The Thieves of Heaven

by Richard Doetsch

  The enormous library was filled with books, thousands of titles. Michael had always felt a man’s books were a representation of his mind and his soul. This man had everything. Michael walked past the car-sized fireplace, past the wingback leather chairs to a bookcase ladder. It soared to the top of the room, twenty feet up, and slid on its own track. Michael could spend a lifetime here and never even get to the second level of volumes. He pulled out an old, leather-bound book on geology and walked toward the windows for better light. He was about to look through the text when the doors opened.

  Finster stood there, dressed in a tweed sport coat, a smile on his face.

  “One of my favorites.” Finster’s eyes twinkled as he approached Michael. “Written in nineteen twelve by Alfred Wegener. One of the first to pose the theory of tectonics. You are holding one of only three volumes in existence.”

  “I’m sorry.” Michael clutched the book, unsure what to do with it, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

  “Nonsense. You are a guest in my home; I am honored by your presence. While you are here, you may avail yourself of anything you wish. Please, keep it, it is an excellent read.”

  “No, that’s all right.”

  “Please, a book, once read, is merely a trophy. I have no use for it anymore.”

  “Thank you, but I couldn’t.”

  “If you change your mind…” Finster relented. “Let me show you around.”

  “I can’t stay—”

  “Another drink?”

  At that, Charles appeared with a silver serving tray, two champagne flutes balanced upon it. Finster passed a glass to Michael and raised his own. “To your wife’s good health.”

  “Thank you,” Michael said as they chinked their glasses.

  “Can I persuade you to stay for dinner?”

  “I really can’t.”

  “Certainly, you’ll join me in a cigar?” Pulling out two cigars, Finster offered one.

  Michael raised his hand in refusal.

  Finster smiled. “I have too many vices: liquor, cigars, women. Unfortunately—what is that saying? The spirit is willing…”

  “…but the flesh is weak. I’m sorry, Mr. Finster—”

  “August,” Finster insisted.

  “August. I’m sure you can understand, I really wish to finish our business and get back to my wife.”

  “Of course. But tell me, what happened in Rome? I haven’t heard from you since you left Italy and you were extremely cryptic when last we spoke.”

  “Rome, the Vatican…it was a decoy.” There was a weariness in Michael’s voice. “The keys were on the outskirts of Jerusalem.”

  “Jerusalem?” Finster’s interest intensified. “Where in Jerusalem?”

  “A little out-of-the-way church.”

  “Interesting. Guards?”

  “One.”

  Finster pondered this a moment. “And? Did you dispatch him?”

  “He tried to ‘dispatch’ me.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I ran.”

  Finster smiled and nodded. “Could you describe this guard?”

  “It was dark,” Michael answered uneasily. “Why do you ask?”

  Finster seemed lost in thought. He turned and opened the doors to the hallway. “Let’s talk and walk, shall we?”

  Michael set the book on the table and followed Finster.

  They walked together through the grand house, past billiard rooms and game rooms, ballrooms and parlors. Finster lit his cigar, drew a greedy puff, and slowly exhaled, the smoke lifting into a rich gray cloud above their heads.

  “Life’s simple pleasures.” He savored the moment. “I read a study once that said the indulgence of a vice can be healthy. After all, what is a vice but something we find pleasurable, irresistible? Do you have a vice, Michael?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Of course.” Finster nodded in understanding, his white ponytail bobbing against his shoulders as he did so. “You are a reformed man. I, on the other hand—let’s just say I’ve yet to meet the person who can convert me from my ways. I couldn’t live without my”—he held out his cigar and drink—“weaknesses.”

  “Never know unless you try,” Michael replied.

  “Ah, but what is the reason? I’ve earned the right. I have the power to quit or continue and that is what’s important. The power.”

  “Obviously, you’ve never been married.”

  Finster laughed heartily, patting Michael on the shoulder. “Come. I’d like to show you something.”

