Shea and Mafe had tangled more than once and expected to again. But this time was different.
Rochon showed for work, running late, head hammering from a major hangover. Whipping his Chevrolet pickup into the church lot, he nearly rolled his truck veering to avoid one of the basketball players.
Skidding the big Chevy to a screeching halt, Mafe piled out, roaring a barrage of curses, expecting to scatter the teenyboppers like quail. But they didn't run. Held their ground instead, eyeing him warily. Uneasy, but unmoved. As though they'd heard it all before.
Probably had.
"You better slow that junker the hell down, chief,” a little fireplug of a kid in a Raiders muscle tee said, stepping up to Mafe, right in his face. “You run somebody over, it's rough gettin’ blood off ya bumper."
Kid said it flat, no smile, no inflection. Like lobbing a rock at a grizzly to see what would happen. The others watched, ready to run. Or fight.
A metaphysical moment for Mafe. Through the grim haze of his hangover, he glimpsed the lightning flicker of a spirit vision, the memory of a savage clearing he'd found as a boy.
Spattered with blood. Bone chips and shreds of fur strewn about, the ground torn and gouged as though it had been attacked.
"A fierce battle happened here,” his grandfather said, squatting on his heels, reading the signs. “A rogue bear found coyotes feeding on a fawn. Sure of his power, the bear tried to drive them off. But the coyotes had blood in their mouths and would not go. They fought the giant bear for their kill. And he slaughtered many, gutting them with his razor claws, hurling their broken bodies about like toys. But more coyotes came, drawn to the combat by the stench of blood. Boiling over him, they pulled the great bear down. And ripped him to pieces. And in their madness, they turned on each other, savaging their own over his carcass."
The ancient Anishnabeg were a preliterate people who shared tribal wisdom through storytelling, memorable tales that always had a point.
Even hung over, Mafe remembered how that bear ended up. And he recognized the daredevil gleam in the fireplug's eyes. Knew it well. Saw it every time he looked in a mirror.
So instead of clocking the little punk, he backed away. And went off in search of Shea.
Found him arguing with Lydia Ford over the pews. Butting in with his usual tact, Mafe told Shea about his face-off with the ballplayers.
"No problem.” Shea shrugged. “Round up a couple of guys, we'll run ‘em off."
"Sam Ryan said we could use his parking lot,” Lydia argued. “If the boys aren't underfoot, why not let them stay?"
"No chance,” Shea said. “It's a construction zone. If one of them gets run over—"
"Maybe I can talk ‘em around,” Mafe offered. “Tell ‘em if a truck pulls in, get their skinny asses out of the way. They ain't got many places to play in this ‘hood. The lady's right, let's leave ‘em be. I played some ball when I was jailin’ in Jackson. Maybe I can show ‘em a few moves."
Shea stared at the big man as if he'd suddenly started speaking Swahili.
"Okay, but they're your responsibility, Mafe,” Shea said. “They can play as long as they stay out of our way. Any problems, they're history. And so are you."
"Hell, you can't fire me, Danny.” Rochon grinned. “You ain't happy unless you're knee-deep in trouble, and who gives you more grief than me? Don't worry, I'll straighten ‘em out."
Mafe walked off whistling, leaving Shea shaking his head.
"Is that a fair assessment?” Lydia asked. “Do you like trouble?"
"If I do, I damn sure picked the right business,” Shea said. “How about you?"
"Me? I'm just trying to save my fellow antiques."
"Your fellow what?"
"Antiques, Mr. Shea. It was joke. About my age."
"What about it?"
"I—never mind. We'd better get back to work."
"Mrs. Ford?” he called after her. “If you're gonna josh me, better hold up a sign or something. I'm just a simple country boy, you know?"
Day one and she was already ticking him off. And he wasn't even sure why.
Maybe her confidence bothered him. The kind that comes with money. Problems shrink fast when you can throw cash at ‘em. An option Shea never had. He and every man in his crew risked their necks for wages every damned day. Rebuilding the Black Chapel would be tough enough without some rich ... dilettante trying to salvage every splinter in the place.
