Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 128, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 781 & 782, September/October 2006

The Black Chapel by Doug Allyn

Doug Allyn’s most recent novel, The Burning of Rachel Hayes, features Dr. David Westbrook, who debuted in EQMM and was the protagonist of three Readers Award-winning stories. We haven’t seen Westbrook for some time, but we’ve had some splendid entries (like this one) in Mr. Allyn’s Dan Shea series...

Ever rehab a church before?” Shea asked. They were driving through Saginaw in his battered Ram pickup truck. Windows down in the mid-August heat, air conditioner on the fritz. The breeze metallic with the smell of molten steel and paint baking in the auto plants.

“Not a church, exactly,” Puck said. “Rewired a barn for a big revival one time. Pentecostals, as I recall, outside of Menominee. Threw up a sixteen-by-eight-foot stage in front of a dairy barn. Ran in extra power lines for the P.A. and spotlights, trucked in a dozen Porta-Johns. Quite a show.”

“A barn?” Shea snorted. “Considering the size of this contract, better keep the barn story to yourself.”

“Don’t knock barns, you young pup,” Puck shot back. “Fella that started up most of these churches was born in a manger. Which is a kind of barn, in case you’re wonderin’.”

“From the looks of things, this town could use a few barns. Or maybe a miracle. All I see are bars and empty storefronts. What happened to it?”

“Auto plants moved to Mexico, took the good jobs with ’em. White folks moved to the suburbs, businesses chased after ’em,” Puck said. “Buck up, sonny, compared to where we’re headed, this is prime real estate.”

The old man wasn’t kidding. As they crossed the Rust Street four-lane, the neighborhoods slid rapidly from poverty-strick-en into outright slums. Abandoned cars, spavined sofas on tumbledown porches. Crews of hard brown teenagers idling on the corners in baggy jeans, NBA tees, and gang tats, watching them pass with wary eyes. Feral as leopards.

Turning onto Johnstone Avenue, Shea slowed down. A sign said Dead End. It was dead-on.

An abandoned church towered over the entire block. Its massive belfry looming three-and-a-half stories above the sidewalk, eyeless windows staring out over the desolate houses in the surrounding ’hood.

A black church. Or it had been once. From the stones of its foundation to the tip of its twisted spire, the building had been painted a flat, lifeless ebony, a color so dead it seemed to drain the very light from the air.

Its paint was peeling now, strips of it hanging from the bricks like rotting skin, giving the edifice a leprous look.

At street level, the rows of stained-glass windows had been shattered, gaping like mouths with broken teeth. Its brick walls were a psychedelic riot of spray-painted obscenities and gang graffiti.

“Whew,” Puck whistled. “Looks like a ten-year rehab project, at least.”

“Or a job we don’t want at all,” Shea said darkly.

As they approached, the church seemed to shape-shift. The imposing three-story front was only a facade facing the street side. The main body of the building was only two stories tall, extendending the width of the block. On its left, a parking lot was guarded by crude stack-stone walls stretched between the church and a square brick school building, also painted flat black, top to bottom.

The school was in better shape than the church. It had new windows, shielded now by heavy steel mesh. The graffiti had been painted over, too, though it was already being replaced by a fresh crop.

Across the parking lot, a handful of teenage toughs were playing basketball on the blacktop, jostling and cursing each other. A lone lookout glanced up at the rumble of Shea’s truck, checked him out, then turned back to the game.

Only a few cars in the lot. A gleaming white Benz limo sitting by itself and a half-dozen rattletraps. Shea parked his Dodge beside the beaters. It blended right in.

He and Puck climbed out, North Country working men in faded jeans, baseball caps, steel-toed boots. Shea wore a sport coat over his flannel shirt, Puck a Carhartt vest. Faces weathered from the wind, they looked like a matched set, a before-and-after picture, forty years apart.

An oversized gentleman eased his bulk out of the Benz limo. Latin, six and a half feet tall, three hundred-plus pounds in an impeccably tailored cream-colored suit.

“I know that guy from someplace,” Puck said.

“Late-night TV,” Shea said. “He’s a preacher. Be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” Puck protested, following Shea to the limo.

“Mr. Shea? I’m Reverend Vincent Arroyo. Thanks for coming.” They shook hands, checking each other out. A contrast in styles. At fifty, Arroyo looked sleek, slick, and ready for prime time, his razor-cut pompadour in perfect order, glasses lightly tinted, manicured nails buffed to a subtle gloss.

Shea was fifteen years younger with a lot more miles on him, two-day stubble, sandy hair cropped boot-camp short, knuckles scarred from construction mishaps and labor disputes.

Before Shea could introduce Puck, a red BMW convertible roared into the lot, squeaking to a halt beside the Benz. A woman about ten years older than Shea stepped out, mid-fortyish, blond, with square shoulders and a square face, dressed sensibly in a Martha Stewart smock, slacks, laced boots.

“Sorry I’m late, Pastor.”

“No problem, we’re just getting started. Daniel Shea, this is Lydia Ford, the consulting engineer for the project. The structural decisions are yours. Mrs. Ford will offer input on style and design.”

“Ma’am.” Shea nodded. “This is my foreman, Dolph Paquette, Puck to his friends, and everybody else.”

“Ford?” Puck asked. “One of the car-plant Fords, are ya?”

“Actually, I was for a time. By marriage. Not anymore.”

“Sorry, ma’am, I was just — I mean—”

“It’s all right, Mr. Paquette, I get it all the time. So, gentlemen, shall we take a look at this unholy mess of a project?”

She headed for the church without waiting for an answer. A woman used to being obeyed. Ducking through the shattered side door, she led them up a short flight of stairs to the central entrance. Straight into hell.

“Sweet mother of God,” Puck said softly.

Arroyo frowned at him, but let it pass. Couldn’t blame the old man. The great nave looked like Nagasaki after the bomb. Pews scattered and smashed, some stacked to form crude shelters, drapes hanging in shreds from the walls. The carpeting may have been red once, hard to tell. Mottled with filth now, scorched by campfires, littered with empty wine bottles, hypodermics, and human waste.

“Welcome to St. Denis’s Cathedral, guys,” she said. “Originally funded and built by the Saginaw Catholic Diocese in eighteen ninety-six, closed in nineteen thirty. After serving as Temple Beth-El for a Jewish congregation for a few years, it was taken over by the Midwestern Synod in nineteen thirty-nine and renamed John Wesley Methodist, closing again in ’fifty-one. Its most recent tenants took over in ’fifty three, a sect called the Brethren of the End Days. Among other things, they painted both buildings flat black, and for the past forty years or so, it’s simply been called the Black Chapel.”

“What happened to it?” Shea asked.

“If you’re referring specifically to the building’s current condition, its problems began in — nineteen seventy-one?” Lydia arched an eyebrow at Arroyo, who nodded. “After the untimely death of its pastor, the Black Chapel was abandoned by its congregation. A Detroit bank seized the property for nonpayment of construction loans. They were unable to sell it, and over time, vandals and street people moved in, and the results are... as you see.”

“A godawful mess,” Shea said, stepping warily through the litter, examining the walls. “You said this would be a restoration project, Reverend Arroyo. That was one whopper of an understatement.”

“With faith, all things are possible,” Arroyo said calmly. “Originally, I was going to bring the building up to code and install state-of-the-art electronics to expand my television ministry. Mrs. Ford convinced me that the greater good for the community would be served if we could restore the building to its original condition. She even helped find grant money to pay for it. Truly a blessing.”

“Dynamite might be more of a blessing,” Puck grunted.

“I’ll grant you it looks grim,” Lydia said, “but even amidst all this dreck there’s one thing you don’t see. Do you know what that is, Mr. Shea?”

“Water damage,” Shea said, scanning the ceiling. “There are drip marks below the broken windows where rain blows in, but there aren’t any water stains or bulges in the plaster above, no blotches on the ceiling tiles. That indicates the roof is still intact, and since the walls look true, I’d guess the basic structure is probably sound.”

“Very observant.” She nodded. “In fact, the roof is made of leaded stone tiles and tight as a steel drum. I checked it myself.”

“You checked it?”

“What, you think I’m too old to climb a ladder?”

“No, ma’am, it’s just — never mind. Is the rest of the building like this?”

“Worse. But the only structural problem is below the baptistery. It looks like someone broke the water pipes and simply let them run for a time, undermining part of a bearing wall. Easy to repair. Aside from that, the damage is all cosmetic, trash and smash. But this building’s only half of our project, the other half’s across the parking lot. Anything else you’d like to check out before we go?”

“Not me,” Shea said, “I’ve seen enough.”

“I got a question,” Puck said. “I’ve been a few places, Laos, Vietnam, and the Alpena County fair, but I’ve never seen a church painted black before.”

“The parishioners repainted it to honor their minister,” Arroyo said. “His name was Lucullus Black. He was pastor here from the mid fifties until his death.”

“You mentioned his death was untimely? What happened to him?”

“He was murdered,” Arroyo said calmly. “Shot to death right over there, on that altar. By the Chapel caretaker, in fact, who took his own life after killing his pastor. Quite a scandal at the time. His suicide note claimed Pastor Black was having an affair with his wife. The poor woman discovered the bodies, a just punishment, perhaps. God rest their souls.”

“Amen to that,” Puck said. “On that cheerful note, can we adjourn to the other building?”

Stepping out of the Black Chapel was like surfacing after a deep dive into murky waters. But the relief was temporary. The summer heat was already settling over the city like the lid on a broiler, raising the temperature. And pressure.

Across the parking lot, the ballplayers had stripped off their shirts, baring their muscles and tattoos, hard brown bodies scuffling in the sun glare. Hard brown eyes keeping watch on the white folks, temporarily stopping play as a police car rumbled up behind Arroyo’s limousine.

Two cops climbed out, sliding nightsticks into their gun belts. One white, one black. Big and bigger.

“Good afternoon, folks. Do you have business here?” the white cop asked.

“We’re looking over a remodeling project,” Arroyo said. “Why?”

