Posting early because I have a big event this weekend and can't put up a chapter until Monday. Thank you so much for reviewing, favoriting and following my story. It means more than you know. Unless you write fanfiction, and then, well, you do know. :)
Chapter Seven
It was just after nine in the morning when Father Morelli heard something out of place. He had a candelabra in his hand and was on his way to place it in storage when the sound stopped him. At first, he didn't know what it was-a mouse or other rodent, or noise from the ancient furnace. As cold as it was, he was in fear of it giving up and quitting forever. His was a poor church, in the poorest part of town, and replacing a furnace would be quite an undertaking. He stopped to listen and after a moment he heard it again-a rustle and a groan. He sat the candelabra down and turned toward the door of the small room used for prop and set storage. The door was open slightly, and as he stood he there, he heard the sound of small movements, like someone in a restless sleep. He opened the door slowly and peered in. The gloom of the room hid everything from clear sight. He put his hand on the switch and heard a low moan. It was the sound of a person in distress. His fear evaporated into concern, and he flipped the switch.
Light flooded the room and Father Morelli saw him immediately. In the floor, near a large crate, lay a person covered with the dark fabric used to pad the wooden stage inserts that the church used each Christmas. Morelli's first thought was that it was a homeless drunk or drug addict; there was an abundance of both in this neighborhood. How they could have found their way into the church cellar, he had no idea, but he approached to give aid. He pulled the burlap back from the area where a tuff of dark hair was visible. He was met by the sight of a young man. Eyes closed, he was lying on his side, shivering in spite of his sweat drenched head. As he knel beside him, a homeless addict in drug withdrawal was his first thought. Yet his clothing was not consistent with the homeless; he was wearing what appeared to be a nice suit jacket and white shirt. Or what had once been a white shirt. Now it was dark red with dried blood, indicating an injury of some kind. His jacket was stiff with it, but there was also blood on the floor beneath his body. The rest of his clothing was up to par with his jacket. Although now ruined, it was clearly an expensive cut.
Father Morelli looked around the room; there was a trail of blood, mostly dried, from beneath one of the windows to where the man now lay. He had apparently entered through the window from the alleyway. Morelli sought to discover the severity of the injury and quickly realized the man had been shot. Although there was evidence of heavy bleeding, it had now, for the most part, stopped. A plaid piece of material, obviously not part of the man's standard clothing, had been tightly wedged inside his jacket, successfully stanching the flow of the blood. What fresh blood he could feel came from a wound in the man's back.
The man's pale face was not familiar to Father Morelli. With relief, he felt a wallet in the pocket, but before he would pull it out, the man's eyes flew open. He rolled away from Father Morelli's touch and with a groan of pain, scrambled to his feet. Once there, what strength adrenaline had supplied failed and he tottered into a stack of crates. He managed to regain his balance but only kept on his feet by leaning heavily against the crates behind him. He stared at Father Morelli in what could only be considered panic.
Dressed in clergy robes, Father Morelli would have thought the sight of him would have comforted the man instead of instilling fear. However, that was not the case. Father Morelli didn't take offense; the man was injured and with the unnatural shine in his eyes he wasn't sure he was coherent enough to be fully aware of his surroundings.
"It's okay," Morelli said soothingly, rising from his crouched position to stand in front of the man. "I'm not going to hurt you." He held his hand out, palms upwards, stepping closer. "I am just here to help." The man definitely needed help.
As Morelli tried to ease the fear in the young face, the man staggered, stumbling forward. Father Morelli found him in his arms, barely on his feet; head resting on his shoulder. Morelli could feel the dampness of the man's clothing as well as his trembling.
"They're looking for me," The man gasped out in a whisper, "They'll kill me if they find me." Not the response Morelli had anticipated, he helped the man to one of the crates and eased him down. He was shivering uncontrollably. Morelli reached down and snagged the fabric the man had been beneath, and draped it around the man's shoulders. How long ago had the man been shot, and how long had he been lying on the floor of the cellar?
No cell service in the cellar, he needed to go topside and call for help.
"I need to go upstairs and call for help; you need to get to the hospital."
