The Thieves of Heaven (32 page)

All night Michael tossed and turned. No longer able to sleep in the bed, he had reverted to the couch with its out-of-whack spring pushing up against his shoulder blade. He preferred its uncomfortable stabbing to the thoughts that had raced through his brain as he tossed alone on their king-sized mattress. Their empty bed stirred too many thoughts. This is what it would be like when Mary was gone. He wasn’t ready to face that now. She was still alive. Of this he was sure.

It was the only thing he was sure of.

After Simon had left, he had walked the night streets. Aimlessly wandering until he had found himself at the hospital. He stood staring up at Mary’s darkened window. He hadn’t gone inside. If he did, if he saw her, his grief would overcome him again and he needed to think straight and true. If he was to leave with Simon, there was no telling how long he would be gone. Mary might die in his absence and how could he live with that? Michael could let Simon go alone but he would never know if Simon succeeded in getting the keys back. The torture Michael would endure for all the rest of his days—the uncertainty about whether Mary had gone on to a better place, a more merciful place—would be with him to his own grave.

Michael’s faith in God had been destroyed, becoming nonexistent. Yet Mary’s was stronger than ever. She believed in everlasting life, she believed in eternity, she believed in Heaven.

It came down to his shattered beliefs against Mary’s unshakable faith.

His decision was made for him.

He would leave with Simon.

Chapter 17

M
orning, Mike.”

Busch’s shadow loomed over him. Michael squinted as he rubbed the crust from his eyes. “How’d you get in?”

“You gave me keys last year, remember?”

“Seems I’ve been giving keys to all the wrong people lately.” Michael groaned in exhaustion.

As Busch stepped aside, the early morning sunlight slammed into Michael’s eyes with a vengeance. He regretted those last two shots of Jack as a hammer pounded deep in his brain. “Can I get you some breakfast?” he asked in a groggy voice, pulling a pillow over his head to block out the light.

CLICK.
Something wrapped about his ankle. Michael lifted the pillow and looked toward his feet. He was greeted by the face of Dennis Thal. Busch’s new partner was adjusting a clip on the metal bracelet that now encircled Michael’s lower leg. Not cuffs, nothing restraining. Worse. Around his ankle was a security monitoring bracelet. The kind with a built-in GPS that could be tracked by a central station, reporting on his whereabouts at all times and sending off all sorts of bells and whistles for each and every time he strayed.

Michael violently jerked his legs up and away from Thal. The young cop smiled like the hunter who knew the hunt was over, knew there was no place his prey could go to escape.

“What the fuck?”

“Sorry.” Busch was unable to meet his eye.

“Sorry? What are you doing?”

“You’re a flight risk. I can’t take a chance that you’ll run.”

“Run?” The incredulity poured from Michael’s voice. “Run from what?”

“I had to report you to the judge.”

“I told you as a friend—”

“Makes this even harder.”

“My wife is
dying
, Paul. Do you really think I’d run? Do you think I’d leave her?”

“You can see her as much as you want. We just want to know where you are. Don’t want you leaving town”—Busch’s pause hung in the air—“again.”

“You son of a bitch! You’re sending me back to jail!”

Michael jumped up, lunging for Busch, but before he could swing, Thal was on him. The cop hit Michael and hit him hard, pummeling him about the body before Michael even had a chance to react. As he fell to the floor, Thal drew back his right leg to strike Michael in the head. But he never got the kick off. Busch grabbed Thal about the shoulders and hurled him across the room.

Busch could hardly think straight, his emotions running the gamut as he looked at Michael rolling on the floor in pain.

Thal stood, dusted himself off, then turned back to Michael. “Scum like you belong in a six-foot hole. You’re gonna rot there, you know. Your wife will die alone—”

Busch was back in his face; his whispered voice trembled with rage. “Wait for me in the hall,” he snarled. “Now.”

As Thal left, Busch tried to help Michael up. But Michael defiantly refused, pulling away.

“Mike, there’s nothing I can do. Law’s the law. I can’t risk covering for you. I’ve got responsibilities, too.”

As much as he cared for his friend, Busch had a wife and kids. He couldn’t let them get dragged down. Even if he wanted to put his ethics on hold this one time for his friend, someone else knew that Michael had broken his parole. And as sure as the sun would set, Thal would turn them both in for the sheer pleasure of sneering at them.

“Mary’s illness is pushing you over the edge, buddy. I’ll explain it to the judge. He’ll go light. I’m sorry.”

