Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 100, Nos. 4 & 5. Whole Nos. 603 & 604, October 1992

He had seen most of the world’s great altarpieces in his scholarly travels, even the one by Michaelangelo in the Sistine Chapel, which was said by many to be the greatest of them all. But none, he would swear, matched the one before him now.

He glanced at the lucky few on their way to heaven and union with Christ, but his eyes were inexorably drawn to the tortured men and women burning in the lake of fire. Never had he seen such graphic descriptions of human torment and despair. Never had he felt such horror.

All at once, it was as though he could hear the cries and laments of the damned, so vivid was the impression made upon him, and then he became aware that someone besides himself had come into the church and admitted the sounds of the sighing trees and what traffic there might be along the Bodley Road.

Artemidorus turned to face whoever it might be.

A very tall man wearing a black suit and dickey, a ribbon of white collar gleaming at his neck, pale face, pale, pale hands, black hair, and pointed beard, stood there smiling at him. “Good morning,” he said.

“Is it morning?”

“Well, it’s past one o’clock.”

“I’ve been here more than an hour?”

“Time plays tricks in here, I’ve been told.”

“Are you a Roman priest?”

The cleric — if that was what he was — didn’t answer, but merely made a gesture with his hand that might have been a blessing or might have been merely dismissive, telling Artemidorus that what he might be was of no matter.

The great altarpiece drew Artemidorus back and he turned away from the man in black, astonished anew at the brilliant verisimilitude of the work. He felt that, were he to reach out his hand, his fingers would be singed by the flame.

“A remarkable representation of the fate that awaits all sinners, is it not?” the cleric said.

“I’ve never seen the like.”

“Do you believe in hell?”

Artemidorus turned around again, the altarpiece at his back, and smiled in his gentle, dismissive way. “I believe in the power of the superstition that presents such a notion to the human race.”

“But not in the actuality of it?”

“Well, of course I don’t believe in hellfire and brimstone,” Artemidorus said.

There was a great rush of hot wind. Artemidorus turned around another time.

The painting seemed to burst apart and collapse upon itself in a blaze of flame and fire. The damned souls twisted and turned in their agony, reaching out their hands, trying to grasp Artemidorus by the sleeve. There was a path that opened that descended into darkness.

The pale vicar smiled. “Oh, you will,” he said. “I assure you that you will.”

Outside, the sign on the green lattice gate read, “This Church Is Closed. Mass on Sunday at 8:00, 9:00, and 10:00.”

The Shoe

by Beverly T. Haaf

Denise and Paul were on the road again after stopping for lunch in a restaurant just south of Frederick, Maryland.

“Look at that shoe,” she said, pointing out the front car window, glad for a distraction from her painful thoughts. A man’s black shoe lay abandoned on the gravel shoulder. “I wonder what happened.”

Paul lifted his brow. “Somebody lost it, Denise.”

“I know that. I mean—” She hated it when he made her feel stupid, but she went on anyway. “It looks almost new.” She peered out her window as they rode by. “Was there an accident, or did somebody pull over and open their car door and not notice they had pushed it out, or maybe...” Discouraged by Paul’s lack of response, she allowed her words to trail off. The dark reflection of the shoe faded in her side mirror.

Denise and Paul were on a reconciliation trip. He had moved out of her apartment after picking a fight over nothing — she suspected the real cause had been another woman, only she hadn’t wanted to know for sure. After a week and a half, he had come back, saying he was miserable without her and would she accompany him to a business conference in Knoxville, Tennessee? They would drive down from Baltimore and have a splendid weekend. It would mark a brand-new beginning. Feeling her prayers had been answered, Denise had accepted at once.

That morning, his car wouldn’t start, so they ended up taking hers. All had been fine until lunch, when something he said suggested he had known ahead of time that his car wasn’t working. Was needing her car the real reason behind his invitation? Denise tried to tell herself she had misunderstood, but the awful feeling of being used wouldn’t go away. Had she let him make a fool of her again?

It was dusk by the time they reached Knoxville. “How’s this?” Paul asked with a grin when they entered their hotel room, which had a king-sized bed. He drew her close and Denise decided he had been sincere about a reconciliation after all. “It’s perfect,” she said. He kissed her and went out to register for his conference. She unpacked and bathed, looking forward to the evening.