The Thieves of Heaven (62 page)

In hours, the new walls were built; within days, the building was completed. A brick-and-mortar structure now entirely encased the chapel. There were no doors, no windows, no way in or out. The dirt took a bit longer. About a month. It was wheeled in by hand and, when they were done, a giant mound of earth covered the entire building. Trees, flowers, and grass were planted on it so that it blended with its surroundings. At the apex of the mound, a marble statue was placed. It had been sent from the Vatican, coming from the Sistine Chapel itself. Handcrafted by Michelangelo in the year 1530, it had been blessed by the Pope and revered by the Church for its poignant rendering: Jesus handing a pair of keys to the Apostle Simon Peter.

Chapter 39

T
he humid air was condensing on the hos
pital windows. It was ninety-five and only seven in the morning, truly the dog days of summer. The shifts were changing; bleary-eyed doctors and nurses replaced by bleary-eyed doctors and nurses. A bruised and battered Michael walked the vacant white halls, past empty rooms and empty stations. He had the distinct feeling there was only one patient in the entire hospital.

He had boarded the first flight he could find out of Munich, at dawn, racing the sun; he’d flown across the ocean perpetually at sunrise, the luminous glow floating on the eastern edge of the world. Dead tired, up for at least seventy-two hours, he couldn’t will himself to sleep for even a moment. His eyes remained fixed on the watery horizon, the skies above it clear with that mixed blue and pink that the world has just before it awakens. Michael willed the plane to fly faster.

He stepped quietly into the room expecting to find Mary still and deep in a coma. She was awake, lying in wait as if she knew he was coming. If her frail appearance shocked him, he gave no sign. His eyes filled with tears of relief at the sight of her. Without a word, he took her in his arms and held her forever. They reveled in the miracle that each was still alive. “Sorry I’m late,” he murmured, stroking her cheek.

“You made it back,” she answered softly. “That’s all that matters.”

“I’m taking you home.”

Mary smiled, not moving from her husband’s embrace.

“I was thinking maybe…we could head out to the Cape for a week, stay at the Ship’s Bell Inn, make love in the dunes,” Michael whispered, his head buried in her shoulder.

“Mmmm. Eat Portuguese soup, fresh lobster.” Mary’s heart was swelling.

“Run on the beach, splash in the waves. The sun warm on our backs…” Michael cradled her as the morning rays of sun washed through the window, lighting his beloved’s face.

Chapter 40

T
o everyone’s surprise, Paul Busch survived.
The German doctors told him he was very lucky not to have been killed by his heart attack and advised him to cut back on the red meat and cholesterol. They stitched up his shoulder and set his two fingers. Any questions about the origins of his wounds were silenced by the five thousand euros Simon gave them. Busch was well enough to fly home five days later and walk off the plane into Jeannie’s arms. She hugged him for ten minutes before finally chewing half his ass off for the worry he had caused her.

He sat on the chair in Captain Delia’s office while his boss stood over him and chewed off the other half of his ass. “And you’re telling me that you’re withdrawing the parole violation?” Delia thundered.

“The guy’s wife was dying, he did some honest work to try and save her,” Busch answered.

“Then why such a big deal before?” Delia was pacing. “Putting him on house arrest?”

“I overreacted; he’s a good friend; I thought he was taking advantage. That changed when I learned all of the circumstances. He didn’t break a single U.S. law except a minor parole infraction for leaving the state. I couldn’t live with myself if I had the guy thrown in jail for a little thing like that. Could you?”

“No more making friends with the parolees, Paul. I mean it.” Delia took off his jacket, hung it on the back of his chair, and sat down heavily. He looked at Busch’s bandaged fingers. “Care to explain that?”

“Kids, car door, my fingers and an unbelievable amount of pain.”

Delia smiled. “You’re really falling apart. Word around here is you were having some heart trouble. At the rate you’re going, do you figure you’ll last the year?”

“I’m fine. Too much red meat. Jeannie’s pressing me to leave, though.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

“Thought about being a cliché and opening a bar. I don’t know. I don’t think I could bear not seeing your cheerful face every day.” Busch got to his feet and opened the door.

But Delia stopped him. “Have you seen Thal?”

“Thal?” Busch turned back.

“Yeah, Thal. You remember. Internal Affairs. You’re under investigation.”

“He could be dead, for all I care.”

“Hey, we don’t kid around with stuff like that.”

“If I see him, I’ll let you know.” Calmly, Busch walked out of the captain’s office.

Chapter 41

T
he living quarters are located in the easterly
section of the Vatican Palace with a host of windows overlooking St. Peter’s Square. Unseen by the world, it has always been a place of solitude for the Pope, a place where the leader of the Catholic Church can have a vague sense of living a normal life. The library contained five thousand volumes within its mahogany shelves. It was his private room where he could absorb the books, magazines, and newspapers of the current earthly world while keeping with the ancient traditions of his spiritual calling. Three large televisions sat in a corner picking up news-feeds from around the globe. A man who mastered eight languages, the Pope was at home in any country and enjoyed viewing the news that shaped human opinion.

Simon was seated in the crimson receiving room, eyes cast down. The sofas and chairs were of crushed red velvet, accented in gold borders, transporting one back to the days of the Renaissance, when this place had been the very heart of the political world as well as the spiritual one. Simon’s black cassock and white collar contrasted sharply with the richly colored decor. His vestments always made him uncomfortable, as if he didn’t deserve to wear them; though the traditional priest’s clothing did have a calming effect upon him. It was as if he absorbed the spiritual intentions of the material. His hands in his lap, he solemnly held the wooden key box, carved by a carpenter two thousand years ago. He lifted the lid, admiring the keys one last time.

An inner door opened. “His Holiness will see you now, Father,” a short bald man said in Italian. Archbishop Baptiste, the Pope’s personal secretary, was dressed in the traditional purple vestments of a man of his office.

“Thank you, your Eminence.” Simon genuflected. “Did you tell His Holiness of my request?” In Simon’s mind there was only one true safe place for the keys: in the possession of the most heavily protected man in the world.

“Our Holy Father found it amusing,” the cardinal replied. “He has never worn a key-ring before.”

They entered the inner sanctum where the Pope humbly awaited.

Chapter 42

T
he leaves were in their last days of full greenery
, change was just around the corner. The colors would all too soon be transformed into a mosaic of scarlet and gold as they have been since time could remember. The flowers that he planted last month were still in full bloom, they were her favorite: marguerite daisies. Michael knelt at a simple headstone, the winds of September blowing over him, and read the words for the thousandth time.

Mary St. Pierre
God’s gift to Michael
Michael’s gift to God

They had three weeks, uninterrupted. Mary had rallied. Her smile bright, her green eyes clear and radiant. They spent the time doing absolutely nothing. They disconnected the phone, the TV, and the computer. All food and essentials were delivered to the house. Life was talking, eating, and laughing, taking comfort in the presence of the other. Their love was not expressed through words, but looks and deeds. There is a comfort to a great love that only those that truly know it feel. It is warm and secure, free of anger and jealousy. It is euphoric beyond drugs and renders one immune to life’s cruelty.

And then without warning, without pain, she died.

In her sleep, her husband at her side.

Michael lay there next to her for hours, holding her hand in his as he silently wept.

Chapter 43

M
ichael sat at his desk, his bank statement in
front of him. The account in the Cayman Islands held two hundred and seventy-six thousand dollars. But it was all for naught. Mary was gone; all of his efforts, all of the risks a waste. All he really wanted was the money to save her and that had led him down a path that had left the question of Mary’s eternal life unanswered. Simon had assured him things were put to right. But he didn’t know.