The Thieves of Heaven (41 page)

“I begged your forgiveness, Simon. I knew not what I had become, my mind was gone when I had attacked your mother. She forgave me, why can’t you? Why can’t a son forgive a father?”

Simon drew back his fists and rained down blow after blow on the old man. “You raped my mother; you stole the life out of her. You left me alone.” He continued the assault as the old man began to collapse. “You are nothing more than a bad dream, just a terrible nightmare.”

And suddenly, without warning, the old man under his battering fists vanished. Where he once stood, there was a dark-haired lady in a sheer black dress, her alabaster skin shining through, the scars plain as day upon her. She recoiled away from Simon, stumbling backward, falling helplessly beneath his blows.

“Son, please…” she pleaded.

An icy shiver ran through Simon as he realized he had struck his mother, thrown her crippled form brutally to the floor.

“Your heart is cold, Simon. Join us, unite us as a family again.” She picked up Simon’s gun, holding it out. “I am just an instant away, my son. Join me.” In her left palm lay a gleaming single bullet.

Simon crumpled to his knees, staring at his mother, the pistol in her hand. He could feel his mind slipping. His mother, who had taught him to be strong, was telling him it was time to stop, to give up, to follow in her footsteps and take his own life. He was a mess. But then he looked up, looked her right in the eye, and as he did so, he swiped the gun out of her pale hand. His tear-filled eyes overflowed with hatred. “Everything you say is a lie. You will be stopped.”

And the figure before him started to flicker, the image alternated between his tortured mother and his monstrous father, like a picture struggling to take focus. But the eyes never changed: they remained lifeless, cold—evil.

“You couldn’t stop me before. What makes you think you could stop me now?” came the hissing words from the lips of his father.

And with that, Simon slammed back against the wall. The old man was gone and Finster stood once more in his place. Simon dangled eighteen inches above the floor, his face twisted with pain. Deep below his skin, eruptions started to form like tiny bubbles in a pot of water hovering just below boiling. His flesh started to heave, to twist about. And the small bubbles grew, rising just below the skin, contorting his face. Simon screamed in his head but refused to give Finster the satisfaction of crying out aloud.

Finster picked up the gun, examined it, then walked over to Simon. “Do you think it will be hard to find your mother’s soul?” He fingered the rising bubbles under Simon’s flesh, seemingly fascinated with his handiwork. He peered closely at the gun, examining it, feeling its weight, the deadly power of it. “I love toys.” He raised the Glock, pointing it at Simon…but then thought better of it. Walking close, he leaned into Simon’s ear, whispered in a soft, fatherly tone: “I
will
return to Heaven from which I was banished. Why merely conquer the world, when I can rule eternity?”

Simon bolted upright from the desk, heart pounding, sweat beading his brow. The shades were open, night had fallen. He looked about. His bags were still on the bed, unopened. His face was unblemished.

“Michael?” he called out. Glancing at his watch: half past eight. He couldn’t remember falling asleep. His neck ached from his facedown position over the floor plans. He stood; his body protested from his awkward sleep and the long plane ride. He yanked open the minibar. Only about six of those two-ounce bottles of whiskey, not enough to trash a rat. He grabbed the phone.

“Room service,” the voice answered. “How can we help you?”

“I need a bottle of whiskey: Jack Daniel’s. And some ice.”

“Right away, sir,” the master of efficiency replied. “Was the cheese platter to your liking, sir?”

Simon caught a glimpse of the room service cart. Not a scrap of food was touched, the wine was unopened. “Yeah, it was fine.”

He hung up, still staring at the cart. He ran his hands about his face, nary a bump or blemish. Yeah, the dreams were getting worse. But then he turned his head and his heart leaped. He tore open his duffel bag and pulled out the boxes of ammo: all sealed. It had been nothing but a bad dream, a frightening nightmare. But then how did he explain the items on the table? There, on the table’s edge, lay two crumpled nine-millimeter slugs.

Chapter 23

B
efore the fall of the Berlin Wall, there existed
a building where many went in and few came out. Dunkel Gefangnis was a six-story stone structure out of the Dark Ages. Its enormous iron-plate doors—all three metric tons—swung on twelve-foot hinges. These had well-earned their acquired name: the gates of perpetual torment. The building was surrounded by a two-story-high iron fence, capped in rusted concertina wire. And while the structure was terrifying in appearance, it was her lower level, all seven sub-stories, that contained the true horrors.

During the height of their reign, the Stasi—the vampiric East German security force—were known by all, but their dealings behind this building’s great stone facade, which they ruled with an unrelenting bony fist, were only rumored. So, when tales of torture, of maimings, and of slow death circulated, people shuddered in fear, as they were meant to. Dunkel Gefangnis became a useful control on the public, a symbol to terrify them into submission. And it was better for them that they never learned the truth, for the truth of what happened within its walls was far worse then the rumored horrors.

Dunkel Gefangnis was converted in 1996 to the Berlin United Police Headquarters and Jail System. And while trees were planted, lights added, and the imposing iron fence removed, she was still Dunkel Gefangnis, the sinister jail, her hallways perpetually haunted by death.

