Eleventh Hour

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.
    “What you said about Father Michael Joseph, it was very moving, Dane. Did he really catch that touchdown pass? Really tore up his knee?”
    He nodded, got a grip on himself. “Yes. You know, this thing about Fate or whatever—if you like, we could get drunk one night and discuss it.”
    It was a slight smile, he saw it. It made him feel very good.
    “Yeah,” she said, “I’d like that.”
    Lieutenant Linda Purcell came up to them, looking resigned. “We found the bullet. That’s the good news. Unfortunately, it shattered against a concrete wall. No way to know if it was from the same gun that killed Father Michael Joseph. No matter. It’ll all come together anyway. Delion’s doing his thing. Just hang around and listen, don’t interrupt. We decided to let the guy think about the wages of sin and left him downstairs in the tank for a couple of hours. We just brought him up here. We don’t have any one-way mirrors here so keep back from the doorway so he doesn’t focus on you.”
    Dane looked toward the guy who’d shot Nick. His head was down between his arms on the scarred table. He was sobbing, deep gulping sobs that sounded like he believed life as he knew it was over. And he was right, Dane thought, the bastard.
    Nearly all of the inspectors hanging around in the homicide room were close enough to the interrogation room to hear. They all looked exactly the same, excited and on the edge. Dane imagined that if they were in an FBI field office, there would be no difference at all. Women agents, in particular, didn’t cut any slack to a murderer who broke down in tears. That had surprised Dane when he was new in the FBI, but over the years he’d changed the opinions he supposed he’d absorbed by osmosis all through childhood and adolescence.
    Delion sat across from the sobbing man, not saying a word, just watching, arms crossed over his chest, his mustache drooping a bit. Patient, like he had all the time in the world. They watched him examine a thumbnail, heard a soft whistle under his breath, watched him trace a fingertip over a deep gash in the scarred wooden table between them.
    They’d taken the guy’s long dark woolen coat, hat, and gloves, which left him in a gray sweatshirt and wrinkled black pants. Dane couldn’t tell if he was just like the man Nick had originally described. But he saw he was slight of build, looked to be in his forties, and had a full head of dark hair—just as she’d