Page 93 of Hanging and Burning

“Hers is the last room on the left.”

At the back of the complex, on the third floor, there ran a stone corridor that encompassed twelve monastery-like cells where, over the years, deacons, visiting lecturers, and a few aged members of the old church’s congregation would stay. These solitary apartments didn’t have electricity or running water. The only furniture was a blocky wooden cot, a wooden chair with a woven straw seat, and a desk with a glass-encased hurricane candleholder for illumination. Over the years I had known Mel, I’d spent some time in one room or another, for this reason and that.

I went to the room Mel had indicated and knocked.

Three seconds later: “Yes?”

“It’s Joe.”

The door came open. She was wearing a full-length blue flannel nightgown and carrying a hurricane lamp that was alive with a dancing flame atop a paraffin candle.

“Hi,” she said, looking up into my eyes.

“Sorry to bother you so late. But I need you to do something for me.”

“Come in.”

She sat on the bed. I took the chair.

“Do you want some water?” she asked when we were settled. “I have a pitcher and two clean glasses.”

“No thanks.”

“What do you need?” she asked.

“Did Twyla tell you what happened to that guy Blass?”

She nodded.

“Well, I think it has something to do with Arman. The guy who killed Blass—or at least who had him killed—might be a man named Rouche, and he’s somehow connected to Paulie Jr.”

“How?”

“I really don’t know. Maybe Arman does, but he needs to make sure you’re safe before talking to me about it.”

Nodding, she asked, “What do you need me to say to him?”

“Tell him what I’ve done. Brought Twyla to you, brought you here. But don’t tell him where here is.”

She smiled at the stipulation, then wondered, “Is he safe?”

“For the time being. He’s in a hospital unit where only the ultrarich stay. You’d have to launch a major assault to get past the front door. Do you mind talking to him?”

“No, not at all. As a matter of fact, I was thinking, after this mess is settled, that Twyla and I could go out to California and visit him.”

“I’ll give you the number and then go to the sentry’s post until you’re through.”

At the opposite end of the stone corridor there was a small room where a guard or nurse might be posted. Mel had explained that when elderly parishioners stayed there, they often needed to be cared for. And when certain special guests were in residence, they needed to make sure only expected visitors were allowed in.

Putting in my earbuds, I started listening to the story about Pavel Ivanovich Chichikov, the protagonist—and, in some eyes, maybe the hero—of Dead Souls.

I got a little lost in the lives of the souls involved. The Russian peasantry, serfdom, was a species of slavery back in the old days of the great empire of the East. It was yet another aspect of almost global domination.

When she touched my arm I startled, reaching for the earbuds and leaning away from the touch.

“Sorry,” she said, smiling. She placed the lamp on the arm of the chair across from me and then sat in it. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You get him?”