Finster looked closer. Hesitantly, he reached out for the silver key, well aware he was forbidden to come in direct contact with that which is holy. His fingers moved nearer. It was the only way to be sure. The only true test. With a sudden overcoming of fear, his hand covered the keys. And that’s when it happened. He exploded, a whirlwind of anger. He screamed at the top of his lungs—not in pain but in anger. In furious recognition that he’d been tricked. For on the gold key, worn down by time but still visible, was an engraving stamp, subtle, damning: 585.
Finster spun about and tore open the door. He was met by a whirling fireball, pluming upward, its flaming tendrils lashing back down from the ceiling. The entire cavern was engulfed. The canvas of the paintings had ignited, filling the room with an oily black mushroom cloud; waves of heat melted metal sculptures. The last of the incendiary bombs exploded, its napalm-like gel spewing out, torching anything it touched. The flame’s roar was deafening, but that was nothing compared to the inhuman shriek from Finster’s lips.
Chapter 36
Busch was a mess. Simon and Michael had wrapped his hand and patched his shoulder. He was propped uncomfortably upon the hood of the limo but as far as he was concerned, things were just fine. He would live to see another day.
“Hmph, you did get ’em.” Busch’s voice was barely above a whisper.
Simon nodded, admiring the keys he held reverently in his palm, as if they were made of glass and might shatter if he breathed on them.
“So simple…”
“Yeah.”
“Gentlemen, we’ve got to fly,” Michael interrupted.
But Busch continued to stare at the keys. He couldn’t help himself. “May I?”
Very, very gently, Simon placed them in his hand. They were larger than Busch had thought they would be and not as dramatic. As he held them, he expected to be enlightened, filled with the Lord, so to speak, but that didn’t happen. Instead, he was filled with wonder and amazement that two objects so small in the scheme of things could mean so much. Michael had risked his freedom, his life—everything—to return these two pieces of shaped metal. And what struck Busch was not their symbolism but the power of the heart that they inspired. A belief in the intangible, one so powerful that men were willing to go to war for it, die for it, to sacrifice everything on the conviction of a promise. It was a miracle, a miracle of faith, one that he understood well but until this moment had not truly experienced. And because of it, everything would somehow be all right, he felt it.
“Let’s go, guys.” Michael’s impatience was growing.
Busch handed the keys back to Simon, who wrapped them up tightly in a velvet cloth before placing them in his pocket. A quiet relief washed over Busch. Despite the odds, he and Michael were going home.
The library’s French doors crashed open. Flames exploded outward. The enormous stone house had become an inferno. Windows shattered from the heat, spewing smoke and flame, lighting up the night. A figure burst from the firestorm and raced toward them. Like some dark feral beast, it crossed the two hundred yards in seconds.
“You’ll return nothing!” The voice bellowed from everywhere. And before they could react, he was standing there right in front of them, his clothes nothing but ash, an odd contrast with his skin, which was pure and unwrinkled, not a burn or blemish, impossible for someone who just came through a twelve-hundred-degree blaze.
Michael stepped forward, his body braced for an attack. “What makes you think—”
But before he could finish, Finster flicked his wrist and sent him sprawling. “I will visit upon you suffering that you could never imagine—”
“You gave me your word,” Michael moaned from the ground.
“I wasn’t talking to you.” Finster had turned to Busch. “No. More. Sanctuary,” he roared at the wounded policeman.
Busch recoiled, trying desperately to get away. He tumbled off the car’s hood, his injured shoulder breaking like a thousand shards of glass as he collapsed to the ground, paralyzed. He refused to make a sound but in his mind he let out a bloodcurdling scream. His nightmare had become real: he was burning up; his skin felt afire, yet there was no flame. He was back on the boat—his father’s boat—the flames dancing about the deck, racing up his legs, licking greedily at his torso. He was once again a helpless child, powerless against the monster. The agony was unbearable as he writhed in the grass.
“Stop!” Michael shouted, scrambling to his feet.
