The Thieves of Faith (18 page)

He thought his life had skidded out of control even before today’s events. He thought his existence surely could not be any worse than it had been. His son Peter, the source of his greatest pride, had been taken from him nine months earlier.

And now Stephen sat here as ransom, as bait, his life in the hands of the son he abandoned at birth. A son who grew into a criminal.

Kelley carried the heaviest of burdens for giving up his first child. He had not done it out of fear or selfishness. In fact, it was an act of great selflessness. He and his first wife, Jane, were childhood sweethearts, both from troubled homes, who had been striving to break the mold, the curse of their lineage. Though they were both from the street, they still worked hard in school and were looking forward to attending college once they were able to scrape the money together. Jane’s unexpected pregnancy had, as could be expected, startled them. They were both Catholic and viewed abortion as a non-option. They quickly married without a single member of their families willing to attend, and moved into a small apartment on West Broadway on the south side. Stephen worked days at the docks loading and unloading ships and spent his nights at the local gym as a sparring partner for the upcoming Golden Glove contenders. Jane waitressed double shifts right up to her due date. They were both socking away the money and come fall, Stephen would start his education at Boston College. The plan was for Stephen to get his degree first and upon his completion, Jane would follow. They would juggle baby responsibilities and work. They were in love and though they knew the coming years would be difficult, they were looking forward to the arrival of their baby. Somehow they would make it all work, a life for themselves and their unborn child.

On March 15, Jane had gone into labor early in the morning as predicted, and everything was on track. But it all changed that afternoon. Stephen was there in the delivery room, the nurses imploring Jane to breathe and push. They could see the crown of the baby’s head. The mixed emotions that Stephen felt watching his wife in such agony, in such pain, to bring their child into the world were like nothing he had ever experienced.

But after one more push, it was a boy. Tears streamed down Stephen’s and Jane’s faces as the newborn suckled at her breast. Stephen had never felt such intense love as he felt that day for his wife and his son. Nothing could stop him, nothing could mar the joy that he felt. He kissed his wife repeatedly, brushing her auburn hair from her eyes. His life had taken on a new meaning that day, a new purpose. He was going to be the best provider, the most selfless man the world had ever seen.

The nurse took their son and placed him in a small bassinet and wheeled him out of the room.

Stephen leaned down to his wife. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she said with a smile more radiant than Stephen had ever seen before.

“You gave me a son.”

“You’re welcome.” Jane’s smile wouldn’t diminish.

Stephen looked at her, finding her more beautiful in all of her sweaty, messy glory, and leaned down to hug her.

“Promise me that you will never stop loving us.”

Stephen held her eye. “I like the sound of that. Us.” He stared at her a moment, memorizing her face as it overflowed with joy. “I promise.”

“Mr. Kelley.” The nurse was back, fresh towels in hand. “Sorry to interrupt you, but we would like to get your wife cleaned up.”

Stephen nodded.

“Why don’t you go see what they’re doing to our son, make sure no one hurts him. You’re responsible for someone besides me now,” Jane said with a small wave of her hand as she watched him walk out the door.

Stephen walked down the hall to the nursery. After a few minutes of searching, he found his son. They were running the usual tests, bathing him, making him more respectable-looking than he had been at birth. Stephen marveled at his little fingers and toes, amazed at his pinky toenail, inconceivably tiny, undoubtedly perfect. Stephen dreamed of teaching him to ride a bike, play baseball, share the Red Sox with him. All things dad. All things son. He lingered for almost an hour watching his swaddled child stir in his sleep.

Stephen finally walked out of the nursery and headed to Jane’s room. She wasn’t there. He thought nothing of it and walked back to the delivery room. He peered through the porthole glass in the swinging door and saw her still on the gurney. He walked in the room. She didn’t stir. He walked over to her, looking at her face, watching her sleep as he so often did. The moment hung in the air. And something wasn’t right. He felt her cheek, cool to the touch.

“Jane?” Stephen whispered.

Nothing.

“Jane?” Louder this time. He nudged her.

No response.

“Jane?!” Stephen shouted, shaking her.

The swinging doors exploded open with doctors and nurses.

But it was too late.

Her heart, so filled with joy and love, had stopped.

Two hours later, after listening to the doctors ramble on about cardiac arrest, about their sympathy for his loss, he staggered down the hall. Back to the nursery.

As he looked at the innocent child, sleeping in his blue cotton blanket so soundly, so peacefully, his mind started to race.
What will I tell my son about his mother? How could life be so cruel to rob a newborn of his maternal right before he even had a chance to be loved?

The agony of Stephen’s loss was only surpassed by the agony of his decision regarding his son. Without Jane, he knew he was unfit. Without a partner, he was incapable of giving the child the upbringing he would need. He had no family he could trust, neither on his side or Jane’s. Nobody would be coming to his aid, no one to even offer a helping hand. He and his son were alone in the world.

St. Catherine’s Orphanage understood his decision and explained that they would quickly find a proper home for the boy. And so they did.

Stephen followed Michael’s upbringing from afar, never disclosing his identity to the St. Pierres; they were his parents now, they were his family. He had checked them out and couldn’t have been more pleased with the couple that would be raising his child. He would occasionally show up in Byram Hills, an unidentified man at sporting events, watching as Michael St. Pierre won the football game or the hockey game. He learned that Michael’s grades were good at the Catholic high school he was attending. Stephen was proud but he would never violate the St. Pierre family’s sanctity. Stephen knew he had made the right decision.

With the death of Michael’s parents, Stephen considered revealing himself, but seeing the love that Michael had felt for his parents, he knew there was no room in his world for another father and decided some answers were best kept hidden.

