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.

Curiosity, perhaps. And where else did he have to go?

The church sat forward on the one-and-a-half acre plot, separated from the street by a semicircle of gravel for parking. Stone walkways led both to the front door and around the side of the building to the even smaller parsonage in the rear. He checked the latter as he approached and found the windows dark, but there was a light burning in the chapel. And there was something else . . . music playing, though not the monotonous groan of the pipe organ. Something familiar and strangely incongruous . . .

Sammy Hagar?

The strains of “Heavy Metal” grew louder as he neared the front door and found it standing open. He stood there on the walkway, staring into the darkness of the vestibule and beyond where the shadows receded and a light burned. A row of pews was in sight, and half the podium. Nothing else. No one.