shut behind him.
“Stay,” I whispered to Orson.
I went down the stairs, and my ever-obedient dog followed me.
When I put one ear to the half-open door, I heard nothing from the basement.
Orson stuck his snout through the eighteen-inch gap, sniffing, and although I rapped him lightly on the top of the head, he didn’t withdraw.
Leaning over the dog, I put my snout through the gap, too, not for a sniff but far enough inside to see what lay beyond. Squinting against the fluorescent glare, I saw a twenty-by-forty-foot room with concrete walls and ceiling, lined with equipment that served the church and the attached wing of Sunday-school rooms: five gas-fired furnaces, a big water heater, electric-service panels, and machinery that I didn’t recognize.
Jesse Pinn was three-quarters of the way across this first room, approaching a closed door in the far wall, his back to me.
Stepping away from the door, I unclipped the glasses case from my shirt pocket. The Velcro closure peeled open with a sound that made me think of a snake breaking wind, though I don’t know why, as I’d never in my life
By the time I put on the glasses and peered inside again, Pinn had disappeared into the second basement room. That farther door stood half open as well, and light blazed beyond.
“It’s a concrete floor in there,” I whispered. “My Nikes won’t make a sound, but your claws will tick. Stay.”
I pressed open the door before me and eased into the basement.
Orson remained outside, at the foot of the stairs. Perhaps he was obedient this time because I’d given him a logical reason to be.
Or perhaps, because of something he had smelled, he knew that proceeding farther was ill-advised. Dogs have an olfactory sense thousands of times sharper than ours, bringing them more data than all human senses combined.
With the sunglasses, I was safe from the light, yet I could see more than well enough to navigate the room. I avoided the open center, staying close to the furnaces and the other equipment, where I could duck into a niche and hope to hide if I heard Jesse Pinn returning.
Time and sweat had by now diminished the effectiveness of the sunscreen on my face and hands, but I was counting on my layer of soot to protect me. My hands appeared to be sheathed in black silk gloves, and I assumed that my face was equally masked.
When I reached the inner door, I heard two distant voices, both male, one belonging to Pinn. They were muffled, and I couldn’t understand what was being said.
I glanced at the outside door, where Orson peered in at me, one ear at attention and the other at ease.
Beyond the inner door was a long, narrow, largely empty room. Only a few of the overhead lights were aglow, suspended on chains between exposed water pipes and heating ducts, but I didn’t remove my sunglasses.
At the end, this chamber proved to be part of an L-shaped space, and the next length, which opened to the right, was longer and wider than the first, although still dimly lighted. This second section was used as a storeroom, and seeking the voices, I crept past boxes of supplies, decorations for various holidays and celebrations, and file cabinets full of church records. Everywhere shadows gathered like convocations of robed and cowled monks, and I removed my sunglasses.
The voices grew louder as I proceeded, but the acoustics were terrible, and I still couldn’t discern any words. Although he was not shouting, Pinn was angry, which I deduced from a low menace in his voice. The other man sounded as though he was trying to placate the undertaker.
A complete life-size creche was arrayed across half the width of the room: not merely Joseph and the Holy Virgin at a cradle with the Christ child, but also the entire manger scene with wise men, camels, donkeys, lambs, and heralding angels. The stable was made of lumber, and the bales of hay were real; the people and animals were plaster over chicken wire and lath, their clothes and features painted by a gifted artist, protected by a waterproof lacquer that gave them a supernatural glow even in this poor light. Judging by the tools, paint, and other supplies at the periphery of the collection, repairs were being made, after which the creche would be put under drop cloths until next Christmas.
Beginning to make out scattered words of Pinn’s conversation with the unknown man, I moved among the figures, some of which were taller than I am. The scene was disorienting because none of the elements was staged for display; none was in its proper relationship to the others. One of the wise men stood with his face in the bell of an angel’s raised trumpet, and Joseph appeared to be engaged in a conversation with a camel. Baby Jesus lay unattended in His cradle, which stood on a bale of hay to one side. Mary sat with a beatific smile and an adoring gaze, but the object of her attention, rather than being her holy child, was a galvanized bucket. Another wise man seemed to be looking up a camel’s butt.
I wended through this disorganized creche, and near the end of it, I used a lute-playing angel for cover. I was in shadows, but peering past the curve of a half-furled wing, I saw Jesse Pinn in the light about twenty feet away, hectoring another man near the stairs that led up to the main floor of the church.
“You’ve been warned,” Pinn said, raising his voice until it was almost a snarl. “How many
At first I could not see the other man, who was blocked by Pinn. He spoke quietly, evenly, and I could not hear what he said.
The undertaker reacted in disgust and began to pace agitatedly, combing one hand through his disarranged hair.
Now I saw that the second man was Father Tom Eliot, rector of St. Bernadette’s.
“You fool, you stupid shit,” Pinn said furiously, bitterly. “You prattling, God-gushing
Father Tom was five feet eight, plump, with the expressive and rubbery face of a natural-born comedian. Although I wasn’t a member of his — or any — church, I’d spoken with him on several occasions, and he seemed to be a singularly good-natured man with a self-deprecating sense of humor and an almost childlike enthusiasm for life. I had no trouble understanding why his parishioners adored him.
Pinn did not adore him. He raised one skeletal hand and pointed a bony finger at the priest: “You make me sick, you self-righteous son of a bitch.”
Evidently Father Tom had decided to weather this outrageous verbal assault without response.
As he paced, Pinn chopped at the air with the sharp edge of one hand, as though struggling — with considerable frustration — to sculpt his words into a truth that the priest could understand. “We’re not taking any more of your crap, no more of your interference. I’m not going to threaten to kick your teeth out myself, though I’d sure as hell enjoy doing it. Never liked to dance, you know, but I’d sure like to dance on your stupid face. But no threats like before, no, not this time, not ever again. I’m not even going to threaten to send
Father Tom stood with his head bowed, his eyes downcast, his arms straight at his sides, as though waiting patiently for this storm to pass.
The priest’s passivity inflamed Pinn. The mortician made a sharp-knuckled fist of his right hand and pounded it into the palm of his left, as if he needed to hear the hard snap of flesh on flesh, and now his voice was as rich with scorn as with fury. “You’d wake up some night, and they’d be all over you, or maybe they’d take you by surprise in the bell tower or in the sacristy when you’re kneeling at the
To all of this, the chubby priest responded with lowered eyes and mute endurance.
Keeping my own silence required effort. I had questions for Jesse Pinn. Lots of questions.
