At night the church had the look of a Bavarian chalet, its upper windows glowing gold against the cloud-darkened night. I could imagine it as a sanctuary—which begged the question why we had to break into it.
The southern edge of the church property was a strip of reddish clay, crusted by the autumn chill, bike tracks imprinted over its surface. We parked across the street and trudged through the mud. At the parking lot entrance, Blatchford halted.
“Cold feet?” I asked.
“Strikes me I haven’t been inside a church in years. Not since Brendan Jorgenson and I got caught in the gym showers at St. Pat’s.”
“Other than when you tried to break in yesterday, you mean.”
“Strikes me yesterday I might’ve wanted to get caught. Like psychologically.”
I looked at him. He was staring at his feet.
“All right,” I said. “We’ll swap, then. Can I count on you to wind the guard up for half an hour?”
He smiled, looking relieved.
Kay and I walked to the door. “You up to this?” I asked her.
“Sure,” she said. “I figure he’d want us to.”
“Who? Tim?”
“God,” she said. “I figure we’re after someone who’s breaking the sixth commandment. And if we just copy those files, we’re not technically breaking the eighth.”
In the hallway, a rustling sound reached us from the nave, hymnals being flipped open. Two-dozen-odd voices began a somber tune I didn’t recognize. We took the stairs in single file.
The lights from the atrium below left the upper hallway in shadows. I turned the father’s office door but it was locked, a brass deadbolt set in the antique wood. I tried using a laminated discount card to jimmy the bolt, but it was wasted effort.
“Maybe there’s a window,” Kay said.
Her sneakers made less noise on the wood floor than my Rockports. We skirted the office and tried others. The door to the assistant’s nook wasn’t as well protected. I dug the bent card between door and jamb and retracted the bolt.
We entered, closed the door. Kay held up her phone, illuminating the room under cool blue light.
A loud voice from outside—“Stop.” I craned my neck to look out the window. A yellow-jacketed man stumbled out of the mud, in pursuit of a darting figure that must have been Blatchford. The singing continued from below.
Kay hit keys on the assistant’s computer. A floating password box appeared on the screen. She tried closing it but it sprang up again.
“Why did you think this would be easy?” she whispered.
“Check the desk.”
Kay opened the drawers, directing the light down on their contents. Stationery, correspondence, a cash box in the bottom. In the top right drawer, nestled beside pencils and a three-hole punch, was a spiral-bound notebook. Kay took it, held it up.
On the front of the notebook was a piece of masking tape with ASSISTANT written on it in smudged black marker. Evidently the job had a high rate of turnaround. Kay flipped pages.
The music had stopped. Outside, Blatchford and the guard had faded to shadows on the baseball field.
“Yes.” Kay tapped the back page of the book, a list of passwords. I thought I saw her roll her eyes.
A stentorian voice filled the silence, Father Darian preaching the word. His cadence was more lyrical than his parishioners’ singing.
Kay had access. She searched “Late Start” and copied files onto the zip drive. Outside I saw the security guard start back toward the church, winded, limping.
I watched the progress of the files. The father had called it “raw data.” No kidding—pages of documents with gibberish names filled up the Late Start folder, A27677_B and the like.
When the transfer was finished, Kay put the computer to sleep. She followed me out, down the stairs. The sermon was winding down, dulcet tones, love thy neighbor. Murmurs of approval, soft amens. We almost collided with the security guard coming through the front door.
He was shorter than me, maybe twenty years older, still out of breath. Shock fading to suspicion. I put my hand on his shoulder and leaned in, as Kay circled behind us, making an end run for the door.
“Thank God,” I near-whispered, drawing him toward the stairs. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I saw a guy go up there just now.”
His eyes widened, putting it together. “Big guy, wide guy?”
“Yeah, kinda looked like a wrestler. I saw him go up the stairs but I didn’t know who to tell, and I didn’t want to interrupt—”
He put up his hand, a calming gesture. “Thanks for telling me, you did good.”
I watched him ascend, then made my exit.
Kay and Blatchford were already in the car, ready to peel out as soon as my door closed. Kay drove, letting out a yip as we pulled onto the highway.
“Holy shit,” she said. “I was worried there for a moment, but holy shit, right?”
I accepted the flask from Blatchford. “No problems?” I asked him.
“Wish you’d’ve been quicker, but I made it work.” He grinned. “You’re out of practice. If I taught you anything, it’s that, this business, you have to keep your chops up.”
I closed my eyes and told him to go fuck himself.