The Thieves of Heaven (48 page)

“Shut up, nobody’s gonna get busted off of anything. I just need you to trust me.”

“Yeah, I did before and look where that got me.” Busch raised his arms, alluding to their present one-hundred-and-ninety-kilometer-per-hour situation.

“So I owe you.”

“You’ll get my bill.” Busch leaned over the seat to Simon. “Any idea who whacked the guy in the lobby?”

“No.”

“You realize they are going to have a field day with that hotel room we left behind, what with more crosses than a Bible convention.”

“Mmm hmm.”

“And now the cops are probably looking for us….”

“Mmm hmm, but they have no idea who we are.”

“No idea…,” Busch repeated, unconvinced.

“I have a little experience with this kind of thing and I’m sure your friend has, too.”

Busch looked to Michael, who raised his eyebrows in hesitant agreement.

“Finster really wants you dead.” Busch pointed out the obvious.

“Makes me feel so warm and fuzzy to get all this attention,” Michael remarked.

“Don’t get cocky. I would imagine he wants to take us all out,” Simon said, gripping the wheel, his foot to the floor.

“That’s comforting.” Busch watched the countryside whiz by.

“Take comfort in the little things. We got out of there alive,” Simon joked.

For a humorous guy, Busch was quickly losing his sense of mirth. He was marked for death, something he never would have comprehended three days ago. He would do a lot for his friend—hadn’t he always said he would lay down his life? But this was too real. Until tonight, he had never been on the run before.

At 2:17 a.m. Thal stood in the middle of a hotel room staring at the serious collection of crosses strewn everywhere. He held tightly to the pistol in each hand as his brain tried to process the sight before him. The unanswered ringing phone was like a homing signal, leading him from the room above down into this religious retreat that seemed to have lost its way. The phone finally fell silent. “What the fuck?” was all he could mutter.

At least he knew he had the right room this time. How ridiculous were these crosses? Like a cross would keep him out. And for a moment he wondered if maybe they were keeping someone or something else out. Dracula and the werewolf were fiction but these crosses still hung there. And they weren’t for praying—you only needed one for that, his Episcopalian upbringing was clear on this fact. These were for protection. He had given up his faith long ago; God was merely for the weak, the big brother hero to turn to when darkness was around the corner. But still the thousands of crucifixes were to ward off something, something that the conventional weapons of man couldn’t defend against. But what?

Before he had a chance to really consider the possibilities, a voice screamed out behind him, “Halt!!!”

Thal did nothing of the sort. The German policeman was dead before his riddled head hit the carpet. As the smoke from his two guns cleared, Thal scolded himself for getting lost in thought.

No time now for a search, he grabbed some of the crosses in hopes of IDing them later, and took off.

He hustled down the hall, stowing his guns in the back of his waistband, and hit the elevator button. If the cops were downstairs, better to act casual and try to head out the front door in hopes that the lobby commotion over the dead body would be overwhelming. When the elevator door opened, however, his plans took a dramatic turn, one that would make headlines for days and be remembered for years to come.

The three policemen drew their guns on Thal, who threw his trembling hands in the air in mock fear.

“He’s dead…
Dead
,” Thal said in English. His voice quivered as he pointed down the hall.

Two of the cops ran to the room, guns ready, and bisected the door for cover.

“I’m an American. They ran down the stairs”—tears streamed down Thal’s face—“down the stairs.” Thal took pride in the way he could assimilate himself into any situation or mood. But what thrilled him at this very moment was the burning in the small of his back where the two red-hot gun barrels burned his flesh. He could swear he was beginning to smell something.

The policeman in front of him, a rookie by the name of Schmidt, radioed down for help. “Cover the stairs, officer down,” he said in German. He stepped closer to Thal. “What did they look like?”

Thal debated giving the description of Simon, Michael, and Busch, but that would send them to ground. No, Thal needed them relaxed; he couldn’t afford anyone else hunting his quarry. He began to blubber, his arms trembling with his whole body.

“You can put your arms down—” the flustered young policeman said.

His words were interrupted by the gasps of his partners, who had entered the room where the murdered officer lay. The young rookie’s curiosity drew him slowly down the hall, while his gun remained trained on Thal. He glanced in to see his former training buddy Jon Reiberg in a pool of blood, his left foot spastically twitching. As hard as Schmidt tried, it took him a good fifteen seconds to pull his eyes away from the horrid sight. And when he did so, he saw the lean American holding a small holy cross in his right hand, unconsciously thumbing its edge as he leaned against the wall directly opposite the suite, crying like a baby. Schmidt looked back in the room to see one of the other cops puking in a corner. The whole scene felt like an out-of-body experience as the astonished rookie watched the third cop pirouette and fall.

