Where Their Fire Is Not Quenched

Chet Williamson

Ashes lay like a comforter of gray down over the hard ground. Through their soft surface timbers rose, charred black, standing like trees swept by destroying fire. Hellboy watched as one of the standing timbers swayed, held, swayed again, and with a cracking sound no louder than that of a twig being trod upon, broke near its base and fell, softly, gently, into the thick ashes, which sent up a gray cloud, incense to welcome the new offering.

The beams of the rising sun split the clouds on the eastern horizon into wispy tendrils, and tinted golden the flakes of ash that hung and sparkled in the cool morning air. Hellboy walked slowly around the ruins of piety, recognizing shapes that pushed randomly out of the ashy coverlet: the broken spines of long pews, a blackened, square hulk that might have been an organ, and less identifiable shapes, all reduced to carbon.

In the middle of the destruction was a cross that, Hellboy theorized, had plummeted from the peak of the steeple when that topmost portion of the edifice had tumbled down into the flames that had dissolved its base. Flakes of gold still adhered to the metal surface, but most had been burned away, revealing gray steel beneath. The cross had landed upside-down, and its head had dug deeply into the rubble, so that the crossbeam was flush with the ashes. It was Saint Peter, wasn't it, Hellboy thought, who had been crucified upside-down.

He got back into his car and finished his journey, driving into the town of Linden, North Carolina, thirty miles from the ashes of what had once been a Golgotha Tabernacle of Our Lord. There were a total of fifteen Golgotha Tabernacles in North and South Carolina, and it was the founder of this small but growing denomination that Hellboy was on his way to visit. He had no doubt that the call would be unpleasant, even though his way had been made straight by the Bureau. He also doubted that Donald Withers, Golgotha Tabernacle's bishop, would feel a widow's mite's worth of compassion for anyone from an organization with the word 'paranormal' in it.

Hellboy was hardly relieved to be proven right. When he arrived at the large but seedy southern gothic mansion that housed the offices of Golgotha Tabernacles, the secretary, a thin, middle-aged woman sitting behind a large wooden desk in the foyer, immediately fell to her knees, buried her face in her hands, and started praying feverishly and nearly incomprehensibly, though Hellboy was able to make out, "fires of Hell," and " ... from the demons," before they were joined by the bishop.

Donald Withers was as devoid of meat upon his bones as his secretary, and when he saw Hellboy, his eyebrows arched in alarm. Hellboy tried to smile, but felt as though he were looking into the hollows of a skull. "I didn't mean to startle her," he told Withers in a voice as soft as he could produce. "I'm from the Bureau for — "

"Yes," said Withers in a soft drawl, "I know where you're from, and I know who you are — and what you are. I know that you are the son of Satan."

"Through no fault of my own," Hellboy said gently. "We can't help who our parents are. I do everything I can to fight evil, not abet it. I believe the Bureau sent you my dossier?"

"They did," Withers said. His secretary was on her feet now, but she would not look at Hellboy. "And it's only because of that, that I'm talking to you at all. Come on in." Withers turned and went through the door, and Hellboy followed, feeling larger and far redder than he had in a long time.

There was another man inside Withers' large office, and Hellboy scarcely had time to take in the holy ambience of the room, so seething was the hatred that came washing over him from the man in the chair. The man was even thinner than Withers (Hellboy wondered if fervent religion might be an undiscovered fat burner), and his knuckles gripped the arms of his chair so tightly that his hands appeared skeletal. "Hellspawn," the man murmured.

"Hellboy," Hellboy corrected. "And you are?"

"This is Pastor Isaac Chambers," Withers answered for the man. "He's the preacher in two of our churches. The church that just burned down was one of his."

"Is one of mine, you mean," Chambers said. "We'll rebuild, though the fires of hell itself burn us down time and time again." Hellboy considered asking if this had happened to Chambers' church before, then decided the man was simply offering a rhetorical flourish.

"You think that's what it was?" asked Hellboy. "The fires of hell?"

