The Thieves of Heaven (46 page)

Thal stepped off the elevator. The hallway was empty. On each hotel room door hung a do-not-disturb sign along with a breakfast order. Several empty food carts littered the hall awaiting busboy pickup.

Room 1283. Down the hall and to the left. Thal checked and rechecked both guns. That boy hadn’t even realized the safety was on. How foolish. If he hadn’t tried to be Superman, he would still be alive, albeit a little sore from being rendered unconscious. Everyone has to be a hero.

Holstering his Glock, Thal walked with the Magnum dangling from his left hand. Three in the room: St. Pierre, Busch, and some priest. He hadn’t confirmed it, but the information came straight from his handler. Beware the priest, he was told. Thal found that amusing.

Room 1283. He stood before the entrance, turning inward, gaining focus. His breathing grew shallow, his shoulders relaxed. He raised his leg to kick in the door.

Simon lay silently on the bed, the effects of the alcohol still slightly with him. He needed to rest, but rest would have to come with his eyes open. Only two candles remained burning, their glow casting flickering stripes across the shadows. After this, he was done. He couldn’t lie to himself anymore, he was past burnout. Having built a wall around himself all these years, he had never looked for friendship; he couldn’t afford friends. For a brief moment earlier this evening, he had seen that one day things could be different. He could find a life where he wouldn’t always be alone; he could find companions and maybe even a woman to share his life with instead of living the cloistered, celibate existence of a priest. All these years of pain, of avenging his mother—maybe that pain was finally dissipating. Maybe he could even redeem himself.

He shot up from the bed. Something startled him. He looked to the sleeping men—no movement. He spun out of the bed, grabbed his pistol from the night table, and covered the door. His blood raced, pounding in his ears. The silence was deafening. Had it been his imagination? Paranoia was creeping in and that would lead to failure, he knew he must never question himself and his judgment. He was a solo operator and yet here he was with two accomplices, two passed-out, inebriated accomplices.

He heard it again—subtle, someone was moving about. His body tensed. He raised the gun, aiming it head-high at the door he’d hung with crosses hours—it seemed a lifetime—ago. Those holy objects weren’t helping in the least.

Thal had both guns drawn now. It would only take three shots, of that he was confident. He didn’t expect much of a commotion; his guns were silencer-equipped, the halls were deserted. In less than a minute, he would be on his way. He would catch the six a.m. flight and be back in the States by nightfall. His employer agreed if he rid the world of the three on the other side of this door, he could retire with a fee that couldn’t be spent in ten lifetimes.

And with a blurring motion he drove his foot into and through the doorknob. The door exploded inward. Thal rolled, guns at the ready.

Chapter 26

T
wo days now. Not a word from Michael.
Despite Jeannie’s assurances, Mary was scared. Deep down she knew that he was in dire trouble. If he were able to call, he would.

And she was dying. Quicker now. The tumors were spreading like wildfire. The pain came in fits and starts—as much as she hated to admit it, she was growing dependent on the morphine.

She had checked herself out of the hospital this morning, against everyone’s wishes and every doctor’s order. She wanted to be home among her things. She wanted to be home waiting for Michael when he returned. She’d picked up Hawk and CJ from Mrs. McGinty. The old lady brought Mary a pot of soup and a green salad and never once did she allude to Mary’s illness. She was a woman who had witnessed the pains of dying: she walked this road with experience.

As Mary stepped into the den she saw the papers covering Michael’s desk: newspaper articles on a German businessman, photos, magazines…Michael’s desk was a mess, so incongruous with his anal nature. He’d obviously left in a hurry. She had suspected he’d gone back on his word. Years ago, when she was confronted with the reality of Michael’s clandestine life, she’d felt betrayed and angry. And while she eventually found forgiveness, it was a long way back to trust. Now, seeing these papers before her, her suspicions increased that Michael may have broken his promise. Still, she knew he loved her and would never betray her. She was certain whatever he was doing, his intentions were honorable.

“Hello?” Jeannie called from the hallway.