“Your ride’s a little rich for this neighborhood, is all. In the Chapel district an expensive car usually means a new pusher in town. Or a pimp. Is this project the one the Downtown Development Authority freed up funds for? The same week the Council laid off eight police officers?”

“I think you know the answer to that, Sergeant Boyko.”

“Can’t imagine why they laid you boys off,” Puck said. “Looks like you been doin’ a crackerjack job of protectin’ this here church.”

“It’s just another empty building in a town full of ’em, mister. You’d know that if you lived here. Where are you fellas from, anyway?”

“Up north. Valhalla.”

“Things must be thin if you’re this far south looking for work. No local contractor would even touch this job.”

“Why not?” Shea asked.

“See all that graffiti on the walls?” the black cop said. “It ain’t just for pretty. They’re gang tags, pal. You’re trespassing on turf claimed by at least three crews. The Latin Kings, Bloods, and Johnstone Gangstas. Bloods are the worst. They’re national, connections in Chicago and L.A. They’ve been crowding the other two out. Lot of hijackings, drive-bys.”

“We’re aware it’s a troubled neighborhood,” Arroyo said. “It’s one reason we chose the site. We hope to have a positive impact.”

“A few more cops on the street would have a lot more impact, Reverend,” Boyko said. “And maybe the city could afford more cops if they quit funding boondoggles like this.”

“Sounds like a political problem,” Shea said. “I’m not much on politics, myself. Prefer to tend to my own business. Which I’d like to get back to if it’s all the same to you. Officer.”

“No problem,” Boyko said. “Checking things out is part of our job. But since you’re from out of town, pal, here’s some friendly advice. The Chapel district’s a tough neighborhood and thanks to the city council we’re spread pretty thin. Category-one crimes like armed robbery, drive-bys, and domestic violence get priority so if somebody steals a shovel from your site, our response might not be real prompt. You fellas might want to take precautions. Like nailing things down or locking ’em up real tight. Or better yet, turn your truck around and hightail it for home.”

“These days my home pretty much is the back of a truck,” Puck said. “Don’t worry about us. Up north we’re used to the law being a long ways off. We can deal with our own trouble.”

“Pops, if y’all are dumb enough to take on this job, you’re liable to find out what real trouble is.”

“I know all about trouble, sonny,” Puck said evenly, stepping up to the cop. “It’s what happens when you call people you don’t know names they don’t like. Like ‘Pops,’ for instance.”

“Whoa up,” Shea said, easing between Puck and the sergeant. “No need for any problems. Thanks for the heads-up, guys. Have a nice day, okay?”

“Yeah, go scribble some tickets,” Puck added. “No donut shops around here anyway.”

Shaking their heads, the two policemen climbed back into their prowl car and drove off.

“My, that went well,” Lydia said briskly. “Establishing friendly relations with the local authorities is always a wise move.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Shea said. “Let’s see the other building.”

“The school was built by the Diocese in eighteen ninety-eight, two years after the Chapel,” Lydia explained as they strolled down the tiled hallway, footsteps echoing in the emptiness. “Our plans call for restructuring the classrooms into sixty one- and two-bedroom apartments. Doable, Mr. Shea?”

“I don’t see any obvious problems,” Shea observed, looking around. “The surfaces look true and there are plenty of bearing walls to take the weight. This building is in much better shape than the church.”

“A lot cleaner, too.” Puck noted.

“The city’s been operating it as a jobs center the past four years,” Arroyo said. “Trying to retrain some of the locals, get them off welfare. A lost cause.”

“How so?” Shea asked.

“People in the Chapel district don’t want to work,” Arroyo sniffed. “They’re addictive personalities, hooked on drugs and welfare checks.”

“Ever try to live on welfare, Reverend?” Puck asked.

“Certainly not!”

A door opened down the hall and a woman stepped out, a Latina, dark eyes, her hair braided with colorful beads, wearing blue jeans and a peasant blouse. Slender and strikingly attractive.

“Can I help you?”

“It’s Pastor Arroyo, Carmen. I’m giving some of my people a tour. Carmen San Miguel, this is Mr. Dan Shea. He’ll be handling the heavy construction. I believe you’ve already met Mrs. Ford.”

“Our lease agreement allows us to operate until the end of the month,” Carmen said flatly. “I expect you to honor it.”

“Why fight progress, my dear?” Arroyo chided. “I should think you’d be overjoyed to move to the west side. It’s not the end of the world.”

“It might as well be. There’s no bus service out here and most of my trainees don’t have cars. How will they get to the new jobs center? Speculators are already buying up rental units in the district and evicting the tenants. Where do you expect them to go, Reverend?”

“I’m sure there’s affordable housing in other parts of town.”

“Hit-or-miss, maybe, but they’ll be isolated, no relatives or sense of community. Most of them grew up in this neighborhood. They’ve never lived anywhere else.”

“Perhaps a few people will have difficulty adjusting, but what about those kids playing out there? How often do they duck behind those walls to dodge drive-by bullets? Do you really think they’re better off in this neighborhood? Suburban kids their age are deciding between Michigan State or U of M. Kids in the Chapel district get jumped into gangs while they’re still in junior high. Breaking up this community will be a public service.”

“This place is a jobs center, right?” Shea interrupted. “Got any people who want to work?”

“Of course, that’s why they’re here. We help them earn GEDs, prep them for job interviews—”

“I don’t care about resumes, miss, but I’ll need workers to help clean up the Chapel. Manual labor, seven to five, six days a week till the job’s done. Minimum wage plus three bucks an hour. Five people for openers. Can you supply ’em?”

“That depends,” Carmen said. “Will it be a problem if some are ex-convicts?”

“Only if they got sent up for bein’ lazy. House rules: no dope or booze on the job. If they show up late or stoned, they’re gone. Period. No excuses, no second chances. Deal?”

“I can supply the people, as long as you don’t try to order them around like cattle. They’re poor, but they have pride. A few may have, well... difficulty with authority.”

“So does every man in my crew.”

“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you, Mr. Shea. When do you want them to start?”

“Tomorrow. Seven o’clock. Tell ’em to wear old clothes.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Carmen said, smiling for the first time. “My trainees have problems, but overdressing isn’t one of them.”

“Well done, Mr. Shea.” Arroyo beamed as they made their way out of the school. “I’ve been battling with Carmen San Miguel for the past eighteen months. She’s attended every council meeting to speak against this project. Two minutes and you get her cooperation. Maybe I should switch to your brand of aftershave.”

“She’s got workers, we’ve got jobs. Why can’t we all get along?”

“Her being a pretty little thing doesn’t hurt, neither,” Puck said slyly.

“Didn’t notice,” Shea said. “Is there someplace we can grab a cup of coffee and kick this around?

“Right across the street,” Arroyo said. “Paddy Ryan’s. The only cafe in the neighborhood.”

A pleasant surprise. Paddy Ryan’s was like stepping back in time forty years. An old-fashioned diner, tiled walls inside and out, large windows with a view of the Black Chapel parking lot and the surrounding streets. Turquoise Formica counter- and tabletops, chrome-sided stools. The only thing missing was bobbysoxers in poodle skirts.

An odd mix of photographs staring down from the walls. Black luminaries like Langston Hughes mingled with IRA heroes — Charles Parnell, Michael Collins. All of them as dead as the district.

The only customers were three young black guys sitting at a table in the corner, backs to the wall. Gangbangers: jeans, muscle tees, tattoos. Eyeing the new arrivals like lions staked out over a waterhole.

Arroyo chose a booth beside a window facing the Chapel and the others joined him.

Two old guys behind the counter, built like beer barrels, both bald with gray fringes, same blunt features. The older one was wearing Coke-bottle glasses, sitting on a stool, an aluminum cane at hand. His brother bustled over to Arroyo’s booth, cheery as a leprechaun.

“Welcome to Ryan’s, folks. I’m Sam, that’s my brother Morrie over there at the counter. Before you ask, nope, we’re not related to Robert Ryan or Meg Ryan or even Ryan O’Neal, but we’re the only Ryans in this ’hood. Coffee all around for openers?”

As Sam hurried off to fill their order, the tallest of the gangbangers rose languidly and sauntered over. A black pirate do-rag and wraparound shades gave him a praying-mantis look.

“Y’all lookin’ for some action? Smoke, coke, light you up, mellow you out?”

“All we want is a quiet place to talk, if that’s all right,” Shea said.

“Then maybe you best keep lookin’—”

“You know these folks, Razor?” Sam Ryan interrupted, brushing past him with a tray, dealing out steaming mugs of coffee.

“I’m meetin’ ’em right now, Sam. Tryin’ to drum up a little trade, them bein’ new blood and all.”

“Okay, you’ve met ’em. How about you see to your friends?”

“My dawgs are okay where they are. These people don’t belong here, Sam.”

“Yeah? When I was a boy growin’ up on Williamson, folks said your people didn’t belong neither. But here you are, and you’re welcome, Razor. As long as you mind your business.”

“Don’t be pushin’ me, Sam.”

“Push you? What are you talkin’ about? I’m just a fat old man. ’Course, if you put me in the hospital, you and your dawgs’ll need a new place to hang. And there ain’t noplace else. Is there?”

Razor stared at the old man for what seemed like a month. Sam met his gaze calmly, and in the end, Razor looked away first.

“Maybe you right. The Paddy’s ain’t much, but it’s all there is.” He turned and sauntered back to his crew, graceful as a stalking cat.

“Friend of yours?” Puck asked, watching the youth snake between the tables.

“Just a local businessman.” Sam sighed. “The way the neighborhood is nowadays, me and Morrie can’t be picky about our clientele.”

“Maybe Reverend Arroyo’s new development will help your business,” Lydia offered.

“We could use some help. Maybe you folks can, too. We’ve got a fair-sized parking lot, which isn’t exactly overcrowded these days. Why don’t you folks park your cars at our place, let the local kids play ball in the Chapel lot? It’s the only basketball court in the neighborhood.”

“That’s a generous offer,” Shea said, “but they’ll have to find someplace else. The lot will be a construction zone. It won’t be safe.”

