The Thieves of Heaven

by Richard Doetsch

  And Finster smiled. “Aren’t we the wise one? Such foresight.” He looked to Simon. “I’m afraid you don’t have a similar arrangement.” Simon was crushed further into the ceiling, the air forced from his lungs, an invisible vise about his chest.

  “Now, give them back,” Finster growled, his voice holding but a fraction of its former timbre and elegance. He stalked away, but paused before the key chamber door. Turning back, he sneered: “You are right, Michael. I did promise I would not harm you, but that is why he works for me. I don’t recall him making any such promise.”

  Down the shadowy stairs came Finster’s driver, the one who’d picked him up off the highway. A pistol in his left hand, the same gun used to kill the paramedics.

  Dennis Thal was finally going to redeem himself in the eyes of his boss.

  He had arrived earlier that night. Finster was standing in his library enjoying the joys of Joy; the billionaire said not a word when he entered, only stared at Thal for his apparent failure. Thal had never imagined that it was this renowned billionaire who had pulled his strings, who was the mysterious voice giving orders over the phone. Finster’s eyes intimidated the assassin so much that Thal couldn’t verbalize his failure for fear that he would be dead before the final words left his lips.

  And so Thal said the only thing he could think of that would prolong his life: “They are dead.”

  Finster’s eyes softened as he heard this. The last real obstacle to his success—Michael St. Pierre and that madman priest—had been removed. But he still was the consummate businessman, cautious and shrewd. He would leave no room for error. He’d armed and protected his home with every resource, every man he had at his disposal. All of his private army including his driver were mobilized for the continued protection of his keys. To this end, Finster ordered Thal to be his chauffeur for the evening.

  As Thal guided the limo through the night with Finster and his gaggle of cackling golddiggers in the back, he waited for the bullet to shatter the back of his skull. The shot never came. He thought the blatant lie about succeeding in the assassination had been written on his face: he was certain he would be found out. For two hours, he had waited outside the dance club, wondering how Finster might carry out his demise when the truth was learned. But as the time passed, he convinced himself that Finster would never learn the truth, or maybe…Maybe he would kill Finster.

  His schemes were interrupted when his commander in chief was carried out on a stretcher. Thal raced to the limo and followed. When Finster tumbled out of the rear of the ambulance, Thal selfishly wrote the man off as dead, rammed into the emergency vehicle, and exacted vengeance on the two paramedics with a bullet each. He turned from the carnage to see Finster rising from the road, dusting himself off, not a scratch on him. That’s when Thal realized there was far more to his employer than he could ever have imagined. His thoughts raced as they sped through the gates to the estate, as he saw the bodies littering the property. When the doors blew off their hinges with a mere flick of Finster’s wrist—well, Thal was ever so enamored of his employer.

  Thal stood looking up at the two men crushed high overhead against the cavernous ceiling; he knew at last whose bidding he had been doing these last five years. No fear arose in his loins; his heart didn’t miss a beat.

  “You’ll be stopped,” Simon said. The priest was flattened to the ceiling, his face flushed crimson, the tendons in his neck distended. It was hard to tell if it was the grinding of his body against the rock or the grinding of his bones that echoed about. “You can’t—”

  “Of course.” Finster humored him as he pushed open the door to the key chamber.

  “You can’t steal Heaven,” Simon gasped.

  “I already have. Now put my keys ba—”

  Finster stopped mid-sentence, the creaking door of the chamber opened to its fullest extent, flames flickering in the darkened vault. He stared in. A glint on the crimson pillow caught his eye. He cocked his head, squinting. A smile of triumph painted his face.

  And with that, Simon and Michael fell from the cavern’s ceiling, tumbling two stories to the earthen floor below.

  Finster was mesmerized by his keys: the thieves hadn’t gotten them after all, they’d been interrupted mid-crime. He straightened. Standing tall, palms to his temples, he pushed back his long white hair, regaining his former composure. “Take them out of here,” he said to Thal without even turning to glance at the bodies of the two men who had opposed him, his triumphant voice again mellifluous like a song, “and do that which you do best.”

