Draped from the neck down in their cone-shaped robes, fastened at the neck with a single clasp, they filed into the next room with the men. A muffled giggle went through the group at the sight of stark white faces floating on black teepees. All talking was in the kind of whispers reserved for church. Most of the guys puffed nervously on cigarettes that Ed Cramer had the foresight to carry into the waiting room. Since it was almost time to enter the Mass, the girls took drags from the lit cigarettes.

For the next five minutes the group just stood in silence, staring at each other, some considering the reason they were attending this fiendish meeting, while others wondered what devious plans Tom Dunn would impose on them. The dead silence was short-lived; the crash of pins rang out below as the league started to bowl. Nervous laughs went around the room and a few more cigarettes were lit. Even Margaret Leche was beginning to show nervousness now.

At eight forty-five a small brass bell sounded; three district rings; then the door opened. The crowd looked into a seemingly black room.

"Enter," a voice ordered. Even straining for a deep, solemn tone, it was recognized as Tom's.

Another moment of hesitation before Jay Schmidtline, feigning confidence, swaggered toward the door. Cynthia quickly caught up to him and entered with at least the protection of her big brother. The others filed in behind them. The smell of incense immediately choked off any giggles or levity. It burned their nostrils and brought the group to a sense of serious alertness.

Slowly their eyes adjusted to the darkness and they could distinguish Tom Dunn's face, which seemed to hang between two candle flames. Closer examination revealed the black candles, the lectern which Tom was standing behind, and a bulky object on the floor in front of the lectern. They formed a semicircle around the form, which someone identified in a whisper as a coffin. They stared into Tom's face.