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looked like maybe granite or marble, though truthfully I had no idea, stood out on one corner.
    We parked across the street, and sliding out the side door of the van I could feel the sort of vibe that radiates off old churches. It was a feeling of warmth, of comfort, but at the same time an alien sense of distance. It was like there was something inside that would never be attainable, something invisible and intangible but every bit real. Overhead, the sky had begun to lighten as dawn approached and star bursts of sunlight flashed off the church’s windows. For a minute I wobbled on my feet feeling weak and drained. Every inch of my body hurt. My skin felt like it wanted to crawl over itself, turn inside out and shrink all at the same time.
    I wanted heroin. Badly.
    Richie hopped out of the van and keeping his head down, hands in his pockets, headed for the church.
    “Seriously?” I asked, looking to the redhead when she hopped out behind me. “You took me to church?”
    “I just work here,” she said with a shrug, and started towards the church.
    The interior of Saint Cecilia was a far cry from its exterior. Where as the outside is a throwback to something almost Dickensian in stature, the inside could only be described as opulent. Hardwood floors echoed underfoot as we walked, the polished wood casting a soft glow that was reflected from hanging globes. Arches and columns gave the impression of space and old world charm. Everywhere murals smiled down at me. Pictures of angels, saints and the like were all holding me under watchful eye.
    It made me damned uncomfortable.
    The woman, whose name I still didn't know, led me through the church and towards the confessional. She opened the far right door, commonly reserved for the priest and reached under the bench seat that lined the narrow back wall. The wall swung inward, seat and all to reveal a stone stairway. I quirked a brow, so many tasteless jokes running through my head.
    “After you,” she said, making a gesture towards the door.
    “In for a penny… ” I muttered.
    I went through the door, turning slightly sideways to fit through the opening. A set of stone stairs led downwards, the light coming from naked bulbs hung every ten feet or so in the ceiling. The air grew heavier, colder as we descended. The smell of dust intertwined with the damp, moldy smell that seemed to be a staple in every basement. The stairs ended in a long hallway, opening up to be wide enough for two people standing shoulder to shoulder. Maggie brushed past me once again taking the lead. The hall ended after about a hundred feet in a large wooden doorway, all thick lumber and wrought iron. She approached the door and knocked once.
    The door swung inward and she ushered me inside. I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the more modern fluorescent light set in the ceiling. The room was sparse, furnished with only two couches, two chairs, and a coffee table. The floor was lush carpet, the walls a bone jarring white. A crucifix hung on one wall, beside it, a Star of David, beside that the star and crescent of Islam. More religious iconography that I wasn’t familiar with joined them making a line of finely crafted religious symbolism. It reminded me of those “Coexist” bumper stickers.
    Three men were seated on the couch. One was older, probably in his mid to late forties. His face was framed with two spiraling locks. A thick, wiry beard the color of coal dust burst from his chin. His clothing was all black, from his shoes to the wide brimmed hat he wore atop his head. The second man was probably around my age and wore a beard as well. It was much shorter and well-kept than his compatriot, but was a similar inky black in color. He wore plain Middle Eastern style clothing with a knit cap over his hair. His skin was the color of coffee, eyes watery beneath bushy brows.
    The third, I knew. Father Hernandez. Father Hernandez was one of the priests at Saint Cecilia’s and ran their homeless outreach