Schmidt never felt the bullet pierce his heart, the gunshot sounded so far away. Time crawled as he watched his two partners spin about and fall under the barrage of bullets coming from the two guns held high by the man in the doorway. Schmidt found it so strange to watch the man rapid-pull the triggers of two monster-sized guns as tears still sat upon his cheeks. Whatever happened to that cross he was holding? Schmidt fell to his knees, feeling so tired but not the least bit of pain. And he at last noticed them. They were everywhere; all about the room. Why didn’t he notice them when he first looked in? No matter. He fell to the floor, the last remnants of life escaping through the bullet holes in his chest. He died there, among the three thousand crosses.

Thal ripped the badge off Reiberg and sprinted three floors up the stairwell. He ran to the end of the hall to one of the few doors with a do-not-disturb sign and pounded on room 1474.

An annoyed English accent cried out from within, “Jesus Christ, what the hell?”

Thal remained silent, waiting as the man within stumbled through the room. After thirty seconds, the door parted just an inch and Thal thrust Reiberg’s badge in the man’s face. “Excuse me, sir,” Thal said in a strained German accent.

“What the bloody hell is going on? A fire or something?”

“I’d just like a moment of your time.”

Chapter 28

D
awn. In the Bavarian countryside just beyond
a field of barley, the knee-deep blanket of fog was beginning to burn off in the early morning sun. Michael and Busch sat on a split-rail fence watching a herd of grazing Black Angus. There must have been three hundred head in the lush green pasture all gorging themselves, unaware of their pending demise. Michael couldn’t help thinking that the cows had gone through their existence unaware of their future, unaware that it was controlled by something higher in the order of life.

Simon had checked them into a small motel next to the meadow at three thirty that morning. The ancient wrinkled clerk and the priest had conversed for quite a while about the diminishing faith in the world and the loss of an entire generation to television. Simon’s German was dead-on and the added touch of the priest’s collar—Simon apparently wore it only when absolutely necessary—deflected any possible suspicion of Simon’s travel at such an hour. The small lobby hadn’t seen a paintbrush in twenty years and that was just fine—the more inconspicuous the place, the more inconspicuous they would be. Simon took the key and gently pulled shut the front door.

The motel rooms were situated along a strip of sidewalk bordered in fresh begonias planted by the clerk’s equally ancient wife. Simon had asked for the room furthest from the road under the pretense of the need for quiet prayer and meditation. Confident in their seclusion, the priest motioned the hidden Busch and Michael from the car into the room, locking the door behind them. The room was sparse—two single beds, a dresser, and a bathroom.

While the others slept, Michael took the first watch. No crosses this time, just guns.

Their plans would not change as a result of their near-demise and relocation. Within the next twenty-four hours they were going to steal the keys back. They each had their roles but once they began the job, Michael would be in charge. It was his plan and the other two were riding on the coattails of his experience.

The morning was crisp and clear; Michael inhaled slowly, forcing himself to remember the moment. But for the faint smell of cattle, the air was the cleanest he had ever known. He’d run his plan over and over in his head all night, playing out every possible scenario; he never left anything to chance and always hoped for luck.

“Did you get Mary?” Busch asked, his legs hitched up on the middle post rail. If he had a ten-gallon hat he could have passed for John Wayne keeping watch over the herd.

“She checked out of the hospital.”

“That’s great. Is she home?”

“I’m assuming. It’s one in the morning there, God knows she needs her sleep. I’ll try her after lunch.”

“Sure you don’t want to head home now? We could ditch the priest. Be home by tonight.”

Michael had run that possibility through his head more times than he wished to remember. It was something that had gnawed at him since he’d arrived three days ago. He was chasing shadows and myths. What good was it possibly doing? He and Busch could leave and let Simon try to steal the keys back on his own. All Michael wanted was Mary. They didn’t have much time left in the world and what little they had he was pissing away here thousands of miles away from her. His guilt was crippling. It wasn’t fair to either of them. Mary needed him and he needed her. But what had pulled back his resolve as he sat guard last night was pulling him back now. Michael couldn’t face the possibility of Mary dying in limbo, trapped forever in Purgatory, her faith destroyed, her eternity left in shambles, all at his hands. Doubt about Mary’s eternal peace would devastate him for the rest of his days.

And it would be his fault.

Michael finally looked at Busch. “If you want to back out, I understand.”

“In for a penny…” Busch grinned. Despite everything, he felt more alive with the risk laid out before him. He finally understood what his father felt every time he headed out to sea. It was the thrill of never knowing what was over the horizon. It was the risk that made a man really feel alive.

Mary woke at dawn. Unable to fall back to sleep, she forced her body out of bed and into the shower. The hot water across her back, the steam filling her head, helped to cleanse the nightmares from her mind. The dark dreams had returned with a vengeance. And though she had not recognized it, it was one of the main reasons she checked herself out of the hospital. She needed to be back in a world she could control, a place where her mind would be at ease, somewhere she could suppress the unconscious images of dread and terror that had tormented her.