The Thieves of Heaven (30 page)

A half hour earlier, Dr. Rhineheart had explained Mary’s condition to Michael.

While they had removed her ovaries and fallopian tubes, knocking out the cancer there, it had metastasized into other areas of her body, worst of all to her kidneys and brain. The symptoms weren’t evident yet, but they would be soon. It was like it had been beaten out of the bush where it was feeding upon its kill, only to settle into a new nest for a new feast. The cancer was aggressive. It was multiplying at a fantastic rate.

And would kill her within six weeks.

Chapter 16

T
he Old Stand was packed. Wall to wall,
shoulder to shoulder. The weather had rained out every men’s league softball game that evening. So, tonight, no excuses, just drinking, and drinks were flowing into every glass. Shouting was the only means of communication and if you came here to think, forget it.

Michael was tucked in a booth in the back, waiting. He had been there for over an hour, nursing the same drink. He had left Mary’s room, left her sleeping, and pulled out his cell phone. Busch answered and the swearing didn’t stop for two full minutes, the volume close to the bar’s current decibel. Michael took it in stride; he was hurting and had nowhere else to turn, he needed a friend now more than any other time in his life. Busch screamed about trust, loyalty, and friendship; truth, betrayal, and lies; but mostly he screamed about the law and the position that Michael had put him in. When he’d finished, Michael asked if they could meet. Oh yeah, they could meet. Michael was told to be at the Old Stand by nine o’clock and he had better not be late.

So, Michael waited. He knew that he would have to own up to Busch for violating his parole. He had taken advantage of their friendship and abused it badly. But while the guilt for betraying his friend weighed heavy, the guilt he felt for betraying his wife was tenfold. Over and over he kept running what Simon had said in his mind. If Heaven was closed—and that possibility seemed to have increased throughout the day—then he had destroyed her hope of eternal life, a violation of her core beliefs that was beyond comprehension. His brain was a jumble of incoherent thoughts that drowned out even the racket of the rowdy bar.

A very anxious and angry Busch squeezed into the booth across from Michael. The big cop was doing everything in his power to keep his fury in check. Michael said nothing, eyes cast down. Finally…

“Where the hell were you?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t even go there; I’m not in a forgiving mood. Where were you?”

“I had some stuff to take care of.”

“Stuff? That’s a load of shit, Michael. I want to hear it from your own lips—where the hell have you been these past ten days?”

Michael stared at him, not knowing what to say: all he wanted was to get his ass-chewing over with and move on to Mary.

“Do you realize the position you put me in? I’ve been covering your ass for almost two weeks, buddy, and I don’t cover anyone’s ass but my own, you understand?” Busch was beginning to lose control; he glared at the wall, breathing hard, struggling to gain equilibrium. The seconds ticked by.

“I just came from the hospital,” Michael said quietly.

Busch looked up, the anger wiped clean from his face. “And?”

Michael’s expression said it all. Busch didn’t need the words; Michael’s eyes were those of a wounded child. Busch had never seen Michael this way. Sure, Michael had been down over Mary’s illness, but there was always that shadow of hope. “How bad?”

“It’s everywhere.”

This was the last thing Busch had expected; he was revved up to tear Michael down. Now, he forgot all about his anger. “Oh…Mike. What can I do?”

Michael just looked at him, no answer, his eyes filled with remorse and fear.

“I know you’re hurting—”

“I’ve done something,” Michael said softly, his head bowed in confession.

“What?” It was a question Busch no longer wanted answered. “What did you do?”

“I’ve damned her.”

Busch’s eyes narrowed, confused. He wasn’t just worried about Mary anymore.

“I’ve destroyed everything she believes in.”

“What are you talking about? This cancer isn’t your fault.”

“They say our loved ones always pay the price for our sins.”

“That’s a load of shit; Mary’s condition has nothing to do with who you are, with what you did.”

“Why couldn’t it be me in that bed?”

“Hey, you bury that thought right now, this is a tragic thing but you didn’t cause it. Things happen in this world that we can’t control. They just happen.”

“I wish I could take it back.”

“Take what back?” Busch couldn’t be more lost. “Mike—what the heck have you done?”

“I went to Europe.” Michael paused. “And I stole two keys.”

Busch closed his eyes. He knew Michael had gone abroad. His intention tonight had been to get Michael to admit to it, but not this way. He had hoped against hope that there was a reasonable explanation, for if the purpose of Michael’s trip was to commit a crime, Busch would be in the worst of all possible positions. “Don’t be telling me this—”

“I stole the keys to pay for Mary’s treatment.”

“Shit, I knew it. You promised me!”

“Yeah. I promised a lot of things.”

The volume of the bar seemed to grow with the intensity of their conversation. Busch found it hard to believe that all the merriment could be occurring around them as his best friend’s life was crumbling. “Michael, this is serious—”

“I sold them to a man named Finster—”

“This is a lot worse than breaking parole. I—”

“He’s the Devil, Paul. I sold those keys to the Devil.” Michael said it quietly, still not wanting to believe his own words.

“Mike—?”

“I sold them to the Devil; they were the keys to Heaven. The keys to the Gates of Heaven.”