  Chapter 34

  Thal marched Simon and Michael out the front door, guns at their backs, past the fallen soldiers on the driveway, to the black stretch limo. The two men were bruised and bloody, their dazed minds still refusing to come to grips with the terrible power they had just witnessed.

  Thal pulled out two pairs of cuffs, secured their hands behind their backs, opened the front passenger door, and pushed them in. He got behind the wheel of the still-running vehicle, his gun pointed at Simon’s head. He drove off into the night, past the vast gardens and towering stone walls, off the driveway, and across the field. The high beams cut through the dark, until they finally came to a stop twenty feet in front of the old well.

  Thal stepped from the vehicle, ripped open the passenger door, reached in, and violently tore Michael out by his hair. He threw Michael against the stone structure where he collapsed in the blinding light of the car’s headlights, illuminated as if on stage. Thal returned to the car and was back in seconds, a nasty-looking knife held to Simon’s throat.

  “Never killed a priest before.” Thal threw Simon down on the ground face-first, the priest putting up no struggle, his body still weakened from Finster’s assault.

  It was brighter than daylight under the car’s fierce halogen beams, the shadows falling long and severe. It was as if they were in a bright operating theater surrounded by an audience of darkness. Thal tucked his gun in his waistband and laid out on the dew-soaked grass a vile assortment of knives: serrated and butterfly, fillet, scallop, and bone. A collection that would look natural in a butcher shop, but in this arena had a much different, much more evil purpose.

  “Have you ever witnessed the removal of flesh from a freshly killed deer?” Thal asked Michael matter-of-factly.

  Michael, his voice lost in his throat, helplessly stared.

  “No? Well, now you will know what to expect.” Thal picked up the fillet knife. “This blade is the sharpest of the bunch. Cuts through skin like silk. It’s so sharp you barely feel it as it does its job. You’re only aware of your missing flesh when the cool air hits those freshly exposed nerves.” Thal pressed his knee to the back of Simon’s head, completely immobilizing him. “So, I heard that story about your mom and it really inspired me.”

  “Save your soul,” Simon mumbled, his face crushed into the grass.

  “Is that a standard line they teach you at the seminary?”

  “You are in league—”

  “Oh, boy. Here we go. Hallelujah, amen, Lord Jesus, save me Lord, et cetera, et cetera…” Thal rolled his eyes. “Spare me. Will ya? You’re hurting my concentration.” With the experience of a surgeon, he sliced the shirt from Simon’s back.

  Michael struggled against the stone of the well, moans coming from deep within his chest.

  “This particular knife is an artisan’s blade, held delicately, like a paintbrush, between the thumb, forefinger, and middle finger.” Thal demonstrated.

  An odd thing caught Michael’s eye. Thal’s pinky and ring finger stuck out abnormally, not curling under as they should. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now…His heart sank even lower. He had seen these tools before. He remembered that night. He remembered his own knife, how it had dug into his shoulder, into the bone, how he’d been dragged across the floor of an art studio by a maniac. How the pain stayed with him to this day, flaring up with the changing weather. And he remembered it was the first time he wanted to kill someone, a
creature so vile, so disgusting, a man who had been poised to perform inhuman acts on a woman.

  “How’s the shoulder?” Thal smiled.

  Everything came flooding into Michael’s mind. Who Thal really was…How Finster had heard of Michael and his skills…Why Thal despised him from the day they met.

  The tools that were laid out on the grass before him now were the same tools on the windowsill of a Fifth Avenue apartment five and a half years before. It was Dennis Thal who had assaulted Helen Staten, prepared to perform some heinous act upon her naked body. Thal was the reason Michael had aborted his escape from the Akbiquestan Embassy. He was the man whom Michael fought in Helen Staten’s apartment. And he was the reason that Michael was caught and sent to prison.

  “You can see why you interest me so,” Thal said cheerfully as he set back to work. “This will only be practice, give you a little taste of things to come. Anticipation is so much greater than realization, don’t you think? I have contemplated the designs for your demise for some time now. I had hoped when I recommended you to Finster to steal the keys that I would be rewarded in the end. You will be my Sistine Chapel.”

