The Thieves of Heaven (57 page)

They may have been two hundred feet below the ground, with thousands of tons of dirt and rock over their heads, but the thundering noise made its way down into the bowels of the earth nonetheless. It was like the crash of a military jet slamming into a mountainside, concussive and threateningly low. The soil and stone literally shook out of the ceiling, crashing in a choking mist about them. They were sure the world would collapse at any second.

The enormous front door blew off its hinges and landed on the main stairs, the force of the blow instantly collapsing the grand flight of steps into a pile of splintered scrap. Finster, in an absolute fury, flew through the house. It was as if an invisible wave preceded him: the wooden walls fluttered and distended like a balloon around him, the pictures crashed down, statuary tumbled to the floor. Anything caught in his way was destroyed.

Five minutes into his ambulance ride, he had come fully to his senses. He had never been so utterly fooled, done in by his lust, vanity, and greed. It would never happen again, he swore. To the shock of the attending medic, he ripped off his gurney restraints, flung open the rear door, and leaped from the ambulance as it sped down the autobahn. His chauffeur, attuned to the situation, had trailed the emergency vehicle, watching with a smile as Finster flew out onto the road. Closer than a hairbreadth, the driver swerved around the cartwheeling body. Then he sped alongside the ambulance and broadsided it with the limo, forcing its terrified driver to the side of the road. Finster rose from the ground and dusted himself off.

It wasn’t Finster who took out the medics; the chauffeur did the deed. The two EMTs died with countless questions swirling in their heads about their last pickup.

As the limo tore through the gates, ripping them from their stone moorings, Finster saw the first two victims. He had underestimated Michael and the priest and overestimated his little mercenary outfit. His years as a powerful industrialist had made him forget the power of a man facing death. And the even stronger will of a man trying to save the one he loves. As the limo reached the top of the drive, the carnage was laid out before him. Dead soldiers everywhere, the blood splattered about as if by a paintbrush. His wrath grew exponentially, escalating with each stride toward the house; his pent-up fury finally exploded forth as he blasted into the stone mansion, destroying the front doors in his way.

Within seconds he was at the cellar door, tearing it from its hinges. He descended the stairs in a flash; there was no need for light, he knew the way by heart. He was home.

Finster, stalking, more animal than human, moved through his gallery, his back hunched over, his footfalls silent, looking about cautiously as he faintly sniffed the air. He sensed something off to the right, behind the stack of Russian warfare paintings, but passed it by. He loved the hunt, the way you seek and flush out your quarry, toying with them, allowing them to believe they were smarter, that they could deceive you, when in fact they were hopelessly trapped.

He continued through the darkness toward the door of the key chamber, passing the Gates of Heaven painting: his motivator. The picture had driven him, kept him focused on his goal, like a prisoner who kept a photograph of the mountains taped to his cell wall to remind him to stay attuned to freedom. The painting gave him something to strive for, it almost gave him hope. No one would take that from him and anyone who dared try would pay the price. He took the rusted door ring in his cold hand and pulled, the black door reluctantly creaking open.

Without warning, he spun about, reaching out violently with his left hand, seizing the night. The room started to shake, the air became charged; blue sparks erupted out of the blackness. Statues toppled, pictures crashed to the ground; the seemingly inanimate room came suddenly alive with confusion and mayhem. Out of the darkness, two bodies rose: Simon and Michael. Floating upward carried on an unseen wind. Higher and higher, twenty feet up, until they were crushed to the cavern’s ceiling, dangerously close to the razor-sharp stalactites. Hands and legs splayed out, the two men were pressed upward, as if gravity had somehow reversed itself. With a flash, the weapons that each carried flew from their bodies. Guns, knives, all tumbled to the ground.

“Why?” Finster raged. “Did you really think you could beat ME?” He stepped beneath them, looking upward, guiding them with his hand like helpless puppets on an invisible string.

Where doubt had swirled in Michael’s head about the true identity of his former employer, utter and complete fear now took up permanent residence. He saw candles and torches coming to life, igniting spontaneously all about the perimeter of the cavern, illuminating everything. He had not known the depth of depraved art that Finster had amassed: tenfold to what he had previously glimpsed, all lit eerily by the orange glow of the torches. Bigger than a football field, the area below him held a sea of artifacts, stretching out as far as the light carried, filling the largest cavern that anyone had ever witnessed. The ceiling undulated wildly, the stalactites pierced the shadows like teeth from the mouth of a beast. Finster paced below. His custom-made clothes tattered and torn, his posture a coiled spring. Even at a distance, Michael could see his eyes had gone red, deep and menacing as they reflected the candle flames.

