The Thieves of Heaven

by Richard Doetsch

  Mary’s heart rate began to climb, the beep of the heart monitor quickened. She started to stir, legs twitching, head pressing back in the pillow. Jeannie saw the rapid eye movement: Mary was dreaming. Mary started to moan, incoherent at first. The sweat began on her brow and spread out from there.

  It was a nightmare. And Jeannie knew Mary’s nightmares; she had shared her fears with her best friend too often. They always revolved around Michael, his going back to crime and paying the price horribly with his life as Mary helplessly bore witness. Jeannie knew the only way the nightmares ended was when Mary bolted out of the bed, frightened into reality. Jeannie leaned in, taking a moist washcloth, dabbing her forehead. “Shhh,” she whispered as if to a child, “it’s OK, I’m here for you.” She cursed the drugs for imprisoning her friend in her nightmare world.

  Mary’s body stiffened. Gently, Jeannie took her hand. Her feeling of helplessness grew. She could do nothing to ease her friend’s suffering. Mary’s head swung side to side as if trying to outrun whatever was haunting her mind. She was trapped in a realm she couldn’t escape. Mary had told her that the dream never played through to its conclusion; she always broke out to consciousness at the last moment, to reality, mercifully released from the terror. Tonight, however, Mary would have no choice other than to live the nightmare through, seeing it play out to its devastating conclusion.

  Jeannie’s life had been linked to Michael and Mary’s for years; now, she felt herself crumbling with them. Mary was dying, Michael was in trouble, and now Paul was missing. She loved her husband for his gruffness, the way he lived for his kids, the way he had morals others had abandoned decades ago. She hoped against hope that Paul and Michael were safe but somehow knew that whatever they had to face was still before them.

  She watched as Mary’s vitals climbed, her body spasming, the sheets soaked in sweat; her dream was cresting. Please make it. Jeannie prayed for them all.

  The front door to the mansion swung open. A loud beeping in one-second increments came from somewhere inside.

  “Can we hurry it up?” Simon whispered.

  “Relax. I’ve got sixty seconds.”

  “Fifty-eight now.”

  Michael stepped into the foyer; all lights were out, the house was as dark as dark could be. He flipped on his penlight, opened up the mahogany closet near the doorway, and whipped out his knife. He threw aside the vast collection of coats, revealing a smooth white security box, and stared at the readout: counting down from forty-five in glowing red lights. There was no keypad, only a magnetic card-swipe slot. And Michael had no card. “OK,” Michael said.

  “OK, what?” Simon called, over his shoulder.

  Michael paused, exhaling a great gasp of air. He had thirty-eight seconds. “See, this is—”

  “Don’t explain.” Simon cut him off. The last thing they needed was a local police drive-by. Twenty-one dead bodies would be hard to hide and even harder to explain. The place would swarm with law enforcement, leaving them no way out.

  Michael focused, stuck his penlight in his mouth, twirled his knife, and slid it behind the alarm panel. He pried off the cover and stared. The host of wires looked more like a plate of spaghetti than a security system. Twenty-nine seconds. The beeps were now coming in double-time.

  He pulled from his pocket a pair of wires with alligator clips. He thumbed through the twenty-odd wires searching—there was never really a blue wire and a red wire—this system was coded, each color bearing an individual number that matched to a codex. The odds on finding the correct wires were three hundred and eighty to one. Unfortunately, they were a little short on time. Nineteen seconds. The beeps sounded like a drumroll now. Michael just stared, lost in thought.

  “Uh, not that we are in a hurry or anything,” Simon reminded him. There was a hint of nerves in his voice.

  Nine seconds. If only he had an hour…maybe he could crack this. And then he found his solution. He traced out the wires to the timing display, following their jumble of a run through the box to a small black chip. He clamped on one of the alligators. Four seconds.

  “We don’t have all day.” Simon’s stress was worse now than when he was under fire.

  “Actually”—Michael paused as he clipped on the other alligator clip—“we do.”