"We don't know what it was," Withers replied. He remained standing, and Hellboy suspected it was because he didn't want to have to ask Hellboy to sit in one of his chairs. Chambers was not as polite.

"Let me tell you what little I know," said Hellboy, "and you can correct me if I'm wrong: There have been a number of church burnings in the area served by your Golgotha Tabernacles. Four of those were African-American churches, and it was obvious that arson was the cause, since gasoline residue was found. But the most recent burnings — of two of your churches — have no simple explanation. The fires seem to have no central source, and there's no residue of gasoline or any other incendiaries. I believe a witness who was driving by your church, Pastor Chambers, claimed that — "

"Yes, I know," Chambers said impatiently. "He said the whole thing just went up like that!" The finger snap was as loud as a firecracker. "But you can't believe those people! They'd tell you it was the hand of God hisself come down and smote us just because of what we preach!"

"And that is?" asked Hellboy.

"Purity." Withers answered for Chambers again. "It might not be 'politically correct', but it's biblically grounded."

"By purity, you mean racial purity?"

"Of course. We have nothing against the other races — after all, we're all the children of God — but we were not intended to mix and intermingle. That's a law of nature as well as a law of God."

Hellboy bit back what he wanted to say, and tried to smile. "So do you suspect anyone of these burnings?"

"Of course we do," Chambers said, his hands still clinging to the arms of his chair like two white spiders. "It's technology, that's all — nothing 'paranormal'. It's the government!" The word came out gumment. "They're the only ones got the know-how to burn down a church and not leave any clues as to how they done it!"

"Why would the government want to burn down churches?" Hellboy asked, ready for the next round of paranoia.

" 'Cause they think we burnin' down the colored churches, whatta you think?"

"And are you?"

Withers stiffened, and took command of the conversation. "Surely not. We don't preach violence in the Golgotha Tabernacles, Mr ... uh, sir. Now I'm afraid that I'm going to have to ask you to leave. I agreed to see you only in the hopes that you might have some ideas as to who's been burning our churches, but you don't know any more than we do — less, even."

"That could change if I had your cooperation," Hellboy said.

"Fat chance!" Chambers got to his feet at last. "You're lucky we don't tie you to a tree and burn you, Hellspawn! Send you back to the devil, your daddy!"

"I've renounced the devil and his ways," Hellboy said calmly. "The material you received from the Bureau told you that."

"Ha! 'Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots?' Jeremiah 13:23!"

Hellboy shrugged and walked to the door. " 'I'll be seeing you'. Sammy Fain, music, Irving Kahal, lyrics." He walked out.

It was a stupid gesture, he thought. He should have tried to get more out of them. But maybe there wasn't anything more to get. He gave a diabolical grin to the secretary as he walked by her. If she was going to have nightmares about him, might as well make them worth having.

Linden's chief of police eyed him as strangely as most people did, but at least he didn't start quoting scripture. What he did do was tell Hellboy that these fancy government (again, gumment) bureaus didn't mean a damn thing to him, and you'd have to be from the FBI or state police to get any cooperation. "And I hope you don't mind my adding, son," said the chief as he showed Hellboy the door, "that you'd get along a lot easier around here if you didn't dress up like some goddamn wrestler, or whoever you're supposed to be."

Well, Hellboy thought as he climbed back into his car, that took care of both church and state. The only other lead he had was the witness who had supposedly seen Pastor Chambers' church burst into flame. The man's name was Nathaniel Watson, and Hellboy found his house easily enough. It was located on the main road three miles from the burned church, and when he pulled into the dirt drive, he saw a man sitting on the crude porch of a one-story house badly in need of paint.

The man looked up as Hellboy got out of the car. Watson straightened his shoulders, and his eyes widened for a moment, but then he set his jaw and watched, unmoving, as Hellboy came toward him. "Who you s'posed to be?" he asked in a surprisingly smooth and mellifluous voice. "You come for my soul, I hate to disappoint you, but you had it a long time ago."

