The Thieves of Faith Read Free

lost but I have recently learned it has surfaced on the black market. It contains a family secret, one of great consequence.” Genevieve paused a moment as she resumed rubbing Hawk’s belly. She stared at the dog as she continued. “It is not that I desire its return; in fact, I wish it to be destroyed before it is acquired by the one person who should never take possession of it.”
    Michael sat there, fully understanding she was asking him to commit a crime on her behalf. Michael looked at the envelope, at the blue cruciform of Genevieve’s family crest, the moment seeming to drag on as the cold of the morning began to penetrate his core.
    “I am being hunted, Michael. Hunted to unlock the secret of this work of art.”
    “What do you mean, hunted?” Michael said, a tinge of defensive anger seeping into his voice. He abruptly sat up, listening more intently.
    “The man who is trying to acquire this painting has the darkest of hearts. A man without compassion, without remorse. He stops at nothing to achieve his ends. No life is too consequential, no deed too unholy. He is desperate and, like a trapped animal that will chew off its own limbs to escape, a desperate man knows no limit, knows no boundary. And the path that he seeks, the path to where this painting will guide him, will only lead to death.”
    “How do you know?” Michael said. There was sympathy in his voice, without a trace of skepticism. “How can you be sure you’re not jumping to conclusions? To hunt another human being…Who could be so cold?”
    “The man I speak of, it shames me to say, the man who hunts me”—Genevieve looked at Michael, her broken heart reflected in her eyes—“is my own son.”
    Michael sat there absorbing her words, not breaking eye contact. Her eyes, which had always been so strong, so confident, were now desperate, adrift like the eyes of a lost child.
    Finally, Genevieve flipped open the brass clasp on her tan leather purse, reached in, and withdrew her car keys. She stood, brushing herself off, regaining her composure and dignity.
    Michael silently rose, standing beside her, looking upon her. “I don’t know what to say.”
    Genevieve leaned in, kissed him softly on the cheek. “Do not say a word. I am shamed by what I ask.” She gently tapped the manila envelope in Michael’s hand. “I understand if you decline; in fact, I hope you do. I’m foolish for coming here.”
    “Genevieve…” Michael began, but he was lost for words as she stepped back.
    “I’ll call you in a week,” she said as she turned away.
    Michael watched as she walked down the snowy walkway, entered her car, and drove off.
     
     
     
    Over the following days, Michael thought on Genevieve’s request: was it an overreaction, a paranoid response to a maternal love betrayed? The desperation in her eyes…it was so contrary to her personality as her words pled to his soul. While Michael’s mind was filled with doubt, he did not question Genevieve’s intent even once, for whatever the painting’s significance, she believed in it with her entire being.
    Genevieve’s request had weighed heavy on Michael; she was asking him to reenter a world that he’d left far behind, that he hadn’t known since Mary had passed away. A life he was happy to leave in memory of a wife whose morals were stronger than steel. Besides, his skills were rusty and his mind, he feared, had begun to lose its edge. She was asking him to not only steal a painting, but ensure that it would never fall into her son’s possession.
    Three days later, Michael picked up the phone to call her, to discuss it, to offer emotional support like she had offered him. He would save his polite decline for the end. She was asking him to break into a gallery that only existed on the black market, that was but a rumor heard on the wind. And even if he was to somehow find it in a dream, it would be nearly impenetrable.
    But his heart skipped a beat when he found her phone