“Safe?” Sam snorted. “Believe you me, they’re a lot safer shooting hoops than shooting each other. Or you. And your job site’s safer if they’re playing where we can watch ’em instead of hangin’ on the corners thinkin’ up mischief. At least at the Chapel they can duck behind the walls if some gang decides to shoot up the neighborhood. Keeping the basketball court open will buy you some goodwill, mister. And in this part of town, you can use all the good you can get. Think it over. Either way, our offer stands.”

“From what you said, I take it you’ve lived here a long time, Mr. Ryan?” Lydia said.

“Boy and man, yes, ma’am.”

“Then you remember the Black Chapel before it fell into disrepair?”

“Back when Black Luke ran it? You bet. A wild place in those days.”

“Black Luke?”

“The Right Reverend Lucullus Black, minister to the Brethren of the End Days,” Sam said, showing a gap-toothed smile. “Black Luke to us locals. We called his people Dazers because Luke preached the End Days, you know? And most of his flock acted like they were in a daze. Luke took over the Chapel in the ’fifties, built up a big following. Heck of a preacher. We’re Catholic, sort of, but Morrie and I caught a few of Luke’s services ourselves. Great show. He was a local star, like James Brown or Prince, Saginaw style. I don’t suppose you young folks remember much about the ’sixties?”

Lydia smiled. “My mom used to say if you can remember the ’sixties, you weren’t really there.”

Sam nodded. “She’s dead right about that. ’Sixties were boom times in this town. Auto plants runnin’ triple shifts, seven days a week. People had jobs, plenty of money, and Black Luke knew how to get his share. These are the End Days, people, so let’s party hearty while we can.”

“Sounds like my kind of church,” Puck said.

“Back then, a lot of people felt the same way. He really packed ’em in.”

“Would you happen to have any pictures of the Chapel from those days?” Lydia asked.

“Pictures, ma’am?”

“We want the building as close to original as possible. I found a few photographs in the Castle Museum archives, but they only show the building’s facade.”

“You’re restoring it? I thought you folks were converting it into condos or something.”

“The school will be remodeled into apartments but the Black Chapel is an historic building,” Arroyo said. “We’re going to restore it to what it was.”

“Mister,” Ryan said softly, shaking his head, “you got no idea what that place was.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Then I’ll tell ya. Workin’ this neighborhood, you meet some lowlifes, but Black Luke was the rock-bottom worst. That man didn’t believe in a damn thing but the almighty dollar. Called the congregation his flock and sheared ’em like the sheep they were. Bangin’ half the women in his church and their daughters, too. Young girls, twelve, thirteen. And they worshiped him! Treated him like some kind of junior-league Jesus. When they painted that Chapel black in his honor, I thought the End Days might really be here, that God almighty would strike him dead with lightning or something. That was thirty-odd years ago and I still get a shiver every time I look at it.”

“I’ll admit, the place gives a man pause,” Puck acknowledged. “Never seen a church quite like it. But if this Reverend Black was so bad, why didn’t somebody stop him?”

“Somebody did. Cal Jenkins, the church caretaker, shot Luke in the head. And most of us locals said amen, brother. If Cal hadn’t shot himself, too, he would have been a shoo-in for mayor around here. Don’t restore Luke’s church to what it was, folks. Make it something better.”

“Well, we’ll certainly try,” Arroyo said tactfully.

“Didn’t mean to go off on you like that.” Sam smiled. “Old-timers like to hear ourselves talk. There is one more thing you oughta know, though. The Black Chapel’s haunted, they say.”

“Really?”

“Why wouldn’t it be, all the vile crap that went down there and still does? Locals claim Black Luke and ole Cal wander the building at night, bleeding from their bullet holes, looking for their lost souls.”

“More likely it’s junkies stumbling around,” Shea said. “From the trash, it looks like an army of them have been crashing in there.”

Sam nodded. “Might be junkies. On the other hand, if you restore the Chapel, maybe you’ll bring Black Luke back with it. And I doubt roasting in hell all these years has improved his disposition any.”

“The doors of my Chapel will be open to everyone,” Arroyo said smoothly, “even Pastor Black, if he returns. You’re welcome to attend our services yourself, Mr. Ryan.”

“Then you’d better bump up your fire insurance, Pastor. If Morrie and I stop by, your church’ll surely get popped by lightning.”

“I doubt it.” Arroyo smiled politely, rising. “And don’t think you’ve frightened me away with your ghost stories. I have an important meeting. I’ll leave you two to sort things out.”

Puck excused himself as well, went off to find the men’s. Leaving Lydia Ford and Shea facing each other across the turquoise Formica.

“So, Mr. Shea. Are we going to get along?”

“Maybe. As long as you understand that I don’t work for you, Mrs. Ford. I work for the guy who signs my checks. On this job, that’s Pastor Arroyo.”

“Fair enough, as long as you understand that that same gentleman has given me final say on all design decisions. I have a double masters in Interior Design and engineering. I’m not a civilian, Mr. Shea.”

“Glad to hear it. And call me Dan. Mr. Shea is my dad.”

“All right then, Dan. Have you worked with female engineers before?”

“Not many, and up north we call them ladies, not females.”

“Very courteous. Any problems working with women?”

“Not exactly. It’s just different.”

“Really?” she said, arching an eyebrow. “How so?”

“In school you studied construction equipment, right? Skilsaws, Sawzalls, plate compactors? You know how they work?”

“I’m familiar with their specs and capabilities, yes.”

“Could you operate one? For wages, I mean?”

“Certainly not. A soil compactor weighs more than I do. Why?”

“There. That’s the difference between you and a male engineer.”

“Because a man can operate heavy machinery and I can’t?”

“No, ma’am. Construction gear is heavy, dirty, and hard to handle. A Sawzall will zip through a two-by-six in three seconds and through your arm a lot faster than that. There’s no shame in admitting you can’t operate one. Trouble is, deep down, most male engineers think they can. It’s a guy thing. Makes ’em dangerous. Are you dangerous, Mrs. Ford?”

“Only when provoked, Mr. Shea. Don’t worry, I won’t try filling in for any of your men. You run your side of the business, I’ll run mine.”

“Then we should get along fine.”

“Somehow, I doubt that,” she sighed.

“Yeah.” Dan nodded. “Me too.”

Ordinarily, Shea’s gypsy construction crew rolling into a town scared the hell out of folks. A motley caravan of vans and work trucks driven by wild North Country boys, woolly and rough around the edges? Fetch the family twelve-gauge down from the attic and keep it close at hand.

The Black Chapel neighborhood barely noticed. In the run-down shacks and shabby apartments, people kept blinds drawn and doors triple-locked as a matter of course. Most homes had guns. Loaded and handy.

A new crew of roughneck white boys in town? So what? Drugs, drive-bys, and crack-crazy gangbangers had already turned the Black Chapel district into a combat zone. One more posse didn’t matter a damn.

Shea’s troubles began at dawn the first day. Four burly black men and an even tougher-looking heavyset woman were waiting outside the church at seven when Dan arrived. They said Carmen San Miguel had sent them. Shea explained the job of cleaning up the church, told them the rules and the wages. Any questions?

“Damn right!” the smallest of them piped up, a ratty little guy with a cast in one eye. “Carmen said we’d be workin’ real construction jobs. We oughta get more’n minimum wage and a crummy three bucks a hour.”

“Put a cork in it, Freddy,” the black woman said. “Carmen never said that and I need this job.”

“So do I,” Shea said. “You’re hired, miss. Freddy, take a hike. Any other complaints?”

Nope. Shea took names and social-security numbers from the willing four and set them to work cleaning out the nave. They ripped into the job with a will but he warned Puck to keep a weather eye on them anyway. They were a crusty bunch and new hires always bring new headaches. Still, one attitude case out of five was better than average.

The next hassle came from Mrs. Ford. Most of the church pews had been trashed for firewood or the hell of it. Lydia wanted someone to sort through the wreckage, hoping to salvage a few pews from the pieces.

“No offense, but that’s nuts,” Shea said bluntly. “You can replace them for twenty bucks a pop in any secondhand store.”

“But they wouldn’t be from this church,” Lydia countered. “A restoration is supposed to preserve the heritage of a particular place.”

“We’re also supposed to finish the job before Christmas. I can’t spare men for this.”

“Then loan me two of your new-hires. They won’t mind the extra hours. We can use the columbarium to store the salvageable pieces. The porch off the north side.”

“I know what a columbarium is, lady.”

“Glad to hear it. And since we’re not working in it yet, I’d like to use it. Okay?”

Shea eyed her, knowing he should draw a damn line in the sand right here and now. Decided against it. He’d be going head-to-head with Mrs. Ford soon enough. A few crummy pews weren’t worth a war. Or so he told himself.

“Okay,” he said abruptly, “go ahead. No overtime, though.”

“Thank you, Mr. Shea.”

“Yeah, right.” Dodged that bullet. But if she was already giving him static, it didn’t bode well for the long run.

More trouble. This time from a guy who was born for it. Mafe Rochon. Full-blood Anishnabeg/Ojibwa, and proud of his heritage. Mafe wore his thick hair braided, favored beaded buckskin shirts. A bull of a man, ironworker, hard worker, best hand on the planet with an acetylene torch.

And one surly-ass attitude case. Mean as a snake when he was drinking, worse when he wasn’t. Serious bar brawler. Never met a fight he didn’t like.

Shea and Mafe had tangled more than once and expected to again. But this time was different.

Rochon showed for work, running late, head hammering from a major hangover. Whipping his Chevrolet pickup into the church lot, he nearly rolled his truck veering to avoid one of the basketball players.

Skidding the big Chevy to a screeching halt, Mafe piled out, roaring a barrage of curses, expecting to scatter the teenyboppers like quail. But they didn’t run. Held their ground instead, eyeing him warily. Uneasy, but unmoved. As though they’d heard it all before.

Probably had.

“You better slow that junker the hell down, chief,” a little fireplug of a kid in a Raiders muscle tee said, stepping up to Mafe, right in his face. “You run somebody over, it’s rough gettin’ blood off ya bumper.”

