The Thieves of Heaven (36 page)

Now, deciding that ignoring Simon seemed the best way to avoid conceding defeat, Michael went back to his sketching. He quickly captured most of the details of Finster’s enormous home on three pieces of paper. The first sheet showed the exterior of the mansion, including the guards, windows, driveways, and lighting. The interior of the first floor was pretty straightforward. Besides the entrance hall and library, he was able to recall each of the rooms that flanked the hallway on the way to the basement. The dungeon, as Michael had reverted to calling it, was a little more difficult, however. Much of his journey belowground had been in darkness or minimal light at best. The tension he’d felt in his stomach when he was down there had fogged his perceptions. So he wasn’t sure if he had captured all of the details he would need. He couldn’t pinpoint the distance to the chamber that held the two keys. It could have been one hundred paces; it could have been one thousand.

Michael put his feet on the floor and his head back, reclined his seat, and passed the three finished drawings to Simon. “How do we know the keys are still there? What if he takes them with him?”

“Did you give him the keys? Actually place them in his hands?”

“No, I put them on a pedestal.”

“How’d he react?” Simon’s tone indicated he already knew the answer.

“In awe…,” Michael said thoughtfully as the memory worked its way to the surface. “But…frightened, too. He wouldn’t even touch them—”

“He can’t touch them,” Simon interrupted.

“Why not?”

“He was cast out of Heaven, forbidden to come in contact with that which is sacred: churches, holy objects—his powers are utterly useless against God’s work. In Jesus’s own words, he can not knowingly enter holy ground—‘upon this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hell shall not prevail against it.’” Simon paused. Then he said: “Those keys are of God.”

Michael did not reply. He was remembering Finster’s expression when the billionaire had first seen the keys.

“This is where they are?” Simon was scrutinizing one of the hand-drawn maps, paying particular attention to the lower level.

“That’s the last place I saw them.” Michael pondered this, then demanded: “Who are you, Simon? You know so much about me….”

“Who I am is real boring.”

“Seven-hour flight, can’t get much more boring than that. I’m risking my neck here for your keys. So, go ahead, bore me.”

The flight attendant walked by, blonde, legs up to Heaven. Her youth was obvious in not only her taut body but her face; she couldn’t have been more than twenty. Michael smirked as he caught Simon watching the shimmy of her rear as she moved down the aisle.

“Remember when you were sixteen and all you wished for in life was to end up with that, never thinking if they had a brain or even if they loved you back?” Michael was hoping to get some kind of reaction out of Simon. But the other man said nothing. “Don’t tell me—they locked you up in some monastery when you were sixteen.”

“Actually, when I was sixteen, they locked me up in prison. For murder.”

The red ball glided over the green felt, slowing to a stop inches before the corner pocket. It hung there for an eternity before finally falling into the leather netting. Elle restrained her elation at the feat. It was the first time she’d played pool and she thought maybe she really was a natural.

“I have the distinct feeling I’m being hustled,” Finster said with a raised eyebrow. “Are you sure you’ve never played before?” He slid his arm about her waist, pulling her close.

“Beginner’s luck, I swear.” Elle blushed at the comment. She smiled and stole a quick kiss as she went to line up her next shot. She draped her long body across the table, drew back the cue, and sent the balls scattering.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Finster asked as he hung his dinner jacket over the back of a chair.

“It’s an absolutely perfect evening,” she assured him. And it was.

They had dined on orange duck resting upon a bed of wild rice and steamed vegetables. The wine was a ’45 Triano Rose from his private cellar. They had taken their dessert in the library—chocolate soufflé and brandy—laughing about the modeling industry and how one had to sell oneself for even a modicum of success. Charles was at their beck and call all evening. The butler always seemed to sense the moment to top off their glasses.
So, this is how the stratospheric class lives,
Elle thought.

She couldn’t tell if her light-headedness was from the wine or the giddiness of pure joy. She was falling fast for the man before her. His eyes had captured her heart, mind, and soul.

“Tell me, Elle, do you enjoy art?”

She straightened in surprise, standing her full six feet. “It’s one of my greatest passions.”

“Truly?”

“I spent two years in Paris studying under François Delacroix. Pastels and oils were my life.” Her eyes glowed with pride. “That was actually how I ended up modeling.”

“Tell me.”

“One of our models quit without notice and François insisted that I pose for his class. I was incredibly nervous and shy, but I did it. One of the sketches caught the eye of a photographer and the rest…” She thought about it. “Well, it didn’t work out like I had hoped.” A hint of regret slipped in her voice.

“Do you still paint?” Finster asked.

“I no longer have the time.” She paused, then added, “Nor the money.”

“I would love to see your work; we could arrange a showing.”

She laughed at that. “It’s all gone; believe me, no hint of my former talent exists.”

“We’ll have to change that. I have a studio on the east side of the grounds. Perhaps you would like to set up there.”

She couldn’t believe her ears. Set up on the estate—that only meant one thing to her. This marvelous night would continue for days, weeks…maybe even years. Her heart was bursting in her chest with elation.

