by Angie Fox
“I need your help,” I said to the ghost.
I glanced out the window, at the mass of dead gathering below.
It couldn’t be Ellis on the stairs. Mine was the only car in the lot.
I searched the tiny room for a weapon, frantic. But there was only the ghostly shovel.
I braced myself as my visitor stepped up into the bell tower.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Pastor Mike filled the space between me and the stairs.
The only safe way down.
I backed up against the window Jorie had fallen from.
“I didn’t see you when I came in,” I said, forcing a smile, trying to act casual.
He had an odd look about him, stiff and unnatural. Like he’d forced himself into a role he didn’t like. “I saw you drive up and walked over from the rectory.”
“Oh!” I said, a little too excitedly. “That’s great. I came here because”—I thought fast—“I have something for your father, and I know you see him almost every night.”
It seemed reasonable.
Plausible.
He hadn’t moved from where he stood, blocking me. He simply watched me, as if getting his nerve up.
“What do you have for my father?” he asked in an odd tone of voice that didn’t comfort me in the slightest.
“Um…” All thoughts escaped me. My instincts told me to flee. Now. “It’s down in my car. I’ll go get it.” And drive away.
I’d come back another time. With Ellis, no matter how much trouble he’d give me. “If you’ll excuse me,” I added, scurrying a bit to the left to get around the pastor.
I’d have to face the ghosts outside once I got out of there, but I’d worry about that later.
Pastor Mike stepped in front of me, blocking my way. “We need to talk,” he said, deadly serious.
I didn’t like the sound of that. I looked for a way past him. “You know, now isn’t really good for me. Maybe some other time.”
“Indulge me,” he said, cutting me off, maneuvering so I had no choice but to back up toward the arched window above the hard lawn at the front of the church. “Eudora Louise said you were at the heritage society this afternoon.”
“That didn’t take long.” Even for Sugarland.
He gave a brief, empty smile. “She’s handling hospitality for the Save the Bell Tower Bake Sale next month. We had some important matters to discuss.” His gaze flicked over me. “I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
Right then, I wanted to toss her through a window.
“Okay, listen,” I said, deciding to level with him. Maybe I could distract him. Maybe he could even help. It was clear he wasn’t letting me go until we had some sort of conversation, hopefully one that didn’t leave me crushed like a grape. “A mobster was killed at the church door in 1938,” I began, giving him part of the story. “A man by the name of Lou Winkelmann.”
Pastor Mike gave a sanctimonious sniff. “There’s never been a murder at this church,” he said, cutting me off. “We are on holy ground.”
“I hate to tell you, but this cemetery is littered with unmarked graves,” I said, glancing out the window to the nameless ghosts below. “I think the original Pastor Clemens might have been a little too friendly with some gangsters. I mean, have you ever thought about where he got the money for all those soup kitchens and community programs?”
“Donations,” Pastor Mike stated as if daring me to contradict him.
“I’m sure that’s what the mob would have called it.” They never liked to make things sound messy. “Your grandfather renovated the church in the aftermath of the depression. He commissioned the three angels carving. He supported the town. I’m not saying he didn’t do some great deeds, but he might also have seen some unsavory things along the way.” Including Lou’s murder. “I mean, he lived here. He worked here. He knew where the bodies were buried.”
Pastor Mike looked past me, out the window. I followed his gaze, and as if on cue, the ghost of a man wearing an old-timey baseball uniform rose up from underneath the parking lot.
The pastor began to speak and then stopped, shaken. But I could see in his eyes that he believed me. “Am I to assume you found proof at the heritage society?” he demanded.
“I found an important piece of the puzzle.” I needed him to go with me on this. And to realize tossing me out the window, if he were so inclined, wouldn’t solve his problem. “I can show you where, if you tell me what you know.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “You wouldn’t be the worst person to tell,” he said reluctantly. He dropped his hand. “We found something during the renovation of the pastor’s room last year, in the office at the front of the church. There’s a book that lists burials.”
“That isn’t unusual,” I admitted. “It makes sense to have a book.”
“Not the main records. I have those at the office in the barn. These are…other burials.” He looked at me hard. “Meticulous notes kept by my grandfather. Entries like: young man, two paces down the path from the steps. Josephus the butcher, front yard.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Below this tower, in fact.”
Wow. That was…disturbing. “But why would they bury people so close to the church? Why not in the corner of the cemetery somewhere?”
“My grandfather was a merciful man,” he said as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “He didn’t need to write it down. Most men would want to forget.” He huffed. “I did when I read it. But I think Granddad did it to…remember them. Honor them in any way he could.” He looked at me, raw. “I think whoever made him take on these poor souls enjoyed watching him suffer.”
I didn’t doubt it, at least from what I’d heard about Chastity’s father, Sal.
“I found a picture from Jorie’s wedding,” I said, the words spilling out. “It shows the church gravedigger and at least one mobster in the background. I think they were digging a hole to bury a body.”
In the middle of a wedding.
“It appears your grandfather went out to stop them,” I added. Or at least hold them off until a more convenient time.
