"You aren't kidding. How long until it stops?"

He shrugged. "When the fire department gets to the scene, I guess. Maybe not until the fire's out. We should try to get back to sleep."

"I can't sleep through that."

"Yeah, me neither. Tomorrow's gonna be rough. What time is it?" He glanced at his watch. "Three o'clock. Jesus."

"The witching hour," Sheila said.

He pulled his jeans out of the pile and shook them out. Still slightly damp, despite the long walk and the warm office, it took him longer than normal to get his legs through. "Why did you have to say that?"

"Psychologically speaking, this is the most common time of night for supernatural experiences. I had the strangest dream just now. Dr. Mulligan was dead. He was my OB/GYN, for some reason. They gave me an abortion but the baby was still alive. She was in the trash."

He frowned at her, still trying to get his right foot into the leg of his jeans. "That's a weird dream. Jesus, that's loud as hell. There's gotta be a coffee maker in this place somewhere, right?"

"I think he said there's a meeting room down the hall. Are we getting up now? Did you want me to go with you?"

"It's fine. I'll make a pot. Might as well get up. We had, what? Three hours sleep? Four?"

She yawned. "I think four."

He tugged his sweater over his head. At least it was dry. "Kay. I'll be right back then. Don't go anywhere."

"Where would I go?"

He opened the door to the hallway. Bright lights from the nave cast a dim glow on the bulletin boards, the framed photos of parish events and gatherings, the stacked chairs.

At the far end were the washrooms Reverend Atkins had pointed out earlier. Between them and the office was the meeting hall, where residents occasionally held group events, art classes, banquets and small weddings. Martin had looked over the postings before they settled in for the night and hadn't seen a single one for AA or NA or any other self-help group. It struck him as odd.

He opened the door and the light startled him. He'd expected to find the room dark. The far wall was all windows overlooking the cemetery and the woods beyond. For some reason the sky, the trees, the gravestones and all of the tables and chairs in the room were lit by orange flickering lights like a Hallowe'en horror night.

Fire, he thought, navigating the tables toward the windows. Watching the flames flicker on the glass brought back memories of the blaze that nearly burned his house to the ground. He felt an overwhelming urge to flee in terror, yet he couldn't turn away.

"Sheila! Come in here! Quick!"

She didn't reply. Probably couldn't hear him over the siren.

As he reached the glass, he heard the low, primordial roar of the fire itself.

The window was warm when he pressed his palms against it to get a look at the blaze. Black smoke swirled into view on the wind, curling around the headstones like mist.