  Bound, Michael squirmed helplessly against the well; bile flooded his throat.

  “Please, sit still,” Thal admonished. “You might startle me. If you do, my hand could slip, plunging this metal beauty into the heart of your friend.”

  Simon buried his mind deep down, cutting himself off from all sensation. His mind swirled with images of his father performing this same horrible act on his mother. She had endured her fate without any training, without the hardened mind brought on by the military. His respect grew for what she suffered, for now he was about to endure the same fate. The rape of his soul.

  Thal was lost in concentration, hunched over Simon, poised to cut flesh from muscle. He was living completely in the moment—and that was his downfall. He never heard the whistle of the foot cutting through the air, never saw the giant shadow of the enraged man.

  The steel-shanked toe of the boot caught Thal square in the ear. The force of the blow sent him sprawling, his body sliding in the slick grass. Blood poured from his ear. He couldn’t hold a coherent thought but this much he did know: the giant silhouette was killing him. With the adrenaline-induced energy of a cornered animal, Thal leaped to his feet; his hand snapped to his waist. But quick as he was, he wasn’t quick enough. The two policemen, the parole officer and the assassin, locked eyes. Each held a gun—leveled directly at the other. It was a Mexican standoff.

  “A little out of your jurisdiction,” Thal sneered.

  “This has nothing to do with the law.” Busch’s Sig Sauer pointed at Thal without wavering.

  For the second time in Thal’s life he came face to face with fear, real shake-your-hand-drop-you-into-oblivion fear. It ran from his feet through his heart and landed square in his eyes. Thal fed off the fright he induced in others, a delicacy to his senses, but until this moment had never experienced it for himself. And it was crippling, his legs reduced to Jell-O, his mind jumbled. He did the only thing he could think of. He dove left, simultaneously rapid-firing his pistol.

  Busch drop-rolled, returning fire shot for shot. Thal disappeared into the darkness beyond the headlights. Michael and Simon were sitting ducks, painted, handcuffed targets for Thal, and Busch would have none of that. The big cop grabbed his friend and pulled him into the shadows behind the well. Then he ran back into the blinding light of the car, racing for Simon. When the bullets erupted behind him, tearing up the ground at his feet, Busch didn’t stop, dive-rolling and rising. He grabbed the priest by the legs and dragged him through the onslaught of Thal’s gunfire.

  Back in the shadows, Busch tucked Simon up against the well wall. He turned and grabbed the cuffs behind Michael’s back. He held the cuff chain against the stone of the well, and ordered: “Don’t even breathe.” Busch placed the barrel of his gun to the cuff chain and fired, pulverizing it. In short order, Simon’s cuffs were also shattered. “Stay here,” Busch growled, before heading back into the darkness.

  Busch crept through the field, holding tight to the darkness. The night was silent but for the low drone of the idling limo. If he could get to the driver’s seat, he could drive around, grab his friends, and fly out of here. Even if Thal shot out the tires, they could put enough distance between them and their assailant to make it to safety. Busch worked his way behind the black car, mindful of the fact that he could be shot dead at any moment. His mind was a bundle of confusion. There was no coincidence in Thal’s involvement with him or with Finster. Busch’s instinct always served him well: now, he regretted turning a deaf ear when it had warned him about Dennis Thal. There would be no hesitation this time, no words of venom. He would shoot Thal dead in his tracks, law be damned.

  Gunfire ripped into the front of the limo, puncturing the metal body. Busch was pinned down, five shots left in his clip, but that wouldn’t matter if Thal succeeded in hitting him. He raced for and tore open the driver’s side door.

  The bullet ripped into his right shoulder, his arm falling dead at his side as the force of the impact spun him against the car. Busch lost his footing on the grass and tumbled. His left hand scrambled for his gun. He clawed the grass, ignoring the pain in his arm, his pistol almost in reach…

  The booted foot came down hard, two of his fingers instantly on fire, their bones cracking under the brutal impact. Thal crouched down, picked up Busch’s gun, then hurled it into the darkness.

