“Here’s a gem,” Father Thomas said with a wide, happy grin. “Donated by Arthur and Marion Wembley, a genuine Steinway Louis XV grand piano!” From his position on the auctioneer’s platform, he allowed Dr. Sam to rattle off some of the finer points of the Steinway and looked proudly down on the piano as the volunteers lifted the lid and propped it up.

Dr. Sam was watching the action and was nearest the piano. “This rare, incredible instrument is rumored to have been played by . . .” Her voice trailed off, her eyes rounded, and she let out a scream that curdled through the church. The attendant who had been propping up the piano’s lid dropped it.

Bang!

“Holy Christ!” he said, backing up. “Holy . . . Oh, God!”

The shriek echoed through the gymnasium. Everyone else went silent. Staring.

Fear rippled through the cavernous room.

Montoya didn’t wait a beat. He ran toward the stage, along an aisle, while the crowd, stunned, sat transfixed. The volunteer who had pushed in the piano, a large Asian man, was backing up and staring at the gleaming white Steinway as if it were the yawning gates of hell.

“Someone call nine-one-one,” Samantha, finding her voice, yelled into the microphone. Still on the stage, white as a sheet and visibly quivering, trying to compose herself, she, too, couldn’t take her eyes off the piano.

A collective gasp went up.

Confusion reigned.

Dozens of patrons were already reaching for their phones, digging in their pockets, searching their purses, ready to jam the lines to the emergency number.

Father Paul’s face was a mirror of Dr. Sam’s. White and filled with terror. “If we could all stay calm . . .”

But the voices of the crowd were already reaching Montoya’s ears. “What is it?”

“For the love of God, what did she see?”

“Look at Jim, would you? Yes, yes, he’s the attendant. The one backing off the stage. Looks like he saw a ghost!”

“Oh my God, Chuck, we have to get out of here. . . .”

Montoya pulled his badge from his jacket pocket, flipped it open, and held it high while running for the front of the gym. “Police!” He vaulted up the two steps of the stage and jogged to the piano. “Everyone stay calm.” He caught Bentz’s eye and those of several of the undercover guys. “Stay in your seats. We’ll sort this out.”

No one, he sensed, believed him.

At the piano, he lifted the lid and propped it up, then backed up a couple of steps as the stench of rotting flesh reached his nostrils.

It was the stench of death.