But by noon, his mood lightened. He was already seeing progress, feeling the first surge of satisfaction as the project began morphing from a catastrophe into an endless string of problems, tough but doable.
His new-hires had the first dumpster nearly full; Shea had to call for an early pickup and replacement. Then building materials began arriving and he had to scramble to find space for them. Anything left outside would vanish like morning mist in this neighborhood.
He poked his head into Carmen San Miguel's classroom to ask permission to use empty rooms in the school for storage. Technically, he didn't need her consent, but she was a pretty girl and he was a long way from home. She gave him permission, and a warm smile to go with it.
Walking back, he saw the basketball players move politely aside for the refuse truck dropping off the dumpster. Score one for crazy Mafe.
Inside the church, the new-hires were making a visible dent. And rich or not, the former Mrs. Ford wasn't afraid to get dirty. Working alongside the temps in the filth of the nave, Lydia was checking over the wrecked pews, marking some for salvage, the rest for the dumpster parked out front. And clearly she knew the difference. Score one for her.
Midafternoon, another pleasant surprise. Carmen San Miguel found Shea on the front steps, looking up at the bell tower.
"Mr. Shea? I just stopped by to see how the people I sent are working out.” She looked good, a trim figure in a white silk blouse, slacks, and sandals. No braids today, her hair brushed into a midnight tangle.
"So far, better than expected. I didn't take them all, though."
"You dumped Fast Freddy, right?” She smiled. “He's got an attitude but he was all I could get on short notice. I can find a replacement if you like."
"Find us two or three if you can,” Lydia Ford said, joining them, brushing the dust off her chambray work shirt.
"Actually, hiring hands is my responsibility,” Shea pointed out.
"You're right, sorry,” Lydia said. “But since I'll need help to reassemble those pews—"
"I told you I can't spare men for that."
"Which is exactly why you should hire two more temps for a few days,” she said sweetly. “Teenagers will be fine, I can show them what to do."
"Terrific. I've got Mafe coaching basketball, you teaching Carpentry 101. What's next? Wanna hire Boy Scouts to do the welding?"
"I seem to have caught you two at a bad time,” Carmen said, backing away uneasily. “Tell you what, if you decide you need more people—"
"We just did,” Shea said. “Send us two more. Young guys who don't mind learning on the job."
"You've got it,” Carmen said, flashing him a brilliant smile. “I can have them here in a few hours.” Dodging two workmen carrying a two-by-ten, she trotted back to her classroom.
"Thanks, Carmen,” Lydia called after her. “And thank you, too, Mr. Shea."
"You're not welcome, Mrs. Ford. What the hell happened to our you-run-your-show-I'll-run-mine deal? I do the hiring here."
"I know that. I've already apologized and one ‘sorry’ per screwup is all you get. Maybe I can make it up to you. Do you think Carmen's an attractive girl?"
"I guess. So?"
"So she had her hair done and that's a new outfit. A lot of trouble just to check on some new hires, don't you think?"
"What's your point?"
"Never mind.” Lydia sighed. “Men.” She walked off, shaking her head. Her blond mop was matted from her hard hat and her work smock was filthy. But there was an elegance in the way she moved. Grace. Carmen might be ha
lf her age, but there was more than one good-looking woman on this job.
* * * *
By the third day, the start-up craziness was beginning to subside. The new hires had completely cleared the trash from the great nave, leaving an empty cavern that echoed every footstep. They'd worked out so well that Shea kept them on, continuing the cleanup in the transepts and exhibit hall.
He'd taken over the church vestry as a temporary office, with a drawing table for blueprints, desks for himself and Mrs. Ford, and a rollaway bed against the back wall. With a cased shotgun beneath it. For the duration, either Shea or Puck would be spending the night in the Chapel. Guard duty.
Shea was headed out the Chapel door to join his crew for lunch at Ryan's when Lydia Ford called him back.
"Could you show me how to operate the scissors lift, Mr. Shea? I want to see what's above the false ceiling in the nave."
"Why? The ceiling's level and the panels appear to be in good shape."
