Max Harwell tiptoed into the darkened vestibule of St. Catherine’s Roman Catholic Church and dipped his fingers into the holy water to bless himself.  He didn’t have much time to hide the microphone before Father McKinley or Father Dean would walk into the confessional box before the customary parishioners arrived.  Excitement welled inside him at the prospects of being the only thirteen year-old amateur sleuth to do something so daring as to record someone’s confession with real surveillance equipment used by his father at work.  He said a silent prayer his father wouldn’t find out he’d taken it.  His pulse shot up from the excitement of the task at hand.  This was going to be like a real live recording of an interrogation, and his first attempt at actually recording something. 

His father, a lieutenant in the two-one precinct, in the NYPD would not take kindly to Max using the equipment again.  He’d been warned against touching it, but he couldn’t help himself.  He was anxious to become involved in law enforcement, and waiting until he was old enough to join the Police Academy seemed such a waste of time.  Besides, once he entered the academy, he’d be way ahead of the other cadets.  He smiled to himself again.  Conducting a covert operation like this was the most exciting thing he’d ever done.  His heart spiked again and he grinned knowing this was only the beginning of his life-long career.

He scanned the nave to make sure he was alone.  The familiar smell of musty old wood and incense filled his nostrils as he tiptoed down the aisle to the confessional when the floorboards creaked beneath his feet.  His pulse shot up and he froze looking around the nave, checking to see if the noise had alerted the priests that someone was in the church.  Maybe it was later than he thought and they were vesting in the Sacristy before hearing confessions.  Max panicked, a recollection of Father McKinley chastising him for past occurrences made him duck into the first pew and hunch down low.  He prayed Father wouldn’t emerge from the room wearing his white long-sleeved linen garment with the purple stole. 

The longer he remained in the pew, the more impatient he became.  He had to get into that confessional and fast.   He’d waited too long to set this up and he couldn’t afford to let his nerves get twisted into a tight wad in his stomach.  

The silence of the church remained absolute, except for the hum of the air conditioning. After a few seconds, he was convinced he was alone and edged his way out, slowly tiptoeing the rest of the way to the confessional.  He twisted the doorknob, pulled the door open and entered the completely dark confining room, instinctively squatting down onto his knees when he heard a clunk against the bare wooden floor inside the room.  The pen-like microphone had fallen from his pocket.  Why was he so jumpy?  He’d planned this for weeks, and he sure as hell didn’t need anything else to happen before he could get the job done.  He slid his hands across the entire floor trying to find the microphone, but he couldn’t feel anything.  Where could it have gone?

Panic shot through him.  Was there a hole in the floor?  Maybe the pen-like microphone dropped through to the basement of the church? The damn thing had to be in there.  He filled his cheeks with air willing his pulse to calm down, but it did little to compensate for the slight dizziness he was feeling.  Max suddenly became aware he was hyperventilating, something he'd warned himself against earlier.  Losing control was out of the question, and a guarantee of making costly mistakes.

He braced his hands on the floor, his shoulders hiked up to his ears in order to navigate in the confined quarters, when his fingers felt the tip of the microphone now lodged between the wall and the kneeler.  Relieved, he released another breath.  Now he could finish the job and get the hell out of there.  He picked up the microphone, kissed it, and positioned it where he'd get the best recording.

Excited this part of his mission was completed, he blew out a calming breath, but panicked again when he heard the main doors to the church open indicating someone had entered.  His lightheadedness returned and his breathing quickened.  He cupped his hands over his mouth and nose praying he’d be able to control his breathing, more now than ever.

Why was this person inside the church?  Did they have an appointment with Father?  What if the person walked into the side of the confessional he was now occupying?  He had to get out of there as fast as he could.

He peered around the door; the lights hadn’t been turned on yet.  That meant he still had a chance.   Would he be able to crawl out on his knees and exit through the side door without being noticed? 

The sound of a cell phone keypad beeped out seven digits and a man’s angry voice echoed through the church.  Max strained to hear what was being said, but the man was so angry his conversation made little sense.  Poor Vito, whoever he was, seemed to be the target of all the venomous shouting, and scared Max even more.

Cripes, if this man realized Max was listening, who knows what the guy would do to him?  Maybe this was his time to make a run for it while the man was preoccupied with his conversation.  The stranger wouldn’t see him, especially if he crawled out to the side door.  Sure, he'd see the light when Max opened the door, but he'd be gone and well hidden before the man could see who it was.

Confident with his plan, Max snuck out of the confessional on all fours, his foot clipping the door on the way out, causing it to squeak. Beads of sweat ran down the side of his face and fell to the floor.  He dried it with his shoulder, and for a second, there was complete silence, until the man shouted.

“Hello?  Who's there?"  A brief silence passed.  "Who’s there?”

Max could hear his heart thundering out of control again, hammering so loudly in his ears he wondered if it was audible to the man.  He had to get away.  Should he just make a run for it and risk the man seeing his silhouette? What was he going to do?  In a sudden twist of fate, the man’s voice faded and the heavy door closed convincing Max he’d left the building.

He blew out a hefty breath of air and made a beeline out the side door.  Leaning against the building to catch his breath, he waited a while just in case the man was standing in front of the church.   He wondered whether his friend, Ritchie, who was supposed to be waiting for him at the top of the hill behind the large boulders, was crapping in his pants.  His friend wasn’t as adventuresome as him and freaked out at the dumbest things.  Max could only imagine how frantic he'd gotten when he saw the man enter the church, knowing he was hard at work inside the confessional.  

A rush of excitement flowed through him and the terror he felt earlier faded with satisfaction knowing his plan was about to come to fruition.

* * *

            On his way over to Ritchie, Max noticed a black SUV in the parking lot and assumed it belonged to the man who’d come into the church.  Now that he was on the outside, he didn’t care about the man, but wondered about his anger.  He shrugged his shoulders and ran the rest of the way up the hill to find his friend. 

“Where the hell have you been?” Ritchie blurted out when he saw Max.

“Setting up.”

“Did you know a man came inside the church while you were in there?”

As Max had expected, Ritchie was freaking out.   

“Relax, Rich,” Max said projecting a nonchalant air.  "Its no big deal." Max had a reputation to uphold and the last thing he wanted his friend to know was how scared he'd been.  “Besides, he walked back outside before he ever saw me.”  He gave Ritchie the thumbs up signal, but all he did was roll his eyes.  “Did you see if he went back inside the church?”

Richie gave an annoyed shake of his head,  a disconcerted expression on his face.  His hands flung in the air.  “Yeah, he did, but you’re lucky you didn’t get caught.  He was mad at someone.  I was scared to death thinking it was you he was shouting about.”

Max brushed him off and sat down on the grassy knoll, placed the backpack Ritchie had been guarding for him between his legs and unzipped it.  He reached inside for the small surveillance kit, pulled out the steel box and popped it open.  The voice-activated recorder’s mini-cassette was already rotating. 

“All right,” he said, snapping his fingers, “my plan is working.”  Max released a loud whoop to express his excitement.

“Are you nuts?" Ritchie shot back.  "That man is inside right now.  Shouldn’t we be getting out of here?”

“No way.  He’s busy confessing his sins, he isn’t paying attention to us.”

Richie was visibly shaking now, his plump face as red as a beet.   “Are you sure we can’t go to jail for doing this?”

“Who’s going to know, Ritchie?  It’s just you and me.”