“What did you give Father Michael Joseph for Christmas? I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to call him just Michael.”

Dane said, “It’s all right. I gave him a Frisbee. I told him I wanted to see his robes flapping around when he ran after the thing. And I gave him a book on the Dead Sea Scrolls, a topic that always fascinated Michael.” He fell silent, wondering what would happen to Michael’s things. He had to remember to ask Father Binney. He wanted to look at that book that Michael had touched, read, and see his inscription to his brother in the front. He’d written something smart-ass, but he didn’t remember exactly what.

Michael should have lived until he was at least eighty, maybe as an archbishop, like Lugano, that venerable old man with his mane of white hair. But he was dead because some madman had decided to kill him. For whatever reason.

Dane stood, back against the rectory wall, watching with Nick beside him, silent now, still holding his hand. It seemed that every priest in San Francisco had come, and each of them walked in his measured way over to Dane, each with something kind to say, each telling him what a shock it was to see how much he looked like Michael.

The whole time, Dane was wondering how they were going to catch the man who killed his brother and the other people. There wasn’t a single good lead, truth be told, even though Chief Kreider had told the media that all avenues were being explored, and some looked very hopeful. All of that was advanced cop talk for we ain’t got diddly, Delion had said under his breath.

Delion came up to him, nodded to Nick, and stood silently beside him. All three of them stood there in black, just like all the priests.

Dane said to Delion, “I’ve been thinking. Three murders in San Francisco-and no tie-in among the victims that anyone can find.”

“True, unfortunately. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a connection. We just have to find it.”

Dane looked toward his brother’s coffin, surrounded by branches of lit candles. “It seems like it was all well rehearsed, no mistakes, and that got me to wondering. Do you think this man has killed before?”

Delion frowned as he said, “You mean has he done this same sort of thing in another city?”

“Yes.”

“He’s some sort of serial killer? He comes to a city and randomly selects victims, then leaves to go someplace else?”

“No, not really that,” Dane said. “He targeted my brother, no question about that, maybe even before he killed the old woman and the gay activist. Chances are they were random. What do you think, Nick?”

She blinked, and he saw her surprise that he wanted her opinion. She said, “If that’s true, then Father Michael Joseph must have been the focus, don’t you think? Maybe the whole point of all this was so the guy could tell Father Michael Joseph what he’d done, and dare him to say anything. Maybe it was some sort of game to him, his selection of Father Michael Joseph, at least, determined before he did these horrible things. I don’t know. This is what you were talking about earlier and I thought a lot about it. I think you’re right.”

Dane said, “Yes, I still feel that way. I think it was all about the priest to him. There was planning here, his selection of my brother, or maybe any priest would do and Michael was a random choice, too.”

Delion said, “So the guy thinks one day, I want to murder a priest, but before I do, I’m going to kill other people and rub the priest’s nose in it when I confess it to him, watch him squirm because he’s bound to silence. Do you think the perp is that sick?” Dane saw that Delion had included Nick in the question. She looked intent, like she was thinking ferociously. He didn’t know why, but he liked that.

Dane said, “That may be close enough.”

“Jesus, Dane. Then we’ve got to look for any other murders involving priests.”

Nick said slowly, her brow furrowed, “I just don’t know. That makes it sound pretty unlikely.”

None of them said anything more. Dane watched Archbishop Lugano stare down at his brother, his lips moving in a prayer. Then he crossed himself, his movements a smooth ritual, leaned down, and kissed Michael’s forehead.

Dane felt tears film his eyes. He nodded to Delion and turned abruptly away, realizing that Nick was still holding his hand. “I just can’t stay any longer,” he said, and she understood. They made their way through the waves of black-garbed priests and walked together from the chapel.

Nick’s eyes were wide open, she knew they were, but she couldn’t see anything. No, wait. She was in a room, dark, almost black. She could feel how thick the blackness was, how heavy it was settling around her, with not a shred of light coming in. She lay there, on her back, looking up at a ceiling she couldn’t really see, wondering what was happening, hoping she wasn’t dead.

She tasted something sour, something that made her want to gag, but she knew she shouldn’t gag or she’d start to choke. At least she was alive.

There was something in her mouth, something at the back of her throat. Then she remembered.

It had been a lovely evening in December, just a few days before Christmas, not too cold, no snow for the past three days, and the winds were fairly calm. Such a splendid occasion, perfectly orchestrated, naturally so, since John’s private assistant had arranged it. Albia’s birthday dinner was at John’s magnificent Rushton Avenue condominium penthouse, looking out on Lake Michigan. It hadn’t been just the three of them, no, Elliott Benson was there, a man she didn’t trust, didn’t like. He was rich and charming, supposedly a friend of John’s, and she’d been told they’d known each other since college, but the truth was, whenever she had to spend time with him, she always wanted to go home and take a shower. She’d wanted it just to be the three of them, no aides, no other important people to coddle who had been or would be of assistance to John’s career, but Albia had wanted him there.

Albia was John’s older sister, an elegant, articulate woman, rich in her own right from ownership of several successful men’s boutiques. Albia had been in John’s corner since their mother had died when he was only sixteen and Albia twenty-three. She was turning fifty-five, but she looked a dozen years younger. She’d married when she’d turned thirty, been widowed just a year later. Albia had always been reserved, even standoffish with all the campaign volunteers, but since John had begun dating Nick, she’d warmed up considerably. Nick felt very close to her, indeed she was becoming a confidante.

Tonight, there was so much excitement, a feast on the dining table, a gorgeous diamond bracelet, presented by John to his sister, around Albia’s wrist, winking and glittering in the soft glow of the half dozen lighted candles on the table. Elliott Benson had charmed and joked and flattered Albia, presenting her with diamond earrings that easily rivaled the bracelet John had gotten her. They were in her ears, gorgeous earrings. Elliott was trying to outdo John, it was easy enough to see, at least to Nick. Why had Albia wanted him there?

Nick’s gift to Albia was a silk scarf imprinted with a Picasso painting that she’d found in Barcelona. Albia, exclaiming over that lovely scarf, had said, “Oh, I remember that Mother had a scarf very similar to this one. She loved that scarf-”

And her voice had dropped like a stone off a cliff.

Nick, filled with Albia’s pleasure, pleased that her scarf had reminded her of John’s mother, said, “Oh, John, you’ve never spoken of your mother.”

John shot a look at his sister. She shook her head slightly, as if in apology, and looked back down at her plate.

“That’s right, John,” Elliott said, “I never even met your mother. Hey, didn’t she die? A long time ago?”