The Thieves of Heaven

by Richard Doetsch

  It so happened on one Friday, Joe found himself in his special seat while the principal, Father Daniels, lectured him on the downfall of society as a result of the lack of respect. Father Daniels detailed how Joe’s life, while all rosy with his sports scholarship, could easily turn on a dime and evaporate. The principal’s limit had been reached. Joe’s two suspensions had left Daniels with no choice but to expel him for another incident. Daniels tried to put it into terms that Joe could relate to: one more strike and the teenager was out. And if Joe thought he was so brilliant, so much smarter than everyone else, he should just test him. Daniels proclaimed a week’s detention and told Joe not to move until he returned.

  Joe sat there stewing, wondering who this man thought he was. In three weeks, Joe would be gone from this school, moving on to greater heights, while Daniels would surely remain stuck here for years to come. Joe sat there staring at an award on Daniels’s desk. The statue was dated from fifteen years earlier recognizing the priest for his outstanding influence on the lives of his students. As Joe waited for the principal to return, his emotions began to get the better of him. The more he thought on it—outstanding influence—the more indignation he felt.

  Joe sat staring at the small statue for nearly an hour before Daniels’s secretary came in and told him that the principal had been called away and wouldn’t be back till Monday. Joe nearly boiled over as the secretary left the room. But, instead of erupting, he gathered up his things and he did something that would have lifelong implications, implications that he could never see coming.

  He took the brass-and-Plexiglas award that sat on Daniels’s desk.

  That night, as Joe, Michael, and their friends hung out at the lake tearing into a six-pack, Joe showed off the small statue he’d stolen. The boys all howled in laughter at his derring-do, their faces glowing from the fire they had stoked up for warmth. They clustered around Joe as Michael took a Polaroid of the thief with his spoils. Joe popped open another beer and they all raised a toast to him as he ceremoniously tossed the statue in the fire.

  But as midnight rolled around, Joe’s bravado began to evaporate. Reality started to sink in as he realized that come Monday morning Father Daniels, upon finding his statue missing, would have only one suspect to point the finger at.

  Strike three.

  Michael watched the panic seep into his friend’s eyes. It had been ten years since they met as altar boys on a cold Sunday in February and in all that time, Michael had yet to see his self-confident friend so desperate. Joe kept up his tough-guy routine but Michael knew there would be no talking his way out of this one. Neither the school nor Joe’s parents would forgive this. And being expelled would render his college acceptance null and void. The night had started out as a celebration and ended like a funeral. The six boys all headed home feeling sorry for their friend. And no one was more sorry than Michael, who could see his friend’s crushing remorse.

  Arriving home, Michael walked into the garage which his father had converted to a wood and metal shop. It was his dad’s hobby; he built everything around their house, and when Michael was a child his dad taught him much of his craft. But, like most kids hitting their teen years, Michael rebelled and steered clear of his father’s interest.

  Michael looked at the tools before him, then pulled the Polaroid out of his pocket. For the next thirty-six hours, with the Polaroid propped on the workbench for guidance, he worked without a break. It took him sixteen tries to shape the Plexiglas statue; another eight to create the engraved wooden base. At 11:50 on Sunday night he headed through the woods to the high school. Up a tree and onto the roof, he made his way to the bulkhead door, which hadn’t been locked in thirty years. As Michael’s heart pounded in his ears and the adrenaline rushed in his veins, he felt a sense of confidence in himself that he had never before experienced. As wrong as what he was doing was, it just somehow felt good….It felt right.

  On Monday morning Joe sat in the principal’s office. He had been summoned first thing and knew he would be facing the ruin of his entire life. Father Daniels sat there silently for what seemed like eternity. Joe waited for the end to begin. But then the priest stunned him: he apologized. It was a side of Daniels that Joe had never seen. Father Daniels apologized for losing his temper and for rushing out on him on Friday and leaving him there alone. He told Joe that was enough detention; he wished him luck in college and said he was free to go.

  As Joe left, he looked at the award on Father Daniels’s desk and decided he must be dreaming. He was certain that he’d seen it burn.

  Chapter 6

  Michael sat slumped in a booth at the local diner, two cups of coffee on the table; neither had been touched. His eyes, red and swollen from lack of sleep, fought to stay open. With the sun long set, he braced himself for another endless night. The exhaustion was already dragging at his mind like a lead weight. He nervously flicked a business card as his eyes darted around the diner. He’d violated her trust; he’d lied to Mary three times. And now this…

  He had run out of options. The hospital was demanding to know how he would pay for the surgery, how he would pay for her follow-up treatment. In three days, he had already run up over twenty thousand in bills. Tests, tests, and more tests. Each more painful and expensive than the last. Dr. Rhineheart had tried to pull some strings, but there were no more strings to pull. The head of hospital administration had laid it out most clearly: if Michael couldn’t pay for the treatment, his wife, unfortunately, would have to leave the ward. Mary and Michael were stuck in the middle—not enough income to pay for the treatment but just enough not to qualify for aid. Michael was reduced to begging, pleading with anyone he knew. Busch would get him the thirty-five thousand as soon as he liquidated his pension. That crushed Michael but he accepted the loan; he had no choice, his pride be damned. The money wouldn’t be available for three weeks, though, and even then it wouldn’t be close to enough.

