The Thieves of Heaven (11 page)

The hospital was abuzz with activity as Michael left his wife’s room. On a crowded bench in the corridor among a cluster of older ladies sat Father Shaunessy. The women were chatting about forgiveness as he thumbed his rosary beads: they were almost worn down to the nub. Michael ignored him and continued down the hall.

“Mike?” the priest called out.

Michael stopped and turned; not a word escaped his lips.

“How are you?” Father Shaunessy asked.

“My wife is dying.”

“You should have more faith, Mike, that is far from a certain conclusion. Come inside, we can talk. Pray with us.” The priest waved a hand toward Mary’s hospital room door as if showing the way to redemption.

Michael exploded.

“You got to be fuckin’ kidding me! I’ve prayed nothing but unanswered prayers since I was a child. Spent more Sundays than I can count looking for answers and I got nothing but betrayal. And now, my poor wife…She put her faith in God—look where she is.”

“Well, you’re certainly not the answer. While you sat in prison, she waited for you. You wrecked her life and yet she always stood by you, always had faith in you. God knows what she sees in you.” The little priest was shaking with anger. “Maybe you should stop being so damned selfish for once and stand by her. Help her, instead of feeling so damn sorry for yourself.” The small man stepped into Michael’s space. If he hadn’t had his collar on, he would have reverted back to his days on the streets and slammed Michael in the jaw.

“Sorry for myself?!” Michael shouted back. “The only person I feel sorry for is you and your misguided beliefs. You’re leading my wife down a path where hope doesn’t even exist.” He turned and stalked away.

The rage Father Patrick Shaunessy felt was like nothing he had ever experienced before. And yet he couldn’t help feeling that he was watching Michael’s soul slip away down the cold white hospital hallway.

Michael slammed out of the hospital, his brain a jumble, his hope falling away. He had always been a problem solver, a fixer, and not just of mechanical objects. He was superb at seeing things from a different perspective, stepping out of the box and coming up with solutions. The talent had saved him on more than one occasion and served his former career well.

That career was not something he had aspired to, desperation had not driven him to be a thief nor had a lack of abilities in more legal arenas. It was something discovered through a selfless act to help a friend.

At the age of seventeen, while Michael was still looking for his purpose in life, his best friend, Joe McQuarry, had already found his. Joe was the one with the natural athletic ability; the one with the scholarship and early acceptance to college to play baseball. Joe found his talents young and knew how to exploit them. Humor and sports. The sports got him popularity and girlfriends while his humor brought him charm and trouble. Joe was the good-natured kid who could never seem to get out of his own way. His idea of fun usually consisted of pranks and laughter at the teacher’s expense. Because of it he had his own seat at Holy Father High School; it was reserved especially for him in the principal’s office.

It so happened on one Friday, Joe found himself in his special seat while the principal, Father Daniels, lectured him on the downfall of society as a result of the lack of respect. Father Daniels detailed how Joe’s life, while all rosy with his sports scholarship, could easily turn on a dime and evaporate. The principal’s limit had been reached. Joe’s two suspensions had left Daniels with no choice but to expel him for another incident. Daniels tried to put it into terms that Joe could relate to: one more strike and the teenager was out. And if Joe thought he was so brilliant, so much smarter than everyone else, he should just test him. Daniels proclaimed a week’s detention and told Joe not to move until he returned.

Joe sat there stewing, wondering who this man thought he was. In three weeks, Joe would be gone from this school, moving on to greater heights, while Daniels would surely remain stuck here for years to come. Joe sat there staring at an award on Daniels’s desk. The statue was dated from fifteen years earlier recognizing the priest for his outstanding influence on the lives of his students. As Joe waited for the principal to return, his emotions began to get the better of him. The more he thought on it—
outstanding influence
—the more indignation he felt.

Joe sat staring at the small statue for nearly an hour before Daniels’s secretary came in and told him that the principal had been called away and wouldn’t be back till Monday. Joe nearly boiled over as the secretary left the room. But, instead of erupting, he gathered up his things and he did something that would have lifelong implications, implications that he could never see coming.

He took the brass-and-Plexiglas award that sat on Daniels’s desk.

That night, as Joe, Michael, and their friends hung out at the lake tearing into a six-pack, Joe showed off the small statue he’d stolen. The boys all howled in laughter at his derring-do, their faces glowing from the fire they had stoked up for warmth. They clustered around Joe as Michael took a Polaroid of the thief with his spoils. Joe popped open another beer and they all raised a toast to him as he ceremoniously tossed the statue in the fire.

But as midnight rolled around, Joe’s bravado began to evaporate. Reality started to sink in as he realized that come Monday morning Father Daniels, upon finding his statue missing, would have only one suspect to point the finger at.

Strike three.

Michael watched the panic seep into his friend’s eyes. It had been ten years since they met as altar boys on a cold Sunday in February and in all that time, Michael had yet to see his self-confident friend so desperate. Joe kept up his tough-guy routine but Michael knew there would be no talking his way out of this one. Neither the school nor Joe’s parents would forgive this. And being expelled would render his college acceptance null and void. The night had started out as a celebration and ended like a funeral. The six boys all headed home feeling sorry for their friend. And no one was more sorry than Michael, who could see his friend’s crushing remorse.

