(I)

“Fleming, Virginia, K.,” Slouch read off the printout when he walked into the morgue in the basement of the Metropolitan Hospital Center. “No Jane Doe here. Thank God for DNA profiles.”

But would there be much difference? Vernon had already detached from the morbid spectacle they’d discovered behind the brewery. It usually only took a second after the initial glance; this time it took all afternoon. I’ve never seen a 64 like this in my whole time as a cop …His eyes scrutinized the thin, humanish form beneath the white sheet. “Fleming, Virginia, K.,” he repeated. “Where’d you get it?”

“Downtown at Evidence Section. When the D.C. heard it was an impalement, he put a rush on.”

“Good. What’s her story? She must have a rap sheet.”

“Longer than my ex-wife’s divorce demands,” Slouch said. He sat down and slouched, looking stark in his drab dark clothes against the room’s clean white tiles. “Thirty-six years old, no registered place of residence since 1995. Pasco County, Florida. Rap sheet goes back to joovie stuff in the mid-eighties. Shoplifting, possession, accessory GTA. Since ’98 she’s been collared on two counts of prostitution, couple possession busts for crack and heroin. All downhill from there. Just more homeless drug flotsam. Fell off the People Radar completely three years ago.”

Flotsam. Vernon felt bad that they had to think in such terms, but there was really no other way. “Her tox screen was positive for opiates but that was no stretch.” Another one bites the dust, he thought. “The prelim’s already done. Her next stop is the autopsy suite.”

“What’s the cause of death?” Slouch asked with a short laugh. “I mean, besides ‘Death by big motherfuckin’ pole sharpened at one end and rammed from snatch to mouth?’”

Vernon huffed a sigh, then turned as the door swooshed open in dead silence. “Officers,” greeted a stunningly attractive blonde in the proverbial white lab coat. “I’m Dr. Anda Burg. I’m the deputy duty M.E.—I’ll be doing the post.”

Vernon frowned when he noticed Slouch’s eyes plastered to the medical examiner’s bosom.

“And to answer your question,” she continued without looking at either of them, “the official C.O.D as of now is multiple organ lacerations and dramatic perforations of viscera, trans-hemothoracic hemorrhage and pericarditis via acumenated wooden object, which entered the body at the vaginal egress and made its exit out the oral cavity. The victim weighed ninety-one pounds and was dehydrated; blood levels indicate low albumin, typical amongst the homeless. STD screen showed positive for HPV, HIV, chlamydia, and secondary syphilis. Radio-immune assay of hair root cells is consistent with that of a typified multiple drug user.”

“That’s what I call an answer,” Slouch chuckled. “A hype and crackwhore who was already at the bottom of the barrel.”

Dr. Burg rolled her eyes as she marked off boxes on a clipboard. “Any idea what this means, Doctor?” Vernon asked and pulled out a lab reading of his own. He paused a moment to wince, when he found himself, like Slouch, eyeing the attractive blonde doctor’s figure. How can a woman that good-looking cut up corpses for a living? He cleared his throat and went on. “We found a magic marker at the crime scene—”

Dr. Burg looked up. “That’s what the lab said had been used to make the lines up and down her body.”

“Right. And there were some prints on it but Latent Section said they were too smeared to run. Then the O.A. lab said there was evidence of”—Vernon donned his glasses to read the sheet—“‘undue accretion of sebaceous eccrine lipids via the dactyl dermal papillae.’ What’s that mean?”

“It means the perpetrator was dirty.”

Vernon stared. “Dirty as in unwashed? Like, say, a street person?”

“Precisely. Dirty hands, in other words. That lab summation means that the print smeared due to an excess of body oils and amino residuum that passed through the fingerprint ridges with sebaceous perspiration. Had the hands been washed more recently, the print probably wouldn’t have smeared.”

“Crime doesn’t pay,” Slouch said, “unless you don’t wash.”

