Dane paused a moment, and this time he scanned all the faces around him. He said in a low voice, filled with despair and promise, “I will find the evil that destroyed my brother. I will never give up until I do.”
There was a moment of absolute silence.
The silence was broken by a soft popping sound. Even as slight a sound as it was, in the dead silence it echoed to every corner of the church. A man yelled, “This woman’s hurt!”
People jerked around, trying to see what was happening.
Nick yelled, “Oh God, it’s him, Dane! He tried to kill me! It’s him!”
Dane saw blood streaking down her face, felt fear paralyze him for an instant. Then he raced down the steps toward Nick, as she shoved her way through bewildered knots of mourners, yelling at them, “Stop him! There, he’s wearing that black coat, that black hat.
People were turning and grabbing anyone in black, but since nearly every person was wearing black, including a good three dozen priests, there was pandemonium, people shoving, people yelling, people grabbing other people. It was madness.
Dane reached Nick, looked at the blood snaking down her face, and yelled, “Dammit, Nick. Are you all right?”
“I’m okay, don’t worry. Just a graze, I guess. We’ve got to get him. Dane, hurry, I saw him running that way.”
Dane thought he saw the man then, moving fast, darting around people or pushing through them, his head down, heading to the narrow side door of the church.
Dane shoved two priests out of his way, saw the man disappear out the side door and the door swing closed again. He nearly burst with fury. The bastard had come here, to his brother’s service, probably laughing behind his hand, in madness, and triumph. And he’d tried to murder Nick.
Dane made it to the door, shoved a good half dozen people out of his way, and threw it outward. He saw Savich, a blur, he was running so fast, saw him leap, left leg extended, smooth and easy, saw his foot strike the man’s kidney, solid and hard. The man fell forward, flailing his arms to keep his balance. He managed to fling himself about, to face his attacker, and that was a mistake. Savich hit him three times, in the neck and head. The man gasped with pain, shock on his shadowed face, went limp and dropped. Savich went down beside him, checked his pulse and yelled, “I’ve got him!”
Dane couldn’t believe it. Neither could Delion or Nick, who now stood over the man.
Dane said, “He’s the one, Nick?”
“I think so,” she said. “Can you turn him over, please?”
Savich pulled the man onto his back, got the hat off his head.
Dane said, “This is Dillon Savich, he’s my boss at the FBI. Savich, this is Nick Jones, our only eyewitness.”
Savich nodded. “You’d better see to that head wound she’s got. This guy’s down for the count. Go ahead, take care of her, Dane. Nice to meet you, Nick.” Savich looked up at his wife, gave her a good-sized grin. Sherlock put her hand on his shoulder. “That was rather dashing,” she said, smiling down at him. “It’s lucky you guys don’t have to wear high heels.” She punched him in the arm, looked over at Dane. “This is the maniac who killed your brother? This is the man who just shot Nick? Oh goodness, look at your face.” Sherlock pulled a handkerchief out of her jacket pocket, gave it to Dane, and watched him very gently pat Nick’s forehead. “It looks like the bullet just grazed you, but scalp wounds really bleed. What do you think, Dane? I think it’s okay, just looks really bad. I’m Sherlock.”
Delion glanced at Nick’s face, nodded, then stared again at Savich, who was still on his haunches beside the man. He shook his head back and forth. “I don’t believe this, I just don’t believe this.” He grabbed Savich’s hand, pumped it up and down. “I always thought the Feds were pantywaists. Hey, good job.”
Savich checked the guy’s pulse again, rose, and dusted off his suit pants. “You must be Inspector Delion. Have you called this in?”
“Yeah, it’s done,” Delion said.
A group of black-garbed priests were pressing in, Archbishop Lugano at their head. He said in a voice that carried nearly to California Street, “I have a cousin who’s in the DEA. She’s not a pantywaist either. Well done, sir, thank you.”
Savich merely nodded. “Dane, get the blood out of Nick’s eyes and see if she can identify this bozo.”
Dane stared at the narrow furrow the bullet had made at her hairline just above her temple. It was still bleeding sluggishly. He pulled away Sherlock’s handkerchief and took out his own, folded it up, and said, “Nick, press this hard against the wound. We’ll get you to a doctor in a minute.”
“Let me take another look at the guy, Dane.” She was still breathing hard, and there was rage in her eyes as she looked down at the unconscious man who was Father Michael Joseph’s murderer. She said, “I was sitting there, listening to you, and then the light came through that stained-glass window and I knew I was going to cry. I bowed my head; then in the very next instant I felt this shock of heat on my face. I looked up and saw the light from that window was shining directly down on that man. I saw him looking at me, and then I knew, just knew.”
Delion was searching his pockets. “No gun. Well, it’s got to be around here somewhere.” He called over two uniformed officers who had just arrived and told them to start the search.
The man groaned, tried to pull himself up onto his knees. One of the officers grabbed his left arm, another grabbed his right. They cuffed him and hauled him toward a police car at the curb.
Dane said, “Look at this crowd. How are we ever going to find that gun?”
“I think perhaps I can help,” Bishop Koshlap said. He flung back his head and yelled, “Everyone please listen to me. There is a gun somewhere to be found. Please help our priests form search groups. If any of you saw this man shoot this woman, please step forward.”
Dane watched all those people, at least four hundred of them, grow silent and calm because the bishop himself had given them a task, a task that really mattered. He saw Archbishop Lugano speak to the priests, saw them divvy up the crowd and set to work. Dane looked down at Nick, frowned, and took back his folded handkerchief to press it himself against Nick’s face. “You weren’t pressing directly on the gash. You’re still bleeding. But no matter, it’s nearly stopped. I can see it’s not bad, thank God.
“You know what, Nick? My brother would have been very pleased about this.”
Savich said to Delion, “I’m not so sure there’s a gun to find. If I were the shooter, I’d have another guy here so I could hand the gun off to him.”
Delion knew he was right, but they had to look, just in case. “Yeah, I know.” He heard sirens, and quickly went to Nick. “The paramedics are nearly here. You can bet the media will be right behind them. I want you to go with the paramedics back to Bryant Street. The last thing we need is photos of you in the
“But Dane, I’ve got to go with him to the cemetery.”
Dane said, “It’s okay, Nick. Delion’s right. If the media see you, it will be a nightmare. I’ll see you back at the police station.” He paused just a brief moment, lightly touched his fingertips to the wound on her forehead. “I’m sorry.”
FIFTEEN
When Delion called a halt to the search, all the mourners formed a car processional that wound a mile to the west, to the Golden Gate Cemetery. The sun was shining, although the day remained cold, and there was the heavy scent of the ocean in the air. Dane looked down at the rich earth that now covered his brother’s grave and said, “We just might have gotten him, Michael. I pray that you know that.” He stood there a moment longer, staring down at the mound of earth that covered his brother’s body. Michael was gone and he would never hear him laugh again, hear him tell about the drunk guy who tried to steal the bishop’s miter and ended up hiding in a confessional.
He didn’t approach his sister, couldn’t look at the pain in her eyes and say something comforting. Eloise, her husband, and her kids were clutched together, and that was good.
When at last Dane turned away from his brother’s grave, he saw Sherlock and Savich. He hadn’t noticed that
