The Thieves of Faith Read Online Free PDF Page B

“Black Album” by Metallica. At seven o’clock every night, he would hop in the Vette, flip down the roof, pop in the Metallica CD, and head to work with the song “The Unforgiven” as his theme music delivering his hi-ho fuck you to the world.
    He loved tending bar, he had dreamed about it for more years than he could remember, but as was the case with so many dreams, the old axiom kept ringing in his ears: careful what you wish for. The bar was everything he could have wanted. Jeannie ran the restaurant while he was in charge of pushing alcohol and booking entertainment, but after about a month, it, like so many things, became routine. He missed his adrenaline, a drug he seemed to have left on the desk of his old job back on the police force. But there was always the bright side. Death didn’t seem to lurk around every corner and for that, Jeannie had some peace of mind. He couldn’t deny her that no matter how much he missed it.
    Busch was sitting on the front porch, looking at his yellow Corvette, the only car in the driveway. He flipped open his phone and hit the speed dial. “Hey, are you going to show up tonight?”
    “I told you I would,” Michael said. “Relax.”
    “Just checking. Where are you?”
    “I’m home,” Michael said quickly. “Where are you?”
    Busch looked down at Michael’s dogs, rubbing behind their ears. “I’m home, too. See you tonight.”
    Busch stood up and walked across the driveway. He opened the door of the Vette and looked back at Michael’s house, shaking his head. He gave Michael’s dogs one last pet, started up his car, and drove off.
     
     
     
    Michael stood alone in the middle of the Banksville Cemetery, allowing the grief to wash over him, once again feeling the loss that had hollowed his heart. He stared at Mary’s grave. God’s gift to Michael, Michael’s gift to God. A year now and the suffering, the mourning had not abated. He knew, indisputably, that she was in a better place, but even that couldn’t fill the emptiness of his heart.
    As the setting sun cast its golden hue upon the sea of headstones, Michael finally lifted his head and looked around the graveyard; he was the only one aboveground on this humid June evening. He glanced to his left, at the graves of his mother and father. All the family he had ever known surrounded him with their absence. Genevieve’s death had magnified the solitude that Michael felt, the lack of family, the lack of reason. It reminded him of his mortality but even more, it reminded him of Mary’s funeral.
    His cell phone vibrated in his hip pocket. He reached in, thumbed it off, and tucked it into the side pocket of his blue sport coat. He hadn’t worn the jacket since before Mary had passed away. He didn’t know why. It had been her favorite—Ralph Lauren—but since her passing, every object in his home, in his life, seemed to take on some significance. The last glass she drank from, the last sweater she wore, her favorite pen. It all now had meaning, where none existed before. Some things brought smiles and others tears. He would never delete her voice messages on his cell phone, replaying them on an almost daily basis just to hear her voice, just to feel his emotions.
    She had often worn his shirts, his jackets, and always left him a reminder of her love for him in the pocket: tickets for a Yankees game, a fortune cookie proverb, or, on many occasions, a love note.
    So when Michael found the courage to put on the Ralph Lauren jacket again, he immediately felt the bulge and knew what it was before he pulled it from the inside breast pocket.
    He hadn’t intended to come to the cemetery this night but the letter compelled him. It wasn’t a conscious decision; he just got on his bike and began driving.
    He gently opened the flap, holding it close to his face. As he withdrew the letter her fragrance washed over him, pulling his mind back to a happier time; the emotions poured from him as he closed his eyes, memorizing