THURSDAY 5:58 P.M.

We lumbered at about ten miles an hour up Devon Avenue to the west side then took Madison Street. The driver parked in a no parking zone and brought us to the front door of a five-story brownstone in the center of the block.

Bruce’s minion took his mittens off and held up a cell phone. He punched in a code. The door swung open. Somebody had oiled it so it didn’t squeak. Immediately inside of it was, I swear, a portcullis that would have done any castle proud. More taps on the cell phone. The portcullis rose. Going through several more doors brought us to a bearded man in a black track suit with white racing stripes on the sleeves and legs. On his chest, he wore crossed bandoliers filled with bullets. A machine gun sat on the desk in front of him. An AK-47 was strapped to his vest. If this was the welcoming committee, I wondered what happened to intruders. Nothing pleasant, I presumed.

He nodded us toward a reinforced lead-lined door. Down corridors. Up and down stairs. After the lead door, it looked like someone from IKEA had been in to do the walls and the furniture. As we moved along for some time, I concluded that all the houses on this side of the street ran together. We saw no other people until we arrived at another factotum. This one was armed with a with a hand gun in a holster. He watched his computer screen for a minute then took us through what must have once been a door to a backyard. For a minute or two, we were out in the elements, then into a greenhouse. The glass at one end was shattered.

He brought us to a door in the middle of a glass wall. A computer key pad still connected by bare wires hung from the door. He pressed several buttons, shook it a few times, then tapped it against the side of the door. It fizzed to life. He pressed several more buttons. The door opened. He pointed through the portal, took two Mag lights from off a shelf, gave them to us and left.

We entered a gloom infested landing that within two feet brought us to the top of a set of stairs.

A dark passage led precipitously down. The glow from the flashlights showed carved stone walls, starting with swirls near the top and ending in male and female figures in flowing robes, maybe Roman togas or gods and goddesses gamboling in a garden. All were dark and smudged.

At the bottom of the stairs, we could see that the room might have measured fifty feet by fifty feet. All of it was blackened and charred. Broken and shattered plastic and metal were strewn about. Strings of melted Christmas tree lights wrapped around the most intact bits. The walls were scored. The atmosphere was cold, but not as bitter as it was outside. Random puddles of water had thin coatings of ice on the top. It stank of burnt everything.

Georgia said, “It’s not a very big ballroom.”

I shrugged. “It’s underground. It was built nearly a hundred and fifty years ago. How big did you want them to make it?”

Georgia shrugged. “I expected something big and gaudy with chandeliers, mirrored walls, or at least a few blinking lights. This is neither big nor gaudy. I like gaudy in my underground hideaways.” She touched a wall then looked at her soot covered finger. For a moment she pulled on a string of lights which had twisted around a cracked and shattered monitor. “Without all these burn scars and destruction, and with all those tiny light fixtures, I bet it was like a fairyland with tiny bits of sparkle everywhere.” She gazed up at the low ceiling. “It must have originally been built after electric street lights came into vogue.”

In the center was a moldering plinth next to a four-foot-tall statue lying on its back on the floor. It was a naked man holding a flute in one hand while his erect cock pointed to the sky. It was pock-marked and scored from head to foot, presumably the result of the explosion.

Around the perimeter were what looked to have been computer work stations, each containing blank, empty, chipped, and cracked monitors. Remnants of electric cords stretched hither and yon to half-melted and scored power strips scattered around the ground.

Georgia said, “And that part of the story is true. The computer geeks did destroy the place.”

I said, “The place is destroyed. Presumably they did it.”

She gave a haughty sniff. “Be picky.”

I examined several stations. “If there were hard drives or jump drives, they’re all gone. The police took them, or forensics took them, or Vincek and his buddies had time to clear out.”

Georgia asked, “Did you see crime scene tape?”

I shook my head.

Georgia said, “Maybe they destroyed the place, and that was the end of it.”

“So they’re being chased by various agencies benign or malevolent who then do not go over this place?”

“Benign or malevolent who do not leave crime scene tape. Is there a requirement they leave crime scene tape?”

“I’m just used to it. Hell, maybe the gang guys above collect crime scene tape and keep it as souvenirs.”

She raised an eyebrow at me.

I said, “Or not.”

“This case seems to be a little out of our ordinary orbit.”

“So far, I’m not sure what case it is.” I stepped next to the statue on the floor. “We have no proof Vincek and his friends were here.”

“Bruce said the gang let them in. Bruce I have faith in.”

“I wonder if my new cop buddy would know something, and if he’d be willing to share.”

“You might give him a try.”

Before leaving the ruined grotto, I called Jerry. He was at the hospital. The guys would live, but needed medical care. One had come to and denied everything. I heard Jerry laugh, “I think he may have denied having anything to do with the Lindbergh baby, the Kennedy assassination, 9/11, and/or faking the moon landing.” Jerry snorted. “They denied owning the motorcycles or being in an accident.”

“That makes no sense.”

“You asked me what they said, not if they made sense. While they were unconscious, and hospital people were busy, I took pictures of the IDs they had on them and sent them to Duncan. He’s been researching, and I’ve been Googling. I just talked to him. So far, he has their names in a data base from the Southern Poverty Law Center. They seem to be from the right wing religious group End Times for Jesus.”

I sighed. “Who the fuck are they?”

“What I’ve found so far is the group is thought to be, but it is not proven, part of anti-abortion fanatics and others who murder liberals, a kind of for-hire for Jesus group. I’ve called the Southern Poverty law office in Alabama, and Duncan called the ACLU and a few other jurisdictions. Seems any number of law enforcement agencies have been trying to catch these guys and arrest them. They’ve never had live guys from this group to question, but with the blizzard, they may or may not be able to get the wheels of justice to move fast enough to keep them here. Duncan and I will do our best to help.”

“Duncan’s there?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s leave him in charge, and it would help if you could pick us up. I want to get to the Screaming Queen Arms. I want to talk to Vincek.”

Jerry drove us. He left me at the hotel. He’d be back after he had driven Georgia home so she could go change and then get to work as a torch singer for the night.