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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.