Chapter 9: THE GETAWAY - PART 2

Max's attention was drawn toward the parking lot when he heard the crunching of tires over the stones. He began to run down the hill so fast, he lost his footing and slid on the wet grass. He jerked to break his fall. A sharp pain shot up his leg, and he stopped to rub the muscle hoping to relieve the ache. Cars pulling into the parking lot meant confessions were underway. He groaned and continued his trek toward the church.

The sidewalks steamed like the busy streets in Manhattan. Steamy roads in the winter were a good thing, but not much during the summer when the humidity was as high as the temperature. He knew it was only a matter of time before it would encase his body and make him feel worse than he already did. He entered the vestibule and walked through the opened double doors and dipped his finger into the holy water. A fleeting thought gave him comfort knowing he'd blessed himself twice. Maybe he wouldn't go to hell after all. He made his way down the aisle toward the confessional. His wet sneakers squeaked and sloshed in concert with the creaking old floors and drew the attention of a few parishioners sitting in the pews, waiting to confess their sins.

Max remembered being surprised at Mass when Father McKinley announced he was expanding the days and hours of confession. Now seeing how many people were in the pews helped him understand the priest's expansion. He hadn't realized there were so many sinners in New York. He wasn't nervous when he recognized a few familiar faces. If they told his parents he was in church, they'd probably celebrate thinking he'd seen the error of his ways.

The light above the confessional glowed red, indicating the booth was in use.

He eased himself into a pew, knelt, and began reciting every prayer he ever knew, one after the other. He prayed for a sign, any sign from above that his father wouldn't find out he'd used the surveillance equipment. When nothing unusual happened to let him know God was listening, he panicked and prayed harder. Nevertheless, he wasn't sorry he'd recorded what he'd hoped would be some confessions. At least he had something on tape, and that was a good thing.

The green light above the confessional flicked on, and the door opened. Max stepped out of the pew, ahead of a parishioner who shot him an irritated expression, but nodded agreement when she eyed his wet clothes. He mouthed a thank you, and she smiled. Stepping back to allow the person exiting the confessional more room, Max was surprised when the man turned out to be Mr. Cullen, a local merchant. The man immediately recognized Max and gave him the thumbs-up sign, but he frowned at his wet clothing. Max grinned slightly and shrugged. He patted Max on the shoulder.

Over the last several months, during Father McKinley's Homily, the priest had been pushing for the young parishioners of St. Catherine's to confess their sins every week. The priest thought it would help make them more aware of their behavior outside the church.

Then, when Father McKinley extended catechism throughout the summer, Max knew his parents would insist he attend it along with summer school for failing English literature. Over the last six weeks, he'd felt like a sequestered Carmelite Monk who prayed most of the day, but now his summer break was almost over. Today was the most fun he'd had, because regardless of his sins or shortcomings, being an amateur detective took precedence over everything else. Nevertheless, he was still hoping to get in and out of the confessional without uttering a word.

He walked into the confining room and knelt. He could hear the low whisper of voices from the other side.

For a brief moment, Max's mind became clearer, and he realized if he moved fast enough, he wouldn't have to confess a bogus sin to the priest. Besides, it didn't feel right to lie to a man of the cloth. Lying to his parents or a friend was one thing, but lying to a priest? That wasn't cool. He pictured the devil rubbing his hands together with a gleeful expression on his face.

He shook off the image and crouched down low in the darkness, quickly sliding his hand toward the location of the microphone. Doing something he wasn't supposed to do always made him break into a cold sweat, especially with the air conditioning blowing against his wet shirt. He shivered while his heart hammered out of control, banging against his rib cage like a jackhammer cutting through the pavement. The thought of a heart attack seemed unrealistic for a twelve-year-old, but it didn't stop him from wondering if he might croak right there on the spot.

When his hand located the microphone, he shoved it into his pocket, reminding himself how it had dropped out before. This time, he'd hold onto his pocket when he made his beeline exit. Excited the task moved quickly, he stood upright and exited the confessional, just as the priest slid the screen open. He closed the door behind him and bolted down the aisle as though the church was in flames.

Once outside, he released a heavy sigh, relieved he and Ritchie could head home. The high humidity hit him in the face and made his nose stuffy making it difficult to breathe. He sniffed, but it did little to help.

As instructed, Ritchie was straddled over his bike, ready to take off. Max grabbed his backpack from Ritchie, unzipped it, and shoved the microphone inside. He then hoisted it over his shoulder, sliding one arm, then the other through the loops, adjusting the straps so it would sit evenly on his back. He jumped on his bike and pedaled as fast as he could out of the church parking lot, the wet road spraying more water over his socks and sneakers.

Thoughts raced through his mind as he pedaled toward home, unaware his legs were working harder than ever before. Sweat trickled down inside his T-shirt. The breeze circled his body as he pedaled faster, and it made him feel cooler. The fact that his home was a short distance from St. Catherine's church gave him solace that once the equipment was back in the basement where it belonged, he could stop worrying.