The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [54]
“Welcome to St. Bart’s Church,” a soft voice whispers as we step inside the arched stone foyer. On my left, from behind a card table covered with stacks of Bibles and other religious books, a pudgy grandmother nods hello, then quickly looks away.
I shove two dollars into the see-through donation box and head for the doors of the main sanctuary, where—the instant they open—I’m hit with that incense and old wood church smell. Inside, the ceiling rises to a golden dome, while the floor stretches out with forty rows of maple pews. The whole room is dark, lit only by a few hanging chandeliers and the natural light that filters through the stained glass along the walls.
Now that lunch is over, most of the pews are empty—but not all of them. A dozen or so worshipers are scattered throughout the rows, and even if they’re praying, it only takes one random glance for one of them to be Crimestopper of the Week. Hoping for something a bit less crowded, I glance around the sanctuary. When a church is this big, there’s usually… There we go.Three-quarters down the aisle—along the lefthand wall—a single unmarked door.
Trying not to be too quick or noticeable, Charlie and I keep the pace nice and smooth. There’s a loud creak as the door opens. I cringe and give it a fast push to end the pain. We rush forward so quickly, I literally stumble into the stone room, which is just big enough to hold a few benches and a brass votive stand filled with burning candles. Otherwise, we’re the only ones in the private chapel. The door slams shut and Charlie’s still silent.
“Please don’t do this to yourself,” I tell him. “Take your own advice: What happened with Shep… it’s not my fault and it’s not yours.”
Collapsing on a wooden bench in the corner, Charlie doesn’t answer. His posture sinks; his neck bobs lifelessly. He’s still in shock. Less than a half-hour ago, I saw a co-worker get shot. Charlie watched someone he thought was a friend. And even if they barely knew each other—even if all they did was talk a few games of high school football—to Charlie, that’s a lifetime. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
The sight alone makes me taste the lingering vomit in my throat. “Charlie, if you want to talk about it…”
“I know,” he interrupts, his voice shaking. He’s fighting to hold it together, but some things are too strong. This isn’t just for Shep. On our left, the candles burn and our shadows flicker against the stone wall. “They’re gonna kill us, Ollie—just like they killed him.”
Moving in close, I palm the back of his neck and join him on the bench. Charlie’s not a crier. He didn’t shed a tear when he broke his collarbone trying to ride his bike down the stairs. Or when we had to say goodbye to Aunt Maddie in the hospital. But, today, as I open my arms, he falls right in.
“What’re we gonna do?” he asks, his voice still a whisper.
“I have a few ideas,” I tell him. It’s an empty promise, but Charlie doesn’t bother to challenge. He just keeps his head against my shoulder, searching for support. On the wall, we’re one big shadow. Then my phone rings.
The shrill screech echoes through the room. I jerk back; Charlie doesn’t move. Reaching into my suit pocket, I quickly shut off the ringer. When there’s no answer, the person calls back. Whoever it is, they’re not giving up. The phone vibrates against my chest. I reach back in and shut it off.
“You sure we shouldn’t get it?” Charlie asks, reading my expression.
“I don’t think so,” I quickly reply.
He nods as if that’ll keep us safe. We both know it’s a lie. Along the back wall, the candles’ tiny flames are dancing in place. And no matter how much we want