“I know. You wouldn’t have had time anyway. But somebody heard.”

The priest’s mouth dropped open. “You mean–”

“I mean I think somebody bugged your confessional, Father.”

The priest pulled a ring of keys off a rack by the door. “We’ll go in through the basement. Light switches are down there.”

Villanueva needed a few minutes to find the camera, longer than he expected. He was lying on his back, shining the penlight along the bottom of the pew, when he finally spotted it. Whoever had placed it had put it right up against one of the supports. Damn, it was small. Villanueva had never seen one so small. He slipped the pocket knife blade under the adhesive holding the unit and pried it loose. Villanueva pulled a small Ziploc bag out of his pants pocket, dropped the camera in, sealed the bag, and shoved it back into his pocket. The camera had been pointed at the set of doors with the priest’s name on the plate over the middle door.

The confessionals took a while. He started with the priest’s booth, figuring if you had good pickup on the unit, you might get stuff from both the other booths. Checked under the chair, checked the molding around the doorjambs and around the little sliding screens into the other booths. Checked along the baseboards and the molding in the corners and the juncture between the walls and the ceiling. Nothing. Did the same in the booth on the right. Nothing again.

Villanueva had gone through the entire third booth and was getting pissed off. If the camera was that small, then the bug was probably even smaller. Must have missed it. He’d have to start over in the priest’s booth. He checked his watch. 10.44. He’d already been inside for twenty-five minutes. Church was quiet, and he had no reason to expect company. But this whole job seemed queer from the start, and Villanueva wanted to get out, get home.

He was about to leave the booth when something caught his eye, just a sliver of something sticking out from behind the molding on the right side of the sliding screen that opened into the priest’s booth. Could be a hair or even an antenna from a cockroach. Villanueva held the light in his mouth and carefully slid the knife blade up behind the molding. Bingo. Bug wasn’t much bigger than a fat grain of rice, couple wires leading out of it. He put it in the bag with the camera. 10.47.

Lynch put his hand on Father Hughes’ shoulder just as the priest went to put his key into the lock in the basement door. Hughes looked back. Lynch put a finger to his lips and pointed up at the bypass wires rigged into the alarm at the top of the door. Lynch motioned the priest back toward the stairs.

“I left my cell phone in the car,” Lynch whispered. “I need you to get back to the rectory as fast as you can. Call 911, tell them you have a break-in at the church. Tell them there is an officer on the scene who needs back-up. Go.”

The priest scurried up the stairs and back up the narrow walk. Lynch edged along the wall and back to the door. He reached up under his jacket, sliding the Berretta 9mm out of the hip holster. Standing on the last step with his back flat against the wall of the church, Lynch reached down and slowly turned the doorknob and pulled. The door moved. It was open. For just an instant, in his peripheral vision, Lynch thought he saw light in the door’s window.

Villanueva had just gotten back down the stairs to the basement when he saw the door move. Just a fraction, but it moved. Instantly, he shut off the penlight. His eyes took a second to adjust to the darkness, but Villanueva spent a lot of time in the dark. He was used to it. Slowly, he unzipped the right-hand pocket on the warm-ups and pulled out the .38.

He saw part of a head slip into view through the door’s window, just for a second, then pull back. The head had come down into the top left corner of the window, so somebody was standing on the stairs, leaning down to peek in. Villanueva knew the person wouldn’t be able to see him inside in the dark. He edged over to the wall, made his way along the wall to the corner, then worked along that wall toward the door.

Villanueva pictured the situation in his head. He had his back to the interior wall to the right of the door. Whoever was outside probably had his back to the exterior wall on the other side of the door. Difference being, Villanueva knew where the guy on the stairs was. That guy had no idea where Villanueva was.

Villanueva ran through the possibilities in his mind. Could be the priest, janitor for the parish, somebody like that. Maybe the guy noticed the bypass on the alarm, maybe he noticed the door was unlocked. Either way, he’d probably be on his way back to the rectory, probably be calling the cops about now. But Villanueva didn’t think he’d take that peek back in the window. And if it was somebody like that, then they weren’t there now. Sooner he got the hell out the better.

Could be the person saw the door a while ago, had already called the cops, now the cops were waiting for him. No. Cops would come in and get him, be on the bullhorn, have the whole place lit up.

That left the chink bitch or someone working for her. She said she’d find him. Maybe this was her plan. Pop him right on the stairs, leave the bugs on him, set him up for the Marslovak shooting.

Thing was, any way he looked at it, his situation wasn’t going to get better. The door was still open a fraction. He was just a step from it. Get the gun up, hit the door with his shoulder, come through ready to start shooting up the stairs. Hope he didn’t see anything. See anything, a shoe, a leg, start pulling the trigger. Best chance he had.

Villanueva took a couple deep breaths, tried to relax some of the tension out, raised the gun, and slammed into the door.

Lynch leaned down to take a peek in the window, pulled his head back instantly. Stupid move. Dark out here, but even darker in there. All he’d do looking through the glass was silhouette his head in the window, give the guy a shot at him. Lynch flattened back against the wall. Could have sworn he’d seen a light. Gone now. If somebody had just shut off a light in the basement, then he’d probably seen Lynch peek in the window. Guy might head back upstairs, try to get out another door. Lynch started sliding back up the stairs, keeping his eye on the basement door as he went up. Figured he could get down to the end of the walk, watch the basement stairs and the vestibule door, cover two exits anyway. Guy ran for it, Lynch would just have to trust he could run him down.

Lynch was halfway up the stairs when the door slammed out, wanging against the cement at the back of the stairwell. A man in dark clothes flew into the cement well, arms extended, a loud crack and a muzzle flash as he fired into the stairs where Lynch had just been. The round hit the step below Lynch’s feet, throwing up cement chips. Lynch felt something cut into his right leg, just above the ankle. Lynch brought his gun up and fired, but the guy had kept moving left, across the stairwell, bringing his gun up higher, seeing Lynch further up the stairs. Lynch’s round punched into the steel door, sparks flying. Another round dug into the wall just in front and to the right of Lynch’s head, bits of cement stinging Lynch’s face, Lynch feeling some blood, his right eye clouding up. He heard another shot, but didn’t feel anything. Guy was running out of options down there, trying to back into the corner now, trying to get behind the door, trying to bring the gun right. Lynch started squeezing off rounds as fast as he could, aiming for the space between the door and the wall. The sound of the shots in the cement well punched into Lynch’s ears like nails, the strobing of the muzzle flash revealing the man in the dark tracksuit as he was slammed back into the wall, the graceless spasmodic jerking as Lynch’s rounds tore into him, one more flash as the man pulled his trigger again, the round ricocheting off the floor and whining up the stairs and into the night.