“That seems to be a common denominator lately,” Vernon said. “Street people. Homeless addicts.”

“What’s that, Inspector?” Dr. Burg questioned.

Vernon shrugged but said nothing. Slouch gave him the eye.

Next, Dr. Burg uncovered the corpus like someone yanking a sheet off a piece of furniture.

“Yeah,” Slouch said. “That’s the bottom of the barrel. No wonder her solicitation busts stopped several years ago.”

Vernon grit his teeth when he saw that one of the woman’s ears was gone. “I didn’t notice the missing ear earlier.”

“Missing auricula, with keloid formation. It’s several years old,” Burg noted.

The thin corpse shined pallidly beneath the harsh overhead fluorescents. Webworks of blue veins could be seen beneath parchmentlike skin but over that remained the ghosts of the weavy lines of black, green, and red magic marker.

Burg studied the image. “My techs put her in the Kwell station for cleaning and delousing—she had a lot of lice—but the magic marker didn’t come off all the way.”

“When they say permanent marker, they mean business,” Slouch remarked.

“Some kind of drug-turf thing?” Burg asked Vernon.

“I guess,” he said. “We’re not sure.”

“Never seen anything like it before,” Slouch added. “But then…we’ve never seen an impaled homicide victim before, either.”

Pelvic bones jutted, the belly stretched tight. Vernon detected a rash of small scabs in various areas, common among long-time addicts, not to mention needle marks at the elbows and insides of the thighs. The marks looked like lines of fresh-cracked pepper. Several more track marks traced along the veins around the nipples. Vernon entertained the morbid query: I wonder what they…did with the…pole …

“This one’s off to autopsy now, gentlemen,” the attractive pathologist announced. “You’re more than welcome to attend.”

Slouch laughed. “Thanks for the invite, Doc, but we’ll have to take a rain check. I was planning on a corn dog for lunch. You know, with that stick going down the middle?”

“Shut up, Slouch,” Vernon griped. “Thanks for your time, Doctor.”

Burg began to push the gurney away. “I’ll let you know if I find anything more.”

Slouch couldn’t keep quiet. “You mean anything more than ‘Death by big motherfuckin’ pole sharpened at one end and rammed from snatch to mouth?’”

Dr. Burg made a tolerant smile. “Yes. Have a nice day, gentlemen.” And then she and her dead charge disappeared through two swinging doors.

Vernon and Slouch traded cryptic glances.

“All right, How,” Slouch began. “You and me? We’ve been giving each other that funky-look thing since five this morning, haven’t we?”

Vernon nodded.

“But so far neither of us has said what’s on our mind.”

“No, we haven’t.” Vernon anxiously fingered an unlit cigarette. “So let ’er rip.”

“We’re both thinking the same thing, aren’t we? Last winter a bunch of whacked-out homeless chicks rip off Christmas tree stands from a fuckin’ hardware store and today we find a whacked-out homeless chick impaled on a pole mounted in a fuckin’ Christmas tree stand—”

“Less than twenty-four hours after a bunch of whacked-out homeless chicks rip off whittling knives from the same hardware store,” Vernon tacked on.

Slouch finished, “And the end of the pole looked whittled to a point. Recently. We on the same page?”

“Yeah, but I’m glad you said it first so I don’t feel like the idiot.”

Slouch laughed. “Thanks, boss!”

“It’s got to all be connected, no matter how far-fetched it sounds.”

“Um-hmm. No other angles to go on, so we might as well go on that one.”

Vernon nodded. He rubbed his face, suddenly uneasy beneath the chilly morgue lights. “Let’s get out of here. This place gives me the willies. It reminds me that one day I might be the one on the gurney going through those doors.”

Slouch straggled up, jesting. “And can you believe that brick shit-house M.E.? I could look at her legs all day but…can you imagine being married to her?”

“I’m not following you, Slouch, but that’s pretty much par for the course.”