“You have no idea what you have done.” Michael’s words cut through Busch like a razor through butter. Michael wiped the blood from his nose, and turned away.

Busch stood there, his breathing all but stopped, staring at Michael. Finally, without another word, Busch walked out.

Mary was sound asleep, nestled in Michael’s arms. He had slipped into her hospital bed, ostensibly to comfort her but really more to comfort himself with her presence, to selfishly feel her touch again. He still hadn’t figured out how he would tell her he would be leaving again. How could you tell the woman you loved you were abandoning her?

He had covered up the involuntary jewelry about his ankle with his sock and made sure to wear a pair of extra baggy khakis to hide the bulge. The gray box was a little larger than a pack of cigarettes. It was affixed with a plastic zip-tie and a security bracelet. Every step he took, he was reminded of its presence as it chafed away his skin. He was free to see Mary at his leisure as long as he called in to outline his itinerary each time. And that is exactly what he did before he’d left the house.

“Parole Monitoring and Tracking,” the policewoman had answered.

“St. Pierre.” Michael had called from his apartment. “Going to see my wife at the hospital.”

“You are confirmed, Mr. St. Pierre. Please be sure to call us when you arrive at the hospital in accordance with guidelines.”

So formal,
Michael thought. The Parole Division would be monitoring his movements around the city. He was required to check in hourly when out of the house. If the clip was removed or damaged or he traveled outside the city limits, he would be subject to immediate arrest for parole violation. What would they do if they followed his movements onto a plane and out of the country?

He had arrived at the hospital to find Mary coming out of radiation. She and Michael had decided to keep up the treatments. If anything, they might at least buy a little more time. And you never knew, after all, miracles could happen.

They had a quiet breakfast of eggs and sausage that Michael had picked up on the way. Their words came few and far between. Michael was never the poker player, Mary could read distress in his face from a mile away, and that only served to thicken the air between them.

“Something’s bothering you. I can see it in your eyes. Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad”—she forced a smile—“all things considered.”

“I have to go away again.” His head was bowed in shame, no words had ever come harder. “It’s only for a few days….”

“That’s what’s troubling you?” Mary almost laughed. “I’ll be fine, don’t you worry. They take terrific care of me here.” She took his hand. “You just come back to me.”

“I will.” Relief washed over him. He would come back.

“I know.”

She kissed him. Michael could feel the slight trembling in her body. He took off his sport jacket and put it over her shoulders. She held the jacket tightly about her, absorbing his warmth, inhaling his smell. It seemed to revive her, the smell of his clothes; she had taken to wearing his shirts and jackets, always finding it like a security blanket.

Mary had seemed to slip a bit in the last twenty-four hours. It was as if knowing her prognosis had accelerated the symptoms of the disease.

And so Michael had spent the last hour lying at her side. “Only a few days,” he whispered to his sleeping wife. She didn’t move, didn’t respond. Maybe it was better this way. Quietly, he continued, “I need you so much…I thought I was saving you…And I’ve done so much worse. I have to make this right…” He stroked her brow. “I just ask that you have faith in me.”

She stirred, her eyes still closed, and ever so gently squeezed his hand. Nuzzling into his neck, she wrapped her arms around him, and whispered softly, “I always have.”

“Nobody ever said anything about freezing to death,” Jane Arlidge grumbled as she briskly rubbed her hands together for warmth. No one told her she would need a sweater in late June. You’d think when they issued her her uniform blues last week they would have at least given her a sweater.

“Fifty-two degrees, fifty-two ice-cube, snowflake degrees.” The, perky young police officer sat before a host of monitors—there must have been thirty in all. Each one meticulously labeled with a vellum floor plan overlaying each screen, a little green blip moving about. A name, ID number, and status line appeared at the bottom of each. Jane Arlidge came to the police force straight from the academy, choosing to dive right into her career, unlike the other graduates who headed off for a week of celebration before their crime-fighting careers began.

She sat in a large windowless room. Along the back wall rose an array of computer mainframes. Wires ran haphazardly about the floor while the terminal lights blipped green, blue, and red. Only one desk approaching any level of comfort was available, its high-backed leather chair—occupied by Jane, now feeling frozen solid—vastly superior to the cold metal stools at the computer workstations. The computer room of the Byram Hills Police Station was not only cold in appearance but just plain cold. Fifty-two-degrees cold as prescribed by the mainframe manufacturer and the police IT department. The lucky rookie who drew monitoring duty inevitably ended up with a hell of a head cold that would last right through the dog days of summer.