The Thieves of Heaven (49 page)

They always started the same, she and Michael in happy, healthy times. Laughing and dancing at the Country House, their favorite dinner and dance club. The images so vivid, her heart soaring next to Michael’s. And then they were at home, in bed, the clothes strewn about, she in Michael’s arms making love while soft music played on the stereo. It was a joy that had taken her to new heights…only to come crashing down into the darkest, blackest place she had ever seen.

And while there was a complete absence of light, she knew He was there. That same man. Circling her, sniffing at her hair, his pungent breath on her neck. The words he whispered, taunting her in a vile tone, “Mary, Mary, where did your husband go?”

Her mind screamed yet her lips remained powerless, stitched shut with black bloodied sutures, her voice trapped in her head. She was paralyzed, unable to fight back, to strike at this thing that just kept circling. And she felt another presence. The cop, the one whose words were so empty, so false in their caring. The one who had visited her in the hospital three days ago: Dennis.
He never said what he really wanted; wasn’t that odd? He said he was Paul’s new partner, he was just seeing how she was and what her husband’s relationship with Busch was based on. So why did he terrify her so?

Dennis was in the background waiting, standing there waiting at His side. They were laughing. A mocking hyena cackle that surrounded her, drowning out her very thoughts. Knife-like, their laughter reached out, sharp and deadly, to perform a task she would never have dreamed. It cut her soul from her body.

She felt it detach as their mockery grew louder and crueler. It left her utterly empty, as if her body were withering into a swarm of insects. She watched as her soul drifted away, dimly glowing like diffused light in a blinding fog. And he swallowed it, like a beast tearing at the flesh of a young child. The unseen man who was no man.

And every night what snapped her out, what sent her eyes flashing open, was the brief sweep of light coming from far above, passing through the dark earthen room. It passed over the thing that ate her soul, the man who had always seemed so familiar yet whose face she could never remember upon waking. The light continued moving, shining over her shriveled cancerous body, finally stopping, landing on the one thing that shook her to her core: Michael. He was lying faceup on the earthen floor staring at her, only not with his eyes—with vacant sockets pooled with blood. His mouth was frozen in a terrifying, soundless scream.

She woke, bolted upright in the bed night after night, sweat flowing from every pore. Only under the spray of hot water was she able to wash away the terror.

As she stepped from the shower this dawn, she wrapped herself in a large towel and her oversized robe; she refused to look at her hands, her feet, her body. She had removed or covered all the mirrors in the house, preferring to avoid her wasting reflection at all costs.

She ate her breakfast with a hunger she hadn’t known in days—she had only picked at food the night before. She dressed and headed out for the day.

Wanting to have their home filled with fresh flowers for Michael’s return, she had stopped by Troy’s Nursery to pick up several bunches of flowers. Though she hadn’t gotten through to Michael the night before, she did not panic. No news is good news, she told herself. Jeannie had convinced her that Michael and Paul were fine. They had either checked out or moved to another hotel. They would be home in two days, she had said so confidently, and Jeannie never lied.

As she headed down Maple Avenue, for reasons she did not understand, Mary felt energized, ready to tackle the world, whatever she faced. She noticed sights that in all her years in this town she had never paid attention to. The symmetry of the fir trees at the duck pond. The timelessness of the white gazebo. The beauty of the old church, its spire reaching toward Heaven. And all the people everywhere who always smiled, nodding hello. They had hope in their eyes and it infected her. Despite everything she had gone through, there was always hope.

It is said that the human spirit is the strongest force in nature. It has conquered every type of adversity known to man: physical, mental, spiritual. It is what has driven progress and innovation. It brought man out of the caves and onto the moon. Mother Nature has thrown every obstacle, every curveball—yet time and time again, she has been beaten back. It infuses optimism, it empowers strength, it drives the will to live and succeed. But most of all, it is what gives us hope. The human spirit carries man forward and never has it been defeated.

It has also been said that there is a serenity before the final adversity; that a calm always precedes a storm; that a light bulb always burns brightest before winking out.

At four o’clock that afternoon, Mary checked back into Byram Hills Memorial Hospital for the last time.

Finster looked out the leaded glass window of his grand mansion. Many had called it a castle but its design really bore no resemblance to those whimsical structures. The building was more befitting the robber barons of the late 1890s. He looked across his miles of wooded property, across the valley toward the mountains that rose so high they were lost in the clouds. He watched as the gardeners and groundskeepers tended to the huge estate, trimming bushes, cutting grass. None of them found the sidearms at their waists or the communication earpieces cumbersome. After all, in their prior careers they carried sixty-pound packs through jungles and deserts as gunfire crackled overhead and mortar shells crashed on all sides. All in all, this was more peace than any of them would ever know. It was a precaution Finster had always taken. Always wary of an assault, he took no chances. And tonight would be no different; in fact, he had already requested Charles see that all twenty members of his security staff were on duty. He wanted guards at the front gate, multiple patrols walking the perimeter walls, snipers on the roof equipped with nightscopes. It would be a lockdown more thorough than any prison had ever seen. There must be no room for error, no room for defeat. No one would take back what was rightfully his. Nothing would be left to chance on this, his final night.

