When I’m certain she’s not going to move, I bring my free hand around and point my phone light in the same direction as my aim.
A black cat darts from behind the church and jumps with a bloodcurdling meow onto the wall, its eyes glowing red in the beam of my torch.
I lower my gun. “Motherfucker.”
“Light,” she says again.
With a last glance at the cat that retreats with lithe steps until he melts into the inky blackness of the night, I turn the light back to the door.
Judging by the thick, grayish cobwebs that span across the alcove, the door hasn’t been used in years.
Tatiana lifts the necklace that hangs around her neck from under her coat. Gripping the cross, she pulls it apart.
Fuck me.
I didn’t see that one coming.
The long end of the cross fits like a sheath against the top part. An old-fashioned key is attached to the sheath. The joint has been so well crafted, hidden by engraved roses, that it’s almost impossible to spot it. I’ve seen that necklace countless times, and I never would’ve guessed that it could open.
Her hand trembles a bit as she brings the key to a lock with an ornate black metal frame.
I touch her elbow. “Wait.”
She jumps before cutting me a look.
I scan the walls for cameras. “What about an alarm?”
“It’s a church, Dante. Who’s going to break in here?” When I only raise a brow, she huffs a sigh. “Trust me, they don’t have the money to pay for a security service that comes with an alarm.”
The place is clearly in need of renovations, so money is definitely an issue. Perhaps in these modern times, there are fewer believers and therefore less people to give the customary tenth of their earnings for the upkeep of the church.
“Give it to me.” I hold out a hand. “I’ll do it.”
Her knuckles turn white around the key. “I’ve got this.”
She’s clearly not keen on handing over something that belonged to her mother.
It takes a few attempts and some wiggling before she gets the key to work, but finally, it turns with a rusty squeak. She pushes down the ornamental handle and puts her full weight behind opening the door, but it doesn’t budge. The wood probably swelled from damp, and the door got stuck.
This time, when I grip her elbow and pull her away, she doesn’t argue. I put my shoulder to the door and shove. It scrapes over the floor with the sound of nails being dragged over a blackboard, relenting an inch. One more push, and the door gives way. Indeed, the wood has expanded, which explains why it’s difficult to move the door.
Leaving it open to prevent it from getting stuck again, I step into the somber interior. A few votive candles flicker beneath a statue of Mary with a crown on her head, their red glow reaching into the shadows. Wrought iron chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling, but the only light comes from the candles.
The musky scent of incense fills the air. A thin ribbon of smoke curls from a stick that burns in a holder on the altar, telling me the church is still in use. Right now, however, the main doors are closed and barred from the inside. Another door gives access to the back.
My steps echo on the concrete floor as I walk to the center aisle. Paintings depicting scenes from the Old Testament and gold leaf statues of patron saints decorate the interior. The church is an unexpected jewel amidst the newer buildings with much less character. Beneath the dilapidated exterior hides a beautiful gem. The pale moon that cuts wedges through the high arched windows cloaks the altar in silver light. Even I, who am not religious, am not untouched by the quiet melancholy and secretive mysticism of the place.
I turn to Tatiana, finding her still standing by the door with her arms wrapped around herself and that same melancholic vibe I get from the place etched on her features.
Her voice carries softly in the cavernous vault. “My mom used to come here to pray.”
Of course. Milena was deeply religious. But still… “She had her own key?” I should’ve known there was more than sentimentality to that chain and cross she always wore around her neck.
Tatiana’s expression is wistful as she looks at a painting of Christ on a throne with a halo around his head. “She donated a lot of money to the church. The priest knew her from when she was just a girl, barely seventeen, and already married to my father. He gave her a key so that she could pray whenever she needed to, even at night.” A sad smile plays over her lips. “Maybe he knew how much she needed her prayers answered.”
And this is the one place Pawel Teszner would allow his wife to visit at liberty. He’d never risk the ire of the bishop by forbidding his wife to pray. In the circles Teszner moved, even the criminal ones, the church had too much power.
Seeming to pull herself from her reverie, Tatiana walks with determined steps to the altar. “Come.”
