Chapter 1: The Sinister Digitus Minimus Manus – pt 1
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It's strange, not believing in God, Erin thought as she jimmied the lock of the quaint Romanian church. It was one of the oldest buildings in Romania, built on an ancient Roman foundation, miraculously surviving multiple conflicts, wars, regime changes. The lock was only 20 years old by comparison, but practically medieval compared to the security system the church should have. Especially given that the church was still in use and housed priceless 15th century murals. 

Everything had a price on the black market, though, priceless historical artifacts most of all. Erin squinted, wishing she'd brought some WD-40, as the rusted metal of the second, older iron deadbolt screamed against itself. Looking up and down the alley at the houses nearby, she ducked inside the door and gently closed it behind her. Stuffing her lockpicks back into her bag, she grabbed her mini flashlight and turned it on.

If she believed in God, the job she'd been sent to do would be much harder. Technically, she wasn't robbing the church as they didn't even know what they had, but she had a feeling the other members of the family passed on this gig for a reason. Of course, being an atheist in her family was a bit like being a lawyer in a family of carnival barkers. Definitely a cuckoo in the ravens' nest. However, as long as she toed the line, did the job, her beliefs didn't matter. In fact, she was the best goddamn collector the family had. Her nose for the uncanny was practically instinctual, and she could skim a hundred obscure web posts or news articles in a day to glean the one valuable clue leading to treasure.

Her cousin Bernie's computer program had less success, but he was always tweaking the code and it was getting better at parsing the relevant stuff. One day soon, she hoped, it would replace her all together, and she could finally have a real life. Not be sneaking through some claustrophobic passageways with tiny windows beneath a pile of rock built centuries before safety codes and load bearing calculations. Why was it, the longer a structure stood, the more certain she was that it would collapse on her? For a moment she imagined removing a cask from the foundation, and the entire church collapsing in on itself like a jenga game.

Fools borrowed trouble, as her grandma said, and she didn't have time to indulge in claustrophobia. The priest would be up and about before dawn, and she'd already waited until 2 in the morning for the local pub to close and leave the town free of witnesses.

The church wasn't large - not by modern standards. With rounded walls built some time in the 13th century, the upper structure could barely fit fifty people for the Sunday sermons. Erin looked for anything that led downward. People dug down in order to build up - and with an ancient Roman temple site as the foundation - perhaps even a mausoleum - surely there would be a sub-structure. But the last little hall led to nothing more than a tiny antechamber, perhaps a small cell for prayers or confession.

The last thing she wanted to do was knock on every loose rock in the place, trying to find a hidden cache. That would take far too long - and she'd be far too conspicuous. A tourist didn't stay long in this part of Romania. They made it a day trip then left.

If not down, then up. Perhaps the two-story bell tower would be the place it was stashed.

The entire church was built like a puzzle box that took centuries - layers on layers of different stones, different styles. Roman inscriptions and columns clashed with Byzantine windows. Flat-edged, worked stone mixed with plaster and rounded rock. Like Romania itself, pieced together over centuries of conflicting cultures to make something truly unique.

The stairway up to the topmost part of the tower was a narrow, winding edifice. No rails to speak of, the flat stones indented in the center where centuries of feet wore away stone. And on all four walls, a crumbling cupola with badly damaged mosaics. Erin looked at the cupola closest to her -  the rest were across the gap and beyond reach. 

The word at the bottom of the mosaic was barely legible after centuries, but Erin knew it by heart.

"Resugere." Rise again. Resurrection. 

She peered closer at the mosaic under the narrow beam of her flashlight, making out the faded colors on the figures intertwined within. Throughout the centuries, every piece of art had it's own symbolic use of color. The Virgin Mary swathed in blue - representative of purity and motherhood. Jesus garbed in the red of his sacrifice and the blue of his mother. But his resurrection was not the story told in these panels. For the third figure was wrapped in white - bandages and shroud - the color of mourning, death and illness.

Lazarus, the first who rose from the grave.

Four pictures, representing the four days of his death. The panel on the wall closest to her depicted a closed tomb. The next, depicted the grieving sisters, Mary and Martha. The third, the open tomb and the laying of hands. The fourth mosaic, his corpse - risen from the dead. 

Across the way. Furthest from the stairs, and a drop of some twenty-five feet below. Erin knew it was hidden there. Of course it was. Retrieval was never easy.

Option one - a tall-ass ladder. Probably the tallest ladder in the damn town. She'd have to find it first, then steal it, transport it back here, get it into the church, and climb up without anyone holding the bottom. OSHA would have a fit.

Option two - the bell tower was approximately nine feet wide. If she were six and a half feet tall, she could brace her arms and legs and reach over... and probably fall to her death. But she barely scraped five foot three. So that was out.

Option three - the stairs wound around the bell tower on three sides, but did not pass the fourth. If she could find a way to grab onto the stone, she could edge her way along the fourth wall, praying symbolically to the God she didn't believe in, holding on to crumbling plaster and rounded stones with nothing but the tips of her fingers and toes until she somehow managed to find the blasted hiding place.

And here she was, without any rock-climbing chalk. She made a mental note to add it next to the WD-40 in the imaginary compartment of her backpack full of useful items. 

Option four - she could fly using her jetpack. Why not, since she was fantasizing anyway?

Option five - she could come back later. Erin had just made the decision to do so when beams of flashlights cut through the darkness below. She killed her own. Somebody else was in the church - and she bet she knew who it was.

If she didn't get the reliquary now, they'd get to it first.

Option three it would have to be. And she'd be climbing blind.


 

 

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