He inhaled sharply. “The last burial in my grandfather’s book happened in 1957.”
Two years after Jorie’s wedding.
They’d been doing this for a while, then. “How long did your grandfather serve?”
“Until 1957,” he said grimly.
And there it was.
“He lived here until then. And after? My father didn’t like living on the property, so we moved down the road.”
My heart hammered in my chest when I asked, “Did you see the mobster in the picture Jorie tried to give me?”
“Yes,” he whispered. His eyes met mine. “I recognized him immediately when Jorie showed me her picture. I knew others would too.”
I hadn’t. “Who was it?”
“Marty the Rat.” He ran a hand down the side of his face. “He was one of the big guys in Chicago. Joe Pesci played him in that movie,” he said, as if I watched gangster movies. Half the time, I felt like I was living in one. “There are those artsy T-shirts of him where they take his old picture and add bright colors everywhere. The kids wear them.”
“Not familiar,” I said honestly.
“If that picture of him at the Three Angels got around, people would also want to know why there’s no marked grave under the old oak tree.”
“Jorie’s picture showed an open grave,” I said on an exhale.
I’d been too busy looking at my grandmother.
“It might as well have shown a body,” he admitted.
“You destroyed the picture.” He’d burned it out back.
“Yes,” he said simply. He took a step toward me, then another. “You have to understand, my father is frail. News like this could kill him.”
“He seemed all right enough to me,” I said, backing up. Sure, Pastor Bob didn’t leave his apartment much, but he did get out for dinner sometimes, and his mind was still sharp.
I stepped away from the window and kept the wooden wall of the bell tower at my back. “Did you lure Jorie up here?”
He stood silent for a moment. “Lure isn’t the right word.”
“Tell me,” I urged, inching sideways, away from the window. The gravedigger’s shovel lay in the corner, but it would pass straight through the very alive Pastor Mike.
In a second, he would realize he was as trapped as I was.
“Is this supposed to be a confession?” he asked. “I’m not Catholic.”
“Sometimes it’s good to unburden the soul,” I said breathlessly.
He gave me a small smile. “I didn’t murder her. I’m not a killer.”
“Of course not,” I said as he slipped his hands out of his pockets.
He took a deep breath. “I asked her if I could have the picture. This all could have been avoided if she’d let me take it and be done with it.”
“But she kept it for me.”
“She tried,” he corrected. “I needed to convince her in private. So I brought her up here during a break in the tours.” He glanced out the window. “I said it was urgent, that it would only take a minute.”
“How did you get past me?” I’d been in the parking lot, placing the pressed rose in a book. They would have had to walk right by my car to get inside.
“There’s a hidden door behind the rosebush, near the place where Jorie fell.”
I gasped. “I never saw it.”
“Ellis Wydell did. He even found my prints.” He cocked his head to the side. “But that’s not so unusual.” He drew close. “She didn’t have to die.”
“But she did,” I whispered.
“I gave her plenty of chances.” He stepped away from me. “When she refused to give me the photo, I confessed to Jorie the real reason I needed it. I trusted her. I told her why she had to destroy that picture and any like it, for the good of the church she loved so much.”
“She refused?” I asked.
He tossed up his hands. “She didn’t understand at all. This church, this sanctuary of God, is a piece of Sugarland history, and it’s in more trouble than people realize. These days, people don’t want to drive out to the country. People don’t want a simple experience. They go to the big mega churches or strip-mall churches with rock bands and Bible plays and glitzy carnival committees while this house of the Lord rots!” A lock of his perfect hair flopped in his face and he scraped it back. “The only thing that keeps our doors open is the donations from the Eudora Louise Markams and the Ovis Dupres and the Virginia Wydells of the world. They care about the church’s historical reputation. If that were sullied, they would stop supporting it. Us.”
“I have to admit, you’re right about that.” It made me sad, but not enough to kill.
He took a deep breath and exhaled. “The first Pastor Clemens established a reputation for this church. From 1910 to 1957, he was an institution, revered and respected, his legacy to be preserved as a point of town pride.” Pastor Mike stood tall, in full preacher mode. “The word of God teaches us: If the church isn’t blessed, clearly we’re not favored by God. So, through the church’s blessings, through these donations, and through our favored heritage, we are blessed and worthy.”
“But your blessings came from gangsters,” I said slowly, trying to understand.
“You will not speak of it again,” he ordered.
That wouldn’t make it any less true.
I understood he wanted to believe in this perfect, anointed image, but how realistic was that? “You can make mistakes and still be blessed.” It couldn’t be all or nothing.
“Nonsense.” He brushed it aside. “I know the law of the Lord, not you.” He towered over me. “And let one thing be clear; I never hurt Jorie. She hurt herself.”
Stars above. “How?”
He stiffened. “I tried to take the picture from her. That wasn’t wrong. I was protecting my father and this church. She pulled back too hard.” His voice cracked. “She lost her balance. She fell.”
