The Thieves of Heaven (4 page)

They touched down on the sidewalk just as the town house windows exploded, flames and plumes of smoke curling up into the city sky. The interior of the town house glowed orange as the sixth floor became fully engulfed. He lay the woman down. She was whimpering incoherently as she pulled the tarp tight around her naked body, shivering and weeping.

Michael tore off his belt, throwing the tools in the bushes, and checked the diamond-filled satchel on his back. Still there. The blood poured from his shoulder, his dark shirt had gone crimson. He hoped the blood loss wasn’t fatal; he didn’t have time to deal with dying right now. He leaned over the woman. Life was returning to her eyes. She smiled, as the tears rolled down her face.

Sirens blared and within seconds three police cars screeched to a halt across the street. Michael looked across Fifth Avenue toward the wall to Central Park. He touched the pouch on his back; it was his future. Freedom was only twenty yards away.

He could still make it.

Chapter 1

S
tained glass—they don’t make it like this anymore
: brilliant purples, deep rose, rich gold, all melded to depict the Gates of Heaven, the centerpiece of an old-fashioned, whitewashed church. The morning sun filtered in, casting colored shadows upon the host of parishioners, some there because they wanted to be, most because they had to be. And like in any house of worship, no matter the denomination, there were the people who sat in the front pews as if their proximity to the altar made them closer to salvation. The ladies in their fine dresses, the men cologned, blazered, and adorned in their best silk ties, all thinking it was the clothes that made the saint.

Behind the pulpit stood Father Patrick Shaunessy. His close-cropped hair was pure white and in sharp contrast to his stern black eyebrows. His stubby arms, buried deep in the folds of his voluminous green cassock, moved with the Irish lilt of his voice. For years he had preached to his flock, many hours spent on his words of wisdom, but he never failed to wonder whether he had ever gotten through to a single individual. Now, just as in his youth, there was a constant rate of crime, adultery, and a general exodus from religion. People, it seemed, put their faith in technology, science, and sex, believing only in the tangible. If you can’t stroke it, don’t believe it. Not sure why, Father Shaunessy preached on with the hope that he would save at least one soul from this world gone to confusion.

The priest may have been a slight man; some would say he bordered on puny—he had had fleeting dreams of being an equestrian legend, racing for the roses at Churchill Downs—but his voice, that was his gift, for his voice was as large as his body was small. And it was this voice that now boomed out over his congregation.

“You cannot steal salvation, like a thief in the night. For it is not perfection of life on this earth for which we strive, but perfection of faith. Faith in God will provide us eternal life, faith alone is the key that will grant us eternal salvation.”

He gathered up his papers and, as if for emphasis, murmured, “If you open your missal to ‘Morning Has Broken,’ page one hundred and three.”

The congregation joined in song, and while it wasn’t Cat Stevens, it was on-key and hopeful, filling the air, echoing off the rafters.

Near the rear of the church, tucked away in the back, almost as if in hiding, sat Father Shaunessy’s greatest fan. If the woman was trying to hide, it would be a daunting task; the auburn curls spilling down her back like liquid fire made her impossible to miss. With an air of confidence and a missal in hand, she sang quietly to herself; an action that stood in stark contrast to the rest of her life. She had been hard to contain for more years than anyone could remember. Since the age of thirteen, she had been one of those contradictions—learning of the seven deadly sins at Catholic school during the day, then running around at night, trying to commit all of them. And though the years brought temperance and a sense of responsibility, she would never totally abandon her wild roots. Saturday night usually found her out dancing, but almost every Sunday, no matter the weather, no matter her health, no matter what, she could be found in the same seat at eleven a.m., her head bowed, quietly thankful for everything in her world. Although she didn’t always agree with the Church and her manner would never get her nominated for sainthood, Mary St. Pierre’s faith in God always rang true.

Beside her in the pew her husband sat silently, his lips tight in protest as he contemplated the singing congregation. A shock of unkempt brown hair framed a strong face, striking, yet worn beyond its thirty-eight years. The man fidgeted. You could see in his dark eyes that his mind was already at the exit. To date, Michael St. Pierre had never told his wife of his diminishing faith, and now was definitely not the moment to do so. They already had enough issues to deal with.

Mary and Michael exited the church amidst the throng of parishioners all angling to shake their pastor’s hand, hoping against hope that maybe some of the priest’s holiness would rub off on their own souls.