“No, serious, man. Just try to imagine being the guy who’s getting it on with her and you know that those same hands were pulling livers out of corpses all day long.”

Vernon stared. “Shut up, Slouch.”

“Sure thing.”

They waited for the elevator at the end of the restricted hall, but when it opened a uniformed cop walked out. “You the guys with the impalement 64?”

Vernon showed his badge and ID. “Yeah. Vernon. Twentieth Precinct.”

The cop gave Vernon a manila envelope marked EVIDENCE - CLEARED BY TSD. “The lab wanted me to give this to you.”

“What is it?”

“Don’t know, sir. Something from the crime scene, said they found it inside the victim’s clothes.”

Vernon’s eyes widened. “Were there any—”

“No usable latents. Sorry.”

“Thanks.” Vernon opened the envelope as the cop walked away.

Slouch hovered. “The mystery continues?”

From the envelope Vernon withdrew a plastic bag. Inside the bag was—

Slouch squinted. “The hell’s that? A doll?”

Vernon squinted as well. It was a bizarre figurine of some kind, painted to great detail. About four inches high, plastic: a grinning cherubic little man, naked with blue-white skin and a belly that looked exploded. “Yeah, some kind of novelty doll.”

“Looks pretty oddball to me,” Slouch offered. “Sort of like one of those old Kewpie dolls when we were kids but with…”

“A shotgunned belly, I guess…” Vernon turned the figure over, read the tiny lettering beneath the base. CADAVERETTES #7 - GUTSHOT GLEN.

(II)

“Yes, it was right after Britt left,” Cristina was saying as they sat down at a plush corner booth of Café D’Amato. A card on the table read RESERVED. Paul seated himself after Cristina did. “I was going to mail those letters.”

“The damn AmEx bill. Can’t believe I forgot about it. Lately I’m so busy at the office with Jess, I forget the simple stuff. So, anyway, this priest was doing what?”

“His name’s Father Rollin, and he was looking at those security bars over the basement windows behind the house, in the alley. Said it slipped his mind, since he did it every day when he was the custodian. He’s kind of old.”

“Those window treatments are brand-new and cost a fortune,” Paul pointed out. “There wasn’t anything wrong with them, was there?”

“No, no, but that’s just how I met him. It was kind of strange. He said that when he used to look after the place, sometimes squatters would break in through those windows, and come to think of it, lately I’ve been seeing this group of homeless girls in the area.”

“Welcome to New York,” Paul said. “No way around that. Just be careful walking around. Even in broad daylight. I don’t care if this is the Upper West Side. There’s screwed-up people everywhere.”

A sad refrain but Cristina knew it was true. “Anyway, Father Rollin said he’d come by for coffee sometime. He’d like to meet you. He even knew your name.”

Paul scanned the upscale dining room, nodding to a few people he knew. “I’ll bet he does. Probably shit a brick when they told him I’m the guy who bought the house for a million bucks.” Something about the topic seemed to bother him. He looked at his watch, distracted. “So where is this Bruno fellow?”

“Oh, he’ll be here,” Cristina assured. “He’s a little off-the-wall but you’ll like him. Oh, and thanks for getting the reservation.”

“It pays to know big wheels.” Paul smiled. “You look great, by the way.”

Cristina almost blushed. She’d vowed to take Britt’s advice and start dressing like New York but if anything she felt awkward in the veily black wrap dress and Pierre Hardy sandals. She asked for a soda water when the waitress skimmed by for their drink order.

“And you, sir?”

Paul hesitated. “Uh, just a Sprite.”

He’s trying, Cristina thought. He wasn’t an alcoholic but sometimes he did overimbibe, which often jaded his demeanor. Cristina rarely said anything but she could tell that he knew. She appreciated his effort to cut down.

