When Heaven Weeps (39 page)

Ivena had just started to turn back when a hand clamped around her face. They had come right to her! “Hey!” Her cry was stifled by a piece of cloth. The man was suffocating her!
Oh, dear God, these men are attacking me!

“Hey!” she cried again, both arms flailing. Her voice was completely muffled by the hand this time, but she did manage to hit something soft and she heard a grunt.

A sharp metallic smell stung her nostrils, right through her sinuses. They were drugging her! Ivena's mind began to swim. Thunder rolled again, louder this time, unless that was how it felt to be drugged. Black clouds obscured her vision. She screamed at them then, but she knew that nothing was coming out. It was a wail in her own dim world.

Am I dying? Am I dying?
she asked.

But Ivena did not know, because her question stopped in a pool of darkness. She slumped in her attacker's arms.

THE RAIN crashed down in sheets, bringing twilight an hour early to Atlanta. Helen stood by the sliding door to the backyard and watched droplets dance furiously on the pool's surface. Behind her the house lay in dim shadows, silent except for the dull roar of rain. She should really turn on the lights, but she lacked the motivation to move just now.

Jan had left for New York. He would be up to his eyeballs in meetings right now, being important. Being the star.
I need you, Jan. I need . . .

You need what, Helen? Jan? Or the feelings he will bring you? Call Ivena.

She ground her teeth. The urges had started at noon, a muddled mix of desire and horror stuffed in her chest. She wasn't physically addicted, she knew that because she'd broken her addiction in those first four weeks of abstinence, with the help of a drug counselor, as Jan called him. Still, her mind was craving; her
heart
seemed hooked. She didn't understand how all of that worked, but she did know that her mind was hooked. She couldn't break the mad desperation that raged through her veins. Physical dependence would've been easier, she thought. At least with it, she would have an excuse people might understand.

But this craving was maybe worse. It was through her whole being.

Yet it was more than just the drug. Helen wanted the Palace. That horrible, terrible, evil place. That wonderful place. It was this realization that made her cringe.

You should call Ivena, Helen
.

No! Helen spun from the door. She made her decision in that moment, and the shackles of her desperation fell away. She ran for the phone and snatched it from the wall. Now it was only desire that flooded her mind, and it felt good. God, she had missed that feeling. No, not God . . . She sealed the thought from her mind.

The witch answered the phone. “Beatrice. It's Helen.”

Glenn's assistant drew a breath. “Yes?”

“Can you send a car?”

“The wench wants to return, is that it? And what if Glenn's not here?”

“Is he?”

Silence. The woman obviously wanted to say no. But her silence had answered already. “You don't know what you're messing with, honey.”

“Shut up, you old witch. Just get me a car. And don't take all day.”

She heard a few mumbled expletives. The phone went dead.

Helen hung up and retreated to the window, biting at her nails. Her heart thumped in anticipation now. The rain pelted in sheets, covering the concrete in a thick mist of its own splatter. It was like a shield, this dark rain. What happened now would be gone when the sun came out.

She ran about the house, turning on lights with trembling hands. She changed quickly into jeans and a yellow T-shirt. When the car pulled up fifteen minutes later, Helen bolted from the house, yanked the rear car door open, and plowed in. The driver was Buck. She leaned back in the safety of the dark cabin and breathed deep. The rich smell of cigarette smoke filled the car.

“Got a cigarette I can bum, Buck?”

He handed a pack of Camels back without answering. She lit one and drew on the tobacco. Rain thundered on the roof. The smoke filled her lungs and she smiled. She was going home, she thought. Just for a visit, but she was definitely going home.

They parked in the Tower's garage ten minutes later and rode the private elevator. It clanged to a stop at the top floor, and Helen stepped in the causeway that led to the Palace. “Go on in,” Buck said. “He's waiting for you.”

He was waiting? Of course he was waiting! Glenn would be waiting on his knees. And Jan . . . She snuffed out the thought.

She crept down the empty hall, expecting to see the witch at any time. But Beatrice wasn't here to greet her. Helen stopped at the entry door and tried to calm herself. But her pulse was having none of it.
This is insane, Helen. This is death.
It was the last thought before the door swung in under the pressure of her hand.