  The readout flashed and where it had previously read two seconds, it now counted down from ten hours. “When you can’t reset the alarm, reset the clock,” Michael explained, with a sigh of relief.

  He led Simon into the heart of the mansion. As they moved deeper into the house past the entrance hall and library, faint light filtered in from the side rooms and stairwells. It wasn’t much but it allowed them to avoid using their flashlights. Michael wasted no time staring into the various rooms; everything carried a different meaning this time. Before he’d felt wonder and amazement at the vast wealth possessed by the man who owned these rooms, but now…he felt nothing but disgust.

  They finally reached the enormous old wooden door. It stood slightly ajar. Michael wrapped his hand around the large black iron handle. The screech of the hinges as they protested were worse than any alarm. Simon spun about, gun at the ready, braced for someone to come running at the sound.

  The rank smell floated up from the stone recesses, instantly assaulting their senses, reigniting Michael’s fear. Simon took point, his pistol waist-high as they were swallowed by the darkness. They left their flashlights off so as not to make an easy target, but at the expense of traveling the two hundred feet down blind with nothing but slippery stone and a splintered handrail to guide them. Deeper into the earth they traveled, down the moss-covered stairs. Michael couldn’t help remembering the parallels between this place and the lowermost cells of the German prison: an intangible menace hung in the air of both.

  They hit the bottom step, coming out onto the hard-packed dirt floor. There was no more handrail to lead them as they searched for direction. They stood there momentarily, the inky blackness like a mask over their eyes, the smell running to something south of decay.

  “How about some light—” Michael started to say before Simon tackled him violently to the ground.

  The shot came out of nowhere, an explosive crack stabbing their ears as it echoed off the damp stone walls. They hunkered down, unsure of their bearings or the location of the guard they never expected to find here.

  “I’m going to roll right. Try to draw his fire,” Simon whispered from the darkness.

  “Gee, thanks.”

  Simon silently scooted away, leaving Michael alone in the place that had caused him such nightmares. Draw his fire. Great.

  He crept back up several steps, groping along the wall for a shelf. His fingers sunk into an area six feet up, where the mortar had grown soft. Quietly, he dug in with his knife, clearing a recess, then he jammed the butt of his penlight in. It was high and away as a target—the same trick he used with Simon in the graveyard. It was all a matter of perspective, sleight of hand, magic; make them see what you want them to see.

  Ducking low, he reached up, flicking on the penlight, its naked, narrow glow falling upon the host of immoral artifacts. He kept his body out of the light’s wash but before he could take a step, gunfire exploded again. Five shots in rapid succession, seemingly from all directions.

  The flashlight shattered. Suffocating darkness descended. The silence that followed was maddening. And there was no sign of Simon. A faint scratching came from deeper within the hold. Drawing on what memory he could conjure up, Michael edged into the room. He held his Glock before him, heading in the direction of the soft, scratching sounds. They seemed to be low and near the ground, nails against stone. With each step, a new sound emerged from the blackness. A slow gurgling wheeze, like someone trying to breathe through a shallow puddle, was right in front of him. Michael swiftly crouched. Leading with his gun, he poked the darkness. An arm’s length in front of him the barrel abutted something soft, frail. The breaths were shallow and weak. Michael searched about, felt a head, and r
ested his gun on the ground. His fingers kept exploring: the hair was fine, almost brittle; the skin, paper thin. A hand clutched Michael’s shoulder from behind, startling him. The priest flipped on his flashlight and found Michael crouched down next to the body of a man, well past ninety.

  Michael glanced up. “He was just an old man.”

  Simon lowered his pistol. “Who is he?”

  “Charles…Finster’s butler” was all Michael could say as the elderly man let out his final, shallow breath.

  Simon stood over the corpse, blessed himself, and said a quick prayer for the dead. The irony wasn’t lost on Michael that Simon was rendering last rites to someone he had just murdered.

