It sounded as though there was some scuffling — and some physical urging by Scotty Jaffer — before the next trespasser came up the steps, lifting his head as he entered the large barrel-vaulted space.

“Dammit!” Gaskin said into the phone before he shut it. “It’s Luther again.”

“What do you mean?” I asked as he strode forward.

Wilbur Gaskin waved me off with his free hand.

“You,” Mercer said, turning his head to look at us when he heard Gaskin’s outburst. “Back row.”

“Let me speak to this,” Amos Audley said, grabbing Mike’s arm.

“What?” Mike shook him off. He wanted his hands free.

“He’s mine.”

“Last man standing,” Jaffer said. “On the way out to you.”

The fourth kid didn’t come easily. He was cursing at the detective and banging on the walls with his fists as he climbed up.

“I thought Luther was still upstate, in prison,” Gaskin said. “Looks like he’s been living here, doesn’t it?”

“Step back, Amos,” Mike said. “Out of the way.”

“You don’t understand, Mr. Mike.”

“You’ll explain later. Stay out of the way.”

The fourth player showed himself. Dreads hanging out from under a do-rag, a long-sleeve T-shirt with a skull on the front, and tattered black pants made him look like he was wearing an unofficial gang uniform. The long scar across his nose and cheek was thick and dangerously close to his eye.

“They’ve done nothing, Mr. Mike. These freezin’ cold nights, boys need a place to stay warm.”

Then I could have sworn I heard Audley say the word “blood.”

“I’m telling you to take it easy, Mr. Audley,” Mike said, swiveling to get the anxious custodian out of the path he intended to send the last kid.