“Great fucking place for an ambush,” Finch said, as they stood outside the chapel. At their backs, beyond the tanks and sandbags, a warren of streets. Burnt-out schools, apartments, abandoned businesses.

“I don’t like it, either,” Wyte said.

“What if it’s a test? A test to prove our loyalty?” Dapple said. “And it’s not a rebel safe house at all.”

“Shut up,” Wyte said. Shifting his weight from foot to foot as if something pained him. To Finch: “If anyone is in there, we ask a few questions. Try to get some information to satisfy Heretic. Get out.”

Finch nodded. If anyone was in there, Finch didn’t know if they’d get many words in before the shooting started. Rebel safe house. Three detectives working for the gray caps, with Partials backing them up. Be better off turning in their guns, asking for mercy. Maybe.

Dapple looked close to tears. “We should get. The hell out now.”

“Changed your mind? Then why don’t you stay out here,” Finch said. “Guard the door. Duck inside and tell us if you see anything suspicious.” Dapple would be less dangerous as a guard than backing them up.

“With Partials out here?” Dapple protested.

Finch checked the magazine in the semiautomatic. Released the safety. “You’ll do it, Dapple, and you’ll be happy about it. And Dapple? Don’t run away. We’ll find you.”

“Enough!” Wyte said. “Let’s get this over with.”

The language of men scared shitless.

Wyte put his hand in the huge left-side pocket of his coat. The one with the growing verdigris stain. The one with his gun in it.

He walked through the middle doorway, Finch behind him.

Dark and cool inside. A second door just a few feet after the first. Wyte pushed it open. Finch covered him.

As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Finch let the room come to him. The smell of moist, rotting wood. A high ceiling that made every step echo up in the rafters. Two sets of pews, in twelve rows. Leading up to a raised wooden platform with an ornate, carved railing. Beyond that, red curtains. The supports for a chandelier hung down from the ceiling. But there was no chandelier. On the right side of the dais, an iron staircase curled up toward the dome.

“What the hell is that?” Wyte said, pointing.

As his eyes adjusted, Finch could see that a long, low glass-lined counter ran along the right side of the dais. Couldn’t tell what was inside it.

“I don’t know.”

Finch drifted ahead of Wyte. Walked up the carpet with Wyte behind. Climbed onto the platform from the steps built into the right side.

The counter. Under the smudged glass, a series of arms and heads. The arms looked like prosthetics. Didn’t understand the heads with their hollow eye sockets any better.

“Why in a church?” Wyte asked.

Finch shushed him.