Initially I thought he might be shaking his fist at me, but in spite of the poor—and rapidly fading—light, I soon saw that the gesture was even less polite than it had seemed at first. His middle finger was extended, and he thrust it toward me with short, angry jabs. “Robertson’s here,” I told her. “Who?” “Fungus Man.” Suddenly he was on the move, walking between the headstones, toward the church. “We better forget dinner,” I said, drawing Stormy to her feet with the intention of hustling her out of the belfry. “Let’s get down from here.” Resisting me, she turned to the parapet. “I don’t let
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