The Thieves of Heaven

by Richard Doetsch

  Michael set the alarm, pulled down the security cage, locked up tight, and started walking through the minimall parking lot. Finster fell in step beside him.

  They were silent for about ten paces until, “I could compensate you very—”

  Michael put up his hands and stopped. He knew exactly where this conversation was going. “What, did you read it in the paper? You some kind of groupie?” He shook his head. “I’m on to a different career now.”

  “Circumstances change,” Finster suggested.

  “Not mine.” Michael couldn’t be clearer on this point as he walked away.

  “Call me if they do. That’s all I ask.” Finster watched Michael stride toward his car. Seeing Mary sitting in the front seat and watching their exchange, he smiled at her. “Please don’t lose that card,” he called cheerfully.

  “Don’t wait for my call,” Michael shot back, not bothering to turn his head.

  Mary looked at Michael and then curiously at Finster. She smiled and nodded at the white-haired stranger.

  Finster returned the gesture as the St. Pierres drove off.

  The door opened to a nice, modest apartment. Nothing fancy in this two-bedroom, but Mary had made it cozy and warm. The third floor of a middle-class apartment building suited them just fine. As Michael and Mary entered, a huge drooling Bernese Mountain Dog came galumphing into Michael’s arms. “Hey, Hawk! Keep them bad guys out?” Michael collapsed to the floor, rolling around with the black, brown, and white dog, two kids at play, neither sure of who the master really was, neither really caring.

  “I gotta walk him,” Michael told his wife.

  “Coming to bed?” she said hopefully.

  “Little while. I just have some things to take care of.” Michael didn’t even look at his wife as he grabbed the leash off the foyer table.

  “Not too late, OK?” But she knew her words were falling on deaf ears.

  Michael was back in fifteen, the walk doing them both good.

  “Michael?” Mary called from the bedroom.

  “Yeah?”

  No response.

  “Mare?”

  Michael stepped into the darkened room; he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. He looked around. It was too quiet. “Mary?” He tried the light switch—no good, the light must have blown. “Come on, Mare, quit screwing around.”

  He checked the bathroom, nothing. Tried the light switch one more time, still no good. “All right, this isn’t funny.”

  The bedroom door slammed shut.

  Michael reflexively crouched: if he wasn’t on guard before, he was now. Instinct took over. It had been over five years, but the muscle memory was still there, his hyper-keen senses intact. He moved back one step and was immediately jumped. His heart leapt and he moved to strike but he instinctively pulled the punch. The figure spun him around, threw him on the bed, dove on top of him…And ripped open his shirt, the buttons flying everywhere.

  Michael’s shock was wearing off as Mary whispered, “You forgot to kiss me.”

  Mary, lying in a sea of pillows, the sheets in disarray, stroked her cat, CJ, as Michael pulled on a pair of shorts. It was the moment after, and you could see it in their eyes: despite the earlier tension, these two were still in love—as much as they had been six and a half years ago when they’d met.

  She’d been twenty-four, just finishing her master’s degree in education. She had been offered a teaching position at the upscale Wilby School in Greenwich, Connecticut, one of the finest elementary schools in the country. Although Michael was eight years her senior, from the moment they set eyes on each other, there were undeniable sparks.

  It was a fluke meeting. Mary had backed her car into Michael’s, and the fireworks instantly flew. It was passionate. However, it certainly was not romantic. They’d argued for twenty minutes about whose fault it was, trading verbal jabs and punches, both refusing to back down, neither willing to admit defeat. There really wasn’t any damage to either car, but that wasn’t the point. It was the principle. The funny thing was neither could remember fighting like that with anyone in twenty years. They were both known pacifists, the settlers of others’ arguments. But not this day. This was war. Even the policeman who stopped by gave up after threatening them both with arrest. The cop was actually the first one to know it: these two people were made for each other. The fight was at a full-tilt pitch when out of exasperation Michael declared he would only give in under one condition. Of course, that sparked another argument, but after five minutes Mary surrendered. Dinner. Michael couldn’t for the life of him imagine why he had asked, it was just one of those spur-of-the-moment impulses. And to this day, Mary couldn’t imagine why she had said yes. No one had ever gotten her Irish up like this man.

