Eleventh Hour

and that wouldn’t last long.
    Weldon was keeping his head down, afraid she’d shoot him. She saw the instant he knew she’d hit his tires. The car swerved madly to the left. As the rubber was finally stripped away, the god-awful screeching of steel against concrete filled the air.
    Nick kept firing until she’d shot ten of the fifteen rounds in the SIG. She stopped, to save the remaining bullets. She’d hit the two back tires; that had to at least slow him. She started running. She wanted more than anything to pull him out of that car.
    The car swerved wildly from side to side. The tires were smoking, grinding, the steel beneath raw on the concrete, tearing it up. The stench of burning rubber filled her nostrils.
    She watched him suddenly jerk the car to the right and head it directly into the pine woods that began about forty yards from the east side of the rest home. He crashed it into a pine tree. Smoke billowed up, black and thick, and then it was quiet.
    She saw him dragging winter clothes out of the car and running into the woods.
    “Stop!”
    Nick headed after him, the SIG still in her right hand. She realized then she wasn’t wearing warm clothes. She’d run out of Captain DeLoach’s room with nothing but her V-necked red sweater over a white blouse, jeans, and boots.
    She didn’t care. She wasn’t going to fail now, she couldn’t. This madness had to stop and she was the only one there who could stop it. She heard him crashing through the undergrowth ahead of her. How far? Twenty feet?
    She saw Father Michael Joseph’s face in her mind’s eye, a beautiful face, open, rich with intelligence and humor. He was laughing at something he’d just told her about King Edward. And now, because of Weldon DeLoach, no one would ever see that smile again or hear that laugh. So like Dane, and so different, but not in the ways that counted. Both put themselves on the line for others, both had a core of honor. She realized in that instant that she didn’t want to let Dane out of her life, ever.
    Weldon had to be just ahead, not that far. Wait, she couldn’t hear him crashing through the trees anymore. Had he fallen? Was he hiding, lying in wait for her?
    Before she could react, he grabbed her around the neck and hauled her back against him. His other hand was on her arm, trying to pull the SIG out of her hand. But she wasn’t about to let go. She pulled and twisted, but he pulled his arm tighter. “Damn you, be quiet. Let that gun drop. Now!”
    Nick yelled at the top of her lungs, jerked as hard as she could, and drove her elbow into his stomach. He yelled, his hold loosened just a bit. She jerked the SIG down and pulled the trigger. She shot him in the foot.
    He screamed, released her. He was dancing in place, trying to grab his foot, his eyes wild with pain.
    Sherlock, Savich, and Dane saw the dance, saw her standing there, the gun dangling in her hand, breathing hard, staring at Weldon DeLoach. Flynn and Delion came up to stand beside them.
    “Jesus, woman,” Dane said, reaching her first. She turned, white-faced, and he forgot every curse word he’d stored up. “Ah, dammit, Nick,” he said, and pulled her against him. “Just look at you. You’re freezing, you twit.”
    “No, I’m not,” she said against his shoulder. “Be careful, Dane, you might hurt your arm.”
    “My arm? You’re worried about my arm?” He couldn’t help it, he started to laugh. He saw Flynn and Delion pull Weldon DeLoach to the ground, Flynn pulling off the guy’s boot to wrap his parka sleeve around the wound.
    Flynn looked up, grinned at her. “Congratulations, Dr. Campion, you brought down the perp. They don’t exactly teach you that a foot wound is the way to go, but hey, I’m not about to argue with success. Okay, Weldon, shut your trap.”
    “You know,” she said.
    “Yeah,” Dane said, “we know, but it’s not important now.”
    “It hurts, dammit!”
    “Yeah, I’ll just bet,” Flynn said, and came down on his haunches beside Weldon. He looked straight down into that face, and read him his rights.
    “No, I don’t need an attorney. I didn’t do anything. You’ve got to listen to me.”
    Savich, who was standing over him, said in a quiet voice, “So now you didn’t do anything?”
    “I didn’t commit those script murders! Yes, I came up with the idea for the series, but I had nothing to do with those murders. They’re horrible. I don’t know who’s responsible. It may be someone at the