Chapter 8
The narrow stone tunnel terminated abruptly in a heavy, rusted iron hatch set into the ceiling, illuminated from above by a faint, pale wash of twilight. A metal ladder bolted directly into the damp limestone led straight up to the exit.
Father Thomas reached the ladder first, grabbing the cold rungs with trembling hands and hauling himself upward with a desperate burst of adrenaline. "Up! Quickly!"
Clara climbed next, her movements swift and agile despite the lingering physical exhaustion from her ordeal in the coffin. Leo stood at the base of the ladder, keeping his flashlight trained on the dark corridor behind them, the wooden mallet clutched tightly in his right hand.
A pair of polished leather shoes appeared around the final bend of the tunnel, followed swiftly by Deacon Miller’s cold, unyielding face. The deacon was breathing heavily, his tailored suit jacket torn at the shoulder where Leo’s mallet had struck him, but his eyes were fixed on them with a predatory intensity.
"You're only delaying the inevitable," Miller sneered, stepping forward into the pale light beneath the hatch. "The county police are already on their way to the rectory. You have nowhere to run."
Leo didn't waste breath on words. Instead, he swung the wooden mallet sideways, bringing the heavy head crashing down directly into the housing of the emergency electrical junction box mounted on the stone wall beside the ladder.
A shower of brilliant, white-hot sparks erupted from the exposed wiring with a deafening sizzle. The sudden electrical arc blinded Miller momentarily, forcing the deacon to raise his arm and shield his eyes with an angry curse.
Leo scrambled up the ladder as fast as his arms could pull him, just as the electrical junction blew completely, plunging the lower catacombs into pitch-black darkness accompanied by the acrid smell of burning insulation.
Clara and Father Thomas were already at the top, throwing their combined weight against the rusted iron hatch overhead. With a loud groan of protesting metal, the heavy lid popped open, admitting a rush of clean, cold night air into their lungs.
They scrambled out through the opening, tumbling onto the wet grass behind the parish rectory just as the distant wail of police sirens began to echo through the quiet suburban streets.
Leo emerged last, pulling the heavy iron hatch shut behind him and sliding the thick, integrated security bolt into place. He stood up in the damp grass, chest heaving, his maroon hoodie stained with mud and rust, still holding the battered wooden mallet like a talisman of their survival.
"The police are here," Father Thomas said, looking out toward the main gates where flashing red and blue lights began to paint the stone walls of the church in rhythmic crimson and azure. "But we don't know which department they're from. If Miller called his own contacts in the municipal precinct..."
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"Then we don't wait for them to find us," Clara said, her voice hard and resolute as she stood tall in the cool autumn air. "We go straight to the federal marshal's office in the city. They're outside Vance’s jurisdiction."
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