do without this, guys. And without meaning to, he had effectively shut down the debate—possibly by embarrassing the others into silence. Elliot didn’t often chime in on the group chat, and perhaps a trace of authority still adhered to him as the only surviving member of the advanced class, not to mention as a police officer violating the social distancing ordinances. Nobody had typed a word in the thread since last night.
Elliot put on a mask and a pair of gloves, then exited and locked his car with a tamped-down apprehension stifling the base of his throat. The likelihood was that no one else would be there. Without wanting to acknowledge breaking their pact, he suspected the others would silently absent themselves—signalling both a sympathy to his point of view as well as a wholly natural self-preservation. He had been irresponsible with his words: too candid, too desperate.
He took the stairwell to the third floor. The air felt stagnant and too thick. All the units in the large commercial building remained unleased. Without the influx of human activity, the building still smelled of paint, sawdust, the sickly off-gassing fumes of chemical sealants and treated wood. Elliot steeled himself in the hallway before going in. It made him heartsick to imagine their numbers continuing to dwindle, week by week. If that was their future, then the others were right: they should stop now. And perhaps they had already. The room where they had balanced and flexed and wept together for their shared and private griefs would be deserted. In short order, it would return to the anonymous sterility of stalled enterprise, unless he decided to continue visiting by himself. A lonely vigil of one.
Elliot pushed through the metal door and opened his eyes, just as he inhaled the boozy lemon scent of disinfectant and the acrid tang of sweat. There were a dozen people, the bulk of their group, spaced out across the warehouse, moving through their usual warm-up exercises. They all turned to look at him, raising gloved hands of welcome. He couldn’t see their mouths behind the masks, but he could tell from their eyes that they were smiling.
* * *
The next day, Elliot responded to a robbery call at Saint Michael’s Parish on Alexander Avenue. The carved wooden door swung open more easily than he expected, then slammed shut behind him with an echoing clang. He removed his hat, noting that the marble holy-water fonts to the sides of the doors were topped with wooden covers. Blinking, he waited for his eyes to adjust, savouring the abrupt relief from the sounds of the street. Colour pooled on the floor from the stained-glass windows, forming spotlights for towering motes of swirling dust. A handful of worshippers were scattered throughout the sanctuary, each in a separate pew.
A priest in a black cassock and clerical collar signalled to him from the front of the nave. Elliot nodded back, his gaze lifting to the vaulted ceiling where heavenly beings re-enacted stories about which he felt an uneasy ignorance. Elliot heard his steps echoing and became aware of an unexpected ceremonial gravity as he walked down the aisle. He wasn’t often in churches.
“I’m Father Mateo,” called the priest, as Elliot approached the front. People half shouted now, to be heard through their masks, though it wasn’t usually necessary. “I placed the call.” Elliot thought he detected the soft sibilance of a Latin American accent.
“Officer Howe,” said Elliot. A video camera was set up, pointed at the altar. “What’s all this?”
“A webcast,” said Father Mateo. He had a smooth brown scalp fringed with thick, dark hair. The priest’s baldness was more pronounced than his own, but Elliot noted that Father Mateo’s robes lent it a certain natural graciousness. “Father Christopher will celebrate mass this evening for our parishioners online. One of the young ladies in the choir set it up for us. Very clever, I thought.”
“I agree,” said Elliot. He wondered why he was surprised that churches would change with the times. He imagined the Holy Spirit flowing like a meme through the internet. “So what’s the problem, Father? Something’s been stolen?”
“Follow me.” Father Mateo led the way to a door in the elaborate oak panels girding the sanctuary. Elliot followed him along a corridor and down a set of stairs until they reached the basement. An elderly priest with slightly gaunt cheeks was lingering in a doorway.
“The police arrive faster than the ambulances these days,” he said, spotting them. “Property before people, I