CHAPTER 12
Fletcher ignored a total of four texts from Courtney that night. In the first, she had simply asked to talk. Then she needed to talk about her dad. Then she wanted to apologize for her father’s behavior. The final message had insisted that she absolutely needed to discuss something “rlly srs,” which could have meant “really serious,” but by Fletcher’s estimation, anything all that serious would have justified the extra half second it would have taken to add vowels.
Although the messages were annoying and a reminder of his confrontation with Brad, Fletcher was almost thankful for the distraction they created—a distraction from bigger problems. The run-in with Andrew. The reminder from his PO that a return trip to prison was a very real possibility. The doubt and uncertainty shrouding his faith.
Lights-out had been announced at 11:00 p.m.—another reminder of incarceration. It was now 11:48 and Fletcher’s mind was reeling. Even amidst the chorus of mucus-rattling snores all around him, he felt completely alone as he stared up at exposed ductwork, hardly visible through the dim light of the streetlamps spilling in. All he wanted was to sleep, to let his mind and body rest so he could start tomorrow fresh—just another member of Christian Service Camp, a week-long opportunity for volunteering and helping the less fortunate, something normal people with normal problems and normal families took part in every year.
Then again, he and his problems were anything but normal. He twisted on the air mattress and felt it give. He’d borrowed it from an older couple at church who had only used it once, they kept saying, but it clearly had a leak somewhere. Usually a side sleeper, he’d had to abandon that due to his hip pressing against the wood floor. He chuckled dryly. Yet another aspect of their trip that was slightly less comfortable than a minimum security prison.
If there was one thing he was thankful for, it was a few nights of sleeping alone. There was little Fletcher dreaded more these days than the awkwardness of climbing into bed with his wife, hoping this was the night she would snuggle up to him and fall asleep with her head against his chest like she used to, only to have her click off her lamp, turn her back to him, and doze off. Their bedroom was certainly uneventful, if amicable.
Of course he couldn’t blame her; she barely knew him. After his first job with Andrew, the two of them had convinced Meg that Fletcher had been promoted to assistant director at the museum. Andrew, playing the role of Fletcher’s boss, had painted a picture of a handsome salary and cosmic potential for advancement. Meg had eaten it up, quitting her job and throwing herself into her acting career. They moved to a new apartment in the Hills and enrolled Ivy in a top-of-the-line school. Fletcher and Andrew had a good thing going.
Until they got caught. Or until Fletcher got caught.
That left Meg to deal with everything all at once. The fact that her husband was a fraud, a thief, and anyone but the man she thought she knew. The sudden lack of income. The eviction. Et cetera. Fletcher knew she’d toughened considerably through the process, and therefore he should not expect her to be the same person she’d been seven years ago. But he often felt like the door was not only closed but barred and booby-trapped. He tried again to collect his troubles and push them out of his head.
His cell phone buzzed again under his pillow. Okay, this was going a little too far. Not to mention that texting after lights-out had been condemned many times over at the orientation they’d all endured. He should probably just turn off his phone for the night. It buzzed again. Not a text. Someone was calling him. He retrieved the phone and checked the display.
CALL FROM THE ALCHEMIST, it read.
Who?
“Hello?” he whispered.
“Hello, Fletcher.” The voice was unfamiliar. “Run into some old friends today?”
Fletcher’s stomach dropped out from beneath him—odd, considering how close it already was to the floor. Suddenly feeling like he might throw up, he rolled onto his side, causing half of his shoddy air mattress to tip up into the air.
“Who is this?” Fletcher demanded. He wanted to take his phone out into the hall, but the thought of trying to jump over all those teenagers and backpacks and mattresses without landing on anyone was less than ideal. Instead, he pulled his sleeping bag up over his head to muffle the sound, feeling like a five-year-old making a “fort.”
“You may call me the Alchemist,” the man said. He had a slight accent that Fletcher couldn’t quite identify. Something Middle Eastern, he thought. Or Greek?
