Hazard squeezed into the seat opposite his father. It was disorienting, seeing his father this way, even though Hazard wasn’t quite sure what this way was. Old. That was part of it, at least. Frank Hazard had a few dark hairs still on his head, but mostly he had gone silver. Lines dragged down the corners of his eyes, and for that matter, the corners of his mouth too. He’d gotten fat; he’d always been big leaning hard into beefy, but now he was just plain fat.

  But it wasn’t any of that. Or rather, it was all of that plus something else. Something about the way Hazard’s dad held himself. Somers would have spotted it right off, and Hazard had it on the tip of his tongue. A kind of hesitance. Caution. Like a man who’s just stubbed his toe taking another shuffle in the dark.

  “They don’t have clocks in cop cars?”

  “Sure we do.”

  Hazard’s dad grunted. He had rolled a pack of cigarettes in his sleeve—in his sleeve like he was James fucking Dean—and now he worked the pack loose and tapped out a cigarette.

  “It’s 2018. You can’t smoke in here.”

  “It’s America, isn’t it?” But he didn’t light up.

  The same voice, Hazard thought. The same voice like a wino had dropped all his pennies in an empty forty and they were rattling hard.

  “May I get you something to drink, Detective?” Their waiter was an older man, polished, and Hazard had seen him around town without learning his name.

  “Guinness.”

  “I’m sorry, we don’t have that.” He named a series of alternatives, all with the name select or reserve or private collection, all costing about eight dollars more than what Hazard liked to pay.

  “Anything. A stout. Whatever you’ve got.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Wait. We’re ready to order.”

  Frank tapped the pack of cigarettes. “We are?”

  “Ribeye. Medium-rare. The potatoes. No, Christ. The salad.” Somers had been on him about that lately. Salad.

  “Of course. And for you?”

  Frank tapped the pack again. “You got that french onion soup?”

  “We do.”

  “Just the soup. None of that cheese and bread on top.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hold on,” Hazard said. “Get the damn potatoes.”

  “Maybe I don’t want them.”

  “Forty years you’ve been coming here and you don’t want them? He wants the damn potatoes, all right? The ones with the burnt brisket ends.”

  “If I wanted the fucking potatoes, I’d order them all right.”

  “I should come back—”

  “No,” Hazard said. “No, if it’s about money, order the damn potatoes. You think I can’t pick up the tab?”

  “The day my son pays for my dinner—”

  “Just bring him the potatoes, all right?”

  “You listen to me,” Frank said, stabbing a finger at the waiter. “You bring those potatoes and I’m going to shove them down your throat, you hear? I want that fucking soup, and I want it without that fucking bread and that fucking cheese.”

  The waiter retreated; he’d probably seen worse, Hazard guessed, but not much.

  Just like that, the game had started. Dad: 1.

  “You don’t eat potatoes now, is that it? Mom’s got you on a diet?”

  “You’re the one that ordered a salad.”

  “That’s not a queer thing, Dad. Plenty of straight guys eat salad.”

  Frank’s upper lip curled. He slid the pack of cigarettes, flipped it on its end, slid, flipped, slid, flipped. For a moment, neither man spoke. Then the hub of the kitchen and the murmur of other conversations dropped, one of those coincidental lulls, and Hazard heard something—a tinny voice calling his name. With a flush, he dug his phone out of his pocket and saw Nico’s name on the screen. Nico was talking, the sound fragile and thin through the speaker, and the screen showed that the call had been going for twelve minutes. Twelve goddamn minutes, and that lunatic was still trying to talk. Hazard disconnected the call and dropped the phone in his pocket and swore he’d figure out a way to prevent any more butt dials.

  “So you’re sticking it to the Somerset boy. Was that him?”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “What’s all this attitude about? You know me. You’ve known me my whole goddamn life. I don’t put on airs. I’m not fancy like you and your friends. That’s not good enough for you?”

  “Not if it means I have to hear you talk about me sticking it to my boyfriend.”