  After a two-month courtship, they eloped to the U.S. Virgin Islands where, barefoot in the sand with the sunset at their backs, they were married by a local priest. There was no need for flowers, friends, or the “Bridal March.” As far as either of them was concerned it was the perfect ceremony, for they each had found their perfect match. The witnesses who stood in as matron of honor and best man were an eighty-year-old couple they had met on the flight down. Neither bridegroom nor bride had family they wanted to include in the celebration and the only one to express annoyance at the happy news was Jeannie Busch—Mary hadn’t even introduced Michael to her until they returned with rings on their fingers. But after Jeannie popped off, flipped Mary the bird, and stormed out of the house, she returned with an armful of wedding gifts, a smile, and a big hug for Michael, welcoming him to their world.

  They settled into Michael’s summer house in Bedford, which Mary promptly transformed into a home. Accustomed to eating out for most of his life, Michael was initially uncomfortable without a dinner reservation, but that soon changed. Mary loved to cook. Michael was quickly spoiled by her culinary talent and soon had to add an additional mile to his daily runs to ward off the extra calories. And Mary discovered Michael’s talent with his hands, immediately enlisting him in her never-ending remodeling schemes. He had a way of looking at problems—physical, mechanical, even emotional—and making them disappear. They looked at the world a bit differently than everyone else and because of that, they had an even greater appreciation for each other. While most people spent their dating years falling in love and then, once married, watched their love slowly decay, Michael and Mary turned the premise on its head: every day they discovered something new about each other. They not only fell deeper in love but they became even closer friends.

  Chapter 3

  It’s silent. The air is musty and stale. Suddenly, a grate swings down from a ceiling, swaying on its hinges. A figure in black drops from the opening, landing panther-like on the floor of an old-world museum. Vast, stretching out for what seems like miles. High ceilings, marble floors, and columns as far as the eye can see. Room after room filled with paintings next to sculptures next to ancient artifacts. Every period from the early ascension of man to present-day computer art is represented; a time capsule of history itself. In daylight, this would be a magnificent palace to man’s accomplishments, but daylight has long since passed. What little glow filters through the medieval-style windows creates a surreal effect, thrusting everything into shadow.

  The figure in black moves with pure grace, down corridor after corridor. In his hand he twirls a knife, more out of nervous energy than deadly purpose. The carved ivory handle is wrapped in leather, its blade reflecting intermittent beams through the darkness. The figure clutches the knife as if it is a talisman warding off spirits or, at the very least, curious, unseen security guards.

  He glides through the armor exhibit passing battlewear from every nation and from every time period. Each piece mounted in a fighting pose or upon horseback as if the souls of their owners never had the frame of mind to vacate and were still waiting for the order to be given. Past the Anasazi Indian display, fragile bones unearthed from cliff dwellings, small identification cards informing on the correct
location of an ancient tibia or mandible. Egyptian sarcophagi line a wall; mummies lie in vacuum-sealed glass tombs awaiting an afterworld that has eluded them for three millennia, their golden jewelry, gifts to appease the gods, never delivered. Each artifact—armor, flesh, bone—the possession of someone long since dead, radiating an aura that seems to permeate the enormous rooms and long cold hallways. This is a celebration of the dead, of lives invaded, of eternal rest violated. These were items not meant to be disturbed yet they were pillaged, stolen, dug up for fortune, glory, or vanity. We can’t help wondering what was dug up with them and brought to this museum, for although there is not a soul in sight, the sense of an angry presence is everywhere.

  The figure pays no mind to the riches in his midst as he races up a grand staircase, across a balcony, to arrive finally at a circular room. In its center stands a large glass case. A single ray of light shines down on its contents. The figure cautiously approaches the case, circling it as if in reverence. He spins his knife in his palm, twirling it through his fingers. He waves his hands over the case as if stroking the air, testing its will. As he steps back, we finally see within. Resting upon midnight-blue velvet are diamonds. Old, stunning, priceless. Jewels for which love was promised, battles were fought, empires laid ruin. Undoubtedly the riches of a long-lost kingdom, for no individual could possibly have possessed diamonds of this size.

