The Thieves of Heaven (59 page)

And he died.

Chapter 35

F
inster’s shadow danced on the wall of the
small private chamber; the remaining candles were reaching the end of their life. He was again a calm, reserved man of culture admiring his keys upon their pillow. His momentary fears of failure put to rest, he had possession of them now and he would soon be going home.

Despite what he had said, he had never taken the time to admire his prize but for that first night he acquired it. In fact, he could care less what the keys looked like, it was what they stood for that really mattered. But his ego stepped in and his vanity forced him to gloat. He stood there reverently staring; nothing stood in his way any longer.

Out in the gallery, in the section dedicated to the Hindu god Kali, tucked in the corner behind the stacked paintings, the red glow of a timer ticked digitally down toward zero. There were five timers scattered about the cavern set to go off in thirty-second increments. Incendiary bombs, compact but powerful—flame-bringers. They were not concussive devises but rather chemical sprayers. When activated they would pop up in the air ten feet and spew out a sticky gel-like substance that would ignite instantly upon contact with the air.

Finster paid no attention to the popping sound beyond the heavy black door nor the whoosh of what he was sure was fire. Instead, he stepped around the pedestal and leaned in closely, as if he was studying the keys’ details for the first time. His leather shoes crunched the earthen floor, as he circled around and around. A loud hiss came from under the door; the air was being sucked out of the small chamber in giant gulps to feed the growing inferno in the cavern. The last few candles about the key chamber started to burn out from lack of oxygen. Only a few remained to light his trophy, their glow reflecting off the precious metal. And to illuminate Finster’s baffled face.

Something was not right. And it wasn’t what was beyond the door that concerned him. Michael and Simon had come within moments of success. Men so driven would never give up, never surrender. Michael’s love for his wife was as strong as anything Finster had ever seen but then why did he relent, giving up so easily, unless…

Finster looked closer. Hesitantly, he reached out for the silver key, well aware he was forbidden to come in direct contact with that which is holy. His fingers moved nearer. It was the only way to be sure. The only true test. With a sudden overcoming of fear, his hand covered the keys. And that’s when it happened. He exploded, a whirlwind of anger. He screamed at the top of his lungs—not in pain but in anger. In furious recognition that he’d been tricked. For on the gold key, worn down by time but still visible, was an engraving stamp, subtle, damning:
585.

Finster spun about and tore open the door. He was met by a whirling fireball, pluming upward, its flaming tendrils lashing back down from the ceiling. The entire cavern was engulfed. The canvas of the paintings had ignited, filling the room with an oily black mushroom cloud; waves of heat melted metal sculptures. The last of the incendiary bombs exploded, its napalm-like gel spewing out, torching anything it touched. The flame’s roar was deafening, but that was nothing compared to the inhuman shriek from Finster’s lips.

Chapter 36

B
usch was a mess. Simon and Michael had
wrapped his hand and patched his shoulder. He was propped uncomfortably upon the hood of the limo but as far as he was concerned, things were just fine. He would live to see another day.

“Hmph, you did get ’em.” Busch’s voice was barely above a whisper.

Simon nodded, admiring the keys he held reverently in his palm, as if they were made of glass and might shatter if he breathed on them.

“So simple…”

“Yeah.”

“Gentlemen, we’ve got to fly,” Michael interrupted.

But Busch continued to stare at the keys. He couldn’t help himself. “May I?”

Very, very gently, Simon placed them in his hand. They were larger than Busch had thought they would be and not as dramatic. As he held them, he expected to be enlightened, filled with the Lord, so to speak, but that didn’t happen. Instead, he was filled with wonder and amazement that two objects so small in the scheme of things could mean so much. Michael had risked his freedom, his life—everything—to return these two pieces of shaped metal. And what struck Busch was not their symbolism but the power of the heart that they inspired. A belief in the intangible, one so powerful that men were willing to go to war for it, die for it, to sacrifice everything on the conviction of a promise. It was a miracle, a miracle of faith, one that he understood well but until this moment had not truly experienced. And because of it, everything would somehow be all right, he felt it.

“Let’s go, guys.” Michael’s impatience was growing.

Busch handed the keys back to Simon, who wrapped them up tightly in a velvet cloth before placing them in his pocket. A quiet relief washed over Busch. Despite the odds, he and Michael were going home.

The library’s French doors crashed open. Flames exploded outward. The enormous stone house had become an inferno. Windows shattered from the heat, spewing smoke and flame, lighting up the night. A figure burst from the firestorm and raced toward them. Like some dark feral beast, it crossed the two hundred yards in seconds.

“You’ll return nothing!” The voice bellowed from everywhere. And before they could react, he was standing there right in front of them, his clothes nothing but ash, an odd contrast with his skin, which was pure and unwrinkled, not a burn or blemish, impossible for someone who just came through a twelve-hundred-degree blaze.