"I know, but I'm curious about something. Here, let me show you.” He followed her into the vestry/office. Flipping open the Toshiba laptop computer on her desk, she brought up a file of photographs and began scrolling through them.
"I scanned these into my computer at the Saginaw Historical Society.... Here, look at this one."
The photo showed the nave as it must have been forty years before, its pews full of worshipers, a blurred figure in vestments preaching from the altar.
"Is that Reverend Black? But ... he's a white guy."
"Of course. Oh, you assumed he was black because of the neighborhood? In those days it was still in transition, from blue-collar Irish to African-American. If you look at the congregation, it's about half and half, which probably reflected the mix in those days. The Ryan brothers may be the last Irish holdouts."
"Too bad for them. Picture's appropriate, though."
"How do you mean?"
"Look at the windows. They're broken now, but look at the shapes. With those rounded tops, it looks like Pastor Black was preaching to a row of tombstones. Maybe he should have taken the hint."
"You're right, they do look like gravestones. What an odd illusion. But I'm more interested in the ceiling. As you can see, this shot shows a dropped ceiling with acoustical tiles, whereas, in this one—” she flashed past a few more photos—"taken in nineteen thirty-six, no acoustical tiles."
"How do you know that? The shot doesn't show the ceiling."
"Simple. They didn't have acoustical tile in ‘thirty-six. But if you look at the back of the nave, you can see that the upper corners appear to be rounded. I think the Chapel had an embossed metal ceiling, originally, and it may still be up there, above those tiles."
"What if it is? What difference does it make?"
"Maybe none. It might not be there at all, but embossed ceilings from that era are fairly rare, especially in a church. I definitely want to take a look. So? Are you going to help me or not?"
"That ceiling's nearly thirty-five feet up, which is near the maximum extension for the Skyjack. Do you have any trouble with heights?"
"I don't think so."
"Okay, let's find out.” Trotting over to the scissors lift, Shea climbed onto its railed platform and switched on the battery power. The Skyjack is exactly that, an electric scissors jack on wheels that resembles an oversized auto jack with a railed platform on top. But instead of lifting a car thirty inches, some Skyjacks can go fifty feet straight up. Or more. Using the control panel to guide it, Shea drove the unit out to the center of the floor. “All aboard."
He gave Lydia a hand onto the platform, locked the safety rail shut, started the lift up, then immediately stopped it.
"Wait a minute. How much do you weigh, Mrs. Ford?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"The platform has a load limit, and since we're both going up...?"
"What's the limit?"
"Four fifty."
"And how much do you weigh, Mr. Shea?"
"One-eighty."
"Then we'll be well under—You knew that already, didn't you?"
"Gotcha.” He grinned, pressing the Up button again. “Don't move while the platform's in motion, please, these things are shaky enough as it is."
He kept a wary eye on Lydia as the Skyjack platform rose slowly toward the ceiling. Most people have at least some fear of heights, and rumbling upward with only a rail between you and a thirty-foot drop can reduce grown men to quivering gobs of Jell-O.
Lydia kept a white-knuckled grip on the rail, but seemed more curious than fearful. Until the platform approached twenty-five feet—
"Could we stop, please?"
"Sure. Wanna head back down?"
"No, I just ... My goodness. Look at this view.” Below them, the nave spread out like an ancient ruin, destruction in all directions.
"What a pity,” she said softly. “It must have been magnificent once. If we could fly, and see the damage we do from above, maybe we'd do less of it.... Sorry. Didn't mean to preach."
"You're in the right spot for it. And it's probably the nicest sermon this dump ever had."
"You don't like this building, do you?"
Shea hesitated, then shrugged. “No. I don't."
"I know most builders prefer new construction—"
"It's not that. Ordinarily, I prefer old buildings to new ones. They have character. Personalities. Sometimes on a night shift you can almost hear them whispering stories about the people they've sheltered, the lives they've touched."
"That's very poetic."
"For a north-woods roughneck, you mean."
"I didn't say that."
"Didn't have to. Going up.” Tapping the control, Shea took them up the last five feet, halting just below the ceiling.
