The Thieves of Heaven

by Richard Doetsch

  The sweat-suit twins emerged from the gate seconds later, chasing him down, arms pumping and that was good, there weren’t any guns out—yet. Michael imagined it was to be a silent hit: they’d get him in the limo, tarp on the floor, and kill him without witnesses.

  The limo sped along the interior service road, her racing accomplices at her side. Michael swung out of the mall and tore into the two lanes of morning traffic. Cars squealed and screeched. He dashed down the sidewalk, his voice pounding in his head, please, please, please, over and over again like a mantra in sync with his pounding heart.

  The sweat-suit twins were unfazed by the speeding traffic. They pounded along the roadway only ten yards back from Michael. They leaped and hurdled cars and barriers in their way as if such obstacles were mere bumps in a field.

  Gasping and winded, Michael looked desperately for a way out, sanctuary. And found it. Drawing on his final reserve of energy, he veered left…he could even hear them breathing now; no, heaving like he was.

  His pursuers were closing in on him. He braced his running body for their pounce, but the blow never came. With his last bit of waning strength, Michael vaulted the two-meter stone wall—the twins hurtling forward and grabbing for his feet—and missing by inches.

  On the street, the limo instantly screeched to a halt. Motionless, it just sat there. The twins didn’t bother with the fence, though they could each easily leap it in a single bound. Their faces remained cold and emotionless, their arms hung at their sides. Not a word was spoken as the two men impassively watched Michael race through the open doorway of the stone church.

  Chapter 21

  The morning sun poured through the open window, flooding the crisp white sheets and landing on Busch’s closed eyelids. He was awake but always preferred to let his senses rise in the morning before he did. The smell of the fresh sea air, like a shot of tequila, always got his blood going. He had designed and remodeled the house to take full advantage of its waterside location. His bed faced the easterly window so when he finally did open his eyes he would immediately see the ocean that had captivated him since he was a child. His father was an Old World fisherman who had sailed the great south bay of the Long Island Sound, venturing out into the wide open ocean, trawling along the Atlantic shelf for seasonal fish. When Paul was old enough, he’d become a mate, a linesman, a plebe, whatever his dad wanted. In his youth, it wasn’t so much the ocean that attracted him but his father. Hank Busch had been a big man. His hands were powerful, his skin like leather. He had a long mat of sandy blond hair and a full beard—Paul could never figure out where the hair ended and the beard began—which was always wind-whipped and tangled. Paul loved his dad, plain and simple, but he dreaded the weeks that would go by when his father would be at sea. Children of twelve shouldn’t worry but Paul did. He knew the dangers of the sea, knew that she could never be tamed and never be appeased and that on occasion she would pull down a ship just to remind the seafaring world that they were always at her mercy. Each time his father did return, Paul would cling to him and refuse to let go, lost in the warmth and security of his embrace.

  His father had taught him all the tricks and skills of commercial fishing, hoping one day to pass his boat, The Byram Blonde, to his son, who could then follow in the family footsteps. Paul never had the heart to tell him he didn’t care for fishing; he knew that would break his old man’s heart. And anyway, if spending time with his dad meant hanging with the stinky fish and drunken sailors, so be it. Puking over the side when his dad wasn’t watching, that was fine. At least they were together.

  Late April. Still a bite of winter chill in the air, it always seemed to linger at sea. It was a four-day trip. Five on board: Paul and his father; Sean Reardon, the twenty-year-old linesman, filled with piss and vinegar; Johnny G., a huge Jamaican even bigger than Paul’s dad, his deep voice always sounding like song. In all the years Paul had known him, Paul never learned Johnny G’s last name. And Rico Libertore, he fancied himself a little mafioso, all five feet five inches of him including the inch his black slicked-back hair added. Rico talked a good game but fought a better one. Nobody ever fucked with Rico without donating a pint of blood. They’d pulled out of Long Island Sound, swinging around Block Island, heading for the mid-Atlantic shelf. Going for cod. It was twelve-year-old Paul’s first overnighter and it was also his rite of passage. When this trip was over, he would be a man.