Helen entered the Palace.

Music greeted her. A soft rhythmic saxophone; the sound of Bert Kampfort, Glenn's choice of sensual tunes. The lights glowed in hues of red and yellow. It was hard to believe that she'd been here just last weekend and still the atmosphere was crashing in on her like a long-lost wave of pleasure. The dance floor reflected slowly turning pinpoints of light from the overhead mirrored ball.

“Helen.”

Glenn! She spun toward the voice. He stood by the couch under the lion's head.

“Hi, Glenn.” Helen stepped onto the floor. He wore his white polyester slacks, barefoot on the thick carpet. A yellow Hawaiian shirt hung loosely on his torso. His sweaty lips were peeled back in a wide grin, revealing his crooked teeth. This part of him—this dirty smelly part—had not stayed in her memory so well, but it came raging to the surface now. She needed the drugs. They would dull the edges.

Helen stopped three paces from him and saw for the first time the wet streaks on his cheeks. He had been crying. And it was not a grin but a grimace that twisted his face. His legs were shaking.

“Glenn? What's wrong? Are you okay?”

He sat heavily to the couch, crying openly now.

“Why are you crying?”

“You're killing me, Helen,” he growled through clenched teeth. And then like a lost boy, “I can't stand it when you're gone. I miss you so much.”

He was sick, she thought, and she wasn't sure whether to feel sorrow or revulsion for him. Large sweat stains darkened the pits of his shirt and she smelled the stench from his underarms. “I'm sorry, Glenn . . .”

He grunted like a hog and shot out of the seat in a blur of rage. His fist slammed into her solar plexus and she folded over his arm. Pain speared through her stomach. His fist crashed down on the crown of her head and she fell flat to the floor.

“You are killing me!” he screamed. “Don't you know that, Helen? You're killing me here!”

She curled into a ball, trying desperately to breathe.

“Helen? Do you hear me? Answer me.” He knelt over her, breathing hard. “Are you okay, dear?” He leaned close, so that his breath washed over her face. She caught a snatch of air and moaned.

A hot wet tongue slid up her cheek. He was licking her. Licking her face. She squelched a sudden urge to turn and bite his tongue off. It would be her death.

“Helen, my dear, I missed you so much.”

She could breathe now and she feigned a giggle. “Glenn, dear. Give me some dope. Please.”

“You want some dope, honey?” he asked, as if she were his baby.

“Yes.”

“Beg.”

“Please, Glenn.” She kissed him.

He leaped from the floor like a child now. “I have a surprise for you, Helen. What do you want first, the dope or the surprise?” She pushed herself to her knees. His eyes glinted with delight.

She ran a finger along his arm seductively. “You have to ask? You know how much I like to fly, honey.”

He threw his head back and howled with laughter. He was mad, she thought. He had actually lost his senses. Glenn led her to the bar where he produced a pile of powder and within the minute Helen was feeling better.

“Now the surprise,” he insisted with a crackerjack grin.

“Yes, the surprise,” Helen cried, raising her fist. She was feeling so much better. “Lead me on, my king.”

His eyes flashed mischievously and he loped for the apartment. She followed, giggling now. “What is it? What is it, Glenn?”

“You'll see! You're gonna love it!”

He crashed through the door and pulled up. She stumbled in and peered about the apartment. “Where? What is it?”

Glenn's eyes glistened, round, eager. He kept his eyes on her and crept to the bathroom door. “Is it here?” he asked in play, and opened the door. She looked in. Nothing.

“No. Stop playing, you big oaf.”

“Is it here?” he asked, lifting the bedspread.

“Come on, Glenn, you're driving me crazy. Show me.”

He stepped to the closet, eyes wide, a gaping smile splitting his face. “Is it here?” he asked.

“What are you playing at, you silly—”

Her words caught in her throat. The closet was open. A person stood, bound like a mummy and propped in the corner. A woman.

Ivena!

