The Thieves of Darkness (2 page)

So, with his wedding ring off his finger and strung about his neck in memorial, he told his closest friends he was ready. And so were they.

With thick, tousled brown hair, his dark blue eyes sharp and focused, Michael was not the type who would ever lack for female prospects. He had a strong, handsome face that bore the signs of having been through life more than a few times. Just shy of six feet, Michael had remained fit, his body hardened by weights, rock climbing, and swimming. He was proud of the fact that he wore the same size jeans as when he was eighteen; he wasn’t going to let himself slip down the drain like so many guys his age.

Paul and Jeannie Busch had him booked four Fridays in a row. Four dinners, four dates of smiles and nods and stories to impress, four uncomfortable “Good nights,” and four beyond-awkward kisses. To say he was out of practice was an understatement.

But it was on the fifth date that things became unusual.

To start with, it wasn’t a dinner date, or a movie; it wasn’t even lunch. It was a game of one-on-one basketball on a Saturday afternoon, a date set up by, of all people, his friend Simon Bellatori.
Father
Simon Bellatori, an unconventional priest who was in charge of the Vatican Archives. Simon was a loner, his job consuming his every waking moment, leaving him with little time for many friends beyond Michael. He and Michael had faced life and death together, participating in each other’s quests, sharing each other’s pain. They had bonded in the worst of circumstances, which resulted in a relationship closer than family. And so, when Simon had mentioned KC, Michael did not want
to hurt Simon’s feelings, but he couldn’t imagine that a date set up by his reclusive, priestly friend would amount to anything short of mild discomfort.

Michael arrived at the outdoor court behind Byram Hills High School, ball in hand, confident in his game. He had never played in school, hockey being his winter sport, but he had a good shot coupled with some moves that never let him come up short in any street match.

KC was already there shooting baskets as he approached. She moved with the grace of a dancer, her feet silently skirting the ground as she dribbled the ball. Katherine Colleen Ryan was tall—taller than anyone Michael had ever dated. At five-ten, she stood almost eye-to-eye with him. Her hair was blonde, the color of cornsilk, pulled back in a ponytail; her emerald green eyes were clear and brilliant and filled with life. She was trim and athletic, though entirely feminine. She wore a white Nike T-shirt over dark blue shorts; Michael couldn’t help his eyes as they were drawn to her tan, lithe legs, amazed at how long they were. As Michael tried not to stare, he thought of the Valkyries, the Norse goddesses who carried the Viking dead from the battlefield.

“Hi,” Michael began, extending his hand in greeting. “I’m Michael.”

“KC,” she said with a subtle English accent that made her sound almost exotic. She took his hand and shook it with confidence. Michael was unsure if the moisture he felt was from his palm or hers.

They both stood there lost for words, their introduction growing uncomfortable with self-conscious smiles and too many nods. They silently walked onto the court, bounce-passing the ball to each other as if it was a language more easily spoken than words. Michael skipped warming up and threw KC the ball to get the game under way.

The game started off cordial; few words were spoken as KC dribbled the ball. She took the ball out, faked left, faked right, took the shot from beyond the three-point line, and drained it. It was after the first basket—the one Michael let her have—that things started to heat up.

She smiled at him and tossed him the ball, her blonde hair swaying with her every move. Michael nodded and took it out, moved right …
and KC darted in, stole the ball, drove to the basket, and made the shot.

Michael stared at her as if he were looking at a female Michael Jordan. He didn’t feel as if he were playing a girl, he felt as if he were the poor schlub plucked from the stands at an NBA all-star game whose lack of talent was being demonstrated in front of fifteen thousand fans. He was already cursing Simon for putting him in this situation and thinking they were a good fit. Some friend.

Nothing was said as KC and Michael looked at each other, one smiling in triumph, the other in amazement-tinged embarrassment. Michael knew he had to step it up to avoid total humiliation.

Swish
. Michael watched her make another basket.

But then Michael regained his game and his dignity. He answered with three straight baskets and the game remained head-to-head for the next half hour. For every one he sank, she sank one in return. The sweat was building, their hearts were pounding. Neither gave quarter. They were like two kids playing for the championship.

