Michael smiled at her insight.
Not to be a nag but…You must be sure to eat at least one healthy meal a month, take your clothes to the laundry, and, above all, please remember to shave more often so as not to hide your handsome face.
Michael ran his hand down his scraggly beard and smiled again.
You have so much love to share, and as angry as it will make you, I must tell you to try and find love again. To have someone so caring as yourself alone, without anyone to feel your love, is a waste. I will not dwell on this, as I don’t want to upset you. You will know when the time is right, and I assure you that time will one day come.
Which leads me back to my real purpose, why I have brought pen to paper for the last time. It is to ask you to finally seek out something for yourself, to do something selfish. We had spoken of it many times but life always seemed to get in the way.
They are out there, Michael, somewhere in this world. And you, with your talents, with your skills, should be able to find them.
I had hoped to have found them for you. I had quietly begun looking, going back through birth records, trying to contact people who worked at the orphanage where the St. Pierres adopted you. But everywhere I turned, I kept coming up with dead ends. All I have to give you is the address of an attorney who does pro bono work for St. Catherine’s. I received his name from a woman I met while searching the birth records of Boston hospitals.
But I know you, Michael, and your propensity to put yourself last; that is why I am not asking you to find your real parents for yourself, but for me. It is my last request, one that will allow me to go to my final rest knowing that you are not alone in this world. Family has a way of making us whole, filling the emptiness that pervades our hearts, restoring the hope that we think is forever lost.
I love you, Michael. I will always love you, I will always be with you, eternally within your heart.
Your wife, your lover, your best friend,
Mary
On the bottom of the letter was a penciled-in address: 22 Franklin Street, Boston.
Michael looked at her words one last time, folded the letter, placed it in the envelope, and tucked it back in his jacket pocket.
Chapter 3
It was the beginning of June and they were already five days into the first heat wave of the year. And of all nights to lose the air-conditioning, this was the worst. The air was so hot that it seemed to sear the lungs upon each breath. And it just hung there, unmoving, no circulation, as if to embrace victims until they succumbed to the heat. Paul Busch was sure the take at the bar would more than triple the usual evening’s count; people were buying drinks strictly for the ice, and that was melting away within minutes. It was beginning to put him on edge; the inebriation was communal, the air temperature was unbearable. All they needed was one temper to flare and it would infect all, ending in a bloody brawl of bar-wrecking proportions. Not a good thing for a Wednesday night in June.
Valhalla was an upscale restaurant in a recently upscale town, serving an upscale clientele. The meals were straightforward American cuisine served in an elegant manner. The young barely-contained-ego crowd usually hung around after eleven o’clock for the chance to bag themselves a fresh kill, plying their prey with smooth talk and smoother liquor. And the thrill of the hunt wasn’t left to only hunters; many a huntress would be marking her territory on a Wednesday through Sunday night, with the pack actually leaning sixty–forty in the feminine favor.
The cherrywood bar was the only leftover from the restaurant’s prior incarnations: the Ox Yoke Inn, men’s grill, no women allowed; GG’s North, a biker bar closed down when the drag racing grew too difficult for the eleven-man police force; Par’s, a smoky excuse for a steak joint. The bar’s wood was lacquered and waxed to a high sheen and could tell a story more decadent than any church confessional. It was Paul’s pride and joy and, at the moment, it was hidden by the packed-in crowd elbowing for his attention for the next round.
The music flowed from a Steinway short, six feet of German musical engineering built in Queens, New York, circa 1928. The pianist squeezed out song after song, always able to strike a note with the bar-rail crowd, balancing the selection from current pop to seventies retro to Perry Como standards. With the indoor temperature hovering around ninety-eight, with a steam-room thick humidity, the sweat poured off the patrons, staining underarms dark, matting out the straight hair and frizzing the curls. The moist red-cheeked appearance of all stood in stark contrast to the musician who cranked out each song while remaining dry as a bone. Not a hint of perspiration on his clothes or his person except for one drop on his right temple, hanging just below his shock of unkempt brown hair. Michael St. Pierre’s voice was smooth as whiskey, rough as gravel, whatever was needed to strike a chord. Every Wednesday night he would play and the women would pounce, hanging around the bar trying to catch his attention, to lure him in with a seductive smile. And every Wednesday he would politely smile back, avoiding the trap of eye contact, remaining forever silent but for the words he sang and the occasional thank you.
There was a hint of pain in Michael’s blue eyes as he sang out Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight,” and all the women saw it, wishing it were them he was singing about, wondering who the woman was who drove the soul behind the voice.
As he finished the song, he stood from the piano, rising to his full six feet, picked up his leather jacket—his favorite, soft and broken in from years of riding—and headed for the far corner of the bar.
“Aren’t we melancholy tonight,” Paul said, abandoning the other patrons to pour his friend a straight Scotch on the rocks—being extra generous with the rocks.
“Is it warm in here?” Michael half joked, half changed the subject. With his finger, he swiped the cool water from his sweating glass and rubbed it on his forehead.