Hellboy held his hands out in front of him in a gesture of peace. "I haven't come for anybody's soul. I've just come to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind."

"You sellin' insurance? You look like you'd be one helluva insurance salesman." The man's dark mouth split in a little grin, and Hellboy couldn't help but chuckle.

He explained who he was, and the man shrugged. "Seen enough devils dressed up like angels 'round here — might as well see a good guy dressed up like a devil. What can I do for ya?"

"I'd like to know exactly what it was you saw that night the Golgotha Tabernacle burned down."

"Already tol' the police. Whole thing jes' went ka-voom, right all at once."

"An explosion?"

"Nope. Didn't say ka-boom, said ka-voom. Wasn't no sound of an explosion, just fire. Filled up the whole place smack bang, see it in all the windows at the same time. One second it was dark, the next like somebody jes' filled that place up with fire, glowin' behind every window."

"You were driving by at the time?"

"Yeah. Stopped at a house down the road and called the fire department, then went back to the church to watch. Next thing I know the cops're talkin' to me like I done it, and Ike Chambers is howlin' at them to arrest me for settin' fire to his church. Well, they look in my car and my trunk, and there's nothin' nobody could set a fire with, no gasoline, kerosene, nothin' like that, and I don't smell of it neither. Damn ol' Chief Hanson smelled all round my hands too. Finally let me go."

"Didn't they think it would be odd for the person who set the fire to call it in and then come back?" Hellboy asked.

"Took em a while to come around to that line of reasonin'."

"Did you tell them anything else besides the ... strange nature of the fire?"

"Nope."

"Was anybody else around when you saw it go up? Any other cars?"

Nathaniel Watson paused just a second too long. "Nope."

"You sure about that?"

Watson thought for a moment. "You gonna tell the cops about this?"

"No."

"Then yeah. I saw somebody's car. When the fire started, I was watching it for about a minute, and just as I started to pull away, I saw Jack Mooney's minivan pullin' out from the trees, goin' the other way."

"Jack Mooney?"

"Yeah. Wild-ass guy. Used to be a priest, you can dig that. Live over in Shipoke."

"You didn't tell the police this yourself?"

"Don't like the police. And I especially don't like Ike Chambers and his church. They ain't very Christian for church folks. If Jack Mooney burned down that Golgotha church, then I say God bless Jack Mooney."

"What about the other church burnings in the area? The black churches? You as cavalier about those?"

"What kinda folks you think burning down our churches? Not folks like Jack Mooney, however he mighta done Golgotha. No, it's folks who drive pickup trucks with gun racks and Confederate-flag decals and 'Impeach Who-the-hell-ever' bumper stickers, and go to churches like Golgotha who burn down the black churches — with plenty of gasoline slopped all over, like the redneck dumb-asses they are. Golgotha's a hate church, my man, not a love church.

"But I'll tell you somethin' else — I don't think Jack Mooney had a damn thing to do with that burnin', 'cause I don't know how nothin' human coulda made happen what I saw happen."

"So what was it then?" Hellboy asked.

"Hand of God, my man. Nothin' less than the hand of God."

Jack Mooney lived eight miles from the church that had just burned down. His house was a big two-story with pillars in front, but that didn't mean, Hellboy thought, that the man had money. The once-white paint had nearly peeled off the wood, so that the house appeared as gray as the gathering clouds. There was no minivan in the stone driveway, and no garage in sight, so Hellboy parked among some trees, out of sight of the road, and walked around to the back of the house.

There was a small shed there, and Hellboy searched that first. If people stored incendiaries, they tended to do so in a place separate from where they slept and ate. There was nothing in the shed, however, but some rusted tools and a hand mower.

Hellboy went up to the house, and was surprised to find the door open. He listened, but heard only the ticking of a clock and the low whir of the refrigerator. The boards creaked under his weight, but no one called out, and a quick sweep of the house told him that he was alone.

