Broken Angels by Richard Montanari

the vehicle over to the grave and left the motor running. He got out, retrieved a long rubber hose from the back, this one of a greater diameter than the gooseneck plastic tube. He walked around to the back of the van and fitted one end over the exhaust. He put the other end over the pipe sticking out of the ground.
Roland listened, waited until the sucking sounds began to fade, his mind traveling, for the moment, to a place where two young girls had skipped along the banks of the Wissahickon, many years ago, the eye of God a golden sun above them.
    the congregation was dressed in its finest: eighty-one people sardined into the small storefront church on Allegheny Avenue. The air was thick with the smells of floral perfume, tobacco, and no small amount of boardinghouse whiskey.
    The pastor came out of the back room to the strains of “This Is the Day That the Lord Hath Made” from the five-member choir . His deacon soon followed . Wilma Goodloe took the lead vocal; her big voice a true blessing from above .
    At the sight of the pastor, the congregation leapt to its feet. The good Lord reigned.
After a few moments the pastor stepped to the rostrum, held up a hand. He waited until the music subsided, until his flock was seated, until the spirit moved him. As always, it did. He began slowly. He constructed his message as a builder might erect a house—an excavation of sin, a foundation of scripture, rigid walls of praise, topped by a crowning roof of glorious tribute. After twenty minutes, he brought it home.
“But make no mistake about it, there is much darkness in the world,” the pastor said.
“Darkness,” someone echoed.
“Oh yes,” the pastor continued. “Oh my, yes. This is a dark and terrible time.”
“Yes sir.”
“ But the darkness is not darkness to the Lord.”
    “No sir.”
“Not darkness at all.”
“No.”
The pastor came around the pulpit. He clasped his hands in prayer.
    Some of the congregation stood. “Ephesians 5:11 sayeth: ‘Do not participate in the fruitless doings of darkness but rather expose them.’ ” “Yes sir.”
“Paul sayeth: ‘Everything that is exposed by the light is made visible, and where everything is visible there is light.’ ”
“Light.”
Moments later, by the time the sermon was over, the congregation had worked itself into a tumult. Tambourines sang.
Pastor Roland Hannah and Deacon Charles Waite were on fire. News was made in heaven this day, and the New Page Church of the Divine Flame was the story.
The pastor considered his assembly. He thought about Basil Spencer, about how he had learned of Spencer’s terrible deeds. People will tell their pastor many things. Including children. He had heard many truths from the mouths of children. And he would address them all. In time. But there was a matter that had been a stagnant black water in his soul for more than a decade, something that consumed every ounce of joy in his life, something that woke with him, walked with him, slept with him, and prayed with him. There was a man out there who had stolen his spirit. Roland was getting close to him. He could feel it. Soon he would find the right one. Until then, as he had in the past, he would do God’s work.
The voices of the choir rose in united praise. The rafters shook with homage. Brimstone would spark and flash on this day, Roland Hannah thought.
Oh my, yes.
A day that the Lord indeed hath made.

12
    St. Seraphim was a tall, narrow structure on Sixth Street in North Philadelphia. With its cream stucco front, tall turrets, and golden onion domes above, the church—founded in 1897—was an imposing edifice, one of the oldest Russian Orthodox churches in Philadelphia. Jessica, having been raised Roman Catholic, didn’t know much about the Orthodox Christian religions. She knew there were similarities in the practices of confession and communion, but that was about it.
    Byrne was attending a review board and press conference regarding the incident in the diner.