Whatever the reason, nothing about this felt right. He stopped mere feet from the doors, grabbing Sheila by the shoulder. She turned with a frown.

"I don't think this fire is accidental," he said.

"You think someone set it?"

"What if it was Mavis and the others? What if this is a trap?"

She considered it, her eyes narrowing. "We can't stay here, Martin. Even if the fire doesn't hit the church, Reverend Atkins might still be alive in there."

"Then we have to hope he's made his peace for whatever part he played in this."

"I'm going out there—"

"Sheila—"

"Martin, I know you're scared. I'm scared out of my mind. But we can't hide here forever, living off communion wafers and sacramental wine. We have to leave this place, leave this island—and if it's not on a boat, I'll fucking swim."

She turned and drew open the door.

The siren howled in the empty street. Chilly night air blew in, swirling with heat from the fire like warm spots in a cold lake. She stepped out, mounting the steps to the walkway, and turned to look at the blaze. Her eyes widened, caught in its flickering glow.

"Martin—?"

"What?"

He stepped out and saw what she had. There were no fire trucks, no emergency vehicles of any kind. Only dozens and dozens of people, a hundred or more, standing in the street in their pajamas and boots and winter jackets. Closer to the blaze, some of them had removed their heavy wraps and held them. They watched the rectory burn with wonder in their eyes, as if it was no more dangerous or sinister than the Harvest Festival fireworks display.

Reverend Atkins knelt on the yellow-brown lawn, dressed a nightgown and cap like Ebenezer Scrooge, hands clasped together in prayer, eyes squeezed shut, face red from the fire or crying or both.

Mavis Lynch and Ethel Kelly stood over him, Mavis in her forest green peacoat, Ethel clutching her cane against the breast of her striped coat. Firelight flashed on the old blind woman's sunglasses as she turned to face the church.

A murmur ran through the crowd. Expressions of wonder evaporated, becoming anger. Rage.

"Well, it looks like the guests of honor have finally arrived," Mavis said, shouting to be heard over the fire, the siren. "Sinjin. Marcus. Please do us the honors."

Sinjin and Marcus stepped out of the crowd. The bigger man wore Superman pajamas, his head hung low as if in shame. Marcus wore his fedora even while dressed in flannels and heavy boots.

Martin and Sheila shared a desperate look.

They were caught, with nowhere to run except back into the church. They might be able to hide for a while but sooner or later they'd be captured and Mavis and Ethel would be even more likely to torture them.

As Sinjin and Marcus crossed the church lawn, the charred roof of the rectory collapsed on the second floor. The fire blossomed, brightening the faces in the crowd. Martin and Sheila picked out people they'd eaten and laughed with at Sinjin's clambake: "Double-D" Darla and Dianne, the husky redheaded boy Sinjin suggested should try out for the football team, Pauline, who wore too much makeup and worked cash at the grocery store, the little curly-haired blonde girl, wearing a pink winter coat with fairy wings below the hood.