The Thieves of Heaven (60 page)

Michael was never so lost. He looked to Simon.

“His word means nothing,” Simon cautioned.

Michael got to his feet in silence. Tears stained his face. He walked toward Simon and demanded, “Give me the keys.” Michael could not meet the other man’s eyes.

“What?” The priest couldn’t believe Michael’s words. “I didn’t come this far to—” He could barely control himself. “It doesn’t matter what happens to us, Michael. This is for
God
—”

The frustration finally exploded out of Michael. “We came all this way on our own! No help from God. Where was He? If He wants these keys back, why doesn’t He help? Why doesn’t He give me a sign?” His voice filled with contempt. “He can get them Himself. I have no use for Him. He did nothing for me, nothing! And nothing—nothing—for my wife.”

“Michael, no—”

“Yes, Michael. Finster seized the opening. “He abandoned you long ago.”

“No, He didn’t, Michael. Your name: St. Pierre. St. Peter. Do you think it’s a coincidence? You were meant for this.”

“No!” Finster raged. “That is not true. Think, Michael.” His voice oozed charm. “If it is, then God brought this suffering upon you. And if it’s not”—he stepped closer and said quietly—“then He has abandoned you.”

Finster’s words rang damningly in Michael’s ear. He turned back to Simon. “Give me the keys.”

“You’ll have to kill me first.”

“Don’t make me do that—”

“—Let me help.” As Finster made the offer, suddenly Simon’s body spasmed in agony. His hands stretched out to his sides in the shape of a cross.

“You remind me of someone. Hmmm, who could it be?” Finster crooned, with his hand to his chin.

Simon’s words came on a waning gasp. “Michael, you have betrayed God. You will not see the Gates of Heaven.”

“Neither will you.” Finster smiled.

Michael reached out and removed the velvet cloth from Simon’s pocket.

He turned to Finster as he unwrapped the keys. “If I give you these keys, my wife’s soul belongs to God, she will have eternal life in Heaven, she will rest in peace.” And, turning to Busch’s crumpled body, he added, “And you will not get in the way of our trying to save him. You’ll let Simon be. You will not bring suffering to anyone I know. Promise me this.”

Finster reached greedily for the keys.

“Promise me!” Michael snarled, pulling the keys back.

“You…have my word,” Finster relented.

Simon fell to the ground half dead…but half alive.

Michael moved forward, his hand outstretched. The two keys lay in his palm.

Shuddering, Finster stepped back hastily. “Wait. I can not touch them.”

“Then I’ll put them someplace safe.”

“Michael, reconsider,” Simon gasped. “Forgiveness, Michael. You must remember there is always forgiveness.”

“Then forgive me, Simon.”

And then to the shock of Finster and Simon, he walked over to the stone structure still lit by the halogen headlights and, without giving it another thought…

Dropped the keys down the well.

“What have you done?!?!” Finster raced to the well, instantly frantic.

“It’s your well. I’m sure you’ll think of a way to retrieve them.”

“But I can’t touch them,” Finster protested, through gritted teeth.

“Not my problem.”

Michael walked back and opened the door of the limo. He reached down for Simon, who batted his help away in anger. Saying nothing, Michael stepped to Busch and picked his big friend up under the shoulders, dragging him. Without a word, Simon joined him, picking up Busch’s legs. The two men placed his body in the rear of the limo and raced off into the night.

Chapter 37

T
he Bavarian mountain forest is more primal
than anywhere on earth. It’s no wonder the great Germanic tales of Siegfried the Dragon Slayer come to life here. Sunlight only makes its way through the canopy to the forest floor on the sunniest of days and even then it is scarcely enough to read a book by. The decaying mulch and underbrush created a soft bed, home for the abundant insects, birds, and wolves. Civilization is only an afterthought and in many regions here, man hasn’t set foot since the great logging days of old. Ancient, moss-covered logging roads serve as the sole route for the small primeval villages, all that remained of the tree-cutting boom days, now barely surviving on local trade.

On the southwestern edge of the forest, twenty kilometers from the nearest town, was a cluster of old buildings. A stone and wooden fence ran about the perimeter, a half mile in total, covered in a tangled snarl of vines and weeds. The log and stone huts dated back centuries and were gathered around an enormous fieldstone structure that rose four stories, from the forest floor, competing with the treetops for dominance. The castle-like building sat upon an outcropping of granite and it was impossible to tell where the natural environment left off and the man-made structure began. Rumors prevailed that the entire town had grown out of the earth, the next step in Mother Nature’s evolution. And yet there was not a soul in sight, as if everyone packed up and ran back to civilization, unable to deal with the wild, untamed world.

On the edge of the abandoned community, hidden in the evening shadow, was a stone pub. The ramshackle, wooden shake roof was moss-covered with snippets of grass sprouting on it. It was a squat building tucked back into the forest itself. A sign welcomed weary travelers in for a mug of ale.

The interior was as simple and old as the outside. There were a handful of tables and benches on a slate floor and old leaded windows, cracked and in need of a paint job. On the walls hung a host of medieval tapestries depicting knights, dragons, and landscapes. Michael sat alone at a bare wooden table, grim, sipping a beer. No one else was there except the bartender, who kept his back to Michael and his nose in his work, cleaning glasses. Michael had desperately tried to reach Mary back in the States, to tell her he was on his way but was left in shock, his heart skipping a beat, when the switchboard connected him to her room and the nurse answered, “Intensive Care. How can I help you?”