The prison levels were belowground and it was evident that the refurbishment money was meant only for those levels where the sun shined. The stench of urine permeated the cold moist air of sublevel five, block six. Michael tried to protect his senses from the onslaught, but to no avail. He lay on the granite slab in the gray jumpsuit provided when they’d taken his clothes. The cell was eight-by-eight, three solid granite walls and an iron-bar front; more like an animal cage than a jail cell. A chill pierced the place and the only source of heat he’d found was intense exercise that left him exhausted. He had lost all sense of time since his arrival and they had yet to ask him a single question. The neighboring cells were empty but somewhere off the main hall he could make out the murmur of foreign tongues. Sing Sing, his prior prison home, had been a palace compared to this.

Michael debated asking to call the American Embassy, but in the end he realized the embassy would check stateside and all too soon find him to be a fugitive. Besides, who was to say the local police hadn’t contacted them already or, for that matter, that he’d been picked up at the request of the U.S.? No, he wouldn’t call. And anyway, they hadn’t even offered a phone.

The outer cell-block door crashed open. Down the hallway came the same harsh-looking guard who had silently strip-searched him and thrown him his jumpsuit. But this time, the guard wasn’t alone. Michael heard two sets of footfalls. And when the surly guard came into view, Michael’s senses were confirmed; behind him stood a man who remained back in the shadows.

“Got a visitor.”

Michael rose, straining to make out the second figure. The guard left as the stranger stepped into the faint light.

“Hello, Michael.”

Michael stared.

“How did you end up in here?” Finster was visibly shivering as he looked around. “It’s so cold. I could have sworn it was summertime.”

Michael was looking at him with new eyes, suspicious eyes.

“I tried to bail you out, but they say you’re to be extradited.”

“Why are you here?” Michael demanded.

“You are my friend—”

“To kill me?” Michael cut in.

Finster looked at him through the bars, confused, finally breaking out in laughter. “Where did you get—It’s that pious prick, Simon! Is he filling your head with nonsense? He’s a lunatic, been making up stories for years about my being some kind of demon. Do I look like a demon?” The merriment bubbled in his voice. “It’s the money, Michael.” Finster leaned closer. “
And the women
,” he confided. “People love to associate riches and sex with evil. Why, it’s the most ridiculous thing, don’t you agree? You’d think we lived in the Dark Ages, the way some people fear it. If I had a nickel for every person that called me wicked…As for your new friend Simon, he’s a fanatic. He’s been spouting that drivel for years now. Why so quiet, Michael? Are you not glad to see me?”

“Why are you here?” Michael repeated.

“I’ve heard that you came back for the keys. You weren’t going to take my keys…were you, Michael?” Finster’s voice was that of a parent admonishing a child.

Michael hesitated. Maybe he was wrong, maybe Simon was a fanatic. Maybe he’d been too quick to believe him….

“I knew you wouldn’t double-cross me, Michael.” Finster rubbed his hands together for warmth, then cast down his eyes in sorrow. “I heard about your wife…”

Michael bristled.

“…taking a turn for the worse.”

Anxiety clenched Michael’s gut like a sickness.

“I’m sorry, Michael,” Finster continued. “I know how much you want to be with her in her last moments. I’ll see what I can do to speed this process up to get you home. You know—pull some strings.”

“I want nothing from you.”

“Excuse me? I’m truly sorry about your wife.” Finster never sounded more sincere. “And Michael…I am sorry for you, too. There is nothing worse than losing a loved one.”

“You
damned
my wife. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“Who you were.” Michael stared a challenge.

Finster eyed Michael, studying him, taking his time before replying. “Have you found God?” he asked, softly.

“I’m not afraid of you.” Michael stepped up to the cell door.

Finster’s face came within inches of the bars, within inches of Michael’s face. Michael stood his ground. The two looked at each other, as if for the first time.

“Who do you think I am, Michael?”

Michael did not answer.

“Be afraid for your wife, Michael. Push this, and she’ll die alone, calling your name, and you’ll rot away the remaining years of your life right here.” Finster gestured about the dank place. “All because of a stupid decision. I can help you, but if you so much as come near my keys—”

“
Your
keys?”

“I paid you in good faith,
we
had a deal.”

“Deal, my ass! You never revealed all the terms!”

“You’re telling me, you—the man who has no faith—that you believe some wop of a religious freak rather than me? Simon tells you I’m
the Devil,
and you instantly become a true believer. Hallelujah. Has he delivered anything on his word? Did
he
pay for your wife’s treatment? Did
he
come up with a quarter of a million dollars? I gave you a bonus: he didn’t even say a
prayer
for her!

“Did he tell you that little sob story about his ma and pa? How daddy desecrated mommy in the name of the Devil? Bullshit, all bullshit. He’s got you made for a stooge. He wants you to steal the keys for him, then he’s gonna sell them on the black market. Save
Heaven,
my ass. Who do you trust, Michael? Someone who’s helped you? Or someone who tried to kill you?”

Michael stared at Finster, confusion ripping his mind. Could he be so wrong? Despite everything Simon had said, the truth surely lay with the words of the man standing before him. Could he really have become the pawn of Simon, chasing after stupid religious trinkets while his wife lay alone and dying? Finster had been nothing but help: money, kind words, offers of assistance. Simon had offered nothing.

Who could he believe? Simon? Finster? His own suspicions? He wasn’t in this place for Simon, he wasn’t here for himself—he was here for Mary. And for what Mary believed. Faith: the ability to believe in the intangible. Putting everything aside to acknowledge the possibility of something greater. He could believe in Mary, she had always believed in him. He trusted her. Mary was his faith. “Fuck you,” Michael said, his face inches from the German’s.