He buried his face in his hands and let out a sob. “It was an accident, a terrible accident. But who would believe that?” He lowered his hands, his skin blotched and his eyes red. “Rage is a sin. She died in sin, and it’s my fault.”
“You need to tell Ellis that.” The police had to be made aware, and Ellis would understand.
“I can’t tell anyone.” He gulped. “In order to tell people what happened, I’d have to tell them what was in the picture.” He looked out the window to the ground where Jorie had lain. “She clutched it in her hand as she fell. And after she…landed, the wind caught it. I stood right here and watched it get tangled in the copse of redbud trees. It was the will of God. He kept it safe for me.” His eyes were red-rimmed and wild. “Everything happens for a reason.”
I inched toward the stairs.
“Do you forgive me?” he asked. With catlike speed he grabbed my shoulders, his grip hard and bruising. “You must keep my confidence in this,” he added, turning me toward the window. “It is the will of God.”
“I’ll be quiet,” I promised, my boots slipping on the freshly stained floor, frantic to escape.
“Yes, you will,” he said as the cold breeze tickled my cheeks. “God has seen to it. He has delivered you to me.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
I stared up at him, wide-eyed, like a sweet Southern belle. Then I kicked him in the shin.
He doubled over, and I ran for the stairs.
The gravedigger stood just behind the hole in the floor, arms outstretched.
Sweet heaven. Not him, too!
I dropped down on to the stairs, bracing my hands on the walls, stumbling down, down, down, as fast as I could go.
Above me, the pastor shrieked. “Cold!” Then he fell so hard it rattled the walls under my fingertips.
“Go,” a raspy voice sounded in my ears.
The pastor cursed as he came tumbling down after me.
I swung out the doorway, hanging onto the frame as the pastor toppled out after. We both landed on the hardwood floor of the church. Pastor Mike curled in on himself, bleeding from the head.
The gravedigger stood behind him, his large hands braced against the arched doorway to the bell tower.
I gasped, pain streaking through my right knee as I struggled to stand.
“Run,” he urged.
“Thank you,” I warbled, trying to find my voice.
“Now,” he ordered.
I’d paused a few seconds too long. The pastor wore a vicious sneer as he staggered to his feet.
The gravedigger tried to grab him by the throat, passing right through. Pastor Mike shrieked and flailed at the unseen chill.
I ran.
Out through the vestibule, out of the church. I started down the stairs.
The butcher waited at the bottom.
“Frankie!” I hollered, backtracking several steps. He needed to turn my power off.
Now.
Ghosts rose from the parking lot, from underneath my car, from the road. They surged up everywhere from unmarked graves—desperate, angry, murdered spirits.
“Frankie!” The butcher tracked me up the front steps toward the church, wielding his bloody cleaver.
The organist with the knife waited inside my car. I couldn’t go that way. I felt a chill at my back. The woman in the bloody bathrobe stood directly behind me. She reached for me.
Pastor Mike emerged from the doorway behind her.
I was out of time, out of options, and missing the one ghost who could turn off my power.
“Frankie!” I leapt off the side of the steps, landing on the soft earth as a ghostly hand erupted from the ground and grabbed my ankle.
I screamed. It was cold; it was wet. And it had a strong grip.
Then I saw Frankie by my car, splayed out spread eagle on the ground. He was out cold. His head lolled to the side, staring blankly. An ugly gray bullet hole cut through the skin and bone right above his original bullet hole. He’d been shot. Again. In the forehead. It would be hours before he woke up and could take his power back.
Ohmygod. I was on my own.
And desperately outmatched.
I stomped on the hand that gripped me. I stomped again and again. It had to hurt to touch me. It had to hurt just as bad as it hurt me, the singeing, stinging, bone-deep chill. But this ghost didn’t care. Or maybe it was already in so much pain, it didn’t notice.
A bald, bloody man’s head poked from the soil, screaming.
I screamed too as a ghostly grip closed under my arms and dragged me straight up.
“I’ve got you!” Ray hollered, breaking me free. “Argh!” he cried at the pain of touching me. He dropped me onto the ground the second I cleared the grasping hands.
I rolled away from the tortured head sliced nearly free of the bloody shoulders emerging from the soil.
Ray stood over me, wild eyed. “What the hell?”
“You can’t touch me.” He couldn’t even save me for long. I scrambled to my feet. I couldn’t get to my car. I couldn’t outrun a pack of ghosts. And I had no idea where Pastor Mike was, but I had a feeling he’d be on me in a heartbeat.
“Find Ellis,” I ordered Ray. “Tell him I’m here.”
“Are you nuts?” He tossed out an arm and clotheslined the organist, stunning her. While she was down, he knocked the knife out of her hand. “You need me here.”
I did. But he could only protect me from the dead, not the living.
There was no time to explain the ghost app on Ellis’s phone, which he might not have handy anyway.
“Trust me. Talk to Ellis like he can hear you.” And I’d pray that he could. “I’ll hide,” I promised. Or I’d get ripped to shreds trying. But my one chance, my only chance, to survive both the living and the dead was plain. “Tell Ellis I need help!”