The Thieves of Heaven

by Richard Doetsch

  “I was thinking maybe we would send these other two…children on ahead,” Finster told her, leaning closer.

  “I would love that” was all Elle could get out of her quivering lips.

  “Why don’t you wait for me in the library? I’ll send them on their way and be back in just a moment. Then we can have a nice quiet dinner here, just the two of us.”

  Elle smiled as he walked toward the car. She looked up at the stars like she used to as a child, wishing, just as her dad had taught her, on the first one she saw. May this happiness last the rest of my life, she prayed.

  Three a.m. Thirty thousand feet. Most slept. Some, with headphones, watched the 1948 film Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein. Simon, being his insomniac self, read the Bible. While he knew the ending, every word in the entire book for that matter, he always came away with some new insight, some lesson that he hoped he could apply in his life if he was lucky enough to continue to live it.

  Michael had taken over the two adjacent seats, his legs stretched out, with a writing pad in his lap. He was sketching a detailed diagram of what he remembered of Finster’s mansion. His recollection was detailed and vivid, as he had practiced a one-pass reconnaissance technique in his earlier career days.

  “Didn’t think I was coming, did you?” Michael said quietly, more to himself than to Simon.

  Simon looked Michael’s way. “I knew you’d come.” And he went back to the book in his lap.

  Michael didn’t take kindly to brush-offs. “Admit it. You had no idea.”

  “Actually, I did,” Simon replied, his nose still in the Bible.

  “I wasn’t completely sure myself I was coming, until I boarded the plane.”

  “You were coming from the moment you learned the position you’d put your wife in. It’s in your character. You’re an easy read.”

  “You don’t know the first thing about me.”

  Simon didn’t take his eyes off his Bible. “Michael Edward St. Pierre, age thirty-eight. Orphan. Adopted at the age of two by Jane and Michael St. Pierre, parochial school, altar boy. Dislike for the mundane got him into a bit of trouble as a teenager. Thief: jewels and art. High-risk hits. Stole for the thrill, not the money. Did hard time: Sing Sing. Wife: Mary, age 30. Loves you very much, stricken with—”

  “Enough!” Michael hated hearing his life boiled down to a paragraph befitting an obituary. He had grown up in the suburbs—Armonk, a small town about an hour outside Manhattan. His adopted parents had sent him to Holy Father Catholic High School, where Father Dan pounded in his daily lessons as if they were sermons. Michael was a relatively good kid. He’d had his share of mischief, but nothing that hinted at his troubled future. He got snagged a couple of times for drinking and smoking and he did spend a month in his room—maybe a precursor to his jail time—for stuffing a pack of firecrackers in Mrs. Collete’s mail slot. When he lit the fuse and sent them through the brass-hinged slot of her front door, he could hardly contain the giggles. He and his friends had run like the wind but there was no need. The deaf old lady hadn’t heard the machine-gun-like pops and explosions. She hadn’t heard a thing; she thought the ashen debris was from her cat tearing up the newspaper again, so she just opened the door, and swept the paper shrapnel out. Michael never would have gotten caught if it wasn’t for his accomplice: bragging Stevie Tausigenti; who told Kenny Case; who told his girlfriend, Jen Gillicio; who being a tattletale told her mom; who called Mrs. St. Pierre. Michael accepted his confinement like a man…for a couple of days. After that, he would get home from school, grab a snack, head to his room, then sneak straight out the window. His mom was none the wiser and in fact expressed her pride for his doing his time so stoically.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t his mother who sent him to Sing Sing and it wasn’t for setting off firecrackers. Needless to say, his cell didn’t have a window he could sneak out of. Sing Sing was a prison tucked into the hills along the Hudson River. A quiet, out of the way penitentiary that never captured much notoriety except for the execution of Ethel and Julius Rosenberg. The three and a half years Michael spent there were pure torture. It had been Hell on earth to be away from his young bride for so long. His biggest fear until last month was that he would end up back in prison, torn from his life with Mary. His vow to her that he wouldn’t break the law was really a vow to himself. He’d sworn he would never be trapped away from her again, confined to a world where she couldn’t be with him. Nothing could compromise his vow. Nothing.

  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

  Simon 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.<
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  “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.

  “The hospital wouldn’t let me see her. She finally came home a month later. She was sitting in our parlor when I got home from soccer. The Pope was there. They quietly spoke together in Latin; his presence seemed to comfort her, at least for a short while. Her face, the parts of it that weren’t bandaged, was terribly bruised, and though her wounds were nearly healed, they still had that sick yellow tinge to them, still swollen, distorting her features. I can’t think of my mother now without seeing her like that. All she spoke about was forgiveness. That we must forgive the man who had done this to her if we were to survive, if we were to remain above the animals. No one would ever tell me what had happened. My dad became a shell. He seldom spoke. He was rarely home and when he was, he wouldn’t even stay in the same room as my mother.

  “She slid into a fantasy world, took to wearing the long black habit she’d worn when she was a nun, even the veil and wimple upon her head. Whenever I was around, her smile was frozen, like it was painted on. My parents had become cold and detached from each other and from me. I tried to comfort them but they had retreated to the safety of their illusions.” He paused. “I never felt the warm embrace of my parents again.”

  Simon cracked open another airline bottle of bourbon, poured it into his cup, and drained it. “One day, about six months after she returned, I came home early from school. I guess my mother didn’t hear me. She walked out of her room wrapped in only a towel, and when she saw me…I’ll never forget the look in her eyes. I finally understood why she had covered her body, why she wore her nun’s long dresses. It was to spare my heart. Her torso, her legs—they were grotesquely scarred; her skin had become the tapestry of something evil. My mother ran back into her room in shame, refusing to come out, no matter how I implored her. I ran and found my father in the local pub. I screamed at him until he told me the truth. The tears ran down his face as he described how something twisted and evil had risen up from the depths. That a man in a drunken stupor—a man whom my mother once loved—had violated her in ways I could never imagine. I remember feeling oddly detached at that moment: it was as if I was looking in on someone else’s life. I absorbed the words but I didn’t understand them until much later. How someone could be so ruthless, so heinous. This thing—this animal—had worn a mask….My mother never saw his face but she had known him nonetheless. Afterward, she refused to speak his name, saying it must be part of God’s plan and insisting that we couldn’t see His great design. The police said this monster had vanished. After revealing this to me, my father never came home again.”