“Noah?” he asked. “Did you have that other Red Bull?”
“I am not Noah, Mr. Doyle,” the Alchemist said. “And I suggest that you pay attention to what I have to say.”
“Listen, Al,” Fletcher said, “it’s late. So either tell me who you really are and what you want or I’m hanging up.”
“That’s rather rude,” the man said. “And after I left you those beautiful pictures.”
“Pictures?”
“Look in your bag. The side pocket.”
Using the backlight on his phone for guidance, Fletcher wiggled over to his bag, wedged firmly between his mattress and the one next to him. He dislodged it with some difficulty, pulled back the zipper, and found a manila envelope inside. It was sealed shut, but not with the usual lick-and-stick feature of a modern office envelope or even the little metal brad. Rather, it had been fixed with a red wax seal: the letter S.
The man on the phone was still talking, but Fletcher couldn’t make it out. He retreated again into his sleeping bag and carefully broke the seal and slid the contents from the envelope.
Black-and-white photographs. Of him and Andrew. He slumped back, feeling the floor beneath the mattress, and pushed the phone back to his ear.
“Andrew? You scared the heck out of me. Nice accent, by the way.”
“Wrong again.”
Fletcher was flipping through the pictures. There were at least thirty of them, taken in quick succession from outside—grainy, but clear enough to see what looked like a covert hand-off between two associates. He felt beads of sweat sprouting on his forehead as he relived the encounter. The newspaper. The hug. Leaving the store while Andrew stayed in line.
The man on the other end was tsk-tsking. “What would your parole officer think?”
Fletcher’s heart sounded like a jackhammer. “What do you want?”
“I want you to meet me in the sanctuary in two minutes.”
“No. I’m not going anywhere. You’ve got nothing. You send these anonymously to my PO, out of context, he won’t do a thing. They could be from before I went to prison for all he knows.”
“Or maybe he’d check the store’s security tapes. Five angles of you doing business with a former criminal associate. Not to mention stealing a toothbrush. The store keeps two weeks’ worth of archives.”
Immediately a plan began forming in Fletcher’s mind—a plan to break into the liquor store that thought it was a pharmacy and relieve them of their security tapes. It wouldn’t be difficult.
As if reading his mind, the Alchemist said, “I have copies of the video, but if you’d like to add breaking and entering, feel free. Oh, and have a look at the last few pictures.”
Fletcher skipped to the end and saw a series of zoomed-in shots. Andrew reaching into the newspaper and pulling out a stack of hundred-dollar bills—the front page of today’s Free Press, including the date, was clear—and tucking the money into his jacket pocket. In the final picture, Andrew was abandoning the paper and the wine and leaving the store empty-handed, looking off to the side surreptitiously.
Fletcher frowned. One of the smoothest grifters operating today, there was only one reason Andrew Bishop would be so sloppy: he was in on this.
“What, then? I do what you say or you get me thrown back in prison?”
“Don’t think of it as do it or. Think of it as do it and. Do as I say and you remain a free man. And you can get a break from lugging around boxes full of Fritos. A little taste of the Life. That’s what you want, isn’t i
t?”
Fletcher’s breath caught in his throat. Whoever this man was, he’d done his homework. “You think you know my peg?” Fletcher asked, trying to sound flippant.
“Oh, I have you pegged.”
“Let me talk to Andrew,” Fletcher demanded.
“Not yet. Meet me in the sanctuary. Two minutes. And bring your phone.”
“No, you let me—”
But the call had ended.
Fletcher found a pair of jeans in his bag and pulled them on over his boxers. He thought about shoes, but decided he could be stealthier without. Besides, if he bumped into someone, stocking feet would support his cover story: just a lost, sleepy guy looking for the bathroom.
He stood quietly and began shuffling his way down the tiny, winding path that led between sleeping teens and chaperones to the door. The phones of a few rebellious souls went dark as Fletcher approached. Twice he had to jump over a mass of luggage, but he managed to reach the hall without stepping on anyone.