“Ah, there she is,” a loudish voice boomed as a wide shadow crossed the table. Cristina rose to greet Bruno von Blanc, her toy contractor. He stood large, round, and gregarious, and had a large Burl Ives face. The deep-rust, shawl-collared jacket and yellow Ralph Lauren dress shirt was louder than his voice. “The market’s top secret weapon.”

“Hi, Bruno,” she said after a gushing kiss on the cheek. “This is my fiancé, Paul Nasher.”

The ebullient face turned as the man pumped Paul’s hand. “Great to finally meet you, Paul. I hope you realize that your wife-to-be is a macabre genius.”

“Oh, yeah,” Paul said, trying not to raise a brow at Bruno’s bad hair dye, which did nothing to disguise the fact that he was pushing sixty. The handlebar mustache and Vandyke didn’t help. “I don’t really know much about this novelty figurine business but after seeing Cristina’s royalty statement last quarter I’d say that you guys have really got it going on.”

“It’s all her, Paul, all her.” Bruno slid cumbersomely in next to Cristina. “Miss?” He flagged the waitress. “Grey Goose martini, please.” Then he turned back to Paul. “Honestly, the diversity of Cristina’s Cadaverette line turned the entire market on its ear.”

“He always exaggerates,” Cristina said, antsy by the compliments. But I wonder if that’s really true …

“Nonsense—” Bruno paused, looking around the crowded restaurant in awe. “And how did you ever get a reservation on such short notice?”

“Paul has some influence here,” Cristina giggled.

Paul shrugged. “My firm bailed the restaurant out of a huge sexual harassment claim. Bunch of waitresses made up a pile of BS. You’ve heard the story.”

“Gracious. What’s this world coming to?” Next, Bruno opened a small briefcase right on the linen-covered table. “And now here’s what I want you both to see: the first promo fliers for Evil Church Creepies …” Bruno’s hooded eyes glittered in excitement as he withdrew a stack of glossy fliers and passed one to Cristina and Paul.

“Wow,” Paul said.

Cristina’s voice lowered to a hush. “Bruno, it’s beautiful…”

The flier showed half-sized color photos of the first four figurines above stylized promotional text. A small picture and bio of Cristina occupied the lower corner. The most stunning accommodation of the figures themselves were the weaving black, green, and red lines that composed the background.

“The ad department used your idea about the background,” Bruno went on, “and I think it turned out great.”

“The colors really make everything jump off the page,” Paul said.

“Um-hmm, and that’s exactly what we want.” Bruno appraised the flier with an obvious pride. “Yes, those lines really add dimension.” He looked to Cristina. “Didn’t you say you got the idea from a dream?”

For a split second, the dream flashed across the scape of her mind: the furious, waving lines behind the nude nun showing the fanged grin. Cristina took a breath. “That’s right. And the Noxious Nun herself. It all came to me several months ago when I saw our house.”

“Really?” Paul seemed surprised. “You never told me that.”

“Got the entire idea in one day.”

“The lightning bolt strikes!” Bruno exclaimed. He turned to flag the waitress again. “Miss? This is a special occasion. How about a bottle of Krug, Clos du Mesnil—the 1990 if you have it.”

Paul’s brow rose along with the waitress’s. “Certainly, sir.”

Cristina didn’t quite know how to phrase it. “Paul and I weren’t really planning to drink tonight, Bruno.”

“Nonsense,” the rotund man replied. “This is a celebration, my dear. You see, it’s not just the fliers I’ve brought…”

“Huh?”

Bruno, if a bit too dramatically, reached back into the briefcase and slowly extracted a black, shiny cardboard box, five or six inches high with a cellophane window in front. “Hot off the molds, my dear.”

Cristina’s hand came to her chest. I don’t believe it …

The decorative box contained the Noxious Nun.

She held it in her hand as though it were fragile as eggshells. The clarity of detail was greater than she could’ve ever expected: the delineated white fangs over the grin, the genuine black fabric that comprised the nun’s habit and wimple, the tiny three-gemmed bowl and the way a clear scarlet resin sufficed for blood. Cristina gingerly took the figure out of the box and set it on the table.

