Dog Bless You by Neil S. Plakcy

Rochester could weasel his way out. I was still barefoot, and the gravel
was sharp against my tender soles. The front door of the chapel was locked,
which was a good sign. We walked along a concrete path around the corner and
through an arched passage into a broad yard that I recognized from the plans. Roses
had been trained up the sides of the chapel, and in the silence we could hear
the buzz of bees and the chirp of crickets.
    “I’m feeling a bit creeped out,” Lili said, rubbing her
bare shoulders. “Too many memories of life in war zones coming back. I want to
walk around a bit on my own.”
    I knew that when Lili was faced with troubling
situations, she preferred to approach them through the lens of her camera. I
guess we all have our coping mechanisms.
    “Try not to get yourself in any more trouble while I’m
gone.” To soften the words, she leaned over and kissed my cheek.
    She walked back out of the yard, and I began checking
the door locks. I found a side entrance into the chapel with a broken lock, and
pushed the door in.
    The room was cavernous, three stories tall with an
arched roof, and lined with hard wooden pews. The light coming through the
stained glass windows threw jeweled squares over the solid wood floor. It was spookily
quiet except for a low scratching sound.
     I stood on the scuffed wooden floor, and realized I’d
have to familiarize myself with church architecture pretty quickly.
    Through my bare soles I could feel the way thousands of
footsteps had smoothed the way before me. I rarely go into churches, except
ones that have become historical sites, and I felt like an interloper. I hoped
that the souls of all the dead monks and friars who had passed through the
place weren’t going to get cranky over Eastern’s plans to secularize the place.
    To my right I could see where the two wings branched
off, and the rounded space at the far end. The long-gone crucifix left a
ghostly shadow on the wall above the dais. That reminded me of the dead body
down by the lake. Who was it? If Lili was right about how long the body had
been in the ground, that meant the Benedictines had already decamped for
western Pennsylvania by the time it was buried.
    To the outsider, Bucks County looked like an idyllic
place. In the spring, dogwoods and magnolias blossomed, and in the summer
bright red strawberries glistened in the U-pick fields and acres of farmland
swayed with corn stalks. The fall brought a blaze of color as the leaves
changed, and in the winter the landscape was cloaked with a white blanket.
    Revolutionary War landmarks dotted the river towns,
children rode their bikes along the narrow sidewalks, and McMansions on
immaculately groomed acre lots housed wealthy commuters. But pockets of poverty
hid around the curves of country roads, and Rick had told me stories of domestic
violence and drug abuse in the midst of the suburbs.
    I knew enough not to generalize about felons—after all,
I was one myself. But even out here in the countryside, people were willing to
commit murder to achieve their goals. Whether the body down by the lake
belonged to an innocent victim or a hardened criminal, it was still a reminder
that danger could lurk around any corner.
    I shivered and walked forward. The dais was raised
about two feet above the floor, and a beach-ball sized hole loomed in the
vertical support wall. The scratching noises were louder, and I worried that
animals nested under there. I’d have to hire an exterminator to come in and
clear the place out. Great. More displaced souls to haunt the space.
    I decided against having a close encounter with any
home-protecting wildlife, and returned to the open yard, where I spotted Lili
down on her right knee, focusing on the outline of the chapel against the sky.
I didn’t want to disturb her, so I walked behind the chapel to a grove of old-growth
maples and pines. A doe grazing in the sunshine raised her head, looked at me,
and then took off through the