Eleventh Hour
Page 42

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 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. 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 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.”