  They threw the lines and sat down for supper: beans and franks, easy to cook and easy to eat. They sat around downing Pabst Blue Ribbons except for Paul, who swigged Coca-Cola. The four men treated the boy as one of them, tossing risqué jokes around and swearing colorfully enough to embarrass a prison guard. Lights out at nine; they had to rise at four. The temperature had really dropped, a bone-chilling thirty-eight degrees. At sea, the cold cut right through your skin, seizing your bones, a chill that can’t be shaken, no matter how many blankets. Paul couldn’t get warm in his bunk. The snoring was unbelievable, out of control, all of them. When he hopped out of the bunk, none of the men stirred. They were all sleeping off at least a six-pack. Paul knew how to run the heater, just like back home: prime it, light it, close the door, and feel the heat. About a year earlier, his dad had told him not to touch it but that was when he was a kid. He was a man now. He figured it his job, everyone being asleep and all. He pumped the primer ten times, then stuck in the match. Nothing. He pumped it again. Lit another match, but as he did so a swift breeze shot through the cabin; the flame blew out before he got near the heater door. He pumped the primer twenty times. This was it, third time’s a charm. He struck the match and cupped the flame in hand. This one wouldn’t blow out. He stuck it inside.

  And all hell broke loose. A fireball exploded outward, engulfing the heater. Flames shot up its exterior and raced along the floor. Paul screamed in panic, sounding like a girl, the way boys do before they are men. A terrible cry. The cabin filled with the orange glow. The heat was intense. Rico shot out of his bunk and raced across the galley, grabbing the extinguisher. The little Italian desperately tried to aim the nozzle at the heater but the extinguisher wouldn’t work. The fire ran across the floor and up Rico’s leg.

  Paul fell back against the wall. The screams were everywhere; he looked about wildly, not realizing they were coming from his own throat. The flames surrounded him like a pack of animals, an ever-shrinking circle, ravenous to pounce. He caught a glimpse of Rico rolling on the floor, trying to extinguish his flaming leg. The flames danced up the walls. Paul was frozen in terror, nowhere to turn, nowhere to run, and he was screaming, just screaming.

  Until, finally, he was lifted and hurled out the door into the night air. His father scooped up the flaming heater and ran out, flinging it into the sea. Paul saw it hit the water, still burning. He watched its deadly glow as it sank away, a murderous red haze sinking into the black depths. Through the cabin window he could see Johnny G stomping out the fire, slapping at the flames with a blanket. His father ran back in the cabin to help Rico. Paul had never seen a grown man cry until that night. The pain in Rico’s eyes was unbearable, tears streaming down his face. Overwhelmed, Paul broke down, sobbing at what he had done, how his carelessness had hurt Rico. He cried because the fire had paralyzed him, had almost killed them all.

  Johnny G came out on deck and wrapped him in a blanket, carrying him back in the galley, saying his name over and over again in his familiar deep voice. The flames were out but the charred, blackened floor and walls still smoldered. Sean threw buckets of seawater along the deck and picked up a broom, sweeping the debris away. The sick, pungent smell of wet, scorched wood filled the air. Paul watched in hopeless misery as his dad tended Rico. When the bandages were finally secured, Paul’s father walked over to Paul and, without saying a word, took him in his arms. To this day, his most vivid memory was his father’s hands as they held him that night. They were burned, red and black, the top layers of skin curled and rolled back on his fingers, raw blisters covered his palms. But Busch didn
’t seem to notice; he just sat there holding his son, rocking him in his arms till dawn.

  The Byram Blonde pulled into the dock as the sun rose. Johnny G, Rico, and Sean waited on the boat while Paul was taken home by his dad. They never said a word to each other the entire ride. Paul sat in shock, staring out at the foggy morning, locked under his dad’s protective arm till they arrived home.

  His father carried him upstairs and tucked him into bed. As he was leaving the room, Paul whispered, “I’m so sorry, Dad.” His tears fell on his pillow.

