Page 28 of Her Last Escape

Maybe they were looking in the wrong direction. Maybe this wasn't about money at all, but something less tangible. Something darker.

"These protests," Rachel said slowly, studying Fenway's reaction. "How long have they been going on?"

"On and off since we opened," Fenway replied, seeming relieved at the change in topic. "But they've gotten more aggressive lately. More organized. The leader – David Thorne – he's become more... zealous in his messaging."

“Aggressive? Have they tried getting into the building?”

“Oh, no. If I’m being honest, they are always quite civil. But they’re growing in size. It used to be just five or six people. But three weeks ago, right after Christmas, there was a protest out there that was about fifty people. It was on the news.”

Rachel felt that new idea tugging at her, demanding her attention. She leaned forward a bit and said, “I’m going to be honest with you, Ms. Fenway. If it becomes clear that we have to have information from you, we can make requests to bodies above the FBI to obtain it. I don’t want to do that because it’s a bureaucratic nightmare. And it would slow our case significantly. In the meantime, there are other avenues we are going to pursue. But if they lead back here, to you and New Horizons, things could get ugly. I don’t tell you this to scare you or intimidate you. Just to forewarn you so you can prepare.”

Fenway considered this and nodded, her expression slack now. For a moment, Rachel thought she was going to cave, but she remained resolute.

As they left Fenway's office, Rachel's mind was already racing ahead. Money might motivate plenty of killers, but faith? Faith could drive people to extremes that defied logic. And someone who viewed cryonics as an abomination against nature or God's will? They might see themselves as righteous while targeting New Horizons' clients.

“You’re got another idea cooking, don’t you?” Novak asked as they stepped back outside.

“I do. I think there’s a chance this might not be about money—or the lack of it—at all. I think that even though David Thorne, the pastor from yesterday’s protest, seemed harmless, I do think his field of expertise might be just as likely to go after people like our three victims.”

“You’re thinking it’s religiously motivated?”

“I think it could be. I think we should at least explore the idea, given that we know there have been protests on this property.”

"Do you remember which church he said he works out of?” Novak asked.

She pulled it out of her memory instantly. “Christ's Hope Church.”

“Well, let’s go say good morning to Pastor Thorne.”

They got into the car and started back out toward the security gate. Rachel looked back via the rearview, watching the shape of the New Horizons building shrink smaller and smaller. She wasn't sure if they'd end up back here with an official order for Fenway or not, but she felt a small twinge in her gut when she realized that there was a very good chance their killer was just as familiar with the building as she and Novak were slowly becoming.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Rachel hadn't set foot in a church since Grandma Tate’s funeral. As she and Novak pulled into the expansive parking lot of Christ's Hope Church, she was struck by how different it looked from the traditional red-brick buildings she was used to, with their steep steps and reaching spires that dotted the city's landscape. The building that was Christ’s Hope Church resembled a modern community center more than a house of worship – a sprawling single-story building with clean lines and large windows that reflected the morning sun. The facade was wrapped in a combination of natural stone and contemporary metal panels, giving it an almost corporate feel.

"Different from what you'd expect, right?" Novak said, cutting the engine.

Rachel nodded, studying the manicured flowerbeds that lined the walkway to the entrance. The landscaping was impeccable, not a dead leaf in sight. "Makes me wonder what they do with all that space." Her memories of churches were limited to cramped wooden pews and dusty hymnal books, the smell of old carpet and wooden rafters high above. This place looked more like somewhere you'd go for a yoga class or community theater production.

"My sister's church is like this," Novak offered as they walked toward the entrance. "They do everything there – daycare, food bank, senior activities, youth sports. It's like a community hub that happens to hold services on Sunday. Helpful and quaint, but it just seems…big."

They approached the doors, Novak opening and holding it for Rachel as she passed through. Inside, they entered a vast vestibule with polished concrete floors and walls painted in warm earth tones. The space felt more like the lobby of a contemporary arts center than a church. To their right, a sleek coffee bar sat empty, its chrome espresso machines gleaming in the morning light, waiting for Sunday morning. The air carried the lingering aroma of fresh coffee and pastries. Ahead, a curved welcome desk crowned with brushed metal lettering served as the focal point, its wood panels matching the aesthetic of the entrance.

Behind the desk's counter, a man in his sixties looked up from a leather-bound devotional, his reading glasses perched low on his nose. A coffee mug steamed beside him, and a name tag identified him as "Walter - Guest Services." His smile was genuine, the kind that reached his eyes, creating a web of comfortable wrinkles at the corners.

"Good morning," he said, setting his book aside. "How can I help you folks today?"

Rachel showed her credentials, noting how his expression shifted slightly at the sight of them – not afraid, but definitely more alert. "FBI. We're here to see Pastor Thorne."

"Ah, you're in luck. David just got in about ten minutes ago. Should be settling into his office by now." He gestured toward a hallway to their left, then seemed to reconsider. "All the way through the atrium, then take a left at the hallway at the back of the building. His is the second office on the right."

“Thank you,” Novak said as they stepped away from the counter.

Following Walter’s directions took them through the heart of the building. The main sanctuary doors stood open, revealing rows of comfortable chairs instead of traditional pews. Natural light poured through tall windows, illuminating abstract stained glass panels that cast subtle colored shadows across the floor. The stage area – Rachel noticed they didn't call it an altar – was set up more like a concert venue, with musical instruments and sophisticated lighting equipment visible. But despite the modern design and feel of the place, religious imagery throughout was understated – a simple cross here, a framed Bible verse there, all in modern fonts and minimalist designs. Nothing like the ornate iconography Rachel remembered from her limited church experiences as a child. The whole place smelled faintly of coffee and lemon-scented cleaner, with occasional whiffs of new carpet from what appeared to be a recently renovated section.

"Place probably costs a fortune to heat and cool," Novak commented as they walked, his investigator's mind always running calculations. Rachel couldn’t help but grin; it was the exact same sort of comment Jack would have made.

Rachel nodded, thinking about the building's sprawling layout. "Wonder where the money comes from."

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