  They stopped at a heavy wooden door, the earthy brown wood older than the ages. It seemed oddly out of place in the elegant home surrounding it. Finster reached out and opened the behemoth. Its hinges squealed in protest. Ahead, a long set of stone stairs faced them. A musty smell wafted up. Michael couldn’t pinpoint the odor but it conjured unpleasant memories of prison. The stairs wound down, spiraling into darkness, like something out of a Boris Karloff movie.

  “A little dramatic.”

  “I thrive on drama,” Finster replied cheerfully as he led the way downward.

  The inky blackness instantly engulfed them. Michael loved the dark, always had, it had been his friend. But not this dark. The odor hit him again, musty and raw, the sour smell of jail cells, solitary confinement, death row. It was the smell of hopelessness. Their footsteps echoed off the walls. Michael closely followed Finster, who remained strangely silent, giving no details or guidance.

  It had been at least a two-minute walk down stairs and through caverns; never once did Michael catch a glimpse of light. The moisture had grown in the air the deeper into the earth they traveled; it felt cold, clammy, unnatural. It occurred to Michael that Finster could kill him now and there’d be nothing he could do about it. This was one of the reasons he never did third-party work: you never really knew your employer or their motives. And murder was only one step away from grand larceny.

  With a flash, the lights blazed on. Michael’s eyes burned at the sudden glare, white spots dotting the back of his eyelids. Instinctively, Michael shielded his eyes. As the seconds passed, his vision returned and he began to look around. In that moment, he wished he was back in the dark, for while the blackened passage had scared him, that had only been his imagination running wild. This was real.

  Before him was an assortment of artifacts, some ancient, some of a far more recent vintage. Stone pottery, medieval armor, African wood carvings, Oriental pictographs. Each as different from its neighbor as possible except for one thing: they were all religious in nature. This was an ominous gallery of religion, fear, and horror. Stacks and stacks of paintings were piled against each other. Faces seemed to cry out for mercy as if they were somehow trapped in the canvas.

  “What do you think?” Finster asked with pride.

  “Unique,” was all Michael could say, doing everything in his power to mask his fear.

  “Charles, my butler, calls it the dungeon.”

  “It captures that quality.” Michael hoped the humor would mask his alarm as he unconsciously clutched the key box through the leather satchel. He couldn’t understand it but the box seemed to be the only thing giving him comfort as he looked out at the chilling cavern spread before him.

  “Thank you.” Finster pointed down an aisle between the artwork. “This way.”

  The hall—the entire space—was like something out of the Dark Ages. It was enormous, of this Michael was sure, for the light trailed off into blackness before the far wall was evident. The house was centuries old but this place…this place had been around for far longer. This was another world deep below the surface. Finster had claimed it as his own, filling it with a macabre collection that would never be part of any auction at Sotheby’s.

  Was this merely the warped collection of an eccentric or was it something more, something worse? As Michael passed each piece, he thought maybe he was jumping to conclusions. Maybe this was just a warehouse for weird objets d’art. Stuff Finster didn’t
deem appropriate for display in his home. Maybe it was like the attic of every grandmother: crammed with wondrous frightening things, items collected over a lifetime’s journeys, things that appeared scary on the surface but deeper down held a much more innocent meaning. Like an old china doll with a missing eye or the dusty steamer trunk filled with moth-eaten old dresses.

  They arrived at a huge wooden door set in stone. Its ancient lock’s black color was deeper than night. Finster withdrew a set of keys from his pocket, unlocked the door, and opened it.

  This room was small, about ten by ten; there was no artwork here. The solid stone walls had recessed shelves carved in them five feet off the ground. The room was virtually empty but for a mahogany pedestal standing in its exact center.

  “My latest acquisitions go in here for my private enjoyment.” Finster used his cigar to light a candle on a shelf and smiled. “Sets a mood, doesn’t it?”

