Michael put the canvases one on top of the other, rolled them up, tucked them in a tube on his back, and ran down the hall.
Warner Heinz took the stairs back down from the roof, his heart still pounding from the showcase of the nubile trio. He walked through the lobby without a word, past Philippe Olav, and straight to the kitchen; he splashed his face with water, grabbed a cup of coffee, and walked back to the stairs.
“Some party going on outside, you should see the winter wildlife up on the roof,” Heinz said in German to Olav, his security counterpart.
“I’m not switching posts for another hour,” Olav said without turning his head from the security monitors.
“Suit yourself,” Heinz said with a smile as he stepped back into the fire stairs.
Philippe exhaled, his interest piqued. “Fine, tell me about the wildlife.”
“After I check the basement.” And Heinz headed down.
Michael ran back down the hall, threw two lines of rope over his back, and jumped in the elevator pit. The motions of his old profession returned quickly as he clipped his harness to the waiting ascent line and, without wasting a moment, hit the control button. He was yanked upward through the dark at a high velocity, rising the six stories in less than three seconds, rocketing up to land upon the bulkhead floor.
He carefully opened the door, looking for the guard, but, surprisingly, found no one there. He took a moment, standing on the rooftop, and looked down over the city of Geneva. Fresh powder had once again begun to fall, cleansing the city, creating a snow-globe effect over the Swiss architecture. The Rhône River meandered through the city before flowing down into France through Arles—where Vincent van Gogh captured the body of water in Starry Night—before emptying into the Mediterranean. There were no stars out tonight but the quiet city was still awash in beauty at this late hour. Michael thought of Genevieve, of how she would have loved this city that bore a name so similar to hers. And as he thought on her sudden passing, a brief smile emerged on his face because he’d been able to fulfill her last wish, her final desire. But the serenity of the moment was soon lost.
The fire-stair bulkhead door exploded open. Gunshots rang out before Michael ever saw his pursuer. Michael raced to the parapet wall, clipped onto his pre-hung line, and started over the side. But bullets rang out from the shooter below, chipping the brick around him. Michael hauled himself back over the wall and, without a thought, raced toward the other end, gunfire whizzing about, ricocheting off the parapet walls. He finally saw his roof pursuer, dressed in black: he held his pistol in a dual grip, knee-crouch position, his arms slightly bent. There was no question: he was a professional. Michael didn’t stop to see his face; he kept running for the building’s edge and without hesitation leapt into the air. He flew the fourteen-foot gap, five stories above the alley, and landed hard on the adjacent building’s roof, right in the middle of the naked threesome. The girls screamed as Michael crashed down, rolling past them as the boy scrambled for his clothes. Michael was up in a sprint and as he ran, he pulled a rope off his back, clipped it to his waist harness, and continued across the roof. On the far side he stopped, clipped the rope to a roof vent, and dove over the side. He zipped down the line sixty feet, the friction burning through his gloves, and hit the sidewalk with a thud. He didn’t look back as he raced down rue de Mont-Blanc; he knew his pursuers would soon be behind him.
And they were there. Three now. They seemed to float above the roadway. Getting closer. Michael pumped hard. There was an undeniable thrill to being chased, an excitement tinged with fear. And it could be addictive. But it was an addiction that was cured as soon as one was caught. And Michael had no intention of treating his addiction today. He reveled in the moment, fear pushing his legs faster.
The snowfall increased, coming in intermittent squalls, driven into funnel clouds by the swirling winds. The roadway grew slick, his footing precarious. Falling was the least of his worries right now. It took all of Michael’s concentration to avoid the cars and obstacles in his path and keep ahead of his pursuers. He thought of Genevieve, her life lost in an avalanche; he thought of her pleading words and the painting on his back and pushed on. He wouldn’t deny her her dying wish.