At the door, he hesitated. Why would anyone want to meet him somewhere dark and deserted in the middle of the night? He could think of no good reason. But really, what choice did he have?
Starting down the hall, he made several resolutions: He would not leave the church building, no matter what. He would not be seen by anyone. And most importantly, he would not become involved in something that continued on into the light of the next morning. Whatever this was, he would deal with it tonight.
CHAPTER 13
The church proper was every bit as beautiful as Fletcher had imagined, although his mind had to fill in the details, the only active sources of light being a few illuminated EXIT signs around the perimeter and a single spotlight shining down on the large fixed altar.
He entered the nave, his feet silently padding along the stone floor of the outside aisle. Somewhere between the half-deflated air mattress and the rows of oaken pews, the scales had tipped such that the exhilaration he now felt outweighed his sense of trepidation. It had been a long time since he’d moved stealthily through a dark room, adrenaline churning through his body, and he had not realized just how much he missed it.
A sound to his right caused him to flinch. He froze, eyes searching, muscles tensed. He took three more steps and saw two high schoolers making out in a pew across the nave. He cupped his hands around his mouth and said in his best impression of Brad the Killjoy, “You kids shouldn’t be here. Get back to bed.” The kids scrambled out of the pew, into the vestibule, and were gone.
Fletcher chuckled. He waited a few more seconds, worried that someone might have heard the commotion, then continued on. He was about to mount the stairs to the chancel when his phone rang again. How did it know to call this guy the Alchemist? It was all beyond weird.
“I’m here,” he said into the phone. “Where are you?”
“I’m nearby. Good job clearing out Romeo and his girlfriend, by the way.”
Fletcher tried to search the room without moving his head, realizing quickly that with the lights off it was hopeless.
“Now,” the Alchemist said, “next to the stairs, right by your feet, you will find a small aerosol can.”
Fletcher could hear the man breathing a little heavier, as if walking up steps, and then the unmistakable sound of the night wind whistling against the phone. He considered sprinting out into the street to try and spot this man, maybe get his hands on him. But it would be easy for the Alchemist, whoever he was, to disappear in this neighborhood at this time of night. Besides, at the moment Fletcher’s curiosity was in the driver’s seat.
“I see it,” he said, picking up the small can.
“Do you know what that’s for?”
“To spot laser trip wires, I assume, but I’m not going to be needing it tonight.”
“No?”
“That’s right. I’m not leaving this church. You can do whatever you want with your pictures.”
The Alchemist let out a low, dark laugh. “Did I tell you to leave? Now spray the air in front of you.”
Fletcher heard a car door on the other end of the call, and anxiety came back to the forefront. The man on the phone, who had been close by just a couple minutes earlier, was putting space between himself and Fletcher. Why?
“What do you see?” the man asked.
Fletcher sprayed the opening in the chancel rail and saw two crisscrossing red lines appear, precisely where he had been about to walk when the Alchemist had called.
“I see it, but I don’t get it. This place lets eighty teenagers crash just down the hall. Why would—?”
“Don’t overthink it. Just be sure not to trigger anything.”
Planting a hand on the rail, Fletcher swung his feet over and landed neatly on the other side.
“Any other security measures?” he asked. “Heat sensors?”
“If there are, I suppose you’ll have given yourself away. Which is why you are doing this and not me. Now approach the altar.”
Fletcher circled around behind the altar and stopped just short of entering the ring of the spotlight shining from above. “I’m here.”
“The Second Council of Nicaea made a ruling about altars. Do you recall what it was?”
“Every altar should have a relic associated with it.”
“And these are generally kept in reliquaries built into the altars,” the Alchemist said with a leading tone.
“Altar cavities, yes.”
“And did you know that these reliquaries are sometimes accessible?”
“Rarely.” He looked at the altar in front of him. “I’m guessing this is one of those rare cases.”
“You are correct. I need you to access the altar cavity and tell me what’s inside. Keep your eyes open for surprises.”