“That is one creepy doll,” Paul acknowledged.

Bruno held up a finger. “Creepy and cute—it’s that juxtaposition that makes them so attractive…and marketable.”

Cristina wiped a delighted tear. “I don’t know what to say, Bruno. I would never have thought it could look this good.”

“Don’t thank me. The molds were made to your specifications. And I’m glad we didn’t outsource this one to the Chinese. Our new manufacturer costs a bit more but the added detail makes it worth it. The first run was delivered to the ware house this morning, ahead of schedule.”

Some of the diners at surrounding tables kept eyeing the vivid curio, and when the waitress brought the champagne and ice stand, she said, “Oh, how cute! My daughter collects dolls like that.”

“In that case, miss, have a flier,” Bruno said and handed her one. “This one will be in the store on Friday.”

“How cool! Thank you.”

Bruno poured the champagne into three crystal flutes, then dispensed them. He raised his glass.

“A toast. To Cristina Nichols, and the Noxious Nun!”

“Cheers,” Paul and Cristina said in unison.

Their glasses clinked.

What a wonderful night …

Cristina smiled in the darkness as the foyer clock struck one A.M. She sat up in bed, gazing out the window. Just a rim of moon could be seen edging over the next building. My celebration, she thought. The Noxious Nun sat like a goofy chess piece on the dresser.

At the restaurant they’d all gotten fairly drunk—something Cristina never did—but it was the occasion, not the champagne buzz, that left her elated and scintillant. By the time the cab had dropped her and Paul off, Cristina’s newfound arousal had her in a dither; all she could think about was getting inside and making love to Paul. Paul tended to get cynical when he was drunk but there was none of that to night, and this only made him even more attractive to her. The eve ning’s only regrettable defect was the misfire on Paul’s part; the alcohol had thwarted his ability to perform.

Oh, well, Cristina thought. She looked at him asleep beside her. It was STILL a great night …

She got up, still woozy. If anything the champagne seemed to possess a delayed effect; she felt even drunker now. She giggled as she stumbled once in the dark, then slipped naked out of the room.

Ultimately, her happiness over the fliers and the first figure overrode the aggravation over their failed lovemaking attempt. So what? She’d masturbated after Paul had dozed off, and that seemed to take the edge off.

She padded to the kitchen where only the light over the stove remained on. More light fell into the room when she opened the refrigerator and found herself drinking orange juice right from the bottle. Again, she almost stumbled, nearly dropping the bottle. God! I really AM drunk! She had to concentrate on putting the bottle back inside.

She caught herself next peeking out the wooden blinds of the front window. The church across the street stood like a silent hulk. She wasn’t certain but she thought she saw a light on in an upper window but when she yawned it snapped out. Perhaps it had never been on in the first place.

Drunk as she was, she felt too keyed up to sleep. She wandered the first floor, musing over the soon-to-bereleased line. I can’t wait. The Noxious Nun looks super. The influence of its creation—the inexplicable dream—had now lost all its negative power. Now it was just a novelty toy that would be purchased mostly by goth kids and collectors. She felt tempted to go back in the bedroom to look at it again but didn’t want to risk stumbling and waking Paul.

She walked down the back hall, actually sliding against the wall to brace herself. A side door stood closed, and it occurred to her that she’d never opened that one.

The basement door …

She pushed it open, steadying herself. The basement, she knew, had only been structurally bolstered, not refinished. But I’ve never seen it, she realized. But why now, of all times, would she want to go down?

Pretty stupid, she told herself. You’re drunk, you could fall, but her better judgment sidled away. When she hit the wall switch at the top of the stairs, only a single, unshaded bulb came on, and it didn’t look to be more than forty watts. Yeah, REALLY stupid …

She grabbed the rail and very slowly descended.

