The Thieves of Faith

by Richard Doetsch

  “Open it,” Julian said softly.

  Michael turned to his father, who lay there clutching his leg, rolling about in pain. He shook his head. “No, Michael. Don’t do it.”

  The gun exploded again, hitting Stephen in his good shoulder.

  “Open the box,” Julian whispered.

  Stephen closed his eyes, his shoulder already red with blood. He continued to shake his head.

  “I can’t,” Michael said honestly, his heart breaking as he watched the slow execution of the father he never got to know.

  “Open the box,” Julian whispered even softer. He raised the gun again and fired, this time hitting Stephen in the upper right chest.

  But Michael didn’t move, his heart feeling as if it were he who had been shot.

  Julian ran up to Stephen, who could barely move and laid the gun against his head. “OPEN THE BOX!!!!” Julian screamed, losing it completely.

  Michael watched in horror as Stephen lay there riddled with bullets, clinging to life. His eyes at half-mast as he looked Michael’s way. Their eyes locking in a shared unspoken moment.

  “I’m sorry,” Michael whispered.

  And Julian pulled the trigger of Simon’s gun. Michael jumped in fright, feeling as if he was the executioner of his father.

  But much to everyone’s surprise the gun didn’t fire, its cartridge empty.

  And then rage overcame Michael. He charged Julian, hitting him hard, smashing him against the wall, the box falling to the ground at their feet. Michael pummeled him, driving his fist into his body, fracturing ribs with every blow. Julian fought back but it was useless. The anger, the fury welled up in Michael at the man before him. And Julian collapsed. But Michael did not stop; he grabbed the empty gun, leapt upon the man and raised the butt of the weapon high above, coiling his arm, ready to deliver the death blow. And as he arced down, his fury, his pain poured into the blow, he was stopped before taking the man’s life. Simon stood there holding his arm, preventing him from killing his brother.

  Michael looked up at Simon. “Don’t you dare stop me…”

  Simon shook his head and gently took the gun out of Michael’s hand, tossing it aside.

  “Michael,” he said quietly. “Go help your father.”

  Michael reluctantly stood. He raced to his dad’s side as the water poured in the room. The ship was more than three-quarters gone. The ocean waves lapped over the aft deck, spilling in.

  Simon stared down at his brother, at his battered and bloodied face, and felt nothing but revulsion.

  “Thank you,” Julian whispered through swollen, torn lips.

  Simon grabbed the mooring line and tied Julian’s feet. “There is a reason Genevieve kept your true lineage secret from the both of us. She knew me, she was always afraid of what I might do to you. You…” He paused. “You may be my brother, but know this…that will not stop me from what I am about to do.”

  “You can’t kill me.”

  Simon smiled as he looped the rope up behind Julian’s back, securing a noose around his neck. Simon flipped Julian over and tied his hands together in front of his body, leaving the preacher bound on the teak deck of the ship. Simon rose, picked up the other end of the one-hundred-and-fifty-foot rope and tied it securely to the deck rail, leashing his brother to his beloved ship.

  “If you are somehow blessed, if the box was able to impart life, if you somehow can overcome your injuries and find eternity on earth.” Simon paused and smiled. “Well, then you will spend your eternity contemplating it from the deepest depths of the ocean, from a world of eternal darkness, where you will be utterly alone, where your body will be crushed, where your lungs shall cry for one more breath…a world where no one can hear you scream. I hope you do not die. I hope you do find your eternity.”

  God’s Whisper was sinking, faster now. Water rushing through the hallway, lapping over the uppermost rail, the waters beginning to churn around Michael as he leaned over his dying father.

  Stephen looked up at Michael, fighting to hide the pain. “OK, that hurt.”

  “Don’t move.” Michael grabbed his satchel, using the shoulder strap to tourniquet his leg. He checked the chest wound but couldn’t tell if any organs were hit. “We’ve got to get off this boat.”

  Simon ran over to them.

