Chapter 6: MISCHIEF

Max Harwell tiptoed into the darkened vestibule of St. Catherine's Roman Catholic Church and dipped his finger into the holy water to bless himself. His nerves spiked, knowing he didn't have much time to hide the voice-activated microphone to record the confessions before Father McKinley's associate arrived to hear confessions.

Excitement welled inside him at the prospect of being the only twelve-year-old amateur detective to do something so daring by using the surveillance equipment that belonged to his father's precinct. He wasn't expecting to hear anything exciting. Heck, if his recorded material turned out to be anything like his confessions, it would be pretty dull. But that was okay; it was the experience that mattered most, the first of many he'd have during his life-long career.

He scanned the nave to make sure he was alone. The familiar smell of musty old wood and incense filled his nostrils as he tiptoed down the aisle to the confessional when the floorboards released a loud creaking noise beneath his feet. Max's pulse shot up as he looked around the nave, checking to see if the noise he'd just made had alerted the priests, who might already be vesting in the Sacristy. Max panicked. A recollection of Father McKinley chastising him for past indiscretions made him duck into the first pew and hunch down low.

The longer he remained there, the more anxious he became. He had to get into that confessional and fast. He'd waited too long to set this up and couldn't afford to let his nerves get twisted into a tightwad. Max sucked in a deep breath and held it for a while before blowing it out. He couldn't believe how shaky his hands were. This covert stuff was exciting, but it sure was scary.

The silence of the church remained absolute except for the hum of the air conditioning. After a few seconds, convinced he was alone, Max edged his way out, slowly tiptoeing the rest of the way to the confessional. He slowly twisted the doorknob, pulled the door open, and entered total darkness in the confining cubicle. He squatted down onto his knees, and when he heard the loud clunk, he knew the microphone had fallen from his breast pocket. His hand clutched his chest. He immediately chastised himself for being so careless and not holding the microphone in his hand. Nervous tension ached in his neck and made his head pound. Why was he so tense? He'd planned his covert operation for weeks, and he sure as heck didn't need anything else to go wrong before he could get the job done.

He slid his hands across the entire floor, trying to find the microphone, but he couldn't feel anything. Where could it have gone? More panic shot through him. Was there a hole in the floor? Had the microphone dropped through to the basement of the church?

After serving as an altar boy for a year, he thought he knew every inch of the church, but now he was questioning himself. He sighed. The darn thing had to be in that tiny cubicle. He filled his cheeks with air willing his pulse to calm down, but it did little to compensate for the slight dizziness he was feeling. He suddenly became aware he was hyperventilating, something he'd warned himself against earlier. Losing control was out of the question and a guarantee for making costly mistakes.

He braced his hands on the floor so he could navigate in the confined quarters. When his fingers felt the tip of the microphone lodged between the wall and the kneeler, he was relieved. Now he could finish the job and get the heck out of there. He picked up the microphone, kissed it, and positioned it where he'd get the best recording.

Excited this part of his mission was completed, Max was pretty proud of his accomplishment. That is until the sudden sound of the heavy wooden entry doors opening. His eyes widened in surprise as he mouthed a silent scream when the loud noise of the doors closing bounced off the walls and slammed to the closed position. His breath caught in the back of his throat while his heart pounded in his chest, afraid someone would see what he was up to and tell his father. Making the sign of the cross, he kissed his thumb and tossed it up to God the way he'd seen one of the older women do, as though sending a kiss to God. Lightheadedness took over, and he feared he'd pass out. Heavy footsteps told him someone had entered the church. He gasped, his hand reaching up to cover his mouth to muffle the sound, he practiced controlling his breathing...willing himself to calm down because after he'd worked so hard, getting caught would ruin everything. His breath slowly tapered off into a more natural state enough that he could return to rational thinking.