The nurse implored him to hurry home. His wife had been calling for him, she said, and time was running out. Mary had slipped into a coma fifteen hours ago.

Michael had wanted to tell Mary he had put things right. Instead, he told the ICU nurse he would be home in twenty-four hours. There was still one thing left to do.

The door slammed open. A gale force howled through the little pub, blowing everything into a frenzy. Michael held tight to his glass as the wind fanned the flames in the fireplace, kicking up dust clouds everywhere. And then he walked in. Seething. His eyes burned into Michael as he stalked across the room and took a seat directly across the table. Dressed entirely in black, his white hair pulled back into a severe ponytail, his hands balled up into fists. The light seemed to be sucked out of the room, vanishing into Finster’s body as if he were some sort of black hole. An eerie darkness emanated from him, spreading like the plague. “Give me my keys,” he hissed.

Michael sat motionless, his heart thundering in his ears. He had foolishly thought that Finster wouldn’t go down the well, that he could put this whole nightmare behind him, but now he realized how ridiculous that was. Michael had taken a chance and he’d lost. It had been a foolish move, and it had done nothing but postpone the inevitable. He had raced out of Finster’s estate with Simon giving Last Rites to his best friend, Paul Busch, whose body was sprawled across the backseat, barely alive. They had charged into a hospital on the outskirts of Berlin, carrying Busch into the emergency room. As soon as the doctors began working on Busch, Michael and Simon were back in the car. They drove south, redlining the limo down the autobahn for twelve hours, knowing that running was simply postponing fate.

“Excuse me?” Michael didn’t know what else to say. He gripped tighter to the glass as if it was a life preserver.

Finster’s face had gone an ugly red; he rested his hands upon the table, opened, palms up. His eyes pierced Michael. Michael wouldn’t break eye contact, he didn’t need to, he knew what the man before him held. In each hand: a single key, one of gold, one of silver.

Michael nodded. “Ah…Somebody went down the well.”

Finster glared, the hate brimming inside him, and then hurled the useless metal forgeries at Michael. “I want
my keys.
Now!”

Michael just sat there.

Finster lunged across the table, grabbing Michael by the throat and lifting him effortlessly into the air. “Your wife’s soul is mine.”

His hands were squeezing the life out of him. Michael struggled, to no avail.

“I’m going to rip Mary’s soul right out of her body and ravage it every single day for all eternity. Do you understand?” He shook Michael violently. “Give me my KEYS!”

Like a rag doll, Michael was hurled against the wall. He crumpled, bloody and dazed, the wind knocked out of him. He didn’t have the strength to move. He was certain another rib was broken. He looked for the bartender, praying for help, but the man must have slipped out at the first sign of trouble. Finster walked about the room, cocksure. It was clear that he’d get what he came for and be gone in moments.

“Smart son of a bitch.” He picked up Michael’s beer. “Never renege on a deal, Michael. Didn’t your mother ever tell you that? And if you do, be prepared for consequences.” He emptied the mug in one gulp, wiping the foam from his mouth. “I gave you what you wanted. You got the funds for her treatment, not my fault it didn’t take. That wasn’t my fault, you know. I have no power like that, despite what the storybooks tell you. Giving life is beyond anyone’s means. But taking it…” He let the threat hang in the air. “I helped you, Michael, and you betrayed me. I agreed to your terms, I let that delusional priest live, I swore to you your wife would have her eternal life. And you betrayed me a second time; you broke your word to me, Michael. So now Mary’s mine.”

The hatred in Michael’s eyes blazed as he struggled to stand.

“Don’t bother.” Finster motioned Michael to sit down. “You’re finished.” He flicked his wrist and a table upended itself, careening across the floor into Michael. “You had two sets of keys.” Finster spat.

“Three actually.” The cheerful voice came from behind the bar. “But you were never known for your intelligence, were you?”

Finster swung around to see the bartender leaning over the bar. The man was bandaged, a sling holding up his right arm. The wounds on his face would heal in time, but the scars would be a reminder for the rest of his life. Without another thought, Finster grabbed Simon by the hair, smashing his head into the bar, then lifted and threw him against the wall of bottles.

From across the room, Michael’s voice came. “You were in too much of a rage to think clearly—”

“I want the
real keys
and I want them now!” Finster screeched. He flashed to Michael, a blur as he sped through the room, violently ripping him off the floor, pulling him in close. “Only
one
of you can have them, so only
one
of you is protected by them.” He discarded Michael in the corner.

Finster closed his eyes. He was starting to shake, more beast now than human. As his frustration built, any hint of humanity washed away. The wind continued to howl through the place, the raging fire in the fireplace refracting like broken rainbows off the shattered bar glasses. Looming shadows danced off the ceiling.

Simon was on his feet, dazed, fighting to recover. He pressed his good shoulder into the side of the bar, pushing with all his might. And slowly, slowly, the bar moved. Not much, only a couple of inches, but it moved. It slowly slid across the floor, as the silent priest put every ounce of his remaining strength into it.

Finster, perplexed, again grabbed Simon, lifting him into the air. “What are you—”

“Did you ever hear the expression, ‘Fool me once shame on you’”—Michael’s ragged voice come from across the room—“‘fool me twice shame on me’?”

Finster ignored Michael. Squeezing Simon’s throat, he snarled, “Nothing is going to save you this time, holy man—no guns, no knives. No God is going to step in and pluck you from death. And when you die, you will have nowhere to go—no Heaven, no eternal reward for the life of sacrifices you have made to your God.” He hurled Simon into the wall. “There will be only
me.
”