  “Boyfriend.” One big hand slapped the pack of cigarettes flat.

  “Would you rather have me call him my lover? Who knows, Dad? If things go well, maybe I’ll call him my husband.”

  The curl in Frank Hazard’s upper lip was threatening to peel back his gums.

  Hazard: 1. Now they were tied.

  “You don’t have any goddamn brains? You don’t remember what that pussy did to you?”

  “I remember.”

  “So, what? You come back, that boy figures out he likes dick, and suddenly you’re best friends?”

  “That’s about it.”

  “Figures. Even back then, you couldn’t stay away from him. Didn’t matter what he did to you, you found a way to get in his path.”

  Hazard shifted his weight and tossed his napkin on the table. “I don’t need this. Enjoy your soup.”

  “Running away. That’s what you always do.” Frank gestured with the pack of cigarettes. “Go on.”

  “What the hell did you say?”

  “You don’t like me. That’s all right; lots of sons don’t like their fathers. Most of them can stand to have a civil conversation over a meal. Not you. Every little thing puts your back up. I say something, and you immediately take it the wrong way. So go on. Get all huffed up, go back to your—” his lips tightened “—boyfriend, tell him everything. How I’m a monster. How I ruined your life.” He took a pull of his beer.

  2-1.

  Hazard spread his napkin over his lap. Run away? He hadn’t ever run away. He’d left on his own goddamn terms. He’d gone to college. He’d gone to St. Louis. Run away? That’s what this old piece of shit thought he’d done?

  Over the lip of his glass, Frank said, “Now you’re staying?”

  “You came here. You invited me to dinner. What do you want?”

  “I wanted to know if you’re—” He paused, and this time, it wasn’t contempt so much as genuine confusion. “If you’re with that Somerset guy. And you are. I saw you. You damn well about chewed his lips off to make the point.”

  “So what? You don’t live here anymore. You’re not planning on inviting us for a summer vacation. What does it matter who I’m sticking it to?”

  2-2.

  “People remember us. People know my name, and that means something.”

  “This is about your name? God. You’re joking, right?”

  “I never said anything when you were a kid. I didn’t want you to know. But Somerset, the old one, Glenn, you know what that bastard did?”

  “He got you run out of your job at Tegula. Drink your beer and don’t look so surprised. His wife made a big deal out of telling me. That was twenty years ago.”

  “Fifteen.”

  “I’ll ask you again: what does it matter who I’m sticking it to?”

  The older man’s amber eyes were like tumbled stone. “Maybe I like it. Maybe I like knowing you made a pussy out of that pretty boy.”

  “Say that again. Say anything like it, anything bad about him, and see what happens.”

  Frank Hazard blew out a disgusted breath, but there was something in his eyes, something that Hazard couldn’t quite pinpoint. Somers would have known, but Hazard missed it. It almost looked like Hazard’s dad was pleased. Almost. But that couldn’t be right.

  After that, Hazard’s beer came, and it was all right even if it wasn’t Guinness. And they talked sports, and they talked cars, and Frank Hazard took the time to point out two sets of what he considered top-shelf rack on a pair of very young women eating dinner with much older men. The steak and soup came, and then they didn’t have to talk, and they ate—although Frank Hazard made a face as he slurped his soup, and he pushed away the bowl before he’d finished.

  They fought about the bill, but that was an easy, back-and-forth fight, and then they were outside. Clouds scudded over the April night, and damp air pasted Hazard’s shirt to his chest and left his skin sticky. Wet asphalt filled the air with its smell. Already, motor oil left concentric rainbow splashes on the streets.

  “When do you head back?”

  “Haven’t decided yet.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “I said I don’t know.”

  “How’s the motor court?”

  “What you’d expect.”

  “I stayed there. If you have any problems, let me know, and I’ll talk to the front desk.”

  Frank Hazard snorted. “Are you going to wipe my ass too?”

  “Good night, Dad.”

  Hazard had taken ten steps, his oxfords ringing out on the glistening cement, when his dad called, “I get to meet him, don’t I?”