  Michael watched as Finster continued to light small candles along the perimeter of the chamber. He found this room more comforting, no strange carvings or statues staring back at him, no suffering eyes peering out from the shadows. The walls were now bathed in candlelight; it was almost peaceful after the macabre collection they’d just passed. Michael said nothing as he reached into his bag, pulling out the carved box.

  “Beautiful.” Finster stared at his prize.

  Michael held out the box.

  But Finster stepped back, raising his hand in protest. “You should have the honor of placing it on the display pedestal.”

  Michael, a bit confused, acquiesced. He opened the box, uncovered the two keys, and stepped forward for Finster’s inspection. Finster glanced at the keys but again backed away.

  “Is something wrong?” Michael asked.

  “Breathtaking. Their beauty leaves me…in awe.” Finster steadied himself in the doorway. Michael reached in the box, pulled out the silver key, and passed it toward his host. But again the German raised his hand. “No, no.” Finster was trembling. Michael was reminded of a house-bound mother of three who’d won a car on The Price is Right. Like her, Finster’s mind seemed to be on overload as he struggled to comprehend his good fortune and what was now his.

  Michael smiled. “It’s not going to bite you.”

  “Never know,” Finster joked. “I prefer to examine my possessions privately. Taking my time. When I obtain something I have desired for so long I’m sometimes”—he paused—“overcome.”

  Michael turned back to the pedestal, hoping against hope that Finster hadn’t seen his face. For, suddenly, Michael was now even more scared than when he’d entered the outside chamber. Finster had hired him to steal these keys and now the man was more than afraid of them; he was clearly terrified. He was refusing to come in contact with them as if they carried the plague. Suspicion raced through Michael’s mind; now that he had completed his mission, was he in even greater trouble than he previously imagined? Was there more to these keys than he knew? And if one of the most powerful men in the world was so frightened of them, why wasn’t he? Michael wanted out, to be back outside, back in the light of day, back home with Mary. Anywhere but here.

  He placed each key on the pedestal’s velvet cushion, setting the box beside them. Stepping back, looking at the keys here in this room, he sensed deep down that this was a mistake, that he had violated something beyond the law.

  “The money has already been wired, along with a bonus of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for you and your wife to enjoy once she is better,” Finster said, pulling Michael back to reality.

  Michael turned and faced his employer. As wrong as this was starting to seem, Michael reminded himself that the theft was enabling him to provide the treatment that Mary so desperately needed, the treatment that would save her life. And in the same way that we justify just one more drink, just one more cookie, convincing ourselves that it won’t do us any harm, he eased his mind and his conscience, and shook Finster’s hand.

  “Thank you,” Michael said as Finster handed him the wire transfer confirmation.

  “Thank you. I truly wish your wife a speedy recovery so you can both get on with this business of living.”

  Finster led the way out of the room and as he was about to close the door, he looked in on his new prize. A smile crept along his thin lips. It wasn’t a smile of joy or happiness: this was a smile of triumph, the smile worn by a general who has just taken the hill, eradicating his enemy. The smile of a battle-weary emperor who, near defeat, has just obtained the one weapon that could not only save him but turn the tides of war.

  Chapter 14

  Morning light filled the room. It had been a rough night; they all had been since the treatment started but last night particularly so. The vomiting and diarrhea wracked her system, sapping her energy. Pain literally seemed to rise up from the marrow of her bones. She was exhausted, drained of what little will she still possessed.

  As the sunlight touched her eyelids, Mary stirred. The solace of sleep would elude her for another day. She rolled over and her mind leapt, a joy racing through her body as she saw him. For the first time since her diagnosis almost three weeks ago, she felt rejuvenated. Now that he was back, she would defeat this monster that had challenged her, beating it back down to the horrible place from whence it came.

  “Good morning,” she whispered.

  Michael was arranging flowers. He had cleaned and freshened her room. The disorganization and clutter were gone from her life. The curtains were pulled back for the first time in days and Mary stared at the blue sky as if for the first time.

