The Thieves of Heaven

by Richard Doetsch

  As much as he hated himself for it, Busch was deeply terrified; his best friend had gone over the edge. Busch had no idea how to handle this, it was Jeannie who always dealt with the delicate issues. Busch wasn’t delicate. So, he ran to the one place he always did before panic set in, hoping to jar Michael back to reality. “Look, buddy, we’ve got another problem.”

  Michael leaned forward.

  “You busted your parole. We’ve got to deal with that.”

  “That’s the least of my worries.”

  “No, it isn’t. You might be going back to jail.”

  “I told you this in confidence. As a friend.”

  “You are my friend, Michael. But the law is the law. If anyone finds out you left the country, and they will,” he added, remembering Thal’s inside info, “we’re both fucked. It’s the law, Mike, and you busted it…deliberately.”

  “I’ve got to rectify what I’ve done.” Michael wasn’t even paying attention.

  “You’re delusional, Michael. You’re just blaming yourself for Mary’s illness.”

  “I have to go.” Michael got up from the booth and looked at Busch with accusing eyes. “Thanks for all your help—”

  His sarcasm stung Busch. “I can’t let you go, Michael.” The big cop stood, authority in his voice.

  “What are you going to do, throw me in jail while my wife is dying?”

  Now Busch was back to pissed, back to the mood he carried when he came into the bar. Michael had successfully turned the blame and guilt around and placed it squarely on his shoulders. Busch was seething. “Damn you to hell—”

  But Michael walked away, uttering under his breath, “I’ve already done that.”

  The Busch children were screaming like banshees. The two kids had an unnatural bond for a brother and sister and were seldom apart. As they sailed around the kitchen with Playskool tomahawks and light-sabers, they exhibited an energy seldom seen in anything short of a cheetah racing for the kill.

  As if in a soundproof bubble, Busch sat silently picking at his dinner, oblivious to his shrieking brood. He didn’t feel like talking; he didn’t feel like doing much of anything right now. He was losing two of his closest friends: one to cancer and one to insanity, and there wasn’t a thing he could do for either of them. Never had he felt so helpless. And to make matters worse, Michael had turned his back on him. How could the man violate his parole, after all that Busch had done for him? It gave him such a hollow sense, it was like everything he’d fought for had been swept away abruptly by some swift summer wind.

  Jeannie sat across from Busch. She, too, was silent. Paul had come home like this too many times to count, when the trials of his day had sucked the life out of him. She knew not to press the matter; if and when Paul felt like talking, she was there to listen. Getting things off his chest usually helped, but there were times when the pain of the retelling, of the reliving, was too great until the passage of weeks—sometimes years—acted as a safety net. Paul loved her and she him, that was the bottom line. Sometimes lives had to be lived separately on certain issues.

  The children continued to circle and Busch’s soundproof bubble was beginning to crack. Jeannie read his annoyance. “Hey you two, keep it down to a dull roar, huh?” she said, hoping to avoid the inevitable.

  But of course, kids will be kids and they only screamed louder, running faster, pushing their lungs to the breaking point. And then without warning everything screeched into slow motion. Robbie’s arm, swinging out, caught the glass pitcher on the table. It tumbled through space and shattered on the floor; lemonade exploded everywhere.

  Busch erupted out of his chair. “Don’t you listen to your mother? You have no regard for rules! I’m sick and tired of the lack of respect around here. Things are going to change, do you hear me?”

  The youngsters froze in their tracks. Too scared to cry, they started to shake in terror. Their father rarely lost his temper with them but when he did, the punishment was usually so severe it would leave both in tears for hours.

  Jeannie scooted the children out of the kitchen. “It’s OK, kids, upstairs. Pajamas, brush your teeth, and you can watch a movie.”

  When she stepped back into the room, Paul was pacing, rubbing his brow, making a tight fist and then releasing it over and over again as if pumping some medical instrument. He could no longer hide the reason for his mood.

