Brownstone

by Dean Kutzler

  Was it getting hot in here? His nerves must be on end. He wiped the sweat from his brow and slapped his hand down on top of the tools. Next time he’d better be more careful and not be so sloppy. He needed to leave the church with as little signs of a break-in as possible. As he pulled the modified tools from the cabinet, the sweat from his palm made one of the clips slip his grasp, causing it to clatter to the floor.

  “Dammit!”

  Pulling up slack in his pants, he bent down to retrieve the tool. Before he stood up with the clip pinched between his fingers, he noticed grooves worn into the varnish of the wooden floor. His head turned side to side, as he compared the floor before the three cabinets. Only the wood in front of the middle cabinet was worn with fine scratch marks.

  Judging the distance between the desk and filing cabinets, he saw there wasn’t enough room to pull the cabinet away from the wall. Excitement quickened his step as he padded around to the front of the desk. Sizing up the desk’s weight, he noticed more scratches in front of its leg and his pulse pounded.

  A sly grin slowly filled his face at the dead priest’s cunning. He spotted that the filing cabinets weren’t all the way flush with the wall. He tilted his head and double-checked the floor alongside the cabinets and confirmed there was no baseboard heating behind the drawers to explain the extra space.

  “Too obvious, shoulda thrown down some rugs,” he said walking backwards hefting the desk, cringing at the scratching sounds. When he stopped, the feet of the desk ended where the scratches began and the grin turned into a broad smile.

  He ran around the desk to the middle cabinet, giddy like a schoolgirl, and opened the bottom drawer. He placed both hands underneath the open structure and lifted up, straddling the drawer. He felt the weight of the sharp edges digging into his palms as he carefully tugged the old metal hold-all away from the wall.

  As he was pulling, something flopped to the floor behind the metal behemoth and his ears bristled. He tugged harder until there was enough space to get behind the cabinet. Goosebumps rippled his skin, but before he could find out what Father Angeli had hidden, the smell of smoke laced with the tang of something he couldn’t quite place drifted past his nose and it wasn’t from a cigarette.

  The vigil candles!

  When he’d passed the candles earlier, he had to stop himself from blowing them out. Even though they were in thick glass jars inside individual slots to keep them from tipping over, it wasn’t very smart. But he’d reluctantly left them undisturbed so as not to give anyone a clue that someone had broken into the church.

  While his back had been turned to the door and his head caught up in the excitement of his discovery, he hadn’t noticed the smoke filling the hallway behind him. Adrenaline kicked in and he let go of the cabinet and rushed through the cloud of smoke, out into the church.

  He ran down the aisle between the pews, slowing his pace halfway before reaching the candles. Jack stood there scratching his head, baffled. The vigil candles were flickering their ever-vigilant skeleton dance and the church was flameless. Then a sudden waft of smoke billowed over his head on the tail end wind of his adrenaline rush into the church.

  Turning around and running back towards the hallway, he saw the smoke coming from Father Alazar’s office. Black clouds poured from the room and rolled up above into the eaves, turning the organ into a freakish scene. Black puffs shot from the pipes like death was playing him a personal song.

  How could he have been so clueless?

  By the time he reached the doorway, the fire had already spread through the centuries old timber and started burning between the office walls. Angry flames licked the ceiling in Father Alazar’s office and smoke dominated both rooms. He had to work quickly before it all caved in.

  He rubbed at tears welling in his eyes from the smoke with one hand and desperately felt about the hallway for a fire extinguisher with the other. He couldn’t see through the black clouds billowing from Father Alazar’s office door, no matter how hard he tried. The angry flames were starting to breach the wall into Father Angeli’s office. If he ran back into the church in search of a fire extinguisher, he ran the risk of losing what was hidden behind that cabinet. But if he retrieved the hidden item first, before he found an extinguisher, there would be no hope of getting the flames under control at the rate the fire was burning.

