I gave him a look. "Barney, when's the last time you met a goblin who could remember what he had for breakfast yesterday, let alone something that happened eighteen months ago?"

  The little ghoul nodded slowly. "That is a reasonable point you raise."

  "More important, can you imagine six goblins, acting alone, who could stay organized long enough to build a campfire, let alone plan and carry out a hit?"

  "When you put it like that, I cannot help but agree. Someone would appear to have used the goblins as stalking horses against you."

  "Finally, the light dawns," I said. "So what I want to know is, what human's been hanging out with the goblins lately."

  Barney frowned into his glass. "Oh, dear."

  "Don't give me 'Oh, dear', Barney. This is me, remember? The guy who keeps getting your brother out of jail?"

  "I am well aware of your efforts, Sergeant. And I hope I have not proved ungrateful in the past. I am thus most distressed that I cannot be of assistance to you on this occasion."

  "Can't – or won't?"

  "I most certainly would, were it within my capabilities. But I have no lines of communication into the goblin community. They are very secretive, and do not mingle much outside their own numbers. Except for their cousins, of course."

  "Their what? Cousins?"

  "I refer to the ogres, naturally."

  "Ogres?" I almost spilled my drink. "The giants and the greenies – are you fucking kidding me?"

  "I grant you there is little physical resemblance. But they are both creatures of the fey, and feel a certain kinship with each other. It is rather like the Russians and Serbs, in human society. Different countries, different languages and cultures. Yet in 1914, the Russians came to the defense of Serbia, thus igniting the First World War."

  "Goblins and ogres. Jesus, why didn't I know that?"

  Barney shrugged those well-tailored shoulders. "It is not a fact that either side advertises. Ogres are, in their own way, rather secretive, too."

  "Son of a bitch."

  "I am thus most regretful of my inability to offer you assistance on this occasion. But perhaps if you know a friendly ogre…"

  I put my glass down so suddenly that I sloshed ginger ale over my hand. "Mother fuck," I said. "I think I just might."

Now I needed to see an ogre about a goblin, but it was almost time for Father Duvall's office hour, and that was an opportunity I didn't want to miss.

  Just inside the main entrance to St Thomas Hall was a building directory, which informed me that Peter Duvall, SJ, had his office in room 309. Turned out I didn't have to worry about room numbers as I reached the right hallway. Only one room had light streaming from an open door, and I was glad to see that Father Duvall, unlike some profs I've heard about, actually kept his office hours.

  I stepped into the doorway and rapped my knuckles against the open door. When the man in black with the clerical collar looked up, I said, "Father Duvall? I'm Stan Markowski, from the Scranton Police Department's Occult Crimes Unit." I showed him my ID. "Dave Garrett said you might be able to help me with a case I'm working on."

  Father Duvall had manners. He stood up and walked around his desk, hand outstretched. Once I got a good look at him, I knew what thought often ran through the minds of his female students. It was the same feeling I'd had in high school, whenever I looked at beautiful Sister Mary Alan.

  What a waste.

  Father Duvall reminded me of nobody so much as JeanPaul Belmondo, who was the essence of French cool in the 1960s. He had the same disarrayed black hair, hooded eyes, and thick, sensuous lips. Duvall even had the same kind of dimple on his chin.

  What a waste.

  "Good to meet you, Sergeant," he said, shaking hands with a smile. "I don't know what you're working on, but if Dave thinks I might be able to help you, then I'll give it my best shot."

  He invited me to sit in one of the wooden visitor's chairs that faced his desk. I told him that I was interested in the Church of the True Cross, but I didn't go into why. I just said that the Church had come up in an investigation of mine, and that I wanted to learn more about it.

  "The Church of the True Cross," he said softly, sitting back in a big leather chair that looked a lot more comfortable than mine. "You know, back in the Middle Ages, when Mother Church was the toughest kid on the block, heresy was punishable by death. We live in a more enlightened age, I'm very glad to say, but while most heretics these days are merely annoying, those who constitute the Church of the True Cross are, I suspect, truly dangerous."

  "Dangerous in what way?" I asked.

  "In the same way that Islamic fundamentalist terrorists are dangerous. Both share a sense of utter self-righteousness combined with an often violent contempt toward those who are different, either in beliefs or in nature."

  I put a hand to my forehead for a moment. "I'm just a simple cop, Father, who hasn't had much sleep in the last three days. Can you put that into words of one syllable for me?"

  Duvall tilted his head and looked at me. "'Simple cop'? I'm not so sure about that, but I'll try to stop talking as if this is a theology seminar. Fair enough?"

  When I nodded, he leaned forward, placing both hands on his desk. "What I meant by that last bit was that the Church of the True Cross will hate you if you either think differently than they do, or if you are different from them."

  "Different, you mean, the way supes are."

  "Yes, exactly."

  "But hasn't the Pope declared all supes to be anathema, too?"

  "Yeah," he said, and sighed again. "But that's not going to last, especially if the next pontiff isn't a Neanderthal like the current one."

  "Nice way to talk about the Big Boss," I said. "Not that I'm disagreeing."

  "The Big Boss is the Lord, my friend," Duvall said. "He's the CEO and Chairman of the Board. His Holiness is more like the corporation's president. Presidents come and go – only the Big Boss, as you call him, is eternal."