The Thieves of Faith by Richard Doetsch Read Free Book Online Page A

previous life. He turned into his gravel driveway, kicking up a fishtail of rock, and made the quarter-mile run in twenty seconds.
    The house was more than secluded; he was alone here, the world left far behind. It was a single-story high-ceiling mix of modern and ranch, filtered through the mind of some 1960s architect. The stone and wood exterior blended with the surroundings; other than the three-car garage in the back of the house, he hadn’t changed it much since he bought it six months earlier. Michael’s security company had finally found a firm footing, providing a steady income and employment to his three-person staff. The ever increasing high-end homes and businesses in the area provided a regular stream of installs and service contracts, and had recently begun to include even more remunerative consulting work.
    Michael’s two Bernese mountain dogs raced out, barking at the hulking motorcycle until he cut the engine. Hawk was five years old, Raven just over a year. Michael finally broke down and bought the second dog. She wasn’t as big as Hawk and incessantly barked at shadows, but she made a good companion. They followed Michael into the house as he threw open the door. He tossed his jacket on the pool table in the great room and made a beeline for the kitchen. He popped a beer and pulled Mary’s letter from his pocket. He had read the letter twice through, his mind trying to come to grips with Mary’s words from the grave.
    Michael had been happy, so happy with Mary that he’d been afraid he would wake to find his life was a dream. Mary completed him in the way only love can. She was his center, someone who loved him for all of his faults and missteps. She believed in him, had faith in him, filled him with optimism.
    And it all died with her: his faith, his love, his optimism, and his hope.
    But as he read her letter over again, those feelings, those emotions, were rekindled. Mary had a way of making him see things more clearly even after her death.
    He read the last line of her plea:
     
I am not asking you to find your real parents for yourself, but for me. It is my last request, one that will allow me to go to my final rest knowing that you are not alone in this world. Family has a way of making us whole, filling the emptiness that pervades our hearts, restoring the hope that we think is forever lost.
     
    The phone rang, shaking Michael from his thoughts. He walked across the kitchen and picked up the receiver.
    “Michael St. Pierre?” The woman’s voice was officious.
    “Yes?”
    “This is the Byram Hills Police Department. I have Captain Delia for you.”
    Michael said nothing as he heard the click of the transfer. His heart beat faster as time seemed to slow around him. The police didn’t call Michael for social reasons, ever.
    “Michael, I need to see you.”
     
     
     
    Five minutes earlier, Paul Busch was cleaning up the bar, tucking away the bottles and freshly washed glasses. The till was fuller than it had ever been. This bar had been his dream for longer than he could remember. His wife, Jeannie, was more than supportive when he bought it; she knew it would get him out of the line of danger as it accelerated his retirement. The income was far more than his police paycheck, and he didn’t mind the fact that he could eat and drink for free—though he did miss the thrill of the chase, the allure of the hunt and its accompanying rush.
    He was emptying the cash registers when the phone rang. “Fucking phone. It’s after midnight.” Paul picked it up with the thought of ripping the line out. “What?”
    “Paul, Bob Delia. Sorry to bother you so late.”
    Busch sucked in his anger and paused a moment. “That’s all right, Captain.”
    “Looks like a car went through the rail of the Kensico bridge.”
    “How long ago?”
    “Too long. There were no witnesses but we’re figuring at least an hour.” The captain paused as if to acknowledge whoever may have met their death in such a