But still…no background whatsoever.
Michael flipped the pages to other German industrialists and that eased his mind somewhat. The other East Germans were also lacking in background. It was like a little club. You don’t tell, I don’t tell. They had all done something in their past that would damn them and they would just prefer that it be forgotten. All wanted to put their former lives behind them. After all, East Germany had been Communism at its worst. Food was short while oppression was rampant, the public consigned to a world of misery. Everyone watched each other, fear being the order of the day. Brother would turn in brother for even innocent words against the malevolent government. And those who cried out had vanished into the prisons of East Berlin, never to be heard from again. There were rumors, whispered in alleys, bars, and basements, that not even the souls of the dead could escape the Berlin Wall. And then the Wall came down in a tumble of rubble and cheering…and from its ruins emerged Finster.
All the information ever compiled was in the book before Michael, and he was still at a loss. The German industrialist was successful, Michael imagined ruthless—you can’t swim with sharks unless you have the teeth—and private, but he didn’t seem the threat that Simon had suggested. Finster was eccentric, Michael had seen this firsthand, but that surely came with the incredible wealth and power that the man had. The German’s strange collection of artwork stored away in his medieval basement was sick, but it was merely art. And that is what Michael suspected the two keys he’d stolen to be: an old possession, something to be kept hidden in Finster’s private museum. Maybe the keys did have the historical significance that Simon had alluded to, but how did that matter? No magic here. No special power over the souls of all humanity. Heaven was a concept Mary might believe in but Michael still had trouble with it.
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
Michael looked up to see Nurse Schrier—the big German nurse from Mary’s hospital floor—looking at him.
“I’m not sure,” he answered.
“So, who are you looking for in the Who’s Who?” she asked.
“Actually, I found who I was looking for.”
The nurse looked over Michael’s shoulder at the picture of the white-haired man. “Finster?”
“Yeah. You know him?” Michael asked, half-joking.
She laughed off the remark. “Nah, not personally.”
Michael closed the book, rose from his chair, and placed it back on the shelf.
“The name really fits him, wouldn’t you say?” Schrier asked as she picked up a stack of magazines and headed for the door.
“Whose name?”
“August Engel Finster. All that money, all those women.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“If it was my name I would have changed it. All the joking as a child must have been hard. Still, I guess he grew into it—it fits him.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“His name”—the nurse opened the door and smiled at Michael—“means great angel of darkness. Just like Satan.”
Michael headed down the corridor for Mary’s room. His mind reeled. Was this a joke? He ran everything over in his mind from the moment he’d met Finster to what Simon had said to what the German nurse had just revealed to him. Great Angel of Darkness? Of late, Michael had trouble with the whole concept of God: now he was being asked to examine his belief in the possible existence of the devil. Finster’s manner was contrary to what Michael would imagine in anyone evil, the man had actually cared and tried to help Michael and Mary.
No.
It was only coincidence, a convenient coincidence planted in his head by that lunatic Simon. No, Finster couldn’t be. They weren’t the keys to Heaven, it went against logic. The keys to Heaven were surely myth—like the Holy Grail—something dreamed up by some long-dead priest to inspire faith and fear. Michael’s mind was set.
His heart was a different story, though. It was racing and a sweat was breaking out on his brow. There was no such thing as coincidence. When too many factors pointed to something, it wasn’t by chance. Sherlock Holmes said it best: “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
The memory that kept rearing its ugly head was the way he’d felt standing in Finster’s dungeon. The cold fear that had iced his spine. He couldn’t put his finger on it then, but it was becoming clear now. It had been there in the shadows, in the paintings, and in the man who’d led him into the clammy darkness. And the only comfort he’d received had been from clutching the box which held the keys. He didn’t understand it then but maybe it was making sense now. He had seen evil in a few of the inmates in prison, the ones who had no feeling, the ones whose only desire was to torment and destroy others. But he avoided it, he avoided them…but he couldn’t avoid it now. It was everywhere in that lower level of Finster’s house, he smelled it, felt it crawling over his skin, it was there in the silence: evil.
Michael was completely lost in thought, so lost that he ran headlong into Dr. Rhineheart.
“Michael? Good. May I speak to you for a moment?” Rhineheart asked grimly.
The rain had started at midnight and showed no signs of letting up. Combined with the cold winds slicing out of the north, it had pulled the temperature fifteen degrees below normal. To make matters worse, a thunderstorm had rolled in that morning. Mary was staring out the window watching the lightning bolts dance across the horizon, counting the seconds until the thunder shook her hospital room. The room had grown cold, the world a little duller in the last few hours, and it wasn’t on account of the storm. Mary didn’t know how she would tell her husband. He had worked so hard and, she suspected, sacrificed so much to provide the care for her. She had forever been the optimist, the one to lift the spirits of those who faced their darkest hours, she was invariably the shoulder to cry on and the person to impart hope. But that was always for others; now, even when she dug deep down in herself, she found nothing. The words of optimism weren’t coming this time.
