The Thieves of Faith (54 page)

“Die-hard Giants fan, season-ticket holder,” Michael said.

“Patriots,” Kelley shot back. “How about basketball?”

“Knicks.” Michael threw up his hands. “You’re obviously a Celtics fan. That’s OK though, they both suck.”

“Hockey,” Kelley continued. “My Bruins are in a rebuilding year.”

“Yeah, for the last decade.”

“That’s low coming from a Ranger fan.”

“Ah…Got you on this one. Red Wings. Nothing beats a game at Joe Louis Arena.”

“Red Wings?!?! How the hell can you live in New York and be a Red Wings fan?”

“Easy…the same way I watch Manchester United. It’s called a satellite dish.” Michael paused. “Did you play anything growing up?”

“Everything,” Kelley answered. “Baseball, football, basketball, I boxed.”

“A boxer?” Michael smirked.

“Why, is that so hard to believe? If you’re a Southie you learned to fight or die.”

“How about your son, what did he play?” Michael asked.

Kelley grew silent, looking away, the moment over.

“I’m sorry—”

“No, it’s OK. He was more of an intellectual type. You would have liked him, though.” Kelley smiled, looking away. “You would have liked him a lot, you would have made good brothers.” Kelley caught himself and laughed. “Even though you were on opposite sides of the law. And I’m so sorry about your wife.”

“It’s OK, all the money in the world couldn’t have saved her. Can we stop the memorials, though? It’s kind of killing us both.”

Kelley smiled as he pushed the finished sketch over to Michael. It showed four stories, with some of the rooms detailed. “I wasn’t everywhere, but this is what I remember.”

Michael studied it, knowing that somewhere inside was Susan, terrified, wondering if anyone would be coming for her.

“Everything else aside, I’m pretty lucky,” Kelley said, a sense of optimism in his voice. “I seem to have found a son I lost. And I don’t have to deal with the teenage years again. How about that?”

Kelley put out his hand. Michael took it and they shook warmly. “Listen, on the whole dad thing…” Michael said uncomfortably.

“Just call me Stephen.”

Michael smiled. It was a moment as father and son acknowledged one another. Finally, Michael reached in his pocket and handed Stephen a small three-cigar tin.

“What’s this for, a little celebratory smoke?” Stephen asked.

“For later. I need to talk to you about how we are going to get Susan.”

Stephen nodded and tucked the small rectangular cigar case in his back pocket. “For later, when there is cause for celebration.”

Chapter 56

J
ulian looked into his mother’s eyes; they were
darker than he remembered. Where he used to be able to read her heart, he saw nothing now but mystery.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” Julian said truthfully.

But Genevieve just looked at her son, silently staring into his eyes.

“I was worried I’d never see you again.”

Genevieve just continued to stare.

“I need your help.” Julian turned and walked around the lab. “You know what is truly in the box, and I believe you know how to open it.”

He finally turned and looked back at the gurney where Genevieve lay, her arms and legs strapped down, a wide strap across her chest, her only escape being to close her eyes, but they remained defiantly open.

They were in a medical lab designed by Vladimir Skovokov, built for working on the dead, the cadavers that were so much a part of his research. The temperature hovered around thirty-three degrees Fahrenheit, to help preserve his subjects. Julian dialed the temperature down. “Nice and chilly in here. Does it remind you of your mountain retreat in the Italian Dolomites? Where you died?” Julian didn’t expect her to answer.

“I don’t know how, but you and that box are linked. And when it gets here, you are going to tell me how to open it.”

Genevieve’s breathing slowed as she continued to defiantly stare at her son.

“I’ll figure out how to open it eventually. I was just hoping maybe you would save me some time.”

Julian picked up a syringe and slipped the needle into a small medicine bottle, pulling back the plunger, filling the barrel to its max. “Sodium Amytal, sodium Pentothal, all of those so-called truth serums, all they really do is make you sleepy.” He walked back over to where she lay on the gurney, leaned over her, and ran his free hand through her hair. “And if you don’t want to tell me the truth, they won’t help me to pry it from your lips. But pain…”

Julian paused, looking deep into his mother’s eyes. He felt no remorse or shame as he looked down upon her, thinking of her as a kitten trapped in a box.

“I would tell you that this won’t hurt, but that would be a lie.” Julian stepped back and ritually squirted the syringe in the air, a small stream arcing across the room. He gently picked up the IV line that ran into her arm. “It will actually feel like fire running through your veins, as it courses throughout your body. You just let me know when you are ready to talk instead of scream.”

“May God have mercy on your soul,” Genevieve whispered.

Julian was taken aback by the first words he had heard his mother speak in years. He allowed them to soak in, committing what might be her last words to memory, and finally smiled. He stared down at his mother, deep into her eyes, and finally at the cross on her chest. And without thought, he grabbed it, ripping it from her neck. “God has nothing to do with this.”

Julian slipped the needle into his mother’s IV tube. “You’ve always known, I have no soul.”

