Гарри Алекзандер: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 128, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 781 & 782, September/October 2006

Doug Allyn’s most recent novel, The Burning of Rachel Hayes, features Dr. David Westbrook, who debuted in EQMM and was the protagonist of three Readers Award-winning stories. We haven’t seen Westbrook for some time, but we’ve had some splendid entries (like this one) in Mr. Allyn’s Dan Shea series...

Ever rehab a church before?” Shea asked. They were driving through Saginaw in his battered Ram pickup truck. Windows down in the mid-August heat, air conditioner on the fritz. The breeze metallic with the smell of molten steel and paint baking in the auto plants.

“Not a church, exactly,” Puck said. “Rewired a barn for a big revival one time. Pentecostals, as I recall, outside of Menominee. Threw up a sixteen-by-eight-foot stage in front of a dairy barn. Ran in extra power lines for the P.A. and spotlights, trucked in a dozen Porta-Johns. Quite a show.”

“A barn?” Shea snorted. “Considering the size of this contract, better keep the barn story to yourself.”

“Don’t knock barns, you young pup,” Puck shot back. “Fella that started up most of these churches was born in a manger. Which is a kind of barn, in case you’re wonderin’.”

“From the looks of things, this town could use a few barns. Or maybe a miracle. All I see are bars and empty storefronts. What happened to it?”

“Auto plants moved to Mexico, took the good jobs with ’em. White folks moved to the suburbs, businesses chased after ’em,” Puck said. “Buck up, sonny, compared to where we’re headed, this is prime real estate.”

The old man wasn’t kidding. As they crossed the Rust Street four-lane, the neighborhoods slid rapidly from poverty-strick-en into outright slums. Abandoned cars, spavined sofas on tumbledown porches. Crews of hard brown teenagers idling on the corners in baggy jeans, NBA tees, and gang tats, watching them pass with wary eyes. Feral as leopards.

Turning onto Johnstone Avenue, Shea slowed down. A sign said Dead End. It was dead-on.

An abandoned church towered over the entire block. Its massive belfry looming three-and-a-half stories above the sidewalk, eyeless windows staring out over the desolate houses in the surrounding ’hood.

A black church. Or it had been once. From the stones of its foundation to the tip of its twisted spire, the building had been painted a flat, lifeless ebony, a color so dead it seemed to drain the very light from the air.

Its paint was peeling now, strips of it hanging from the bricks like rotting skin, giving the edifice a leprous look.

At street level, the rows of stained-glass windows had been shattered, gaping like mouths with broken teeth. Its brick walls were a psychedelic riot of spray-painted obscenities and gang graffiti.

“Whew,” Puck whistled. “Looks like a ten-year rehab project, at least.”

“Or a job we don’t want at all,” Shea said darkly.

As they approached, the church seemed to shape-shift. The imposing three-story front was only a facade facing the street side. The main body of the building was only two stories tall, extendending the width of the block. On its left, a parking lot was guarded by crude stack-stone walls stretched between the church and a square brick school building, also painted flat black, top to bottom.

The school was in better shape than the church. It had new windows, shielded now by heavy steel mesh. The graffiti had been painted over, too, though it was already being replaced by a fresh crop.

Across the parking lot, a handful of teenage toughs were playing basketball on the blacktop, jostling and cursing each other. A lone lookout glanced up at the rumble of Shea’s truck, checked him out, then turned back to the game.

Only a few cars in the lot. A gleaming white Benz limo sitting by itself and a half-dozen rattletraps. Shea parked his Dodge beside the beaters. It blended right in.

He and Puck climbed out, North Country working men in faded jeans, baseball caps, steel-toed boots. Shea wore a sport coat over his flannel shirt, Puck a Carhartt vest. Faces weathered from the wind, they looked like a matched set, a before-and-after picture, forty years apart.

An oversized gentleman eased his bulk out of the Benz limo. Latin, six and a half feet tall, three hundred-plus pounds in an impeccably tailored cream-colored suit.

“I know that guy from someplace,” Puck said.

“Late-night TV,” Shea said. “He’s a preacher. Be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” Puck protested, following Shea to the limo.

“Mr. Shea? I’m Reverend Vincent Arroyo. Thanks for coming.” They shook hands, checking each other out. A contrast in styles. At fifty, Arroyo looked sleek, slick, and ready for prime time, his razor-cut pompadour in perfect order, glasses lightly tinted, manicured nails buffed to a subtle gloss.

Shea was fifteen years younger with a lot more miles on him, two-day stubble, sandy hair cropped boot-camp short, knuckles scarred from construction mishaps and labor disputes.

Before Shea could introduce Puck, a red BMW convertible roared into the lot, squeaking to a halt beside the Benz. A woman about ten years older than Shea stepped out, mid-fortyish, blond, with square shoulders and a square face, dressed sensibly in a Martha Stewart smock, slacks, laced boots.

“Sorry I’m late, Pastor.”

“No problem, we’re just getting started. Daniel Shea, this is Lydia Ford, the consulting engineer for the project. The structural decisions are yours. Mrs. Ford will offer input on style and design.”

“Ma’am.” Shea nodded. “This is my foreman, Dolph Paquette, Puck to his friends, and everybody else.”

“Ford?” Puck asked. “One of the car-plant Fords, are ya?”

“Actually, I was for a time. By marriage. Not anymore.”

“Sorry, ma’am, I was just — I mean—”

“It’s all right, Mr. Paquette, I get it all the time. So, gentlemen, shall we take a look at this unholy mess of a project?”

She headed for the church without waiting for an answer. A woman used to being obeyed. Ducking through the shattered side door, she led them up a short flight of stairs to the central entrance. Straight into hell.

“Sweet mother of God,” Puck said softly.

Arroyo frowned at him, but let it pass. Couldn’t blame the old man. The great nave looked like Nagasaki after the bomb. Pews scattered and smashed, some stacked to form crude shelters, drapes hanging in shreds from the walls. The carpeting may have been red once, hard to tell. Mottled with filth now, scorched by campfires, littered with empty wine bottles, hypodermics, and human waste.

“Welcome to St. Denis’s Cathedral, guys,” she said. “Originally funded and built by the Saginaw Catholic Diocese in eighteen ninety-six, closed in nineteen thirty. After serving as Temple Beth-El for a Jewish congregation for a few years, it was taken over by the Midwestern Synod in nineteen thirty-nine and renamed John Wesley Methodist, closing again in ’fifty-one. Its most recent tenants took over in ’fifty three, a sect called the Brethren of the End Days. Among other things, they painted both buildings flat black, and for the past forty years or so, it’s simply been called the Black Chapel.”

“What happened to it?” Shea asked.

“If you’re referring specifically to the building’s current condition, its problems began in — nineteen seventy-one?” Lydia arched an eyebrow at Arroyo, who nodded. “After the untimely death of its pastor, the Black Chapel was abandoned by its congregation. A Detroit bank seized the property for nonpayment of construction loans. They were unable to sell it, and over time, vandals and street people moved in, and the results are... as you see.”