Arriving home, Michael walked into the garage which his father had converted to a wood and metal shop. It was his dad’s hobby; he built everything around their house, and when Michael was a child his dad taught him much of his craft. But, like most kids hitting their teen years, Michael rebelled and steered clear of his father’s interest.

Michael looked at the tools before him, then pulled the Polaroid out of his pocket. For the next thirty-six hours, with the Polaroid propped on the workbench for guidance, he worked without a break. It took him sixteen tries to shape the Plexiglas statue; another eight to create the engraved wooden base. At 11:50 on Sunday night he headed through the woods to the high school. Up a tree and onto the roof, he made his way to the bulkhead door, which hadn’t been locked in thirty years. As Michael’s heart pounded in his ears and the adrenaline rushed in his veins, he felt a sense of confidence in himself that he had never before experienced. As wrong as what he was doing was, it just somehow felt good….It felt
right
.

On Monday morning Joe sat in the principal’s office. He had been summoned first thing and knew he would be facing the ruin of his entire life. Father Daniels sat there silently for what seemed like eternity. Joe waited for the end to begin. But then the priest stunned him: he apologized. It was a side of Daniels that Joe had never seen. Father Daniels apologized for losing his temper and for rushing out on him on Friday and leaving him there alone. He told Joe that was enough detention; he wished him luck in college and said he was free to go.

As Joe left, he looked at the award on Father Daniels’s desk and decided he must be dreaming. He was certain that he’d seen it burn.

Chapter 6

M
ichael sat slumped in a booth at the local
diner, two cups of coffee on the table; neither had been touched. His eyes, red and swollen from lack of sleep, fought to stay open. With the sun long set, he braced himself for another endless night. The exhaustion was already dragging at his mind like a lead weight. He nervously flicked a business card as his eyes darted around the diner. He’d violated her trust; he’d lied to Mary three times. And now this…

He had run out of options. The hospital was demanding to know how he would pay for the surgery, how he would pay for her follow-up treatment. In three days, he had already run up over twenty thousand in bills. Tests, tests, and more tests. Each more painful and expensive than the last. Dr. Rhineheart had tried to pull some strings, but there were no more strings to pull. The head of hospital administration had laid it out most clearly: if Michael couldn’t pay for the treatment, his wife, unfortunately, would have to leave the ward. Mary and Michael were stuck in the middle—not enough income to pay for the treatment but just enough not to qualify for aid. Michael was reduced to begging, pleading with anyone he knew. Busch would get him the thirty-five thousand as soon as he liquidated his pension. That crushed Michael but he accepted the loan; he had no choice, his pride be damned. The money wouldn’t be available for three weeks, though, and even then it wouldn’t be close to enough.

The final humiliating blow struck yesterday. It had been the last place to turn. Michael had exhausted every avenue, every possibility. He sat in their office and accepted their tea, not wanting to appear rude as he had so often in the past. He explained the problem: if he didn’t get money, his wife would die. Father Shaunessy and the parish council listened with nodding heads and sympathetic ears, not saying a word until he was finished.

And then the Church which Mary so believed in simply said no. “We do not have the resources to provide funds for our parishioners.” But they would be happy to remember Mary at Sunday’s Mass.

Michael sat in the booth stirring his cold cup of coffee, staring at the other patrons. There were only three. They sat on the other side of the diner quietly laughing about who knew what. He couldn’t help but stare, wishing he had paid attention to those moments, those times that lives were lived carefree, when he’d been unaware that it could all wash away with a doctor’s diagnosis. Why hadn’t he paid attention to those moments, absorbing them, appreciating them? Most of all he wished that he could somehow get back to those times. It seemed so long ago that he had felt unburdened, yet it was less than a week. Five days ago, he and Mary had been hobnobbing at Busch’s party, oblivious to what was to come. He knew there was no way of going back, but what frustrated him was he had no means of moving forward.

From out of nowhere, Finster arrived, impeccably dressed in an Armani sport coat, his white hair pulled back tight in a ponytail. As he sat down, Michael noticed that Finster was much older than he had appeared when he’d first shown up at Michael’s business. You could see it in his eyes, ancient and hardened as if he’d been through life more than once.

“You look like you could use a friend,” Finster remarked.

“Circumstances change.”

“I’m sorry about your wife,” the German murmured with genuine sympathy.

“Yeah, well.” Michael was hesitant, the words came hard. “You wanted to talk?”

“How are you?”

“Time is short.”

“I know that you are out of the business, I respect that.” Then Finster seemed to have a change of heart. He leaned back, shaking his head. “We don’t have to talk about this now. Perhaps later, when you are in a better frame of mind.”

“No, it’s now or never.” If he didn’t hear the man out at this moment, his nerve would be lost and so would Mary.

“All right. But if you’re not interested, I will understand, and we can part as friends.”

Michael stared at the older man. He knew that anyone dealing in his former trade was questionable at best.

“I am prepared to take care of all of your wife’s medical expenses no matter the cost—”