“Be right there.” Mary scooped up Michael’s papers, shoving them into the bottom desk drawer. As she turned to leave the room, she saw something sitting on the desk chair. Not knowing what it was, she picked it up. Her heart stopped when she saw the imprint on the security bracelet.
Property of the Byram Hills Police Dept.
Michael was in far more trouble than she had ever imagined.

“Brought you some food,” Jeannie said as she approached.

Mary didn’t know what to do; she couldn’t let Jeannie know about Michael, not yet at least. It crossed her mind that maybe she did know and that was why Paul had gone after Michael. She shook off the thought and stuffed the security anklet in her pocket.

The kitchen was one of Mary’s favorite places. It wasn’t large but it was big enough for her. She loved its oak cabinets and its polished aluminum appliances. She loved to cook, viewed it as an art form: like painting or sculpting, it was something perfected with time and talent and patience. It possessed a bit of the sciences, chemistry in particular—a little too much of this or not enough of that could create a disaster. There was nothing she enjoyed more than having dinner ready for Michael when he arrived home from work. It may have been old-fashioned and out of sync with the whole women’s movement, but she didn’t care; it was what she took pleasure in.

“My God,” Jeannie gasped. “Where’d all the food come from?”

Mary had been cooking all afternoon, finding it one of the more relaxing things she had done in a month. So the fridge was near bursting. “I told you I cooked up a storm.”

“Who’s going to eat all this?” Jeannie asked.

Mary started to answer,
Michael,
but the name died on her lips.

Jeannie instinctly regretted her question. She took Mary’s arm. “Paul called.”

“Did he find Michael?”

“Yeah, I spoke to him early this afternoon; they’re at a hotel in Berlin.”

“Berlin? What did he say?”

“Not much. Paul was in a rush, said they were fine, back in a couple days, that’s about it.”

“Do you have the number?”

“He wouldn’t tell me,” Jeannie said with a sly smile.

“And?” Mary knew Jeannie well enough to know she had something up her sleeve.

“Well, let’s just say he’s not the only detective in the house.”

“You’re so sneaky.” Mary grinned. “Can we call them?”

“It’s the middle of the night there.”

Mary looked at her, a bit disappointed, but relieved, too. “We’ll call first thing,” she decided. “At least we know they’re safe.”

Jeannie wasn’t so sure. Paul had said that everything was fine but that he and Michael had to take care of one quick thing and that didn’t sit well with her. Her husband had no business over there except bringing Michael back. There was nothing to take care of unless…

Mary set the dining room table for dinner and served up a garlic rib roast with new potatoes and the huge green salad that Mrs. McGinty had brought. Conversation was infrequent as the two women ate, mostly centered around the exploits of the Busch children and the recent heat wave that blew into town.

It was eight o’clock but it might as well have been midnight, the way Mary felt. Exhaustion came on quickly; she no longer had the stamina of even a week ago. The drugs had stolen even that.

Jeannie brought the conversation to the living room couch where they had their dessert. The words were coming hard now for Mary; she wanted so much to speak to Michael and while she took comfort in the fact that Jeannie said he was safe with Busch, her doubts would only be dispelled by the sound of his voice.

Her friend’s anxiety was obvious. Impulsively, Jeannie opened her purse and pulled out a slip of paper. She reached for the phone.

“It’s too late to call,” Mary protested.

“Yeah?” Jeannie said with a tilt of her head. “I don’t know about you, but my husband has woken me in the middle of the night for less important things. He’ll get over it.” She finished dialing and passed the phone to Mary. “It’s a direct line to their room.”

Mary got that tingling in her stomach from anticipation; once she knew her husband was safe, she knew she would finally get some sleep tonight. The phone rang with that flat dual European ring. It rang a second time. Mary felt like a kid again waiting to open the door to the living room on Christmas Day. Again it rang. She looked to Jeannie. Her smile became forced. Concern was seeping in. How big a room was it? Two fifteen in the morning. Why wasn’t Michael answering?