  “Find Paul,” Michael said. “We need to get Stephen out of here.” And he looked at the golden box that lay on the floor beside them. “And bury that thing in the ship.”

  Simon raced into the large galley; he searched the drawer and found a roll of tin foil and quickly wrapped the gold box, covering it completely. He took the case and shoved it in the lower oven, locking it in as the ocean water rushed in around him. Simon struggled against the chest-high current before diving under and swimming out of the flooded room. He had to find Busch and he had to find the boat. For if he didn’t, they would all surely die out in the middle of the Mediterranean, well away from the shipping lanes, no one having any idea where they had gone.

  The stern, the last section of God’s Whisper, was all that remained visible above the surface before it began its two-mile journey to the darkest depths of the Mediterranean.

  Michael slogged through waist-deep water, his dad floating alongside on cushions from the couch.

  Julian frantically pulled at the rope about his leg with his bound hands, clawing, yanking, anything he could to prevent the inevitable. He had fought his whole life to live, and now…

  Michael passed him by and grabbed the rail, he held his father and they both began to float as the deck continued to sink. They floated out into the open sea, watching as the ship continued down. Julian floated out alongside them, his eyes crying for mercy.

  And then the salon disappeared: all that remained visible of the nearly four-hundred-foot yacht was its stern rail and the one hundred and fifty feet of nylon cord that floated on the surface. Michael looked over as Julian frantically struggled to keep his head above water, only postponing the inevitable. He kicked and twisted, doing everything in his power to free himself, but it was a useless effort.

  The stern rail vanished and the ship was gone, a froth of bubbles boiling up around them. The rope attached to Julian began to glide away, diving under the small waves, like a snake into the grass. Julian stared in horror as the line disappeared; fifty feet left, forty feet, and then, quicker, twenty, ten. And without fanfare, without a sound, Julian was silently yanked under, pulled to the deepest depths of the ocean with his shattered ship. The golden box, Albero della Vita, the Tree of Life, hidden within, to be lost for all eternity. Julian would be buried forever with the object of his life’s obsession.

  The depth was two and a half miles, far deeper than any reasonable salvage mission. They had maintained radio silence since leaving Corsica under Julian’s direct orders. No distress warning was ever issued. The ship would truly be lost and its owner along with it, leaving behind nothing but a mystery, wiping Julian Zivera from the face of the earth.

  Michael and Stephen floated alone on the inky Mediterranean waters. The moon, having already slipped below the horizon, left a darkness that accented their mortal situation. The only sounds were the lapping of the water and Stephen’s labored, wheezing breaths.

  Michael held his father’s head above the surface, his body precariously balanced on the buoyant seat cushions. Despite the night, Michael could still see his father’s blood pooling off in a slick as it rode off on the small waves. He counted the three fresh bullet wounds and applied pressure in a desperate effort.

  “Hold on,” Michael said. He floated alongside his father, kicking, swimming, doing everything in his power to keep him upon the makeshift float.

  “Let me go,” Stephen whispered. His breathing was shallow, with long pauses in between that made Michael’s heart stop in anticipation each time.

  Michael shook his head. “No way, after all that? Are you out of your mind?”

  Stephen smiled behind half-mast eyes. “It’s OK, Michael.”

/>   Michael heard the engine of a small boat, Busch and Simon calling out on approach. The light of the boat was suddenly upon them as Busch cut the engine, gliding in.

  “Michael, when Mary came to me before she died, she spoke of you with such love. She said you were the finest of men and that a father would be proud to call you son.” Stephen’s eyes fell shut before a sudden rasp forced them open. “She was right. For the last year, all I thought about was death, I had nothing to live for. But now…”

  “You better be worth saving,” Michael said as he forced a smile.

  Stephen looked at Michael, struggling to keep his eyes open, and smiled back at his son before finally losing consciousness.

