The Thieves of Faith (61 page)

Chapter 68

M
ichael sprinted alongside the long driveway
toward the mansion. The cars and limos were abandoned, no roving patrols, nobody posted at the front of the enormous home. It was as if everyone simply had vanished, gone for the night, as if all was right with the world and there was no longer a need to protect Julian.

“Where’d everybody go?” Busch asked as he caught up to Michael. Susan and Stephen came to a halt next to them with Simon bringing up the rear. They stood at the edge of the expansive garden, staring at the former royal home, the former monastery that was redesigned and lit to cry to the world of the power of the man who resided within. But for this man of such wealth and command, his protection had disappeared. Michael spun about looking for someone, anyone, but the compound was deserted. And Simon raised his gun higher.

“Something is very wrong,” Michael said.

And the ground erupted around them. Gunfire poured from every window, every doorway, all fixed on them. The dark of the night was suddenly lit by the barrel flame of forty guns, the cacophony of sound shredding their ears, stirring up confusion. Without thought they all reacted, racing for cover, diving behind trees and rocks, cars and trucks.

Simon took up position behind a stand of trees. Twenty yards away, Susan and Stephen lay behind a rock; Susan examined Stephen’s shoulder, applying pressure to the growing wound. The run up the hill had only worked to increase his blood flow, to exacerbate his injury. Susan tore Stephen’s sleeve from his bloodied arm and created a makeshift bandage, using his belt to apply pressure, to wrap and affix the temporary covering to his wound, immobilizing his shoulder.

The gunfire continued to fall about them. Simon saw Michael cutting between the trees heading for him and laid down a suppressing fire, hoping to force their attackers to a defensive position.

Michael made it behind a large pine, taking a seat, catching his breath. He stole a quick glance around the base of the tree, catching a glimpse of the mansion’s entrance. They were more than fifty yards away; there was no question, every window had a sniper, had a shooter begging for one of them to come out in the open. There was no way in and there was no doubt what they were protecting. Michael cursed himself for letting the box get away from him.

“We have to get them out of here,” Simon called to Michael as he nodded toward Susan and Stephen.

“No way,” Stephen shouted over the gunfire. “I’m not some kid being sent home from the fight.”

“Not to be cold,” Simon said, “but I can’t afford a woman and an injured man slowing us down. We could get killed trying to watch out for you.”

Stephen said nothing as he stared at Simon, the realization hitting him as if it were a judge’s ruling. He nodded.

Michael looked toward the far east side of the mansion, two hundred yards off, and noted the helicopter landing pad, a large white copter, its quiet blades sagging, dormant under the nighttime skies. The near side of the landing pad was surrounded by a tall solid metal wall, long bracing arms extending back into the ground, a barrier against the helicopter’s prop wash and a perfect cover point to not only protect Stephen and Susan from the firing line, but keep them safe and hidden.

Simon followed Michael’s line of sight and immediately picked up on the idea. “Go, I’ve got you covered.”

Without a word, Michael looked at Stephen and Susan and they all took off for the steel wall, staying in the shadows, staying within the line of trees. Simon laid down a suppressing fire, fanning his gun at the windows in hopes of catching some guards unaware.

The trio charged through the trees as the bark exploded around them. Michael glanced over at Stephen who, despite his shoulder wound, did not falter, he fought through the pain, slowed not one step by his injuries.

They slid in behind the large structure, surprised by its size: twenty feet high, fifty yards long, made of a heavy-gauge steel. It would prove the perfect cover point for both Stephen and Susan. Michael crouched down and looked at Stephen’s shoulder, checking Susan’s work. She had immobilized his arm against his body to prevent the wound from tearing open further. The cloth from Stephen’s shirt was already soaked through with blood. They would have to get him to a hospital soon.

“Take this,” Michael said to Susan as he slammed a nine-millimeter pistol into the palm of her hand. “I don’t care who it is, anyone comes near you kill him, do not hesitate, kill them, cause they’ll kill you as soon as they get the chance.”

“Give me the gun, Susan,” Stephen said with the utmost seriousness.

“No, you’re right-handed and wounded. I trust her, you do the same,” Michael shot back. He nodded to them and ran back toward Simon.

And as he ran, looking at the mansion, the unending barrage of bullets, at Simon and Busch intermittently firing back, his heart filled with dread. There was nowhere to go, and retreat was not an option. Julian had the box and was ensconced within a ring of gunfire.

No matter what they did, Michael feared it was too late.

Chapter 69

T
he small golden box lay open in Julian’s lap;
he held his breath as he peered inside. The threat of Raechen’s guns trained on his head was nothing more than an afterthought as Julian looked into the box that had possessed him for so many years.

The interior was impossibly dark; though it was only four inches deep, it appeared to have no bottom. Julian squinted as the small golden case appeared to shimmer and move, subtly at first. He looked up and about the room; the lights seemed to dim, their rays moving toward him, toward the box, where they vanished. And conversely, the darkness seemed to pour from the box, flowing outward, a black, low-lying fog, seeping out and over the rim, down his legs and along the floor. It spread out in its inky way, enveloping the rug, the chairs, covering the room in an unreal darkness, robbing the world of light.

And it flowed behind him toward the Russian assassin who stood with his two pistols aimed at Julian.

Raechen stared at the box, frozen in place. Julian watched as a shadow moved about the assassin’s feet and up over his legs, his chest, over his shoulders, and finally his head. And Raechen began to tremble, deep rasps of breath struggled up and out his throat as he began to gasp. And his eyes welled up with crimson tears of blood; they poured down his face, sharply contrasting the blackness that lay upon him. And then the darkness flowed off, moving away of its own free will, like an errant shadow with a will of its own.

