I leaned forward, which didn't make the chair any more comfortable. "Father, I think you'd better tell me exactly what you mean."
"Duvall says there's supposed to be twelve of these guys," I said. "You know, like the twelve apostles."
"Twelve enforcers," McGuire said.
Karl looked at me. "There's eleven of 'em now."
"Apparently, they've been trained by some ex-special forces types," I said.
"Commandos," Karl said with a snort.
"Duvall said he's pretty sure these guys do the Church's dirty work," I said, "although he had no specific idea of what that work might be."
"But he mentioned the witch burnings," Karl said.
"That's what he thought of when he saw them on the news – that it was the kind of shit these guys might be willing to do."
"Why the fuck didn't Duvall come in?" McGuire said.
"He has no proof," I said, "and without that, he figured we wouldn't be interested in talking to him."
"If only he knew how desperate we've been for a lead," Karl said. "Hell, speculation without evidence would've been an improvement over what we had, which was nothing."
Whatever McGuire was going to say was interrupted by the ringing phone on his desk. He never did get around to finishing the sentence.
"McGuire. Yeah." I watched the knuckles of his phone hand slowly turn white with the pressure of his grip. For some reason, he glanced at me. "Of course." He wrote something on a pad. "I'll put somebody on it right now. Thanks."
He hung up the phone and sat staring at it. "Looks like the Church's enforcers have been busy." He spoke softly, as if talking to himself. Then he looked at me.
"There's been another witch burning," he said. His voice was not quite steady.
I immediately thought of Rachel. Did they send someone to finish the job, with Rachel not expecting trouble anymore?
"They have an ID?" I asked, my chest tight.
"No. All I've got is this." He pushed the pad toward me. Written on it was "921 North Webster Ave."
"Son of a motherfucking bitch," I said. "That's my house."
As Karl and I walked, very fast, out to the parking lot, I opened my phone and keyed 911.
The woman who answered was not Christine.
"Emergency services. How may I assist you?"
"I want to talk to Christine Markowski – she's one of your operators. Put her on the line."
"Sir, I'm sorry, but this number is only for–"
"This is Detective Sergeant Stanley Markowski, Scranton Police Department, badge number 4341. I don't know who you are, but if you don't put Christine on right now, I promise you'll be charged with obstruction of justice. Now do it!"
"Y-yes, sir."
The line went silent. God doesn't hear from me all that often these days, but I was praying in my head now, for all I was worth.
Please don't let her come back and say that Christine didn't make it to work tonight. Please don't let—
"Hello, Daddy. What's wrong?"
You can have your symphonies and concertos and angelic choirs singing. As far as I was concerned, the sweetest sound in the universe right then was my little girl's voice.
"Chris–" I tried to speak, but my throat was clogged. I cleared it noisily and managed, "Christine."
"Yes, I'm here – what's going on? You scared Roberta half to death."
We were at the car now. It was my night to drive, but I flipped the keys to Karl, who didn't need any explanation. I got in the passenger side and slammed the door.
"Christine, in case we get cut off somehow, you need to know this: do not go home this morning. Do. Not. Go. Home. Understand me?"
"Yeah, OK, sure. I can crash at a friend's place. But what the fuck is going on?"
"There's been another witch burning – apparently at our house."
"What? Our house? Why?"
"I dunno," I said. "But they haven't ID'd the victim yet, and for a second I thought the evil bastards had moved up from witches to vampires, and the charred body was you."
"Oh, my God, you must've been – no, I'm fine. I've been here the last three hours or so."
"Baby, I am so glad you're all right," I told her. "I've got more calls to make, so I have to go. I'll call you tomorrow night. Don't go home until I tell you it's OK – all right?"
"Sure, Daddy, that's no problem. Make your calls – I'll talk to you tomorrow."
"OK, bye."
Karl had the flashing light on the dash going, and the siren screaming. Under other circumstances, he'd have been grinning like a kid. But his face was serious as he glanced at me.
"Christine's OK, then?"
"Yeah, thank God."
"Thank God is right."
I brought up the directory in my phone and pressed a number.
"Who're you calling now?" Karl asked.
"Rachel."
Rachel's line started ringing. One. Two. Three. If she didn't answer, that didn't necessarily mean anything bad. She could be out getting a cheeseburger, or something. Four. "Come on, Rachel, answer the fucking–"
"Hello?"
"Rachel, it's Stan."
"What's wrong? It's bad, I can tell."
"There's been another witch burning. I was afraid it was you."
"Another one? But I thought the man doing that was dead!"
"He is. Apparently he'd got friends."