“Give me what is mine!” Finster bellowed. “Give——me——my——
keys!
”

Simon was in obvious pain, the side of his face sliced by a stalactite, the blood pooling on his cheek before falling like rain to the earthen floor below. But his eyes never conveyed fear as he struggled against the invisible hand. “They never were
your
keys,” he spat.

“They are now, priest! As is everything that goes along with them. Now, give my keys to me before I rip out your hearts.”

Michael’s face was contorted in agony as he breathlessly uttered, “You…made…a promise.” Simon looked to Michael, confused by his statement. “You said you never break a deal.”

“Point?” Finster sneered.

“You promised me no harm.”

And Finster smiled. “Aren’t we the wise one? Such foresight.” He looked to Simon. “I’m afraid you don’t have a similar arrangement.” Simon was crushed further into the ceiling, the air forced from his lungs, an invisible vise about his chest.

“Now, give them back,” Finster growled, his voice holding but a fraction of its former timbre and elegance. He stalked away, but paused before the key chamber door. Turning back, he sneered: “You are right, Michael. I did promise I would not harm you, but that is why
he
works for me. I don’t recall
him
making any such promise.”

Down the shadowy stairs came Finster’s driver, the one who’d picked him up off the highway. A pistol in his left hand, the same gun used to kill the paramedics.

Dennis Thal was finally going to redeem himself in the eyes of his boss.

He had arrived earlier that night. Finster was standing in his library enjoying the joys of Joy; the billionaire said not a word when he entered, only stared at Thal for his apparent failure. Thal had never imagined that it was this renowned billionaire who had pulled his strings, who was the mysterious voice giving orders over the phone. Finster’s eyes intimidated the assassin so much that Thal couldn’t verbalize his failure for fear that he would be dead before the final words left his lips.

And so Thal said the only thing he could think of that would prolong his life: “They are dead.”

Finster’s eyes softened as he heard this. The last real obstacle to his success—Michael St. Pierre and that madman priest—had been removed. But he still was the consummate businessman, cautious and shrewd. He would leave no room for error. He’d armed and protected his home with every resource, every man he had at his disposal. All of his private army including his driver were mobilized for the continued protection of his keys. To this end, Finster ordered Thal to be his chauffeur for the evening.

As Thal guided the limo through the night with Finster and his gaggle of cackling golddiggers in the back, he waited for the bullet to shatter the back of his skull. The shot never came. He thought the blatant lie about succeeding in the assassination had been written on his face: he was certain he would be found out. For two hours, he had waited outside the dance club, wondering how Finster might carry out his demise when the truth was learned. But as the time passed, he convinced himself that Finster would never learn the truth, or maybe…Maybe he would kill Finster.

His schemes were interrupted when his commander in chief was carried out on a stretcher. Thal raced to the limo and followed. When Finster tumbled out of the rear of the ambulance, Thal selfishly wrote the man off as dead, rammed into the emergency vehicle, and exacted vengeance on the two paramedics with a bullet each. He turned from the carnage to see Finster rising from the road, dusting himself off, not a scratch on him. That’s when Thal realized there was far more to his employer than he could ever have imagined. His thoughts raced as they sped through the gates to the estate, as he saw the bodies littering the property. When the doors blew off their hinges with a mere flick of Finster’s wrist—well, Thal was ever so enamored of his employer.

Thal stood looking up at the two men crushed high overhead against the cavernous ceiling; he knew at last whose bidding he had been doing these last five years. No fear arose in his loins; his heart didn’t miss a beat.

“You’ll be stopped,” Simon said. The priest was flattened to the ceiling, his face flushed crimson, the tendons in his neck distended. It was hard to tell if it was the grinding of his body against the rock or the grinding of his bones that echoed about. “You can’t—”

“Of course.” Finster humored him as he pushed open the door to the key chamber.

“You can’t steal Heaven,” Simon gasped.

“I already have. Now put my keys ba—”

Finster stopped mid-sentence, the creaking door of the chamber opened to its fullest extent, flames flickering in the darkened vault. He stared in. A glint on the crimson pillow caught his eye. He cocked his head, squinting. A smile of triumph painted his face.