The guards stood riveted, watching the impossible sight before them; the blackness flowed outward as Raechen collapsed dead next to Julian. And then, without warning, the pool expanded, moving at an increasing speed; the guards turned to run but it was useless as the shadows engulfed them, pulling them to the ground, covering their bodies.

Julian sat paralyzed, his brain frozen as he watched the carnage before him, but throughout all of the screaming, all of the terror, he felt nothing; this shadowlike plague seemed to pass him by as if he were marked in lamb’s blood.

And the blackness flowed out of the room under the doorways and out into the hall. Julian could hear the screams, the bodies falling. The horror echoed through the mansion, terrifying him.

Then he saw it, in the bottom of the box; it was dim but its glow began to brighten. He reached in and pulled it out. It was light, golden and pure. It had no substance, no texture or matter, it was simply a golden light that filled him with warmth, filled him with hope, removing the pain from his heart and his mind.

And when he looked up she was there. Standing before him, standing among the fallen bodies. She silently walked to him, staring down upon him in judgment. She took the box from his hands and gently closed the lid. Genevieve stood there, a radiance flowing from her body as she looked at her son.

Julian remained dumbstruck, staring uncomprehending at his mother before him. He tried to speak but, like in a dream, he was suddenly mute, his lips moving without effect. He shuddered, more terrified of her than the death around him.

Genevieve smiled, warm and caring, and it terrified him even more…for he had killed her, he had seen her dead mere hours ago.

Julian looked about the room at the scattered lifeless bodies, unsure why he was not among them. His brittle mind was in a tailspin. He never questioned the fragility of his own psyche, knowing that genius and insanity were separated by a mere hairsbreadth, but he couldn’t grasp what stood before him. He was paralyzed in fear, his heart racing, his mind numb with confusion.

“Julian.” Genevieve’s lips were unmoving, though her soft voice was clear in his head.

“What are you?” Julian quivered, his breathing labored with fear. “A cherub; tasked with guarding the secret of life?” Julian closed his eyes, trying to gather his strength. And then he exploded. “What are you?”

Genevieve looked down upon him with disappointed eyes. “You read too many books,” her whispers echoed in his head. “Those are stories, written by men who bore no witness to the mysteries that have occurred through time. Some facts are fables and, as you know, some fables are facts, but you ignore their intention, you ignore their warning, forgetting their purpose of guidance, of metaphor.”

Julian looked at the box that Genevieve now held. “What is in that box?”

“You know what it is, you knew what it contained, and yet you chose to ignore the warnings. It contains the power to grant eternal life, but as you can see”—Genevieve looked about the room, at the carnage surrounding them—“it is not how you imagined. It is death, pure and simple. Releasing man from his earthly bonds so he may experience his fitting and just reward, be it above or below. It is evil and darkness, it is a pathway to the gates of Hell for those undeserving of Heaven. It delivers one to his rightful eternity.”

“Why am I not dead?” Julian pleaded with confusion as he looked at the bodies around him. “What am I? Why am I not dead?”

Genevieve leaned down and removed her cross, the swordlike cross that she had worn around her neck, from Julian’s hand. She looked at it a moment then looked back at Julian. “Sometimes the greatest powers are not money and violence; they are hidden in the simplest of things, the smallest of things.” Genevieve lifted the cross to her throat, where it had hung for so many years, and tied it, reaffixing it about her neck. “The holiest of things.”

“Am I still dying?”

Genevieve smiled. “Everyone dies, Julian, it is how we choose to live, how we value life, that determines our fate. No man truly knows how long he has and yet he would sacrifice his own pleasure, he would sacrifice his own satisfaction, never living in the moment, forsaking quality for quantity. You have turned your back on family, faith, hope, and, above all, love. You are the epitome of greed. And yet despite what has happened here, what has happened in your life, there is no remorse in you, no regret for those you have killed. And as such, when you do finally die, which could be decades from now, you will be trapped in a forever night, having forsaken your soul. You will be trapped for eternity in the place you fear most.”

“What of forgiveness?” Julian pled, his mind on the verge of collapse. “What of Heaven?”

“To know forgiveness is to know contrition, to know sacrifice. Things that are alien to you, Julian. As for Heaven, it is the most beautiful of places; you have been allowed to glimpse it, to feel its love and warmth, so you may know what you have forsaken, what you will never have. You may try to forestall it, but death will come to you one day, and until that time you will know what awaits you, you can contemplate an eternity of suffering. I’m sorry.”

Julian sat there listening to the voice in his head, to the proclamation of his sentence to the darkness, the nothingness that had haunted his dreams since he had died that day on the playground. The void he had so desperately wanted to evade would embrace him at his death. Julian’s fear twisted his mind, turning it upon itself, paralyzing him until what was left of his sanity washed away. And as it did, Julian’s fear was suddenly replaced with anger; it rose up in him, empowering him, once again filling his heart with the rage that had sustained him for so many years. “You are not here. You’re dead, I saw you, I saw your body.”

“Did you?” Genevieve asked, her image seeming to waver. “Do you see me now?”

Julian erupted out of the chair, charging at and grabbing his mother about the neck, his mind finally cracked, his sanity split in two. He squeezed, violently shaking her body to and fro, screaming, “What are you?”

And, like that, she was gone, her body dissolving in the bright morning light. Julian stood there, uncomprehending. He crumpled to the ground finally falling apart, his mind incoherent, his insanity all-consuming.