  The final humiliating blow struck yesterday. It had been the last place to turn. Michael had exhausted every avenue, every possibility. He sat in their office and accepted their tea, not wanting to appear rude as he had so often in the past. He explained the problem: if he didn’t get money, his wife would die. Father Shaunessy and the parish council listened with nodding heads and sympathetic ears, not saying a word until he was finished.

  And then the Church which Mary so believed in simply said no. “We do not have the resources to provide funds for our parishioners.” But they would be happy to remember Mary at Sunday’s Mass.

  Michael sat in the booth stirring his cold cup of coffee, staring at the other patrons. There were only three. They sat on the other side of the diner quietly laughing about who knew what. He couldn’t help but stare, wishing he had paid attention to those moments, those times that lives were lived carefree, when he’d been unaware that it could all wash away with a doctor’s diagnosis. Why hadn’t he paid attention to those moments, absorbing them, appreciating them? Most of all he wished that he could somehow get back to those times. It seemed so long ago that he had felt unburdened, yet it was less than a week. Five days ago, he and Mary had been hobnobbing at Busch’s party, oblivious to what was to come. He knew there was no way of going back, but what frustrated him was he had no means of moving forward.

  From out of nowhere, Finster arrived, impeccably dressed in an Armani sport coat, his white hair pulled back tight in a ponytail. As he sat down, Michael noticed that Finster was much older than he had appeared when he’d first shown up at Michael’s business. You could see it in his eyes, ancient and hardened as if he’d been through life more than once.

  “You look like you could use a friend,” Finster remarked.

  “Circumstances change.”

  “I’m sorry about your wife,” the German murmured with genuine sympathy.

  “Yeah, well.” Michael was hesitant, the words came hard. “You wanted to talk?”

  “How are you?”

  “Time is short.”

  “I k
now that you are out of the business, I respect that.” Then Finster seemed to have a change of heart. He leaned back, shaking his head. “We don’t have to talk about this now. Perhaps later, when you are in a better frame of mind.”

  “No, it’s now or never.” If he didn’t hear the man out at this moment, his nerve would be lost and so would Mary.

  “All right. But if you’re not interested, I will understand, and we can part as friends.”

  Michael stared at the older man. He knew that anyone dealing in his former trade was questionable at best.

  “I am prepared to take care of all of your wife’s medical expenses no matter the cost—”

  “For what?” Michael cut to the chase, aware this was no minor job. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars—the estimated cost of Mary’s treatment—was danger pay.

  “There are two objects I desperately need to acquire. Both are in a minimum-security building. No armed guards, easy access—”

  “I’m on parole.”

  “The job is in Europe. You wouldn’t be breaking your parole here.”

  “Actually, I would. But more importantly, I’d be breaking it here.” Michael tapped his heart. “I promised my wife.”

  Finster leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. “Situations change, Michael. Your wife’s life hangs in the balance. Would you have made such a promise to her if you knew it meant the difference between her life and death? Of course not.”

  Finster was right. Michael knew it. He would never have made the promise if he’d known it would put Mary’s survival in jeopardy. “I need more details,” he said as he sipped his cold coffee.

  “Good. At least you’re thinking about it. Unfortunately, that is all I can tell you now. If you choose to accept the job, I will give you all the details. But once you accept…” Finster let it dangle.

  Michael knew now there was no turning back. “I always finish what I start.”

  “One thing; maybe important, maybe not. This job may be in conflict with your religious beliefs.” It was an offhand warning but a warning nonetheless.

  “Go on.”

  “The job is in a church.”

  Michael let out a chuckle, “Ah, one of life’s little jokes.” He leaned back in the booth, picking up his coffee again. “I don’t believe in God. Do you?”

  Finster seemed taken aback by Michael’s comment, his lack of faith. “With all my heart. After all I’ve seen…” He pondered his own faith for a moment. “There is no question in my mind.”

  A waitress arrived and gave them a coffee refill. She flashed Finster a smile.

  He nodded. “Thank you.”

  She brushed the hair shyly out of her middle-aged eyes and left.

  “Think about my offer.” Finster stood and threw some money for the coffee on the table. “I must be on my way. I have other business to attend to.”

  “At this hour?”

  “Haven’t you ever heard the expression, ‘No rest for the weary’?”

  “You mean the wicked?”

  Finster flashed his dazzling smile, then shook his hand. “I hope you make the right decision, Michael.”

  Hawk raced for the door the second the knob started to jiggle. CJ could care less. The little cat sneered at the big dog and curled back up on the couch. Michael walked in and Hawk was all over him licking and slobbering, jumping and whining. On most days, Michael would be on the floor soaking up this unconditional love but not today. He gave Hawk a quick pet, then shushed him over to the corner.

