The Thieves of Faith (14 page)

God’s Truth purchased the structure from the monks, who had relocated to the mainland as a result of their dwindling numbers. It was renovated to incorporate the latest technologies while respecting the past, a theme carried into the Church’s foundation of beliefs. God’s Truth was monotheistic, an extreme outgrowth of Catholicism that could no longer abide by that Church and its politics. The faith’s founders believed that organized religion had grown stale and outdated, ignoring the facts of the present, the facts of science, in order to uphold a belief structure established five hundred years in the past. One’s spiritual beliefs and the church they belonged to did not always share the same philosophies and approach to life. God’s Truth was a faith that believed in one God. It followed many of the ethical teachings of the Bible but recognized the good book as hyperbole, as morality tales. It preferred to draw on science rather than ignore its facts about the creation of man and of the universe—though this was not to say that creation was not by God’s design. It was simply to recognize that a world took more than six days to create, that man was formed out of more than clay, that a woman’s roots went beyond her husband’s rib. There was no doubt in the Church’s mind that God was man’s judge, that we all must answer to our Creator. Miracles existed, everyone possessed a soul, and Heaven and Hell awaited those who were deserving.

And the Church had grown powerful. Its members, unlike other religions, were not from all walks of life but from certain strata: they were greatly represented by the rich and powerful, the educated and successful. Captains of industry, royalty, and celebrities flocked to the Church’s campus and its member churches that sprouted up in the modern world. As a result, its financial base was stronger than most countries’. With a minimum annual membership fee of ten thousand dollars, the membership swelled its coffers on a yearly basis. And the congregation did not only receive spiritual uplift and enlightenment for their donations, they partook in the medical breakthroughs of Zivera’s other ventures, and of his financial acumen. God’s Truth advised on science, on finance, and on the spot. If you were a believer, you were in effect a shareholder with benefits. Believe and you shall reap the rewards of your faith today, not when you are six feet under. It was a model of synergy blurring the lines of work, family, faith, and science.

And that is what struck Busch. There were no God’s Truth churches in third-world countries, no missionaries hoping to convert the faithful in the darker parts of the globe. This was a religion for the elite, for the chosen, for the educated, for the rich; for people whose current religions didn’t bend to their beliefs. An exclusive club for those who chose to stand up in the face of tradition to see new customs established, customs that complied with their current point of view. It was designed for the group of people who thought they were the center of the universe, for those who when faced with adversity sued to get satisfaction. For those who blamed the teachers, coaches, and bosses for their shortcomings and failures. For in the world they lived, they couldn’t be wrong, and how dare their pastors tell them how to live their lives. Religion was a matter of choice. And if they chose to see God differently, then so be it. Julian Zivera would be there to cater to them.

It had become fashionable to be a member of God’s Truth, one of the chosen, one of the enlightened. And in this copycat world, once the celebrities joined, the floodgates opened, for who knew better about religion—not to mention politics and life—than celebrities?

As Busch read on, he looked for answers, but there were none to be found. Every resource he drew from provided glossy PR pieces on Julian Zivera. His agenda, his indiscretions, his faults, all expertly buried or spun by a PR firm. As far as the world knew, Julian Zivera could walk on water. But Busch knew different; Michael had seen it firsthand. There was much more to this man than the Internet could reveal, than an annual report could summarize, than a church pamphlet could proclaim. None of these sources, or any source for that matter, would provide the answer to the central question that Busch was seeking. Why would a man of insurmountable wealth, of far-reaching power, a man of religious influence, kidnap a Boston attorney and ransom him for a simple box?

Susan stood in a large walk-in closet, bigger than most bedrooms. It was filled with business suits, dress shirts, casual wear, shoes, sneakers, and sporting attire. And it was all men’s clothing. On the center island there were two pictures: one of a handsome man, mid to late twenties, and the other a woman in her mid forties. The safe-room door—hidden behind the floor-to-ceiling mirror—from where she had extracted the metal lockbox was still open. Susan did everything in her power to avert her eyes from not only the pictures but from the secret room itself; she felt as if she were peering into Stephen’s deepest secret, his inner sanctum where only he ventured. He had revealed to her the code for the hidden door so she could provide Michael with the metal box. Stephen directed her to give it to Michael straightaway and said nothing more.

Now, alone with her thoughts, she shed her tough exterior and slumped to the floor of the closet, her back against the dresser. And the tears came: tears of frustration, tears of fear, tears for what seemed to be never-ending losses in her life. It had all spiraled out of control a year earlier and now, just as she thought she was getting some sense of balance back, her world crashed once again. She and Stephen had shared a loss that neither was prepared for and that, to this day, each was only beginning to learn how to accept. The tragedy in their lives had drawn them even closer. They only had each other. But now, with Stephen’s disappearance, she was alone. The one person who was able to guide her was gone, and she had nowhere to turn. He had always been there for her: securing her first job out of the DA’s office, guiding her onward and upward at his law firm. She owed him everything.