At once an unpleasant shiver rippled her skin. The old moldy smell reminded her of the basement at the foster house, where the execrable Andre and Helga Goldfarb had regularly locked her, Britt, and their foster brother after drugging them. Don’t think about it, she warned herself. Remember what Britt said, the past is just junk that can’t hurt me.

The warning sufficed; when she made it to the bottom of the stairs, the basement’s clutter, cobwebs, and wide brick walls made her forget about the reminiscent odor. Pretty big, she detected even in the wan light. She couldn’t find any more switches. The only other light edging the long room came from the sodium lights in the alley, which filtered in through the low windows. The security bars drew black slats across the floor.

But there must be another light somewhere.

She waded deeper through the murk. Old rounded cobblestones formed the floor; she could feel the border of each stone on the bottoms of her feet. They felt warm, almost glossy; however—

She stopped. The rounded squares had changed to something wide and rough. What—

She looked down but could barely see. Damn it. What IS that? She could only make out a perimeter that seemed lighter than the rest of the floor and not composed of stones at all. She steadied herself again, then slowly got down on her knees, though she couldn’t imagine why.

Now, however, she could discern the mysterious perimeter’s dimensions just as her stomach clenched.

An oblong perimeter, about the same size of a coffin lid.

Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, she was overreacting, and all that alcohol in her blood didn’t help. It’s not a grave, for God’s sake. Probably just some patchwork on the floor …

She pressed her palms down and, indeed, found just a plane of rough cement. It seemed cooler than the cobblestones. A pipe probably broke fifty years ago so they dug here to fix it, she speculated.

But…why should she care?

Then she tried to rise but couldn’t.

It must be the champagne, packing its final wallop, but for a stricken moment she had the oddest impression: that it was the cement patch that was drawing her down.

Stupid …

She attempted to rise again but this time got so dizzy, her knees thunked back down hard and she fell over on her side. Oh, God, I can’t believe I’m this crocked …The dizziness distilled; she decided to lay back and rest for a little while. She took deep breaths, hoping to clear her head but then…

Had she been in bed, it would have been the bed that was spinning, but in this case?

It was the floor.

She seemed to be revolving, the queasiness in her belly compounding to outright nausea. With little warning from her metabolism, she quickly turned her head and vomited. She huffed, breaking out into a sweat. I don’t think I’ve been this sick ever. Her vantage point continued to revolve as if she lay on a bearing’d platform; the dizziness thickened. When she pressed her hand out to try to sit up, she felt something against her palm. A stick, maybe, or a pen. Her heart lurched a moment before she passed out, when at the furthest fringe of her vision, she thought she saw a figure standing in the corner.

“Singele lui traieste,” she hears, lying prone and nude and seemingly paralyzed. But she’s not in the basement, she’s in the grotto of her nightmare, the furious backdrop of black, green, and red ribbons weaving back and forth and the sound of water dripping and a dog barking and excited chatter that seems female but not in any language she’s familiar with. In fact, she’s not even familiar with her own name …

Soft hands smooth up and down her glistening skin, drawing sensations that are as erotic as they are inexplicable.

The whispers of other voices seem to halo about her head: “Kanesae …”

Hands cosset her flesh more fervently. Six? Eight? A dozen hands? She senses that they’re the hands of women, judging by the knowing way they touch her. Her muscles flex at the forbidden plea sure being kindled in this dark place. Several of the hands slide around between her legs now, and—

Her back arches; she sighs through gritted teeth.

—a hot, wet mouth finds each nipple.

The impossible light in the room deepens: black, green, and red. Now a desperate tongue licks up the slope of her neck, and she turns her head as the plea sure keeps mounting, and she sees …

What?

A man lying prone on a stone slab?

She’s not sure. The cryptic mouths and hands squirm over her skin like a living gown; she’s so distracted, so tempted to give in even though she knows this is all wrong.

But that’s what she thinks she sees, if only for a moment, in the weird dices of light …

Yes.