Kid said it flat, no smile, no inflection. Like lobbing a rock at a grizzly to see what would happen. The others watched, ready to run. Or fight.

A metaphysical moment for Mafe. Through the grim haze of his hangover, he glimpsed the lightning flicker of a spirit vision, the memory of a savage clearing he’d found as a boy.

Spattered with blood. Bone chips and shreds of fur strewn about, the ground torn and gouged as though it had been attacked.

“A fierce battle happened here,” his grandfather said, squatting on his heels, reading the signs. “A rogue bear found coyotes feeding on a fawn. Sure of his power, the bear tried to drive them off. But the coyotes had blood in their mouths and would not go. They fought the giant bear for their kill. And he slaughtered many, gutting them with his razor claws, hurling their broken bodies about like toys. But more coyotes came, drawn to the combat by the stench of blood. Boiling over him, they pulled the great bear down. And ripped him to pieces. And in their madness, they turned on each other, savaging their own over his carcass.”

The ancient Anishnabeg were a preliterate people who shared tribal wisdom through storytelling, memorable tales that always had a point.

Even hung over, Mafe remembered how that bear ended up. And he recognized the daredevil gleam in the fireplug’s eyes. Knew it well. Saw it every time he looked in a mirror.

So instead of clocking the little punk, he backed away. And went off in search of Shea.

Found him arguing with Lydia Ford over the pews. Butting in with his usual tact, Mafe told Shea about his face-off with the ballplayers.

“No problem.” Shea shrugged. “Round up a couple of guys, we’ll run ’em off.”

“Sam Ryan said we could use his parking lot,” Lydia argued. “If the boys aren’t underfoot, why not let them stay?”

“No chance,” Shea said. “It’s a construction zone. If one of them gets run over—”

“Maybe I can talk ’em around,” Mafe offered. “Tell ’em if a truck pulls in, get their skinny asses out of the way. They ain’t got many places to play in this ’hood. The lady’s right, let’s leave ’em be. I played some ball when I was jailin’ in Jackson. Maybe I can show ’em a few moves.”

Shea stared at the big man as if he’d suddenly started speaking Swahili.

“Okay, but they’re your responsibility, Mafe,” Shea said. “They can play as long as they stay out of our way. Any problems, they’re history. And so are you.”

“Hell, you can’t fire me, Danny.” Rochon grinned. “You ain’t happy unless you’re knee-deep in trouble, and who gives you more grief than me? Don’t worry, I’ll straighten ’em out.”

Mafe walked off whistling, leaving Shea shaking his head.

“Is that a fair assessment?” Lydia asked. “Do you like trouble?”

“If I do, I damn sure picked the right business,” Shea said. “How about you?”

“Me? I’m just trying to save my fellow antiques.”

“Your fellow what?”

“Antiques, Mr. Shea. It was joke. About my age.”

“What about it?”

“I... never mind. We’d better get back to work.”

“Mrs. Ford?” he called after her. “If you’re gonna josh me, better hold up a sign or something. I’m just a simple country boy, you know?”

Day one and she was already ticking him off. And he wasn’t even sure why.

Maybe her confidence bothered him. The kind that comes with money. Problems shrink fast when you can throw cash at ’em. An option Shea never had. He and every man in his crew risked their necks for wages every damned day. Rebuilding the Black Chapel would be tough enough without some rich... dilettante trying to salvage every splinter in the place.

But by noon, his mood lightened. He was already seeing progress, feeling the first surge of satisfaction as the project began morphing from a catastrophe into an endless string of problems, tough but doable.

His new-hires had the first dumpster nearly full; Shea had to call for an early pickup and replacement. Then building materials began arriving and he had to scramble to find space for them. Anything left outside would vanish like morning mist in this neighborhood.

He poked his head into Carmen San Miguel’s classroom to ask permission to use empty rooms in the school for storage. Technically, he didn’t need her consent, but she was a pretty girl and he was a long way from home. She gave him permission, and a warm smile to go with it.

Walking back, he saw the basketball players move politely aside for the refuse truck dropping off the dumpster. Score one for crazy Mafe.

Inside the church, the new-hires were making a visible dent. And rich or not, the former Mrs. Ford wasn’t afraid to get dirty. Working alongside the temps in the filth of the nave, Lydia was checking over the wrecked pews, marking some for salvage, the rest for the dumpster parked out front. And clearly she knew the difference. Score one for her.

Midafternoon, another pleasant surprise. Carmen San Miguel found Shea on the front steps, looking up at the bell tower.

“Mr. Shea? I just stopped by to see how the people I sent are working out.” She looked good, a trim figure in a white silk blouse, slacks, and sandals. No braids today, her hair brushed into a midnight tangle.

“So far, better than expected. I didn’t take them all, though.”

“You dumped Fast Freddy, right?” She smiled. “He’s got an attitude but he was all I could get on short notice. I can find a replacement if you like.”

“Find us two or three if you can,” Lydia Ford said, joining them, brushing the dust off her chambray work shirt.

“Actually, hiring hands is my responsibility,” Shea pointed out.

“You’re right, sorry,” Lydia said. “But since I’ll need help to reassemble those pews—”

“I told you I can’t spare men for that.”

“Which is exactly why you should hire two more temps for a few days,” she said sweetly. “Teenagers will be fine, I can show them what to do.”

“Terrific. I’ve got Mafe coaching basketball, you teaching Carpentry 101. What’s next? Wanna hire Boy Scouts to do the welding?”

“I seem to have caught you two at a bad time,” Carmen said, backing away uneasily. “Tell you what, if you decide you need more people—”

“We just did,” Shea said. “Send us two more. Young guys who don’t mind learning on the job.”

“You’ve got it,” Carmen said, flashing him a brilliant smile. “I can have them here in a few hours.” Dodging two workmen carrying a two-by-ten, she trotted back to her classroom.

“Thanks, Carmen,” Lydia called after her. “And thank you, too, Mr. Shea.”

“You’re not welcome, Mrs. Ford. What the hell happened to our you-run-your-show-I’ll-run-mine deal? I do the hiring here.”

“I know that. I’ve already apologized and one ‘sorry’ per screwup is all you get. Maybe I can make it up to you. Do you think Carmen’s an attractive girl?”

“I guess. So?”

“So she had her hair done and that’s a new outfit. A lot of trouble just to check on some new hires, don’t you think?”

“What’s your point?”

“Never mind.” Lydia sighed. “Men.” She walked off, shaking her head. Her blond mop was matted from her hard hat and her work smock was filthy. But there was an elegance in the way she moved. Grace. Carmen might be half her age, but there was more than one good-looking woman on this job.

By the third day, the start-up craziness was beginning to subside. The new hires had completely cleared the trash from the great nave, leaving an empty cavern that echoed every footstep. They’d worked out so well that Shea kept them on, continuing the cleanup in the transepts and exhibit hall.

He’d taken over the church vestry as a temporary office, with a drawing table for blueprints, desks for himself and Mrs. Ford, and a rollaway bed against the back wall. With a cased shotgun beneath it. For the duration, either Shea or Puck would be spending the night in the Chapel. Guard duty.

Shea was headed out the Chapel door to join his crew for lunch at Ryan’s when Lydia Ford called him back.

“Could you show me how to operate the scissors lift, Mr. Shea? I want to see what’s above the false ceiling in the nave.”

“Why? The ceiling’s level and the panels appear to be in good shape.”

“I know, but I’m curious about something. Here, let me show you.” He followed her into the vestry/office. Flipping open the Toshiba laptop computer on her desk, she brought up a file of photographs and began scrolling through them.

“I scanned these into my computer at the Saginaw Historical Society... Here, look at this one.”

The photo showed the nave as it must have been forty years before, its pews full of worshipers, a blurred figure in vestments preaching from the altar.

“Is that Reverend Black? But... he’s a white guy.”

“Of course. Oh, you assumed he was black because of the neighborhood? In those days it was still in transition, from blue-collar Irish to African-American. If you look at the congregation, it’s about half and half, which probably reflected the mix in those days. The Ryan brothers may be the last Irish holdouts.”

“Too bad for them. Picture’s appropriate, though.”

“How do you mean?”

“Look at the windows. They’re broken now, but look at the shapes. With those rounded tops, it looks like Pastor Black was preaching to a row of tombstones. Maybe he should have taken the hint.”

“You’re right, they do look like gravestones. What an odd illusion. But I’m more interested in the ceiling. As you can see, this shot shows a dropped ceiling with acoustical tiles, whereas, in this one—” she flashed past a few more photos — “taken in nineteen thirty-six, no acoustical tiles.”

“How do you know that? The shot doesn’t show the ceiling.”

“Simple. They didn’t have acoustical tile in ’thirty-six. But if you look at the back of the nave, you can see that the upper corners appear to be rounded. I think the Chapel had an embossed metal ceiling, originally, and it may still be up there, above those tiles.”

“What if it is? What difference does it make?”

“Maybe none. It might not be there at all, but embossed ceilings from that era are fairly rare, especially in a church. I definitely want to take a look. So? Are you going to help me or not?”

“That ceiling’s nearly thirty-five feet up, which is near the maximum extension for the Skyjack. Do you have any trouble with heights?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay, let’s find out.” Trotting over to the scissors lift, Shea climbed onto its railed platform and switched on the battery power. The Skyjack is exactly that, an electric scissors jack on wheels that resembles an oversized auto jack with a railed platform on top. But instead of lifting a car thirty inches, some Skyjacks can go fifty feet straight up. Or more. Using the control panel to guide it, Shea drove the unit out to the center of the floor. “All aboard.”

He gave Lydia a hand onto the platform, locked the safety rail shut, started the lift up, then immediately stopped it.

“Wait a minute. How much do you weigh, Mrs. Ford?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The platform has a load limit, and since we’re both going up...?”

“What’s the limit?”

“Four fifty.”

“And how much do you weigh, Mr. Shea?”

“One-eighty.”

“Then we’ll be well under— You knew that already, didn’t you?”

“Gotcha.” He grinned, pressing the Up button again. “Don’t move while the platform’s in motion, please, these things are shaky enough as it is.”