  “Morning,” he replied as he leaned in to kiss her passionately. Mary admonished herself. Her dreams of danger and death were nothing but senseless worry; Michael had come back to her, just as he had promised.

  “I missed you,” she murmured as she sat up against the pillows.

  “I missed your smile. How’re you feeling?”

  “Much better.”

  “I’m glad.” Michael knew she was lying but he wouldn’t call her on it, he knew she was being strong for him.

  Mary nestled herself in Michael’s arms. Of all the thoughts and prayers, of all the medications and good wishes, this was what she really needed. To be held. And to hold. To her it wasn’t just the receiving of love, it was the giving. It was like an elixir to them both. The anxiety that Michael had felt since he left the country was gone, left somewhere back in Germany.

  “I was thinking maybe”—he pulled back, looking into her eyes—“we could head out to the Cape for a week, stay at the Ship’s Bell Inn.”

  “Make love in the dunes…”

  “Mmmm. Eat Portuguese soup…”

  “…fresh lobster.”

  Michael paused. “Did they say how much longer?” He couldn’t wait to drag her away from this place.

  “Another week. They’re doing some more poking and prodding tomorrow.”

  “I’d like to do some poking and prodding of my own.”

  “We could arrange that,” Mary said as she nuzzled into his neck. She had always loved his smell, it comforted her, secured her. Though she had tried to push the thought out of her mind, she’d spent the last seven days thinking he would never return. It was the one thing that truly scared her: she was terrified to die alone. “How was your trip?”

  “A little longer, a little harder than I thought.” Michael began rubbing her back, working from the shoulders down, the way she liked it.

  “Paul was looking for you.” She closed her eyes and laid her head upon his shoulder.

  “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “Wanted you to call him when you got back, said you have a game Saturday.”

  That was bullshit. Busch was going to string him up alive. But Michael would deal with that; after what he had gone through these last few weeks—Mary’s illness, the Vatican, Israel, Finster—he could handle anything. No, he wouldn’t call Busch yet. Busch could wait.

  “Did you finish your job?” Mary asked. Michael was
not telling her everything, but she knew whatever he had done he had done for her. Now was not the time to question him on it.

  “Yes.” He held her tightly. “I won’t leave you again.”

  “I know.”

  For the first time in a long time, they both believed that everything finally would be all right.

  Michael entered his dark apartment, throwing the mail on a side table. He popped his head in the bedroom calling, “Hawk?”

  He checked the answering machine; the little red light read thirteen messages. He pushed the button. “Message number one,” the electronic female voice droned.

  “Michael? It’s me, call me.” Busch’s voice came over the machine. Michael hit the button, going to the next message. “Call me, Michael.” Again Busch. Again, Michael pushed the button. “Michael, I know you’re back, don’t make me come and get—” He hit the button, cutting off the message. He turned off the machine.

  “Hawk!?” He checked the kitchen. Maybe Mrs. McGinty had the dog out for a walk. Michael realized that CJ was nowhere to be seen, either. He actually hated the cat, he had always hated cats, such a fickle breed of animal, he never understood their attraction. But it was Mary’s cat and if she loved the little beast, then…he could at least pretend to love it. Mrs. McGinty had probably kept CJ in her apartment since he left. Michael would have to remember to get her a gift for her troubles.

  He scooped up his mail and, opening it, wandered into the den. Turning on the light, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

  Sitting in his favorite chair was a man, powerfully built, hair black as pitch, eyes like blue slate. Weathered face and hands, definitely someone who’d been through the world a few times. The stranger was dressed in black slacks with a black shirt; his black sneakers were worn down at the soles although the black uppers were surprisingly clean. His age was impossible to determine: he could have been anywhere from a worn-out thirty years old to a vibrant fifty. In his lap stretched Mary’s cat. He stroked CJ as if she were his own. Hawk was sprawled out at his feet, asleep.