The funeral director finally released Hammer’s arm.

“Open it,” Hammer said.

Nobody moved.

Then I noticed something strange.

The small green light beneath the burial garment was still blinking.

Once.

Twice.

Then it disappeared.

Hammer looked at me.

“Did your uncle have a medical device?”

“No.”

“Any tracking device?”

“No.”

“Then someone put that there.”

The room fell silent again.

My uncle had been a priest for thirty-seven years.

He had no enemies.

At least, that was what everyone believed.

Hammer carefully opened the coffin.

Father Elias looked exactly as he had before the funeral.

Peaceful.

Still.

But beneath the white garment was a narrow black device attached to a thin cord.

Hammer stared at it.

“I’ve seen this before.”

The funeral director stepped backward.

I noticed.

So did Hammer.

“Where did you get that?” Hammer asked.

The man didn’t answer.

Hammer’s brothers immediately blocked the exits.

The funeral director finally raised his hands.

“I don’t know anything about it.”

Hammer pointed toward his shoes.

“Then why are you trying to leave?”

The man froze.

That was when I remembered something my uncle had told me three weeks earlier.

He had called me late at night.

His voice sounded frightened.

He told me someone had been coming into the church after midnight.

He wouldn’t tell me who.

I assumed he was simply exhausted.

Now I wished I’d listened.

Hammer removed the device and examined it.

A tiny screen displayed a sequence of numbers.

Then it began counting down.

“What’s happening?” I asked.

Hammer’s expression hardened.

“This isn’t a tracker.”

“What is it?”

He looked toward the rear wall.

“It’s a signal.”

A phone began ringing.

Everyone turned.

The sound came from inside the funeral director’s jacket.

He reached for it.

Hammer moved faster.

The phone hit the floor.

Its screen displayed one message:

IS HE OPEN YET?

The funeral director’s face went white.

Hammer picked up the phone.

“Who sent this?”

The man said nothing.

Then a second message appeared.

THEN FINISH THE JOB.

The church doors suddenly slammed shut.

Someone outside had locked them.

Panic spread through the room.

Hammer’s brothers moved toward the doors.

I looked at my uncle’s coffin.

The tiny device was still blinking.

Then I noticed something underneath his hand.

A folded piece of paper.

My name was written across it.

I opened it with trembling fingers.

There were only two sentences.

If Hammer Dawson is at my funeral, trust him.

He knows what happened seven years ago.

I looked up.

Hammer was staring at me.

“You knew my uncle?”

He nodded.

“Long before he became a priest.”

“How?”

Hammer looked toward the coffin.

“Because seven years ago, your uncle saved my life.”

I waited for him to explain.

Instead, he whispered:

“And tonight, someone is trying to make sure he never tells you why.”

Then the church lights went out.

And from somewhere beneath the altar…

we heard another three knocks.