He kept a wary eye on Lydia as the Skyjack platform rose slowly toward the ceiling. Most people have at least some fear of heights, and rumbling upward with only a rail between you and a thirty-foot drop can reduce grown men to quivering gobs of Jell-O.

Lydia kept a white-knuckled grip on the rail, but seemed more curious than fearful. Until the platform approached twenty-five feet—

“Could we stop, please?”

“Sure. Wanna head back down?”

“No, I just... My goodness. Look at this view.” Below them, the nave spread out like an ancient ruin, destruction in all directions.

“What a pity,” she said softly. “It must have been magnificent once. If we could fly, and see the damage we do from above, maybe we’d do less of it... Sorry. Didn’t mean to preach.”

“You’re in the right spot for it. And it’s probably the nicest sermon this dump ever had.”

“You don’t like this building, do you?”

Shea hesitated, then shrugged. “No. I don’t.”

“I know most builders prefer new construction—”

“It’s not that. Ordinarily, I prefer old buildings to new ones. They have character. Personalities. Sometimes on a night shift you can almost hear them whispering stories about the people they’ve sheltered, the lives they’ve touched.”

“That’s very poetic.”

“For a north-woods roughneck, you mean.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t have to. Going up.” Tapping the control, Shea took them up the last five feet, halting just below the ceiling.

No hesitation on Lydia’s part. Sliding her fingers between the acoustic tile and its metal support frame, she carefully lifted the panel upward, easing it aside.

Frowning, she looked at her fingertips.

“What is it?” Shea asked.

She shook her head. Taking a penlight out of her smock pocket, she stood on her tiptoes, her head and shoulders disappearing into the dark opening. Light flickering as she played it about. Taking a small digital camera out of her pocket, she prepared to shoot, then hesitated.

“Mr. Shea,” she said quietly, “are the Chapel doors open?”

“What?”

“The Chapel doors,” she hissed, her voice barely above a whisper, “are they open?”

“Um... yes, they are. Why?”

But Lydia had already stepped up again, her head and shoulders invisible above the ceiling. Lightning flickered as she snapped photographs — and then she suddenly ducked out of the hole, dropping to her hands and knees on the platform.

“Take us down!” Dark forms flashed out of the opening, circling wildly around the platform in a widening circle of madness.

Bats! Dozens of them, pouring out of the ceiling in a torrent! Lydia recoiled as one bounced off her shoulder, slipped, and nearly slid under the railing. Shea’s heart froze. They were thirty feet up and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do but duck and jam the down button!

Regaining her balance, Lydia stayed crouched as the Skyjack continued its slow descent.

More bats were pouring through the gap, joining the cloud wheeling overhead. A few discovered the open doors and rocketed out to freedom. More followed, dive-bombing Shea and Lydia as they frantically fled toward the exit.

“Come on, damn it!” he shouted, cursing the control panel. Twenty feet, fifteen, ten — a bat smacked Lydia in the back of the head, tangled in her hair, wings beating frantically, fighting to escape.

Thrashing about, desperately trying to brush it away, Lydia stumbled against the rail, losing her balance. Lunging across the platform, Shea grabbed her by the waist, pulling her back and tossing the bat aside before the force of his rush carried them down.

Shea hit the platform deck flat on his back, banging his head on the corrugated steel, yet somehow held on to her waist, breaking her fall. For a split second his world winked out, then slowly faded back in. As the haze cleared, he realized he was holding Lydia Ford a foot above him, his hands clamped firmly on her rib cage.

Her face was soot-smudged, her blond mop tousled, eyes glistening with excitement. And he made no move to let her go.

“Are you okay?” they said together, then smiled. Together.

“I think you just saved my life,” Lydia said at last.

“No charge.” And still he didn’t let her go.

“What’s all the racket — whoa!” Puck said, ducking as a pair of bats flashed past him through the doorway. “Where the hell did they come from?”

“Above the false ceiling,” Lydia said, getting up, brushing herself off. “They’ve been there for years. A lot of guano’s scattered around.”

“What were you two doin’ — figurin’ to do about them bats?” Puck amended as Shea shot him a look.

“They shouldn’t be a problem,” Lydia said, taking a breath. “Smoke canisters above the tiles will drive them out if we leave the doors open. Once the ceiling comes down, they won’t be back.”

“Whoa up, what are you talking about?” Shea said. “There’s nothing wrong with that ceiling. It’s the only thing in the place that’s intact.”

“But it’s not original. It’s barely fifty years old.”

“Wow, only fifty? Excuse me if that seems like a lot. I wasn’t born yet. Tearing those tiles down will add a week to the schedule plus the expense of repairing whatever’s above it, plus we’ll all be wearing respirators for a month because bat crap’s poisonous. There’s no room for any of that in the budget.”

“The budget’s my problem, Mr. Shea. The only added cost will be the labor to take down the tiles. The original ceiling is still in place. Embossed metal plates, circa eighteen ninety, in practically mint condition.”

“Great. If they’ve lasted a damn century then let’s leave ’em for the next remodeling project. I’ve got a full boat already.”

“It’s not your call,” Lydia said firmly. “It’s mine and I just made it. The tiled ceiling goes.”

Dan opened his mouth to argue, then wheeled and stalked off.

“Wait a minute,” she called after him. “Can’t we talk about this? At least look at the pictures I took of the old ceiling.”

“What’s the point? You’re right, it’s your call. Except I think you forgot I don’t work for you, Mrs. Ford. We’ll see what Arroyo has to say about this.”

“Fine by me.”

“One more thing: If you ride the Skyjack again, be really careful. Next time, I’ll let you fall.”

They avoided each other the rest of the day, which wasn’t difficult in the chaos of construction. At five, Arroyo stopped by for his daily update and they adjourned to the office, where Lydia popped her laptop open and quickly brought up the new photographs she’d taken.

“As you can see, the original ceiling is still intact. It’s also nearly four feet higher than the acoustic tiles, giving the room a massively larger look. On television, it will be spectacular. Timeless.”

“It’s certainly striking,” Arroyo said drily. “Your opinion, Mr. Shea?”

Dan hesitated. “No opinion,” he said curtly. “Not my call.”

“I see. Well, to be honest, I’m not sure. Perhaps we can discuss it over dinner, Mrs. Ford? I find a little social time with my employees makes the job go smoother. All work and no play, as they say.”

“Dinner would be lovely,” Lydia said. “Of course, Mr. Shea and I will have to change, we’re hardly ready for prime time. Why don’t you have your wife join us? Make a real party of it.”

Arroyo eyed her coolly a moment, then shrugged. “Unfortunately, I seem to be running a bit late. Another time, perhaps. As for the ceiling, you’re right, it will look very dramatic on camera. Tear down the tiles, Mr. Shea.” And he was gone.

Lydia was staring at Shea.

“What?”

“Know something, Shea? Discussing things over supper isn’t a half-bad idea. Except for the part about dressing up. Paddy Ryan’s? My treat?”

They took the booth with a view of the Chapel. Sam brought them coffee, jotted down their orders, and left them to it.

“Does that happen a lot?” Shea asked. “Clients hitting on you, I mean?”

“Why? Do you find the idea so incredible?”

“Of course not. And you handled it well, it’s just that... Look, can we straighten something out? Seems like every time we have a conversation, we end up arguing. I don’t know what’s wrong, personality clash, miscommunication, whatever. But I don’t like it.”

“Nor do I. Maybe it’s the generation gap.”

“Nuts to that. It’s only nine years, maybe less.”

“What is?”

“Your famous generation gap, Mrs. Ford. I looked you up on the Internet. Assuming you were eighteen when you graduated from high school, you’re nine years older than I am.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve!”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment!”

“It is where I come from, lady. Working construction takes nerve. And if checking out your age was rude, sorry about that. At least I’m working on the problem.”

“What problem?”

“The reason you and I can’t swap three sentences without ticking each other off. Like just now, for instance. Can we get back to that?”

She looked away a moment, fuming.

“All right, Mr. Shea,” she said, her eyes locking on to his like gun sights. “I agree we have some issues. But I think they’re mostly on your side. So. Exactly what is your problem? With me, I mean.”

“Straight up? You bug me. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s your money. From what I found on the ’Net about family connections, charity donations, and such, you must be pretty well off.”

“By your standards, that’s probably true. So?”

“So this is a low-rent project. Nobody cares about it but Arroyo and he’s only looking to get a big, historic church for peanuts. It’s a dirty, dangerous gig. And since you obviously don’t have to work for a living, why are you here?”

“What, you think I’m just playing at this?”

“Heck no, you’re really good at what you do. Good enough that you could probably use your connections to land a lot better job than this one.”

“You’re right, I probably could. My turn, Mr. Shea. If you hit the lotto tomorrow, what would you do with the money?”

“What the hell kind of question is that?”

“Mine. Answer it, please.”

“You’re serious? All right, how much do I win?”

“Let’s say two million.”

“Two? Okay, I’ve got a sister in Texas, raising three kids on her own. I’d like to help her more than I do. Buy her a house, maybe. And I’d definitely give my guys a raise. My aunt runs a school for handicapped kids — you’re shaking your head. What?”

“So far, you’ve only mentioned people you’d help. What about you? Wouldn’t you like a new house?”

“Don’t need one. I live with my dad when I’m home, which isn’t often. My grandfather built our house, felled the logs himself, peeled and set them. I’d like to add on to it someday, but I’ll do it myself, by hand. See if I can match his work.”

“So money really doesn’t matter to you?”

“Of course money matters. A lot.”

“But the work matters more. Even if you hit the lotto, you’d keep working, wouldn’t you?”

“Sure. I like what I do.”

“Well, so do I. The only difference is that, since I don’t need to work, I try to choose projects that can have an impact. Like this one. With luck, this reclamation won’t just save an historic building, it could revitalize the whole area.”

“Fair enough. I guess I can understand that.”

“So when it comes to work and money, we’re not so far apart, are we?”

“Doesn’t seem like it. Which brings us to the thing on the Skyjack.”

“Thing?”

“You know what I’m talking about. When I caught you. The way it felt when I held you.”