  Again the figure moves toward the case, obscuring it. Motionless, he stands, his hands remaining at his sides, his breathing imperceptible. Waiting. Seconds, then minutes, tick by. He remains steadfast. The air still, dead. Silence permeates the halls. Finally he steps back, and…

  The case is empty.

  The figure effortlessly climbs a thin nylon rope back up through the grating into the air duct. It’s a tight fit as he shimmies through the tin can, the dim light through the grates bathing him in an eerie glow. If the halls below seemed endless, these ducts are downright interminable. But he is comforted by the fact that the difficult part is behind him; he can now breathe a little easier, for his prize is safely tucked into his pouch.

  Suddenly, there is a noise somewhere behind him. It’s distant but it’s approaching. His confines are tight, he can’t turn to see what is back there, so he continues on through the duct…a little quicker. It’s probably just the expansion and contraction of the tin duct as it cools after a hard day’s work, he reasons. Nothing to be concerned about, his mind settles down, he’ll be home soon.

  Again, he hears the sound. This time louder, definitely closer, and it’s not the contraction of the duct. It’s not a sound you would expect to hear in an air-conditioning shaft, nor is it a sound you would expect to hear in a vacant museum. It continues to move closer. No, it’s definitely not a man-made sound, it’s animal-like, guttural, vicious. His heart starts to pound in his ears, a cold sweat creeps up his spine as he quickens his pace. The sound continues its approach, rumbling louder like a distant storm. He can now feel the mass of his pursuer pounding in the shaft, its weight flexing the tin. By the sheer volume, he knows: whatever’s coming, it’s huge.

  Every contingency was planned for: the guards, the alarms, the lights; every foreseeable variable anticipated. Timing was laid out to the second: even in the event of little glitches, this was to be a job by the book—and he wrote the book.

  The deep growling grows more distinct: it’s not far off now. Whatever it is, it is moving faster, breathing hard, its weight thundering the metal; it’s beyond deafening. The whole building feels like it’s shaking.

  It’s a race against hope through a cacophony of ear-shattering sounds. Passing over another grate, Michael’s face finally catches the light. His eyes focused and determined, sweat pouring down his brow. He’s flying through the air duct now like a gerbil in a Habitrail. His flight would almost be comical to an outside observer but there is nothing comical about impending death. This isn’t about the jewels, and it’s not the latest gadget against crime. Whatever is in this duct with Michael shouldn’t be here, it shouldn’t be anywhere.

  Wishing he could just pick up and run, Michael grows more scared and frustrated, his muscles aching as his sweaty palms slip on the two-foot wide surface. The pain is crippling his joints and muscles; his eardrums are ready to burst from the train-like roar of the approaching beast. It’s like being trapped within a drum, with a musician relentlessly pounding out a death march.

  And then there is nothing. Pure silence. He stops. Listens. Nothing. His mind racing, wondering if his pursuer is coiling up, waiting to spring its attack—or did the creature miraculously fall through one of the grates? His ears strain; he thought the noise was bad, but the silence is excruciating, leaving a question mark on the next few moments of his life. Claustrophobia sets in. Fear locks up his body. Maybe the beast has lost his scent, his direction. A single breath could tip it off. What is it, where is it, how can he possibly defend himself in this cramped box? His thoughts whirl back to Mr. Buffington’s biology class, fight or flee, survival of the fittest.

  He takes off. Never did he think his body could move this fast. Desperate, all his efforts going into escape, into survival. Better to die from a heart attack than in the jaws of his pursuer. Oblivious of his bloodied hands, his bruised legs, he would welcome a year of pain if he could get out of this duct, out of this building.

  And now with a vengeance the sound returns, roaring down the shaft, growling, throbbing, the mass of its approaching body forcing a clammy death-like gale to rush past Michael. Worst of all, Michael can now smell it. Vile, putrid, like rotting flesh, it violates his senses. His eyes water from its stench.

  Then he sees salvation, up ahead, fifty yards: hope. The proverbial light at the end of the tunnel: the shaft exit. With every resource he can muster he hurls his body toward the light. Twenty-five yards. Soon relief will be in his grasp and as if sensing this, the ugly sound of the beast stops completely, like it was never there at all. The sound, the smell—all vanish into the ether.

