Piper clapped a hand over her mouth and swayed on her feet. Rommie hurried forward and put a steadying arm around her waist. And that was how they were standing before the altar, almost like a man and woman about to be married, when the vestibule door opened again and Jackie led Linda and Julia inside.

'Maybe this isn't such a good place, after all,' Jackie said.

The church was a soundbox, and although she didn't speak loudly, Piper and Romeo Burpee heard her perfectly.

'Don't leave,' Piper said. 'Not if it's about what happened. I can't believe Mr Barbara… I would have said he was incapable. He put my a^m back in after it was dislocated. He was very gentle about it.' She paused to think about that. 'As gentle as he could be, under the circumstances. Come down front. Please come down front.'

'People can fix a dislocated arm and still be capable of murder,' Linda said, but she was biting her lip and twisting her wedding ring.

Jackie put a hand on her wrist. 'We were going to keep this quiet, Lin—remember?'

'Too late for that,' Linda said. 'They've seen us "with Julia. If she writes a story and those two say they saw us with her, we'll get blamed.'

Piper had no clear idea what Linda was talking about, but she got the general gist. She raised her right arm and swept it around. 'You're in my church, Mrs Everett, and what's said here stays here.'

'Do you promise?' Linda asked.

'Yes. So why don't we talk about it? I was just praying for a sign, land here you all are.'

T don't believe in stuff like that,' Jackie said.

'Neither do I, actually,' Piper said, and laughed.

T don't like it,' Jackie said. It was Julia she was addressing. 'No matter what she says, this is too many people. Losing my job like Marty is one thing. I could deal with that, the pay sucks, anyway. Getting Jim Rennie mad at me, though…' She shook her head. 'Not a good idea.'

'It isn't too many,' Piper said. 'It's just the right number. Mr Burpee, can you keep a secret?'

Rommie Burpee, who had done any number of questionable deals! in his time, nodded and put a finger over his lips. 'Mum's the word,' he said. Word came out woid.

'Let's go in the parsonage,' Piper said. When she saw that Jackie looked doubtful, Piper held out her left hand to her… very carefully. 'Come, let us reason together. Maybe over a little tot of whiskey?'

And with this, Jackie was at last convinced.

3

BURN CLEANSE BURN CLEANSE

THE BEAST WILL BE CAST INTO A

BURNING LAKE OF FIRE (REV 19:20)

"2 BE TORMENTED DAY & NITE 4-EVER" (20:10)

BURN THE WICKED

PURIFY THE SAINTLIE

BURN CLEANSE BURN CLEANSE

JESUS OF FIRE COMING

The three men crammed into the cab of the rumbling Public Works truck looked at this cryptic message with some wonder. It had been painted on the storage building behind the WCIK studios, black on red and in letters so large they covered almost the entire surface.

The man in the middle was Roger Killian, the chicken farmer with the bullet-headed brood. He turned to Stewart Bowie, who was behind the wheel of the truck. 'What's it mean, Stewie?'

It was Fern Bowie who answered. 'It means that goddam Phil Bushey s crazier than ever, that's what it means.' He opened the truck's glove compartment, removed a pair of greasy work gloves, and revealed a.38 revolver. He checked the loads, then snapped the cylinder back into place with a flick of his wrist and jammed the pistol in his belt.

'You know, Fernie,' Stewart said, 'that is a goddam good way to blow your babymakers off.'

'Don't you worry about me, worry about him,' Fern said, pointing back at the studio. From it the faint sound of gospel music drifted to them. 'He's been gettin high on his own supply for most of a year now, and he's about as reliable as nitroglycerine.'

'Phil likes people to call him The Chef now,' Roger Killian said.

They had first pulled up outside the studio and Stewart had honked the PW truck's big horn—not once but several times. Phil Bushey had not come out. He might be in there hiding; he might be wandering in the woods behind the station; it was even possible, Stewart thought, that he was in the lab. Paranoid. Dangerous. Which still didn't make the gun a good idea. He leaned over, plucked it from Fern's belt, and tucked it under the driver's seat.

'Hey!' Fern cried.

'You're not firing a gun in there,' Stewart said. 'You're apt to blow us all to the moon.' And to Roger, he said: 'When's the last time you saw that scrawny motherfucker?'

Roger mulled it over. 'Been four weeks, at least—since the last big shipment out of town. When we had that big Chinook helicopter come in.' He pronounced it Shin-oook. Rommie Burpee would have understood.

Stewart considered. Not good. If Bushey was in the woods, that was all right. If he was cowering in the studio, paranoid and thinking they were Feds, probably still no problem… unless he decided to come out shooting, that was.

If he was in the storage building, though… that might be a problem.

Stewart said to his brother,'There's some goodsize junks of wood in the back of the truck. Get you one of those. If Phil shows and starts: cuttin up rough, clock im one.'

'What if he has a gun?' Roger asked, quite reasonably

'He won't,' Stewart said. And although he wasn't actually sure of this, he had his orders: two tanks of propane, to be delivered to the hospital posthaste. And we're going to move the rest of it out of there as soon as we can, Big Jim had said. We're officially out of the meth business.

That was something of a relief; when they were shut of this Dome thing, Stewart intended to get out of the funeral business, too. Move someplace warm, like Jamaica or Barbados. He never wanted to see another dead body. But he didn't want to be the one who told Chef Bushey they were closing down, and he had informed Big Jim of that.

Let me worry about The Chef, Big Jim had said.

Stewart drove the big orange truck around the building and backed it up to the rear doors. He left the engine idling to run the winch and the hoist.