“Give me the keys!” Finster bore down on Michael, his voice as deadly as the blaze that now engulfed his stone mansion.
Finster’s eyes were cold, dead, black like the deepest end of the ocean. Michael was filled with a fear he had never imagined possible, a fear not just for him or Mary, but for Busch, for Simon, for everyone. He turned to Simon, bewildered and looking for answers. The priest shook his head emphatically at Michael.
“Hand them over or I will bring suffering to everyone you know and love,” Finster snarled.
“Never!” Simon shouted.
Helplessly, Michael watched Busch thrash about in the moist grass, slapping at his own face, hugging his big body, desperately attempting to put out the invisible flames.
“No! Stop!” Michael screamed, unable to bear the big policeman’s suffering. “If I give them to you, do you promise to stop this? Do you promise that you will not bring suffering to anyone—”
“I will not!” Finster roared.
Michael’s heartfelt whisper was barely audible. “Then no deal,” he said, knowing that with his words he was sealing the death of his best friend.
Busch fought to speak. “Michael! Don’t deal with him.”
“THE KEYS!” Finster came nose to nose with Michael; his hot breath was nauseating.
Busch twisted, rolling this way and that. “I will not—be—a bargaining chip.” And then he saw something on the grass. Painfully, he reached for it.
Michael could see Busch out of his peripheral vision. “Paul. No. Jesus Christ—”
“He is not here,” Finster sneered.
Busch’s fingers closed around his gun; he raised it, aiming at Finster.
“You cannot harm me with that,” Finster hissed, not bothering to turn toward the weapon pointed at the center of his back.
But shooting Finster was not Busch’s intention. The big cop pressed the gun to his own head. “Promise me you’ll take care of Jeannie and my children—”
“Paul!!!” Michael screamed.
“Don’t make your efforts or my sacrifice be in vain—”
The clarity of this moment was clearer than anything Busch had ever experienced in his life. It was as if the pain he felt was a baptism of fire, unbearable yet somehow cleansing. He believed in Michael, he believed in Simon. Most of all, he believed in the keys.
“Paul, don’t—”
“Promise me,” the policeman pleaded, his eyes crying to Michael.
Michael’s anguish filled the air, his heart fought the words in his mind, but he said them nonetheless. “I promise,” he whispered, knowing that he was agreeing to his best friend’s death sentence.
Busch’s finger wrapped the trigger and with a Herculean effort pulled, but his hand fell away. The gun was silent. His body arched, gasping, his eyes widening as his heart seized. He slumped to the ground.
“You killed him!” Michael screamed.
“No,” Finster said. “Don’t you wish I had? That would be so convenient. His body couldn’t take it; he’s had a heart attack. I imagine, if he doesn’t get to a hospital quickly, he will die….Give me those keys, Michael, and I will let you go. Give me those keys and you can save him, you still have time. Are you willing to trade his life? If not, his death will be on your conscience.”
Michael felt paralyzed: Paul’s life? Or Mary’s soul. No matter how he chose, Finster was right: he would be burdened with an unbearable guilt for the rest of his days.
And then Michael’s mind filled with rage, wiping all logic and reason away. He
charged and swung at Finster. A taunting laugh was the only response. Overcome with anger, Michael grabbed Finster around the neck, squeezing.
And then she was there.
Standing in Finster’s place.
Mary St. Pierre.
Michael’s hands choking the life out of her.
“Michael…please…don’t kill me,” Mary gasped.
Michael froze in fear as his wife struggled for breath. “Mary! Mary, I’m sorry—”
“Close your eyes, Michael. It’s a trick,” Simon warned softly. “You know in your heart that’s not your wife. Don’t give in.” It was the first hint of sympathy Michael had ever seen in him.
Michael’s hands dropped to his sides. He crumpled to the ground, his head bowed, sobbing, a beaten man. Mary placed her hand on his shoulder and when Michael looked up, she had transformed back into Finster. “If you give me the keys, Michael, you can still save your friend from death and I will let your wife into Heaven. That’s what she wants, that is why you are doing this. I’ll guarantee that she has everlasting peace.” Finster paused. “I give you my word.”