“Thirty-eight, thirty-eight,” KC said in her English accent.

“Next basket wins?” Michael said through heavy breaths.

KC nodded as she dribbled in, but Michael stole the ball, spun left, took the shot, and … missed. KC got the rebound, brought it back, and drove for the basket, but Michael stuffed her, stealing the ball. He brought it back, faked a drive, and from forty feet, with a prayer, nailed it.

“Good game.” KC smiled.

“Yeah, good game,” Michael said as he leaned over, hands on his knees, catching his breath.

“I thought I had you,” KC said as she brushed a few stray blonde hairs from her face.

“There’s always tomorrow.” Michael laughed, hoping to avoid a rematch.

D
INNER WAS AT
Valhalla, Paul and Jeannie Busch’s restaurant in Byram Hills. They ate in the shadowed back corner, like two teens on
the first date of their lives. Though they were both hungry, their steaks sat almost uneaten as they became lost in conversation for over three hours, talking about sports and life.

“Is there a sport you don’t play?” Michael asked as he sipped a Coke and leaned on the table.

“None that I wouldn’t try,” KC said. “Though I kind of prefer my sports faster, a bit more dangerous. The civil ones bore me after a time.”

“Dangerous?”

“You, know, the edgy ones. That’s why I love the United States; it’s like an extreme playground. You’ve got the Colorado River for whitewater rafting, the Rockies for climbing and skiing, California for surfing, Lake Placid for luge and bobsled, Wyoming for horseback and hang gliding.”

“An extreme junky.” Michael laughed. He had always had an affinity for adrenaline, an addiction that had helped shape his former life. “Bungee jump?”

“I can still feel the sweat on my palms from the first time I did it.”

Michael sat there absorbing what she said, her interests, her smile, her personality, understanding why his friend had set them up. “How do you know Simon?”

“I was writing an article about the Vatican a few years back,” KC said.

“Journalist?”

“Used to be.” She paused. “I was researching religious history. He was quite helpful. How do you know him?”

“We help each other out from time to time.” Michael hoped the lie wasn’t that obvious. “He’s a good friend. One of my closest.”

“Mine, too,” KC said. “I never blind-date, but he kind of insisted.”

“I can’t tell you how uncomfortable it is to have your friends picking your dates.”

“Makes you feel like you can’t do it yourself,” KC said in total agreement. She smiled. “What do you do for a living?”

Michael thought on this, speaking about the present with no allusion to his past. “I have a security firm.”

“Stocks or safety?”

“Safety.” Michael laughed. He could never wear a suit and stare at a computer screen all day. “Home and business security systems.” Michael hated lying, but it really wasn’t a lie as she had asked in the present tense. “Do you still write?”

“I’m actually a terrible writer. I do consulting for countries in the European Union, guide them in bridging the culture gap between their respective countries. Help them see eye to eye.”

“Sounds … exciting,” Michael said with feigned interest.

“Now you understand why I like jumping off bridges with a rubber band around my ankle.” She smirked. “I do get to travel a lot and it allows me to work when I feel like working. And better yet, we Europeans take the month of August off.”

“August off? Nice. Growing up, my dad the accountant never took any vacation.”

“Neither did my mom,” KC said, a tinge of sadness flowing through her voice.

“Siblings?” Michael asked, trying to short-circuit her melancholy.

“Little sister. She’s a little financial whiz, Goldman Sachs in London. You?”

“Only child; meant more food for me. Are you and your sister close?”

“As can be,” KC said warmly. “She keeps yammering about starting her own company. She has this mantra, ‘Thirty million by thirty, three hundred by forty.’ It’s all she talks about. Money. It’s getting kind of annoying. I just wish she’d get on with it instead of talking about it.”

“If she ever needs help…” Michael dug through his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and extracted an elegant, embossed business card, handing it to her.

“Stephen Kelley?” KC said as she read the card.

“He’s a financial guy, we’re close, he’s in that field if your sister ever needs a hand. Tell her to say she knows me. Just don’t call on a Monday.”

KC tilted her head. “And what’s wrong with Mondays?”