Chapter 57

M
ichael’s legs dangled in the night air as he
hung by two fingers sixty feet above the craggy shore. The crashing waves had long since disappeared from his consciousness as he focused on his climb. His left foot swung outward and caught a one-inch outcropping, gaining purchase. He steadied himself and inserted a spring-loaded cam in the half-inch vertical crevice, allowing it to expand into a strong anchor point. He inserted a carabiner and slipped his kernmantle rope through the metal clip before continuing on. He was making the two-hundred-foot climb solo as Busch and Simon stood below in the darkness on the sharp rocks, looking up through the sea-spray mist. He was the expert when it came to climbing and he wasn’t about to foolishly lose his allies to inexperience. He would make the climb and secure two ropes for their ascent. There was no room for death, he told himself, not for Susan, Genevieve, Busch, or Simon.

Michael continued upward. The rock face was no less than an eighty-degree angle, the outcroppings were few and far between, taxing Michael’s arms more than he had anticipated. He never looked down or behind him, his focus only on the next handhold. He continued building a safe route via anchor points along his climb to ease Busch’s and Simon’s novice vertical journey.

By default, it was the only way into Julian’s compound. He decided the front gate was out of the question, and marching up the drive with the box in hand would only ensure one more death: his own. For they all knew, Julian had no intention of keeping Susan alive even if Michael did deliver the box.

And so it would have to be a smash-and-grab. They were faced with only one problem: they didn’t know where Susan was. Kelley had detailed the floor plans of the mansion along with the perimeter guard’s timetable but Michael wasn’t sure if she was there. He had to make his way to the security building. It not only housed the guards but the mainframe computers and monitors that serviced the entire grounds. It was the junction where the voyeuristic had a bird’s-eye view of everything. It was there that he would hopefully confirm where they were holding Susan and Genevieve, and he would also get a leg up on Julian’s security detail.

Michael shimmied up the last five feet of rock and peered over the edge to make sure the guards didn’t happen by on their rounds. There was only a twenty-foot strip of grass between the cliff and the main house; nowhere to hide except below the cliff top. Michael wedged in two more expansion cams and tied off the ends of both two-hundred-foot ropes. He had given Busch and Simon harnesses and ascension clamps to aid in their climb and help preserve their energy for the task ahead. Michael reached down, gave the blue rope three tugs, and watched as the two lines grew taut with the weight of his companions.

Michael quietly stripped off the blue mechanic’s coveralls he had swiped from the airplane hangar to reveal a black security uniform, the one that Kelley had worn to escape the compound. It fit Michael nearly as well as it had fit his father. Michael peered over the edge for a sign of Busch and Simon but saw nothing; the five-minute wait was going to be painful. Michael turned and looked at the enormous house before him; it filled his entire field of vision. The classic stone design was nothing short of breathtaking. The mansion was truly fit for a king, but held someone far less deserving.

As Michael had a moment to stop and think, he was thankful for Busch. While Simon was a friend, he had a vested interest, an ulterior motive for entering the compound. Simon believed in the power of the box and its potential devastation. But Busch…he believed in none of it; despite a literally Hellish encounter a year earlier, he still thought they were chasing myths, stories meant to frighten, stories meant to impart the majestic power of God. He was here, climbing the cliff face for only one reason: to help Michael.

Michael checked the knife at his thigh and patted the pistol in its holster at his waist. He hated guns, but they were a necessary evil given the circumstances. He turned around and looked out over the moonlit sea.

“Not a bad view, huh?” The voice came from behind Michael.

“I prefer the view in the daylight,” Michael said without turning around.

“Mmmm, but we’re not here to look around, are we?” the voice said.

Michael slowly turned and was faced by two guards, each of whom held a Heckler & Koch G3 rifle at his waist, pointed Michael’s way. The man doing the talking was short and stocky. His buzz cut strained to make him look tough but failed; he was not very imposing but the same could not be said for his raised gun.

The guard looked warily at Michael, staring at him, assessing him. “We haven’t met.”

“No, we haven’t,” Michael said.

“Probably because you don’t belong here.” The lead guard motioned his rifle at Michael. The second guard was bald and had to weigh more than two hundred and seventy pounds. Michael noted that he had a surprising economy of motion for such a large man as he walked toward him and jammed his rifle into Michael’s back.

The lead guard peered over the edge and saw the ropes dangling from their anchor points. They danced back and forth in small increments against the rock face from the movement below. The guard turned back toward Michael. “How many?”

Michael said nothing.

The guard stared at him a moment longer and then pulled out his knife. He walked over and held the blade just below Michael’s left eye. “How many?” he asked again as he ran the blade against the soft skin of Michael’s lower eyelid, just short of drawing blood.

Michael didn’t flinch.

The guard stepped back. “Well…” He walked to the edge and craned his head over again at the dancing, skittering ropes, but still couldn’t see the climbers. He crouched down and leaned over the lip. He held the blade to the blue rope. “However many, it will be minus one.” And he began sawing. It took all of two seconds before the rope snapped with a sharp
pop
and fell away.

Michael’s expression didn’t change, but his heart broke. He wasn’t sure whether Busch or Simon was on the blue line, but whoever it was, he never would survive the fall on the rock-strewn shoreline.

“Here’s your chance to save whoever is on the other end of this.” The guard, still crouched down, began bouncing his knife against the remaining taut line.