In nearly every room there was a crucifix on the wall, and at least one bookcase. Most of the books dealt with religion, although there were a few best-selling novels from past years. But Hellboy noticed that some of the books stuck out farther in the case than others, and when he pulled them away, he found other books behind them, uncovering nearly two dozen. Most were in very old bindings. Several were in Latin, and others were in French and German. Only two were in English.

Hellboy recognized nearly all of them by their titles. Some he had read, others he had never seen, but only heard whispers of. Even if the titles had meant nothing to him, the illustrations and diagrams would have given their subject matter away. There were several editions of the Key of Solomon, a Grimoire of Honorius, the original 1575 Basle edition of Arbatel of Magic, and even a German translation of the Al Azif. It seemed that Jack Mooney wasn't as doctrinaire as the crucifixes suggested.

Hellboy had begun to more closely examine the pages of the books in which bookmarks had been placed, when the sound of an approaching engine made him quickly replace the volume he was holding and run to the window. A battered minivan was pulling into the stone driveway at the side of the house, and Hellboy ran out the back door, around the opposite side of the house from the drive, and into the sheltering woods. He had seen enough, however, to convince him that it might be worth his time to shadow Jack Mooney.

He returned to Mooney's place an hour after dusk, and parked his car on the shoulder of the road two hundred yards from Mooney's drive. He listened to a book on tape, the earphone in one ear, the other ear free so that he could hear approaching traffic. He had listened to four cassettes of the unabridged novel before Mooney's minivan pulled onto the road and started driving away from Hellboy and the town of Linden. Hellboy followed, lights off, able to see well enough by the light of the moon.

He followed Mooney for twenty-five miles over wandering roads. Whatever route the man was taking to his goal was circuitous, as though he suspected that someone might be following, and when the minivan finally stopped, Hellboy thought they might be only five or six miles from where they had started. Mooney pulled his minivan onto the shoulder and Hellboy could see him walking away from the road. Hellboy got out of his car and followed on foot.

When he saw where Mooney was heading, Hellboy was sure he had guessed right. It was a church, a small, white, one-story edifice with a modest peaked steeple. A wooden sign had been driven into the ground near the road, and black metal letters proclaimed that it was the 'Third Golgotha Tabernacle of Our Lord — Blossom, N.C.'

In the bright moonlight, Hellboy could see Jack Mooney clearly. The man seemed to be in his mid-fifties, and was of medium height and stocky. The top of his head was bald but for a halo of hair, red in the moonlight. He was wearing khakis and a light jacket, and his hands were empty. If he was planning on burning the church, it wasn't going to be with gasoline.

As Hellboy watched from the shadows of the lowering trees, Jack Mooney started to walk around the church. Three times he circled it, counter-clockwise, widdershins, as Hellboy had thought he would. Then he stood before the front door, raised his left arm, and began to make a series of arcane gestures in the air, as though he were drawing pictures with his hand. After a few minutes of this, he started to speak in a language Hellboy didn't understand, but which he thought might be ancient Aramaic. Whatever it was, it was time to stop things.

"Is it a final word or a final gesture that starts it?" Hellboy said, just over Jack Mooney's shoulder. The big investigator could move very softly when he needed to.

Mooney stiffened, and his gestures ceased. But then his shoulders slowly relaxed, and he looked behind him. "Well by golly, will you look at that?" he said. "I knew it was only a matter of time before they'd be sending demons after me." There was an ironic smile on his face.

"I'm not a demon," said Hellboy.

"I know who you are," Mooney said. "You don't think I've come to this point in my studies without knowing all about your organization and the people who are in it. Do you ... Hellboy?"

"A fire spell?" Hellboy asked. "That's how you burned the other churches?"

"The other Golgotha Tabernacles," Mooney corrected. "I don't burn African-American churches, my friend. I only burn the devil's churches. It took me a long time to figure out how to do it, but I've got it down pat now."

"What do you mean, the devil's churches?" asked Hellboy, honestly curious. "The Golgotha Tabernacles aren't Satanist churches."

