It's close. And whatever it is, it's big.

Aside from Sinjin's grocery store the church stood pretty much alone on Cavan Street. The only other building was the rectory. He'd seen it during the funeral, a cute little backsplit bungalow with a neatly manicured lawn and gardens. Both had been yellow-brown from the season.

The reverend would be asleep inside.

"Sheila!"

No reply. He thought about her dream, wondering if she was on the pill. They hadn't discussed it. He hadn't had the courage to bring it up and she didn't seem eager to discuss it after they left the stones. Sooner or later he supposed they would have to talk about it. If it became a much bigger problem, difficult to ignore.

Maybe we'll die first if we're lucky, he thought sardonically. Then we won't have to.

He returned to the main corridor. The bathroom door was closed, a bar of light under it. "Sheila, are you in there?"

"I'll be right out," she said, hoping he wouldn't notice the thick quality to her voice. She was sitting on the lid of the toilet with her face in her hands. Tears burned her eyes. The bad dream had shaken her more than she'd expected and the dam burst as soon as she closed herself into the washroom, faced with the toilet, reminding her of that afternoon at Geraldine's house.

"I think the rectory's on fire," he shouted from behind the door.

"What?"

"Reverend Atkins's house. I think it's on fire. Are you dressed?"

She was still in her bra and underwear. "No," she said, standing up and crossing to the sink. "I'll be quick."

"Okay." He sounded uncertain. "I'll wait for you in the pews."

She quickly splashed water on her face, tore a few sheets of paper towel out of the dispenser and dabbed herself dry.

When she opened the door, Martin was gone. The siren wailed eerily in the dark, empty hall. She hurried to the office, gathered her pants, sweater and shoes, stepped into her slightly damp, torn pants and put on her sweater as she headed out to meet Martin out in the nave.

He stood at the pulpit, leaning over it, frowning at the Bible. It lay open on the second Book of Kings. One of the more peculiar passages, concerning the Siege of Samaria, had been underlined:

28 Then the king asked her, "What is the matter?" And she answered, "This woman said to me, 'Give up your son, that we may eat him, and tomorrow we will eat my son.'" 29 So we boiled my son and ate him, and the next day I said to her, "Give up your son, and we will eat him." But she has hidden her son.

Sheila knelt to tie her shoes. "What's wrong?"

"You really should come read this."

She stood, her shoes tied. "Martin, we have to go."

Reluctantly, he stepped away from the pulpit and met her in the aisle, wondering if the reverend had inadvertently left the bible open to the part about cannibalism, specifically about mothers savaging their own sons—or if he knew much more than he'd let on.