She met his gaze evenly. "I had to leave them behind in a couple of people who tried to stop me. It was a tough trip getting here."
"Are you okay with that?"
She nodded. "Better than I thought I'd be. You do what you have to do."
What an amazing young woman, he thought. Who'd have thought Cathy's little girl could turn out so tough and resilient.
He remembered Lacey as a teen. She'd always been a little different from her peers. On the surface she seemed like a typical high-school kid—she dated, though she had no serious crushes, played soccer and field hockey with abandon—but on holidays and family gatherings, she'd stay in the background. Joe would make a point of sitting down with her; he'd draw her out, and then another Lacey would emerge.
The other Lacey was a thinker, a questioner. She had doubts about religion, about government. She burned with an iconoclastic fire that urged her to question traditions and break with them whenever possible. She was fascinated by the old anarchists and dug up all their works. He remembered her favorite was No Treason by someone named Lysander Spooner. Instead of hanging posters of the latest teenage heartthrob boy band in her room, Lacey had pictures of Emma Goldman and Madelyn Murray O'Hare.
Joe's sister and her husband tolerated her views with a mixture of humor and apprehension. If this was the shape and scope of Lacey's teenage rebellion, they'd live with it. It was just a phase, they'd say. She'll grow out of it. Better than drunk driving or drugs or getting pregnant.
But it wasn't a phase. It was Lacey. And later, when she came out as a lesbian, they turned their backs on her. Joe had tried to talk them out of slamming the family door, but this was more than they could take.
"Who taught you to shoot?" he asked.
"A friend." She smiled. "A guy friend, believe it or not. It was a self-defense thing. He took me out to the range until I got comfortable with pulling the trigger. I'm not a great shot, but if you're within ten feet of me and you're looking for trouble, you're gone."
Joe had to smile. "Never let it be said you're not full of surprises, Lacey."
She laughed softly. "No one's ever said that."
They turned back to scrubbing the altar. They'd been at it for over an hour now. Joe was drenched with sweat and figured he smelled like a bear, but he couldn't stop until it was clean.
But it wouldn't come clean.
"What did they do to this altar?" Lacey asked.
"I don't know. This crud ... it seems part of the marble now."
The undead must have done something to the blood and foulness to make the mixture seep into the surface as it had.
"Let's take a break."
He turned sat on the floor with his back against the altar and rested. He didn't like resting because it gave him time to think. And when he started to think he realized that the odds were pretty high against his seeing tomorrow morning.
At least he'd die well fed. Their secret supplier had left them a dinner of fresh fried chicken by the front doors. Even the memory of it made his mouth water. Apparently someone was really glad he was back.
Lacey settled next to him. She'd shed her leather jacket hours ago. Her bare arms were sheened with perspiration.
"That talk about Custer's last stand and the Alamo," she said. "You're not planning to die here, are you?"
To tell the truth, as miserable as he'd been, he wasn't ready to die. Not tonight, not any night.
"Not if I can help it."
"Good. Because as much as I can appreciate self-immolating gestures, I don't think I'm ready to take part in a Jersey Shore version of the Alamo or Little Big Horn."
"Well, the cry of 'Remember the Alamo!' did spur a lot of people to action, but I agree. Going down fighting here will not solve anything."
"Then what's the plan? We should have some sort of plan."
Good question. Did he have a plan?
"All I want to do is hold off the undead till dawn. Keep them out of St. Anthony's for one night. That's all. That will be a statement—my statement. Our statement if you want to stay on."
And if he found an opportunity to ram a stake through Palmeri's rotten heart, so much the better. But he wasn't counting on that.
"That's it?" Lacey said. "One night?"
"One night. Just to let them know they can't have their way everywhere with everybody whenever they feel like it. We've got surprise on our side tonight, so maybe it will work." One night. Then he'd be on his way. "You shouldn't feel you have to stay just because you're my niece."
"I don't. But if I—"
"What the fuck have you done?"
Joe looked up at the shout. A burly, long-haired man in jeans and a cutaway denim jacket stood in the vestibule staring at the partially restored nave. As he approached, Joe noticed his crescent moon earring.
A Vichy.
Joe balled his fists but didn't move.
"Hey, I'm talking to you, asshole. Are you responsible for this?"
When all he got from Joe was a cold stare, he turned to Zev and fixed on his yarmulke.
"Hey, you! Jew! What the hell you think you're doing here?" He started toward Zev. "You get those fucking crosses off—"
"Touch him and I'll break you in half," Joe said in a low voice.
The Vichy skidded to a halt and stared at him.
"Are you crazy? Do you know what Father Palmeri will do to you when he gets here?"
"Father Palmeri? Why do you still call him that?"
"It's what he wants to be called. And he's going to call you dog meat when he gets through with you!"
Joe pulled himself to his feet and looked down at the Vichy. Suddenly the man didn't seem so sure of himself.
"Tell him I'll be waiting." Joe gave him a hard, two-handed shove against his chest that sent him stumbling back. Damn, that felt good. "Tell him Father Cahill is back."
"You're a priest? You don't look like one."
Joe slapped him across the face. Hard. It snapped the creep's chin toward his shoulder. That felt even better.