“You mean after you hit your head? You were probably groggy. It was only for a few seconds, and even if it felt like... something, I’m still old enough to be, well, your older sister, anyway.”

“Can we leave the age thing out of this for now?”

“No, I don’t think we can. It’s like money. It matters.”

“Not to me. Or at least, not as much as the rest of it.”

“The rest of what?”

“For openers, I don’t want to make a complete ass of myself. If I’ve misread things and what happened was totally one-sided, just say so and I’m gone.”

“Wow, that’s really tempting.”

“What is? Blowing me off?”

“It would certainly simplify things. But it wouldn’t be... honest. The truth is that you seem like a nice young man—”

“Skip the young part, okay?”

“All right, a nice guy, then,” she conceded. “You sort of saved my life and it’s been a long time since anyone... held me in midair. And I liked it. It made me feel... never mind. Maybe we shouldn’t make too much of a three-second tumble.”

“It didn’t start then. I think it started the first day, the first time I met you. It just took awhile to register.”

“That doesn’t change the way things are. My work is important to me and office romances are bad for business. I don’t do flings, Mr. Shea.”

“Neither do I. That’s not what this is about.”

“Then what is it about? What do you want from me?”

“Nothing! Or maybe a lot. I don’t know! I mean — damn. I’m not saying this very well, am I?”

“You’re doing fine. In fact, if this is a line, it’s a pretty good one.”

“It’s not. But — look, I’m not good at this. And it’s your turn again anyway. What do you think?”

“I’m not sure what to think. But this is what I know. The situation’s impossible. We’re a terrible mismatch, I’m older than you are, we have practically nothing in common, the timing couldn’t be worse — why are you smiling?”

“Because it’s familiar. I came up with pretty much the same list. But it doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?”

“Look, I’m not saying this makes any sense, I just know how I feel. How you make me feel. I want this. But if you don’t, just say so and I’ll back all the way off. Like it never happened. Is that what you want?”

“I don’t know, I just — could you please shut up a minute? I need to think.”

“Maybe I should go—” She glared him back into his seat. “Or I could just sit here and shut up.”

The silence stretched out for roughly a decade. Or felt like it.

“Okay,” she said, taking a deep breath.

“Okay?”

“I think I’ve got it sorted out. It’s just... chemistry. We don’t know each other or have enough in common for it to be anything else. Chemistry. An infatuation. Whatever you want to call it, that’s all it is.”

“Chemistry. That’s not such a bad thing to have, right?”

“No. There are worse things than chemistry.”

“So what do we do, Lydia? Forget about it?”

No answer. She looked away, and for a moment seemed so vulnerable and unsure of herself that he wanted to take her hand, tell her everything would work out. But knew it would be the wrong thing to do. Whether this came to something or nothing was her call. He’d have to live with it either way... She turned back to him, meeting his eyes. And he had no idea what she’d decided.

“We should go,” Lydia said.

Shea paid the check, said goodnight to Sam and Morrie. Lydia took his hand as they stepped out of the cafe into the gathering dusk. Behind them, the lights of Paddy Ryan’s flickered out as Sam closed for the night.

Their cars were parked in the cafe lot, but she led him across the street to the Chapel instead.

“Back here?” he asked. “Shouldn’t we go someplace... nicer?”

“Nope. Office romances should begin in the office. It’s a rule. Besides, if we’re a total disaster, at least I can catch up on some paperwork.”

And he burst out laughing.

But they weren’t a disaster.

In the darkness of the portal, she turned to him, lifting her face to his, and they kissed. Warily at first, like the strangers they were. But only for a moment. And then they seemed to meld, to flow together, as though they’d kissed a thousand times before. And would again.

They drew back for a moment, stunned by the depth of their delight. And the power of it. But when they began again, there was no holding back.

There was nothing remotely romantic about the office, barely room for two on the narrow rollaway. It didn’t matter. In the fumbling haste of abandon, blankets on the floor served as well as a bed of roses.

Their first encounter finished quickly; they’d both been alone too long. The second time continued for hours, or so it seemed, and was far more deeply satisfying.

And there was a moment in the midst of their fevered fumbling when she lifted his face from her throat, and her eyes met his, and held.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she whispered.

“I know.”

Something snapped him awake. Wasn’t sure what. Realized they were still tangled in the blankets on the floor of the office, their bodies spooned together, still naked, a perfect fit, warm, and very natural.

“Awake?” she whispered into the nape of his neck.

“Thought I heard something.”

“An old building, settling. Or the bats. Or ghosts walking, take your pick.”

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

“I’ve never met one,” she said. “Never met anybody from Uruguay either. Which doesn’t mean no one lives there. I have to leave soon.”

“Why?”

“You know why. If there’s any talk about us, I’ll lose all credibility. We’ll be a job-site joke.”

“I guess you’re right. How soon?”

“Not that soon,” she murmured, snuggling closer. He started to turn, then froze. This time they both heard it clearly, a scraping sound from somewhere overhead. Her nails bit into his shoulder. “What was that?”

“I don’t know,” he said, sitting up, pulling on his jeans. “But I don’t think it was somebody from Uruguay.”

Barefoot, shirtless, clutching an unlit flashlight and a length of two-by-four for a weapon, Shea crept up the bell tower’s narrow spiral staircase. Slowing near the top, he saw a figure outlined against the starlight through the louvers. He switched on his flashlight.

The boy whirled. The fireplug teen, one of the basketball players from the lot. Dressed in a black Raiders T-shirt, his black jeans tucked into combat boots. Wearing a cellphone headset, camouflage binoculars slung from his neck.

“What are you doing up here?” Shea asked.

“Same as you, my damn job. What you gonna do with that board, white boy? Clock me? I don’t think so.” Sweeping his palm across his boot top with a single fluid motion, the kid came up with an Arkansas pigsticker, eight-incher, the blade flickering like heat lightning as he shifted it from hand to hand.

If Shea was impressed, he managed to conceal it. “So what are you, some kind of a lookout? For what?”

“The Man, white bread, what you think? You can spot cops soon as they cross the river from up here.”

“Not anymore. This church is a construction zone and you’re leavin’, sport. Now. We can go a round if you want, and maybe you’ll cut me up or I’ll bust you up, but it won’t change anything. This gig’s over. For good.”

“Razor won’t think so.”

“It doesn’t matter what he thinks. Find another lookout. How’d you get up here, anyway?”

“Same way I’m goin’.” The kid grinned. Sheathing the blade in his boot, he grabbed a rope, scrambled through the louver, and rappelled down the line to the roof at the rear of the belfry.

“Razor ain’t gonna like this,” the kid yelled up at him as he trotted across the rooftop to a second rope lashed to a vent pipe. “Y’all better finish this place in a hurry. You gon’ need a church for ya funeral!”

Shea was waiting in Paddy Ryan’s parking lot at seven when Sam and Morrie pulled in to open up.

“Mr. Shea,” Sam said, climbing out of his ageing Mercedes. “You’re up early.”

“I need some information, guys. The black dude who gave me static the first day I was in your place? Razor? I need to talk to him.”

“What about?” Sam asked, helping Morrie out of the car, handing him his cane.

“Keeping his people out of my building. Caught a kid up in the bell tower last night. A lookout.”

“No big surprise. Razor’s pretty much the man in this neighborhood.”

“Times are changing.”

“You plan on telling Razor that?”

“Somebody has to.”

“Look, Mr. Shea, Razor stops by our place most afternoons. How about I give you a call when he shows, you can talk to him here. Might be safer.”

“That’s a kind offer, Sam, but you’ve got a nice cafe. I’d hate to see it get busted up. Just tell me where to find him.”

“I can do a little better than that.” He sighed. “Get in. We’ll take you there.”

“Bad idea. There may be trouble. You don’t want to be in the middle of it.”

“No offense, Mr. Shea, but me and Morrie were dealin’ with trouble in this ’hood before you were born. And if you get crossways of Razor, we may be doin’ it after you’re gone. Get in.”

“In the old days, this side of Saginaw was like the Wild West. Auto plants right across the river, three, four thousand men every shift. And when those boys got outta work, they were ready to party. Cathouses, dope houses, blind pigs. Every block had ’em. All organized. The Five Families ran things then. Sicilians. Everybody paid them.”

“Including you?”

“You bet. Anybody who didn’t would just... disappear. No muss, no fuss. Not like now, with crazy gangbangers shootin’ up the streets. This is the place,” he said, easing the old Benz to the curb. “Most of these boys know me, so let me do the talking, okay?”

“Sam, I’d rather you didn’t—” His voice died as Morrie popped open the glove box and handed Sam a battered Army .45 automatic. Jacking a round in the chamber, Sam shoved the gun under his shirt.

“Feels like old times,” the old Irishman grinned, climbing out. “Can’t afford to lose you, Mr. Shea. You folks are the best customers we’ve had in years. Wait here, Morrie. Too many steps.” Morrie nodded, but said nothing. As usual.

The crack house looked ordinary, a run-down three-story tenement backed up to the river. But if you looked closer, the first two floors were completely closed off, windows boarded up, doors reinforced with metal plates. A single outside stairway was the only access to the top floor, and as Shea followed Sam up the steps, he realized the top riser was hinged, held in place by a steel rod that disappeared into the wall. A single tug would drop the flight like the drawbridge to an ancient castle. And anybody on it would plunge thirty feet to the concrete below. Crude, but damned effective.

Didn’t have to knock. A door opened when they reached the top and a giant stepped out on the landing, six-six, probably four hundred pounds, wearing black camouflage. An AK-47 assault rifle cradled in his arms.

Didn’t say a word. Nodded at Sam, patted Shea down for weapons, then waved them by.

Dark as a saloon inside, all business. Armed man in the shadows of each corner. Desk against one wall, small bar at the other. Razor was behind the bar, arms folded, wearing his black pirate bandanna, wraparound shades despite the dimness of the room.

“Wanna drink, gents?” he asked. “Might be your last.”

“No drinks, just talk,” Sam said. “Mr. Shea here caught a kid in the Chapel bell tower last night. He could have been hurt up there. It’s got to stop.”

