Money to Burn

39

IVY LAYTON WAS ON THE RUN. THAT WAS NOTHING NEW.

Running from one hiding place to another had become a way of life. What made tonight so different was the level of fear-a fear she hadn’t experienced since those terrifying days and nights in the Bahamas following the happiest day of her life. They had found her.

Again.

A bit of dust fell from the twilled linen cloth as Ivy climbed out from under it. The marble floor felt cold on her hands and knees.

Ivy had spent two of the last four years in Italy, where there seemed to be a Catholic church on every corner. Confessionals had become her go-to hiding spots. Tonight, it was just her luck that she’d darted into an Episcopal church-no confessionals in the Anglican tradition. A beautiful damask that covered the altar inside the chantry chapel had served her needs in a pinch.

St. Thomas Church is at Fifty-third Street and Fifth Avenue, a few blocks north of its more famous Catholic neighbor, St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Ivy recognized the French High Gothic style, and everything but the length appeared to be of cathedral proportions. Her first thought had been to conceal herself behind the high altar, which was front and center in the traditional design. Halfway down the nave she found the chantry chapel in its own alcove. It would have been perfect for a small wedding-and the hollow space beneath the small altar was an excellent hiding spot.

Ivy stepped cautiously from the chapel, her gaze sweeping across fifty rows of empty wooden pews in the church nave. Two hours earlier, when she’d rushed inside in a panic, the entrance doors had been unlocked and the chandeliers had been on. The vast interior was now dark, save for the indirect lighting on the sculptured stone wall behind the high altar. Hopefully lights off didn’t mean doors locked-as in Ivy spending the night.

She turned away from the lighted altar and walked slowly toward the narthex, trying not to let her heels click on the inlaid marble floors as she passed by the World War II memorial. Just thinking about the close call at the Rink Bar made her pulse quicken. If not for the bomb scare, it would have been the end of the line. She probably could have been in Canada by now if she had just kept running, but she had taken enough risks for one night. Her next move, she decided, would be just a few blocks to the west. Her friend Phillip would give her something to eat and a place to sleep. He’d helped her more than any man since Michael, but the relationship was completely platonic. Phillip was gay, a bartender at Therapy. Michael’s new wife wasn’t the only one who thought a gay bar was a good place for a woman to hide.

Lucky for Ivy that she had recognized Mallory before Mallory had recognized her.

Or maybe not.

Ivy pushed against the carved Archangel Gabriel on the heavy church door-the same door through which she’d run earlier. It was locked. She tried the one next to it, carved with the Archangel Michael-hoping that the name alone would bring good fortune. Locked, too. She put her shoulder into it, more out of frustration than an actual attempt at escape, only to discover the hard way that these old doors were made to last a millennium.

Wonderful.

The back of her neck tingled with goose bumps. That gut-wrenching fear was returning-not for herself, but for Michael. Now that she’d tipped her hand and they knew for certain that she was alive, she was not the only one in danger.

Ivy returned to the cavernous nave of the church, her gaze drifting toward the dimly lit high altar. There had to be a way out, and she knew she would find it. Somehow she’d always managed to stay one step ahead of them.

Her only worries were for Michael.

She drew a deep breath, and since she was in a church, she figured a quick prayer couldn’t hurt. Then she reached for her cell and dialed Michael’s number.