Up ahead was the bridge. It spanned the quarter-mile-wide Rhône River, its frigid waters dotted with ice floes. It was Michael’s destination, but it could also be the place where this whole ordeal would go south. It was a bottleneck and would leave him wide open, without chance for cover should the bullets start to fly. There were countless streets in all directions that could afford him at least momentary refuge, buildings and even tunnels where the opportunity existed for him to lose his pursuers. Almost all afforded a better chance than the bridge.
And then they were there, skidding to a halt on the far side of the river: six police cars, lights blazing. Cops poured from their vehicles, guns drawn.
Michael looked toward the side streets and thought a moment, Simon’s graveside words echoing in his head: “Nascentes morimur—from the moment we are born, we die.” And…
He hit the snow-covered bridge like a horse out of the gate. Three men behind him, six police cars a quarter mile ahead. He was being squeezed and had nowhere to go. But on he ran, seeming to pick up pace, distancing himself from his pursuers. With the bridge vacant, without the potential casualty of innocent victims at this hour, the choice of lethal force was a distinct possibility. And then the snow fell harder, whipped up by the winds over the open water, nearing blizzard conditions now. The river was on the verge of freezing but the recent weather had conspired to keep it flowing while dotting it with intermittent chunks of ice—though the water was still thirty-three life-ending degrees.
The bridge was aglow with flashing red and blue. Michael stayed in the middle of the roadway, his tracks already wiped from existence by the snowstorm. The three behind him slowed their pace, the officers in front having now taken up positions around their cars. Guns were out, pistols and rifles all trained on him. Yet Michael continued running, much to the confusion of those who lay in wait. He ran harder, actually picking up his pace in the face of the myriad of drawn weapons before him.
And then, without warning, hesitation, or reason, Michael darted left and leapt over the rail into the frigid Rhône, instantly disappearing from sight. The police were dumbfounded, rising up from their positions behind their cars. Their guns fell to their sides as they stared wide-eyed and slack-jawed at the man’s suicidal jump into the icy water. It was a moment before they charged onto the bridge, squinting through the snow as if their eyes had deceived them.
At the same time, Michael’s pursuers came upon his point of departure, skidding to a halt. They leaned over the guardrail, scanned the rushing water, but saw nothing but chunks of floating ice banging against the bridge supports. There was no land below the bridge, nowhere to hide. But the three guards were taking no chances. Heinz stepped over the rail and leaned down, peering underneath the elevated roadway. There was no sign of Michael. It was a moment held in time. The cops were in a collective murmur, astounded at what they just witnessed.
Without a shout or a scream, one of the policemen pointed downriver. Floating downstream, a body, dressed in black, bobbed to the surface. It was a quarter mile away. The police radioed for a boat. The three guards looked about, not a word spoken; one of them kept his eye on the body while the others continued to scan the waters.
Michael had hit the water as if diving into a vat of lava. His face and hands screamed as the sharp cold pierced the skin of his face. Under his dark coveralls, his body was mercifully covered in a dry suit, the same suit that had kept him warm throughout his heist, the same suit that was now keeping him alive. Michael swam straight down, fighting the current. He clipped his belt to the large steel mesh bag that was anchored to the piling; it now anchored him. He reached through the mesh and removed a regulator, taking a precious sip of air into his heaving lungs, the current strong enough to carry his exhaust bubbles downstream, wher
e they surfaced unnoticed in the chop. Michael pulled on a hood with a dive mask. He exhaled through his nose into the mask, clearing it of water, and looked through the murky river around him. He fought the heavy flow and pulled on his air tank, securing his buoyancy control vest snugly about his body.
He looked at his watch: it had been a minute. He pulled the release on the mesh bag and watched as the black-suited mannequin was pulled into the current, floating downriver. He knew it would be at least fifteen minutes before they mobilized a boat and disappointedly plucked the decoy from the frigid waters.
