“Stay back.” The shotgun barrels looked deeply into his eyes.

“Dammit, how can I convince you? We’re wasting time—they could be killing my mom!”

Sharon’s face remained stony; her tears had all been cried out. “I’m sorry, Delbert,” she said flatly, “if you are really Delbert. But I can’t take the chance. I just can’t.” She kept the shotgun trained on him even as she backed away, and once the barrels cleared the window, she quickly closed and locked it.

“Wait! What do I do now? Where do I go . . .” but it was no use. She was gone. He sat back and started to cry. “I’m sorry, Mom,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

You can’t give up on faith, sweetheart . . .

Her words from earlier in the day came back. But why? What had made him think of that now, unless . . . He looked around to confirm his location. The church wasn’t far from there, just at the end of the next street, maybe two or three blocks. But what good would that do? he wondered. The pastor’s done gone cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, so he won’t be any help, and what’s there for me anyway, I sleep through services and I couldn’t even hold off Danner with a cross and Chris told me—

Can’t give up on faith.

He surrendered with a sigh. All right, Mom. At least it’s a place to go.

He recovered his fake teeth, dusted them off, and put them in, then reached into his coat pocket for the stick of clown-white to fix his face again and . . . oh, God. It wasn’t there, he realized coldly as he patted down all of his pockets. He could almost visualize laying it on the furnace before stepping out into the open basement. Arrgh, he groaned, slapping his own forehead. What am I going to do now? He looked around. There was no one else in sight. No use complaining. Better git now, while the gittin’s good. He walked back out to the street, looked both ways, checking each house as well. And when he was sure the coast was clear, he pulled his collar up around his face, lowered his head, and ran.

He turned onto Oak at a dead run and saw the shape of the Little Bethlehem Congregational Church looming out of the fog from a block away, its steeple like a finger pointing skyward. As Del drew closer, his flight lost some of its momentum. Something wasn’t right—it looked too . . . ordinary. It was the same back­water church he’d seen countless times, the same white board siding, the same long, thin windows with their dark shutters and frosted panes. It was a singularly plain cottagelike structure that differed from the rest of the neighborhood only in its modest size and needle-like spire. But where was the light, Del wanted to know. Where was the holy aura he’d almost talked himself into expecting, where was the light of God that would surround the place and guard it from the darkness and act as a beacon to all the lost ones out there, the ones who needed His protection? His heart sank as reality came washing in, and it brought with it the memory of his facing Danner, and his use of the cross. And the results. And he suddenly felt very stupid for even coming here. But he approached the church just the same.