Michael stepped forward, his body braced for an attack. “What makes you think—”

But before he could finish, Finster flicked his wrist and sent him sprawling. “I will visit upon you suffering that you could never imagine—”

“You gave me your word,” Michael moaned from the ground.

“I wasn’t talking to you.” Finster had turned to Busch. “No. More. Sanctuary,” he roared at the wounded policeman.

Busch recoiled, trying desperately to get away. He tumbled off the car’s hood, his injured shoulder breaking like a thousand shards of glass as he collapsed to the ground, paralyzed. He refused to make a sound but in his mind he let out a bloodcurdling scream. His nightmare had become real: he was burning up; his skin felt afire, yet there was no flame. He was back on the boat—his father’s boat—the flames dancing about the deck, racing up his legs, licking greedily at his torso. He was once again a helpless child, powerless against the monster. The agony was unbearable as he writhed in the grass.

“Stop!” Michael shouted, scrambling to his feet.

“Give me the keys!” Finster bore down on Michael, his voice as deadly as the blaze that now engulfed his stone mansion.

Finster’s eyes were cold, dead, black like the deepest end of the ocean. Michael was filled with a fear he had never imagined possible, a fear not just for him or Mary, but for Busch, for Simon, for everyone. He turned to Simon, bewildered and looking for answers. The priest shook his head emphatically at Michael.

“Hand them over or I will bring suffering to everyone you know and love,” Finster snarled.

“Never!” Simon shouted.

Helplessly, Michael watched Busch thrash about in the moist grass, slapping at his own face, hugging his big body, desperately attempting to put out the invisible flames.

“No! Stop!” Michael screamed, unable to bear the big policeman’s suffering. “If I give them to you, do you promise to stop this? Do you promise that you will not bring suffering to anyone—”

“I will not!” Finster roared.

Michael’s heartfelt whisper was barely audible. “Then no deal,” he said, knowing that with his words he was sealing the death of his best friend.

Busch fought to speak. “Michael! Don’t deal with him.”

“THE KEYS!” Finster came nose to nose with Michael; his hot breath was nauseating.

Busch twisted, rolling this way and that. “I will not—be—a bargaining chip.” And then he saw something on the grass. Painfully, he reached for it.

Michael could see Busch out of his peripheral vision. “Paul. No. Jesus Christ—”

“He is not here,” Finster sneered.

Busch’s fingers closed around his gun; he raised it, aiming at Finster.

“You cannot harm me with that,” Finster hissed, not bothering to turn toward the weapon pointed at the center of his back.

But shooting Finster was not Busch’s intention. The big cop pressed the gun to his own head. “Promise me you’ll take care of Jeannie and my children—”

“Paul!!!” Michael screamed.

“Don’t make your efforts or my sacrifice be in vain—”

The clarity of this moment was clearer than anything Busch had ever experienced in his life. It was as if the pain he felt was a baptism of fire, unbearable yet somehow cleansing. He believed in Michael, he believed in Simon. Most of all, he believed in the keys.

“Paul, don’t—”

“Promise me,” the policeman pleaded, his eyes crying to Michael.

Michael’s anguish filled the air, his heart fought the words in his mind, but he said them nonetheless. “I promise,” he whispered, knowing that he was agreeing to his best friend’s death sentence.

Busch’s finger wrapped the trigger and with a Herculean effort pulled, but his hand fell away. The gun was silent. His body arched, gasping, his eyes widening as his heart seized. He slumped to the ground.

“You killed him!” Michael screamed.

“No,” Finster said. “Don’t you wish I had? That would be so convenient. His body couldn’t take it; he’s had a heart attack. I imagine, if he doesn’t get to a hospital quickly, he
will
die….Give me those keys, Michael, and I will let you go. Give me those keys and you can save him, you still have time. Are you willing to trade his life? If not, his death will be on your conscience.”

Michael felt paralyzed: Paul’s life? Or Mary’s soul. No matter how he chose, Finster was right: he would be burdened with an unbearable guilt for the rest of his days.

And then Michael’s mind filled with rage, wiping all logic and reason away. He charged and swung at Finster. A taunting laugh was the only response. Overcome with anger, Michael grabbed Finster around the neck, squeezing.

And then she was there.

Standing in Finster’s place.

Mary St. Pierre.

Michael’s hands choking the life out of her.

“Michael…please…don’t kill me,” Mary gasped.

Michael froze in fear as his wife struggled for breath. “Mary! Mary, I’m sorry—”

“Close your eyes, Michael. It’s a trick,” Simon warned softly. “You know in your heart that’s not your wife. Don’t give in.” It was the first hint of sympathy Michael had ever seen in him.

Michael’s hands dropped to his sides. He crumpled to the ground, his head bowed, sobbing, a beaten man. Mary placed her hand on his shoulder and when Michael looked up, she had transformed back into Finster. “If you give me the keys, Michael, you can still save your friend from death and I will let your wife into Heaven. That’s what she wants, that is why you are doing this. I’ll guarantee that she has everlasting peace.” Finster paused. “I give you my word.”