The Thieves of Darkness (59 page)

And as the torch fell to an ember, its flame diminished to sputtering sparks, the shadows moved in, overcoming him in darkness, and Philippe Venue’s mind finally crumbled in fear.

A refined man, his salt-and-pepper hair perfectly cut, his blue eyes piercing the morning air, stood on the front porch of the large ranch-style house in Byram Hills. He watched as the limo drove up the drive and came to a halt.

Hawk, Raven, and the younger Bear came barreling out of the house, barking and jumping in anticipation of their master’s return.

Michael emerged from the limo and took KC’s hand, helping her out. From the other side Simon and Busch came. They carried nothing but exhaustion.

“Stephen,” Simon said as he shook the refined man’s hand. “I owe you—”

Stephen Kelley held up his hands, halting Simon in midsentence. “Good to see you.”

Busch walked over and looked down at the tall man. “Hey, Steve.” Busch smiled. “You really need a better choice of beer in your jet.”

Stephen laughed as Simon and Busch let themselves into the house.

“Hey, Dad,” Michael said as he warmly shook his father’s hand.

“KC,” Michael said, turning to her, “I’d like you to meet my father, Stephen Kelley.”

“It’s such a pleasure.” KC smiled.

“Not half as much as mine. I hear you and Michael have a lot in common.”

KC turned to Michael and grinned.

“I told him he needed to find an athletic woman. I hear you humbled him in basketball,” Stephen said with a smile.

“Among other things.” KC laughed as she jabbed Michael with her elbow before turning back to Stephen. “Thank you for the jet.”

“You’re very welcome.”

“Yeah,” Michael said. “Thanks.”

“Just wait until you get the bill for the fuel.”

KC
WALKED INTO
Michael’s study. She was showered and wore a pair of Levi’s and a white cashmere sweater; her blonde hair was brushed out, falling long down her back; her green eyes sparkled with a light that brought a smile to Michael’s face.

She looked about his sanctuary, at his golf clubs in the corner, the picture above his fireplace of a 1920s leatherhead football team awaiting the snap, at his overflowing shelves. She glanced at books on everything from magic to safes, chemistry to boats, music to art. She turned back to Michael, who was lost in the map on his desk.

“What are you going to do with that?” KC asked. “Don’t you think you should burn it or something?”

Michael looked at the five-hundred-year-old chart drawn by Piri Reis; its detail and insight spoke of more than just the mountain Kanchenjunga. It was a chart that revealed much of the world that still remained hidden.

“Maybe you should give it to Simon,” she said.

“He has the rod, he tucked it away somewhere only he knows. We agreed I would do the same. Keep the two items as far apart as possible, with no one other than us knowing their whereabouts or existence.”

Michael rolled up the chart, tucked it into the tube, and slipped it into his golf bag next to his nine iron.

He walked over to KC, stepping close to her; he could smell a hint of her perfume, subtle, unmistakably her. He reached into his pocket
and pulled out the silver Tiffany necklace. He leaned forward and gently strung it about KC’s neck, brushing aside her blonde hair, his heart jumping as his fingers brushed the skin of her neck. He straightened the locket so it fell centered just below her neck and finally looked at the engraving:
There’s always tomorrow
. He had been thinking only of sports and rematches when he bought it, but the simple words of hope were much more prophetic and meaningful now as he looked into KC’s green eyes.

He reached out and drew his hand down her soft cheek; their eyes held each other as a comfort filled them, as a warmth rose from within places it had been buried away in both of them for so long.

The Bay of Bengal was a deep blue, mirroring the bright, clear morning sky. The sixty-foot yacht drifted through the harbor, arriving at the public dock. Its captain threw a mooring line to the shirtless, dark-skinned boy who stood on the deck. He caught it and secured it to the open mooring post. He followed suit with two more lines, helping to secure the boat tightly to the gray, weathered dock.

The man stepped to the yacht’s edge and passed a handful of bills to the boy. The skinny child gladly took the large tip, but as he looked up he jumped in sudden fear. He stared for a moment, unable to tear himself from the man’s image. He finally averted his eyes, nodded in thanks, and ran off.

The captain paid the boy no mind, walked along the deck of the yacht, and went below. He stepped over the woman’s body as if she were a sleeping pet; he had thrown her husband overboard three hours earlier in the middle of the sea with an anchor tied about his feet and his belly slit wide open in invitation to the ocean’s carnivores.

The man’s face had begun to heal, but the scarring was nothing short of terrifying; children gasped as he walked by, women did everything not to shriek. He was like a monster that had arisen from the grave, out of the depths and darkness of the earth. His left eye was milky white, the pale blue iris seemingly dissolved. The skin from the top left of his forehead down along his cheek, over his chin and down his neck appeared
to have melted like wax into a rippled, scarred mass of flesh. He walked with his body slightly askew, twisted to the left as if carrying a heavy weight. The bullet had remained lodged in the bone of his fifth left rib, its pain a constant reminder of his near-death experience.

He took down the framed picture of the husband and wife from the wall, removed the back, and tore out the photo. He pulled out and looked at the dog-eared picture. It was his favorite, the way the sun reflected off her blonde hair, her eyes as green as priceless emeralds. He slid it into the frame, placed the picture back on the wall, and stood back. The subtle rock of the boat made her almost seem alive before him and his heart smiled. She was the only thing he loved in this world. As far as he was concerned the rest of the world could burn.

Life is far more enjoyable when you work with people you like and respect. I would personally like to thank:

Gene and Wanda Sgarlata, the owners of Womrath Bookshop in Bronxville, N.Y., for their continued support and friendship.

Peter Borland, for your encouragement, insight, and that amazing ability to figure out what I’m trying to say. I’m truly blessed to not only have you as my editor but as my friend. Judith Curr, the most forward-thinking professional in the publishing world, and Louise Burke, for her unwavering support and belief. I could not be in better hands. Nick Simonds, for keeping it all together; Dave Brown, for getting people to sit up and take notice; Joel Gotler, my Obi Wan guide in the West Coast world.

And heads and shoulders above all, Cynthia Manson. First and foremost, for your continued friendship—it is something I truly treasure. Thank you for your innovative thinking, your continued faith in the face of adversity, and unlimited tenacity. Your inspiration, guidance, and business acumen are exceeded by no one.

Thank you to my family:

My children, you are the best part of my life. Richard, you are my mind, your brilliance and creativity know no bounds; Marguerite, you are my heart, constantly reminding me of what is important in life—your style, grace under pressure, and sense of humor are an example to
all. Isabelle, you are my soul—your laughter and inquisitive mind keep my eyes open to the magic of this world we live in.

Dad, for always being my dad and the voice of wisdom that forever rings in my ear. Mom, you were always my champion on terra firma and you no doubt still are—how else can I explain my good fortune since your passing?

Most important, thank you, Virginia, for your patience with my unconventional life. My heart still skips a beat when you walk into the room with those dancer legs and deep brown eyes. No matter how dark the day, how high the mountain, or how difficult the task, when we are wrapped in each other’s arms, the world falls silent and nothing is impossible. Thank you for our life, thank you for our children, thank you for your love.

Finally, thank you to you, the reader, for taking the time to read my stories, for reaching out through your notes, letters, and emails. Your kind words inspire me and fill me with the responsibility to never let you down.