Roland listened, waited until the sucking sounds began to fade, his mind traveling, for the moment, to a place where two young girls had skipped along the banks of the Wissahickon, many years ago, the eye of God a golden sun above them.
The Congregation was dressed in its finest: eighty-one people sar- dined into the small storefront church on Allegheny Avenue. The air was thick with the smells of floral perfume, tobacco, and no small amount of boardinghouse whiskey.
The pastor came out of the back room to the strains of "This Is the Day That the Lord Hath Made" from the five-member choir. His deacon soon followed. Wilma Goodloe took the lead vocal; her big voice a true blessing from above.
At the sight of the pastor, the congregation leapt to its feet. The good Lord reigned.
After a few moments the pastor stepped to the rostrum, held up a hand. He waited until the music subsided, until his flock was seated, until the spirit moved him. As always, it did. He began slowly. He constructed his message as a builder might erect a house-an excavation of sin, a foundation of scripture, rigid walls of praise, topped by a crowning roof of glorious tribute. After twenty minutes, he brought it home.
"But make no mistake about it, there is much darkness in the world," the pastor said.
"Darkness," someone echoed.
"Oh yes," the pastor continued. "Oh my, yes. This is a dark and terrible time."
"Yes sir."
"But the darkness is not darkness to the Lord."
"No sir."
"Not darkness at all."
"No."
The pastor came around the pulpit. He clasped his hands in prayer. Some of the congregation stood. "Ephesians 5:11 sayeth: 'Do not participate in the fruitless doings of darkness but rather expose them.' "
"Yes sir."
"Paul sayeth: 'Everything that is exposed by the light is made visible, and where everything is visible there is light.' "
"Light."
Moments later, by the time the sermon was over, the congregation had worked itself into a tumult. Tambourines sang.
Pastor Roland Hannah and Deacon Charles Waite were on fire. News was made in heaven this day, and the New Page Church of the Divine Flame was the story.
The pastor considered his assembly. He thought about Basil Spencer, about how he had learned of Spencer's terrible deeds. People will tell their pastor many things. Including children. He had heard many truths from the mouths of children. And he would address them all. In time. But there was a matter that had been a stagnant black water in his soul for more than a decade, something that consumed every ounce of joy in his life, something that woke with him, walked with him, slept with him, and prayed with him. There was a man out there who had stolen his spirit. Roland was getting close to him. He could feel it. Soon he would find the right one. Until then, as he had in the past, he would do God's work.
The voices of the choir rose in united praise. The rafters shook with homage. Brimstone would spark and flash on this day, Roland Hannah thought.
Oh my, yes.
A day that the Lord indeed hath made.
12
St. Seraphim was a tall, narrow structure on Sixth Street in North Philadelphia. With its cream stucco front, tall turrets, and golden onion domes above, the church-founded in 1897-was an imposing edifice, one of the oldest Russian Orthodox churches in Philadelphia. Jessica, having been raised Roman Catholic, didn't know much about the Orthodox Christian religions. She knew there were similarities in the practices of confession and communion, but that was about it.
Byrne was attending a review board and press conference regarding the incident in the diner. The review board was mandatory; the press conference was not. But Jessica had never known Byrne to shy away from his actions. He would be there, front and center, badge polished, shoes shined. It seemed that the families of both Laura Clarke and Anton Krotz felt the police should have handled the fraught situation differently. The press was all over it. Jessica had wanted to be there as a show of support, but her orders were to continue the investigation. Kristina Jakos deserved a timely inquiry. To say nothing of the very real concern that her killer was still on the loose.
Jessica and Byrne would meet up later in the day and she would brief him on any developments. If it got late they would meet at Finnigan's Wake. There was going to be a retirement party for a detective that night. Cops never miss a retirement party.
Jessica had called the church and made an appointment with Father Gregory Panov. While Jessica conducted the interview, Josh Bontrager canvassed the immediate area surrounding the church.
Jessica pegged the young priest at twenty-five or so. He was jovial, clean-shaven, dressed in black slacks and black shirt. She handed him a card, introduced herself. They shook hands. He had a sparkle in his eyes, suggesting a bit of the mischief.
"What should I call you?" Jessica asked.
"Father Greg will be fine."
Ever since she could remember, Jessica had been fawningly reverential around men of the cloth. Priests, rabbis, ministers. In her line of work it was a hazard-the clergy could certainly be as guilty of a crime as anyone-but she couldn't seem to help it. The Catholic school mentality had been implanted deeply. More like hammered in.
Jessica took out her notebook.
"I understand Kristina Jakos was a volunteer here," Jessica said.
"Yes. I believe she still is." Father Greg had dark, intelligent eyes, slight laugh lines. His expression told Jessica that the tense of her verb was not lost on him. He crossed the room to the door, opened it. He called out to someone. A few seconds later, a pretty, light-haired girl of fourteen or so arrived, spoke to him softly in Ukrainian. Jessica heard Kristina's name mentioned. The girl left. Father Greg returned.
"Kristina is not here today."
Jessica summoned her courage to say what she had to say. It was tougher to say it in a church. "I'm afraid I have bad news, Father. Kristina was killed."
Father Greg paled. He was an inner-city priest, in a tough area of North Philly, and thus probably braced for such news, but that didn't mean it ever came easy. He looked down at Jessica's business card. "You are with the homicide division."
"Yes."
"Are you saying she was murdered?"
"Yes."
Father Greg glanced at the floor for a moment, closed his eyes. He brought a hand to his heart. After a deep breath he looked up and asked, "How can I help?"
Jessica held up her notebook. "I just have a few questions."
"Whatever you need." He gestured to a pair of chairs. "Please." They sat.
"What can you tell me about Kristina?" Jessica asked.
Father Greg took a few moments. "I did not know her that well, but I can tell you she was very outgoing," he said. "Very giving. The children here really liked her."
"What did she do here exactly?"
"She helped out at the Sunday-school classes. Mostly in the role of assistant. But she was willing to do just about anything."
"For instance."
"Well, in preparation for our Christmas concert, like many volunteers, she painted backdrops, sewed costumes, helped nail together the sets."
"A Christmas concert?"
"Yes."
"And that concert is this week?"
Father Greg shook his head. "No. Our Holy Day Divine Liturgies are celebrated according to the Julian calendar."
The Julian calendar sort of rang a bell for Jessica, but she couldn't remember what it was. "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with that."
"The Julian calendar was begun by Julius Caesar in 46 BC. It is sometimes designated by OS, meaning Old Style. Unfortunately, for many of our younger parishioners, OS means Operating System. I'm afraid the Julian calendar is woefully outdated in a world of computers, cell phones, and DirecTV."