  Chapter 72

  Michael, Simon, and Busch stood at the fresh grave. The headstone had weathered with time but was still in surprisingly good shape for its age. The freshly carved granite footstone had been inlaid that morning and sat in front of the mound of dirt covered in funeral flowers.

  Both Simon and Michael spoke at the graveside service. Their words were elegant, heartfelt, paying tribute to an honorable life, marked with charity, love, and family.

  Michael looked at the name on the headstone. The last name of the husband and wife who had died so many years apart. But the footstones…it was decided to only inscribe names while avoiding dates, not withstanding the fact that no one had any idea of the date of birth. There were no records, no birth certificate, no evidence, in fact, that she was ever born.

  It was the second time Genevieve was remembered in a funeral mass. The second time that Michael stood at her grave mourning her.

  Michael glanced at the footstone of Julius Urian Zivera, Genevieve’s husband, who had died so many years ago. Genevieve spoke of him rarely, and when she did it was only with Simon. He knew her best, he understood her more than all. He knew the great love that she had for the briefest time in her life. Simon knew her truth, a truth he shared with no one but Michael and Busch. A truth that some mysteries, some secrets were best not revealed. Genevieve was far older than anyone suspected. She had raised not only Julian but also Simon’s mother and who knows how many before her. Simon knew that she disappeared from existence countless times before only to appear anew, for she, like Simon, was a keeper, a guardian of secrets both on earth and in Heaven, secrets that were best kept, secrets we didn’t want to know.

  Michael looked down at the footstone of Genevieve’s husband, the date not shocking to him, for he knew she was far older, far older than her husband who died in 1845.

  Busch, in his usual fashion, found the whole topic inconceivable, beyond reason. Michael had quietly asked Simon if her age came about from protecting the box, perhaps opening it, or was she something more…

  Simon didn’t have an answer but he preferred to believe that with her kind heart, she was the latter.

  The three friends each took a handful of dirt, throwing it into the grave, and walked out of the cemetery. They were the only people in the world who would ever know that the dirt they threw into the six-foot hole fell onto an empty coffin.

  The doctors had done everything they could; they removed the bullets from his leg, shoulder, and chest, where it had nicked his lung. The blood loss was severe. He had lost a great deal on their trip back to shore. The private helicopter, arranged for by Susan, was filled with doctors who set to work before they were even airborne en route to the Corsican hospital. Stephen’s body was in extreme shock and the doctors had given him less than a 10 percent chance of survival. Michael and Susan sat vigil, leaving his side but to eat. Stephen had slipped into cardiac arrest twice only to be pulled back from the brink to survive another hour.

  Michael’s and Susan’s words were few and far between, but they were respectful, kind. Both had experienced the loss of their spouse and now, they were grieving together, praying together that the man who lay in the bed before them, the man they had both fought so hard to save, would somehow survive.

  It was three in the morning when both he and Susan had nodded off.

  Michael dreamed of the Kremlin both above and below, of journeys he had taken only to emerge with no hope. He dreamed of his adoptive parents, the St. Pierres, and he dreamed of Mary.

  It had been months since he saw her in his dreams, her smiling face always carried into a morning memory that would help him through his day. She had finally returned, looking at him through emerald eyes as he remembered their life together. They were all in his house, in his great room, bright sunlight, brighter than he had ever seen, poured through the windows.

  And then Stephen was there among them, as if they were all meeting for the first time. No one spoke but there was no need for that. They were Michael’s family, each in their own way contributing to his life and…all lost to him.

  And from a corner stepped Genevieve; she simply looked at Michael and smiled for the briefest of moments. It was a kind, respectful smile, one filled with love and appreciation. A silent acknowledgment for deeds and sacrifices. Then she simply disappeared, lost in a shaft of light, gone from the room, from his dream. And then, just like her, they all left him: the St. Pierres, Mary, and finally, Stephen, leaving Michael once again alone with the world falling dark around him.

