The Thieves of Faith Read Online Free PDF

tight as the small UPV towed him against the current at five knots.
    Michael emerged a mile upriver into the tree boughs that hung heavy with snow. He scanned the woods and stepped from the water, dug his camouflage bag out from under the snow, dried off, and dressed in a parka and jeans. He let the current carry his stripped-off equipment away, grabbed his satchel, and stepped from the woods into a parking lot.
    He opened up the trunk of a 1983 Peugeot, pulled out a five-gallon drum, and placed it on the ground next to the car. He put on a heavy pair of rubber gloves and with a screwdriver, pried off the lid. He looked up from the container; downriver he could see the commotion on the bridge, the small crowd of police watching as a boat bounced off the icy surface racing to a body in the frigid waters. Michael couldn’t help smiling at the shock they would feel when they plucked “him” from the water.
    Michael turned back to the task at hand, opened the waterproof tube, withdrew the painting and the map, and placed them on the front seat of the car. He knew what he had to do but it pained him nonetheless. This was a man’s creation, the manifestation of his heart and soul. It was a work of art thought lost to time, and now…
    He stared at the map, the true intent of his quest, and pondered its purpose. It was painstakingly detailed, an underworld hidden beneath a fortress of churches. A world known only to Genevieve, a guide to a mystery that enraptured her son, yet terrified her. Michael did not care where it led or what it would reveal. He only cared that it had cost his friend her life.
    Without further thought, he took his knife and cut the map and Govier’s painting into strips. He dropped them into the small drum and watched as they quickly dissolved in the concentrated acid. Never to be seen by man again. This time the monk’s secret, Govier’s masterpiece, a mystery from a forgotten time, would truly be erased from existence.

 
     

     
Chapter 2
     
    E very morning Paul Busch got up at 6:30 a.m., no matter what time he’d gone to bed. Even if he didn’t hit the pillow until 6:15, he would be out for a run on the beach or pressing weights in his garage by 6:32. Since his retirement, he’d managed to firm up his six-foot-four frame so that hints of muscles were, once again, poking through his flesh. In the shower by 7:30, dressed and ready for dad duty by 7:50, he would have breakfast with his wife, Jeannie, and their six-year-old Irish twins—born eleven months apart—Robbie and Chrissie. He’d get them on the bus by 8:15 and take a moment to look around, to smell the sea air, to appreciate the moment and the life that he had. Though it had only been three months, retirement was suiting him just fine.
    Busch would hop in his Corvette, put the top down, and let the wind dry his sandy blond hair. He’d stop at Shrieffer’s Deli for a cup of coffee and the paper, and catch up with whatever local he bumped into. And every Thursday and Sunday, without fail, he would buy one lottery ticket. It was like a drug to him, a newfound optimism of wealth creeping into his soul. Upon stuffing it in his pocket, he would walk out confident that he held the winning ticket for the next drawing. And the mood would carry him through his days and nights, putting a smile on his face and warmth in his voice. The ticket’s euphoric ability would last right up to the moment of the drawing. He would then hit bottom, crestfallen that he had missed the winner’s circle again, but come the next morning and the next ticket, that feeling would be washed away on the tide of new hope that would sit in his pocket—till the next drawing that he was sure to win.
    Jeannie pressured Paul into retirement. While he was initially reluctant, he had taken to it like a duck to water. He collected his pension in one large chunk and bought four things: a restaurant with a serious bar, a ’68 Corvette, a Fender Stratocaster guitar, and the