“Maybe I should just stop the construction instead. Right now.”

“Wouldn’t work. It’s a big project, Razor, they’d just send a replacement for Shea and my people would come for you. They know I’m here.”

“Your people.” Razor snorted. “Don’t make me laugh. Any hard guys you used to know are either dead or usin’ walkers like Morrie.”

“Not all of us,” Sam said. “I’m still here.”

“Not for long, you keep pushin’ your luck, Sam. But seems to me Shea here is the one with the problem. Considerin’ what happened to the last guy wanted to remodel that church.”

“What are you talking about?” Dan asked.

“Black Luke,” Sam said.

“He’s right,” Razor continued. “Ol’ Luke had the same big ideas as you. Did you know that? Claimed he was gonna grow the Black Chapel all over that block. But in the end, only ground he needed was a hole, six by two. That’s all any man needs, white bread. Even you.”

“C’mon, Razor, you’re smarter than this,” Sam pleaded. “Why make problems? Move your boys down a block. The crackheads will still find you. And when Shea finishes those new condos, maybe you’ll get some upscale trade.”

“If the new guy runs the Black Chapel anything like Black Luke, I’ll be doin’ great business. And that’s the only reason I’m lettin’ you keep working, Shea.”

“You’re not letting me do anything. I’m here till the job’s done.”

“Dawg, you keep crowdin’ me, you could be here a lot longer than that. Like forever. Now you’d best get steppin’, the both of ya, before I change my mind.”

Work was already under way at the Chapel when Shea got back. Lydia was waiting anxiously for him in the office.

“Are you all right? I expected you to come back for help.”

“I had help, the Ryans went with me.”

“Two old men for backup?”

“Actually, Sam was pretty damn good. I don’t think we’ll have any more trespassers in the bell tower. What are you doing?”

“Keeping busy to keep from worrying myself crazy. I want you to take a look at something. That picture, the one of Pastor Black ranting, where the windows look like a row of tombstones? It’s not just an optical illusion. I realized that what made it seem so real were these shadow lines across the last two.”

“Yeah, they almost look like names.”

“They are names, or one of them is. I enlarged it. The windows are partly open and what we’re seeing is the reflection of a name. Gretchen Hurlburt. Not a common name, probably German. But the only record I could find of a Gretchen Hurlburt was an on-line obituary in the Castle Library genealogy section. She died in Saginaw in nineteen-oh-eight. Her funeral and interment were at St. Denis.”

“So?”

“Dan, a hundred years ago, the Black Chapel was St. Denis. According to her obituary, she was buried here.”

“Here? Where?”

“Apparently somewhere near that window since her stone’s reflected in it.”

“Could the name be etched on the glass? Sometimes donors’ names are etched on windows or on wall plaques.”

“I thought of that, but it’s slanted the wrong way. No, I think it’s the reflection of a real gravestone.”

“You’re talking about a cemetery, then. She wouldn’t be alone. But if there was a graveyard, it should be on the original blueprints, right?”

“That’s another problem. There aren’t any drawings. Not even at City Hall.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. According to the logbooks, the Chapel blueprints disappeared around the time of Reverend Black’s death. Maybe a reporter was doing research and didn’t return them, who knows? But they’re definitely gone. I got most of my data from photographs and old articles I found in the Saginaw News morgue.”

“Do any of the photographs show a cemetery?”

“None I could find. But most of them are wedding pictures or christenings, taken on the church steps or inside. No one takes pictures of a parking lot.”

“Maybe not, but I know just the man to ask.”

“A graveyard?” Sam Ryan said, surprised. “Where?”

“We think there may have been one behind the Chapel where the parking lot is now,” Lydia said. “Do you remember it?”

“No, I... wait a minute. I believe there was a cemetery there back in the day. Small one, years ago. The Dazers moved it to make room for parking when they first took over the Chapel. Do you remember when that was, Morrie? Mid ’fifties, wasn’t it?”

His brother nodded.

“The ’fifties?” Lydia echoed doubtfully. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, ’fifty-five or — six, I think. Dug up the old graves, leveled the lot, and paved it over. Put up the baskets later on for neighborhood kids. Only decent thing Luke ever did. Why? Restoration doesn’t mean you gotta bring the old cemetery back, does it?”

“No, we’re just trying to learn as much about the building as possible.”

“To make it what it was, you mean? Personally, I think you’re making a mistake. People love to talk about the good ol’ days, but lady, the only days that place had were bad and worse.”

“How does one move a cemetery?” Lydia asked as they crossed the street to the Chapel. “What’s involved?”

“It’s complicated. First you need a disinterment permit from the Health Department, then a licensed vault company has to open the graves. They recover the caskets or remains, seal them in new vaults for reburial, then the Health Department inspects the site and certifies it for use.”

“Very impressive. How do you know all that?”

“When family farms are broken up into subdivisions we often find old burial plots on the property. They have to be moved.”

“Well, this cemetery may have been moved, but not when Sam said it was.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I have crime-scene photos on file, taken at the time of Luke’s murder. A few show police cars parked on the side streets. The lot isn’t visible, but the stone walls clearly weren’t there then. Since the walls are set in the parking lot concrete, both jobs must have been done at the same time. The lot was paved after Black Luke’s death, not before.”

“After? But it went into receivership afterward. Nobody owned it.”

“Nevertheless, that’s when it was done. Sam must have the date wrong.”

“Maybe, but I doubt it,” Shea said, frowning. “That old man may have a few glitches brought on by the years, but I don’t think a bad memory’s one of them.”

As Shea worked through the afternoon, his eye strayed to the stone wall every time he crossed the lot. A crude mortaring job. Nothing like the Chapel’s expert craftsmanship. He promised himself to take a closer look at it when he had a few minutes.

But his time ran out.

After work, Shea hurried to his motel room to shower and change clothes before returning to the Chapel for the night watch.

But on the return trip, he had to pull over twice to let police and fire trucks pass. As he turned onto Johnstone, the streets in front of the Chapel were clogged with police cars and fire engines. Parking at Paddy Ryan’s, he spotted one of the Saginaw cops who’d braced him the first day. Boyko. He trotted over.

“Jeez, Shea, who did you guys tick off? Osama Bin Laden?”

“Why? What happened?”

“A bomb is what happened. Couple of fair-sized blasts.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“Not out here. We haven’t been inside yet, the bomb squad’s coming, but — hey! Come back here!”

Dashing up the steps to the nave, Shea checked the office first. No damage, no one inside. Even in the chaos of the nave, the blast sites were obvious, one explosion in each corner of — Only in three corners.

Trotting to the fourth corner on the west side of the room, he found a fist-sized glob of putty loose on the floor. C-4, plastic explosive. Military, not industrial. Crudely fused, a lace job, probably snuffed out by one of the other blasts. Looked like somebody just threw them into the room like firecrackers. An amateur. If the plastique had been tamped tightly in the corners, the whole building could have come down.

When three armored officers of the bomb squad showed up, Shea explained who he was and what he’d found. They told him to get the hell out of the building and stay out.

Yes, sir.

Outside, he found Puck. None of his crew had been injured. Everybody was gone for the day. Good.

Shea spent the next twenty minutes circling the Chapel, scanning the masonry for cracks or bulges. Nothing major. Some bricks shaken loose from the concussion, but no serious structural damage.

Except to the stone walls that lined the parking lot. The blast had cracked the mortar on the end near the building, knocking several of the stacked stones loose. Picking up one of the pieces to replace it, Shea noticed a number engraved on its surface. Nine, zero, three. There’d been letters above it at one time but they’d been obliterated by time or the blast.

He stared down at the stone, trying to understand its message. Then wheeled and pushed through the crowd lining the sidewalk, and headed across the street to Paddy Ryan’s.

“Dan! Wait for me!” Lydia called, hurrying after him, catching him in the middle of the street. “What’s wrong? Where are you going?”

“Wait here. There could be trouble.”

“I’ll take my chances,” she said, falling in step beside him. “And to quote one of my heroes, when you start signing my paycheck, you can tell me what to do.”

“Mr. Shea?” Sam said as Dan pushed through the door with Lydia right behind him. “We heard one helluva bang. What happened?”

“Kid stuff,” Shea said. “Somebody set off a couple of blasts in the Chapel. Rough neighborhood you’ve got here.”

“Told you that the first day.”

“So you did. Funny how the Chapel’s gone to wrack and ruin, local shacks are falling down, yet your place still looks great. A bit rich for this neighborhood, isn’t it?”

“The ’hood wasn’t always like this,” Sam said cautiously. “Years ago, it was different.”

“Yeah, like Dodge City, you said. Must have been wild.”

“We were pretty wild ourselves, those days.”

“I believe you. When you backed me against Razor, he seemed to respect you. Not a lot, but some. I think maybe you still scare him a little.”

Sam shrugged. “We’re a couple of tough old Micks. You live in the Chapel district, you pick up a few tricks.”

“Tricks might explain how you survived here all these years, Sam, but not why. You’re the last white faces around, the neighborhood’s falling apart. So why are you still here?”

Without a word, Morrie got up from his stool, limped to the door, and locked it. When he turned around, he had the Army .45 in his fist. He waved it toward the counter.

“My brother wants you to sit down, Mr. Shea. Do it. And put your hands flat on the counter. And then you’d better tell me what you think you know.”

“I don’t know anything for sure,” Shea said, doing as he was ordered, with Lydia beside him. “But I’ve got some questions. Know what this is?” He tossed the shard of stone on the counter. Numbers-side up.

“It’s your rock, you tell me.”

“The blast knocked it loose from the wall across the parking lot. Looks like a piece of a gravestone to me. And there are a lot more pieces just like it cemented into that wall. How do you suppose broken gravestones ended up there?”

“Maybe when the Dazers moved the old cemetery—”

“The End Days Brethren never moved that cemetery, Sam, and you damn well know it. It was still there when Black Luke was killed. Maybe it’s why he was killed, I don’t know. That’s something the law can sort out. What I do know is that after the murder, somebody smashed up the stones and paved over that cemetery. Maybe the same two Micks who bombed the place tonight.”

