Frozen Memories. Cassie Miles

say about lying?”

      “You know the Commandments.”

      “Do you?”

      The pastor fidgeted and sputtered, and Spence could see the truth struggling to get out. If he stood here quietly and waited, Clarence would confess whatever he’d been holding back.

      The pearly white landscape spread before him, so ethereal and beautiful that he almost ran inside and grabbed Angelica to show her. Better that he didn’t; she might not be enthusiastic about the wonders of snow after being nearly frostbitten to death. The only marks in the unbroken snow were his tracks and Angelica’s. Hers were almost erased by the drifting wind.

      At the edge of the forest, he saw movement. It could be deer or elk or his own imagination, but he didn’t think so. He took his night vision goggles from a parka pocket and held them to his eyes.

      He saw a man, staggering from the forest. He disappeared behind the church. A moment passed while Spence waited anxiously for the man to reappear.

      Beside him, the pastor cleared his throat. “There’s something I ought to tell you, Spence.”

      “Not now.”

      “It’s important.”

      A light shone through an arched window at the far end of the church. The man—the fugitive—had found sanctuary. Or so he thought.

      Spence grabbed the pastor’s arm and spun him around. “I saw the fugitive, the man who escaped custody. He’s in the church. When the agent and the SWAT officer get here, send them in that direction.”

      “What about me? I could be your backup.”

      “Stay here. Protect Trudy and Angelica.”

      Spence pivoted and leaped from the porch. His boots hit the snow, and he started running toward the church. The new-fallen snow slipped over the top of his boots and soaked his jeans. He ducked behind a clump of aspen and inhaled a deep, frigid breath. At this elevation, oxygen was scarce.

      Between the trees where he was hiding and the front entryway to the church, there wasn’t much cover. If he stood upright and ran, he’d be an obvious target. But there wasn’t time to dash around to the road and come up from the front.

      He kept his repeating rifle slung across his back, choosing instead to arm himself with a handgun for easier mobility. His new Glock 17 fit neatly into his hand. Through the specially woven, nonslip fabric of his glove, he hardly felt the cold of the Glock’s handgrip. Keeping his head down and shoulders bent, he tried to make himself small as he rushed toward the front entryway under the cross.

      Light continued to shine through the window in the rear part of the building. Was the fugitive standing there, looking out and taking aim? This guy wouldn’t be caught napping; he’d managed to get out of his handcuffs and evade a team of trained officers. Ramirez had called him slick, and Spence agreed.

      The preferred method for taking a suspect was a straight-on assault, using the element of surprise, yelling to disorient the suspect and being ready to shoot first. But Spence wasn’t looking for a lethal shoot-out. This fugitive was low on the totem pole. His greatest value was the information he could give. Somehow, Spence needed to sneak into the church and take the fugitive into custody.

      At the entryway, he leaned against the polished oak door with a small diamond-shaped stained glass window at eye level. The church building was a rectangle, with stained glass windows on either side. Spence wasn’t sure what he’d find inside. Ruefully, he realized, it would have been useful to have the pastor with him to give him the layout.

      The door on the right had a keyed knob. Spence gave it a twist and found it locked. No problem, he’d been picking locks since he was a trouble-making teenager. This was the first time he’d done it at a church.

      After turning the knob, he opened the door a crack, slid inside and closed it. The entryway was in darkness. No windows here. In the nave, where the congregation sat, the stained glass windows on either side allowed moonlight to fall across several rows of wooden pews. He edged his way down the wall, expecting—at any moment—to hear the blast of a repeating rifle.

      No sound came. And Spence didn’t see the fugitive. At the front of the church, there was light from a door at the far right side of the sanctuary. In the entryway, Spence found himself at the foot of a narrow, wooden staircase that hugged the wall. He climbed to a choir loft. Three rows of pews and an upright organ were faintly visible. Quiet as a cat, he crept down to the carved railing, where he squatted and waited.

      It was a pretty little church, simple and clean, with a high peaked ceiling and open beams. The carpet in the sanctuary was slate blue and the altar was carved from dark wood. From outside, a fierce wind buffeted the stained glass windows, causing the old structure to creak and moan. Not a bad thing, he figured. Those noises had masked the sound of his entry, allowing him to scoot across the back and up the stairs without the fugitive noticing.

      A certain amount of skill was required to move with stealth and purpose. But Spence also believed in luck. Being in a church, he wondered if he should shoot off a prayer. He wasn’t a religious man, didn’t make it to church every week, nor did he quote from the Bible or other sacred texts. But he was spiritual. He believed in a higher power. When he was growing up, two men were instrumental in helping him pull his life together. One was a pastor, the other a priest. Spence had never done a whole lot of praying, but he felt like those church people had done a lot of praying to make sure he stayed on the right path.

      A telephone rang. Spence heard the mumbled reply. Was the voice coming all the way from that back room? If so, the acoustics in here were incredible.

      The light from the back room went out. The phone call must have tipped off the fugitive. But how? Who made that call? Behind the shadows of the pulpit and a standing candleholder, Spence saw a man dodge across the sanctuary, slam into the side of the altar and then duck behind it.

      From his superior vantage point in the choir loft, Spence peered over the banister rail. The element of surprise was gone, but he could still give this guy a chance to make it easy on himself.

      “FBI,” Spence called out. “I don’t want to hurt you. Just put down your weapon and step out from behind the altar.”

      “What if I don’t?”

      “I need to take you into custody.”

      The fugitive laughed. “That doesn’t work for me.”

      Spence heard a voice from behind his back. “Sorry, Spencer. Doesn’t work for me, either.”

      He looked over his shoulder and saw Pastor Clarence, aka Bad Santa, aiming his rifle at a lethal point between his shoulder blades. The old man was working with the bad guys. “This explains a lot.”

      “What?” Clarence asked.

      “You never called 911.”

      “Nope.”

      “And I’m guessing that the van hadn’t ended up in this area by coincidence. Tell me, Pastor, do you own the cabin with the green door?”

      “I do, and three others in this area.” He gestured with the rifle. “I want you to stand up real slow and careful.”

      Seriously? Had Bad Santa forgotten how well armed Spence was? Did this old guy think he could take down a federal agent in his prime?

      “Let me remind you,” Clarence said, “I’ve got the drop on you, and it’d be easier to swab up the blood from your dead body than to sand bullet holes out of the pews.”

      “Were you even a chaplain?”

      “I’m retired, but I served.”

      Something must have happened to turn the old man into a traitor. In other circumstances, Spence might have been willing to delve and probe and put together motivations and answers. But he wasn’t in a forgiving mood. This investigation needed to be over so he could return to Virginia with Angelica and repair her