“I usually kick him around the golf course on Sundays cleaning out his pockets. It takes him a few days to recover.”

“Thank you.” KC smiled, moved by the gesture. She reached across the table and took Michael’s hand.

KC AND
M
ICHAEL
continued seeing each other over the coming weeks, their frequent dates becoming more interesting: golf at Winged Foot, dinner at Nobu; tennis in Forest Hills, lunch at Shun Lee Palace. Michael even got to pitch to her in Yankee Stadium thanks to his father’s connections and the Yanks being on the road. The games were always serious but filled with laughter, jokes, and witty repartee. They played for bragging rights and winner’s choice of restaurant. The victories were split down the middle, the games consistently going head-to-head, the loser always chiming in with the optimistic rematch phrase, “There’s always tomorrow.”

Their growing relationship was like nothing Michael had experienced before; it was as if she was a forever friend. They would talk for hours about anything and everything and then sometimes just sit quietly, comfortable in each other’s presence. He felt a sense of calm with her yet at the same time found her alluring, sexy. She had a sense of humor that was self-mocking and sharp, as if in direct response to a discomfort with her own beauty. Even his wary dogs liked her.

It had been almost a month since they met, one month since he barely beat her in basketball. They had yet to consummate their relationship. She respected his heart, his loss. She knew that some things couldn’t be rushed; that intimacy occurred only with comfortable, guilt-free minds.

Michael had made dinner, the marinated steak already on the grill, the table set with fresh flowers, the wine open and airing. As KC walked in, she saw the small box on her plate. It was square, pale blue: Tiffany’s. They simply smiled at each other as she opened it.

She withdrew a small silver locket and chain and turned it over, reading the inscription:

There’s always tomorrow
.

She held it in her hand and felt it touch her heart. It was better than a Christmas or birthday gift, for it was given unselfishly, not because of ritual or expectation; it was given from his heart. As she looked up, she could see behind his eyes: he was giving her far more than a locket.

They never made it to dinner. The steak burned, charred to a blackened crisp.

Michael took KC in his arms. He moved slowly. It was like his first kiss, his first time. It had been so long. But he lost himself in the intimacy, his head swirling, his heart pounding. She held tight to him. Neither could tell where one ended and the other began. Their breathing came in fits and starts. They focused on each other, losing themselves to time, each selflessly forgoing his or her own pleasure to ensure the other’s. Michael’s hands moved gently along her skin, feeling her goose bumps rise despite their heat. There was a passion to the moment. And Michael realized that they weren’t having sex—they were making love.

And as they lay there in the afterglow, they took pleasure in the silence, in knowing that they were safe with each other, that no harm could come to them as long as they were in each other’s arms.

The following day the call came: KC had to return to work, a business trip to Paris, the City of Lights, to help mollify the egos and temperaments of the German, French, and Spanish representatives to the Union, who constantly bickered over policy. She would be back in a week’s time. She asked for a second chance with his steak, yearning for a home-cooked meal. Michael said it would be marinating and ready. The good-bye was quick, as if it was a common practice, both preferring to look forward to long hellos. And as Michael watched her pull out of the driveway, he smiled. He had found something he thought he had lost forever.

Now, as Michael stared at the dining room table, at the unopened wine and fresh flowers, he wondered how he could have been so foolish. It had been four days since KC said she would be back; there had been no call, no note. He had left her countless messages without response. He felt the fool, opening his heart, sharing his soul, naively thinking he would find love again, so quickly, so easily.

He took solace in the fact that he had loved once and married, that he had been allowed to experience something most never truly feel. So Michael counted his blessings, buried his heart, and erased Katherine Colleen Ryan from his mind.

Michael patted Hawk on the head and had begun to clear the unused plates from the table when there was a knock at the door, stirring him out of the moment. The three dogs spun into a barking frenzy.

Michael walked through the great room, hushing his dogs, and opened the front door. A tall man, trim and fit, stood on the front porch, his eyes sharp and alive, belying his age, his salt-and-pepper hair perfectly groomed. He wore a blue Zegna sport coat and tan slacks with razor-sharp creases; everything about the man was exact and precise, even the angle at which he had parked his Aston Martin.