  A faint siren, barely audible through the crackling of the fire, made the decision for him. He couldn’t be caught here when they arrived. No time to waste. He pulled his shirt up and bunched it over his nose as he dashed into Father Angeli’s office. A loud crack burst from the wall from the sudden pressure change and flames ate through the studs, collapsing part of the ceiling and causing the sheetrock to drop down on top of the desk like the hand of God lashing out at his choice.

  Jack barely skirted the flaming wall of fire for fear of his goatee, stumbling over the chair and tumbling to the floor. On hands and knees, he crawled around the desk and dove on his stomach between the cabinets as far as the space would allow his size. The smoke above was too thick, trickling down and polluting the fresh air on the floor, making it impossible to see what had fallen behind the files.

  Rocking side to side with his hips, inching his way in closer and stretching his arms out flat between the cabinets, Jack felt around the floor with his palms, chasing dust bunnies aside until his hand struck gold. It was just within reach. His face blanched as his fingernails bent backward from the strain, jabbing them into the item and dragging until it was almost close enough. Feeling around the top edge it became unmistakable. It was an enormous book.

  As his hands fought to grasp the cover, the coarse texture stuck to his fingertips and he squeezed his palms closed, inching the hefty book a micron closer. Two more squeezes and his fingers were over an upraised edge on the cover and this time he was able to get a good grip on the book.

  Pushing up from his wrists with the prize in his hands and straining his hamstrings, Jack lugged the book out from behind the cabinets and sat back on his knees, resting the hefty load in his lap. Through smoke and tears, he barely saw an upraised circular shape on the huge book’s cover.

  Another stud snapped with a bone-crunching crack and fell against the wall, raining flaming debris between the space he made behind the cabinets, signaling to him it was time to go. He was far from done. He had to make his way unseen from the church and over the iron fencing beyond.

  Jack tucked his goatee under his shirt and leaned back into his heels, lifting the bulk in his arms as he rolled onto his feet into a squatting position. The sheetrock blazing on the desk felt hot against his face as he crouched over the book and attempted to waddle like a short-legged clown on big feet around it. The stapler he’d used to fashion his lock picking tools had melted on the desk and molten plastic dripped onto his arm.

  “Ouch!” he yelled, falling away from the desk and dropping the book.

  He quickly peeled the plastic from his arm and frantically patted and blew at the red welt on his skin. Jack whipped his head upward as a loud creaking sound, like pressure crushing the inside of a submarine, sounded overhead. He wasn’t sticking around to find out what was coming down next. This was way past serious. He had to get out of this room.

  The fire from the sheetrock finally overtook the desk and spread to the fallen chairs, blocking the path. He sat up and grabbed the book, hugging it close to his chest, bringing his limbs in as close as possible and took a deep breath. With all his might, he rolled on to his back for momentum and kicked with the fury of a donkey, inadvertently sending the fiery desk crashing into a broken burning stud.

  Fearing he may have caused more structural damage, he jumped to his feet and bolted through the burning chairs with the heavy load in tow. Once he was safely out into the church, he put the book down on a pew and collapsed next to it, gulping in fresh air. He needed to think of a plan and fast. The firefighters would be there any moment, along with the police. How was he getting out without being seen? Especial
ly carrying the book. It was monstrous in size, about a foot thick.

  Now that he was out of immediate danger, he took a second to examine the book. The cover was unlike any material he’s seen for a book’s binding. At first glance it looked like some kind of pliable old wood, worn ancient from age and nearly black in color, like leathery over-tanned skin. Hebrew lettering had been burned into the binding, barely visible from wear. Years’ worth of use had worn through the binding where it met the cover and a newer cord was fashioned through holes that’d been roughly cut into the cover and pages. It was tied in a manner to be easily removed to add more pages.