It was the same precaution he’d taken when he’d assigned Thal to clean up. He hadn’t heard from his hired gun in two days, nor had he read of the untimely demise of his three suitors. There had been word over the newswire of a shooting spree in the Hotel Friedenberg, which confirmed that Thal was on the job, but Finster wanted proof. He wanted
bodies
. Thal was a good find, far better than his past employees. Thal had spent the last five years in the service of the disembodied voice of Finster. Most of the jobs were performed in the interest of business, in the interest of correcting a betrayal. And though August Finster would have liked to perform these tasks himself, it was something he could not do.

He was forbidden.

It was one of the few powers he didn’t possess: he could not directly take a life. Bargain for a soul, yes; perform a miraculous act, absolutely; but not directly end a life. No matter, he would still be there to receive the fruits of death. And death always came, sooner or later. And besides, if he did possess the power to annihilate uncounted numbers, where would the fun be in that? If there were no more people to corrupt, there would be no more souls to reap.

His was a deeper goal, one with a far longer-lasting impact.

And that’s where Thal came in. It was a simple way around Finster’s problem: man could kill man. If anyone was to renege on a deal or go back on a promise, Thal would be there to add that little bit of umph that would shorten their stay on terra firma.

Never had they met, Finster would never take that chance. But he watched. Thal was the closest thing he had ever seen to a creature without a soul. No remorse, no hesitancy at any task. Thal’s was a spirit buried deep down within the most malevolent primal area of the human heart. But of late, Finster was seeing a weakness. The cop, the one called Busch. Thal seemed fixated on him, driven by a personal desire that Finster had not seen before in his private assassin. And it ate at his mind, clouding Thal’s abilities. Finster sensed a momentary failure on Thal’s part. His efficiency had never before been in question, but this day it was. The simple hit should have been completed and Finster should have received word by now. No matter, Finster’s confidence in Thal may have been shaken but it still remained. Thal would succeed and, worse-case scenario, if he kept the three alive and busy until tomorrow, that would be just as well. For tomorrow, Finster would be gone.

There would be no good-bye, no adieu, no auf Wiedersehen. Come tomorrow, he would simply vanish. No trace of his whereabouts. His disappearance would surely come to be known as one of the world’s great mysteries. Like Amelia Earhart, nary a clue left behind. There would be no heirs, no will for the vast fortune created in less than ten years. Not a relative would be unearthed, no parents, no birth records. No friends from childhood, no close associates, no wives or children. Of course, many a pretender would surface, but no legitimate kin would ever lay claim.

No answers. Only questions.

Chapter 29

T
he woods around Waldberg were darker
than night. These were the forests of the Brothers Grimm, where Hansel and Gretel strode the same path as Red Riding Hood, the wolf always lurking just beyond the bush. It was no wonder that the dark legends and fairy tales were born here. The forbidding canopy blocked any view of the sky. The giant branches of ancient trees reached out to steal the breath from your lungs. The ghostly stillness stoked a primal fear that brought forth witches, trolls, and goblins of the wood. It was fitting that Finster’s estate sprang from this ground. Its entrance gates were five kilometers up the road, the only sign of civilization for the next ten.

Paul Busch emerged from the Mercedes C-Class, the unmarked car of choice for the German police. A portable flashing light was affixed to the roof right above the driver’s door, the spinning red glow casting wicked shadows on the evergreen trees. Busch sauntered up to the scarlet convertible. The driver was a beautiful woman in a pair of black Vuarnet sunglasses. Her black hair was, surprisingly, only slightly tousled from the wind. Up close, she was more than beautiful; she was stunning.

“Guten Abend, Fraulein,”
Busch said, with a pathetic attempt at a German accent.

Audrey didn’t look up as she rifled her purse for her license and registration.
“Guten Abend, Herr Kommissar. Gist es cin Problem?”

“Sprechen sie Englisch?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact—” But the words froze in her throat when she recognized Herr Kommissar.

“License, please.” She handed it to him with just a hint of disgust. “How did it go?” Busch asked.

“He went home with Vaughn, I haven’t heard from her yet.”

“Did he suspect?”

“Look, I know what I’m doing. All you asked me to do was meet him, tease him, lead him on, and leave him dry.”

“So how did you do?”

“I’m back for seconds, aren’t I? I made him desire that which he did not attain last night. Just like you asked.”

“Like I paid for,” Busch admonished. He glanced at the name on the license and chuckled. “Miss Charm?”

“Give me a break.”

“Isn’t it a crime to impersonate someone?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” she shot back. Busch’s eyes knocked her down. Audrey was her real name it, but her last name…Well, she was saddled with the unfortunate moniker of Lipschitz and that wasn’t something she was about to share.

Busch had hooked up with Audrey just before he picked up Michael from prison yesterday. She came on a good recommendation from not only the Berlin police but the dean of the club circuit, someone by the name of Christian Croix. Busch really wasn’t sure if Christian was a boy or a girl—he/she was some kind of gendernaut hovering in-between macho and pretty, a muscled torso stretching an angora T-shirt. Christian was the de facto head of the clubbies, the German twentysomethings who ruled the night. What they said was in was in and what they said was out was finished, dried up, shut down. Audrey and Vaughn were well-known clubbies worshipped for their dancing, their matching clothes, their sexual talent, and their ability to make a living off of the weakness of others. Christian gave up Audrey’s number—after throwing a tantrum—upon threat of arrest for possession of mescaline.