Palmeri's black cassock. God forgive her, she'd never liked the man, and after last night when he could have saved Bernadette simply by letting her into the church, well, she liked him even less. He was a man of God. He was supposed to set an example.

Then the woman appeared. She'd draped herself in Father Palmeri's long white chasuble and came out dancing and skipping behind the whimpering priest.

Carole felt her anger begin to boil. How dare this . . . this tramp sully holy vestments like that. It was sacrilege.

"You like basements, priest?" the cowboy said, grinning. "Good. 'Cause you're gonna be seeing a lot of them from now on."

Carole's stomach dropped. What did that mean? Were they going to turn him into a vampire? Oh, no. They couldn't do that. Not to a priest.

She had to help him, but what could she do? She was one woman and there were four of them. She watched as they locked Father Palmeri in the caged rear compartment of one of the cars. Then they started toward the convent, the cowboy in the lead, the crowbar on his shoulder.

No! Not here! Not now! And she'd unlocked the door.

Hide! The basement? No. She had to pass the rear door to reach it. They'd see her for sure. She could make it to the second floor but couldn't think of anyplace to hide up there.

She did a quick turn and her gaze came to rest on the big institutional-size oven to her left. She yanked down the door and looked inside. Could she fit? Maybe, maybe not. But even if she did fit, the plate glass window in the door would give her away. But no. A closer look showed that it was fogged with baked-on grease. Bless old Sister Mary Margaret's bad eyes. Last week was her turn to clean the oven. She never did a good job, for which Carole was now grateful.

Moving as quickly as she could without causing a racket, she slid out the two metal racks and slipped them between the oven and the neighboring cabinet. She pulled a long-handled metal spatula from the wall rack and bent the end into an acute angle. Then she sidled into the close space, her flannel nightgown sticking to the grease-splattered surfaces, and tucked her knees against her chest.

She fit. Barely. Now to get the door closed. She reached out with the spatula, hooked its bent end around the upper edge of the oven door, and pulled. It barely budged. These old oven doors were heavy. Straining her muscles, she managed to pull it a quarter of the way closed when the spatula slipped off. The door fell back with a clank.

She felt her heart kick into a higher gear as she tried again. The cowboy and his gang would be walking in any—

She heard the back door slam open and a woman's voice say, "Nice of them to leave the place unlocked."

"Probably means it's empty," said a voice she recognized as the cowboy's. "Check it out anyway. See if we can put a nun on Gregor's plate, too"

The woman snickered. "Yeah! A priest-and-nun combo platter!"

"A three-way!" someone else said.

Lots of laughter at that. But for Carole, only terror clawing at her gut. She had to close this door. Now.

She stretched out and again hooked the spatula end over the edge. The handle slipped in her sweaty palm. She tightened her grip and began to pull.

"I'll take this floor," said the cowboy's voice. "Al, you and Kenny check out upstairs. Jackie, you take the basement."

Carole heard feet moving, some away, some pounding up the stairs, and one set moving closer, toward the kitchen. The oven door was a third of the way up now. Her arm was aching. If only she could use both hands. She set her teeth and gave the door a yank. To her shock it snapped toward her once it passed the halfway mark and she had to release the spatula to keep it from slamming shut. She eased it closed just as someone walked into the room.

Carole closed her eyes and shuddered with relief, but that vanished when she opened them again and saw the spatula still hooked on the door.

She stifled a bleat of terror. The business end was sticking outside.

She looked through the grimy glass and saw a pair of denim-clad legs enter the kitchen and stop directly before the oven. The cowboy—had he spotted the spatula?

Sweet Jesus, don't let him see it!

Carole almost wept when the legs moved on.

"Let's see what we got here," she heard him say.

She heard cabinet doors swing open, heard their contents hit the floor, heard drawers pulled from their slots and dropped. He couldn' t be looking for a person—not in those spaces. What was he after?

"Ay, here we go."

More footsteps. Father Palmeri's white chasuble stopped in front of the oven. The woman.

"Whatcha got there, Stan?"

"First, whatcha find in the basement?"

"Dead nun. Least I'm pretty sure she's a nun. She's wearin a tore-up nightie and a raincoat, but she's got one of those veil hats on her head. And she was bit."

"And she still got her head?"

"Yeah. Think she ran into that dead feral outside?"

"Dunno, but someone sure kicked his ass, huh?"

"True that." The woman moved out of view of the oven glass. "So whatcha got there?"

"Homemade chocolate chip cookies. Still fresh."

"Ooh, gimme!"

Carole bit back a sob. She and Bernadette had baked those yesterday afternoon, and now these human slime were eating them.

"Yo, Stan," said a male voice. "Nobody upstairs but we got a dead goth chick in the front hall."

"Was she bit?"

"Nah. Some kinda steel pipe stickin from her gut."

"Whoa! What kinda weird shit went down here last night? Sounds like my kinda party."

They laughed and then went silent. Stuffing their faces with her cookies, Carole supposed.

Finally the cowboy said, "All right. The priest house is next. We'll take these with us. Somebody remind me we gotta come back for the bit one. We should toss her on the pile before sunset."

With that they shuffled out, leaving Carole alone and cramped and sweating in the oven. She closed her eyes and pretended she was sitting on a pew in the cool open spaces of St. Anthony's, savoring the peaceful air as she waited for mass to begin.

* * *

Carole waited more than an hour before she dared to leave the oven. After slowly straightening her cramped back, the first thing she did was peek through the kitchen window. She sagged against the sink with relief when she saw the police cars gone.

Next she ran up to her room and exchanged her grease-spotted nightgown for a plaid blouse and khaki slacks. Usually she'd wear a skirt, but not today.

She looked around. Now . . . what?

She couldn't stay here in the convent. She had to move somewhere else. But where? And how could she leave Bernadette here to be hauled off by those human animals so they could "toss her on the pile," whatever that meant?

Carole knew she had to do something. But what?

Since joining the convent a dozen years ago, straight out of high school, all important decisions had been taken out of her hands. The Sisters of Mercy had put her through college at Georgian Court where she'd earned her teaching degree. All along she'd followed the instructions of Sister Superior. A calm, contemplative existence of poverty, chastity, and obedience, devoted to prayer and study and doing the Lord's work.

Now she had to decide. She wanted to hide Bernadette's body, but couldn't think of a single safe place. She wanted to move Rosita's body down to the basement but didn't dare: The cowboy would know someone was here.

So she spent the day in a state of mental and emotional paralysis. She prayed for guidance, she walked the halls, she sat on her bed and stared out the window, watching for the cowboy and his gang, dreading the moment they returned.

The only decision she made was to hide under her bed when they did.