The Thieves of Heaven (44 page)

The rain stopped as he walked across the parking lot. The stakes had just been raised. Paul Busch was clearly one step ahead. Thal’s quarry of one had doubled and the more he thought about it, the more excited he got. His job was Michael and his pleasure would be Busch. Individually, their downfalls would have been supreme. But to get them both together…that would be an indulgence of the senses.

His thoughts were interrupted when he saw the two corpses; the white stripes on their jogging suits had turned red with blood. One still clutched a nine-millimeter automatic. Thal looked about; no one seemed to be around. He leaned down, checking the bodies. Rigor mortis had yet to set in. He cursed himself: Busch had gotten the jump on him. These two guys were obviously a European-side backup. The fact that it was presumed he, Thal, needed a backup, that the chance existed he could fail, pissed him off. He made a mental note to address the issue once he achieved success. He examined the bodies closer, checking the bullets’ entrance and exit points. The wounds were professional: each had been shot cleanly in the head. Someone was protecting Michael. Well, good, that just ratcheted things another notch.

Thal’s initial assignment wasn’t to kill Michael St. Pierre. It was only to watch him, keep an eye on him, know his every move. Once it was learned that Michael was on parole, Thal simply started an internal investigation on the ex-con’s parole officer. It was absurdly easy to put himself next to the man who was closest to Michael.

For five years, Thal had hidden behind the mask of Internal Affairs. The undercover division provided him mobility and the freedom to slip away on a moment’s notice under the pretense of a confidential investigation. He was fair to mediocre in his performance and that was just how he wanted it. Mediocrity was always ignored in this world. People found nothing of interest in the average. Only the outstanding, the successful, the popular, or the dismal failure drew attention. And so he lost himself deliberately in the middle. He couldn’t afford any attention or he would risk his passion:

Killing.

Dennis Thal was outstandingly good at it and was outstandingly paid for it. He didn’t find much humor in the world, but the fact that he was paid so generously for his one true love always struck him as funny. He was requested by his handler to find a suitable job that would make him inconspicuous. Internal Affairs was just that. An undercover cop among the undercover cops. It allowed him to monitor the progress on any investigation that might lead to him and provided him with the unique ability to manipulate the investigations when necessary. He actually liked Internal Affairs. Sniffing in others’ dirty laundry; he had the power to ruin lives. What could be better? But the job he relished most was moonlighting for the faceless individuals who employed him. The pay for that was outrageous, the pleasure was stunning. He had found his vocation in life and he excelled at it.

He’d slipped into the Byram Hills Police force under the pretense of an Internal Affairs investigation of their parole system—namely, Paul Busch. Captain Delia was so flustered at the situation and scared for his own skin that he gave up everything on his number one cop in a heartbeat—Busch’s history, records, everything. And most importantly, one file in particular, a file on Thal’s actual mark: Michael St. Pierre.

Thal was to keep an eye on Michael; the assignment didn’t involve killing, just watching, but Thal being Thal, his urges ran in other directions. He despised Busch, his cozy little life, his perfect morals and codes. From the moment Busch dissed him, not wanting to work together, Thal had looked for an opening, a way to tear Busch and his perfect life down. After all, Thal policed the police. He was absolutely empowered to remove any cop from the system who was deemed corrupt. How fitting that Busch’s downfall would come out of his foolish, honest gesture of helping his best friend break parole! And Thal would be right there to call him on it. First, he would destroy Busch’s career. Then he would destroy his life.

Now, as Thal stood outside the Berlin police station, he knew he should have followed his instincts; he should have killed Busch when he had the chance. Now things were out of control. Busch had Michael and they had slipped away. Thal knew that he couldn’t fail. If he did, he would end up unemployed, replaced, and, most disagreeably, dead.

Michael had slipped out of the U.S. before Thal could stop him. And so Thal had received a new directive. His heart nearly skipped a beat. He could throw restraint to the wind. He hated babysitting, watching, keeping an eye out. He was like a shark, in need of constant motion, always on the hunt, an unsatiated bloodlust; when restrained, motionless in his environment, he would smother and drown.

Thal was no longer to watch Michael: he was to kill him. And not only Michael. Busch, he decided, would die also. And if either of them gave him a hard time, maybe he would go back afterward and pay a visit to their families. That sweet Mary wouldn’t have to worry about the cancer anymore….

The footsteps echoed off the damp stone walls. The match flame cut through the blackness, the fat cigar glowing as its smoke billowed upward into the cavern where it danced around stalactites fifty feet overhead. The single flame grew into many as he lit the succession of candles, one hundred candles, lining the walls. Finster dipped his fresh Cuban in his brandy as he contemplated his bizarre collection of religious artwork. He walked slowly past each masterpiece with a reverence befitting a king. Each piece had been meticulously researched, located, acquired, catalogued, and restored. Pride was his favorite deadly sin. Pride was just self-esteem emboldened by one’s accomplishments, and he so liked his accomplishments.

There were three thousand two hundred and eighty-one works of art stacked one against the other here, with his favorites out front. Many purchased outright from galleries and auction houses. For the occasional piece that he found in private hands, collections, or homes, a piece he found that he could not do without, Finster employed other means of procurement. There were thirteen of this type, and of this thirteen, nine had been secured from houses of worship.