  “It’s Michael. He broke parole. He told me. Told me!” Busch shouted in disbelief. He sat back down, exhausted, as if the ten words were a marathon. He continued, softer now, “He stole something in Europe.”

  “In Europe? I thought he went down south…” Jeannie paused. “What are you going to do?”

  What was he going to do? That was the question he dreaded answering. “I have to take him in.” He knew all along what he would do but telling Jeannie had made it a reality. As the words left his lips, it was as if acid had poured over his tongue.

  “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.”

  “He did it to pay for Mary’s treatment.”

  “Oh, God.” She couldn’t imagine the pain Paul felt. He was about to take away the life of his best friend. And not just his friend—their friend. Her best friend’s husband. And what would it do to Mary?

  “I don’t make the rules, Jeannie. It’s not up to me to listen to explanations, that’s the judge’s job—”

  “They’ll put him away. And it will kill Mary.”

  “Jeannie.” Busch paused. “Mary’s treatment’s a bust. The cancer has already spread.”

  Jeannie was a strong woman but not that strong. She remained motionless, in shock. Tears welled in her eyes. Mary had been her best friend since high school. “Are they sure?” Her voice cracked. “There has to be something….”

  He shook his head. He had no answer to give her.

  They sat there silently for God knows how long, without saying a word. Jeannie had been with Paul for more than fifteen years. In all that time, he’d been a rock, the stronger of the pair. He had attended countless funerals: his mother’s and his brother’s three years ago, two months apart. He had died at the hands of a drunk driver, she of a lonely heart. Colleagues, friends, even a partner gunned down in the line of duty. In all those days gone by, she had never seen a tear from him. Until tonight. And when they came, it was as if all of his years of grieving flowed forth as one. Tonight, he never spoke a word. He just sat there, tears running down his face.

  Busch stood in the doorway of his children’s bedroom watching them sleep, tangled under their white summer sheets. So innocent, so optimistic. Life hadn’t taken away their dreams yet. A parent always tries to protect his child’s world from the harsh reality of adulthood.

  Only a parent could understand the pain felt after scolding a child. Busch felt shame for lashing out at his son and daughter. They had done nothing more than act like children and that wasn’t a sin. He had tried so hard to be different than his father. He’d devoted himself to be a real part of their upbringing, their coach, their friend. He had been determined to be everything to them that his father wasn’t to him. And most of the time he was. But it was the slipups like this evening that gave him the real insight into his own father. There were always circumstances and secrets that were best kept from children. Things like cancer and prison. Busch saw now that what he thought to be his father’s inattention was really preoccupation with the troubles of life.

  There were always two perspectives on every situation. And he realized that was where the gifts of wisdom came from…a little bit at a time. He leaned over his children, kissing each on their rosy cheeks as he silently thanked them for helping him grow.

  Michael grabbed two glasses and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and headed into the den. The room was in total darkness except for the light from the street lamp outside. Hawk slept curled up in the corner by Michael’s desk.

  “So, now you know,” came the voice from the shadows.

  Michael froze. After a moment, he put the glas
ses down, poured the whiskey, and passed a glass to Simon, who was seated behind the desk. He turned on the desk lamp and sat in the side chair. “I don’t know what to believe.”

  For the past two hours, Michael had wandered the streets of Byram Hills, on the verge of madness. There could be no other logical explanation. The pressures he had placed upon himself had finally broken him. His life was becoming his dreams, his dreams nightmares, and his nightmares reality.

  He’d left Busch in the bar, having destroyed his only real male friendship. He had left Mary in her hospital bed, knowing he had destroyed all that she believed in. Insanity was an easy thing, he thought as he walked. It had crept up on him unnoticed, much like the cancer had crept up on Mary, devouring his brain the way her body was being devoured. But the insane were never aware of their insanity—or so he had heard.

  He wanted answers and there was only one person who could provide them. Simon alone could reveal the truth. Besides, he was the only one Michael had left to turn to. And Michael hated him for that.