"No," the man pleaded, "They'll know if you call; he'll be watching the hospital." The man swayed too weak to sit on his own; Father Morelli kept him in his grasp to steady him.
"If someone is trying to kill you," Father Morelli said calmly, "we need to contact the police; they can help you."
The man grasped Father Morelli's sleeve with fresh fear. The blue eyes were desperate. "No, not the police."
"Are you in trouble with the police too, then?" Someone trying to kill him and he was running from the police? The man's situation was indeed panic worthy, Morelli decided.
"No," the man shook his head, "I was working undercover," his voice was growing weaker, "Bad cops, tried to kill me. Can't call them; can't trust them. Please. Just let… me stay here until Peter comes." The man crumbled and would have fallen forward onto the floor had Father Morelli not been holding on to him. If the man was telling the truth, how he handled this could mean life or death. He eased him back down to the floor, and this time he pulled the wallet from the man's pocket. Maybe something there could provide answers.
Nick Halden. Although the semi-conscious young man before him looked a little worse for wear, he was the smiling man in the photograph. There were several credit cards bearing the same name, a key card to an expensive hotel in Manhattan, and seventy-four dollars in cash. He gently checked the man's other pocket for a phone, scrap of paper, anything, but found nothing else. The man had said he was working undercover and the idea of crooked police officers, although troubling, was unfortunately not unheard of. Especially in this neighborhood.
A church was supposed to be a sanctuary, a place of safety for those in trouble, and whether the man was lying or not, he certainly was in trouble. Was there any way to verify the man's story without giving him away? Who should he call?
While he quickly ran through a short list of law enforcement officers he knew, he left the man and returned moments later with a several blankets. The man's skin had felt cold and clammy; he was likely suffering from the onset of shock. He rolled up one blanket, and raising his legs slightly, placed it beneath his feet. He then moved back to the man and covered him thoroughly with the remaining blankets. There was a bluish tint to the young man's lips. His life might be in danger if he called 911, but his life was certainly in danger if he didn't.
"Listen, son," Father Morelli said, trying to rouse the man out of his stupor, "I've got to go up and call for help; I will be right back."
"Please," he mumbled, "just let me stay here."
"I can't do that; If you just stay here, you'll die, do you understand?" Father Morelli said, then added as gently as he could. "I will go with you, okay? I won't leave your side."
"Peter will be here soon." The man said again. Whoever Peter was, the man was insistent he was coming.
"Is Peter supposed to meet you here?" Father Morelli pressed, "Does he know you're here?"
"He always knows where I am," the man whispered, eyes clouding over. "I have a tracking device in my watch."
"A tracking device?" Blood loss caused delerium, Morelli thought looking at Nick's bare wrists in confusion. "In your watch?"
"Yes, one in the briefcase, too, but I threw it at Garrison to get away." The man's words meant nothing to Father Morelli; he assumed it all had to do with whatever had transpired before finding his way into the church cellar. The blankets had eased the trembling and, looking almost peaceful, the man closed his eyes and mumbled, "I just have to stay out of sight until Peter finds me."
Working undercover; tracking device. Maybe that was why the man was so sure this Peter person was coming. But there was a problem with that assumption.
"Hey," he tapped the man's cheek, prompting the blue eyes to open again, "You aren't wearing a watch."
The peaceful expression was suddenly replaced with confusion, the man's hand moving to his wrist in disbelief. Realizing that Father Morelli was telling him the truth, the eyes grew fearful again.
"That's not good. You have to call him, then." His tone began to border on hysteria, "Call him, but don't call anyone but Peter."
"Okay," Father Morelli reassured, attempting to restore the calm that learning about the missing watch had disrupted, "but Peter who? How do I contact him?"
"Peter Burke, White Collar Division of the FBI."
"FBI?" Mark repeated incredulously. "You are working undercover for the FBI?"
"Yeah, that still sounds weird to me, too," there was actually a small smile on the blue lips, "Call Peter-he's the only one I trust. Tell him to hurry. And tell him I'm really sorry….sorry I lost the watch."