  His father turned to him. “It was an accident.” And the way that he said it, Paul knew he truly meant it. “I thought I was going to lose you last night. I couldn’t live with myself if that happened. The sea’s an unforgiving place. My father taught me, like his father before him, that every time you sail out you never know if you’ll make it back to port, but every time you do, you must thank God for not only your safe return but for everything He has given you. And when you step onto that steady shore, you must remember that maybe tomorrow you won’t be so lucky. But today, you cheated death one more time. So you appreciate life all the more.”

  His father leaned down, kissing his forehead. “We made it tonight, that’s all that matters. I love you, son. Nothing could ever change that.”

  He headed back out to sea that morning.

  It wasn’t supposed to be a heavy storm but it came in hard nonetheless. A driving, pounding rain, huge waves, forty feet from trough to crest. Paul’s father never returned; The Byram Blonde was declared lost at sea. There was a memorial service for Johnny G, Sean, Rico, and for Paul’s dad but they never found the bodies.

  Now, as he did every morning, Busch stood at the window of his bedroom watching the waves crash the shore. Till this day, he still combed the beach for pieces of the Byram.

  Robbie and Chrissie charged into the room screaming; they hit the bed and launched themselves through the air into their father’s waiting arms. “Daddy, why can’t you stay?” his son demanded.

  “As soon as I get back we’ll spend a whole week together, no work, no phones, no visitors.” Busch could count on one hand the number of days he had been away from his kids. He had long ago made a quiet vow to himself that he would never leave his children the way his father had left him; he would spend his time with them making memories. And now he was breaking that vow. The pain he saw in his daughter’s eyes as he said good-bye was but a fraction of what he felt in his heart.

  As he loaded up the car, Jeannie handed him his passport. “I thought we were going to fill these pages together,” she said, fanning the little blue book.

  “We’ll have plenty of time for that.” Paul avoided her eyes.

  Jeannie grabbed his lapels. “Listen to me, Paul Busch: you find Michael and bring both your asses home lickety-split, you hear?”

  They pulled each other into a hug.

  “And hurry,” Jeannie added. She was always scared when Busch left home. She was a cop’s wife: every ring of the phone sent her heart into distress. She dreaded the day when she’d answer the door and be greeted by two of his fellow policemen, their hats off, their heads bent.

  “I love you, too,” Busch told her.

  “I really think we should stop for lunch.” Jeannie clutched an armful of shopping bags.

  “I’m fine, that frappuccino will hold me awhile,” Mary replied. “Please, let me carry something.”

  “You just enjoy the walk.”

  For the past hour, the two women had wandered the Westchester, another massive concentration of high-end stores with the dreary nom de plume of mall, America’s executioner of the local mom-and-pop store. Dr. Rhineheart had recommended the shopping expedition as a terrific way to break the soul-deadening routine of Mary’s treatment. It was mid-morning; the halls were filled with a smattering of stroller-pushing mothers and the over-sixty-five crowd. The two friends traveled the floors and escalators talking and laughing like a couple of schoolgirls. And though it had only been an hour, Mary looked as if she had just run a marathon. Her body was weak and frail. The combination of chemo and radiation had not only attacked the cancer but the rest of her body as well. “Attack” wasn’t the right word. “Kill” was spot-on. Killing her cancer, her life, her spirit. Her hair hadn’t fallen out yet, but where a month earlier there had been a glorious red mane befitting a lion, it was now flat and muted, thinning out to nothingness. Jeannie’s original plan had been to carry Mary off for a day of beauty, but she’d decided against it. She couldn’t escape the image of the hairdresser washing her best friend’s glorious hair away. Mary’s situation was humiliating enough, she didn’t need it compounded.

  “Let me carry that for you,” Jeannie said, trying to take the package Mary carried.

  “Hey!” Mary pulled the package back. “I’m not a cripple.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  Mary smiled. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just that so many people treat you different when you’re sick. They make you feel like some kind of freak. You’d think I sprouted long ears and a tail or something. The outside may have changed a bit, but the inside is still here.” She tapped her chest.

  “I know it is.” Jeannie put her arm around Mary’s shoulders.

  “It’s a terrible way to find out who your true friends are. Did you know that Paul comes by the hospital every morning with fresh flowers and food?” Mary paused, reflecting. “He hasn’t missed a day. Hang on to that man, Jeannie: you’ve got a keeper there.”