  “Remind me”—Michael’s voice dripped with cynicism—“why I should have any faith in what you say?”

  “You lack faith in yourself, so how would it be possible to have faith in someone else? Least of all me?”

  “Try me,” Michael challenged.

  “Jesus Christ was preaching to His twelve disciples—you do know about His twelve Apostles?”

  “Yeah, I went to Catholic school,” Michael sneered.

  “When Jesus came into the banks of Caesarea Philippi, He asked His disciples, ‘Who do men say that I am?’ And they answered, ‘Some say you are John the Baptist; some, Elias; and others, Jeremias, or one of the prophets.’ And Jesus said, ‘But who do you think I am?’”

  “Each of the twelve men sat there pondering the question but only one knew the answer. And this one disciple said, ‘Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God.’ And Jesus said to His follower, ‘Thou art Petros and upon this rock, I shall build My Church.’ And He imparted to this renamed disciple—Petros—the power to condemn or absolve all those who wished salvation, saying, ‘What thou shall bind on earth shall be bound in Heaven and what thou shall condemn on earth shall be condemned in Heaven.’ He gave him the power to control the gates of eternal life. And He gave Petros two keys imbued with this power—one gold, one silver.” Simon paused. “The keys to the Gates of Heaven.

  “Upon the death, resurrection, and ascension of Jesus, this disciple, Petros—whose name translates into English as Peter—led the Church of Jesus Christ, Christianity. History has come to know Peter as the first Pope. This power that our Lord placed in Peter passes down to his successors. Along with the keys.” Simon sat back, allowing Michael to absorb the story, waiting for him to comment.

  “So, these two keys,” Michael asked, “the Church has placed a great value on them?”

  “A value you still can’t begin to comprehend.”

  “And naturally you place something of such tremendous value, of such worth, in a dilapidated church in the middle of nowhere. How smart you must be. Do you know how easy it was? If this is true, if these are the keys that Jesus left behind—” Michael paused. “These keys are nothing more than a bunch of superstitious hocuspocus.”

  “You may not share our beliefs at the moment”—Simon erupted out of his chair and began to pace—“but don’t dare mock me.” He stopped, dead still. “Those keys were placed by Peter before his death at the true location where Jesus rose to Heaven. A link between Heaven and earth. The place where the Church of the Ascension was built—”

  “It’s a myth! A fairy tale embellished down through the ages—”

  “Peter decreed, and each Pope thereafter has agreed, that’s where they should stay. As long as the keys were the property of the Pope and the Church, the link was preserved. The gates were open.”

  “Wait a minute.” Michael raised his hand. “Those keys were protected. They were protected by you.” He couldn’t resist inserting the verbal blade. “And you failed.”

  Simon didn’t answer. His eyes bored into Michael before looking away.

  “And now you have to clean up your mess. Does the Vatican know?” Michael demanded. “I tend to doubt it, otherwise, there would be more of you.”

  Simon grabbed Michael by the collar, hoisting him from his chair, pulling him forward. “I should just kill you. Or better yet, maim you, leave you to reap the seeds you have sown. Finster will be back, you know. He’ll be back for your wife and he will be back for you. And all you can think about is taunting me with your cocky bullshit. You would rather pound your chest at my expense, your scared mind trying to bury the real fear you feel. You would rather insult me than save your wife from damnation. Your arrogance disgusts me.” He effortlessly tossed Michael to the couch.

  “How could Finster be who you say he is? I see no proof—”

  “Proof? You have your proof. August Finster bid you to steal; you were his pawn.”

  “Finster? He’s a collector, a businessman, respected, extremely successful—”

  “He’s all that except for one thing: he is not a man.”

  “How do you know this about him? No. This is insane.”

  “His name repeatedly came up in connection with his interest in some of the more profane art produced against the Church. I wrote him off as sick, as did everyone else. But when certain pieces started to vanish into the black market, I decided to do a bit more checking on his background. Seems he has no background—”

  “Neither do most people coming out of the Eastern bloc—”

  “But he, unlike the others, was never born.” Simon stared at Michael.