Finster found particular fascination with the lesser gods and demons of those early religions which have since become looked upon as mythology by today’s “modern” faiths. Hades and Persephone, the gods of the Greek netherworld; Anubis, the Egyptian god of the dead; Proserpine, Roman goddess of the underworld; and Loki and Sigyn, the trickster Norse gods. And what most intrigued him was the fact that these “dark gods” were believed to be part of a balancing force in their particular realms. They were not gods to be vanquished and cast away. While feared, they were also respected—and even admired—looked upon as necessary in daily life. The fact the “modern faiths” had done everything in their power to denigrate their sole lord of darkness baffled and infuriated him.

Shrines and temples had been built to the Hindu god Shiva, one of the darkest of the feminine gods, and they were still worshipped at today. Appeasements made, offerings given. The goddess was spoken of with reverence and many sought help from her. Her followers were not looked down upon. When something tragic was performed by a man, it was not blamed on Shiva possessing his soul, it was ascribed to the individual who had performed the act of his own free will. Finster loved the masterpiece before him, removed under cover of darkness from a temple outside of Jaipur. Shiva’s six arms outstretched to her screaming minions, who were engulfed in flames below.

Vlad the Impaler,
a magnificent oil painting by Rukaj, stolen from Ceausescu. The Romanian prince of Wallachia struck a deep chord in Finster. Vlad Dracul was never a god. He was just a man in whom the coldest form of evil ran. A military genius who struck fear into not only the hearts of his enemies but those of his countrymen. A count, hailing from the northern mountain regions, Dracul had a hunger for power and an unquenchable thirst for blood. A victorious general who savored the ritual of impaling his victims by the thousands on pikes, their blood running in virtual rivers as a warning. And with men like him in the world—ordinary men with a propensity for violence and evil springing from their own self satisfaction—there was no need to introduce wickedness into the world. Man’s evil ways were man’s evil ways.

Man had always found evil more fascinating than good. The young girl was always attracted to the rebel, the guy with the leather jacket and motorcycle who defied the law. What allure was there to the nerd, the computer geek goody-goody? And it followed throughout life: actors always wanted to portray the bad guy, the villain was always the more intriguing character in literature. Ask anyone to name ten interesting good guys and ten interesting bad guys. He’ll have those ten marauders in twenty seconds flat but after five heroes he’d be hard-pressed.

And with all this confusion, Finster had grown tired. People had become so predictable. Wave a little money in front of their faces, flash a little sex before their eyes, and their will bent like a sapling in a breeze. Finster was merely the tempter, never the hand that wielded the gun.

He continued his stroll down his off-color-Louvre, finally arriving at the door to the key chamber, with the painting of the Gates of Heaven propped beside it. Charles came down the stairs carrying a long black bag and a large knife.

Finster’s eyes never left the painting as he spoke to the butler. “And he looked and he saw that it was good,” he murmured.

Charles stood in the corner by the hanging body. He laid the black body bag on the floor, unzipping it to prepare it for its latest arrival. The odor of death flowed off the corpse: decay had already set in. With much effort, Charles lowered the body to the ground. He pushed Elle’s red hair away from her once beautiful face, and removed the noose from her swollen and bruised neck.

Finster continued to stare at the painting of the Gates of Heaven, deep in thought. And a slight smile began to form on his lips.

“I’m going home,” he said.

Chapter 25

C
rosses covered the windows, the doors, the
walls, thousands of crosses, everywhere. Barely an inch of space had escaped the priest’s handiwork. It reminded Busch of the serial rapist he had caught eight years back; pictures, culled from magazines, torn from newspapers, had covered every inch of the psychopath’s bedroom. All of prepubescent girls. And the sicko, scarcely nineteen years old, had just sat there as Busch arrested him, confused at what he had done wrong, protesting “but Zeus told me to do it.”

Busch and Simon sat in the middle of the floor, a bottle of Cutty Sark on the carpet between them. There couldn’t have been more than an inch of whiskey left in the brand-new bottle. The two men had finally found something in common: both were within a shot of passing out.

“So, Father, what do you do when you’re not out fighting the Devil, killing people, that holy thing you do?” Busch’s slurred question was barely understandable.

“I…play chess.” Simon’s voice was clear but he was obviously in no better shape.

“Chess is good. Little too cerebral for me.”

After much thought and furrowing of the brow, Simon blurted out: “Football.”

“Ah…Now we’re getting somewhere.” Busch perked up.

“Not
American
football. Soccer.”

The cop’s elation ebbed. “We”—he pointed to Michael, who seemed lost in a game of solitaire on the bed—“play football. Good old
American
football.”

“You any good?”

“Yeah, we’re any good,” Busch shot back.

“Got to be strong for that.”

“Yeah, strong.” Busch’s pride was swelling.

“Quick?”

“Quicker the better.”

“Smart?”

“Sharp as a tack.” He had second thoughts. “Well, the quarterback’s got to be smart.”

“You the quarterback?”

Busch laughed. “No. Just quick and strong.”

Simon lay on his stomach, extended his arm, offering his hand in challenge. “How strong?” he demanded.