  “That’s debatable.” Jeannie let out a laugh. “The man doesn’t know what tough is. Dealing with criminals all day is nothing compared to raising two kids.”

  Quietly Mary said: “I’m going to be fine, you know.”

  “I know.” And while Jeannie took comfort in Mary’s conviction, she had trouble with the lie, desperately trying to hide the tears that stung her eyes.

  “I’m so worried about Michael, though,” Mary continued. The more she thought about Michael’s abrupt departure the more frightened she became. She knew how he cared for her and that he would never abandon her unless…unless it was something worse than what she was facing. And she was facing death. “I don’t know where he is or when he’s coming back. He’s in trouble, Jeannie.”

  Jeannie took her hand and spoke from her heart. “Paul’s gone to get him. Don’t be angry, Mary.”

  In all the years the two women had known each other, there had been an unspoken bond between them. Like sisters, they were irrevocably connected and upon Jeannie’s marriage, Paul had become Mary’s surrogate brother. Like Jeannie, he had always been there for her. The fact that their husbands—one a cop and one a thief—had become best friends had warmed her heart. “How could I be angry?” she asked Jeannie.

  “Everything will be fine. Please don’t worry. Paul will take care of it.”

  Mary’s thoughts kept running to her wedding vows. She had repeated them to herself again and again back when Michael was on trial: through good times and bad, through good times and bad. They had become her theme song. She figured she and Michael were getting the bad times out of the way first. And they had survived the bad times. Of course, now it was through sickness and in health, something that usually comes much later in life. But not for them. All of their vows were being tested far too early.

  “I’ve had these dreams,” Mary told Jeannie. “Horrible dreams. I’m terrified, Jeannie. I keep thinking that he’s not coming back.”

  “If Paul said he’s bringing Michael back, he’s bringing him back. Of course, they may stop off and play a little golf on the way, but they’ll be back.”

  Mary smiled but inside she remained frightened. Michael was in trouble, she was certain of it, and all she kept thinking was…

  Till death do us part.

  Chapter 22

  The street outside the little stone church was relatively empty, relatively silent. This twist of fate wasn’t lost on Michael as he stood looking out through one of its stained glass windows. Alo
ne in this silent place which smelled of incense and wax, he couldn’t help but remember a time when it all meant something to him. When he could recite the Mass like it was something out of his high school football playbook, mouthing the prayers spoken by Father Damico, the stooped old priest with the penchant for gnocchi and sambuca. Entering his parish church had once provided Michael with a sense of relief, of comfort, of somewhere he could always come to pray, to ask for help or a favor, or just to talk. There he had spoken to God. And He listened. As a child, Michael could swear He had even talked back. It had been his own little private miracle.

  But as Michael had gotten older, he found that God didn’t listen much anymore. In fact, from what he had seen, He didn’t listen at all. As his world opened up and he saw it for what it really was, he had felt betrayed: he had never experienced a miracle. What he thought was God’s voice had just been his own subconscious, talking back to him, producing the answers that he already knew deep down.

  Everything he was taught as a child, everything he believed in growing up, was a lie, like those titans in Greek mythology or the Norse tales of Thor and Odin. God was just another fairy tale that the fearful clung to in times of need, giving them a phony anchor to hold on to, providing slick answers to the unexplainable. All the pomp and circumstance, all of the holier-than-thou attitudes of the priests: they had become the very essence of the hypocrisy to him, they were just the manifestation of the lie, perpetuating a cruel myth like all other myths in an uncaring world. Everyone was so sure that their God was true, that they were the righteous ones, that they and their followers were the only ones on the planet who would find peace and comfort in the afterlife.

  But then he had met Mary and he’d indulged her beliefs, never daring to tell her his true feelings. He was in love and, well, the things we do for love. He would sit through weekly Masses not in prayer but in thought, his own little ritual, time to think about Mary and life, children and work. He went through the motions he had learned so well as a child, all the while keeping his opinions to himself. But when he had learned of her diagnosis, he could pretend no longer. He was right. God didn’t exist.