  Michael headed into his study and from the center drawer of his desk he pulled a large manila envelope, opened it, and withdrew a set of papers. He spread them out on the desk blotter and for the thousandth time he read:

  Having served 3 years 5 months and 22 days of a 10-year sentence for the crimes of grand larceny, possession of stolen property, and burglary, Michael Edward St. Pierre is hereby granted parole. This conclusion has been drawn by the Parole Board of the State of New York on the basis of fact that Mr. St. Pierre has been successfully rehabilitated and hereby has fulfilled his term of the sentence imposed upon him by the State of New York.

  PAROLE GRANTED had been stamped in an officious red ink across the document.

  Five and a half years ago, the call had come in the middle of the night. Mary rolled over on the third ring and sleepily answered the phone. Michael was in jail, suspected of things she couldn’t fathom he was capable of. It was a shattering betrayal. Her new husband had hidden his life from her.

  They had caught him at the Central Park wall. He was almost over and probably would have made it if it weren’t for the blood loss from his shoulder. The two NYC cops tackled him hard, slamming him into the granite wall. He was cuffed and bagged before he could say a word. They roughed him up pretty good; he didn’t blame them. The woman was lying naked in the street, covered in blood, incoherent, half-insane from her ordeal. The cops didn’t know the blood on her was Michael’s—they assumed it was a brutal rape and they didn’t take kindly to that. It was two days before she was lucid again. She gave a brief statement confirming Michael’s innocence and valor. He was a hero. But in this day and age, heroes only last a week. In this case, he didn’t last an hour. The fact that he’d rescued her never even made the paper.

  Ambassador Ruskot flew in and declared he had never before seen the thirty million dollars in diamonds they’d found in Michael’s backpack. The general couldn’t afford the questions or the scandal. Thirsty for revenge, he pressed the DA’s office to prosecute to the fullest extent the thief who violated his country’s sovereign soil to steal the jewel-encrusted cross. He claimed it had enormous cultural value to his nation and that he personally viewed the crime as an affront to his deep religious beliefs. Truth be told, Ruskot had bought it behind the Iron Curtain years back for a pittance and hadn’t gotten around to selling it yet.

  The State Department knew full well of the ambassador’s side business but was powerless against him. Instead, they pressed the district attorney’s office to ensure a conviction. Relations were shaky with Akbiquestan and the United States government needed to show a sign of good faith in protecting the interest of their foreign “friend.”

  On the first day of the trial Mary sat stoically in the back of the courtroom, but she never met Michael’s eye. Michael wrote her a note and had his court-appointed attorney pass it to her. She crumpled it up and stuffed it in the bottom of her purse without even looking at it. She would play the part of the dutiful wife throughout the trial, she told his lawyer, but when it was over, they were over. For three days, Michael walked in and out of the court, his hands cuffed, desperately looking to her with sorrow. Throughout the trial, she never once made eye contact.

  Michael had no defense to offer; his attorney was barely two hours out of law school and it was only the boy’s third case. They tried to introduce Michael’s heroics in saving the beautiful Helen Staten—the jury learned that she was the blonde trophy bride of James Staten, a seventy-five-year-old industrialist—to mitigate Michael’s situation, but they had no witness. Mrs. Staten had had a nervous breakdown; the gibberish she babbled was incoherent at best, and it was believed the rape had mercifully slipped out of her mind. To compound the matter, there was the death of James Staten, her husband, two days after the break in. There was no one left to speak on Michael’s behalf.

  Guilty. The verdict came back within an hour of the jury’s convening.

  The State took their summer house in Bedford, Michael’s bank accounts, Mary’s bank accounts, every asset they had to pay court costs and his three-hundred-thousand-dollar fine. As there was no evidence that Michael had ever earned a paycheck, held a legitimate job, or filed a tax return, the prosecutor tried to tie Michael’s assets to other thefts. He failed. Fortunately, Michael had never left a trail until that fateful night.

  Sing Sing in Ossining, New York, would be Michael’s home for the next three and a half years.

  Mary received the petition for divorce a
week after the criminal trial ended. She read it through twice and, her religion be damned, she would go through with it. She called her lawyer. He told her to sign the papers and he would have them served on Michael at prison. She was digging through her purse for a pen when she came upon the note Michael had written her at the beginning of the trial.

  Mary,

  Please do not torture yourself by sitting through this trial. The shame I have brought upon you is burden enough. Marriage is about trust, marriage is about faith in one another. And after what I have done, I know you will never have faith in me again. You must move on with your life. I know you will find someone else to love and care for you.

  M.

  She arrived at the prison at nine a.m. the next morning with the divorce papers in her purse. He told her everything. He explained it all: how he never really had a consulting business, that his income was actually from prior thefts. How he had decided when they met that he would hang it up. There would be one last job and he would make it count. After that, he would be able to provide for her for the rest of their lives so she could stop working and concentrate on raising their family. But it had all fallen apart over a stolen cross and a thoughtless act of bravery. He finished by telling her that he would not contest the divorce.

  But it was her simple reply that made it all clear to him. “I never cared for money, for fancy clothes or cars, Michael. Those things just grow old and are discarded. The greatest treasure to me is living and growing old with you, together. I love you, Michael, and you love me. That’s all I need.”

  Mary visited every Saturday and Michael called every Monday and Wednesday. Over time they reforged their relationship. For better or worse, she was devoted to him. And he vowed he would never again betray her.