Busch sat there, stunned, totally unsure how to deal with this nervous breakdown happening before him. Michael was going to pieces before his eyes and he didn’t have a clue what to do. “You’re talking shit here, Mike.” Busch sat forward. “Look at me. I know the strain you’re under—”

Michael looked him straight in the eye. “I’m telling you the truth.”

Busch saw it; Michael believed what he was saying. That scared him. He had dealt with the criminal element that was classified as insane, he knew how they believed in their own world, in their own definition of right and wrong, good and evil. “You sincerely believe you met the—”

“It doesn’t matter what I believe,” Michael interrupted. “It’s what Mary believes. I’ve taken the one thing she values more than anything: her faith, her eternal life.”

As much as he hated himself for it, Busch was deeply terrified; his best friend had gone over the edge. Busch had no idea how to handle this, it was Jeannie who always dealt with the delicate issues. Busch wasn’t delicate. So, he ran to the one place he always did before panic set in, hoping to jar Michael back to reality. “Look, buddy, we’ve got another problem.”

Michael leaned forward.

“You busted your parole. We’ve got to deal with that.”

“That’s the least of my worries.”

“No, it isn’t. You might be going back to jail.”

“I told you this in confidence. As a friend.”

“You are my friend, Michael. But the law is the law. If anyone finds out you left the country, and they will,” he added, remembering Thal’s inside info, “we’re both fucked. It’s the law, Mike, and you busted it…deliberately.”

“I’ve got to rectify what I’ve done.” Michael wasn’t even paying attention.

“You’re delusional, Michael. You’re just blaming yourself for Mary’s illness.”

“I have to go.” Michael got up from the booth and looked at Busch with accusing eyes. “Thanks for all your help—”

His sarcasm stung Busch. “I can’t let you go, Michael.” The big cop stood, authority in his voice.

“What are you going to do, throw me in jail while my wife is dying?”

Now Busch was back to pissed, back to the mood he carried when he came into the bar. Michael had successfully turned the blame and guilt around and placed it squarely on his shoulders. Busch was seething. “Damn you to hell—”

But Michael walked away, uttering under his breath, “I’ve already done that.”

The Busch children were screaming like banshees. The two kids had an unnatural bond for a brother and sister and were seldom apart. As they sailed around the kitchen with Playskool tomahawks and light-sabers, they exhibited an energy seldom seen in anything short of a cheetah racing for the kill.

As if in a soundproof bubble, Busch sat silently picking at his dinner, oblivious to his shrieking brood. He didn’t feel like talking; he didn’t feel like doing much of anything right now. He was losing two of his closest friends: one to cancer and one to insanity, and there wasn’t a thing he could do for either of them. Never had he felt so helpless. And to make matters worse, Michael had turned his back on him. How could the man violate his parole, after all that Busch had done for him? It gave him such a hollow sense, it was like everything he’d fought for had been swept away abruptly by some swift summer wind.

Jeannie sat across from Busch. She, too, was silent. Paul had come home like this too many times to count, when the trials of his day had sucked the life out of him. She knew not to press the matter; if and when Paul felt like talking, she was there to listen. Getting things off his chest usually helped, but there were times when the pain of the retelling, of the reliving, was too great until the passage of weeks—sometimes years—acted as a safety net. Paul loved her and she him, that was the bottom line. Sometimes lives had to be lived separately on certain issues.

The children continued to circle and Busch’s soundproof bubble was beginning to crack. Jeannie read his annoyance. “Hey you two, keep it down to a dull roar, huh?” she said, hoping to avoid the inevitable.

But of course, kids will be kids and they only screamed louder, running faster, pushing their lungs to the breaking point. And then without warning everything screeched into slow motion. Robbie’s arm, swinging out, caught the glass pitcher on the table. It tumbled through space and shattered on the floor; lemonade exploded everywhere.

Busch erupted out of his chair. “Don’t you listen to your mother? You have no regard for rules! I’m sick and tired of the lack of respect around here. Things are going to change, do you hear me?”

The youngsters froze in their tracks. Too scared to cry, they started to shake in terror. Their father rarely lost his temper with them but when he did, the punishment was usually so severe it would leave both in tears for hours.

Jeannie scooted the children out of the kitchen. “It’s OK, kids, upstairs. Pajamas, brush your teeth, and you can watch a movie.”

When she stepped back into the room, Paul was pacing, rubbing his brow, making a tight fist and then releasing it over and over again as if pumping some medical instrument. He could no longer hide the reason for his mood.

“It’s Michael. He broke parole. He told me. Told me!” Busch shouted in disbelief. He sat back down, exhausted, as if the ten words were a marathon. He continued, softer now, “He stole something in Europe.”

“In Europe? I thought he went down south…” Jeannie paused. “What are you going to do?”

What was he going to do? That was the question he dreaded answering. “I have to take him in.” He knew all along what he would do but telling Jeannie had made it a reality. As the words left his lips, it was as if acid had poured over his tongue.

“I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.”

“He did it to pay for Mary’s treatment.”

“Oh, God.” She couldn’t imagine the pain Paul felt. He was about to take away the life of his best friend. And not just his friend—
their
friend. Her best friend’s husband. And what would it do to Mary?

“I don’t make the rules, Jeannie. It’s not up to me to listen to explanations, that’s the judge’s job—”

“They’ll put him away. And it will kill Mary.”

“Jeannie.” Busch paused. “Mary’s treatment’s a bust. The cancer has already spread.”