  “Hello, Peaches.” Blood cascaded from Thal’s ear. “Mistakes, mistakes, mistakes. Some easily overlooked, some fatal. What happened to the law?” he taunted Busch. “Remember the law, your law? No compromising, no way around it?”

  The accusation stung Busch as much as the pain wracked his body. He was still a cop. And although Thal accused him of forsaking his code of the law, he had not. He had merely set the law upon a shelf, while a higher law stepped in, one of friendship and loyalty. Moral compromise. Sometimes there were circumstances, and sometimes one had the power and the need to turn a blind eye while life took a temporary turn. But always there was a price to pay.

  Grinding his foot deeper into Busch’s hand, the taillights carving bloodred shadows upon his face, Thal slammed a new cartridge in his pistol and chambered a round. He aimed square at the head of the man he had grown to despise, and smiled. “Your wife’s death will be as slow as yours is quick.”

  Busch’s face went white as his worst fears were upon him.

  Thal gripped the gun with two hands, steadying his aim. He wouldn’t miss.

  And then, all at once, the wind was crushed out of Thal like a deflating balloon. He crashed backward into the limo with no time to recover, no time to shield himself from the second and third blows. Michael and Simon were upon him, moving with a blinding speed, and then, just as swiftly as they had struck, they backed away.

  Thal could barely stand. His gun gone, his body grievously injured. For the second time that endless night, he waited for death to come from a gunshot. But it didn’t. They just stood there staring at him, Busch, Simon, and Michael, not moving, not making a sound, watching, waiting. Thal didn’t know what to make of them. But he couldn’t breathe. He didn’t know why. He clutched his stomach. And his hand came away sticky, oily. In a blur of memories, faces of all of his victims came back to him. Helen Staten, James Staten, the women, the men, dozens of victims, all silently staring, mutely bearing witness to his demise.

  He hadn’t felt the incision—the scalpel was that sharp—he never even saw Simon actually make the cuts, but he did feel his intestines spill out; they slipped through his fingers like a greased eel, as he desperately tried to hold them in his body. They poured out of his sliced belly onto the midnight grass. He scooped at them, trying in vain to force them back into his vacant cavity. He staggered and fell. Then the cold tendrils of death wrapped themselves about him.

  And he died.

  Chapter 35

  Finster’s shadow danced on
the wall of the small private chamber; the remaining candles were reaching the end of their life. He was again a calm, reserved man of culture admiring his keys upon their pillow. His momentary fears of failure put to rest, he had possession of them now and he would soon be going home.

  Despite what he had said, he had never taken the time to admire his prize but for that first night he acquired it. In fact, he could care less what the keys looked like, it was what they stood for that really mattered. But his ego stepped in and his vanity forced him to gloat. He stood there reverently staring; nothing stood in his way any longer.

  Out in the gallery, in the section dedicated to the Hindu god Kali, tucked in the corner behind the stacked paintings, the red glow of a timer ticked digitally down toward zero. There were five timers scattered about the cavern set to go off in thirty-second increments. Incendiary bombs, compact but powerful—flame-bringers. They were not concussive devises but rather chemical sprayers. When activated they would pop up in the air ten feet and spew out a sticky gel-like substance that would ignite instantly upon contact with the air.

  Finster paid no attention to the popping sound beyond the heavy black door nor the whoosh of what he was sure was fire. Instead, he stepped around the pedestal and leaned in closely, as if he was studying the keys’ details for the first time. His leather shoes crunched the earthen floor, as he circled around and around. A loud hiss came from under the door; the air was being sucked out of the small chamber in giant gulps to feed the growing inferno in the cavern. The last few candles about the key chamber started to burn out from lack of oxygen. Only a few remained to light his trophy, their glow reflecting off the precious metal. And to illuminate Finster’s baffled face.

  Something was not right. And it wasn’t what was beyond the door that concerned him. Michael and Simon had come within moments of success. Men so driven would never give up, never surrender. Michael’s love for his wife was as strong as anything Finster had ever seen but then why did he relent, giving up so easily, unless…