Michael was never so lost. He looked to Simon.
“His word means nothing,” Simon cautioned.
Michael got to his feet in silence. Tears stained his face. He walked toward Simon and demanded, “Give me the keys.” Michael could not meet the other man’s eyes.
“What?” The priest couldn’t believe Michael’s words. “I didn’t come this far to—” He could barely control himself. “It doesn’t matter what happens to us, Michael. This is for God—”
The frustration finally exploded out of Michael. “We came all this way on our own! No help from God. Where was He? If He wants these keys back, why doesn’t He help? Why doesn’t He give me a sign?” His voice filled with contempt. “He can get them Himself. I have no use for Him. He did nothing for me, nothing! And nothing—nothing—for my wife.”
“Michael, no—”
“Yes, Michael. Finster seized the opening. “He abandoned you long ago.”
“No, He didn’t, Michael. Your name: St. Pierre. St. Peter. Do you think it’s a coincidence? You were meant for this.”
“No!” Finster raged. “That is not true. Think, Michael.” His voice oozed charm. “If it is, then God brought this suffering upon you. And if it’s not”—he stepped closer and said quietly—“then He has abandoned you.”
Finster’s words rang damningly in Michael’s ear. He turned back to Simon. “Give me the keys.”
“You’ll have to kill me first.”
“Don’t make me do that—”
“—Let me help.” As Finster made the offer, suddenly Simon’s body spasmed in agony. His hands stretched out to his sides in the shape of a cross.
“You remind me of someone. Hmmm, who could it be?” Finster crooned, with his hand to his chin.
Simon’s words came on a waning gasp. “Michael, you have betrayed God. You will not see the Gates of Heaven.”
“Neither will you.” Finster smiled.
Michael reached out and removed the velvet cloth from Simon’s pocket.
He turned to Finster as he unwrapped the keys. “If I give you these keys, my wife’s soul belongs to God, she will have eternal life in Heaven, she will rest in peace.” And, turning to Busch’s crumpled body, he added, “And you will not get in the way of our trying to save him. You’ll let Simon be. You will not bring suffering to anyone I know. Promise me this.”
Finster reached greedily for the keys.
“Promise me!” Michael snarled, pulling the keys back.
“You…have my word,” Finster relented.
Simon fell to the ground half dead…but half alive.
Michael moved forward, his hand outstretched. The two keys lay in his palm.
Shuddering, Finster stepped back hastily. “Wait. I can not touch them.”
“Then I’ll put them someplace safe.”
“Michael, reconsider,” Simon gasped. “Forgiveness, Michael. You must remember there is always forgiveness.”
“Then forgive me, Simon.”
And then to the shock of Finster and Simon, he walked over to the stone structure still lit by the halogen headlights and, without giving it another thought…
Dropped the keys down the well.
“What have you done?!?!” Finster raced to the well, instantly frantic.
“It’s your well. I’m sure you’ll think of a way to retrieve them.”
“But I can’t touch them,” Finster protested, through gritted teeth.
“Not my problem.”
Michael walked back and opened the door of the limo. He reached down for Simon, who batted his help away in anger. Saying nothing, Michael stepped to Busch and picked his big friend up under the shoulders, dragging him. Without a word, Simon joined him, picking up Busch’s legs. The two men placed his body in the rear of the limo and raced off into the night.
Chapter 37
The Bavarian mountain forest is more primal than anywhere on earth. It’s no wonder the great Germanic tales of Siegfried the Dragon Slayer come to life here. Sunlight only makes its way through the canopy to the forest floor on the sunniest of days and even then it is scarcely enough to read a book by. The decaying mulch and underbrush created a soft bed, home for the abundant insects, birds, and wolves. Civilization is only an afterthought and in many regions here, man hasn’t set foot since the great logging days of old. Ancient, moss-covered logging roads serve as the sole route for the small primeval villages, all that remained of the tree-cutting boom days, now barely surviving on local trade.
