I was way too curious and distracted by all the prettiness of the building.
Blake forged ahead, checking out the columns at first and then focused on looking up. I followed his gaze. How were we supposed to get to the steeple in this place? And where was it, exactly?
Doyle’s voice echoed in the room still. “Maybe we should have brought a ladder.”
“There’ll be a stairwell,” Blake said. “The steeple should have a bell in it. There would be an access door somewhere.”
I scanned the area, seeking out anyone who might be listening. The church was open, so there had to be someone here. Who stayed so late at a church? Priests? How could we explain our need to climb the steeple?
I was walking on my toes as it was. The heels were making clicking sounds if I walked normally. I stood as close as possible to Blake.
Blake quietly reached for my hand, holding it. I allowed it, feeling stronger. I wasn’t a shy type of person, but I was completely out of my element here. I didn’t do church.
Blake circled around the room, finding a door on the left hand side. He turned to us. “I’ll go up with Doyle,” Blake said. “We’ll just turn it off and we’ll wait here in the pews. Someone will have to pass by here to fix it. We can relax until then.”
“Right,” Doyle said. “And then we flank him? Knock him out with the big cross? By the way, I didn’t bring a gun. I left mine back at the house.”
“Hopefully it’s not a gang of them,” Blake said. “If it is, we’ll have to settle for staying out of their way and following them. Otherwise, we’ll take a chance on just talking to whoever it is. They’ll want to know their phone service is being targeted.”
“They might turn it off to avoid giving it to anyone else,” I said.
“They’re not going to turn it off if we explain to them,” Blake said. “The man who runs this isn’t an idiot. He’s not going to scare off his customers by shutting the network off. Not unless he has to.” Blake motioned to Doyle to follow him and then directed me to sit in the pews. “We’ll be back.”
“You’re leaving me behind?” I whispered. I did not want to be left alone. It wasn’t like I’d be able to blend in.
“It’ll be a tight fit up here, and I need you to keep a priest busy if one starts heading this way. We shouldn’t be long.” He started to turn and then spun around, climbed down the steps and approached me.
I was backing away, wondering if he’d forgotten something and needed to get by me, when he grabbed my shoulders and kissed me roughly on the lips. It was quick but hard and then he released me.
“Don’t go anywhere,” he said. “And don’t get kidnapped.”
My heart fluttered. I nodded. Maybe I should have told him no, or backed away, but I was terrified of making another wrong move, and grateful he was taking over the fight. His strength and assurance was giving me the motivation to keep going, and not to simply run off to the hospital and feel the guilt of knowing Axel and Marc and now Brandon were out there somewhere.
It surprised me how much I realized now that I did need someone. I’d realized it before with the boys, and now, with Blake Coaltar, I was feeling it again. There was that doubt if I was making the right decision, and working together with someone made things easier. When I wasn’t sure, because it was out of my depth, someone else was there to help.
I hadn’t realized how alone I’d been, even while I had Wil and my father around. It hadn’t been enough.
Blake disappeared behind a door with Doyle. I was grateful not to be following. Even if the church was open, it was more reasonable for me to be out in the chapel than the non-public areas. It wasn’t like they’d let just anyone climb all over their church, right? I wondered if nuns slept here. Would Blake and Doyle spook a nun?
I slinked between the columns and the walls, studying the glass windows and trying to read the words. Some of it was in Latin, but some I struggled to read because of the angle and the fancy fonts, but I admired the artistry. How was it so quiet, but my heart felt like it was alive and thundering so hard?
“Good morning,” said a male voice in a whisper, but the voice was deep, so it echoed within the cavernous space. “Early morning, I should say.”
I jumped and twisted, spotting an older man with a priest’s habit, white collar and rosary, the whole getup. I hadn’t realized they still wore all that. His hair was cropped short and he had a thin frame. He stood there smiling, his eyes friendly and curious.
When my heart settled, allowing me to breathe a bit, I pressed a palm to my chest and exhaled. “Uh...”