"Aren't they?" Mooney snorted a laugh. "Do you want to see what goes on in the Golgotha Tabernacles? Would you like me to help you envision what goes on in the twisted hearts and narrow minds and lost souls of this sect? Because I'll be very happy to show you."

"How can you show me?"

"I learned a lot of things both before and since I left the priesthood, Hellboy. I learned that those who seem the most pious are often the most evil, and I learned, most importantly, that there were other ways to fight evil besides being one of Christ's priests. I could do more for Him by becoming one of His warriors."

The phrase revolted Hellboy. He had heard it used too many times to rationalize violence. "You mean like the ones who bomb abortion clinics?"

"No. Those fools use a mask of religion to do evil. I use the old secrets to battle them and their kind. You want to see what goes on in this building, Hellboy?" Mooney stepped up to the front door of the tabernacle and put his hand on the painted wood. Then he held his hand out to Hellboy. "Another secret I've learned in the old books. Take my hand. Hear the walls cry out against the evil that has been perpetrated within them. Take a look into the lives and deaths of those foolish enough to 'worship' here. Come on," he went on, more softly. "How can the devil's son be afraid to look within the heart of a church, especially a reformed devil's son?"

Hellboy took a deep breath and stepped next to Mooney, taking his hand. He felt nothing at first except the ex-priest's warm fingers gripping his own. Then the white, moonlit walls of the church and the form of the man next to him began to shimmer and fade. He started to see the secrets that the modest building held, as in a phantasmagoria ...

... There, floating before him, was the gaunt face of Isaac Chambers, his mouth twisting as he shouted that it was a sin against God to seek the help of men over the Lord ... that a wife should obey her husband in all things ... that with God anything was possible, even to the point of handling serpents and drinking poison ... that sodomites were doomed to hell ... that the black sons of Shem were an inferior race ... that the Jews still had to pay for killing Jesus, the Christ ...

... And then there swam into his view the results of those words ... a husband and wife standing by the bedside of their dying daughter, their hands raised over their heads, their eyes closed, trying to pray away ravenous death rather than call a doctor ...

... A woman sitting inside a car in a garage, breathing carbon monoxide, bold enough to finally leave the husband who beat her, but not bold enough to live with the condemnation of her spiritual brothers and sisters for that God-mocking act ...

... A woman writhing on the floor of her house, other worshippers gathered around her, not knowing what to do, watching the woman and the copperhead as it sinuously glided toward the door, its venom drained, having done what it was intended to do ...

And then they began to come more quickly. Both younger and older men, fathers and sons together, taunting, yelling at, threatening, and finally beating black men, gay men, anyone different, with non-white flesh or non-Christian beliefs.

No, not non-Christian, but non-their beliefs.

Through it all, all the visions, all the pain, all the hatred, Hellboy could hear the powerful voice of Pastor Isaac Chambers, damning, blessing, ordering his flock to their dismal fates. Then his vision cleared, and he was once more standing in the night, with Mooney no longer holding his hand.

"Is this," Mooney asked softly, "or is this not, a place of evil?"

Hellboy could not speak for a moment. Then he cleared his throat. "It may be. But your way isn't the way to stop them."

"You're wrong. It's the best way. It's the only way to eradicate the source, short of killing the monsters who preach such evil, and that I won't do."

"Not yet, anyway," Hellboy said. He was about to say more, but Mooney interrupted him.

"Don't preach to me. I've heard a lot of preaching in my time — done enough too."

"Then I'll just have to stop you — with or without explaining why."

"I know why. Because violence never solved anything, because fighting evil can make a person evil, because 'When you stare too long into the abyss ... ' You know the rest." It was true. Hellboy did.

"If you know all of that, then you know why I can't let you burn down that church."

