind and suddenly he was there, again. Facing Karadzic’s venomous stare in a distant landscape.
“She’s a dog in heat. You know how to keep other dogs away from a dog in heat?” It was Karadzic! It was him!
“You kill them,” the voice said. “Now you’ve been warned, preacher pimp. If she’s not back in her kennel within forty-eight hours you’ll pray to God that you never laid eyes on her.” Heavy breathing again.
Jan’s mind spun, gripped by panic.
A soft click sounded. And a dial tone.
For a moment Jan could not move. Had he just been threatened? Of course he had! But it was not Karadzic, was it? It was Glenn Lutz.
He breathed deliberately and blinked several times to regain clear vision. The women had stopped talking. He forced the phone back onto its hook.
“Is there a problem, Janjic?” Ivena called.
“No,” he said, and immediately thought, That was a lie. But what else could he say? Don’t mind me, I’m just losing my mind over here. I do that once a month. Helps me stay in touch with my past.
Jan considered excusing himself and walking for the bedroom. Instead he opened the refrigerator and stared at the contents for a few moments. He reached for the pitcher of tea with a shaking hand, thought better of it and grabbed a small bottle of soda water instead. Slowly the tremble worked its way out of his limbs.
This was all far too much. He had a life to attend to, for heaven’s sake. He was bound for New York in the morning. With Karen! His fiancée! He really should walk in there and tell Ivena that she should take Helen to a church shelter or another place properly staffed to help women in need. This was his home, not some church. And now his life was being threatened by her crazed lover!
But when he entered the room and saw Helen sitting on the couch, his heart swelled once again, despite the odd look she cast his way. His stomach hovered for a moment.
Dear God, this was madness!
Perhaps, but Jan knew then for the first time, looking at the young woman on his couch, that he did not want her to leave. In fact, the thought of her leaving brought a feeling not unlike panic to his chest.
Which was a problem, wasn’t it? A very big problem.
JAN BARELY slept that night. He mumbled prayers to his Father, begging for understanding, but no understanding came. If God had indeed ignited his heart for this woman, what kind of switch had he thrown? And why? And what would Karen make of Ivena’s pitter? Which was maybe more than a pitter.
She would never understand. Neither would Roald. How could they? Jan didn’t even understand!
He rose half a dozen times and peeked through the windows for any sign of intruders, then finally drifted off near 3:00 A.M.
He left the house at six, before either Ivena or Helen had emerged from their rooms. They’d agreed that if anyone needed to leave the house, it would be Ivena, alone. Helen would not leave for any reason. And under no condition were they to open the door for a stranger. There was easily enough food in the icebox to tide them over. He would think things through and come back from New York with a plan, he promised.
Karen gave him several strange looks during their drive to the airport. “What?” he asked once.
“Nothing. You just seem distracted,” she replied.
He almost told her about the crazy threat, but decided she didn’t need the worry hanging over her.
“I have a lot on my mind,” he told her with a smile. It seemed to satisfy her. An hour later the jet leveled off at thirty thousand feet. Slowly the images that had kept him awake during the night began to fade.
They sat side by side in the first-class cabin, fingers int
ertwined, talking of everything and nothing, flying high in their own private world. The musky perfume she wore smelled delicate and womanly, like Karen herself, he thought. Dinner was served: lobster tails with buttered potatoes and a red wine sauce he’d never tasted before—certainly not with lobster. It was heavenly. Although, Karen did advise the stewardess that the beans hadn’t been properly stringed and Jan felt awkward for her saying it.
Roald had arranged to meet them with an entourage of Christian leaders and human rights activists who strongly supported the making of the movie. Some of Delmont’s people would be there as well, Karen told him. They wanted to make an event out of the occasion. Trust Roald and Karen to come up with any excuse to publicize. He told her as much and she giggled, biting her tongue between her front teeth. She didn’t laugh—that would have been expected. But she giggled like a little girl and she bit her tongue and she squinted her eyes as if she’d done something especially tricky, although they both knew it was nothing unusual at all. She did that because she was with him. She did that because she was in love.
Jan leaned back and smiled. This is where you belong, Janjic. “You know, it’s amazing to consider God’s faithfulness,” he said.
“How so?”
“Look at me. What do you see?”
“I see a strong man on top of the world.”
He tried not to blush. “I’m a boy who grew up in the slums of Sarajevo and who lost his family to war and illness. A young man who roamed Bosnia, killing along with the rest. And then once, in a small village I did something decent; something right. I stood up for the truth. I defended one of God’s children and was immediately thrown into prison for five years. But now look at me, Karen. Now God has granted me this incredible blessing of living.” He grinned with her. “Now I’m flying in first class, eating lobster with my wife to be. Wouldn’t you say that God is faithful?”
“Yes. And that faithfulness is now in my favor,” she said, smiling. “Because I’m seated next to you.” She took his hand and kissed it gently. He looked at her and his desire surged. It was a mad moment; one in which he thought they should move the wedding up. December felt like another lifetime. Let’s elope, Karen.