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“They never seem to be very helpful, really,” he observed.

“I know, and I wish I knew why. Most of the time it’s like they’ve only got a few minutes to say their piece; and sometimes it’s like they don’t know what’s important and what’s not. The rest of the time, I think they’re just being contrary. ”

“Why would dead people be contrary?” Jamie wanted to know.

“Why are living people contrary? Same reasons. They aren’t so different from those of us with a pulse, especially the ones who have strong enough personalities to stay or linger. I think maybe they like the attention, because being dead makes them feel left out. ”

Christ had found a cigarette—or part of one—that wasn’t completely soaked. He pulled a plastic lighter out of a cargo pocket and managed to light the remainder. “I don’t know about you people, but I wouldn’t put up with that kind of shit,” he said.

“I put up with it because it’s different. It beats to hell the scores of sad, frightened dead people who just want one more chance to say the things they should’ve said every day while they were alive. ”

Nick had his back turned while he chattered into his cell phone. Jamie asked what I meant. “What, so the rest of it is just static?”

I closed my eyes and tried to nod at him. “It’s always the same thing. ‘Tell him I’m okay and I love him. Tell her I love her. Tell them I love them. ’ I’m not saying it’s not important, but come on. Say it while you’ve got the breath to do it. And you know what? I think it’s one reason people disbelieve psychics so much—the way the message is always the same. Love and roses. Warm fuzzy feelings from dead child, dead husband, dead mother or wife. It’s rarely specific or checkable. But that doesn’t mean it’s any less true. ”

Jamie thought about it for a second. He reached down and took a drag from the semi-cigarette Christ had found on the street. “I guess that does make it easier for the phonies to work—especially if it’s true. Especially if that’s all the dead have to say—that they’re okay and they love us. ”

“It’s true. Eighty-five percent of the time, that’s all it is. ”

“Bullshit,” Christ said, reclaiming his cigarette. “If you’re going to come back from the dead, at least have something important to say. ”

“What could be more important?” Jamie asked him.

“Anything. Lottery numbers. Where the gold is buried. Why zombies are attacking the city. ”

I nudged him with my shoe. “Think of 9/11. Think of all those phone calls, tying up the cell towers—from the buildings and from that plane that went down in Pennsylvania. People everywhere who knew it was their last phone call—they sent the same messages, ‘I love you,’ over and over again. ”

That shut him up, at least temporarily.

Nick flipped his cell phone shut and rejoined the circle. “You’re right. There was an old newspaper in one of the buildings down there, near the aquarium. And here’s an interesting corollary—just as our First Congregationalist Church was significant for having black and white members, the newspaper was noted for being owned by a black family. You see? All this shit is sort of coming together, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“What shit?” Christ wanted to know, so I caught him and Jamie up as fast as possible. “Themes emerging. Motives. A church fire and some burned up bodies, an integrated congregation and a black-owned paper, the KKK—these are things which ought to, if we knew a little bit more, merge to form a more complete picture of whatever the bloody red hell is going on down here. ”

Nick tapped his phone against his elbow while he thought. “What do you want to bet, since it’s not too far away—that the family who owned the paper also went to Caroline’s church?”

“I doubt it was Caroline’s church,” I said again, even though I didn’t have any good reason to. “I just can’t picture it. A rich, respectable black family might have gone to an integrated church eighty years ago, but a rich, respectable white family probably wouldn’t have, that’s all. ”

“Whatever. Allen says the place is something else now, though. No trace of what it used to be except the historical marker you spoke of. He thinks maybe it’s owned by Blue Cross or the Electric Power Board now. ”

“So?”

“So, I can’t imagine what good it will do us to check it out. ”

“What else are we doing right now?” I asked, and they all looked

at me like I was deranged.

“Well,” Christ glared up at me from his spot on the sidewalk. “For one thing, we’re not running towards a rising river full of—”

“I’m just trying to brainstorm here, and think of something useful and practical we can do. ”

Behind us, another ambulance was trying hard to work its way up to the Read House and meeting limited success. Too many cars were in the way, and too many people wanted too many things from it. Folks who were on the sidewalks, standing there clumped together and getting wet, tried to mob the vehicle. Police pushed them back. A foot or two at a time the stubby medical van crawled forward.

Nick sighed and the rest of us did it too—like a yawn that gets passed around a circle. “Right now, maybe the most practical thing we can do is find a corner, close our eyes, and get some sleep. We’re running on empty here. We all know it. ”

“Speak for yourself,” Christ ordered, but he was at the end of his rope too, and not fooling anyone.