that from the moment he’d found the door unlocked and the security alarm disabled. His conviction had grown steadily during the time it had taken him to walk quietly up the aisle to the side altar.
Since the storm had taken the power out, the place was as dark and cold as a crypt. The only illumination was provided by the three-tiered stand of votive lights in front of the altar. Nowadays, people didn’t light real candles. Instead they donated money to purchase lights powered by lithium batteries. And they “burned” brightly enough for him to see that the statue of St. Francis was still there, enclosed in a shatterproof glass dome.
Inwardly, Gabe grinned. Turnabout was fair play. And very satisfying. The guy who’d had such smooth sailing so far must be feeling at least some of the frustration he’d been feeling for the past three months. There was no duplicate of the security system he’d created for the statue, not even a prototype out there, because he’d just invented it. It was very difficult to crack a safe or break through a security system when one had nothing to practice on.
Gabe started up the short flight of steps to the altar.
It was only as he reached the top that he saw it—the second statue sitting in the shadows at the foot of the altar. Crouching down, he examined it in the dim light, running his hands over it just to be sure. Then he welcomed the pump of adrenaline. It was a copy of the St. Francis, and that had to mean that his instincts had been right. The thief was still here.
Where?
In spite of the fact that all of his senses were now on full alert, Gabe was careful to keep the expression on his face perfectly neutral as he rose, narrowed his eyes and pretended to study the St. Francis that still stood beneath the glass dome.
The trap he’d set had worked. It was Father Mike who’d first suggested the idea that he might use the statue as bait, and the more Gabe had thought it over, the more he’d wanted to try it out. He’d called a friend at the Denver Post, and the resulting article in last Sunday’s paper had not only highlighted the “priceless” reputation the statue had always had for answering prayers, but it had also mentioned that G. W. Securities had designed a premier alarm system for its protection. Evidently the combination of information had lured the thief into planning an attempt on the statue, just as he’d hoped.
The timing had surprised him. It was still two days until Valentine’s Day, and the press as well as the law enforcement agencies had been expecting the thief to strike then. But the moment that Father Mike had called to tell him about the note, he’d sent the priest to the FBI office to update Nick Guthrie and he’d rushed up here.
Now, with the statue’s help …
He mentally said a prayer, and then he just listened. There was nothing but the muted howling of the storm outside. His eyes had fully adjusted to the dim light, and he saw nothing in his peripheral vision that seemed out of place in the shadows.
His guess was that the thief had found a place to hide. His gaze went immediately to the door of the choir loft. It was open. Slipping quietly away from the altar, he moved along the side wall of the church until he reached the door.
For a moment, he paused and listened hard.
Nothing.
Then he heard it, the scrape of wood against wood, and he felt a draft of icy cold air. Pushing through the door, he ran into the room.
The blow caught him by surprise. Pain exploded in his head and icy water poured down the collar of his shirt. With stars spinning in front of his eyes, he stepped to the side and the kick aimed for his groin glanced off his thigh.
Off balance, he threw himself forward and took his opponent to the ground. They rolled across the marble floor, each struggling for an advantage. A table overturned and glass shattered. He was on the bottom when their bodies slammed into a wall.
Hands closed around his throat and cut off his air. Vision blurring, Gabe gripped his attacker’s waist and bucked upward. The hands loosened around his throat, and Gabe reared up and butted heads with his opponent. Pain zinged through his skull, but it did the trick. He was suddenly free.
Scrambling up, he ran after his opponent. He would have been successful if his feet hadn’t suddenly shot right out from beneath him. He fell backward, heard the crack as his head struck a counter. Then another explosion of pain blacked out everything.
NICOLA DUCKED HER HEAD and fought her way into the wind. Icy pellets stung her skin, and the boots that had been entirely appropriate for a day in the Denver office were no match for the snow that came closer to her knees as she moved forward.
Using her hand to shield her eyes, she checked on the SUV’s location and adjusted her course. The headlights of the parked vehicle were all she could see now and they were helpfully aimed toward the long flight of steps that led to the front door of the church.
Everything else was totally engulfed in darkness and snow. When she reached the SUV, she leaned against it for a moment to catch her breath. Then she checked the license plate.
She felt a lot more than a tingle now. This confirmed it was Gabe Wilder’s car. The plate numbers were as familiar to her as the details of the file she’d been compiling on him for nearly three months. She’d been right. From the first moment her dad had assigned her to gather research on the case, she’d been sure that Gabe had to be involved.
It wasn’t just the fact that the thief was using his father’s M.O., nor that Gabe’s firm had handled the security for each victim. There was something about Gabe Wilder that just … fit. She knew what it was like to want desperately to follow in your father’s footsteps—and to have to sometimes disguise that desire. But a person couldn’t do that forever.
Just then the headlights went off. Was it one of those models where that happened automatically? Just to make sure … she felt her way along the side of the vehicle and pulled open the driver’s door.
Empty.
He had to be in the church. Circling around the SUV, she pulled out her flashlight and headed toward the stairs. Finally, she was going to have a face-to-face meeting with Gabe Wilder, and she had no idea what he looked like. At least not anymore. The last time she’d seen him he’d been thirteen and she’d been ten.
As she gripped the iron railing and started up the long flight of stone steps, she let her mind return to those six months of her life when her stepmother had taken her every Saturday to the St. Francis Center. Charitable works were high on Marcia Thorne Guthrie’s list.
The St. Francis Center had been located in a brick storefront building in downtown Denver. The first time she’d seen Gabe, she’d been standing in the small prayer garden that sat like a tiny oasis between the main building and a fenced in basketball court. He’d been tall with longish dark hair and scruffy jeans, and he’d had bad boy written all over him. At first he’d totally ignored her as he’d dribbled, jumped and sent the ball flying through the hoop again and again and again.
It had been Father Mike’s idea for her to weed the garden while Marcia shelved donated books in the library. But she’d never gotten to the weeds. She hadn’t been able to take her eyes off of Gabe Wilder.
Of course, she’d read all about his father, the notorious art thief, and how he’d died in prison. And she’d overheard her father speak about Gabe—about how hurt and angry he was. She’d known that he was at the center so that Father Mike could save him.
That’s
