The Thieves of Heaven

by Richard Doetsch

  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

  Morning, 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. Ma
ybe 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.

  The monitors Jane stared at were each assigned to a felon awaiting a court date, a prison cell, or the end of a sentence. Those granted house arrest with the sexy ankle bracelet were the lowest of the low-risk. These were the ones who knew remorse, who knew contrition; the chance of their running was slim to none. Hell, the bracelet really wasn’t necessary; it was just a constant reminder that they were being watched. Jane knew this and so her diligence wasn’t acute. The rookie had brought a couple of books as her predecessor recommended—he’d forgotten to mention to bring lots of sweaters—but was ignoring them in favor of today’s crossword puzzle.

  She nearly fell backward in her chair when the alarm went off. A shrill cutting tone from monitor twenty-seven. Its little green blip had vanished. “No, no, no, no, no, no. Shit!” Reaching for the phone, she knocked her books and the newspaper to the floor, but before she could even dial, the blip came back as if it was there all along.

  She dialed anyway.

  The phone rang. “Hello?”

  “Mr. St. Pierre?” she asked frantically, a quiver in her voice.

  “Yes?”

  Jane’s brain was still reeling from the adrenaline rush. Was it some computer glitch? Had she made a mistake on her first day? “BHPD Tracking and Monitoring. We seemed to have had a momentary loss of transmission.”

  “Sorry. I went downstairs to get my mail.”

  She exhaled in relief. “Probably lost transmission in the elevator,” she reasoned. A more authoritative tone returned to her voice. “You must report in any time you are leaving the apartment.”

  “Right. Sorry. I’m new at this. It won’t happen again.”

  “Good.” Crisis averted, the rookie hung up the phone and tried to catch her breath.

  A small black duffel was packed and sat ready on the front hall table. Michael was on the living room floor belly rubbing Hawk, the portable phone still cradled on his shoulder. Thinking. Thinking hard.

  He tossed the phone on the sofa and used both hands on his dog. He stretched out his right leg and studied the ankle monitor on it. His tools were spread about the floor. He had removed the cover of the ankle box and—as a test of its capabilities—momentarily removed an internal wire. He needed to know how far he could push before he brought the whole police force down on his head.

  “All right, my canine friend,” he said aloud. “How am I going to get out of this?”

  Simon, bag in hand, looked at his watch. A plane taxied on the tarmac in the distance. Michael had said he would be there waiting. Well, that was the first lie—should he expect less? Maybe, Simon thought, he should go on his own. He had recovered many items for the Church in the past and had performed services of a far more lethal nature in the name of God. Why had he pursued Michael in the first place? Was it for the keys? Or out of wounded pride? Never had he failed before. The thought crushed him. Why had he come here? He never needed, nor had he ever sought, help before. And why from the man who had deceived him, stolen from him? A man he knew deep in his heart was untrustworthy. Simon prayed this wasn’t the first mistake of many.

  This is the second call for Flight 1225 to Berlin.

  Jane sat back, eating her McSandwich dinner. The rookie’s heart had stopped racing with fear an hour ago. Now, it was racing for other reasons. He was six one, hair blond as corn silk, and his jaw—well, she loved a strong jaw. She had seen Doogy only once at the Academy—no one messed with him about his name, he was just one of those confident people who could carry it off without ridicule—but he had burned a hole in her mind. She had no idea he was assigned to the same precinct until he had walked in.

  “Hey, how’s it going out there?” she asked, putting on a buddy voice, trying to be just one of the guys.

  “Hard to tell. Awfully quiet my first day out. How’d you draw the bad straw of Siberia?”

  “Beats the streets.”

  “Yeah, right,” Doogy said. “All that training going to waste.”

  “I volunteered; they said I can pick my next rotation. That training will be put to good use soon enough.”

  “Seriously?” He looked around at all the computers. “Yeah, maybe this isn’t such a bad gig. None of the dirty work thrown at you by senior officers, a comfortable seat to avoid the sweltering heat. How come I didn’t know about this?”

  She loved the way his face scrunched up in disappointment. “Pays to be in the know.”

  He nodded, then pointed at the monitors. “So, tell me about it.”

  “I watch the movement on parolees, detainees, house-arrests. Exciting stuff.”

  “Looks like a bad video game. Those dots don’t move much.” He pulled up a stool.

  Got to stay focused, she decided. “They’re either sleeping or watching TV. Never much movement. Hungry?” She offered him some of her fries.

  “Sure.” He reached over.

  Big hands; she was trying to shake that myth out of her mind lest he notice. She was running out of small talk. “So…” she stammered.

  “Get a lot of reading done, I imagine.” He gestured toward her books.

  Yeah, he was interested, his body language screamed it.

  “Now, what is that person doing?” He pointed at a little green dot racing all over the place like a video game gone berserk.

  It took Jane a moment to snap out of her lust, she wasn’t sure what he was talking about at first. But then she saw it. Monitor twenty-seven. Again. This time, she knocked her sandwich clear across the room as she lunged for the phone.

  Busch and Thal knocked on the front door. No answer. From inside the apartment came a loud crash, like something falling over. Thal raised his foot to kick in the door but Busch stopped him midway, dressing him down with his eyes. Busch flashed a key and opened the door.

  “Mike?” he called out.

  Everything seemed normal. The apartment was clean, there were fresh flowers on the hall table. Thal headed to the den while Busch checked the living room.

  Another crash, this time from the bedroom. Busch eased toward the bedroom door, his gun drawn now. “Mike?” Another crash, glass breaking. “Quit screwing around!” the big cop hollered
. But there was no response. He spun in the doorway, gun raised. Busch nearly screamed as something flew in his face and he staggered backward. His heart hammered in his chest as he holstered his gun. “Fucking cat.”

  CJ tore into the living room, streaking up on the couch. Seconds later, Hawk came running out hot on her trail, screeching to a halt as he saw Busch. The dog sniffed his hand as Busch reached out to pet him. But he caught the scent again and growled at the cat on the couch. CJ hissed and took off. The two animals raced about the room in comical circles until the cat finally jumped up to the high bookshelf, the dog barking and jumping at her tail as it swung just out of reach.

  Thal walked back in the room. “How can he not be here?”

  And that’s when they saw it hanging from the dog’s collar: the security anklet.

  “Smart son of a bitch,” Busch muttered.

  Thal was flipping papers around on Michael’s desk. He found an open book and several newspaper articles. Picking one up, he started to read.

  Busch was on the phone. He kept his back to Thal; he could no longer bear to look at the man. Busch had checked everywhere: the hospital, the precinct, the security shop. No one had seen Michael. The last time anyone had heard from him was when the rookie at the parole-tracking desk had called at 5:07 that afternoon, admonishing Michael for leaving his apartment to get his mail.

  What scared Busch the most was when he called and spoke to Mary. She said that Michael had to go away for a few days. That was information he wasn’t about to share with Thal, or anyone for that matter. Busch’s ass was in a holy sling of shit now. The house arrest had been his idea; it had been his decision not to arrest Michael on the spot yesterday. If he didn’t find the man and quick he’d be in a lot more than shit. How could Michael do this to him?