The Thieves of Heaven (31 page)

Jeannie was a strong woman but not that strong. She remained motionless, in shock. Tears welled in her eyes. Mary had been her best friend since high school. “Are they sure?” Her voice cracked. “There has to be something….”

He shook his head. He had no answer to give her.

They sat there silently for God knows how long, without saying a word. Jeannie had been with Paul for more than fifteen years. In all that time, he’d been a rock, the stronger of the pair. He had attended countless funerals: his mother’s and his brother’s three years ago, two months apart. He had died at the hands of a drunk driver, she of a lonely heart. Colleagues, friends, even a partner gunned down in the line of duty. In all those days gone by, she had never seen a tear from him. Until tonight. And when they came, it was as if all of his years of grieving flowed forth as one. Tonight, he never spoke a word. He just sat there, tears running down his face.

Busch stood in the doorway of his children’s bedroom watching them sleep, tangled under their white summer sheets. So innocent, so optimistic. Life hadn’t taken away their dreams yet. A parent always tries to protect his child’s world from the harsh reality of adulthood.

Only a parent could understand the pain felt after scolding a child. Busch felt shame for lashing out at his son and daughter. They had done nothing more than act like children and that wasn’t a sin. He had tried so hard to be different than his father. He’d devoted himself to be a real part of their upbringing, their coach, their friend. He had been determined to be everything to them that his father wasn’t to him. And most of the time he was. But it was the slipups like this evening that gave him the real insight into his own father. There were always circumstances and secrets that were best kept from children. Things like cancer and prison. Busch saw now that what he thought to be his father’s inattention was really preoccupation with the troubles of life.

There were always two perspectives on every situation. And he realized that was where the gifts of wisdom came from…a little bit at a time. He leaned over his children, kissing each on their rosy cheeks as he silently thanked them for helping him grow.

Michael grabbed two glasses and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and headed into the den. The room was in total darkness except for the light from the street lamp outside. Hawk slept curled up in the corner by Michael’s desk.

“So, now you know,” came the voice from the shadows.

Michael froze. After a moment, he put the glasses down, poured the whiskey, and passed a glass to Simon, who was seated behind the desk. He turned on the desk lamp and sat in the side chair. “I don’t know what to believe.”

For the past two hours, Michael had wandered the streets of Byram Hills, on the verge of madness. There could be no other logical explanation. The pressures he had placed upon himself had finally broken him. His life was becoming his dreams, his dreams nightmares, and his nightmares reality.

He’d left Busch in the bar, having destroyed his only real male friendship. He had left Mary in her hospital bed, knowing he had destroyed all that she believed in.
Insanity was an easy thing,
he thought as he walked. It had crept up on him unnoticed, much like the cancer had crept up on Mary, devouring his brain the way her body was being devoured. But the insane were never aware of their insanity—or so he had heard.

He wanted answers and there was only one person who could provide them. Simon alone could reveal the truth. Besides, he was the only one Michael had left to turn to. And Michael hated him for that.

“Remind me”—Michael’s voice dripped with cynicism—“why I should have any faith in what you say?”

“You lack faith in yourself, so how would it be possible to have faith in someone else? Least of all me?”

“Try me,” Michael challenged.

“Jesus Christ was preaching to His twelve disciples—you do know about His twelve Apostles?”

“Yeah, I went to Catholic school,” Michael sneered.

“When Jesus came into the banks of Caesarea Philippi, He asked His disciples, ‘Who do men say that I am?’ And they answered, ‘Some say you are John the Baptist; some, Elias; and others, Jeremias, or one of the prophets.’ And Jesus said, ‘But who do
you
think I am?’”

“Each of the twelve men sat there pondering the question but only one knew the answer. And this one disciple said, ‘Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God.’ And Jesus said to His follower, ‘Thou art Petros and upon this rock, I shall build My Church.’ And He imparted to this renamed disciple—Petros—the power to condemn or absolve all those who wished salvation, saying, ‘What thou shall bind on earth shall be bound in Heaven and what thou shall condemn on earth shall be condemned in Heaven.’ He gave him the power to control the gates of eternal life. And He gave Petros two keys imbued with this power—one gold, one silver.” Simon paused. “The keys to the Gates of Heaven.

“Upon the death, resurrection, and ascension of Jesus, this disciple, Petros—whose name translates into English as Peter—led the Church of Jesus Christ, Christianity. History has come to know Peter as the first Pope. This power that our Lord placed in Peter passes down to his successors. Along with the keys.” Simon sat back, allowing Michael to absorb the story, waiting for him to comment.

“So, these two keys,” Michael asked, “the Church has placed a great value on them?”

“A value you still can’t begin to comprehend.”

“And naturally you place something of such tremendous value, of such worth, in a dilapidated church in the middle of nowhere. How smart you must be. Do you know how easy it was? If this is true, if these are the keys that Jesus left behind—” Michael paused. “These keys are nothing more than a bunch of superstitious hocuspocus.”

“You may not share our beliefs at the moment”—Simon erupted out of his chair and began to pace—“but don’t
dare
mock me.” He stopped, dead still. “Those keys were placed by Peter before his death at the true location where Jesus rose to Heaven. A link between Heaven and earth. The place where the Church of the Ascension was built—”

“It’s a myth! A fairy tale embellished down through the ages—”

“Peter decreed, and each Pope thereafter has agreed, that’s where they should stay. As long as the keys were the property of the Pope and the Church, the link was preserved. The gates were open.”