A man lying prone on a stone slab. At the top of the slab sits…an object. She thinks first of a dark-glassed vase, then a wine decanter. A mongrel dog with matted fur snuffles bored about the slab …

When one mouth finds her sex, she shrieks and orgasms simultaneously, and then her head whips over to the other side. Her eyes go wide because, now, she sees her.

The nun.

“Kanesae, Kanesae, Kanesae,” a tiny chant rises.

The nun stands naked save for her white wimple and black hood, the perfect breasts jutting as her back bows to raise the bowl. Then she looks down, and grins.

The pair of long thin fangs seems to sparkle.

Then the nun dons her black habit and retreats into the shadows.

“Oise pla’cute,” one voice flutters.

Then another, “Oise pla’cute…”

And one more, “Oise pla’cute…”

“Pleasant dreams,” someone else says beyond her impassioned paralysis. A round of giggles disperse above her, like bats.

And the mouths descend on her again, finding every private place. One climax after the next racks her body until she fears she might die, and then the final voice issues the disquieted words she’s heard before …

“Singele lui traieste.”

(III)

Father Rollin couldn’t sleep; he tossed in his upper bed chamber, sheets entwined about his legs like a serpent. When his eyes came into focus, a shadow seemed to be splayed on the moonlit wall.

A figure? A nun?

He jerked up and nearly yelled as he switched on the light. God Almighty!

Then he shook his head at himself.

The shadow was nothing but that from a piece of cresting on the outside windowsill.

I am not in a good way tonight, the priest admitted.

He pulled on a robe, trudged to an armoire and began to withdraw a bottle of Medoc. I shouldn’t do this, but …He took a long pull of the bitter red Bordeaux, then let out a stifled breath.

He switched the light back off, then lit a candle. Back to this again, he thought, bringing the binoculars to his eyes. The annex house stood sedate, frosted in the phosphoric street light. One of the lights continued to buzz from bright to dim. Down the street, he thought he spied several lanky figures turn into the alley.

He turned the binoculars back to the house, zooming in. A dim light shone between the slats of the kitchen louvers but that was all. Then, higher, his heart tensed a moment when he thought he saw a wan face in a second-story window, but when he zoomed even closer…

No. It must’ve been the curtain …

He put the binoculars down, at least in part disgusted with himself. What was he looking for anyway? And how much of this might really be geared in some deeper and more desperate channel of his psyche? Celibate priest, came the grim admission. Old, atrophied, like fruit turning brown on the vine.

Yes, the image depressed him. But the question remained, like a crow looking down from a wire. Was I really searching for clues? Or was I hoping to see Cristina Nichols’s body in the nude?

“Give me strength…”

He kept it dark; he liked it dark. Perhaps it was because he could see less of himself, and the world and all the life in it. Who knows?

All he could ever think to do was answer his calling.

He considered going downstairs to the main chancel, but more and more he felt alienated in it. No congregation for years. I’m the house sitter for the church, too old and too eccentric for clerical duties. It infuriated him sometimes, for he knew he could still say a spectacular Mass. They don’t WANT me anymore, so they merely KEEP me.

It was all right by him.

He did know that God still wanted him, flaws and all.

He knelt at the small prayer bench in his room, beseeching the meager altar on which sat a simple crucifix given to him in Bucharest by a priest from the Holy Office. Lately, Rollin prayed here more than anywhere else, alone.

Before the crucifix’s olive-wood base, he took up the chain and pendant. He kissed it as he would a Cross.

The emblem stared back at him, medieval in its scary crudity: a dead dragon strangled by its own tail, a great red cross branded on its back.

Rollin stared at the ancient totem for many minutes, while fingering the ring on his hand with the same insignia. Both read below the crest, O QUAM MAGNIFICUM, O DOMNUL.

Then he put the pendant around his neck and began to pray…

“O quam magnificum, o domnul …”