Chapter 2 - Beneath the Third Board
St. Matthew’s emptied within twenty minutes.
Father Thomas changed into an old sweater but kept his mud-stained trousers.
Michael refused to apologize for the shove.
Not yet.
Sarah refused to let him out of her sight.
“You touch him again, I call police.”
Michael looked at her.
“You think I care?”
“I think you should.”
Thomas sat in the parish office with a towel around his shoulders.
He had a shallow scrape on one palm.
Nothing more.
Sarah remained angry at Michael.
She was also watching Thomas differently now.
“Start talking.”
Thomas looked at Michael.
“You found Robert’s letter where?”
“In Mom’s safe-deposit box.”
Sarah turned.
“Mom had it?”
“No. Bank called because the box lease finally expired. Inside was another envelope addressed to me.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“I came here first.”
Sarah closed her eyes.
“Of course you did.”
Michael ignored it.
Thomas said:
“Robert gave your mother instructions to open the box only if certain people died.”
“What people?”
“Charles Vale.”
Michael frowned.
“Who is he?”
Thomas looked toward church.
“He was chairman of St. Matthew’s building committee.”
“Was?”
“He died six months ago.”
Michael stared.
That explained timing.
Their mother Elaine had died four years earlier.
She never opened the box because Vale was alive.
The bank only contacted Michael after Vale’s estate closure triggered old correspondence.
Sarah asked:
“What did Dad know?”
Thomas took breath.
“St. Matthew’s owned seventeen acres behind the church.”
Michael knew the land.
Most had been sold years earlier.
Luxury houses now stood there.
“In 2004,” Thomas continued, “the parish was planning a renovation. Charles convinced the diocese and parish council to sell twelve acres to Vale Development.”
“His company?”
“His brother’s.”
“Conflict of interest.”
“Yes.”
“Was it disclosed?”
“Partly.”
Michael laughed.
“Partly.”
Thomas continued:
“The sale price was four point eight million.”
Sarah frowned.
“That sounds like a lot.”
“The property was worth closer to seven.”
Michael understood.
“Vale bought it cheap.”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“Two point two million dollars of proceeds went into the restoration fund.”
“Where did rest go?”
Thomas looked ashamed.
“That is what your father discovered.”
Robert Grant had been a bank compliance officer.
A parish volunteer.
And, apparently, the man who noticed millions missing from church land proceeds.
“He came to me,” Thomas said.
“Why you?”
“I was associate pastor.”
“You were thirty-five.”
“Thirty-five.”
“What did you do?”
Thomas looked down.
“I told him to slow down.”
Michael’s expression hardened.
“Meaning?”
“I told him accusations could ruin people.”
“People were stealing.”
“I did not know that yet.”
“You knew enough to lie later.”
Thomas said nothing.
Sarah asked:
“What is under the floor?”
Thomas looked at the old brass key.
“Robert said he copied transaction records.”
“Where?”
“Hidden compartment beneath north aisle.”
“And you never looked?”
Thomas’s silence answered.
Michael stood.
“You had twenty-two years.”
“I know.”
“You could have found out.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Thomas looked directly at him.
“Because I was afraid he was right.”
That was worse.
They entered sanctuary.
Rain tapped stained-glass windows.
No one spoke.
The third board from north aisle looked identical to others.
Michael knelt.
The brass key fit a tiny slot between wood trim and stone.
A spring released.
A narrow section lifted.
Inside was a metal document box.
Michael pulled it out.
Locked.
The same key opened it.
Inside:
A ledger.
Bank statements.
Photocopies.
Three cassette tapes.
And a photograph.
Sarah picked it up.
Four men stood outside church.
Robert Grant.
Father Thomas.
Charles Vale.
And another man.
Michael knew him immediately.
“Uncle Peter.”
Sarah stared.
Peter Grant.
Their father’s younger brother.
The man who had helped raise them after Robert disappeared.
Michael looked at Thomas.
“Why was Uncle Peter involved?”
Thomas closed his eyes.
“Because Robert did not discover the money alone.”
Sarah whispered:
“Peter helped him?”
Thomas shook his head.
“No.”
Michael understood from priest’s face.
“He was part of it.”
Thomas said:
“Yes.”
Sarah stepped backward.
Peter had paid their college tuition.
Walked Sarah down aisle at her wedding.
Sat beside Elaine during every anniversary of Robert’s disappearance.
Michael felt the room tilt.
He opened the ledger.
Several transactions carried initials.
C.V.
P.G.
T.M.
Michael stared at the third set.
Thomas Mercer.
He slowly looked up.
“You’re in the ledger.”
Thomas nodded.
Sarah whispered:
“Father…”
Michael stood.
“What did you take?”
Thomas answered:
“Nothing.”
“Your initials say otherwise.”
“They don’t mean payment.”
“What do they mean?”
Thomas looked toward cassette tapes.
“Play the first one.”
Michael found old player in parish storage.
The cassette hissed.
Then Robert Grant’s voice filled the empty church.
Older than Michael remembered.
Alive.
“This is Robert Grant. October 14, 2004.”
Sarah covered her mouth.
Michael could not move.
Robert continued:
“I have confirmed Charles Vale and Peter Grant diverted church-sale proceeds through three shell accounts.”
Sarah began crying.
Then Robert said:
“Father Thomas Mercer knows enough to stop them.”
Thomas closed his eyes.
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Robert’s voice continued.
“But I am no longer sure he will.”
