Cassie Miles - Frozen Memories

The preferred method for taking a suspect was a straight-on assault, using the element of surprise, yelling to disorient the suspect and being ready to shoot first. But Spence wasn’t looking for a lethal shoot-out. This fugitive was low on the totem pole. His greatest value was the information he could give. Somehow, Spence needed to sneak into the church and take the fugitive into custody.

At the entryway, he leaned against the polished oak door with a small diamond-shaped stained glass window at eye level. The church building was a rectangle, with stained glass windows on either side. Spence wasn’t sure what he’d find inside. Ruefully, he realized, it would have been useful to have the pastor with him to give him the layout.

The door on the right had a keyed knob. Spence gave it a twist and found it locked. No problem, he’d been picking locks since he was a trouble-making teenager. This was the first time he’d done it at a church.

After turning the knob, he opened the door a crack, slid inside and closed it. The entryway was in darkness. No windows here. In the nave, where the congregation sat, the stained glass windows on either side allowed moonlight to fall across several rows of wooden pews. He edged his way down the wall, expecting—at any moment—to hear the blast of a repeating rifle.

No sound came. And Spence didn’t see the fugitive. At the front of the church, there was light from a door at the far right side of the sanctuary. In the entryway, Spence found himself at the foot of a narrow, wooden staircase that hugged the wall. He climbed to a choir loft. Three rows of pews and an upright organ were faintly visible. Quiet as a cat, he crept down to the carved railing, where he squatted and waited.

It was a pretty little church, simple and clean, with a high peaked ceiling and open beams. The carpet in the sanctuary was slate blue and the altar was carved from dark wood. From outside, a fierce wind buffeted the stained glass windows, causing the old structure to creak and moan. Not a bad thing, he figured. Those noises had masked the sound of his entry, allowing him to scoot across the back and up the stairs without the fugitive noticing.

A certain amount of skill was required to move with stealth and purpose. But Spence also believed in luck. Being in a church, he wondered if he should shoot off a prayer. He wasn’t a religious man, didn’t make it to church every week, nor did he quote from the Bible or other sacred texts. But he was spiritual. He believed in a higher power. When he was growing up, two men were instrumental in helping him pull his life together. One was a pastor, the other a priest. Spence had never done a whole lot of praying, but he felt like those church people had done a lot of praying to make sure he stayed on the right path.

A telephone rang. Spence heard the mumbled reply. Was the voice coming all the way from that back room? If so, the acoustics in here were incredible.

The light from the back room went out. The phone call must have tipped off the fugitive. But how? Who made that call? Behind the shadows of the pulpit and a standing candleholder, Spence saw a man dodge across the sanctuary, slam into the side of the altar and then duck behind it.

From his superior vantage point in the choir loft, Spence peered over the banister rail. The element of surprise was gone, but he could still give this guy a chance to make it easy on himself.

“FBI,” Spence called out. “I don’t want to hurt you. Just put down your weapon and step out from behind the altar.”

“What if I don’t?”

“I need to take you into custody.”

The fugitive laughed. “That doesn’t work for me.”

Spence heard a voice from behind his back. “Sorry, Spencer. Doesn’t work for me, either.”

He looked over his shoulder and saw Pastor Clarence, aka Bad Santa, aiming his rifle at a lethal point between his shoulder blades. The old man was working with the bad guys. “This explains a lot.”

“What?” Clarence asked.

“You never called 911.”

“Nope.”

“And I’m guessing that the van hadn’t ended up in this area by coincidence. Tell me, Pastor, do you own the cabin with the green door?”

“I do, and three others in this area.” He gestured with the rifle. “I want you to stand up real slow and careful.”

Seriously? Had Bad Santa forgotten how well armed Spence was? Did this old guy think he could take down a federal agent in his prime?

“Let me remind you,” Clarence said, “I’ve got the drop on you, and it’d be easier to swab up the blood from your dead body than to sand bullet holes out of the pews.”

“Were you even a chaplain?”

“I’m retired, but I served.”

Something must have happened to turn the old man into a traitor. In other circumstances, Spence might have been willing to delve and probe and put together motivations and answers. But he wasn’t in a forgiving mood. This investigation needed to be over so he could return to Virginia with Angelica and repair her memory.

Lowering his rifle and sliding his handgun onto the pew, Spence turned sideways in the choir loft so he’d present a narrow silhouette to the man hiding behind the altar. “Tell me, Clarence, if I hadn’t come along, what would you have done to Angelica?”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s a loose end. It doesn’t seem smart to leave her running free. Would you have shot her?”

Clarence huffed as he adjusted the barrel on his rifle. “You’ve got this wrong. Just give me a minute and let me explain.”

A disembodied voice rose from the altar. “It’s not as bad as you think.”

How do you know what I think? Spence had never been known for his calm, patient attitude, and he sure as hell didn’t need advice from some dumber-than-dirt thug. It was time to take control of this situation.

Disarming Clarence would be a piece of cake; the old guy wasn’t exactly in peak condition. The tricky part would be to avoid getting shot by the armed thug. Spence coiled his long legs beneath him. With one well-placed leap, he went into the aisle between the pews. With a pivot, he launched himself off the organ and smashed into the pastor’s broad chest.

Clarence went down with a thud. Flat on his back, he didn’t bother struggling. As Spence fastened his wrists with a zip tie, Clarence said, “There should have been an easier way to do this.”

“Explain.”

“First, an introduction,” Clarence said. “The dark and scary character who escaped the SWAT team is my nephew, Trevor MacArthur. Help us out, Trev. Turn on the sanctuary lights.”

The shadowy figure that had been lurking behind the altar went to the edge of the sanctuary and flipped a couple of switches. Lights blazed in the nave.

A young man with curly brown hair and a beard strolled to the front of the sanctuary. “There’s one more thing you ought to know, Spence.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m FBI, working undercover.”

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