“Hardly more than a storefront. But Bully had the spirit, and that’ll make any building feel like a cathedral.”

“What did he preach?”

“The electric resurrection,” she said with a sad flourish. “The miracle of miracles—that the gates of heaven would open, and our dead would come back to meet us. But really, he preached love.”

The electric resurrection. For a few years in the late ’80s, it was a sensation. I’d dug through old newspapers and found reports that Bully was a blessed speaker, able to make every sinner in the room feel he was bringing them the word of God fresh from the well. He preached to a packed house three times a day and was on the verge of launching what one Christian newsletter called “a major national movement” when his church was destroyed.

“Your brother won’t talk about the fire,” I said.

“No.”

“Will you?”

She crouched, plunged her hands through the snow, and felt that holy ground. I didn’t expect her to give me much, but I’d pieced together most of the story already. In March 1888, Bully Byrd promised the city a miracle. He had devised a ritual, he told his flock, that would call home the dead. The electric resurrection was at hand, and it would remake the world.

Hundreds crowded into his little storefront to watch their prophet work. Standing in a spotless white suit, he stoked a roaring fire inside a bronze brazier, mumbled some Latin, and hurled in a fistful of powder.

A jet of flame shot up.

The tapestries on the ceiling caught fire.

The blaze spread fast, but Bully kept his flock from panic. He led them out, single file, no one pushing, and nearly everyone was safe on the street when the children downstairs began to scream.

“What were you doing in the basement?” I said.

“Papa didn’t believe in forcing children to sit through services. There was a playroom downstairs where Ruth and I watched the young ones. That day the back entrance was locked, but Ruth had a key and we went in anyway, with a few of the kids from the neighborhood. By the time we smelled smoke, the stairs were mostly flame.”

As his church burned, Bully went back inside. He got the children out—as many as he could.

“The littlest were eating lunch,” said Judy, “in high chairs. He took us, and he was going to come back for the youngest, but the fire was too high and the crowd held him back. Some of those babes knew how to walk. They could have gotten out. But they were strapped in tight, and they burned.”

There were four who died, all under age three. One was Bully’s youngest son, Barnabas. He loved sailboats, the Sentinel archives had the cruelty to inform me, and drawing angels. Bully was hailed as a hero. Two days later, he disappeared.