Eleventh Hour

Other priests spoke, and parishioners, including a woman who told how Father Michael Joseph had saved not only her life, but her soul. Finally, Father Bi

He walked to the front of the church, past Michael’s coffin, hearing gasps of surprise throughout the church, for he was the very image of his brother. It was difficult for people to look at him and accept that he wasn’t Michael. He went up the steps to stand behind one of the pulpits. It was only then that he saw that the church was overflowing, people standing three and four deep all around the perimeter, filling the south and north transepts, even out beyond the sanctuary doors.

And Dane thought, Is the murderer out there somewhere, head bowed so people won’t see him gloat? Did he come to witness what his madness had brought about and delight in it? Dane had forgotten to say anything to Nick about keeping an eye out, just in case.

Then he saw his friends, Savich and Sherlock. Dane felt immensely grateful. He nodded to them.

Dane looked down at his brother’s coffin, the white roses blanketing it. He cleared his throat and fastened his gaze just over the top of Savich’s head because he just couldn’t bear to speak looking directly at anyone. He said, “My brother loved to play football. He was a wide receiver and he could catch any ball I could get in the air. I remember one of our last high-school games. We were behind, twenty to fourteen. There was only a little over a minute left in the game when we got the ball again.

“All the fans were on their feet and we were moving down the field, me throwing passes, Michael catching them. Finally, we were on the eighteen-yard line, with only ten seconds left to play. We had to have a touchdown.

“I threw the ball to Michael in the corner of the end zone. I don’t know how he kept a foot inbounds, but he actually caught that ball just as he was tackled hard, and he held on. He won the game, but the thing was, that hit tore up his knee.

“He lay there, gri

Dane’s voice broke. He vaguely heard scattered small laughs. He looked down again at the roses that covered Michael’s coffin. Then, suddenly, he felt warmth on his face, looked up, and saw that brilliant sunlight had burst through those incredible stained-glass windows. He felt the warmth of that light all the way to his bones. He said, voice firmer now, “Michael appreciated the good in everyone, rejoiced in it; he also understood that the bad was a part of the mix, and he accepted that, too. But there was one thing he wouldn’t accept, and that was evil; he knew it was here among us. He knew the stench of it, hated the immense tragedy it brought into the world. The night he was shot, he knew he was facing evil. He faced it, and the evil killed him.

“Michael and I shared many things: Two of them were Sunday football games and tenacity.”

Dane paused a moment, and this time he sca

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. Stop him!”

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 ru

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 ru

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.”