Chapter 7 - A Stranger In The Church Lot
The rain had stopped by late afternoon, leaving behind a heavy, stagnant humidity that clung to the windows of the Pine Crest Motel. Costlow spent hours pacing the small room, his boots squeaking softly against the linoleum floor, checking the peep-hole every few minutes. His phone had been destroyed hours ago, crushed under his heel in the alley behind my apartment before we fled, leaving him entirely cut off from his network. But he knew one number by heart.
"If Miller is still clean, he'll pick up on the third ring," Costlow said, holding a heavy black rotary handset attached to the motel's desk. His knuckles were white as he fed quarters into the coin slot. After a tense series of clicks and static, a gruff, cautious voice answered on the other end. A brief, harsh exchange followed in low murmurs, Costlow leaning so close to the mouthpiece his breath fogged the plastic. When he hung up, his expression was unreadable.
"He's terrified," Costlow muttered, turning back to face me. "Marcus has people auditing every ledger in the firm. But Miller owes me. He's meeting us at dusk behind St. Jude's parish hall on the east side of town. He said he can get us temporary papers and enough cash to cross the state line."
"Do you trust him?" I asked, folding the damp washcloth and placing it on the cracked porcelain sink.
Costlow looked down at his bruised hands, rubbing his thumbs together. "I trusted my uncle, and look where that got me. But Miller has a family in the suburbs. He knows what happens if he crosses me, and he knows what happens if Marcus finds out he helped us. Fear is a reliable currency."
The walk to St. Jude's took twenty minutes through quiet residential streets lined with overgrown boxwood hedges and rusted chain-link fences. The parish hall sat at the end of a gravel alley, its red brick walls dark and forbidding under the purple twilight sky. A rusted metal dumpster stood near the side entrance, casting long, crooked shadows across the asphalt parking lot.
Miller was already waiting beside a dented gray sedan, his collar turned up against the rising wind. He looked around nervously, clutching a manila envelope under his arm like a shield. When we stepped out from the shadow of the maple trees, Miller flinched as if we were ghosts.
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"Keep it brief, Leo," Miller stammered, his eyes darting frantically toward the empty street beyond the churchyard. "Marcus's enforcers were asking about you at the docks this morning. They're tearing the city apart looking for that liquor bottle you took from your office safe—they say it's got the thumb-drive taped inside the lining."
Costlow froze, a sharp realization crossing his battered features. I watched the blood drain from his face as he reached instinctively into the deep interior pocket of his gray suit jacket.