He placed their pool cues against the table and clasped her hands. “Would you like to see my collection? I share it only with those who have a true appreciation, a true eye for beauty.”

“I would be honored.”

Finster grabbed the five-flamed candelabra and led her across the vast hall. Opening the massive door which led to the lower level, he headed downward without hesitation, holding the candles high.

“It’s so dark,” Elle said, hoping the wobble in her voice was not noticeable.

“Stay close.”

The shadows danced long and fast against the stairwell walls of stone before vanishing into the darkness. The splash of light from the five flames lit only the area immediately around them. Arriving at the end of what she thought was the passage, he led her to a simple wooden bench. He brushed off what looked like some old tools and removed a long rope, draping it over the back of the bench.

“Please,” he said, gesturing for her to sit. He handed her the candlestick, then disappeared into the dark. Elle held tightly to the heavy silver stem, praying it wouldn’t slide out of her slippery hand. Her palms were sweating and her heart had started to hammer.

Within moments, he was back. He propped eight frames against the bench, then he leaned in and kissed her, long and hard. Elle lost herself in the moment, her free hand pulling him close. Then she opened her eyes and gasped.

He was staring at her with those eyes, so captivating, so powerful, so…There was something else in them but before she could comprehend, before her mind could untangle itself, he kissed her again. This time lustful and ruthless. She returned his passion, her blood racing. Then without warning, he broke away, leaving her hanging there in the moment, gulping for air.

As she trembled with anticipation, he arranged each painting, surrounding her with them. “I want your honest opinion now.”

She held the candles up and looked. At first she thought he must be joking. This surely was a mistake. “Are you playing with me?” She held the candelabra higher, looking for him, then recoiled in fear. All around her was a menagerie of dark art she never could have imagined: the meek crushed under the weight of death, distorted faces screaming out of each vibrant canvas. The paintings were everywhere and Finster was nowhere to be seen. “August?”

And suddenly, she realized the candles were burning down to stubs, the first of the five winking out before her eyes. The tortured souls seemed to leap off the canvas at her; the darkness of the place wrapped itself about her stunned mind.

Her childhood fears came rushing forth—darkness, confined spaces, monsters lurking under the bed. “August? Please!” she whimpered, rising from the bench. She took a tentative step forward, raising the dying flames high above her and edging toward what she hoped was the way out. Her steps growing quicker, she stumbled, falling to the ground. The candles crashed to the floor. All but one were instantly extinguished. She clung to the last candle as if she held her heart in her hand and groped desperately for the others. Finding two stubs, she relit them from the lighted flame and pushed them into the ornate silver arms of the candelabra.

Why was Finster doing this? She held the candles high again in her trembling hand, frantically trying to get her bearings. She couldn’t believe her eyes. The artwork stretched as far as the flickering light could carry. All an abomination of mankind, all portraying terror, and shock, and cruelty beyond imagination. Who would collect such horror…and why?

She was alone with her fears. And that was when she realized what she had seen in Finster’s mesmerizing eyes. It all came flooding in—where she was, who he was.

The knowledge was too much for her.

And her mind snapped.

Chapter 19

S
imon stared out the airplane window. Painful
thoughts were spinning in his head. If he and Michael were to work together, it would come down to trust, opening one’s soul to one another. He started off soft and slow as if in a confessional.

“My mother was a nun. It was all she ever really wanted, a life entirely devoted to God. She never dreamed of a husband or family. Being an orphan, she had never felt the warmth of a mother or father; the only love she ever felt was God’s love. She bounced around in Roman orphanages without affection or purpose, keeping to herself, just another ward of the state until she settled into the St. Christopher Orphanage. It was run by a woman who cared for the children as if they were her own, guiding them to find their purpose in life. As my mother grew, she spent most of her time tending to the sick with a smile and a gentle hand. At night, she read anything she could get her hands on, most particularly that which pertained to God. She had profound insight into His teachings, as if the Scripture were written directly for her. The more she read, the more she knew where her life must lead; her heart had at last found its match. She entered her Order the day she turned sixteen. She was in love and her bridegroom was the Church….

“Till four years later, when she met my dad: the atheist accountant. The only things he believed in were numbers. It was a quick romance, or so they said; they were wed within six months. Mom worked in the Vatican, even after she left her Order. She was the archive liaison to the Pope himself. In charge of the Church’s history: she kept its secrets. We lived in Vatican City, a nice boring life. I had a whole country to myself—me and eight hundred others. It was a pretty normal childhood—I had a bunch of friends, played a lot of soccer.” Simon looked out the window as if each memory was coming to him from over the horizon. He pushed any remaining emotion from his mind and continued.

“One day, when I was fifteen, my mother didn’t come home from work.” He paused. “I figured she was working late. Next day came and went. My dad didn’t say a word about her absence; it was like the fear of losing her had rendered him mute. The Swiss Guard, by direct order of the Pope, searched not only Vatican City for her but, with the help of the Roman police, all of Rome. They finally found…” Simon closed his eyes. He hadn’t spoke of this in years. He needed to suppress the pain, he needed to stand back and watch it like a third party observer, as if it had happened to someone else.