“You ever seen anything like this?” Grip asked, voice low, thinking that it might echo on the empty street.
Morphy shook his head. They were on the first block of Godtown, looking down its length; nobody on the streets. Both men did scans, trying to pick up something in the shadows where the illumination waned between streetlights, wondering what was going on. You could find deserted streets such as this at night in some of the ware house districts or, of course, in the abandoned blocks of the Hollows. But a residential neighborhood? The row houses all had lights on, but no silhouettes were in the windows.
“What do you think?”
Morphy shrugged, wary. “Let’s knock on some doors.”
They began where Westermann had started days earlier, where Mary Little had panicked. Their footsteps echoed, bringing the emptiness of the streets into relief. Indoor lights backlit strawberry-print curtains. Grip banged the door and they waited. He banged again and said, “Police,” his voice unnervingly loud on the quiet street. Morphy looked back over his shoulder, despite himself. Still nothing from inside.
“Next one,” Morphy said, and climbed down from the stoop. They repeated this routine on the next two houses with the same result.
Morphy said, “You figure they’re not answering the door or there’s just no one home tonight?”
“I don’t think there’s anyone in there.” Grip usually got a feeling when someone was on the other side of the wall, willing the police away. He wasn’t getting it now. They stood on the third stoop and looked out over the block, trying to get a handle on the situation. Grip couldn’t shake the sense that he was seeing something moving about in the shadows. But it was like something in his peripheral vision that disappeared when he turned his head toward it.
Grip was about to say that maybe they should move down to the next block and start again, then he saw Morphy go tense.
“Next block, about a third of the way down, opposite side.”
Grip found the spot and squinted and damned if there wasn’t someone standing in the shadows, not really hiding but not standing in plain sight either. Just watching.
“Jesus,” Grip said, then, recovering, “Okay,” but Morphy was already down the steps and halfway across the street.
They approached the man from opposite sides of the street, both detectives fingering their pistol grips. When they were within thirty yards, the man stepped forward into the light. Both police drew in response to the sudden movement.
Grip recognized Ole Koss. Koss was in suit pants and a blue, open-collared shirt, his hands out from his sides, empty palms facing the cops.
“Shit,” Grip said. “What are you doing out here, Ole? The fuck is everybody?” Then to Morphy: “It’s okay, I know him.”
Grip noticed that Morphy kept his hand by his gun.
“What are you doing here?” Koss asked; his voice cold.
“Police shit,” Grip said. “Where is everybody?”
“Service.”
“Church?”
Koss nodded. “Every night.”
“Every night?” Grip asked, shooting Morphy a can-you-believe-this-shit look. He noticed Morphy’s physical confidence wasn’t quite there, maybe shaken a little by Koss, bigger than Morphy and holding himself as if he knew what to do if things went south.
Koss said, “Just about.” He kept looking away from Morphy and Grip, eyes darting up and down the street.
Morphy said, “You. What are you doing?”
“Keeping an eye on the place.”
Grip said, “With everyone at church?”
“That’s right.”
“You got a piece?” Morphy asked.
Koss shook his head.
Grip said, “Jesus, Ole, it’s weird you hanging in the shadows. You ever catch anyone? Anybody ever come here?”
“Not often, anymore.” Koss turned suddenly, as if something in the shadows had caught his eye. He turned back.
Grip gave him a second to explain and, when he didn’t, said, “All right. We’re just going to do a walk around.” They started to move off.
Koss shrugged. “The street’s public.”
Grip stopped. “Opposed to what?”
“Houses. The church.”
“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Grip asked, not liking Ole taking that tone with him in front of Morphy. They were cops for chrissake.
Koss shrugged. “Nothing you ain’t already heard.”
Grip gave him a hard look, angry now. “There something you want to say?”
Koss returned the stare, not aggressive but not backing down. Grip would have to make the first move.
Morphy put his hand on Grip’s shoulder. “We’ve wasted enough time with your friend.”
Grip kept the stare going for a few more seconds before breaking away.
Halfway down the next block they began to hear the noise, not identifiable at first, but as they approached the church, it became clear that it was singing coming from inside. On the empty street with its unpredictable echoes, the singing seemed to come from everywhere, like the voices of hundreds—men, women, and children—rising and falling together. A hymn. Grip recognized the tune but didn’t know the words. He looked over at Morphy, who stood with his eyes closed, his face turned up slightly, letting the sound wash over him.
Grip waited him out. Morphy eventually opened his eyes and, without a word, scanned the street, looking for Koss. But they were alone.
As they walked to their prowl car, Grip said, “Unusual for you, the lieut giving you a night detail.”
Morphy shrugged. “I’m sure he has his reasons.”