Father Shaunessy went through the motions with a cordial nod to each, thanking them as they complimented his sermon, his slight smile hiding the question in his mind:
If quizzed, could anyone of them repeat a single sentence, let alone the daily moral?
But then his face lit up, for he had caught Mary St. Pierre’s eye.

“Beautiful sermon, Father,” Mary said, looking down on the little priest. It was almost as if she was talking to a child, the disparity in their heights was so extreme. Concerned her size would make him uncomfortable, she was always careful never to wear heels to church, but even in her flat shoes she pushed five feet nine.

“Thank you, Mary.” He clasped her hand in his. “I can always count on your smile when I’m at the altar.” Father Shaunessy didn’t acknowledge Michael. It was as if he wasn’t there at all. Sensing her husband’s discomfort, Mary smiled, pulling him close.

Finally, as an afterthought, not wishing to offend Mary, the priest nodded to Michael. “Mike.”

“Patrick,” Michael begrudgingly mumbled back.

The line of glad-handers behind Mary was growing long and impatient. Reluctantly, the priest released her hand. “Peace be with you, child.”

“Thank you, Father. And you.”

The St. Pierres headed down the tree-lined walk toward the parking lot as Father Shaunessy continued to greet his well-wishing flock.

The ’89 Ford Taurus pulled out of the church lot and headed east. Its dinged and pinged body may have been old but it was clean. Michael drove, silent, focused on the horizon, lost in thought. Mary knew Michael was hurting again. Her husband was retreating to that world where he shut out everyone to tackle his problems all alone. It was a wall she always fought to break down, and each time required a new strategy. Her eyes twinkled and she smiled, reaching out to touch him.

He glanced over. “What’s up?”

“Just brushing something off your shoulder.”

“Dandruff?”

“No. The chip.”

“What?” Michael was genuinely confused, moving as if he had a spider on him. “What chip?”

“The chip on your shoulder.”

Michael grimaced, trying to hold on to his bad mood.

“Pat is not a bad guy,” Mary said.

“He looks down on me, like I’m going to infect his congregation or something. I thought priests were supposed to be forgiving.” There was bitterness in his voice.

“It’s pretty hard for a man that short to look down on you, Michael.”

“Take a look at the world through my eyes, Mary.” Michael’s eyes never left the road.

Mary hated when he snapped. It wasn’t often, only on Sundays and generally within an hour before or after Mass. She knew it was difficult for Michael but it was only an hour out of his week. She did see the world through his eyes; it was something she was always able to do, and as far as she was concerned, he could use a little peace in his life. “Why do we have to go through this every week?” Mary rested her hand on his leg in reconciliation.

An uncomfortable silence filled the car.

Cars by the dozens lined the sides of the road. Music, sounding like Springsteen, blared from somewhere. The roar of the ocean was not far off; a sea breeze filled the air with that unmistakable summertime smell. Mary walked up the slate path to a weathered gray Cape Cod house with Michael an obvious five steps behind her, still silent and stiff. She rang the bell. No answer. She rang again as Michael finally caught up. Mary grabbed the handle, opened the door—

“I don’t know if I’m really in the mood for this,” Michael warned.

“What are you in the mood for?” she demanded, her patience seeming to wear thin.

Michael said nothing.

“We’ll say our hellos and good-byes within a half hour and be home before two.”

She took his hand and led him inside. The rooms were dark, suspiciously empty. Mary wound her way toward the back of the house, through a simple living room, past the dining area, muffled noise growing with every step. She came to a sliding glass door, a large curtain across it.

“Remember to smile,” Mary whispered.

She pulled back the curtain to reveal a party. Not just any party—this was a party to end all parties. A sea of people filled the back terrace, spilling out onto the beach. Three barbecues blazed, their flames licking the sky. If there was any meat on their grills, it had long since been cremated and returned to the gods. Large speakers spewed “Candy’s Room,” Springsteen’s wailing voice having a hard time competing with the festive uproar.

Mary tugged Michael’s hand and they dove into the mayhem, squeezing their way through the drunken throng. As she tugged Michael to breathing room at the back of the terrace, they spotted a huge bear of a man walking toward them. People parted, as if out of respect for royalty, nodding and slapping his enormous back as he went by. He was a heavy man, not fat but not muscled, either, just big and burly. At six feet five, he towered over everyone. His sandy blond hair reminded you of a surfer but they probably didn’t make boards big enough for him. Mary was instantly swallowed within his girth as he hugged her tight: a gentle giant caressing a dove.