“Wait a minute.” Michael raised his hand. “Those keys
were
protected. They were protected by you.” He couldn’t resist inserting the verbal blade. “And you
failed
.”

Simon didn’t answer. His eyes bored into Michael before looking away.

“And now you have to clean up your mess. Does the Vatican know?” Michael demanded. “I tend to doubt it, otherwise, there would be more of you.”

Simon grabbed Michael by the collar, hoisting him from his chair, pulling him forward. “I should just kill you. Or better yet, maim you, leave you to reap the seeds you have sown. Finster will be back, you know. He’ll be back for your wife and he will be back for you. And all you can think about is taunting me with your cocky bullshit. You would rather pound your chest at my expense, your scared mind trying to bury the real fear you feel. You would rather insult me than save your wife from damnation. Your arrogance disgusts me.” He effortlessly tossed Michael to the couch.

“How could Finster be who you say he is? I see no proof—”

“Proof? You have your proof. August Finster bid you to steal; you were his pawn.”

“Finster? He’s a collector, a businessman, respected, extremely successful—”

“He’s all that except for one thing: he is not a man.”

“How do you know this about him? No. This is insane.”

“His name repeatedly came up in connection with his interest in some of the more profane art produced against the Church. I wrote him off as sick, as did everyone else. But when certain pieces started to vanish into the black market, I decided to do a bit more checking on his background. Seems he has no background—”

“Neither do most people coming out of the Eastern bloc—”

“But he, unlike the others, was never
born
.” Simon stared at Michael.

Michael laughed.

“You think it humorous?” Simon said. “You know nothing of the East Germans. They kept tabs on everyone, pretty much from conception. People think the records are gone; they’re not, you just have to know where to look. And I looked. There is no record of Finster—anywhere.”

“You’re hanging your hat on that?”

Simon ignored him. “A couple of years ago, I paid our friend Finster a surprise visit in Berlin. No one had any idea of my itinerary yet there he was, waiting for me as I got off the train. Standing all by himself on the platform. I asked him point-blank who he was. His reply was:
Why do you ask a question to which you already know the answer?
I intended to accuse him of conspiring against the Church and against God. He denied everything. The only problem was his denials came before I even voiced my accusations. He knew absolutely everything I was going to say. Next thing I knew, I woke up on the train heading back to Rome with no recollection of how I got there. And since that day, not a night goes by that Finster doesn’t haunt my dreams.”

“Dreams?” Michael shook his head. “You’re basing this on—”

“He is the dark angel cast out of Heaven before time remembered.”

“A very convenient tale meant to scare the world. Keep little children hiding under their beds. Mothers cowering in fear, begging for forgiveness. All running to their benevolent God to save them. To protect them from the evil of a make-believe Satan.” Michael sat up, becoming more sure of himself as each word left his lips. “August Finster is an egotistical businessman with too much power, casting his spell over all of Europe and, it seems, you.”

Simon sat down directly across from Michael. “August Finster is an extremely handsome, charismatic being; funny, appealing, warm. And he is the blackest evil. Everything about him is a facade. He appeals to your inner wants and needs. He knows what you desire; he knows exactly what terrifies you. He plays on this knowledge.” Simon leaned in closer. Now it was his turn to twist the blade….
“As he played you.”
His eyes were unwavering and cold. “How coincidental that the answer to your prayers arrives in your most desperate hour with the ability to provide that which you can not get from anyone else. All in exchange for a simple blasphemous task.
Who is the one who has failed here?
”

The room suddenly felt darker, the world more claustrophobic. Michael was acutely aware of the sounds around him: his dog’s breathing, the cars outside, the tick of his watch…all seemed to accent the fear inside him.

“What does he want?” he asked Simon.

“What he has always wanted. Our souls. Barter one here, steal one there. No need now. He’ll have them all. By controlling the keys, he controls the Gates of Heaven.”

“Why doesn’t God just reopen them—these gates? They were opened once before when Jesus hung on the cross. Isn’t that what you believe?”

Simon hadn’t feared anything since he was sixteen, since he’d endured a moment in life that struck him to his very core. His heart had died that day and with it, his emotions. He had not known fear—or any other emotion—since. Until now. “God would have to return, a fulfillment of the Scriptures, the end of the world, whatever you want to call it. Gabriel’s Horn would be trumpeted across the lands. The sign that God is returning: Judgment Day. Michael, we must retrieve those keys.”

Michael didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. Everything that had happened in the last few weeks seemed to fall into place now. Every step he had taken had brought him to this moment. He had not only hurt and destroyed the lives of the ones he loved; he had trampled over the beliefs that sustained them.

“We must leave,” Simon told him. “We don’t have much time.”

“My wife is dying. I can’t leave her again.”

“I’m sorry.” There was no sympathy in Simon’s voice.

“I can’t leave, her life…”

“Her life is ticking down. There is nothing you can do to stop it. But if you value her eternal life, there is still time. Save that, Michael. Save her soul.”