Chapter 32

“Scared, Matt?”

Father McCarrick’s eyebrow lifted. He smiled, rocked from one foot to the other, and dug his hands deeper in the pockets of his cassock. A long moan came from inside the church, a quavering high note that sank into a racking cough.

“I called it in to Ocean Park Police, Father. A cruiser will be here soon.”

They stood under a streetlamp, captured in a cone of light. Fast food wrappers tumbled by, trash left by the new soldiers of St. Ambrose. The smell of sausage lingered from the dark puddle of grease the pushcart vendor had dumped in the gutter. A carful of high school kids drove by, whistling and hollering.

“Sounds like a drunk,” McCarrick said.

“Doesn’t matter, Father. I wait for backup. That’s the rule.”

“Ah, yes. Bureaucracy. I understand. Nothing wrong with saying you’re scared, Matt. That’s why I’m out here. Of course, I don’t carry a gun. Maybe I should have called Mrs. Blodgett.”

“We wait, Father.”

McCarrick shrugged. “Have it your way.” Long minutes passed. “Did you hear that, Matt?”

Conley listened. “Sounds like more singing.”

A pained wail came from inside the church. He climbed the steps and turned at the top.

“Wait here, Father. When the police arrive, send them in.”

Conley opened the door to the vestibule. The singing grew louder. A single voice didn’t sound right in St. Amby’s. With its deep, wide balcony and cathedral ceiling, the church was made for choirs. This cavern was built for a crowd.

Vestibule hadn’t changed much. Yellowed newspapers in the corner. New holy water bowl—looked like marble, felt like plastic. Poster on the wall said St. A’s was still looking for choir members. The statue of St. Ambrose looked spiffy in his new robe. Was it his imagination, or was the old boy smiling?

He cracked open the door to the church and peered inside. A garden of candles burned in front of the altar and illuminated in a way artificial lights never had. They highlighted the flecks and gold veins in the marble slab.

Simon O’Neil was strolling the center aisle, calling names to the empty pews. Names from years ago.

“Mrs. Kelly”—the old lady who played the organ. She always wore a winter coat and the kids nicknamed her The Bearded Lady because of the fur collar she kept close to her chin.

“Bill Stanton,” O’Neil yelled—the old man who used to bang the gavel in the school cafeteria for Sodality Club meetings. “Gladdie Reynolds, Charlie Stewart, Arnie Bickford.”

Suddenly O’Neil burst into a string of “Alleluias” and Conley decided to call William to come for him. He closed the door and dialed his phone.

The old man was singing falsetto now, an ungodly screech that filled the church.

No answer from William. He left a message and checked the church again.

O’Neil was in the aisle before the altar now, the widest place in the church. It wasn’t wide today. An eclectic collection of tables held hundreds of candles that sputtered and smoked. The stand used to sell raffle tickets was there, along with a glass-topped job from the rectory’s living room, and a TV stand. The Church of St. Ambrose looked like Father McCarrick’s clubhouse. Delicate tendrils drifted from the candles, clouds of white that rose toward the painted sky. Even from here, Conley’s nostrils filled with the scent of candles and his throat went dry.

The old man stretched his hands toward the Madonna and moved closer. In the muted light, her cheeks shone whiter than ivory, smoother than pearls. He sang.

“Allelu-u-u-u-u-ya-a-a-a.”

And moved closer.

Conley called William again. Still no answer. He started toward Simon O’Neil.

“Mr. O’Neil,” he called, and the old man turned, startled, and braced himself on one of the tables that held candles. Conley held his breath as the votive candles shook, and the newer, full ones dripped wax on the wooden surface. He gripped the old man’s shoulder, steadying him. O’Neil pulled away, lurching into the table edges with hip and knee, and the glasses touched, ringing like a wind chime, while O’Neil grabbed onto the altar’s guardrail for support.

Matt swore sharply as candles fell. They lay broken on the floor, a field of flickering flames. Most drowned quickly in pools of molten wax. But others flared and rolled under the pews.

The lights in the church were dim, except for the spotlight on the statue of Mary. She was still as ever, arms outstretched the same way they had been for a hundred years, eyes downcast, but this time they were staring at the front pew, which was suddenly brilliant, moving, alive—and totally ablaze.

The oil-soaked benches Mrs. Blodgett had polished erupted.

Barely seconds later the next pew was engulfed in flame. Unholy smoke rose fast and high and shrouded the altar, blending with the clouds that traveled the painted ceiling. The fire crackled loudly and spewed stifling, pungent air.

O’Neil collapsed on the floor, his pale white skin almost translucent in the fire’s light. A see-through hand stretched toward Conley.

Conley crooked his arm over his mouth and nose, ran to him, clasped those weak, crooked claws, and felt the heavy, hard knuckles. He dragged O’Neil toward the entrance, the old man’s thin body scraping across the tile as if fighting to stay.

Fire leapt to more pews, raced to them, and hungrily ate the ancient wood.

Simon O’Neil moaned.

The red leather on the gleaming wooden altar rail melted, blackened, shrank, and disappeared. The yellow foam inside bubbled and smoked. Embers rose from the burning seats, bright orange flakes that drifted and darted, searching for more to burn.

Conley coughed, dizzy from the smoke, and looked up at the Madonna. Her blue and pink robes shimmered. The cracks in the plaster were gone. She’d been rejuvenated. Her face seemed wet. Clear tears fell from her cheeks.

It can’t be.

The fire crackled. He held one arm over his mouth, lifted the old man, and shouldered the front door open. Together they collapsed onto the landing.

Simon O’Neil’s moan was a croak now, a machine-like noise. The pouring smoke was laden with ash, a nasty, cloying mix that was almost liquid. Sirens blared in the distance.

And Father McCarrick lay still on the sidewalk, head turned in profile, arms limp at his sides, cassock hugging his body like a shroud.