Free The First Church by Ron Ripley

end Joseph’s desk were emptied out.  The filing cabinet’s items were scattered.  The window had been broken in and shattered glass peppered the floor.  The door hung by a hinge.
    Traces of blood and skin had been found at the bottom of the outside steps on the pavement.
    Someone fell, trying to get out.
    Someone ran, Dan thought.
    Who?  Not the one who broke in.  No.  Someone was scared, he thought, stepping up to the open doorway.  Someone was terrified.
    Who would have been in the office?
    Dan smiled.  Why the Rever end, of course.  It’s his office.
    He looked up, and a bit of movement caught his eye.
    Off to the right, an old woman stood in the side window of her house.
    She stepped away, but not before Dan recognized her.
    The woman who cleaned the Church.  Mrs. Staples.
    And who knows everything about a Church ?  He asked himself.  Well, I’m sure Mrs. Staples would know.  Yes, she would.
    Dan put his hands in his pockets, exited the Church and made his way to the front of the old woman’s house.
    Maybe she could tell him about ghosts.
     

Chapter 24: Waiting
     
    Miles Cunningham left the liquor store with the brown paper bag held tightly to his chest.
    It was nearly eight o’clock.
    He had barely made it.  The clerks in the store had given him the evil eye.  He couldn’t explain, though, or tell them why it was so important.  They had seen him before, of course, but never upset.
    They would remember him, and he didn’t want them to.
    Too late now , he told himself. 
    Miles walked down the street, turned right and quickly reached his car.
    He never parked near the store.  He didn’t want anyone to see what type of car he drove.  Or know his license plate number.
    Cautiously, he set the bag on the floor, buckled himself in and started the engine.  He needed to get home.  They were already upset as it was.  Any more of a delay and he might suffer repercussions.
    Terrible ones.
    He shuddered at the thought of it.
    It took him nearly half an hour to get home.  He drove the speed limit and made sure to signal where appropriate.  Unnecessary attention from law enforcement needed to be avoided.
    They always asked too many questions.
    When Miles finally turned into his driveway and put the car into ‘park’, he let out a long, heartfelt sigh of relief.  Before he turned off the engine, he looked at the small New England cape which he called home, and he smiled.
    With the recent warm spell, he had been able to cut back the huge rhododendron which had hidden most of the first floor.  The dull white siding needed a fresh coat of paint, but he would take care of the exterior in the late spring.
    He smiled to himself, took the key out of the ignition and carefully picked up the package from the floor.  Quickly , he made his way to the side door, unlocked it and slipped into the kitchen.
    He turned on the light and glanced down at the bare subfloor.
    I still need to tile this, he thought, walking to the counter by the sink.  He put the bag down and removed four bottles of saké from it.  From the cabinet, he took the tokkuri , opened a bottle of saké and poured the liquor into it.  He then removed five of the small sakazuki , the cups delicate and fragile in his hands.  Quickly and quietly , he arranged them on the counter.  He took the tokkuri, put it into the microwave and set it to forty seconds.
    And then Miles heard them.
    Their voices rose up angrily from the basement, their footsteps heavy on the stairs.
    The microwave hummed, the numbers counted down.
    The new, white door opened, and they came up.
    He breathed a sigh of relief.
    They have their heads , he thought as the microwave beeped loudly and announced it was done. 
    He bowed low before the four dead Japanese soldiers.
    Once he straightened up, Ichiru looked at him and asked, “Do you have it?”
    “Yes,” Miles answered, glancing at the microwave.  “And it is warm as well, sir.”
    Ichiru looked at him for a