  “You already did.” Hazard kept walking.

  At the end of the block, where he’d parked the Jetta, he looked back even though he told himself not to. Frank Hazard stood outside The Real Beef. Some of the sunset lingered, and Hazard’s dad was a dusty shadow against the sky, a cigarette between his lips cutting the tip of the silhouette. But no smoke, Hazard thought. He still hadn’t lit up for some reason.

  And that thought was vaguely unsettling as Hazard backed the Jetta onto Jefferson and steered towards Market and the Crofter’s Mark building where he lived with Somers. First, no potatoes. And then the soup. And now this, that image of Frank Hazard like a man dissolving into infinite particles, converting into his own dust storm against a sky the color of an unripe nectarine, the cigarette clenched between his teeth cold and dark.

  At Market Street, Hazard had to slam on the brakes as a boy on a bicycle shot out in front of him. Hazard swore, thought about laying on the horn, and then stomped the brakes again. Torches moved in the darkness. Honest-to-God torches, like they’d gone backward a few hundred years. A mob. A mob coming to burn the faggot. He was smiling as he parked the Jetta, the photographic negative of a smile, and maybe nobody in the world—nobody except Somers—would have recognized it as a smile. But it was a smile because a mob seemed small-time, and torches too. Burn out the faggot? Those were the good old days.

  Leaning against the hood of the Jetta, Hazard made sure his jacket fell open so that the old .38 Special was in easy reach. The mob approached, slower than he had expected but steady, and mob really hadn’t been too much of a jump. The crowd had to number well over a hundred people. It might have even nosed up against two hundred. All of them in Sunday best. Lots of white, Hazard saw. In the wet April air, the torches hissed and spat, and greasy cylinders of smoke spun up against the sky. He could smell the kerosene now. A bunch of goddamn fools carrying homemade torches soaked in kerosene.

  Burn out the faggot. Burn out the monster in the castle. Hazard wished he had one of his dad’s cigarettes; right then felt like the moment to smoke.

  “Thank God,” Somers said, trotting up next to the Jetta. He glanced over his shoulder. “Lender called and said they were headed this way, and I thought maybe you were still at dinner.”

  “You ran here?”

  “It’s, what? Half mile? Chump change. Anyway, the Interceptor still doesn’t have tires, so it was either run or call an Uber.”

  “Lender called you about them?”

  The mob had drawn closer. They were singing, Hazard realized, although the song was hard to pick out over the crackle and hiss of the flames. He caught some of the words. Jesus, of course. And blood. Lots of references to blood. And a sword.

  “Are they singing about bathing in his blood?” Somers said.

  “Who the hell are they?”

  Somers grinned as he leaned against the Jetta, his body curved alongside Hazard’s, his warmth welcome in the deepening chill under the purple sky.

  “That’s what Lender was calling about. It turns out Wahredua is home to an authentic miracle.”

  “That fat guy who Norman kneed in the crotch? That wasn’t a miracle.”

  “Not that. According to Lender, these good people have been pouring into town over the last couple of hours. I guess the word got out. Miracles are like that, I expect.”

  “Somers, quit playing smug before I tan your ass.”

  “You didn’t hear? It turns out Brother Jeshua rose from the dead.”

  HAZARD AND SOMERS TRAILED THE MOB into Truant Park. Situated at one end of Market Street, with its heavy traffic and revitalized shopping, the park had become a haven for the homeless and dispossessed. As such, it had also become a regular site for foot patrols by uniformed officers—especially those uniformed officers who had run afoul of Cravens in some way.

  Tonight, though, the park was transformed. The torches, flickering now in the river breeze, brought new shadows, darker, deeper shadows. Juxtaposed with the unwavering arc of the sodium lamps, the mob’s shadows were medieval. Anachronistic, Hazard thought, his heart pumping cool analysis now. These new converts, with their torches and their superstitions, were like cavemen who had somehow reemerged into the modern world.