  Michael laughed.

  “You think it humorous?” Simon said. “You know nothing of the East Germans. They kept tabs on everyone, pretty much from conception. People think the records are gone; they’re not, you just have to know where to look. And I looked. There is no record of Finster—anywhere.”

  “You’re hanging your hat on that?”

  Simon ignored him. “A couple of years ago, I paid our friend Finster a surprise visit in Berlin. No one had any idea of my itinerary yet there he was, waiting for me as I got off the train. Standing all by himself on the platform. I asked him point-blank who he was. His reply was: Why do you ask a question to which you already know the answer? I intended to accuse him of conspiring against the Church and against God. He denied everything. The only problem was his denials came before I even voiced my accusations. He knew absolutely everything I was going to say. Next thing I knew, I woke up on the train heading back to Rome with no recollection of how I got there. And since that day, not a night goes by that Finster doesn’t haunt my dreams.”

  “Dreams?” Michael shook his head. “You’re basing this on—”

  “He is the dark angel cast out of Heaven before time remembered.”

  “A very convenient tale meant to scare the world. Keep little children hiding under their beds. Mothers cowering in fear, begging for forgiveness. All running to their benevolent God to save them. To protect them from the evil of a make-believe Satan.” Michael sat up, becoming more sure of himself as each word left his lips. “August Finster is an egotistical businessman with too much power, casting his spell over all of Europe and, it seems, you.”

  Simon sat down directly across from Michael. “August Finster is an extremely handsome, charismatic being; funny, appealing, warm. And he is the blackest evil. Everything about him is a facade. He appeals to your inner wants and needs. He knows what you desire; he knows exactly what terrifies you. He plays on this knowledge.” Simon leaned in closer. Now it was his turn to twist the blade…. “As he played you.” His eyes were unwavering and cold. “How coincidental that the answer to your prayers arrives in your most desperate hour with the ability to provide that which you can not get from anyone else. All in exchange for a simple blasphemous task. Who is the one who has failed here?”

  The room suddenly felt darker, the world more claustroph
obic. Michael was acutely aware of the sounds around him: his dog’s breathing, the cars outside, the tick of his watch…all seemed to accent the fear inside him.

  “What does he want?” he asked Simon.

  “What he has always wanted. Our souls. Barter one here, steal one there. No need now. He’ll have them all. By controlling the keys, he controls the Gates of Heaven.”

  “Why doesn’t God just reopen them—these gates? They were opened once before when Jesus hung on the cross. Isn’t that what you believe?”

  Simon hadn’t feared anything since he was sixteen, since he’d endured a moment in life that struck him to his very core. His heart had died that day and with it, his emotions. He had not known fear—or any other emotion—since. Until now. “God would have to return, a fulfillment of the Scriptures, the end of the world, whatever you want to call it. Gabriel’s Horn would be trumpeted across the lands. The sign that God is returning: Judgment Day. Michael, we must retrieve those keys.”

  Michael didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. Everything that had happened in the last few weeks seemed to fall into place now. Every step he had taken had brought him to this moment. He had not only hurt and destroyed the lives of the ones he loved; he had trampled over the beliefs that sustained them.

  “We must leave,” Simon told him. “We don’t have much time.”

  “My wife is dying. I can’t leave her again.”

  “I’m sorry.” There was no sympathy in Simon’s voice.

  “I can’t leave, her life…”

  “Her life is ticking down. There is nothing you can do to stop it. But if you value her eternal life, there is still time. Save that, Michael. Save her soul.”

  All night Michael tossed and turned. No longer able to sleep in the bed, he had reverted to the couch with its out-of-whack spring pushing up against his shoulder blade. He preferred its uncomfortable stabbing to the thoughts that had raced through his brain as he tossed alone on their king-sized mattress. Their empty bed stirred too many thoughts. This is what it would be like when Mary was gone. He wasn’t ready to face that now. She was still alive. Of this he was sure.