  They stepped away, walking deeper into the gallery. The shadows hung heavy, the musty stench of decay everywhere. As he shined his light across the room, Simon was stunned by what he saw. A mother screamed in anguish as she clutched her blood-soaked children. A warlord disemboweled those who cowered in surrender. Tapestries glorified death; canvases depicted decaying bodies, their souls crying out for release; mankind ruthlessly subjugated by evil. Thousands of pieces of art, each more terrible than the one before. It was as if he had crossed into Hell itself.

  The thought entered Simon’s mind that before they left this hole in the world it all must be destroyed. This was not art; this was something far worse than anything he had ever seen or imagined. No eye should ever be cast upon this collection again; these horrific pieces had all been created by man, not by evil gods or Satan. These were wrought by the hands of artists possessed by thoughts Simon could never comprehend.

  “Hurry up!” Michael insisted as he continued through the gallery. He stole a quick glance at the light licking up the walls; the dark rock tinged with a natural rust gave the sense of blood dripping downward. The stalactites, barely visible in the ceiling, hung like daggers ready to fall upon them. “I’m not staying in here any longer than I have to.”

  Simon tore himself away and followed, but was drawn back by the last painting in the lineup. It rested up ahead, near the door, propped up against a stack of others. Four feet high and wide, it stood out among the rest, incongruous in its presence. The one shining piece of light among the darkness. The beautifully rendered Gates of Heaven. Simon stared at it reverently, reminded that there was always hope, no matter how grave the situation. And he was reminded…

  Finster wasn’t concerned about gaining a soul here or there, he wanted it all, he wanted the land from whence he was cast out before time began. Simon seethed, gaining new focus, and charged down the corridor.

  Michael stood at the key-chamber door; the gleaming wood was ebony, polished to a high oily sheen, six feet high, the low sill compelling you to duck. He made easy work of the ancient lock, and grabbed the rusted iron ring for a handle. As Michael pulled the creaking door open, Simon shined in his light.

  Upon the central stone pedestal in the small crypt, the two keys sat upon a blood-red pillow, looking as plain and harmless as they did on the day Michael stole them. The simple carved box that had held them was set aside on a stone shelf next to hundreds of candles, most burned down to their nubs. Michael felt a surge of hope. For the first time, he was close to righting the wrong that so endangered his wife.

  The two men stood on either side of the pedestal; the room was so confined, their backs nearly touched the walls. Michael looked about the pedestal, checking for alarms or traps, running his fingertips along the stone base and wood column, up to and then under the red pillow. All clear. As he stood, a slight flashing caught his eye. He looked at Simon and then at the cell phone at his waist. The tiny green message light was blinking. Simon flipped it open, the display glowed: 1 message, 19 missed calls. No signal. Busch was the only one with the number.

  They may have been two hundred feet below the ground, with thousands of tons of dirt and rock over their heads, but the thundering noise made its way down into the bowels of the earth nonetheless. It was like the crash of a military jet slamming into a mountainside, concussive and threateningly low. The soil and stone literally shook out of the ceiling, crashing in a choking mist about them. They were sure the world would collapse at any second.

  The enormous front door blew off its hinges and landed on the main stairs, the force of the blow instantly collapsing the grand flight of steps into a pile of splintered scrap. Finster, in an absolute fury, flew through the house. It was as if an invisible wave preceded him: the wooden walls fluttered and distended like a balloon around him, the pictures crashed down, statuary tumbled to the floor. Anything caught in his way was destroyed.

  Five minutes into his ambulance ride, he had come fully to his senses. He had never been so utterly fooled, done in by his lust, vanity, and greed. It would never happen again, he swore. To the shock of the attending medic, he ripped off his gurney restraints, flung open the rear door, and leaped from the ambulance as it sped down the autobahn. His chauffeur, attuned to the situation, had trailed the emergency vehicle, watching with a smile as Finster flew out onto the road. Closer than a hairbreadth, the driver swerved around the cartwheeling body. Then he sped alongside the ambulance and broadsided it with the limo, forcing its terrified driver to the side of the road. Finster rose from the ground and dusted himself off.

