Lev’s feet where wet inside his thin boots and his hands were going numb. But he didn’t care. The church was amazing, hulking, terrifying, and seduced Lev further with every step. Plumes of steam came faster as he drew closer. He broke into a slushy run through the last 10 yards.

Lev Grettel, art curator, crucifixion specialist. He tried the double doors, locked. Why would a church need locks. He rammed his shoulder into the soggy wood. Once, twice. Flaking red paint, wet, stained his bright yellow five-hundred dollar North Face “Himalayan” parka. He didn’t care. Three times, the door sagged. Lev worked his way inside.

The church foyer was pitch black until his eyes adjusted from the outside light. He made out a thin strip of illumination, moved towards it. He was suddenly sweating furiously in his parka, unzipped it, welcomed the cold air that bathed his chest. Instinct guided him. The smell of decay, a tendril leading him deeper into the church.

Lev pushed past another door, into the sanctuary. Here the light was more abundant, coming in through the hole-pocked roof. Holy. Snow in determined patches on broken pews. Lev had been in abandoned buildings before, dilapidated structures that nevertheless provided evidence of temporary shelter: discarded bottles, condoms, fire-pit remains, the residue of lives desiccated. There was none of that here. Not even an arrant nest.

He picked his way over the debris. He scraped his head against a half-fallen beam, crowning his forehead with a thin slash. He ignored it, hands slipping on crumbling hymnals, eyes locked on the apse. There the ceiling was entirely gone, the alcove bright. The providence of architecture. Lev reached and fell to his knees at the snow covered mass.

Reverentially, then fervently, he brushed away the slush with hands. The crucifix. Just a cross, no figure nailed to it, but undeniably evoking the figure, present by its absence. A beam of wood, resting inside a carved niche within another beam of wood. Fat with snowmelt. Lev held his breath. He’d take it back to the studio, let it dry out, and as it dried it would become more textured, it’s colors deepening, rich, beautiful, brilliant. It would easily sell for tens of thousands.

It took some doing but finally Lev was outside with the cross, dragging it across the white. Sunlight and clouds shifted the snow field from blue, to gray tinged with red, back to blue. Despite the labor of carrying the extraordinary weight of the water-soaked wood he was chilled, the cold working into his open parka. Lev wanted to zip it up again, but wasn’t sure he could maintain enough balance if he freed one hand to do so. He chuckled. At least Jesus only had to drag the cross beam, not the whole damned cross. If he recalled correctly. Lev wasn’t very religious.

Feet shuffled though slush, found a root, Lev stumbled and fell to one knee. A distant crow called out in mockery. Lev took it as inspiration, smiled grimly, stood up again. Not far now. His pick-up truck was at the bottom of the hill.

His artistic sense of the fragility of artifacts was overridden by his faith in rustic-country church architecture: with a final heave, Lev all but threw the crucifix into the truck bed, rocking the frame on its wheels. He wiped his wood-dirty palms in the snow, cleaning them until they stung, then removed his coat, opened the door, and hopped behind the wheel before the cold could get it in, slammed the door, turned over the engine and cranked the heater to max. The blast nearly drowned out the local AM station, itself blaring something religious, countrified, stereotypical.

Tentatively Lev pulled onto the road, trusting in traction, picking up a little speed and dialing his cell phone. In the distance, thunder rumbled. Lev ignored it.

“Lev Grettel, Crucifixion Specialist.”

“Big sis.”

“Little bro.”

Helen, his sister, twin sister, older by three minutes. His partner in art. “I got the crucifix.”

“The church outside of Golgamy?”

“Yes.”

“So you were right.”

Thunder rumbled again, closer, the sky going darker.

“Yes. Helen. Wait till you see it. Helen. It is absolutely gorgeous.”

“What’s the figure look like? Are his eyes open?”

Another roll of thunder, the clouds much closer, lighting up and returning to black.

“There’s no figure, just the cross.”

“Well, then its not a crucifix”

“Semantics.”

A distant lightning strike, his cell phone bursting static, a half second later the thunder popping loud enough to make the back of his neck bristle.

“Ouch, Jesus.”

“Thunderstorm.”

“If its just a cross, I don’t know if the buyer from Memphis is going to be interested.”

“Screw him. This thing’ll sell itself.”

“Are you thinking Paris?”

Another lightning strike, then another, thunder almost simultaneous. Lev could smell ozone in the air.

“Bigger.”

“You’re not thinking Rome, Lev.”

“I’m thinking Smithsonian.”

“The Smithsonian doesn’t usually pay for artifacts.”

“There’s ways around that.”

“What, like, set up a buyer who pays and then donates it in his own name?”

Lev was on the verge of shouting “Exactly” when the next lighting bold struck, right in front of his truck. Lev hit the brakes, swerved wildly, skidded sideways, another lightning strike behind him, then another, his eyes blinded by the light, not seeing where the truck was going. The truck finally stopped, and everything was silent. From a distance: “Lev?”

His cell phone was on the floor. Lev reached for it, could actually feel his hairs stand on end right before another lightning bolt struck at the front of his truck. He grabbed the phone and opened the door of the truck, spilling out, crawling and running away.

“Lev? Lev?”

Another bolt, deafening him. He fell sideways, instantly covered in mud, got up, followed by another bolt. He fell again, the cell phone pitching forward, tumbling in the mush. Another bolt hit the phone, shattering it. Another bolt in the same spot. A third. Lev’s head felt full of static, white and red spots popping in his eyes, his breath coming in huge fiery gulps.

Lev waited. Everything was quiet, except for the ringing in his ears. He slowly got to his feet, shoulder sore from the fall. The black clouds were receding, going back the way they’d come, an occasional rumble each more quiet then the previous, leaving behind the higher gray clouds of an overcast sky. Lev tentatively stepped towards the spot where his phone had been hit. It was in pieces, the largest a lump of molten plastic. He reached for it, and distant thunder made him pause. He let it lie.

He checked the cross in his truck, and it seemed intact. He got into the cab, tried the key. The truck started as if nothing had happened. Lev clicked off the radio—he couldn’t hear it anyway.

“So that’s it? Nothing else happened?”

Lev shrugged. “Nope. Got it back to the studio, dried it out, and you can see the results.”

“Extraordinary. And your sister?”

“She went and read a few books about St. Peter, Saint Barbara, Martin Luther. Tried to go to church for a while. It didn’t really stick.”

“And you? Did you take any inspiration from this?”

Lev smiled. “Well, I don’t use Verizon anymore.”

They both laughed.