“Give me a minute.” Fletcher stuffed his phone into his pocket and stared at the altar. He’d seen too many movies not to worry that breaking into the light would send a torrent of poison-tipped darts in his direction from a hundred little holes in a nearby wall. But common sense was a grifter’s best friend, he reminded himself, and paranoia among a burglar’s worst enemies. Andrew had taught him that.
Crouching low, he crawled into the light and shuffled quickly up to the rear of the altar, almost underneath. He adjusted himself for the best vantage point, sitting on his feet, facing the altar. The spotlight was so bright that he couldn’t even see the pews beyond.
His best bet was probably to begin right where he sat, at the rear. Here at least he could work in secret without the danger of exposing himself to an insomniac on a late-night stroll or more teenagers roaming the building, up to no good. He flipped the altar cloth up and tucked it under the large brass altar cross.
The altar was constructed of marble, as he had expected, and along the apron at eye level was an inscription. Ten Greek words. Fletcher translated as he read: “LIONS HONEY SMOKE DIAMONDS WILD BEAST ABYSS JUDGMENT FIRE LOCUSTS.”
Okay, that made no sense.
He ran his fingers along the engraved letters, discovering nothing out of the ordinary about the inscription but noticing that each word seemed to be etched into its own block of stone, all firmly connected to one another and to the large stone slab above them, upon which the Eucharist was celebrated. He reached up behind the row of engraved stones. Bingo. A line of small levers—one behind each word.
It was some sort of riddle. Pull the right levers, open the secret compartment. He leaned back and reread the words. What did they have in common? Obviously it would be something to do with the Bible or church tradition, given the context, but that hardly narrowed the scope of possibilities.
He closed his eyes and waited for something to gel. His first thought was the story of Sampson in the book of Judges. Sampson had killed a lion and later found honey in its carcass. Or might it have something to do with the book of Revelation? Locusts and smoke came up out of the abyss to torment the earth in one of the more off-putting passages of John’s apocalypse. Or did it have to do with St. Paul fighting wild beas
ts in Ephesus?
All feasible options, but random, with no real antecedent in the altar itself. And who knew what pulling the wrong levers would do? Maybe nothing. Maybe alert the police. Maybe send that torrent of poison-tipped darts.
He needed some perspective here. He mentally backed up a step. If he did succeed in opening the altar, what should he expect to find inside? Altar relics were generally fragments of bone from a saint—usually the saint after which the church was named, if possible. He deemed it unlikely that there was a genuine piece of John the Baptist inside, but perhaps he was the key all the same.
Words were jumping out from the altar now. John the Baptist ate locusts and honey while living in the desert. Worth a try.
Hand trembling slightly, he reached up behind the words AKRIDES and MELI—locusts and honey—and pulled the two levers. Nothing happened. He pulled them again. Still nothing, but nothing was not the worst-case scenario. He let the breath he’d been holding slowly escape.
He whispered the list of words to himself in the original Greek, hoping there might be some kind of rhyme scheme or etymological connection. That’s when he remembered. It wasn’t just locusts and honey that John the Baptist ate; it was locusts and wild honey. He pulled back the word AGRION, then the same two levers as before, stretching his left hand out as far as he could. Locusts and wild honey.
Still nothing. He punched his thigh in frustration. It did seem a little too simple. Perhaps he needed a more methodical approach. He counted up the words and did some quick mental math. Each lever had two possible positions—on or off—meaning there were just over a thousand possible combinations. If he could try one combination every three seconds, it would take about an hour to cycle through them all—assuming he could reach all the necessary levers with just two hands.
But what if the order in which they were pulled factored in? That would make sense if these levers operated like tumblers in a lock, as Fletcher suspected. It would also increase the number of possibilities exponentially—into the hundreds of millions if multiple levers might be pulled at once. Could it be as simple as reversing the order? In biblical Greek, adjectives usually came after the noun they modified. Fletcher pulled the lever for locusts first, then added honey, then the modifier wild.
The Last Con Page 8