At first Helen did not comprehend what she was seeing. Why was Ivena here? And wasn't it odd that she was tied up like that? The woman's eyes were open, looking at her, crying tears that wet the gag in her mouth.

Realization crept over Helen like a hot lava flow, searing her mind despite its state of numbness. Glenn had brought Ivena to the Palace! And he had hurt her, badly enough to produce a bloody nose and a bruised face.

Those soft brown eyes stared at Helen, and she felt her heart begin to break. “Ivena?” she croaked.

“Do you like my surprise, Helen?” Glenn asked. He was no longer smiling.

“Oh, Ivena. Oh, God, Ivena!” Helen sank to her knees. Her world began to swim. Maybe this was one of those bad trips.

Glenn was laughing now. He was enjoying this. His whole body shook like a bowl of jelly and that struck Helen as odd. The door to the closet was shut now, and she wondered what she had seen in there. She'd dreamed that Glenn had bound and gagged Ivena, of all people, and propped her up in the closet. Goodness, she was hallucinating badly.

Helen giggled with Glenn, testing the waters at first. But when he howled with humor, she let restraint fly out the window and joined him, laughing until she could hardly kneel, much less stand.

The world drifted into a safe place of fuzzy edges and warm feelings. She was home, wasn't she? Hands hauled her up onto the bed.

Yes, Helen had come home.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

THE MASSIVE storm that pounded Atlanta stretched right up the eastern coast and dumped rain on New York that dark night as well. But in the delicate ambiance of Brazario's Fine Dining, the party from Delmont Pictures was oblivious to it. Here the light was soft, the smell of coffee rich, and the laughter gentle. Jan picked at his soft-shell crab and nodded at Tony Berhart's assertion that if a movie could make the women cry, it was destined for success. Well,
The Dance of the Dead
would make most men cry as well, he said, and that would make it unstoppable. The studio's VP of acquisitions lifted a toast to accent his point.

“Here, here,” agreed Roald, who lifted his own glass in acknowledgment. They had arrived on different planes, he, Karen and Roald, all from separate states, brought together by the good folks at Delmont Pictures.

Karen sat across the table to Jan's right. Three tall red candles burned between them, casting an orange glow over her face. She laughed with Roald. She had perfected the art of socializing like few Jan knew, laughing at precisely the right moment but knowing when to stand up and be heard as well.

Jan thought back to their encounter just an hour earlier. The wind was blowing when he reached the restaurant, and he held the door for a woman approaching to his left. She was less than five feet away before they recognized each other.

Karen.

She pulled up as if slapped.

“Hello, Karen.”

She recovered quickly. “Hello, Jan.” She walked past him and he entered behind her.

“So, here we are then,” he said. “We meet after all.”

“Yes.” She cast him a quick glance, then scanned the foyer for a sign of their hosts. “They should be here. Have you seen Roald?”

“No. No, I just arrived. Are you okay, Karen?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I'm fine, Jan. Let's just get this movie out of the way. We can do that, can't we?”

“Yes . . . I heard you were seeing someone. I'm glad.”

“And so am I. Let's not talk about it. You do what you need to do, and let me do what I need to do. Okay? Where's Roald?” She crooked her neck for view.

“I really had no choice, Karen. You do realize that, don't you?”

“I don't know, Jan. Did you?”

“I don't know what you've heard, and I don't expect you to understand, but what happened between Helen and me, it was beyond us. God is not finished with this story.”

“And what happens to the rest of us poor sad sacks while God finishes your story? We just get trampled for the greater good, is that it?”

“No. But this love for Helen, it did come from him. The attraction between you and me was somewhat misplaced. Surely you see that now.”

“Oh come on, Jan. Don't cast this off on God. You know how pathetic that sounds? You dumped me for another woman because God told you to?”

“Then forget how it happened. Were we really right for each other? You're already with another man. And I'm with another woman.”

She stopped her searching and looked into Jan's eyes without responding.

“We were caught up in the momentum of it,” Jan said. “Perhaps you were as interested in
The Dance of the Dead
—in the Jan Jovic franchise—as in me.”

Finally she responded. “Maybe. And what would that make your attraction to me?”