Fires Rising Read Online Free Page B

into the church's gloomy depths. It doubled back, tossing bits of debris against Pilazzo's face. He closed his eyes and coughed away the invading grit. Behind him, the lone tree's leaves rustled. When he opened his eyes, the afternoon sun caught the chrome edge of the closed left door, causing a pinpoint glare to pierce his eyes. He moved aside, realizing that all the sparrows in the tree had ceased their tuneful chirping.
    "The actual demolition won't start until next week," Miller said. "At this point in time the crews are disassembling the pews and some of the other items on the donation list. As discussed, we'll need you to approve the new applications before we can move them all out."
    Pilazzo nodded. He looked at the tree and noticed the sparrows had indeed taken flight. The tree looks empty without them. Like the Church of St. Peter does now, minus its parishioners.
    "And the statues, and the crucifix behind the altar…" Henry added.
    "What about them?" Pilazzo diverted his attention back to the foreman. His heart began to pound. He massaged his chest with a closed fist, thinking, I can't take much more of this. I feel as if my insides are being ripped out.   "They haven't been damaged, have they?"
    Miller hesitated. His face paled, drawn of its color, and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. "No, they have not," he answered weakly, guiltily .
    Pilazzo said, "I've performed thousands of masses under the watchful eyes of those statues. I hope nothing bad has happened to them."
    "As you know, our…our crews are not insured for moving such valuables. Again, I strongly suggest you hire a moving company to handle them. We won't be able to move them out unless you sign a damage waiver…but I advise against that. Our men aren't quite trained to be delicate, ya know what I mean?"
    If it weren't considered an act defiant of the graces of God, Pilazzo would have cursed the man out, and lord, it probably would have felt darn good using those words he'd only heard others say during confession, or in the movies.
    "I'll see to it, then," he uttered, eyeing Miller suspiciously. Something about the foreman was really bothering Pilazzo. It's his eyes , he thought. They're cold and dark, embroiled in guilt. Then he wondered if he and his men had damaged the statues after all. Had they desecrated the last remaining vestiges of the Church of St. Peter in some vile, immoral, time-wasting horseplay?
    Dear God, no…
    Again Pilazzo stared into the darkness beyond the open door of the church.
    The breeze emerged once more, as if attempting to send a message to the priest. This time it created a spiral of dust at the jamb that for a moment resembled a tiny tornado. Pilazzo felt himself being drawn toward the windswept debris, toward the door and the waiting darkness beyond, his mind suddenly released of its anger and frustration, brimming with a want to enter the church one last time and bless its walls before they came tumbling down.
    It's calling to me, as though it is alive, begging me to grant upon it salvation from its looming demise.
    Something is calling me, and I must follow…
    "Father?"
    Pilazzo turned and looked at Henry Miller. The foreman had removed his yellow hardhat, exposing a hairless, sweaty, sun-burned head. There was a patchwork of dark lumpy freckles toward the rear of his dome, suggesting too much time in the sun and not enough concern for skin cancer. "Yes…Mr. Miller, what is it?"
    "It's lunch time now." A near-cocky grin cut into his stone face. "The guys are on break for the next hour. If they ask you for ID when they get back, just show them this." He handed Pilazzo a plastic card with the word VISITOR in big bold letters on the front. Along the top in smaller letters was the name of the construction company: Pale Horse Industrial .
    Pilazzo grinned, despite the upsetting state of affairs. He pinned the foreman's eyes, which appeared peculiarly black under the sun's glare. "Thank you Mr. Miller."
    Henry Miller