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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 Chronicle. We’ll meet you there.”

“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 they’d flanked him, not saying anything, just there, solid and real.

Dane drove his rental car to the police station on Bryant Street, Savich and Sherlock following. Delion had wanted Savich to go downtown with them immediately, but Savich had just smiled, shaken his head. “Important things first,” he’d said, nothing more, and taken his wife’s hand in his and followed Dane to the cemetery.

When Dane walked into the homicide room nearly two hours later, he immediately saw Nick, seated in the chair beside Delion’s desk. He said her name and she turned. “You look like a prisoner of war with that bandage on your hair.”

“It’s not nearly as bad as it looks. No stitches necessary. The paramedics couldn’t stop talking about what had happened, and I think they lost it with the gauze.”

“All right, but you just try to relax, all right?”

She nodded.

“It still shakes me to my toes that I didn’t protect you better. If you hadn’t bowed your head at just that moment, the bullet would have hit you square on and you’d be dead. Jesus, I’m sorry, Nick.”

Nick realized this very well, in an abstract sort of way. It hadn’t really sunk in yet, which was probably a blessing. When it did, she’d probably shudder and shake herself to the nearest women’s room. She said, “I wish you wouldn’t try to take credit for this. Just stop beating yourself up, Dane. This wasn’t your fault. Do you think this means God doesn’t want me to die just yet?”

“You mean that it isn’t your time? Fate rules?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“I don’t have a clue. I’m just really glad he didn’t succeed.”

“I bowed my head because I was crying and I didn’t want you to see.”

He gulped, but didn’t say anything more.