On the southwestern edge of the forest, twenty kilometers from the nearest town, was a cluster of old buildings. A stone and wooden fence ran about the perimeter, a half mile in total, covered in a tangled snarl of vines and weeds. The log and stone huts dated back centuries and were gathered around an enormous fieldstone structure that rose four stories, from the forest floor, competing with the treetops for dominance. The castle-like building sat upon an outcropping of granite and it was impossible to tell where the natural environment left off and the man-made structure began. Rumors prevailed that the entire town had grown out of the earth, the next step in Mother Nature’s evolution. And yet there was not a soul in sight, as if everyone packed up and ran back to civilization, unable to deal with the wild, untamed world.
On the edge of the abandoned community, hidden in the evening shadow, was a stone pub. The ramshackle, wooden shake roof was moss-covered with snippets of grass sprouting on it. It was a squat building tucked back into the forest itself. A sign welcomed weary travelers in for a mug of ale.
The interior was as simple and old as the outside. There were a handful of tables and benches on a slate floor and old leaded windows, cracked and in need of a paint job. On the walls hung a host of medieval tapestries depicting knights, dragons, and landscapes. Michael sat alone at a bare wooden table, grim, sipping a beer. No one else was there except the bartender, who kept his back to Michael and his nose in his work, cleaning glasses. Michael had desperately tried to reach Mary back in the States, to tell her he was on his way but was left in shock, his heart skipping a beat, when the switchboard connected him to her room and the nurse answered, “Intensive Care. How can I help you?”
The nurse implored him to hurry home. His wife had been calling for him, she said, and time was running out. Mary had slipped into a coma fifteen hours ago.
Michael had wanted to tell Mary he had put things right. Instead, he told the ICU nurse he would be home in twenty-four hours. There was still one thing left to do.
The door slammed open. A gale force howled through the little pub, blowing everything into a frenzy. Michael held tight to his glass as the wind fanned the flames in the fireplace, kicking up dust clouds everywhere. And then he walked in. Seething. His eyes burned into Michael as he stalked across the room and took a seat directly across the table. Dressed entirely in black, his white hair pulled back into a severe ponytail, his h
ands balled up into fists. The light seemed to be sucked out of the room, vanishing into Finster’s body as if he were some sort of black hole. An eerie darkness emanated from him, spreading like the plague. “Give me my keys,” he hissed.
Michael sat motionless, his heart thundering in his ears. He had foolishly thought that Finster wouldn’t go down the well, that he could put this whole nightmare behind him, but now he realized how ridiculous that was. Michael had taken a chance and he’d lost. It had been a foolish move, and it had done nothing but postpone the inevitable. He had raced out of Finster’s estate with Simon giving Last Rites to his best friend, Paul Busch, whose body was sprawled across the backseat, barely alive. They had charged into a hospital on the outskirts of Berlin, carrying Busch into the emergency room. As soon as the doctors began working on Busch, Michael and Simon were back in the car. They drove south, redlining the limo down the autobahn for twelve hours, knowing that running was simply postponing fate.
“Excuse me?” Michael didn’t know what else to say. He gripped tighter to the glass as if it was a life preserver.
Finster’s face had gone an ugly red; he rested his hands upon the table, opened, palms up. His eyes pierced Michael. Michael wouldn’t break eye contact, he didn’t need to, he knew what the man before him held. In each hand: a single key, one of gold, one of silver.
Michael nodded. “Ah…Somebody went down the well.”
Finster glared, the hate brimming inside him, and then hurled the useless metal forgeries at Michael. “I want my keys. Now!”
Michael just sat there.
Finster lunged across the table, grabbing Michael by the throat and lifting him effortlessly into the air. “Your wife’s soul is mine.”
His hands were squeezing the life out of him. Michael struggled, to no avail.
The Thieves of Heaven Page 37