She wasn’t ready for him when he walked in. She stuttered in spite of herself, “Mm-m-Michael?” She couldn’t meet his eyes, “I’m sorry…I’m so sorry.”
Michael took her in his arms. “Hey, shhh.” He held her tight. “Those doctors don’t know what they’re talking about.” His voice was strong and confident. “We’ll get another opinion; we’ll find a way…St. Pierres never give up.” His heart felt like it had shattered into a thousand pieces when Rhineheart broke the news. He’d held back his tears then; he would now. He’d never let Mary see them.
“Michael…”
“Listen, we haven’t gone through everything that we’ve gone through to lose. We’ve always made things work. You’ve stuck by my side and made a life for me to return to. It works both ways, you know. I refuse to give up and I don’t expect anything less from you. We are going to beat this”—he stepped back, put his hands on her shoulders and looked directly into her eyes—“together.”
Mary found strength in his words, just as she always had. “There are other doctors,” she said, trying to sound convincing.
“Exactly. We’ll find the best.”
“I have heard of a number of treatments which haven’t yet been approved….”
“We’ll try them all.” The tide was turning and they both felt it, feeding off of each other’s optimism.
“Herbalists, some newfangled methods,” she added, half-joking.
“Precisely, a little whacko, but we’ll try them all.” He was smiling. “I’ll try them with you. We never really did the drug thing when we were younger, maybe it’ll be fun.”
Now Mary was laughing and that was how Michael liked it, her smile was back and her shoulders were held a little higher. “Whatever it takes, we’ll beat this together,” she told him.
“Amen to that, darling.”
As they fell silent they were both lost in the same thought: they always thought alike and now was no different. Despite t
heir little upbeat rah-rah fest, there was the very distinct possibility that Mary would not survive. Her body was riddled with cancer. It was everywhere and there really was not more than an extremely slender hope of beating it. As the silence drew out, each sensed the other’s thoughts and it only made the words come harder.
“What if…” She couldn’t finish, she couldn’t think of how to phrase it; but Michael knew.
“You’re not going anywhere.” He said it as firmly as if his words would manifest themselves into a cure.
There was another painful pause. Michael looked around at the children’s pictures, at the flowers everywhere—they were so inconsequential, they brought no comfort. Flowers only served to fill the florist’s pocket and provide a fleeting sight and scent of what was blooming in the world outside the hospital. They were a cruel reminder of what the patient was missing. He kept staring at the bag of Oreos he’d brought Mary; he didn’t know why, he just kept staring at that blue package as if it held a solution. That commercial kept bouncing around in his skull, Kids eat the middle of the Oreo first and save the chocolate cookie outside for last. He decided that he hated that song.
Mary could see the panic setting into his eyes. “It’s going to be OK,” she murmured, touching the cross she wore around her throat. Now, she was doing the comforting. “Even if—We’ll be together again.”
“Don’t talk that way!” Michael shot back fiercely, instantly regretting it. As with many men, he’d turned his fear into anger and he’d lashed out at the person he loved most.
Mary took his hand. She stared out the window, at the rain streaming on the glass like a waterfall, distorting the views into a palette of washed-out grays. She whispered, “What do you think it’s like?”
Michael had no idea what she was talking about, his brain felt like mud. All he had gone through, everything that he fought for in the prior weeks, was now for nothing. They’d lost their battle. He’d lost their battle. He’d failed her. Again.
“Heaven.” A comforting peace overcame Mary as she answered his unasked question. She continued looking out the window as she whispered, “What do you think it’s like? Do you think it’s beautiful?”
The shock rippled through Michael’s body like the lightning on the hills. Simon’s words echoed in his mind: You have stolen the keys to Heaven….Heaven is closed.
Michael knew at that instant that Mary would not survive the cancer. Everything Simon had said was true. He turned back to Mary, pulling her to him, holding her close, desperate to protect her from the killing horror that raced through her body, that was stealing her from him. He couldn’t look at her, hiding himself in their embrace as he whispered back, “I’m sure it is.”
A half hour earlier, Dr. Rhineheart had explained Mary’s condition to Michael.
While they had removed her ovaries and fallopian tubes, knocking out the cancer there, it had metastasized into other areas of her body, worst of all to her kidneys and brain. The symptoms weren’t evident yet, but they would be soon. It was like it had been beaten out of the bush where it was feeding upon its kill, only to settle into a new nest for a new feast. The cancer was aggressive. It was multiplying at a fantastic rate.
And would kill her within six weeks.
Chapter 16
The Old Stand was packed. Wall to wall, shoulder to shoulder. The weather had rained out every men’s league softball game that evening. So, tonight, no excuses, just drinking, and drinks were flowing into every glass. Shouting was the only means of communication and if you came here to think, forget it.
