The Thieves of Faith (65 page)

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

M
ichael, 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

S
ergei 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.

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

Chapter 74

M
ichael 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.