"You can't stop me," Mooney said. "All I have to do is make a gesture, and you'll stop dead in your tracks. I make another, and the church goes up in flames — you see, I was almost finished when you interrupted me. So now — "

"You don't have to stop him, Hell-thing," came a rasping voice from the darkness. It seemed familiar to Hellboy, but there was something different about it. And when the man stepped from around the side of the church, Hellboy felt certain he knew what the difference was. "I can stop him easily enough ... "

It was Pastor Isaac Chambers, but his voice had changed to a predator's growl, and his appearance had changed as well. He was wearing the black suit that Hellboy had seen him in earlier, but it seemed too small for him now, as though he were growing inside it. His face was different too. Before it had been strained and angry and furtive; now it was only cruel and diabolical, as though what it had been hiding in the light of day was delighted at being able to come out at night. Hellboy saw the demon under the skin, and knew that Jack Mooney had been absolutely right.

"Need any more proof. Hellboy?" Mooney seemed nonplussed in Chambers' presence, and looked ready neither to fight nor flee. "I was wondering when you were going to show your true face, Chambers. He's a demon in human form, Hellboy, a servant of Satan, whose assignment is to lead people into mortal sin. Some of his ilk do that through vice or temptation or promises of worldly success. Chambers — or whatever his name is — has been doing it through the guise of salvation, leading people's souls into hell while promising them heaven. A sweet little scam, and, considering the way a lot of churches operate today, scarcely worthy of notice, unless, like me, you know what to look for."

"Nice speech," Chambers rattled. "You can give it again to the angels — you'll be seeing them soon enough." He turned toward Hellboy, who could see Chambers' forehead twitching, as though something beneath the bone was struggling to be released. The creature's eyes looked red in the moonlight. "And as for you ... " Chambers glanced at the discs where Hellboy's horns had been cut off. " ... Stumpy ... you might get to see your daddy tonight. The Ike Chambers part of me may have wanted you burned, but that wasn't because you're the devil's spawn — it's because you betrayed your blood and denied your heritage. The genetics of hell bubble within you, boy. No matter how hard you deny it."

"Why don't you wait till the cock crows three times," Hellboy said with a bravura he did not feel. "Then I'll feel really guilty."

"No more jokes," Chambers said. "It's time ... " He continued to grow then, and Hellboy saw his shirt and suit coat rip open as thick, wiry muscles burst through the fabric. In a few seconds Chambers was Hellboy's size, and continuing to grow. Horns sprouted from his forehead, and a long, pointed tail jutted priapically from between his legs. The clothes, now merely rags, fell away, and the face of hellish fury looked full into Hellboy's.

He nearly fell back before the power of it, but knew that he would have to strike first, and did. It was like hitting stone. The blow from his mighty right hand had no effect on the Chambers-thing other than to make it blink. Instead of its head rocking back on its neck, it had responded as if someone had blown a puff of air in its face.

Then he felt Mooney grab his arm and haul him backwards, away from the demon. He followed blindly, and together they ran through the open door of the church and down the aisle between the pews, toward the pulpit and a round window of stained glass dimly lit by the moon outside. Behind them, Hellboy heard the sound of cracking boards, and when he glanced back, he saw what had been Isaac Chambers forcing his bulk through the doorway, breaking the doorframe as he came.

"Through the window," Mooney said, and slapped Hellboy on the back as if to speed him. "Just go — straight through it!"

It was the only plan offered, so Hellboy figured he might as well take it. He ran faster, getting up as much speed as he could, straight toward the softly colored circle of glass. Just before he reached it, he sprang, curling up his massive body like a ball. He felt the impact before he heard the crash, and then, a split second later, another impact, as though he had been blown out of the mouth of a cannon.

Fire surrounded him like a hot, yellow-white tube, and the feel of the heat was more painful than the cutting shards of glass that fell away from him as he soared through the air, held aloft not by his leap, but by a great rush of scalding air and bright flame. Then the heat receded, and he fell onto soft grass and hard ground, and rolled until he stopped, panting, his face toward the sky, which seemed to be lit up by a blazing sun.

But it wasn't the sun, it was the Golgotha Tabernacle. It had become an instant inferno, with only the sound of a mighty flame lifting up, the same burst of flame that had helped to propel Hellboy through the now-shattered window. Already the flames were licking through the frame of that stained-glass window like a brilliant, hungry tongue, and the roof was glowing where the fire ate through the boards. The whole church was being devoured by the ravenous flames.