No hesitation on Lydia's part. Sliding her fingers between the acoustic tile and its metal support frame, she carefully lifted the panel upward, easing it aside.
Frowning, she looked at her fingertips.
"What is it?” Shea asked.
She shook her head. Taking a penlight out of her smock pocket, she stood on her tiptoes, her head and shoulders disappearing into the dark opening. Light flickering as she played it about. Taking a small digital camera out of her pocket, she prepared to shoot, then hesitated.
"Mr. Shea,” she said quietly, “are the Chapel doors open?"
"What?"
"The Chapel doors,” she hissed, her voice barely above a whisper, “are they open?"
"Um ... yes, they are. Why?"
But Lydia had already stepped up again, her head and shoulders invisible above the ceiling. Lightning flickered as she snapped photographs—and then she suddenly ducked out of the hole, dropping to her hands and knees on the platform.
"Take us down!” Dark forms flashed out of the opening, circling wildly around the platform in a widening circle of madness.
Bats! Dozens of them, pouring out of the ceiling in a torrent! Lydia recoiled as one bounced off her shoulder, slipped, and nearly slid under the railing. Shea's heart froze. They were thirty feet up and there wasn't a damn thing he could do but duck and jam the down button!
Regaining her balance, Lydia stayed crouched as the Skyjack continued its slow descent.
More bats were pouring through the gap, joining the cloud wheeling overhead. A few discovered the open doors and rocketed out to freedom. More followed, dive-bombing Shea and Lydia as they frantically fled toward the exit.
"Come on, damn it!” he shouted, cursing the control panel. Twenty feet, fifteen, ten—a bat smacked Lydia in the back of the head, tangled in her hair, wings beating frantically, fighting to escape.
Thrashing about, desperately trying to brush it away, Lydia stumbled against the rail, losing her balance. Lunging across the platform, Shea grabbed her by the waist, pulling her back and tossing the bat aside before the force of his rush carried them down.
Shea hit the platform deck flat on his back, banging his head on the corrugated steel, yet somehow held on to her waist, breaking he
r fall. For a split second his world winked out, then slowly faded back in. As the haze cleared, he realized he was holding Lydia Ford a foot above him, his hands clamped firmly on her rib cage.
Her face was soot-smudged, her blond mop tousled, eyes glistening with excitement. And he made no move to let her go.
"Are you okay?” they said together, then smiled. Together.
"I think you just saved my life,” Lydia said at last.
"No charge.” And still he didn't let her go.
"What's all the racket—whoa!” Puck said, ducking as a pair of bats flashed past him through the doorway. “Where the hell did they come from?"
"Above the false ceiling,” Lydia said, getting up, brushing herself off. “They've been there for years. A lot of guano's scattered around."
"What were you two doin'—figurin’ to do about them bats?” Puck amended as Shea shot him a look.
"They shouldn't be a problem,” Lydia said, taking a breath. “Smoke canisters above the tiles will drive them out if we leave the doors open. Once the ceiling comes down, they won't be back."
"Whoa up, what are you talking about?” Shea said. “There's nothing wrong with that ceiling. It's the only thing in the place that's intact."
"But it's not original. It's barely fifty years old."
"Wow, only fifty? Excuse me if that seems like a lot. I wasn't born yet. Tearing those tiles down will add a week to the schedule plus the expense of repairing whatever's above it, plus we'll all be wearing respirators for a month because bat crap's poisonous. There's no room for any of that in the budget."
"The budget's my problem, Mr. Shea. The only added cost will be the labor to take down the tiles. The original ceiling is still in place. Embossed metal plates, circa eighteen ninety, in practically mint condition."
"Great. If they've lasted a damn century then let's leave ‘em for the next remodeling project. I've got a full boat already."
"It's not your call,” Lydia said firmly. “It's mine and I just made it. The tiled ceiling goes."
Dan opened his mouth to argue, then wheeled and stalked off.
"Wait a minute,” she called after him. “Can't we talk about this? At least look at the pictures I took of the old ceiling."
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