Fear Nothing

Doogie, and now she heard the concern in my voice. “You know how things have tightened up here since Fort Wyvern closed and we lost the military audience at night. We're barely making money on this airshift even with a skeleton staff. What's wrong, Chris?”
        “You keep the station doors locked, don't you?”
        “Yeah. All us late-night jocks and jockettes are required to watch Play Misty for Me and take it to heart.”
        “Even though it'll be after dawn when you leave, promise me you'll have Doogie or someone from the morning shift walk you out to your Explorer.”
        “What's on the loose - Dracula?”
        “Promise me.”
        “Chris, what the hell-”
        “I'll tell you later. Just promise me,” I insisted.
        She sighed. “All right. But are you in some kind of trouble? Are you-”
        “I'm all right, Sasha. Really. Don't worry. Just, damn it, promise me.”
        “I did promise-”
        “You didn't use the word.”
        “Jesus. Okay, okay. I promise . Cross my heart and hope to die. But now I'm expecting a great story later, at least as spooky as the ones I used to hear around Girl Scout campfires. You'll be waiting for me at home?”
        “Will you wear your old Girl Scout uniform?”
        “The only part of it I could duplicate are the knee socks.”
        “That's enough.”
        “You're stirred by that picture, huh?”
        “Vibrating.”
        “You're a bad man, Christopher Snow.”
        “Yeah, I'm a killer.”
        “See you in a little while, killer.”
        We disconnected, and I clipped the cell phone to my belt once more.
        For a moment I listened to the silent cemetery. Not a single nightingale performed, and even the chimney swifts had gone to bed. No doubt the worms were awake and laboring, but they always conduct their solemn work in a respectful hush.
        To Orson, I said, “I find myself in need of some spiritual guidance. Let's pay a visit to Father Tom.
        As I crossed the cemetery on foot and went behind the church, I drew the Glock from my jacket pocket. In a town where the chief of police dreamed of beating and torturing little girls and where undertakers carried handguns, I could not assume that the priest would be armed solely with the word of God.
        

    * * *
        
        The rectory had appeared dark from the street, but from the backyard I saw two lighted windows in a rear room on the second floor. A;
        After the scene that I'd witnessed in the basement of the church, from the cover of the creche, I wasn't surprised that the rector of St. Bernadette's was unable to sleep. Although it was nearly three o'clock in the morning, four hours since Jesse Pinn's visit, Father Tom was still reluctant to turn out the light.
        “Make like a cat,” I whispered to Orson.
        We crept up a set of stone steps and then, as silently as possible, across the wooden floor of the back porch.
        I tried the door, but it was locked. I had been hoping that a man of God would consider it a point of faith to trust in his Maker rather than in a dead bolt.
        I didn't intend to knock or to go around to the front and ring the bell. With murder already under my belt, it seemed foolish to have qualms about engaging in criminal trespass. I hoped to avoid breaking and entering, however, because the sound of shattering glass would alert the priest.
        Four double-hung windows faced onto the porch. I tried them one by one, and the third was unlocked. I had to tuck the Glock in my jacket pocket again, because the wood of the window was swollen with moisture and moved stiffly in the frame; I needed both hands to raise the lower sash, pressing first on the horizontal muntin and then hooking my fingers under the bottom rail. It slid upward with sufficient rasping and squeaking to lend atmosphere to an entire Wes Craven film.
        Orson chuffed as though scornful of my skills as a lawbreaker. Everyone's a critic.
        I waited until I was confident that the noise had not been heard upstairs, and I slipped through the open window into a room as black as the interior of a witch's purse.
        “Come on, pal,” I whispered, for I didn't intend to leave him outside alone, without a gun of his own.
        Orson sprang inside, and I slid the window shut as quietly as possible. I locked it, too. Although I didn't believe that we were currently being watched by