“I’ve got maybe fifteen more minutes worth of ice, then the place will clear out.” Paul returned to pouring for his customers but kept talking to Michael. “Feel like going up to the loft, catch the end of the Yankee game, or are you going to finally cave in and take one of these fine ladies home with you?” Paul tilted his head, alluding to a more-than-above-average group of women holding court at the bar.
One of the women, hearing Paul’s words, turned to Michael and flashed a coy smile. Her short blond hair looked surprisingly good for the weather. She caught Michael’s eye and wandered over. Several of the male patrons watched her move for Michael and abandoned fulfilling their fantasy for the night.
“You play very nicely,” she said.
“Thank you,” Michael said as he shot Paul a “thanks a lot” glance.
“You don’t look like a piano player,” she continued. And he didn’t. His wide shoulders and rough hands were more akin to an athlete or lumberjack.
“What’s a piano player look like?” Michael’s lip curled into a half smile.
“I don’t know, different,” she said, sizing him up, “not like you.”
Michael grinned and took a sip of his drink. “I’m sorry.”
“Why?” She cocked her head.
Michael held up his left hand, wiggling his ringed fourth finger.
“That’s OK.” She held up a four-carat diamond wedding ring. “So am I.”
Michael couldn’t hold in his laugh. “Thank you, anyway.”
She looked at him a moment, holding his eye, smiled, and turned away.
Paul watched the whole exchange, finished drying some glasses, and came back. “Why would you do that?”
“Do what?”
“What are you wearing that for?” Paul pointed at the wedding ring and smiled sympathetically. “Do you think maybe it’s time? You’ve honored her memory, Michael. Mary would want you to be happy, find someone, start a family.”
“I don’t want to get into this tonight.”
Paul leaned in. “I know you don’t. You don’t want to get into it any time Jeannie or I bring it up.”
“Listen, you guys have a beautif
ul family. But family isn’t for everyone.”
“Family is the most important thing, Michael. It’s the reason we do what we do. Those are your words, not mine.”
Michael said nothing as he stared at his friend.
“You can’t go through life alone, Michael.”
“Hey, I have you,” Michael said, throwing off a half grin.
“Yeah”—Busch put his hand on Michael’s shoulder—“but I’m not that good of a kisser.”
“Don’t sell yourself short there, Peaches.”
“Michael, what would Mary say if she saw you alone?”
Michael smiled, finished off his drink, and grabbed his coat. “I’ll talk to you in the morning.” And he walked out the back door of the bar.
Chapter 4
The Kensico Reservoir raced toward her windshield like a storm on the horizon. She didn’t scream; in fact, she didn’t make a sound. Of course, inside her head was a different matter. The thoughts raced about like spilled mercury. She held tight to the steering wheel of the white Buick as if it would somehow miraculously break her fall, but deep down she knew it wouldn’t. She judged the height of the bridge to be about sixty feet and she had only crashed through half a second ago. She could make out the piece of green guardrail that was torn out of the bridge as it preceded her toward the water. She watched as it tumbled end over end like a knife thrown at a target.
The three-second fall wouldn’t leave time for prayer…only regret and profound remorse for hiding behind landslides and obituaries. She regretted the subterfuge, although it was the only way to disappear. Or so she thought, but they had found her.
The two Ford F-10 pickups had come upon her without headlights, silently stepping out of the darkness, racing up from behind. They flew past her on either side across the bridge, racing for the other side at 110 mph. And then their taillights lit, painting the nighttime red as their brakes locked up, smoke pouring from their tires. And they simultaneously fishtailed to a stop, nose to nose, blocking the far side of the bridge. Two men jumped from the trucks, rifles aimed at her as if she was some kind of criminal. She waited until the very last second, hoping this was some kind of mistake, that the men would jump back in their trucks and return to the legal side of life. But they didn’t. She was trapped and driving toward what she knew would be her death. Then she thought of escape. She waited until the last possible moment before throwing the wheel hard to the right, but the car didn’t respond as she expected—the right tire blew and she lost all control. She skidded, slamming both feet on the brake to no avail. She crashed through the guardrail and launched out over the water, the Buick sailing out into the night, flying above the lake like a bird in flight. She never saw a face, never saw the license plate, and had only recognized the trucks’ make because they were similar to one a friend had owned.
She had noted a different vehicle—a silver Chevy Suburban—four miles earlier. It had picked her up as she exited the expressway and had hung back about an eighth of a mile. When she stopped to fill up for gas, the Suburban disappeared and she wrote it off as coincidence. Maybe paranoia. But when she caught it trailing her again as she hit the road five minutes later, curiosity quickly turned to outright suspicion. And it was this distraction that had caused her to lose focus, to lose attention to the road, to never see the two Ford trucks. She never imagined that there would be multiple pursuers but that thought would do her no good now. Otherwise, she might have reacted in time to avoid the racing trucks on the four-lane bridge. She knew she would die with many questions unanswered and regretted leaving so many behind.
Forty feet from impact: her perfect hair and makeup didn’t provide the comfort they usually did in times of trouble.
