The Thieves of Heaven (51 page)

Now, three hours later, Rhineheart affixed the automatic defibrillator to her chest. Flipped the switch. A unisex electronic voice droned from the machine:
“Three…two…one…CLEAR.”
A Klaxon alarm sounded and a surge of electricity shot through Mary’s body. Her unconscious form arched up in the air; her arm still dangled off the mattress.

In a fraction of a second, she slumped back down in the bed, her eyes still closed, the color drained from her face. Rhineheart leaned in with a stethoscope. Nothing. The heart monitor readout was green and straight, its whine uninterrupted.

He flipped the switch again.

“Three…two…one…CLEAR.”

Again, her body lifted off the bed, this time a fraction higher.

While Mary lay there with her heart as dead as dead could be, her mind raced on. She was lost not in the classic white room with a bright light before her, but rather a dark, cavernous hall. Nondescript and quiet. She felt nothing—no pain, no joy. Nothing. She could vaguely hear the calls of Dr. Rhineheart somewhere far away. He was working feverishly on someone—she hoped he was successful. She walked the hall trying the various doors, finding each locked. Somewhere close by she heard the murmur of voices, hushed and nondescript. She wandered toward the sound, the tone and cadence growing more distinct as she advanced. She came to the end of the hall where it ended in a classic T. The crowd—it was surely that—sounded as if it was behind every door, there must be thousands of people. Left or right, she wasn’t sure which way to go when a terrific sharp pain struck her, racing through her veins. Like a fire wire, the pain laced its way through her skin.

And just as quickly, the agony was gone. She still stood at the T. Left or right? The voices growing, like the roar of a stadium: the sound of men and women, the cries of scared children. All sounded confused, crying out to her for help like a city of lost souls. She went right, meandering for what seemed like hours, the frightened voices blotting out her own thoughts, confusion tearing her mind apart. She arrived at last at a door that stood out from the rest: black as ebony, old as dirt. She reached for the rusted knob. She entered.

The face shocked her, terrified her. You never had to meet him to know instantly who he was.

Her body was hit by that sharp force again, pain so great it seemed to lift her in the air, the white lights so brilliant they were blinding.

Rhineheart leaned over Mary, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Not going to lose you that easily.”

Mary lay there unconscious but alive, her heart returned to normal rhythm. The doctor looked up. “Let me know when she wakes up,” Rhineheart told the attending nurse.

He turned to Nurse Schrier, who stood with a hint of mist in her eyes; he took the big woman by the arm and led her to a corner. “I don’t care what you do, you find her husband.” He headed for the door. “Her body’s failing fast. I don’t know how long she’ll last.”

Chapter 30

S
imon and Michael were hunkered down in
the forest twenty-five yards from the monstrous black gates of Finster’s estate. It had been two hours. They were at a disadvantage; Simon didn’t like it and neither did Michael. They had no idea of the exact count of men they would have to deal with before getting to the house. They made a rough estimate at twelve. That number would apply based on Michael’s intel from his first visit if the basic security points were manned. But those would be the minimal points covered by someone with limited resources. Finster didn’t fit that profile.

And what if the keys weren’t there? If the man-count was at a minimum, they would have their answer. But if the keys were inside, well, then they would be facing an army. The trick was getting to the house before being detected. It was like capture the flag; the knack of the game was getting in the vicinity of the prize without being caught.

“We’re running out of time,” Simon whispered. His earpiece contained a subvocal mike wired into his cell phone.

“Patience,”
Busch replied over the cell phone, his voice tinny, far off, the signal breaking up occasionally on account of the poor spread of cell towers in rural Germany.
“He’ll show.”

Simon wasn’t so sure now—too much time had elasped—but he’d never admit defeat.

Twelve thirty a.m. and the line outside the club was still growing. The maroon velvet rope held back the hundreds of nobodies as the Somebodies were greeted and escorted in. The whole scene was frantic, reminding Busch of New York City’s golden age. Studio 54, The Tunnel, The Palladium. It was different then, the music was better—every generation possesses superiority about their music—the snobbery was less, and it didn’t cost you two weeks’ salary to have a good time.

He stood near the door, having identified himself to the bouncers earlier as a New York cop working with Interpol to bring back a fugitive. There would be no raid, no bust for drugs, underage patrons, or lewd behavior. Busch would quietly watch his man and when the time was appropriate, he would discreetly make his move. The bouncer was only too willing to cooperate, after Busch’s assurances. The five hundred euros didn’t hurt, either.