“Sorry,” he said, again in the same soft voice. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Did you have any questions? Is there something I could help you with?”
“No,” I said quickly. “I mean, I didn’t mean to be here if I’m not supposed to...”
He held up a hand and smiled assuredly. “God’s children are always welcome here, no matter the hour. Please,” he said, and gestured around him, “look around as much as you’d like.”
“Oh. Okay,” I said, lowering my voice to match his whisper, although I wasn’t sure my voice carried the same as his did. My eyes cut from him, to the colored glass above our heads, meaning to turn away and let him resume...whatever it was priests did.
“Do you know this story?” he asked. He sidled up beside me. He pointed to the picture within the glass, of a man carrying a cross who I’d thought to be Jesus. “St. Dismas, the good thief.”
I smothered my initial reaction to choke and sputter. “Oh?” I said, my voice weakened, my tired brain going wild. He did know. He knew I was a thief. He knew my background. Doyle was right. Churches were evil. It’s not what I really believed, but the coincidence was spooky.
The priest nodded and smiled, directing his gaze to the window, carrying my attention there. “St. Dismas was one of two thieves sacrificed on the cross the same day as our beloved Jesus Christ. It was Dismas who, upon the day of his death, turned to Jesus and asked to be remembered. Jesus promised to be with him in heaven that very day.” He paused for a long moment, and then continued, his voice much softer. “I always liked the story. I feel it shows it’s never too late for anyone to seek forgiveness and be given a second chance. All it takes is a will, a desire to change.”
I swallowed, and hoped he didn’t notice. “Personally, I like the one where Jesus feeds a couple thousand people with a fish.” I probably got that one wrong. Honestly, it was the only one I could remember.
The priest chuckled, the bass in his voice echoing throughout the chapel. “I have to agree,” he said quietly. “That is a good one.”
“Have you been here at this church a long time?” I asked. I couldn’t think of anything else to say, and at the same time, the priest was looking at me, like he desired to continue the conversation. I felt awkward and small, like a child, even though he was shorter than me and I could probably knock him over with a single punch. He simply carried himself confidently and there was something even greater than that: trust. He simply trusted me to behave and not do him any wrong.
“Oh, a long time,” he said. He turned, with his hands clasped behind his back, walking toward the next window. He did this as we talked, pausing briefly before a window and giving me a moment to look, before he continued on. “I am fifty three and I’ve resided in this church for thirty years. Charleston and even John’s Island has changed a lot in that time. I’ve been given opportunities to go elsewhere, even on missionary work in Africa. I felt compelled to stay in one place.”
“Why stay?” I asked. “Why here?”
He shrugged and his fingers moved to the rosary hanging at his waist. He fingered the beads absently. “Some people move about from place to place, learning a little about a lot of different places. I chose to remain, and learn all I can about one. I get to know the people better that way, and how I might help.”
If he’d been here a while, there was a chance he knew the Murdock family. Maybe it wasn’t appropriate, but I had
a gut feeling and I took a chance. “Do you know a Mr... Murdock? Ethan Murdock?”
“Ethan? Of course.”
“Does he attend church here?”
The priest laughed, and stopped in front of the altar with the cross and the candles. He turned to me. “Yes, I know Ethan. I’ve known him since he was young and I first started here. He’s a remarkable young man. Full of ambition, like his father. Maybe a little prideful but I don’t think a little pride is wrong. Just a smidgen. He’s earned it.”
“He has?” I asked.
The priest nodded, motioned to the front pew and encouraged me to sit. I did, and he sat next to me, looking up at the front of the chapel as he talked. “Ethan Murdock was younger than you the day he walked in. He’d been raised right, but was a hellion of a teenager, rebelling against his parents. Everyone goes through that phase, but then one day, he seemed to change. He walked in here, giving nearly half of his yearly salary to the church. Each year after that, he’s continued to make donations in hefty sums, asking that we use the money to help with children and local families. I think he suspected he’d never have any, or wouldn’t settle down, and wanted to be sure to support children that he’d never have.”
“So do you see him often now?”