  He ran his hand around the familiar emblem fastened onto the front of the cover. Was it made of gold? The shape on the cover was the same overlapping rope shape on the door to his uncle’s vault and it was also an exact match to the key he’d hidden under his bed, only larger. The color glowed a deep yellow and was untarnished, like gold. It had been handcrafted, beaten and twisted into the strange circular shape overlapping in the center at the bottom, with the ends running off on either side of the book. He leaned in to get a closer look. The rope shape was attached to the cover by handcrafted brad nails, also made from gold. Twisting the book around, he could see the edges of thousands of pages.

  He noticed something strange about the pages. Angling the edge of the book upward to catch better light, he saw from the side that the pages were made of different material, blocked out in sections. Picking at the bottom block of pages with his fingernail he couldn’t be sure, but they felt like papyrus, one of the earliest known forms of paper made by the Egyptians. Without opening it to confirm, the top pages looked brand new from the side view.

  Despite the crisis at hand, curiosity was getting the best of him. The siren he’d heard before he ran into the office had increasingly peaked in volume. However, he hadn’t noticed during his struggle in the office-inferno that it had stopped. The firefighters must be outside by now, trying to figure out how to get through the iron fencing. He still hadn’t come up with a plan on how he was getting himself and the monstrosity of a book out of the church, unseen.

  His thumb found the edge of the rough cover and flapped it up and down, like a flightless Dodo bird. He didn’t have time for this, but every ounce of his DNA urged him to have a peek. Just as he was about to flick it open and take a look inside, a succession of meaty cracks rattled his attention up to the rafters, where the organ sat behind a wall of ebony smoke. Through the smoke the organ lurched forward, exposing the tips of the pipes for a brief second, knocking into the chandelier and dispensing some crystals before it tilted back and collapsed halfway through the ceiling, sitting dangerously crooked in the eaves.

  Jack let the cover slowly slip from his thumb along with his curiosity. He’d have to bottle it up for now. He’d made enough bad decisions for one day. He wasn’t in fear for his life. The main structure of the church was left well-intact, only the office area was on fire and he was far enough from the flames, but the real danger was in getting caught. The police would never believe his story, especially now with all the withheld evidence he’d have to own up to just to get them on the same page as to why he’d broken into the church.

  Getting caught was not an option.

  The fire was contained to the back of the church where he’d broken in. To his advantage, the firefighters and lookie-loos would be focusing their attention there, hopefully leaving the front unattended or minimally so. Once the firefighters got the gate open, some of the lookie-loos and reporters were bound to slip in for a closer—that’s it!

  Like a light bulb snapping on, he knew what to do!

  He ran down to the pulpit and grabbed the altar cloth. Before he yanked it free, he looked around the church for a better, less sacrilegious option. The fiery organ groaned in the rafters and sank a little further down into the office, drawing his attention to the banner hanging from the railing upstairs before it. The commotion of the organ had knocked one end free and it was just within grasp!

  During the 9/11 crisis, the state of Oklahoma had sent the church an inspirational message printed on a huge white banner. It read:

  TO NEW YORK CITY AND ALL THE RESCUERS KEEP YOUR SPIRITS UP OKLAHOMA LOVES YOU!

  “Way to go Oklahoma!” Jack’s heart leapt at the sight of the message. The banner was a little big, but it would have to do. Sprinting to the back of the church, he was lucky the sign hadn’t caught fire from the raging mess of the organ. He grabbed a tight hold of the banner’s edge and ran between the pews towards the front of the church, pulling the banner the rest of the way off the railing above, with the tieback cords trailing behind.

  Flipping the banner around and with both hands fluffing it out like a long bed sheet, he laid it letter side up on the floor between the pews. A roar of applause suddenly sounded outside. They must have broken through the fence. No time to waste. He had to hurry.

  Snatching the heavy book from the pew, he placed it about a foot from the corner edge of the banner and began the tedious task of folding the book over and over into the banner, down the entire length of the fabric until it looked like Paul Bunyan’s burrito. He folded the excess tarp over the mass, neatly concealing the book inside. He tied the package into a tight bundle with the tieback cords and by the time he was done, he heard the voice of the fire chief barking orders outside the church’s windows.