  Under one of the pavilions, someone had pushed together picnic tables into an improvised stage. White cloth draped the tables, and Hazard wanted to sneer, but there was something about the night, the torches, the ricocheting energy of the mob, that disturbed him. He didn’t believe that John Oscar Walden had risen from the dead. But tonight, with the air water-heavy, fuzzy, infused with refracted torchlight, he could almost believe it.

  Kelley Jane climbed onto the tables, helped by a red-faced Brother Paul. Hazard had seen the woman twice before: naked and bucking under Clyde’s inexpert attention, and then metamorphosed into the stern and matronly Sister Mary. Tonight, she was Sister Mary—her hair in a tight bun, her face untouched by makeup, her posture stiff like she was carrying a stack of books on her head—but transformed again. She wore white, all white, and somehow the night and the humidity and the torches turned the clothing iridescent, as though she wore opals or sequins or mother-of-pearl.

  “Tonight, my brothers and sisters,” Kelley Jane said, her voice silencing the mob’s murmurs, “we celebrate the reborn Christ who has risen again. Brother Jeshua has vanquished the tomb, as the Revelator prophesied. He has swallowed up Death’s sting. He has gone into the prison-house to set the prisoners free. He lives again!”

  Hallelujahs and praises roared through the mob.

  “Come to see the carnival?”

  The long strands of Detective Swinney’s reddish-blond hair frizzed in the damp, and the torchlight flickered across her expression, drowning her eyes in deep shadows and then wicking away. She didn’t look good, though. Part of that strain, Hazard knew, was because of her partner. Being partners with Al Lender had been easy until they’d learned he was crooked; now, Swinney wore the strain in her face, like a mask cutting into the flesh. But some of the strain seemed new.

  Kelley Jane was ranting now about Brother Jeshua and his enemies, and Hazard ignored her. “What do you know about this?”

  “It’s a shit show.”

  “Somebody broke into the morgue?” Somers asked.

  “Broke in? Jesus, a kid with a step-stool could get in there. It doesn’t take a hacking genius to punch in 1-2-3-4. Whoever it was beat the shit out of Dr. Kamp. If you were hoping to get anything out of the ME’s office, you’re out of luck. He’s not going back there for a while. Ever, maybe. And no, before you ask, he doesn’t remember anything. They about fucking knocked his head off. He’s lucky he remembers his own name.”

  “Security cameras?” Hazard said.

  “Oh yeah. We got a great view of an old lady. She walks up to the door, looks at it, turns around, looks right up at the camera, walks away. Then about fifteen minutes later, the camera goes out.”

  “What does she look like?” Somers said.

  “Old as shit. I don’t know, broken down. Rough life, I guess. Or she’s living hard now. Anyway, it couldn’t have been just her—she couldn’t have moved the body on her own. Christ, I should have just shown you, but I’m tired.” She fanned a printout that showed Sister Naomi outside the ME’s door.

  “What was she doing?” Somers said.

  “Committing a felony. A few, actually.”

  Somers hemmed. “I don’t know about that.”

  “What do you mean? You’ve got eyes. There she is. And don’t tell me she just happened to wander by. She went there for a reason.”

  “Sure. But is it a felony to resurrect someone?”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Yeah, exactly. I mean, you wouldn’t charge him with a felony, would you?”

  Hazard knew he was grinding his teeth, but he couldn’t stop.

  Staring at them with a mixture of amusement and exhaustion, Swinney said, “You two know her?”

  “She goes by the name Naomi. Part of Walden’s cult.”

  “Is it still a cult if he performs a genuine miracle?” Somers asked. He was teasing. Hazard knew he was teasing. And it only made Hazard want to punch him harder.

  “We went to that house,” Swinney said, “and we tried the farm too. Couldn’t find her. Nobody would give us the time of day. Any idea where she might be?”

  “There’s a house in St. Elizabeth.” Hazard gave her the address.

  “Or you can try the Price Chopper,” Somers said. “She sells baked goods there most days.”

  “What the hell is going on with you?” Hazard said. “Did you get dropped on the head when you were a child?”