Michael had secured his gear the night before under cover of water and darkness. He had worn a heavier-grade dry suit then, and came in from upstream on an underwater propulsion vehicle. There had been a slim chance that the mesh containment bag would rip from its anchor point during the twenty-four-hour interval before his robbery, but luck had remained on Michael’s side. Michael gripped the handles on the UPV, looked at the handle-mounted compass, and pointed himself upriver. He kicked on the electric motor and held tight as the small UPV towed him against the current at five knots.
Michael emerged a mile upriver into the tree boughs that hung heavy with snow. He scanned the woods and stepped from the water, dug his camouflage bag out from under the snow, dried off, and dressed in a parka and jeans. He let the current carry his stripped-off equipment away, grabbed his satchel, and stepped from the woods into a parking lot.
He opened up the trunk of a 1983 Peugeot, pulled out a five-gallon drum, and placed it on the ground next to the car. He put on a heavy pair of rubber gloves and with a screwdriver, pried off the lid. He looked up from the container; downriver he could see the commotion on the bridge, the small crowd of police watching as a boat bounced off the icy surface racing to a body in the frigid waters. Michael couldn’t help smiling at the shock they would feel when they plucked “him” from the water.
Michael turned back to the task at hand, opened the waterproof tube, withdrew the painting and the map, and placed them on the front seat of the car. He knew what he had to do but it pained him nonetheless. This was a man’s creation, the manifestation of his heart and soul. It was a work of art thought lost to time, and now…
He stared at the map, the true intent of his quest, and pondered its purpose. It was painstakingly detailed, an underworld hidden beneath a fortress of churches. A world known only to Genevieve, a guide to a mystery that enraptured her son, yet terrified her. Michael did not care where it led or what it would reveal. He only cared that it had cost his friend her life.
Without further thought, he took his knife and cut the map and Govier’s painting into strips. He dropped them into the small drum and watched as they quickly dissolved in the concentrated acid. Never to be seen by man again. This time the monk’s secret, Govier’s masterpiece, a mystery from a forgotten time, would truly be erased from existence.
Chapter 2
Every morning Paul Busch got up at 6:30 a.m., no matter what time he’d gone to bed. Even if he didn’t hit the pillow until 6:15, he would be out for a run on the beach or pressing weights in his garage by 6:32. Since his retirement, he’d managed to firm up his six-foot-four frame so that hints of muscles were, once again, poking through his flesh. In the shower by 7:30, dressed and ready for dad duty by 7:50, he would have breakfast with his wife, Jeannie, and their six-year-old Irish twins—born eleven months apart—Robbie and Chrissie. He’d get them on the bus by 8:15 and take a moment to look around, to smell the sea air, to appreciate the moment and the life that he had. Though it had only been three months, retirement was suiting him just fine.
Busch would hop in his Corvette, put the top down, and let the wind dry his sandy blond hair. He’d stop at Shrieffer’s Deli for a cup of coffee and the paper, and catch up with whatever local he bumped into. And every Thursday and Sunday, without fail, he would buy one lottery ticket. It was like a drug to him, a newfound optimism of wealth creeping into his soul. Upon stuffing it in his pocket, he would walk out confident that he held the winning ticket for the next drawing. And the mood would carry him through his days and nights, putting a smile on his face and warmth in his voice. The ticket’s euphoric ability would last right up to the moment of the drawing. He would then hit bottom, crestfallen that he had missed the winner’s circle again, but come the next morning and the next ticket, that feeling would be washed away on the tide of new hope that would sit in his pocket—till the next drawing that he was sure to win.
Jeannie pressured Paul into retirement. While he was initially reluctant, he had taken to it like a duck to water. He collected his pension in one large chunk and bought four things: a restaurant with a serious bar, a ’68 Corvette, a Fender Stratocaster guitar, and the “Black Album” by Metallica. At seven o’clock every night, he would hop in the Vette, flip down the roof, pop in the Metallica CD, and head to work with the song “The Unforgiven” as his theme music delivering his hi-ho fuck you to the world.