  His muscles protested at the bulk weight of the bundle in his arms as he ran across the church and hopped over the wall into George Washington’s pew. Placing the bundle carefully under the pew, he crouched down out of sight behind the wall and waited for the right moment.

  Not a second too soon. The door busted open from the force of the firefighter's battering ram and sent splinters sailing across the floor. Men dressed in bright yellow fire gear wearing red helmets burst through the entry and started filing into the church like ants on an anthill.

  A young firefighter with glasses and a neatly trimmed beard spotted the vigil candles next to the president’s pew and broke off from the influx of firefighters heading toward the flaming fury. A frown formed behind the clear face shield attached to his helmet at the sight of the candles. Jack silently cursed himself for not blowing them out earlier as he held his breath. As quietly as he could, he pushed the bundled book to the far end underneath the pew and silently rolled his body alongside it.

  “What are these people thinkin’ leaving dis shit lit,” he said bending down and blowing them out. When he finished, he started to turn and resume the brigade to the actual fire when something caught his eye.

  Jack held his breath as the young man turned towards the pew.

  “Huh, never knew dis was heer,” he said, hoisting up his fire gear and hooking a leg over the wall. It dangled in Jack’s face. He’d never seen the piece of history and was about to step inside the box, just so he could say he sat on Washington’s pew when the voice Jack heard outside the window a few moments ago thundered through the church.

  “Melendez! What the hella you doin’ over there? Are you blind? Fire’s over here!”

  “Sorry chief!”, he shouted back. “Just blowin’ out these freakin’ candles they left burnin’ ova heer!”

  Jack’s face was red from holding his breath as he watched the dangling boot touch down on the floor, then raise back up and out of his sight.

  “Whew,” he whispered to himself and slowly rolled out from under the pew.

  He listened carefully, staying out of sight behind the pew’s wall, waiting for the right moment while the firefighters went about their jobs. Jack’s heart picked up the pace as he dared a peek over the wall. They snaked a fire hose in through the front door and were just about to start dousing the blazing organ.

  He waited a few minutes until they got the water pumping, filling the flat length of hose like a windsock man at a car dealership. The firemen stood their ground, working together, holding tight to the hose as the pressure of water fought to throw it loose. Starting with the ceiling and workin
g their way down, the firefighters held the spout and carefully aimed the powerful stream of water above the burning organ and worked in a zigzag pattern, dousing the upstairs until rivulets of water appeared through the smoke and rained down in front of the offices below.

  When Jack was sure their full attention was focused on the fire, he quietly slid the bundled book out from underneath the pew and squeezed it tight under his arm. The water from the hose was creating more smoke and forcing it out into the church, helping to cover his escape. One leg over the wall, glancing over his shoulder making sure no one had spotted him, he sat his butt on the railing and swung the other leg over and hastened his steps into the shadows along the wall. Slowly, making as little motion as possible to avoid drawing attention, he scaled the church towards the entrance.

  The firefighters moved on to dousing the office when Jack reached the front door, unseen. That was half the battle. Now he just needed to get outside and blend in so he could sneak around and get past the fence. He was hoping the concentration of firefighters would be at the back of the building, working the fire from outside, while he made his escape.

  The tieback from the bundle tucked under his arm snagged the busted handle as he backed out, trying to squeeze the bulk through the entrance. Pushing forward and unhooking the tieback, he turned around and ran into his next snag.

  “Who are you? What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Bellowed the voice he’d heard by the window earlier.

  “Oh! Uh, I’m Jack Elliot. Reporter with the Gazette.” Startled, the bundle slipped from under his arm before he caught it, laying it gently in the doorway and reaching for his wallet. Pulling out a card, he’d handed it over to the fire chief. “Here’s my press pass.”

  The man snatched the ID and held it out at arm’s length, tilting his head back squinting and flipping up the clear visor of his helmet. “You’re an awful long way from Montreal ain’t cha?” the burly chief asked, handing back the ID.