Busch was not looking forward to entering; he hated the techno scene, the thumping music, the incoherent lyrics mixed with inane rapping. He was a Springsteen-or-nothing kind of guy. He had to get Finster into the club unsuspecting, unaware of where he really was. It was the only way if Michael and Simon were to have any chance of success.

“Busch?”
Simon said in Busch’s earpiece.

“Yeah.”

“Why Peaches?”

“It’s killing you, isn’t it?” Busch leaned against the club’s doorway.

“Just killing time.”

“Old girlfriend from Georgia, loved the Allman Brothers’ album
Eat a Peach
, she always called me her New York Peach.”

“Really?”
Simon’s voice came back with suspicion.

“Allman Brothers story?” Michael whispered to Simon. He was lying in the grass watching the gates through the binoculars. Simon nodded. Michael shook his head. “It’s his wife’s name for a certain part of his body.”

Simon stifled a laugh.

Busch was beyond upset. Though Michael didn’t have an earpiece in, he could hear the raving coming from Simon’s ear.
“What did he say? Did he say—”

“Hey, relax.” Simon cut Busch off.

“Relax, my ass—”

But then there was silence. Obvious silence. “Busch? He’s only pulling your chain.” Nothing. “Paul, you there?” Simon tapped his earpiece, “Can you hear me?” Michael looked over, eyes questioning. “Quit screwing around.” Simon was suddenly deeply serious.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Busch’s voice came in, clear and grim.
“He’s here.”

The limo pulled up and out stepped the three arm charms, Audrey, Zoe, and Joy, each sensuous, breathtaking, their rainbow of hair blowing in the summer breeze. The three women flanked the car door as all eyes watched. Finster emerged to the kind of oohs and ahhs usually reserved for celebrities at the Academy Awards. The crowds parted like the Red Sea before the entourage as the quartet walked up the red carpet. Whispers, cheering, and catcalls mixed into the reverie as the velvet-rope hopefuls craned their necks to see the industrial giant and his beauties.

Busch slipped silently into the club from his perch at the door, parked himself in a corner, and monitored through the doorway as the bouncer held back the velvet rope and bid the celebrity party welcome. Busch watched as they stepped through the door and straight to the dance floor. An invisible barrier seemed to precede them as they did so, dancers stepping aside as if out of respect. People either stared or ignored Finster, enamored with his presence or completely oblivious to it. An oblivion entered into by drink, drugs, or ego. The charisma that Finster possessed was overwhelming; it was as if he owned the club, the people, the world.

Busch leaned against the far end of the bar and ordered a straight Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. He was out of his element now; his plain khaki pants and denim shirt made him a bull’s-eye right out of a Gap ad. He had never seen so many pierced body parts in all his life. Ears, noses, lips, and brows; bellies, nipples, cheeks, even chins. His mind wandered to the gutter and easily imagined several more spots ripe for piercing. And the tattoos…he had seen an awful lot of felons in his time and they had painted their bodies with untold numbers of works, none too creative, themes mostly running to mother, sweethearts, or fantasy. But here the money ran deep: these people could buy a Mona Lisa for their body mosaic.

Busch flipped open his phone, stuffed the earpiece in his ear, hit redial. He saw the connection made but could barely hear Simon on the other end over the deafening music. He sipped his drink and merely said in a loud clear voice, “We are a go.”

Busch didn’t wait for a reply; he flipped the phone closed and stuffed it in his pocket. He leaned with his back against the bar and tilted his chin up. The ceiling soared one hundred feet above, he could make out the thick wooden rafters that were placed two hundred years earlier. The smoky haze was thick up there. He imagined the original architect’s shock had he lived to see the day where his masterpiece was desecrated by this unforeseen future. The music pounding as bodies writhed in a clothed sexual orgy. Drinks flowed. Drugs abounded. A modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah. This was hedonism at its best.

Busch stayed at the bar; not for drink, but rather because it placed him directly between Finster and the exit. The only exit. Busch couldn’t believe the bodies crammed into this place; there had to be five hundred strong and easily double that waiting outside. A firetrap for sure—and that did give him pause, what with his fear of the flame and all, but he could overcome it for now—still, it was the only way out. There was no way Finster could leave without Busch knowing. The plan was rolling now, he even began to feel hopeful. Simon and Michael were surely well into their endgame. It had been a risk. Finster could have gone several places this night but here, this place called Rapture, was fitting in more ways than anyone realized.