Morphy, Grip, and a dozen uniforms rolled through Godtown, no lights, no sirens. The sidewalks were empty; they were always empty. Grip had his window down, listening to the sound of the tires on asphalt, a sound usually drowned out by the noise of the City. His nerves were electric—this was not going to be a normal arrest; he didn’t know why, but it just wasn’t.
They pulled up in front of the church, and Grip and Morphy waited while a half dozen of the uniforms took up positions by the two alternative exits. Down the street, Grip saw a mound of fur and thought it might be the body of the German shepherd they had seen. Why was it just lying there? Wouldn’t somebody move it?
Singing was coming from inside. Grip racked his brain for the hymn but couldn’t find it. He pounded the front door. Nobody came. The sun scalded his neck. He pounded again, yelling, “Police. We have a warrant. Open the door.” More singing, but no one came. He tried the door, but it was locked.
Grip descended the steps, moving stiffly, and sent two uniforms up with a battering ram. The four others drew their weapons.
“Do it,” Grip said.
One blow with the ram and the doors burst open. The cops dropped the battering ram and moved to the side, giving the others a clear shot into the empty foyer of the church. The singing now came to them much louder. Grip led them in, pointing pairs of cops in various directions, telling them to look for Ole Koss.
Grip, Morphy, and two uniforms paused before the doors leading to the sanctuary, pulling their guns. Grip eased the door open and they stepped through to find the pews filled with people in plain dress, standing and singing. Above the pulpit, lit by the morning sun, a stained-glass Jesus cast his hands over his disciples in piercing primary colors.
A few people in the back noticed the cops and stopped singing. Grip, Morphy, and the two uniforms stood where they were. More people noticed the police and also stopped singing. Grip watched as the awareness of their presence filtered up toward the front pews. The organist stopped and then the last few singers, and then the place was silent, a couple hundred people staring wordlessly at the four police.
Grip walked down the aisle between the pews, his footsteps loud in the crowded silence. None of the congregants moved or spoke. He saw their faces—old, young, plain, beautiful, disfigured, innocent—watch him as he walked. Grip wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. His hands shook. He led Morphy and the two uniforms behind the pulpit and found a short hallway leading back. Grip beckoned the uniforms, whispered to them to keep watch on the sanctuary. They nodded, not looking happy.
Grip and Morphy walked down the hallway to where it ended at a door. They stood to either side, backs to the wall, as Morphy gently pushed the door open. Nothing. Grip peered around the corner; saw Maddox sitting behind a small writing desk, stage-lit by the sun cascading through a high window. Seeing Grip, Maddox leaned back in his chair, eyes glazed.
Grip kept his gun down, touching his thigh. “Prosper Maddox, we have a warrant for your arrest.”
Maddox looked toward them with unfocused eyes. “I can’t sleep, can’t let down my guard.”
He did look terrible—pasty skin, heavy lids, unhealthy slump to his shoulders.
“Where’s Koss?” Grip asked.
Maddox didn’t seem to have heard.
“Where’s Ole Koss?” Grip asked again.
Maddox shifted his half-lidded gaze from Grip to Morphy and back to Grip.
Morphy seemed, in his own way, concerned. The uniforms arrived. Grip shot them a furious look.
“The sanctuary’s covered.”
“Did they find Koss?”
The uniform shook his head.
“Go to your car, radio for some support. I don’t know what’s going to happen when we get Maddox out of here.”
Grip followed them to the sanctuary, leaving Morphy watching Maddox. The scene hadn’t changed much. Four uniforms stood by the entrance, guns out but pointed down, nervously scanning the crowd. Grip waved two of them over and situated them by the pulpit.
“We’re waiting for reinforcements,” Grip whispered, “and then we’re walking Maddox out of here.”
The cop wouldn’t take his eyes off the crowd to look at Grip. “You want us to clear the sanctuary?”
Grip had thought about this. “I think we’re better off having them all in one place. We can let them go after we get Maddox out.”
“Okay.”
Grip walked back to Maddox’s office. Maddox was sitting with his hands in his lap, head down, eyes closed. Morphy leaned against the wall, watching.
“He asleep?”
Morphy shook his head. “Praying, I think.”
They waited fifteen minutes for support, Maddox almost in a trance, Grip and Morphy nervously biding time. Grip found Morphy’s anxiety disconcerting, it wasn’t like him. But the silence of the place, considering the number of people in the sanctuary, was eerie.
A uniform came back, pale and jittery. “We’ve got a dozen cops out there now.”
Grip nodded. The uniform left.
Morphy walked behind Maddox and lifted him gently under the arm, guiding him around the desk. Morphy turned Maddox’s shoulders so that they faced each other.
“We’re going to walk through the sanctuary and to the door. You won’t say anything to anyone. You open your mouth, I will kill someone; maybe you, maybe somebody else, maybe a kid. But I will kill somebody.”
Maddox gazed dazedly at Morphy. Grip hoped that Maddox would keep his mouth shut.
They walked around the pulpit and into the center aisle, Grip in front, Maddox, Morphy behind. The congregants were seated and silent, but seeing Maddox they rose. Grip tightened his hold on his gun, kept walking, watching the uniforms as they fidgeted.
It started with one man; for just a moment his voice was alone, but they all joined him, howling. The uniforms had their guns pointed into the pews, but no one took a shot. Trembling, Grip grabbed Maddox’s sleeve and rushed him up the aisle, everyone’s eyes on them, the noise deafening. Grip pulled Maddox through the door to the vestibule then outside. In the open, the howling was much quieter, no longer overwhelming. Grip and Morphy each took an arm and walked Maddox toward their prowl car.
Maddox spoke quietly, as if to himself. “They will be greatly shamed, for they will not succeed. Their eternal honor will never be forgotten.”
Morphy glared. “Shut up.”
“But the Lord is with me as a dread warrior; therefore my persecutors will stumble; they shall not overcome me.”
Shut up.