  Twenty yards from freedom, Michael stops: the beast is gone. It’s the light. Slithering back to its shadow world, away from the light, that’s the only explanation. But before that sigh of relief comes, the light up ahead is obscured. Michael’s racing heart stops as he realizes: There is more than one. Now, in front of him, a pair of predatory eyes glow. Feral eyes, the eyes of something utterly evil. They narrow as if contemplating an attack.

  And once again, from behind, he hears the growl of his pursuer, its foul breath heavy upon him. He is frozen, unable to turn, unable to see behind him or in front of him. He’s trapped. The moment hangs over him, his heart has surely stopped, his mind is numb. His attackers wait, invisible yet there. Their breathing: heavy with anticipation. The stench overwhelming, turning his stomach. He is on the verge of passing out or maybe it is death that he is feeling, his body’s response to pending doom.

  The breathing stops; could they have changed their minds and fled? But the odor of death is still there, all around in the darkness. The waiting tortures his very soul.

  Then in a flash, whatever is behind him grabs his foot and jerks his body backward. Michael is paralyzed with fear, a scream that will never come caught in his throat. And then swifter than anything humanly possible, he is silently ripped backward at an appalling rate. Back through the duct, back into the blackness.

  Mary bolted upright in the bed, struggling to breathe. She looked for Michael. He wasn’t there. In fact, he hadn’t been in bed since they’d made love. Her heart hammered, her worst fears seeming to lurk in the deep shadows. CJ was spooked, arching upward, hissing at Mary as if at a stranger. Mary flew from the bed, not bothering with a gown. She raced out of the bedroom, into the living room: empty. To the kitchen, a half-eaten sandwich on the counter, then through the hall, no sign of Michael. She saw the closed den door, light streaming from under the doorway. She grabbed the handle, praying to herself, Please, not again, and barged into the den.

  Michael was working at his desk, Hawk, asleep at
his feet. Startled, he spun around.

  Mary stood there staring at him, her eyes begging the question. Then she collapsed in his arms, panting but relieved. The tears flowed.

  It was just a dream.

  “Honey…?”

  “Promise me something, Michael?”

  Michael held her tight. “Anything.”

  “That you’ll never go back, that it’s all in the past…”

  Michael looked her in the eye and spoke to her heart. “I promised you two years ago, never again…I swear to you, Mare, never again.”

  Chapter 4

  Noise. Lots of it. All walks of life in and out of the main precinct of the Byram Hills Police Department. Built in the twenties, this precinct had seen the city grow twentyfold; the force once numbered five, but last year they broke the hundred-man barrier. Drunk and disorderly used to be the arrest of the week and it was always on pay day. Now, well, it’s the new millennium and each cop would give his left testicle to avoid another homicide.

  Cops coming and going like the wind this morning, the occasional criminal being marched through to booking and then on to the basement holding cells. The young patrolmen in their blues congregate at the worn marble stairs sipping coffee, munching bagels before their morning tours of duty.

  The detective area on the second floor is one step above uninhabitable, fifteen desks crammed into a five-desk room. Paul Busch, in a rumpled sport coat and jeans, was filling out paperwork at his desk. It was organized mayhem, files upon files upon files all ready to tip into confusion. His first soda of the day was halfway gone. Busch prided himself on his lack of addiction to coffee and donuts. Of course, his daily Coke-and-Oreo breakfast didn’t make him a candidate for any National Institutes of Health awards. Fifteen years he’s been here, five as detective. He used to hate the job but now he has settled into going through the motions, biding his time until March 18, five years from now, pension time. He came in like all the guys, young and eager, ready to clean up the town, bring justice to the people of this fair city. But the crimes wear you down. No matter how much you do, there will always be another skank waiting in the wings to victimize someone else. What really made Busch sick, though, was the number of convictions. As a young idealist, he always believed an arrest would lead to a conviction and remove the scum from the world, but half of them walked and all too soon would be practicing their trade all over again. And while his attitude changed along with his outlook on life, his code never did. He always thought of himself as an unwavering enforcer of the law, a tool of the justice system. His job was to gather the evidence and catch the criminal: what happened afterward was someone else’s job. He never once was compromised, his values and his approach to the law could not be purchased, could not be deterred.