“You’ve got that all wrong,” Sam snapped.

“Then you’ve got thirty seconds to set me straight. I owe you that much for backing me against Razor, but no more. And tell Morrie to put that gun away. He’s not gonna shoot anybody with an army of cops across the street.”

“All right, all right! Hell, even when we were ganged up we never killed anybody and we’re not about to start.”

“You were gangsters?” Lydia asked.

“Not exactly, but we worked for ’em. Everybody did in the old days. The Five Families owned this side of the river. You had to join up to survive. We were strictly small-time but the Families were the real thing. People that crossed them disappeared. And that’s where we came in.”

“How do you mean?”

“Know what the tough part of a murder is, miss? The body. Without a corpse it’s difficult to make a case. And we came up with a perfect place to lose bodies, the last place anyone would look. A ghetto cemetery that nobody used anymore.”

“And Reverend Black found out about it?”

“Found out, hell. Luke was on our payroll for years. A nice little scam, kind of a midnight mortuary service. Until Luke got too deep into the booze and started believing all that crap he was preaching.”

“What did he preach, exactly?” Lydia asked.

“About the End Days coming and him being the new messiah. All of a sudden he got these big plans, started talking about expanding the Black Chapel. Told us to get the stiffs off his holy ground or he’d blow the whistle. Took himself way too seriously. And didn’t take the people we worked for seriously enough.”

“They killed him, didn’t they? His death wasn’t a murder/suicide.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Sam said carefully. “A coroner’s inquest returned that verdict all legal and proper and it doesn’t matter anyway. It was a long time ago.”

“Yes, it was. So why are you still here?”

“Black Luke’s curse,” the old man spat. “We’re stuck. Luke’s death solved one problem but dropped a bigger one in our laps. The banks foreclosed on the Chapel and put it on the market. We were afraid new owners might want to move the cemetery so we brought in a crew one night, busted up the stones, made a wall out of them, and paved the whole thing over. Put up the basketball nets for camouflage. Locals figured the banks did it, but those people never came down here, never even noticed. To them the Chapel was just another rundown property in a rough part of town. We figured we’d wait for things to settle down, then move on.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Progress, Mr. Shea. They kept inventin’ new ways to identify bodies. Blood types, dental records, DNA. If they turn them stiffs up now, they’ll be able to identify some of them, maybe all of them. Won’t take ’em long to figure out how they got here. So we’re stuck guarding the place, like old junkyard dogs. Not much of a life, but better than life in prison.”

“You didn’t set off those blasts, did you?” Shea said slowly.

“Hell no! Your project is our last hope. With the church open again and the cemetery forgotten, we can walk away. But now, if the walls are damaged and they find the stones... well. You found us, didn’t you?”

“What are you going to do with us?” Lydia asked.

“Nothin’, miss. We’re amateur undertakers, not killers. I’ve always known this day would come. The penalty for livin’ too long. But if you figure you owe us anything, Shea, we could use a few days to get clear. We’ve served our time here. I don’t want Morrie to die in jail. Please. Just a few days.”

“What are we going to do?” Lydia asked as they walked back to the turmoil around the Chapel.

“Go to the police,” Shea said. “What else can we do?”

“After all these years? Would it be so wrong to just... let them go?”

“What about the people they helped bury? Do we forget them, too?”

As they approached the police lines, Reverend Arroyo pushed through the crowd, his creamy suit smudged, tie askew. “We need to talk, over here,” he said nervously, leading them to the lee of his Cadillac.

“What’s wrong?” Lydia asked.

“I have to make a statement to the press in a minute and we need to be on the same page. Obviously, the bombing will force us to close down the project for a time—”

“Hold on,” Shea said. “I’ve been inside and the damage appears pretty superficial. Once the police finish their investigation, we could be up and running in a few days.”

“Even if you’re right, the hatred revealed by this attack has caused me to reconsider the entire project. Our intent was to help this neighborhood, but since so many locals clearly object to our restoration project, perhaps we need a new plan. One so ambitious that they’ll rejoice in it.”

“How ambitious?” Lydia asked.

“Instead of trying to recreate the past, we’ll embrace the future. Rebuild the whole block into a marvelous new community centered around a newly expanded church with a state-of-the-art broadcast facility. Four hundred apartments instead of the sixty we planned. A parking structure across the street joined by an overhead walkway. It will take a massive fund-raising effort, but I’m sure my flock will open their hearts and purses to continue God’s work here on an even greater scale. We can go over the details later, right now we just need a joint statement for the press.”

“If you want me to say the damage is too serious to continue the project, I can’t do that,” Shea said.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not true. The blasts barely scratched the Chapel.”

“The damage may be more serious than you think, Mr. Shea. In any case, I’m shutting down the project tonight, and that’s the announcement I intend to make. If you feel you can’t endorse it, perhaps you should withdraw from the team.”

“I either back your story or I’m fired? Is that it?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way, but since the project is going on hiatus, I’ll understand if you wish to seek other employment. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have hired such a small firm for the job.”

Lydia started to protest, but Shea waved her off. “The blasts went off an hour ago and you’ve already got a whole new project in mind? That’s quick thinking. Maybe too quick.”

“What are you implying?”

“That it’s not a new plan. It was your plan all along. You got grant money to restore a historical structure but now this very convenient blast makes the project impossible. Since you didn’t mention returning any cash, I assume you plan to keep it and raise even more for a bigger project, one nobody would have green-lighted in the beginning.”

“You’re mistaken, Mr. Shea, and I warn you, if you carry any part of this fantasy to the authorities, my ministry will sue you for slander, incompetence, and anything else our lawyers can come up with.”

“You’d better not,” Lydia said. “I’ll back his story all the way.”

“Then we’ll sue you as well,” Arroyo said. “Win or lose, you’ll both spend years in court defending yourselves at a thousand an hour. Perhaps you can afford it, Mrs. Ford, but I doubt Mr. Shea can. So why don’t we settle this like reasonable people? Here and now?”

“What do you have in mind?” Shea asked.

“I’ll announce that the project’s shutting down. You’ll pull out quietly with no public statement. In return, I’ll see that you and your men collect the full value of your contract.”

“So I take the money and run? And keep my mouth shut?”

“That’s a bit crude, but not inaccurate.”

“Of all the incredible gall—” Lydia began.

“Deal,” Shea said.

“What?” Lydia gasped. “You can’t be serious!”

“I have no choice, Lydia. He’s right, I can’t afford a long court fight. I’ve got a crew to feed.”

“A very prudent decision,” Arroyo said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m already late for the press conference. By the way, Mrs. Ford, since the new project won’t be a restoration, your services are no longer required. You’re fired. God bless you both.” And he was gone.

“I can’t believe you’re going to let him buy you off,” Lydia said.

“What am I supposed to do? Tell the law I think Arroyo had his own building bombed as part of a fund-raising scam? And when they ask me for proof, what do I say then?”

“And that’s it? You’re really going to take the money and run?”

“Arroyo owes my men that money and they need it. Throwing it back in his face would be a grand gesture, but it won’t buy many groceries come winter. As far as running goes, to be honest, the sooner I see this place in my rearview mirror, the happier I’ll be.”

“Damn it, Dan, it’s wrong! You can’t let Arroyo get away with this!”

“I don’t think he will.”

“But if you won’t go to the police—”

“Black Luke had big plans for this place, too. It didn’t work out for him. It won’t for Arroyo, either.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not sure. It’s just a feeling I have. There’s something wrong about this place, Lydia. I’ve felt it from the beginning. I told you once that buildings talk to me. This one’s saying get the hell out. While you can.”

Dan Shea and his men packed up and headed north to Valhalla the next day. A rare treat for a construction crew, a vacation paid in full by Arroyo’s ministry for a job they’d barely begun.

Shea spent the autumn months working alone in the golden forests of the north, felling logs, cutting them to size, then snaking them out of the woods with a borrowed horse. Building a new addition onto his father’s house.

He did all of the labor by hand, measuring his talent and abilities against the skilled work his grandfather did long before he was born. But he didn’t finish the job by himself.

Around Christmas, an interior designer arrived to work on the project. She took a room at a local bed and breakfast but spent most of her time at Shea’s home, helping with the remodeling job. Small towns being as they are, rumors sprang up about the two. But died just as quickly.

The lady in question is a bit older, you see, and very much a lady. And in the northern counties, Dan Shea and his roughneck crew aren’t people to cross. Besides, Shea and his lady are so obviously happy together that the gossip seemed pointless.

In the spring, down below, a new construction crew from Detroit began work on the Arroyo Chapel expansion. But when they excavated the parking lot to pour the new foundations, the shock and revulsion of what they found brought the project to a screaming halt.

Saginaw police immediately taped off the site as a crime scene while state forensic techs from Lansing tried to sort out the carnage. It took months just to disinter the bodies, let alone identify them all. Perhaps they never will.

By then, Arroyo’s project was as dead as the corpses buried beneath the Chapel parking lot. His financing evaporated overnight. Why build apartments in a place no one will ever want to live?

After a few unhappy weeks in bankruptcy court, the reverend fled to Florida, flat broke.

Leaving the Black Chapel much as it was. Empty. Abandoned.

By night, streetwise lookouts still prowl its bell tower. But not even hardcore junkies will go inside the great nave anymore.

Too dangerous, they say. Perhaps the blast made the walls unstable. Loose bricks and fixtures seem to fall with deadly accuracy. Locals claim the Chapel is seeking new tenants for its ravaged cemetery.

The truth is, bone deep, people are simply terrified of the place. And they should be.

Its paint is peeling away like rotting skin now, but it makes no difference. The bricks beneath are stained black as sin.

And inside, voices echo in the cavernous murk of the ruined nave. The mad ranting of Black Luke, answered by the murmurs of the unquiet dead.

So it remains. A shattered hulk looming over a gutted graveyard in a forgotten neighborhood. A malevolent structure so dark that even on the sunniest days, it seems to stand in shadow. As though the evil within is bleeding the very light from the air.

©2006 by Doug Allyn