  Michael awoke, lifting his suddenly stiff neck from its uncomfortable position in his chair. It took a moment to shake his mind awake as he looked about the room, getting his bearings. Looking at Susan, who was still lost in slumber, at the white hospital walls and the darkness out the window that was being pierced by the first rays of morning sun.

  And then he found Stephen, quietly lying there, staring at him as if they had the same thoughts, had shared the same dream. It was in that moment Michael knew Stephen, his father, would live.

  Chapter 73

  Sergei Raechen ran across the backyard of his home in Alexandria, Virginia; his grandmother, Vera Bronshenko, watching as he climbed the play set and slid down the slide. Her heart was filled with joy. There was no explaining the young boy’s illness and there was no explaining what had cured him. All she could remember was that he had gone to sleep on the edge of death, calling for his father, and had awoken the next morning telling his grandmother in a burst of animated speech that he dreamed of a beautiful place.

  “Dad was there with Mom,” Sergei said. “And there was a beautiful lady who wouldn’t stop smiling at me.”

  Vera listened to her grandson, her joy of seeing his bright healthy eyes overwhelming her.

  “Dad said everything would be all right now,” the boy said as he slid down the slide, losing himself in play.

  And as Vera Bronshenko looked out at her grandson, she knew that he was right, everything would be fine.

  Julian Zivera was exposed to the world. The charismatic face that the religious world had known was finally revealed for its facade. Magazine and newspaper covers displayed the grainy video images of him torturing his mother; of the bodies that lay about his mansion, with no seeming cause of death, presumed to be a mass suicide. It was a never-ending cache of front-page news, the media and public in a virtual frenzy for the hypocritical man of God. His vast estate, the seat of his world, was claimed by the courts and, in a fitting move, was converted to a retreat for orphans, the poor, the homeless, and the wayward souls of the world.

  His congregation, his followers, his membership vanished as if they never existed. No one would ever risk laying claim to having been a follower of Julian Zivera, to his self-centered philosophies and preachings. Some moved on to more radical groups while many found it was time to return to their roots, to the traditional religious beliefs they were raised with, the beliefs that had never truly left their hearts, but instead waited patiently for their return.

  And like the members of God’s Truth, its leader simply vanished. Julian Zivera’s whereabouts remained a mystery lost to time. Like Jimmy Hoffa, Amelia Earhart, August Finster, and D. B. Cooper, his death would be the source of contempt, conjecture, and conspiracy theories for all eternity.

&nb
sp; Julian Zivera’s quest for eternal life was achieved, he just wouldn’t live to see it.

  Chapter 74

  Michael looked out his bedroom window as the evening sun filtered in. Busch was manning the grill, the steaks almost done, as his wife, Jeannie, and their two children arrived. Stephen Kelley walked about the back lawn with Hawk and Raven at his side. Despite the fact that it was Saturday evening, he was still wearing a jacket and tie and remained lost in a cell-phone business conversation.

  Michael’s eyes fell on Susan as she set the table, her dark hair framing her face, which had seemed to be in a perpetual smile since they all arrived back in the States. Her tough demeanor was gone, replaced with a relaxed woman who seemed to once again enjoy life. There was no denying her beauty, both inside and out.

  He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. Their relationship was based on shared experiences where their lives hung in the balance, not the most fortuitous juncture to begin a romance. They were far more different than either would admit. But whether it was with Susan or someone else, Michael knew that Mary would want him to find love again.

  He looked at the gold band that lay on his dresser, debating, thinking. He finally slipped it around a gold chain and affixed it around his neck, letting it dangle against his throat. It felt wrong to him, his finger felt naked, but he had to try. And though he would no longer mourn Mary, he would never stop celebrating her.

  “Hey, you know what we haven’t talked about?” Busch startled Michael as he walked into the bedroom, handing him a cold beer.

  “What?”

  “Your dad.”

  “You mean Stephen?”

  “Yeah, your dad. Has it occurred to you yet?”

  “What?”