She refused to let the world see her pain, see her tears, see her weak. But alone, without witnesses, she let the anguish pour from her heart. Her body shook with uncontrollable sobs, the tears streaming down her face. She let it all flow for five minutes and as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. She cleared her mind, chose her focus word, and, utilizing a yoga technique, she sought inner peace; it was elusive, but she calmed herself nonetheless. She stood and stepped to the hidden door. The light was still on in the concealed room, a safe room, a secure refuge in the event of a crisis or home invasion. But today, it did not provide the sanctuary that it was intended for.

She walked into the room. It was eight by ten; security monitors filled one wall, displaying the various rooms of the house. She saw Michael St. Pierre in the living room picking the lock of the black case; the man by the name of Paul Busch sat in the library absorbed by the computer screen. The rest of the house was still. She turned from the monitor bank and looked at the far wall. There was a gun case there, no lock—this whole room was a lock. She pondered grabbing one of the multitude of guns from the rack but thought better of it. While the two men were strangers, they didn’t seem to pose a threat.

And then as she looked at the wall before her, her breath caught in her throat as it had when she stepped in this room not five minutes earlier. It was covered in pictures. She looked at each one of them—there were more than forty—most of them curling up at the corners, discolored by time, fading away. They were pinned up, meticulously organized, and though they were not of Stephen, they revealed more about him than their subjects, and gave an insight into the man which ran far deeper than anything Susan had ever heard about him before.

The drawer from which she drew the case was still open. As she moved to close it, she noticed a red folder, thick, overflowing with paper. On its cover she saw a simple heading:
Michael St. Pierre.
She reached in and drew out the file. She thought twice about opening it but abandoned that thought; this was not a time for privacy.

As she began reading, her heart began to race; this was not what she expected. The file contained articles going back decades to Michael’s time in school. Newspaper clippings of his football exploits, copies of his high school and college transcripts. There were pictures, some from yearbooks, some taken from a distance by surreptitious photographers. But it was the last collection of articles that shocked her, that chilled her heart.

Susan quickly closed the file. She placed it back in its drawer, noting that there appeared to be two more files on Michael St. Pierre. She closed the drawer and flipped off the monitors. Just before turning off the light, she had second thoughts. She walked back to the gun case and stared at the collection of rifles and pistols. Stephen had never mentioned them, never alluded to the fact he knew how to handle a gun. And she wondered if it was a collection, something he looked upon with admiration, with pride, or if he kept them for protection? Protection from an abandoned son who might come looking for him someday.

Chapter 13

T
he Boeing Business Jet roared down the tarmac
of Boston’s Logan Airport and leapt into the air. It was late morning as the private jet climbed into the clear blue sky heading out over the Atlantic. Stephen Kelley was in a private room at the back of the plane.

After being violently grabbed from his home, Stephen lay bound and hooded on the floor of a car. A cell phone was shoved to his covered ear; a man with an Italian accent spoke softly to him that he wouldn’t be harmed if he was able to convince Michael St. Pierre that he was truly his father.

He was then driven straight to a private hangar at Logan, carried up the steps, and thrown into the room where he now sat. They had left him bound with the black bag over his head while they had cleared his pockets of his cell phone, credit cards, license, and money.

As the bag was torn from his head, he saw the three large men surrounding him, their eyes imploring him to remain seated and to not try anything foolish. Kelley was still solid and fit for a man of fifty-eight. He had stuck to the same regime since his youth of running, boxing, and strength training, but even if he was twenty years younger, in peak condition, he knew he wouldn’t have a chance against even one of the polished thugs before him. They were as wide as they were tall and they moved with an economy of motion that meant only one thing in Kelley’s mind: they were trained in the deadliest of arts. As they cut him from his restraints, the lead man, his short black hair receding at the temples, silently walked about the richly appointed cabin. He indicated the private bathroom, the fully stocked bar, Tiffany crystal glasses secured in leather restraints for takeoff, a small pantry with an assortment of food, newspapers, and magazines.

“Where are we going?” Kelley said.

The men went about gathering up Kelley’s belongings and restraints, ignoring his questions.

“Who are you?” he quietly asked.

And the three men, without even acknowledging him, walked out of the room. The heavy thud of the lock echoed as it fell in place, leaving him alone with nothing but the drone of the jet’s engine.

“What the hell is going on!!!!”

Chapter 14

J
ulian ran across the snow-covered playground,
the nine-year-old boy two steps behind, teasing him, mocking his size, his freakish know-it-all mind. What started out as play had gone beyond the point of fun; their little game of chase had gone horribly out of control. Julian pumped his eight-year-old legs as hard as he could, but he was running short of breath, his lungs struggling for air. Marco finally caught him and knocked him to the wintry ground. All the children from the playground came running, circling the blond boy and his dark-haired nemesis. The cries of “Fight, fight, fight!” echoed in Julian’s ears. But he just lay there gasping, not knowing what to do, the fear crippling his mind.