Michael was tucked in a booth in the back, waiting. He had been there for over an hour, nursing the same drink. He had left Mary’s room, left her sleeping, and pulled out his cell phone. Busch answered and the swearing didn’t stop for two full minutes, the volume close to the bar’s current decibel. Michael took it in stride; he was hurting and had nowhere else to turn, he needed a friend now more than any other time in his life. Busch screamed about trust, loyalty, and friendship; truth, betrayal, and lies; but mostly he screamed about the law and the position that Michael had put him in. When he’d finished, Michael asked if they could meet. Oh yeah, they could meet. Michael was told to be at the Old Stand by nine o’clock and he had better not be late.
So, Michael waited. He knew that he would have to own up to Busch for violating his parole. He had taken advantage of their friendship and abused it badly. But while the guilt for betraying his friend weighed heavy, the guilt he felt for betraying his wife was tenfold. Over and over he kept running what Simon had said in his mind. If Heaven was closed—and that possibility seemed to have increased throughout the day—then he had destroyed her hope of eternal life, a violation of her core beliefs that was beyond comprehension. His brain was a jumble of incoherent thoughts that drowned out even the racket of the rowdy bar.
A very anxious and angry Busch squeezed into the booth across from Michael. The big cop was doing everything in his power to keep his fury in check. Michael said nothing, eyes cast down. Finally…
“Where the hell were you?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t even go there; I’m not in a forgiving mood. Where were you?”
“I had some stuff to take care of.”
“Stuff? That’s a load of shit, Michael. I want to hear it from your own lips—where the hell have you been these past ten days?”
Michael stared at him, not knowing what to say: all he wanted was to get his ass-chewing over with and move on to Mary.
“Do you realize the position you put me in? I’ve been covering your ass for almost two weeks, buddy, and I don’t cover anyone’s ass but my own, you understand?” Busch was beginning to lose control; he glared at the wall, breathing hard, struggling to gain equilibrium. The seconds ticked by.
“I just came from the hospital,” Michael said quietly.
Busch looked up, the anger wiped clean from his face. “And?”
Michael’s expression said it all. Busch didn’t need the words; Michael’s eyes were those of a wounded child. Busch had never seen Michael this way. Sure, Michael had been down over Mary’s illness, but there was always that shadow of hope. “How bad?”
“It’s everywhere.”
This was the last thing Busch had expected; he was revved up to tear Michael down. Now, he forgot all about his anger. “Oh…Mike. What can I do?”
Michael just looked at him, no answer, his eyes filled with remorse and fear.
“I know you’re hurting—”
“I’ve done something,” Michael said softly, his head bowed in confession.
“What?” It was a question Busch no longer wanted answered. “What did you do?”
“I’ve damned her.”
Busch’s eyes narrowed, confused. He wasn’t just worried about Mary anymore.
“I’ve destroyed everything she believes in.”
“What are you talking about? This cancer isn’t your fault.”
“They say our loved ones always pay the price for our sins.”
“That’s a load of shit; Mary’s condition has nothing to do with who you are, with what you did.”
“Why couldn’t it be me in that bed?”
“Hey, you bury that thought right now, this is a tragic thing but you didn’t cause it. Things happen in this world that we can’t control. They just happen.”
“I wish I could take it back.”
“Take what back?” Busch couldn’t be more lost. “Mike—what the heck have you done?”
“I went to Europe.” Michael paused. “And I stole two keys.”
Busch closed his eyes. He knew Michael had gone abroad. His intention tonight had been to get Michael to admit to it, but not this way. He had hoped against hope that there was a reasonable explanation, for if the purpose of Michael’s trip was to commit a crime, Busch would be in the worst of all possible positions. “Don’t be telling me this—”
“I stole the keys to pay for Mary’s treatment.”
“Shit, I knew it. You promised me!”
“Yeah. I promised a lot of things.”
The volume of the bar seemed to grow with the intensity of their conversation. Busch found it hard to believe that all the merriment could be occurring around them as his best friend’s life was crumbling. “Michael, this is serious—”
“I sold them to a man named Finster—”
“This is a lot worse than breaking parole. I—”
“He’s the Devil, Paul. I sold those keys to the Devil.” Michael said it quietly, still not wanting to believe his own words.
“Mike—?”
“I sold them to the Devil; they were the keys to Heaven. The keys to the Gates of Heaven.”
Busch sat there, stunned, totally unsure how to deal with this nervous breakdown happening before him. Michael was going to pieces before his eyes and he didn’t have a clue what to do. “You’re talking shit here, Mike.” Busch sat forward. “Look at me. I know the strain you’re under—”
Michael looked him straight in the eye. “I’m telling you the truth.”
Busch saw it; Michael believed what he was saying. That scared him. He had dealt with the criminal element that was classified as insane, he knew how they believed in their own world, in their own definition of right and wrong, good and evil. “You sincerely believe you met the—”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe,” Michael interrupted. “It’s what Mary believes. I’ve taken the one thing she values more than anything: her faith, her eternal life.”
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