The Thieves of Heaven (63 page)

BOOK: The Thieves of Heaven

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And the money. It came from Finster. It was tainted and evil, bounty money to undermine God and the Church. It had brought only suffering.

Hawk barked, startling Michael, and as the dog charged out of the room, the doorbell rang. Michael tucked the bank statement in his back pocket and walked out of his den. He opened the door. Standing before him was a tall woman of indeterminate age.

“Mr. St. Pierre?” the woman asked in an accent that Michael couldn’t place.

Michael studied her. She could have been in her late thirties or a well-preserved fifty.

“I’m so terribly sorry about your wife.” She handed Michael an ornate envelope. “The Vatican sends its deepest condolences and prayers in your time of mourning.”

Michael averted his eyes, he really didn’t know where he stood with the Church, after all the chaos he had caused them.

The woman smiled, seeming to sense his shame. “Mr. St. Pierre, please understand, the Church comprehends the trappings of temptation. But, more importantly, the Church always believes in forgiveness.”

Michael looked at the card. “Are you a nun?”

She smiled and let out a small laugh. “No. My name is Genevieve. Simon is an old friend of mine. I run an orphanage in Italy and I’m in town seeking donations.”

Michael remained silent, looking at the Vatican envelope.

She smiled. “Not from you, of course. I am attending a fundraiser here in the city. Simon asked me to check on you, to see how you were doing.”

“I’m fine,” he told her. But they both knew it was a lie.

“If there is anything I can do…” She reached out her hand. “Everyone deals with grief in their own way. Sometimes, those who have been there can help.”

He took her offered hand; it was soft and unexpectedly delicate. For a moment, he felt comfort from this woman’s presence. He wasn’t sure if it was her gentle way or the fact that she ran an orphanage that had touched him. Though he was adopted as a baby and raised by loving parents, he’d always felt a kindred spirit with those who were orphaned. They were the ones who were truly alone in the world. And this was a woman who cared for those forgotten children, helping them to realize that they were not alone, bringing the power of love into their world.

Michael tucked his hand in his back pocket, feeling the bank statement, and he thought:
Maybe some good could come from this.
He knew what he would do with the money.

But that wouldn’t bring him peace, no one could truly bring Michael peace. Not this woman, not Simon, not Busch, not even the Church, no matter how mighty it was. For none of them could answer the question that still haunted his dreams. He didn’t know if Mary was at peace. Had she truly found the Heaven of her prayers?

Chapter 44

I
t was late into the night. Michael was curled in
Mary’s favorite den chair, Hawk snoring at his feet, CJ nestled in his lap. He was beyond exhausted, falling at last into a desperately needed deep sleep. He had volunteered to help Busch coach his son’s football team. The season was a few weeks old and they had won the day’s game 18–12. Still undefeated.

Michael was hoping for a routine, something that would give his life structure, help fill the void. Work and kids’ football. That was all he could come up with for the moment. It was a start.

Although the silver and gold keys had been returned and he had borne witness to sights he could never explain, he still carried his doubts. They haunted his days and his dreams. It was the what-if that gnawed at his heart.

The question of a hereafter.

And he desperately needed an answer: the ramblings of his mind had torn him apart the last several weeks; he couldn’t imagine what would happen with the passing of years.

He had been out cold nine hours, hadn’t moved a muscle, it was the longest he had slept in months. Ever so quietly, Mary stepped into the room, her hair once again a glorious mane. Her skin like alabaster, her green eyes filled with light. She stood there looking down at Michael, smiling at his sleeping form. She sat at the desk and quietly opened the drawer; her hand vanished inside, searching for something. She pulled it out. She stood at the bookshelf, absorbing the memories in the pictures before her, her eyes glowing as the happiness washed over her.

She placed it on the wall—the nail was still there—fiddling with it before finally stepping back, admiring the completeness that filled the void that had too long been there.

The simple crucifix hung there in all its cheap tackiness, in all its meaning.

She returned to Michael’s side and, bending, gently kissed him.

His eyes slowly opened as if he knew she would be there and for an instant they shared a warm, intimate smile until the first rays of the morning sun filtered into the room and she dissolved into the shafts of light.

Michael stretched his body fully awake; CJ skittered off onto the couch. He stood and walked to the wall.

He straightened the cross and smiled……for he knew she was at peace.

His question had been answered with a miracle.

Chapter 45

I
n the heart of the Black Forest, in a region frequented
by few, there is an area closely guarded within the confines of a once-abandoned monastery. Five Swiss Guard on permanent assignment from the Vatican man the watch. Mixed in with the monks, brothers, and priests, these soldiers are not obligated to wear their traditional outfits of blue, maroon, and yellow. They guard a five-hundred-year-old statue. Or, more precisely, they safeguard the tomb below it.

It is the only place in the world where the Swiss Guard are stationed outside the Vatican.