“What are you talking about?” Dan asked.
“Black Luke,” Sam said.
“He’s right,” Razor continued. “Ol’ Luke had the same big ideas as you. Did you know that? Claimed he was gonna grow the Black Chapel all over that block. But in the end, only ground he needed was a hole, six by two. That’s all any man needs, white bread. Even you.”
“C’mon, Razor, you’re smarter than this,” Sam pleaded. “Why make problems? Move your boys down a block. The crackheads will still find you. And when Shea finishes those new condos, maybe you’ll get some upscale trade.”
“If the new guy runs the Black Chapel anything like Black Luke, I’ll be doin’ great business. And that’s the only reason I’m lettin’ you keep working, Shea.”
“You’re not letting me do anything. I’m here till the job’s done.”
“Dawg, you keep crowdin’ me, you could be here a lot longer than that. Like forever. Now you’d best get steppin’, the both of ya, before I change my mind.”
Work was already under way at the Chapel when Shea got back. Lydia was waiting anxiously for him in the office.
“Are you all right? I expected you to come back for help.”
“I had help, the Ryans went with me.”
“Two old men for backup?”
“Actually, Sam was pretty damn good. I don’t think we’ll have any more trespassers in the bell tower. What are you doing?”
“Keeping busy to keep from worrying myself crazy. I want you to take a look at something. That picture, the one of Pastor Black ranting, where the windows look like a row of tombstones? It’s not just an optical illusion. I realized that what made it seem so real were these shadow lines across the last two.”
“Yeah, they almost look like names.”
“They are names, or one of them is. I enlarged it. The windows are partly open and what we’re seeing is the reflection of a name. Gretchen Hurlburt. Not a common name, probably German. But the only record I could find of a Gretchen Hurlburt was an on-line obituary in the Castle Library genealogy section. She died in Saginaw in nineteen-oh-eight. Her funeral and interment were at St. Denis.”
“So?”
“Dan, a hundred years ago, the Black Chapel was St. Denis. According to her obituary, she was buried here.”
“Here? Where?”
“Apparently somewhere near that window since her stone’s reflected in it.”
“Could the name be etched on the glass? Sometimes donors’ names are etched on windows or on wall plaques.”
“I thought of that, but it’s slanted the wrong way. No, I think it’s the reflection of a real gravestone.”
“You’re talking about a cemetery, then. She wouldn’t be alone. But if there was a graveyard, it should be on the original blueprints, right?”
“That’s another problem. There aren’t any drawings. Not even at City Hall.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. According to the logbooks, the Chapel blueprints disappeared around the time of Reverend Black’s death. Maybe a reporter was doing research and didn’t return them, who knows? But they’re definitely gone. I got most of my data from photographs and old articles I found in the Saginaw News morgue.”
“Do any of the photographs show a cemetery?”
“None I could find. But most of them are wedding pictures or christenings, taken on the church steps or inside. No one takes pictures of a parking lot.”
“Maybe not, but I know just the man to ask.”
“A graveyard?” Sam Ryan said, surprised. “Where?”
“We think there may have been one behind the Chapel where the parking lot is now,” Lydia said. “Do you remember it?”
“No, I... wait a minute. I believe there was a cemetery there back in the day. Small one, years ago. The Dazers moved it to make room for parking when they first took over the Chapel. Do you remember when that was, Morrie? Mid ’fifties, wasn’t it?”
His brother nodded.
“The ’fifties?” Lydia echoed doubtfully. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, ’fifty-five or — six, I think. Dug up the old graves, leveled the lot, and paved it over. Put up the baskets later on for neighborhood kids. Only decent thing Luke ever did. Why? Restoration doesn’t mean you gotta bring the old cemetery back, does it?”
“No, we’re just trying to learn as much about the building as possible.”
“To make it what it was, you mean? Personally, I think you’re making a mistake. People love to talk about the good ol’ days, but lady, the only days that place had were bad and worse.”
“How does one move a cemetery?” Lydia asked as they crossed the street to the Chapel. “What’s involved?”
“It’s complicated. First you need a disinterment permit from the Health Department, then a licensed vault company has to open the graves. They recover the caskets or remains, seal them in new vaults for reburial, then the Health Department inspects the site and certifies it for use.”
“Very impressive. How do you know all that?”
“When family farms are broken up into subdivisions we often find old burial plots on the property. They have to be moved.”
“Well, this cemetery may have been moved, but not when Sam said it was.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I have crime-scene photos on file, taken at the time of Luke’s murder. A few show police cars parked on the side streets. The lot isn’t visible, but the stone walls clearly weren’t there then. Since the walls are set in the parking lot concrete, both jobs must have been done at the same time. The lot was paved after Black Luke’s death, not before.”
“After? But it went into receivership afterward. Nobody owned it.”
“Nevertheless, that’s when it was done. Sam must have the date wrong.”
“Maybe, but I doubt it,” Shea said, frowning. “That old man may have a few glitches brought on by the years, but I don’t think a bad memory’s one of them.”
As Shea worked through the afternoon, his eye strayed to the stone wall every time he crossed the lot. A crude mortaring job. Nothing like the Chapel’s expert craftsmanship. He promised himself to take a closer look at it when he had a few minutes.
But his time ran out.
After work, Shea hurried to his motel room to shower and change clothes before returning to the Chapel for the night watch.
But on the return trip, he had to pull over twice to let police and fire trucks pass. As he turned onto Johnstone, the streets in front of the Chapel were clogged with police cars and fire engines. Parking at Paddy Ryan’s, he spotted one of the Saginaw cops who’d braced him the first day. Boyko. He trotted over.
“Jeez, Shea, who did you guys tick off? Osama Bin Laden?”
“Why? What happened?”
“A bomb is what happened. Couple of fair-sized blasts.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
“Not out here. We haven’t been inside yet, the bomb squad’s coming, but — hey! Come back here!”
Dashing up the steps to the nave, Shea checked the office first. No damage, no one inside. Even in the chaos of the nave, the blast sites were obvious, one explosion in each corner of — Only in three corners.
Trotting to the fourth corner on the west side of the room, he found a fist-sized glob of putty loose on the floor. C-4, plastic explosive. Military, not industrial. Crudely fused, a lace job, probably snuffed out by one of the other blasts. Looked like somebody just threw them into the room like firecrackers. An amateur. If the plastique had been tamped tightly in the corners, the whole building could have come down.
When three armored officers of the bomb squad showed up, Shea explained who he was and what he’d found. They told him to get the hell out of the building and stay out.