He loved tending bar, he had dreamed about it for more years than he could remember, but as was the case with so many dreams, the old axiom kept ringing in his ears: careful what you wish for. The bar was everything he could have wanted. Jeannie ran the restaurant while he was in charge of pushing alcohol and booking entertainment, but after about a month, it, like so many things, became routine. He missed his adrenaline, a drug he seemed to have left on the desk of his old job back on the police force. But there was always the bright side. Death didn’t seem to lurk around every corner and for that, Jeannie had some peace of mind. He couldn’t deny her that no matter how much he missed it.
Busch was sitting on the front porch, looking at his yellow Corvette, the only car in the driveway. He flipped open his phone and hit the speed dial. “Hey, are you going to show up tonight?”
“I told you I would,” Michael said. “Relax.”
“Just checking. Where are you?”
“I’m home,” Michael said quickly. “Where are you?”
Busch looked down at Michael’s dogs, rubbing behind their ears. “I’m home, too. See you tonight.”
Busch stood up and walked across the driveway. He opened the door of the Vette and looked back at Michael’s house, shaking his head. He gave Michael’s dogs one last pet, started up his car, and drove off.
Michael stood alone in the middle of the Banksville Cemetery, allowing the grief to wash over him, once again feeling the loss that had hollowed his heart. He stared at Mary’s grave. God’s gift to Michael, Michael’s gift to God. A year now and the suffering, the mourning had not abated. He knew, indisputably, that she was in a better place, but even that couldn’t fill the emptiness of his heart.
As the setting sun cast its golden hue upon the sea of headstones, Michael finally lifted his head and looked around the graveyard; he was the only one aboveground on this humid June evening. He glanced to his left, at the graves of his mother and father. All the family he had ever known surrounded him with their absence. Genevieve’s death had magnified the solitude that Michael felt, the lack of family, the lack of reason. It reminded him of his mortality but even more, it reminded him of Mary’s funeral.
His cell phone vibrated in his hip pocket. He reached in, thumbed it off, and tucked it into the side pocket of his blue sport coat. He hadn’t worn the jacket since before Mary had passed away. He didn’t know why. It had been her favorite—Ralph Lauren—but since her passing, every object in his home, in his life, seemed to take on some significance. The last glass she drank from, the last sweater she wore, her favorite pen. It all now had meaning, where none existed before. Some things brought smiles and others tears. He would never delete her voice messages on his cell phone, replaying them on an almost daily basis just to hear her voice, just to feel his emotions.
She had often worn his shirts, his jackets, and always left him a reminder of her love for him in the pocket: tickets for a Yankees game, a fortune cookie proverb, or, on many occasions, a love note.
So when Michael found the courage
to put on the Ralph Lauren jacket again, he immediately felt the bulge and knew what it was before he pulled it from the inside breast pocket.
He hadn’t intended to come to the cemetery this night but the letter compelled him. It wasn’t a conscious decision; he just got on his bike and began driving.
He gently opened the flap, holding it close to his face. As he withdrew the letter her fragrance washed over him, pulling his mind back to a happier time; the emotions poured from him as he closed his eyes, memorizing her scent, longing for her return.
He unfolded the paper and stared. Her handwriting was elegant, stylized from her Catholic school education. The tear-smudged lettering gave him pause.
Michael,
This is the hardest letter I’ve ever had to write but I know my pain pales next to what you are feeling as you now read my last words. Please know that my love for you runs eternal; that the short life we had together was a lifetime’s worth of passion; that the joy you gave me was greater than I could ever have wished for.
My heart is breaking knowing that I have left you alone in the world, left you without children to call your own, left you without family to comfort you as you mourn. No one knows you better than I, Michael, and I know you will try to bury your pain, your anguish, but I implore you not to, for it will eat you up, turning your good heart bitter.
You probably haven’t worn this jacket for many months, you’ve probably worn nothing but that black leather jacket, which is so beaten up and dirty. I’m glad to see you’ve finally put on something decent.
The Thieves of Faith Page 3