  It wasn’t Finster who took out the medics; the chauffeur did the deed. The two EMTs died with countless questions swirling in their heads about their last pickup.

  As the limo tore through the gates, ripping them from their stone moorings, Finster saw the first two victims. He had underestimated Michael and the priest and overestimated his little mercenary outfit. His years as a powerful industrialist had made him forget the power of a man facing death. And the even stronger will of a man trying to save the one he loves. As the limo reached the top of the drive, the carnage was laid out before him. Dead soldiers everywhere, the blood splattered about as if by a paintbrush. His wrath grew exponentially, escalating with each stride toward the house; his pent-up fury finally exploded forth as he blasted into the stone mansion, destroying the front doors in his way.

  Within seconds he was at the cellar door, tearing it from its hinges. He descended the stairs in a flash; there was no need for light, he knew the way by heart. He was home.

  Finster, stalking, more animal than human, moved through his gallery, his back hunched over, his footfalls silent, looking about cautiously as he faintly sniffed the air. He sensed something off to the right, behind the stack of Russian warfare paintings, but passed it by. He loved the hunt, the way you seek and flush out your quarry, toying with them, allowing them to believe they were smarter, that they could deceive you, when in fact they were hopelessly trapped.

  He continued through the darkness toward the door of the key chamber, passing the Gates of Heaven painting: his motivator. The picture had driven him, kept him focused on his goal, like a prisoner who kept a photograph of the mountains taped to his cell wall to remind him to stay attuned to freedom. The painting gave him something to strive for, it almost gave him hope. No one would take that from him and anyone who dared try would pay the price. He took the rusted door ring in his cold hand and pulled, the black door reluctantly creaking open.

  Without warning, he spun about, reaching out violently with his left hand, seizing the night. The room started to shake, the air became charged; blue sparks erupted out of the blackness. Statues toppled, pictures crashed to the ground; the seemingly inanimate room came suddenly alive with confusion and mayhem. Out of the darkness, two bodies rose: Simon and Michael. Floating upward carried on an unseen wind. Higher and higher, twenty feet up, until they were crushed to the cavern’s ceiling, dangerously close to the razor-sharp stalactites. Hands and legs splayed out, the two men were pressed upward, as if gravity had somehow reversed itself. With a flash, the weapons that each carried flew from their bodies. Guns, knives, all tumbled to the ground.

  “Why?” Finster raged. “Did you really think you could beat ME?” He stepped beneath them, looking upward, guidi
ng them with his hand like helpless puppets on an invisible string.

  Where doubt had swirled in Michael’s head about the true identity of his former employer, utter and complete fear now took up permanent residence. He saw candles and torches coming to life, igniting spontaneously all about the perimeter of the cavern, illuminating everything. He had not known the depth of depraved art that Finster had amassed: tenfold to what he had previously glimpsed, all lit eerily by the orange glow of the torches. Bigger than a football field, the area below him held a sea of artifacts, stretching out as far as the light carried, filling the largest cavern that anyone had ever witnessed. The ceiling undulated wildly, the stalactites pierced the shadows like teeth from the mouth of a beast. Finster paced below. His custom-made clothes tattered and torn, his posture a coiled spring. Even at a distance, Michael could see his eyes had gone red, deep and menacing as they reflected the candle flames.

  “Give me what is mine!” Finster bellowed. “Give——me——my——keys!”

  Simon was in obvious pain, the side of his face sliced by a stalactite, the blood pooling on his cheek before falling like rain to the earthen floor below. But his eyes never conveyed fear as he struggled against the invisible hand. “They never were your keys,” he spat.

  “They are now, priest! As is everything that goes along with them. Now, give my keys to me before I rip out your hearts.”

  Michael’s face was contorted in agony as he breathlessly uttered, “You…made…a promise.” Simon looked to Michael, confused by his statement. “You said you never break a deal.”

  “Point?” Finster sneered.

  “You promised me no harm.”