They agreed. Martin said he'd take the floor, leaving Sheila the cot.

"I'll be back first thing in the morning," the reverend said, standing in the doorway. "My little rectory is on the other side of the cemetery. I'd invite you to stay but I don't suspect our mutual friends would appreciate it very much. I like to believe what's said within these hallowed walls shall never reach their wicked ears, that God would prevent it. I understand that faith is a difficult concept to subscribe to in these troubled times of ours, particularly in light of what we know about those... witches, for lack of a better word. Those wolves in sheep's clothing. But it's all we've got to cling to, isn't it? That light will triumph against dark. Good against evil."

Sheila paused in laying out her sheet on the cot. "Can I ask you something, Reverend?"

"Of course, dear child."

"What happened between you and Dr. Mulligan? When we spoke, he seemed to imply you'd betrayed him."

Reverend Atkins contemplated the question for a moment, peering out into the bright hallway. "Ryland Mulligan is a kind and decent man, but he's also an old fool. He should never have returned to this island. He shouldn't have pushed against the Midwives. If I betrayed anyone, it was Michael and Rosalee Creemore. The whole town betrayed them. We'll all pay for it someday." He nodded gravely to himself. "Perhaps sooner than later."

21

A Time to Burn

THE KILLER STOOD at the edge of the earth overlooking the black waters of the Rhode Island Sound.

In the few days since he'd left Qurban Youssef's remains to rot in the Hell's Kitchen alley, Barclay had kept a close watch on Detective Lumsden. Biding his time. But the cop was always on the move, at the station, with his lady partner or his family.

Ol' Jimmy couldn't exactly confront a cop in broad daylight. Too loud. Too messy. He needed to be stealthy, like a coyote on the prowl. For as much pleasure as it would bring him to have his revenge on the detective who locked him away in the nuthatch for the past six years, just cut his throat from ear to ear right in the middle of the cop shop in front of all his friends and colleagues, Ol' Gimme Jimmy needed information, not the cop's blood.

In the end it turned out he didn't need Lumsden at all. Providence smiled upon him once again, in the form of an article.

This morning he stood outside the Science, Industry and Business Library in the shadow of the Empire State Building, among a throng of homeless people waiting for it to open. He fit right in, dressed in a baggy gray B.U.M. Equipment hoodie he stole from a Goodwill bin, his salt-and-pepper scruff now a full beard, patchy and prickly as a porkypine.

When the security guard opened the doors at just past ten, he shuffled in unnoticed among an aromatic sea of unnoticeables. While others charged their old flip phones, found themselves a nice space to nap for the morning or watched videos on the computers, Ol' Gimme Jimmy logged on to the Google and typed in Marty's name.