She had seen Michael at her funeral—a surreal moment, hearing her own eulogy—as she stood in the background, hidden under a wide-brimmed hat behind Jackie Kennedy sunglasses. She saw the pain in his eyes, the grief she had caused a man who was already in mourning. The staging of her own death had left a trail of pain in all who loved her, aside from her accomplice. As she had hiked out of the mountains, as she had surreptitiously meandered throughout Europe for three months, she had hoped that her disappearance from the world would be permanent, one that would erase her from the memory of those who pursued her. But in hindsight, it was an action that only forestalled the inevitable.
She was twenty feet from impact, the car going vertical, when she thought about her purse. Genevieve reached back and wrapped her trembling hand around the leather bag, pulling it to her as if it would somehow save her life.
And the nose of the white car sliced into the lake, an explosion of water cascading out in a vee. The air bags instantly released, enveloping the woman in a cocoon of balloons, bracing her body against the force of impact, her seat belt cinched tight, further restraining her against the blunt trauma of the watery collision. She felt as if a thousand stones assaulted her body from every angle as her mind’s orientation was turned upside down.
The headlights cut through the clear water ninety feet to the bottom before flashing out. The car bobbed up and down for a brief moment as the echoes of the crash reverberated around the surrounding hillsides before the silence resumed.
As the car finally settled its motion, floating quietly, its front half submerged, the air began to escape through gaps in the rear windows, slow at first, then faster, until the hissing could be heard on the far side of the lake, sounding like a child’s scream. Then, as if the reservoir reached up its hand, the lake sucked the Buick under like quicksand. Within thirty seconds, all trace of the vehicle was removed from existence, the water smoothed to its once again glassy surface.
Chapter 5
The Harley-Davidson Softail cut down the dark empty street, her engine’s roar tearing the silent night apart. The canopy of overhanging trees blotted out the star-filled sky above, shafts of moonlight cut through, reflecting off the polished chrome of the motorcycle. Michael’s hair blew freely in the wind, his helmet strapped to the rear of the bike. He wound the motorcycle up to ninety-five, the wind in his face setting him free, no one to bother him, no one to pity him. His cheeks peeled back, reminding him of jumping out of planes in a previous life. He turned into his gravel driveway, kicking up a fishtail of rock, and made the quarter-mile run in twenty seconds.
The house was more than secluded; he was alone here, the world left far behind. It was a single-story high-ceiling mix of modern and ranch, filtered through the mind of some 1960s architect. The stone and wood exterior blended with the surroundings; other than the three-car garage in the back of the house, he hadn’t changed it much since he bought it six months earlier. Michael’s security company had finally found a firm footing, providing a steady income and employment to his three-person staff. The ever increasing high-end homes and businesses in the area provided a regular stream of installs and service contracts, and had recently begun to include even more remunerative consulting work.
Michael’s two Bernese mountain dogs raced out, barking at the hulking motorcycle until he cut the engine. Hawk was five years old, Raven just over a year. Michael finally broke down and bought the second dog. She wasn’t as big as Hawk and incessantly barked at shadows, but she made a good companion. They followed Michael into the house as he threw open the door. He tossed his jacket on the pool table in the great room and made a beeline for the kitchen. He popped a beer and pulled Mary’s letter from his pocket. He had read the letter twice through, his mind trying to come to grips with Mary’s words from the grave.
Michael had been happy, so happy with Mary that he’d been afraid he would wake to find his life was a dream. Mary completed him in the way only love can. She was his center, someone who loved him for all of his faults and missteps. She believed in him, had faith in him, filled him with optimism.
And it all died with her: his faith, his love, his optimism, and his hope.
But as he read her letter over again, those feelings, those emotions, were rekindled. Mary had a way of m
aking him see things more clearly even after her death.
He read the last line of her plea:
I am not asking you to find your real parents for yourself, but for me. It is my last request, one that will allow me to go to my final rest knowing that you are not alone in this world. Family has a way of making us whole, filling the emptiness that pervades our hearts, restoring the hope that we think is forever lost.
The phone rang, shaking Michael from his thoughts. He walked across the kitchen and picked up the receiver.
“Michael St. Pierre?” The woman’s voice was officious.
“Yes?”
“This is the Byram Hills Police Department. I have Captain Delia for you.”
Michael said nothing as he heard the click of the transfer. His heart beat faster as time seemed to slow around him. The police didn’t call Michael for social reasons, ever.
“Michael, I need to see you.”
Five minutes earlier, Paul Busch was cleaning up the bar, tucking away the bottles and freshly washed glasses. The till was fuller than it had ever been. This bar had been his dream for longer than he could remember. His wife, Jeannie, was more than supportive when he bought it; she knew it would get him out of the line of danger as it accelerated his retirement. The income was far more than his police paycheck, and he didn’t mind the fact that he could eat and drink for free—though he did miss the thrill of the chase, the allure of the hunt and its accompanying rush.
He was emptying the cash registers when the phone rang. “Fucking phone. It’s after midnight.” Paul picked it up with the thought of ripping the line out. “What?”
The Thieves of Faith Page 4