Why was this person inside the church so early anyway? Had he made an appointment with Father ahead of time? Or had he, himself, wasted too much time trying to plant the microphone and confessions were about to begin? Fear as thick as jam washed over him at the thought of this person walking into his side of the confessional. But then, he didn't know if the man was there for confession. Maybe he wasn't. That thought made him feel better, and he planned his escape.

He peered through the crack of the door; the lights hadn't been turned on yet - a signal he still had time. But how would he be able to crawl out on his knees and exit through the side door without being noticed?

The muffled sound of a cell phone's keypad beeped out seven digits in the distance, and a man's angry voice echoed through the church. Max jerked back startled. He listened, trying to understand the conversation, but the man was so angry he made little sense. Max did feel sorry for this poor Vito guy, though, who seemed to be the target of all the venomous shouting. That's when Max convinced himself to stay clear of this person.

If he realized Max was listening, who knew what the guy would do to him? Maybe this was his time to make a run for it while the man was preoccupied with his conversation. He tried to convince himself that the stranger wouldn't see him if he crawled out and made a beeline for the side door of the church, which would make noise, but then he'd be outside and could make a run for it.

Confident with his plan, Max snuck out of the confessional on all fours. In his haste, his foot inadvertently clipped the door, causing it to squeak. His hands now clammy were shaking from the adrenaline pulsating through his veins. Sweat rolled down the sides of his face and dropped to the floor. He used his shoulder to dry the moisture, and for a second, there was complete silence until the man's gruff voice cut through the silence.

"Hello? Who's there?" A brief silence passed. "Who's there, dammit?"

Max froze in place, his heart pounding wildly in his ears, he wondered if the loud hammering was audible to the man. He had to get out of there. Deep wrinkles clustered on his forehead as he contemplated his next move. In a sudden twist of fate, the man's voice faded, and the heavy door open and closed again. He blew out a hefty breath of air, thankful the man was gone. Or was this a trick to make him think the man had left the church?

Max knew he was thinking way too hard and decided, either way, he had to take the chance. He'd already gambled by planting the microphone without getting caught, and so, he could do this too. He prided himself on being a risk-taker, and at this very moment he knew it was the time to make his escape. He stood upright and ran from the building, dive-bombing behind a bush to watch for the man. He remained there longer than he'd intended, but wanted to make sure the coast was clear.

Thoughts of his friend Ritchie came to mind. Ritchie was supposed to be waiting for him at the top of the hill behind some large boulders. Max had no doubt the excitement of what was happening had Ritchie crapping in his pants. His friend wasn't as adventuresome as he and often freaked out over the smallest things. Max could only imagine how frantic the boy had gotten when he saw the man enter the church, knowing Max was hard at work inside.

A rush of excitement flowed through him, and the terror he felt earlier faded with satisfaction knowing his plan was about to come to fruition.

When a few seconds passed, and nothing happened, he made a beeline up the hill toward Ritchie when he noticed a black Mercedes in the parking lot and figured it had to belong to the angry man. Being cautious, he scanned the surrounding area with his eyes. His dad always told him police officers had to have eyes in the back of their heads to survive and, most of all, be ready for combat because they never knew when someone was going to attack.

Satisfied he was free to run to where Ritchie was waiting, he ran the rest of the way up the hill to find his friend.

"Where have you been?" Ritchie blurted out when he saw Max.

"Setting up," Max said, seeing that Ritchie was freaked out.

"Did you know a man went inside the church while you were in there?"

"Relax, Rich," he replied, faking a nonchalant air, "It's not a big deal." Max had a reputation to uphold, and the last thing he wanted was for Ritchie to know how scared he'd been. "Besides, he walked back outside before he ever saw me." Max gave his friend the thumbs-up signal. Ritchie rolled his eyes. "Did you notice if he went back inside the church?" Max asked.

Ritchie was shaking his head, a disconcerted expression on his face. His hands flung into the air. "Yeah, he did, but you're lucky you didn't get caught because he was furious at someone." Ritchie frowned. "I was scared to death, thinking he was shouting at you."