Hawkins drove through the town fighting the feeling he’d had when they found Benny Gonnona—that everything was cold, bad, and ugly. It didn’t go with the pretty square, the smooth park and small shut-­up shops. It especially didn’t go with the white church he saw across the square, its handsome facade half covered by a white silk banner that said Get Out the Word. He pulled up in front of the church, got out, and without thinking, he tried the door. It was open and he stepped inside. The chapel was half lit by New England hurricane lamps on the walls and the moon coming through the clear windows. The place was warm and dry; it smelled of beeswax with a little wood smoke in it. He sat in the smooth wood pew and thought that the Gallos couldn’t come in here; neither could anything that smelled of clay and left a trail of slime. He felt safe for a minute; his shoulders relaxed, and he realized that he hadn’t felt safe in years, since President Street or before . . . since they killed the bookie, or even before; since the afternoons he’d spent in the bookstore. He crossed his arms on the back of the pew in front of him and put his head down. He could sleep here, like he hadn’t slept for a long time. Dumb-­assed scared nigger, he thought, and he closed his eyes.