And then he read of Michael’s arrest in New York City at the wall in Central Park. Caught stealing a bejeweled cross from an embassy. Michael was convicted and sent to prison. Stephen’s anger was overwhelming, second only to the shame he felt for judging a son he had abandoned. Michael’s actions bewildered him, so contrary to his assumptions, to what he had seen in his son. Would this have happened if he hadn’t given him up? The irony struck Stephen that Peter could have prosecuted Michael had the incident occurred in Boston. Conflicted and confused, Stephen stopped looking into Michael’s life: for three years he wiped him from his mind, renouncing any thought he had of ever contacting him.

But then he heard from Mary; she came in search of her husband’s father, Michael’s father. She had been given Kelley’s name by St. Catherine’s Orphanage as their biggest benefactor, their most politically connected advocate, and had sought his help, oblivious to his true identity. Stephen saw the disease that wracked her body, the death in her eyes, and knew it was only a matter of time. He knew what it was like to lose the one you love, your reason for living, your reason for hope. He knew full well the agony of having your heart ripped from your chest, having lost both of his wives and his son.

In all of Stephen’s years, he had shared nothing with Michael, acting only as a distant spectator—until now: grief was the cruelest common denominator.

As Stephen stood on the balcony, the warm sea breeze nothing but a distraction, the irony struck him; it was his punishment for forsaking his paternal obligation, it was his fate, his karma, the hand he dealt himself. For now his life, his very survival, lay in the hands of Michael St. Pierre, the son he had abandoned.

Chapter 18

M
ichael opened the passenger door of the
Corvette.

“I’m sorry I’m not coming with you,” Busch said from the driver’s seat as he held out his hand.

Michael shook it as he smiled. “There’s nothing to say. Jeannie would have my hide if I dragged you into my mess.”

“You sure about this?” Busch said in all seriousness. “It’s your dad, I know. But Michael, it’s a reach, even for you.”

“Would you do any less if you were in my place?” Michael pulled his satchel out of the car and threw it over his shoulder.

Busch paused. “Probably not,” he said. “Be careful. I don’t need to be hopping a plane to come and save your ass again.”

Michael smiled as he stepped from the car.

“And listen, watch out for that Susan.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. She’s got anger management issues. Being stuck with her in Russia would fry my nerves.” Busch paused, thinking…and finally smiled. “She is kind of cute, though.”

Michael simply laughed and shook his head as he closed the door and watched Busch drive off. He turned and walked up the sidewalk to an enormous airplane hangar.

Kelley and Kelley.
The polished brass plaque gleamed in the midday sun, its large lettering fit for the sign of an Irish pub. Michael stared at it, realizing that it was the name of his father’s law firm, recently rechristened to include Peter. And Michael, for the first time, realized that person was his brother—half-brother, but brother nonetheless. Michael was raised as an only child by the St. Pierres, always kind of wishing he had a sibling. Well, now he did…or had.

Michael opened the door and walked into the hangar. The jet was a Bombardier Global Express XRS, a long-distance corporate jet used to shuttle Kelley and his associates to wherever the money beckoned or the client demanded. It sat nineteen comfortably, had a top speed of 590 mph and a crew of three. It was thirty-eight million dollars of airborne luxury. A crew swarmed the jet, fueling it, tuning it, polishing it, and loading it up.

Michael walked through the enormous hangar—more like a cavern—carrying the satchel that contained Julian’s portfolio, Genevieve’s map, and nothing else.

Susan stood at the base of the jet’s stairs with two pin-striped lawyerly men, a look of surprise on her face. “Don’t you need supplies?”

Michael pointed at his head. “This is all I need to carry. Once we get there and I see the lay of the land, I’ll figure out a plan, then I’ll pick up what I need.”

Susan stared at Michael a moment with a look of concern, then turned back to the two men. They continued their conversation in hushed tones, just out of earshot of Michael. Michael took advantage of Susan’s inattention and stared at her. It was as if he noticed her for the first time. Busch was right: she was beautiful, her looks unmarred by her aggressive personality. Her dark hair framed her face and accented her brown eyes. Michael found himself lost in the moment but quickly shook it off. Though the two men she conversed with seemed twice her age, she was in charge of the conversation and appeared to be the alpha male—or female, in this case. She spoke with a confidence belying her youth, direct and firm in her convictions. And Michael felt a twinge of fear. Her overconfidence, that know-it-all answer she had for every scenario, would only get in the way of Michael’s plans. And if things were not done Michael’s way, it might mean death. She might be in charge here in the U.S., but once they reached Russia she would be consigned to the role of girl Friday: she would do Michael’s bidding, be his supplier, and stay out of the way. And while he knew that wasn’t going to go over well, he was kind of looking forward to seeing her reaction.

Susan wrapped up her conversation and led the way up the stairs into the plane. As Michael stepped into the passenger area, he was taken aback by the expensive décor and exacting detail. All around were furnishings of the highest standard: teak window shades, a large oak desk, a suede button-tuck couch. Michael took a seat in a large leather chair that seemed more appropriate to a living room than a jet.

An older man, bald, on the south side of middle age, took a seat at a small table across from Susan. He unlatched a maroon leather briefcase to reveal bundles of one-hundred-dollar bills.

“A million extra just in case, this should cover you,” the bald man said. “Are you sure about not bringing the FBI in on this?”

“I’m afraid that would only lead to Stephen’s death.”

Michael looked at her, hearing his argument used by his former opponent, who, for the moment, had become his ally.