He left the door to the chapel open—there was always the chance Norma or one of her biddy buddies might come in to pray—and walked behind the church to his dusty Toyota. He’d never actually been to the bank, but he knew from talking to parishioners that there were now three branches open. One was in the old downtown, one was somewhere else, but the only one he’d seen himself was off the highway near the nursery, and that was where he drove.

His was the only car in the parking lot as he pulled in. The bank building itself was a hulking single-story structure, its glass doors and windows so dark that it was hard to tell whether anyone was inside. The impression he had was that of a spider waiting for a fly, and for a second the image was so strong that he considered leaving and going to one of the other branches.

But he wanted to get this problem solved, and there was no telling at which location Pickering might be. Maybe he wouldn’t even need to speak to Pickering but could get help from someone else.

Or maybe Pickering would just appear.

Pushing that thought aside, he got out of the car, walked up to the door of the building, pushed it open and walked in.

The interior of the bank was black.

It was not dimly lighted. Its walls were not darkly paneled. It was black. As though a worker with a grudge against the company had maliciously coated walls, floors and ceiling with paint the color of pitch. The people working here, as well, were dressed in somber attire, and Walter scanned their faces, looking for someone he recognized. The pastor knew a lot of people in town, but none of these individuals were familiar to him.

He approached a hard-looking man with close cropped hair and a prominent scar across his left cheek who was seated behind a black desk. He intended to ask where he might find Mr. Pickering, but before he could even open his mouth, the man was out of his chair and walking around the desk. “Hail Satan!” he declared.

Walter’s eyes widened in shock.

The scarred man grinned crookedly. “Just kidding, Rev.” He punched Walter’s arm, hard, in what was supposed to be a gesture of camaraderie. “What can I do you for?”

Rev? The man obviously knew who he was, and Walter tried to remember if he’d seen him before, but his mind was still drawing a blank. “I’m looking for Mr. Pickering,” he said.

“This is about your gambling site, isn’t it?” The scarred man shook his head. “Sorry, rev. You’ve been cut off.”