I moved to the next statue farther down the long bridge in the center of Vigeland Park. This one had a naked man holding on to a naked woman who had her legs wrapped around his torso and was pushing against his head. He was holding on, and she was pushing away. Another was a man stretched back, holding a woman aloft, her back to his chest, her feet kicking as though she was trying to get away, but he’d caught her. Yet another was an old man, grabbing a younger man and beating him, his mighty fist raised above his head as though ready to strike. It caused a very visceral, heated reaction within me as I took in each new sculpture.
The visuals were startling in their realism and movement even though they struck an angry emotional chord from deep inside, springing from a place within I rarely visited.
Erik took my hand and led me over to a smaller sculpture that I actually recognized from somewhere. Maybe a European art history class as the entire park was dedicated to the work of one artist, Gustav Vigeland, a very famous sculptor of the 19th century.
“Vigeland believed that when you stripped away the clothing, you saw simply the art and the real emotion and expression he was trying to display. When you add clothing, hairstyles, and such, it puts the art in a specific time period. As it stands now, these sculptures will resonate through people hundreds of years from now as if they were made yesterday, not a hundred years ago.”
“Wow.” I walked up to a statue of an angry baby. The sculpture was pristine in its ability to capture the exact size of a small toddler from its chubby puffed cheeks to its rounded head, blocky feet, and tightened fist. One of its hands had been rubbed of the green patina and stood out against the rest as a brightened unblemished golden bronze, reminiscent of Erik’s eye color.
Erik came up behind me and gestured to the hand. “Touch it.”
I made a sour face. “Why?” I was not one to go touching things I knew nothing about. Especially another’s art.
He shrugged and went up to the three-foot statue that was on the side of the concrete bridge and ran his large hand over the baby’s. “It’s supposed to bring good luck.” He lifted his hand and made a come-hither gesture.
I rolled my eyes and bumbled over to him, then gamely reached out and rested my palm over the tiny bronze hand. It was surprisingly warm to the touch, as though each person who touched it had left a piece of their energy behind, connecting us all by this tiny thread in the giant matrix of our world.
Erik led me farther down the bridge and to the top of a rise where a giant monolith stood. There were many sculptures surrounding it, all in granite. What was astonishing was that each sculpture was one solid piece of granite from which the artist had carved an image. And if my vision was correct, they were damn near perfect in scale. There were lovers, children, and even aged individuals with saggy skin and tired faces.
“All of these show the circle of life. Each stage.” Erik pointed to one section at a time, so I’d see how the art advanced.
“Incredible. And the monolith? Why is it made of bodies?” Probably the most astonishing yet frightening piece of art in the entire park. So many bodies were lying one on top of the other. Creating this massive structure that rose into the sky.
“There are a total of 121 human figures. Men, women, at different ages of life, with children at the top. It’s been interpreted by scholars as Vigeland’s vision of resurrection and striving and longing for something more. Maybe even a higher power.”
“Spirituality,” I murmured. “It feels like people trying to find their connection to God.”
He smiled. “Possibly. To me, art is meant to be whatever you feel when you look at it.”
“And what do you feel right now?” I looked at the sculpture and turned to find him looking only at me.
In that moment, his eyes were a transcendent portal directly to his soul.
“Blessed.”
Episode 34
Trust in Me
JOEL
“Watch her closely,” I warned Alan, one of my top security guards.
“Like a hawk, boss,” he promised.
I tilted my head. “She’s going to try and escape to trade herself for the child. Anything happens to her, I hold you and the rest of your team responsible.”
Alan crossed his arms over his chest, planted his feet hip distance apart, and nodded.
“Good man.” I patted him on the shoulder.
As I walked down the corridor of the hospital, I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I never thought I’d use in this lifetime.
“Castellanos, long time no talk, amigo. To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?” Diego Salazar, the regional head of the Latin mafia of the entire West Coast, answered as though we were actual friends. It was an unlikely pairing to be sure, but we’d met a few years ago when I inadvertently helped him out of a bind. A bind that constituted me saving his life.
The story was outlandish and truly a situation where I had been in the right place at the right time. Still, other motorists had not stopped. My limo had been headed to the Las Vegas airport when we saw a pristine Hummer crash into a blacked-out SUV. Shots were being fired into the vehicle through the window and then the Hummer battle-rammed the SUV repeatedly, going maximum speed until it hit the SUV so hard, the vehicle ended up spinning, crashing into another car, and rolling onto the shoulder of the freeway. The Hummer raced off, leaving the burning, bullet-riddled car in its dust. I instructed my driver and security team to pull over, and together we ended up saving Diego and his beloved “Baby Mama,” as he phrased it, as well as his brother. Unfortunately, the driver had sustained too much damage, but because we’d saved three lives, Diego made it very clear that he owed me three favors. None of which I’d collected on.
Until today.
“I have a situation, and I need immediate assistance.” I spoke intently into the phone.
“Whatever your wish, it is my command,” Diego asserted instantly.
My heartbeat settled to a normal rhythm at his response. “Do you know Aiden Bradford?” I growled, not capable of leaving the violence out of my phrasing.
“El cabrón who owns El Diablo Hotel and thinks he’s king of Las Vegas?” He chuckled wryly.
“That would be the one. He has taken something that I’m claiming as my own, and I want it back. Immediately. Time is of the essence.” I infused my words with the frustration I felt deep in my bones.
“What did he take? I’ll have my men retrieve it,” Diego noted as I approached my limo.
My driver opened the door and I ambled in. “El Diablo Hotel. Now!” I barked. “A child. Eden. Approximately three years of age. She belongs to my fiancée.”
“He kidnapped a child from its mother?” Diego snarled .
Diego had a few children of his own and wouldn’t take kindly to a man separating a child from her family.
“Actually he stole her from her bed in the night, then accosted her grandfather who is currently being treated at the hospital.”
“How bloody do you want this?” Diego asked flat-out, direct and to the point. “My men can make it filthy, ese.”
As much as I wanted Aiden to suffer, and to do so in a way he’d never think twice about harming Faith ever again, I would much prefer to dole out his punishment in a way that lasted years, not hours or days. I knew Diego and his henchmen could, would, and had done horrifying things. I did not have a problem with the way they doled out justice, but the American legal system did. And frankly, I’d rather ruin him by destroying everything he loved most.