I gunned for the front doors through the empty church parking lot. Plywood covered the entrance, and I parked with the headlights shining into the church windows and lit the foyer. I let the gun lead me out of the car, and when I reached the plywood doorway, I checked the road.

I put a shoulder blow into the middle of a sheet of plywood and damn near ate the floor tiles inside the foyer. I caught myself on the wall and used it to get my balance, then aimed the pistol all around the room. Nobody jumped out of any dark corners or came to check out all the noise. I made my way into the church sanctuary, and that wooden cross still loomed like an unforgiving talismen and ushered me even faster toward the side door. It swung wide, and I stepped into the hallway with the pistol aimed.

The stairway reeked. It smelled the way our freezer did the one summer when our trailer lost power, and all the venison me and Marshall kept frozen from hunting season went rotten. It made my stomach curd the way milk does when it’s gone sour. I pulled my shirt over my nose and mouth to keep from gagging. I slowed down some and hung the gun to my side. When I reached the bottom, my legs almost gave out on me.

The baptismal tub sat in the center of the room, and Andy’s body was sunken into it. She sat up straight with her head bobbed on her shoulder—and her arms splayed over the sides. Snakes had gotten piled on top of her and molested her now and filled my ears with their hissing. Rattlers buzzed inside my head and put me into the kind of hypnotic state an addict goes into when the high rushes through their veins. Andy’s skin felt cold, and my knees failed me. My tears streamed down her dirty fingers and cleaned them the way Mary Magdalene used hers to clean the feet of Jesus.

The preacher’s voice interrupted my sobbing. He sang from the top of the steps, “Hang your head, Mack Dooley. Hang your head and cry.” His heels stomped out a woeful rhythm as he descended the steps and rolled around the basement walls sounding like a hammer does when it strikes a nailhead. Randy Jessup’s voice raised in volume, and he sang, “Hang your head, Mack Dooley. Poor boy, you’re bound to die.”