From the way the flames brightened the sky, Hellboy knew it would only be minutes before the cars and fire trucks started to arrive. He ran to his car, looking for Mooney, but there was no sign of him. What had the man done? Hellboy wondered as he drove away, turning down the first side road he could find, and then crisscrossing the meandering back roads. He had to have been in the church when that fireball erupted, and the only way it could have happened so quickly was if he had made that last gesture that he had bragged about.

Had he done so in order to kill the demon at the cost of his own life? Hellboy could imagine no other scenario, no possibility of escape for the man who had made certain that Hellboy escaped before he played his last trump card.

Last trump. He hoped that was what Jack Mooney, ex-priest and very successful mage, was hearing now from a front-row seat among the elect. He deserved it, after making the big sacrifice. Hellboy hoped the sacrifice wouldn't be in vain, but he knew that there were always those, demonic or otherwise, who would leap into the gap that Chambers had left ... if he was truly gone.

The next morning, Hellboy made it a point to drive past the ruined Golgotha Tabernacle. The fire was out, after having burned the building to the ground. There were a few police cars and an ambulance, as well as a new black Chrysler New Yorker. Donald Withers, wearing a topcoat against the morning chill, stood looking on. When Hellboy got out of his car and started to walk toward Withers, one of the deputies put his hand on his gun, but Police Chief Hanson, to whom Hellboy had spoken the day before, said something to the deputy, who relaxed and turned back to searching the ashes.

"Another one," Hellboy said flatly to Withers. The man's face soured at the sight of Hellboy, but he didn't respond. "Who was the pastor here?"

"Ike Chambers," Withers finally said, keeping his eyes on the searching policemen.

"Does he know about it yet?"

"We can't find him," Withers said. "That's what they're looking for now."

Before Withers had even finished his sentence, one of the deputies cried out, brushing at something with his shovel. Withers ran toward him, and Hellboy followed. "Stand back," Withers said, and knelt in the ashes, oblivious to the way they clung to his dark trousers and leather shoes. Hellboy could see the charred bones of an arm and hand. Withers lifted it, and something glittered in the sunshine. A bracelet. " 'Property of the Lord," Withers read. "It's Ike. Get a stretcher, you boys."

The chief led the deputies to the ambulance, where they alerted the two EMS men who had been taking a break in the back. While they did, Hellboy saw Withers quickly brush away the ashes from over the skull. Though the fire or some fatal magic had diminished the bones to human size, Hellboy could still see the protrusions in the skull from which the horns had grown.

Donald Withers saw them too. He reached out with his left hand, and with a strength beyond that of an old man, he pressed inward on the skull, so that it crumbled into irreparable shards of charred bone and ash. Then he looked up at Hellboy with a little smile.

"You knew," Hellboy said.

"As do you," Withers replied. "But who would ever believe you? In my country."

Hellboy looked at the bed of ashes that had been the Golgotha Tabernacle. The men had gone over it fairly well with rake and shovel, but there was no sign of any other body. Chambers' bones had been in the last area they had searched, having started at the edges and worked their way to the center. Jack Mooney's corpse was nowhere to be seen.

"I'm not the only one who knows," Hellboy whispered. "I'd strongly suggest that you give up the ministry. Maybe you could enter the mission field." He walked away, across the ashes, without looking back.

Reports came to him later. They never found any other body in the ashes, and Donald Withers had not left the Carolinas. He was planning to open up three more Golgotha Tabernacles when he was found in his car at the side of a country road. The Chrysler was a burned-out hulk, as was Donald Withers. There was no explanation as to how the fire started. Some people said it was spontaneous human combustion, but others, people who were former, disgruntled members of Golgotha Tabernacles, said that it was the hand of God smiting a man who had been perverting His word.

Hellboy figured Nathaniel Watson had been right after all. The hand of God. Nothing less than the hand of God.