I started to turn to her, but Bernie edged between Elly and Millie.

“Hi, Bern,” I said, picking her up and hugging her. “Hug back, but either low on the waist or high on the neck,” I cautioned.

She threw her arms around my neck.

“Micky,” she sniffed. “We thought you were dead.”

“Me? No way.” I gave her an extra squeeze, then set her back down. “Us tomcats have nine lives.”

Then I turned to Cordelia. Her eyes were red. Had she been crying for me?

“Everyone okay?” I asked.

“Yes. Now,” she replied.

She took my face between her hands, gently brushing dirt off my cheek. I tentatively put my hands on her waist, wanting to pull her to me, but shy in front of the too numerous onlookers, from camera crews to nuns to nineteen-year-olds.

Cordelia leaned toward me, as if she was going to kiss me anyway. And for that split second, nothing hurt.

But one of the nuns rushed up to us, asking worriedly, “Has anyone seen Sister Fatima?”

Cordelia and I broke off, backing away.

“No,” I said. “Not since before the bomb.”

And no one else had seen her after the explosion.

The look on the nun’s face told us that we were their last hope, the last unchecked group.

“She was a little hard of hearing,” the nun said slowly, turning from us.

“Oh, no,” Millie said for us. “I thought we had all…”

“I had hoped,” Cordelia added, her expression drawn and tight.

“She was so nice,” Bernie said helplessly. “Why?”

Elly put her arms around Bernie, the only possible answer.

“You might go look at Sister Ann,” I told Cordelia, to give her something useful to do. “She hurt her ankle rather badly.”

“Yeah, let me go do that,” she said grimly, “although…” with a look back at the ruins of her clinic, “I haven’t much to work with.”

She walked over to the nuns.

“Damn whoever did this,” Millie cursed. “Damn them.” Then she followed Cordelia.

The one lone cop had gotten reinforcements and they were hustling us back to the far side of the street. Elly kept a protective arm around Bernie.

I started looking for O’Connor, to scream and curse at him, but he wasn’t here. Then I saw another face in the crowd. Odd that he should be here. I kept expecting Frankenstein to show up. It appeared that he had decided to run away and fight the devil another day.

“I’ll be back,” I told Elly, as I started threading my way through the throng.

He was at the far edge of the onlookers, by himself. I stalked him slowly, not wanting him to see the intensity of my hunt. For a moment, I placed a tree between us, hastily brushing myself off, trying to make it look like I was just some curious bystander. I patted my gun, reassured irrationally by its warm metallic presence.

I circled the tree. He was still where he had been. I slowly ambled up to him. It was him, I made sure as I got close, the same scrubbed innocent face I had glimpsed running down my stairs and at Betty’s cottage. Had he helped Frankenstein murder her? But this time Choirboy wasn’t in a hurry. He stood, rocking slightly back on his heels, trying not to smile, but he couldn’t really prevent the corners of his mouth from twitching in satisfaction.

“Howdy,” he said to me, not recognizing me.

Always learn the face of your murder victims, so they can’t sneak up on you if you miss.

“Hi,” I replied as calmly as I could. “What happened here?”

“An abortion clinic got what it deserved,” he said smugly.

“Oh? I thought that was a neighborhood clinic and a Catholic community center,” I answered.

“No. No, it was an abortion house,” he corrected me. “A beautiful sight going up.”

“I think we’ve met before,” I said. “Isn’t your name Bill?”

“Yes, yes, it is.” He smiled, trying to place me.

I reached out to shake his hand.

“Bill?” I asked as he took my hand.

“Bill Dolton.”

I tightened my grasp on his hand.

“Micky Knight. You left a bomb at my door.”

His expression started to change from smug gleefulness to worry and perhaps even fear, but he didn’t have time. I punched him in the nose. He went down, blood streaming onto his lower lip.

“And congratulations, Bill,” I remarked acidly. “You’ve just murdered a seventy-year-old nun. She was hard of hearing and didn’t get out of the building in time.”

He started to get up, but I put a foot on his shoulder and pushed him back down.

“Wha…?” he started in disbelief.

“Your friend Sarry had other plans,” I told him, grabbing him by the shirt. “He never made any of the warning calls. He wanted to murder the people in that building, and he lied to you. It wasn’t an abortion clinic.”

“No, you’re lying,” he sniffed.

“Where’s Will?” I demanded. I didn’t ever want to be surprised by him again.

“Will?” Choirboy echoed stupidly.

“Yeah, Will. The big, tall, ugly guy who jerks off with prayer. You know who I’m talking about.”

“I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know where he is,” he answered hastily, seeing that I had little patience. “I was supposed to meet him here.”

“When?”

“Uh…now, I guess. He was supposed to be here,” Choirboy replied, looking around, obviously hoping for an ally.

Keeping a tight grip on him, I scanned the crowd. I couldn’t see Frankenstein anywhere. Choirboy would have to do.

“He said he’d be here,” Choirboy sniveled.

“Where are the rest of the bombs?” I demanded, shaking him.

“I don’t have to tell you,” he said, like a petulant child.

“No, you don’t. But I don’t have to stop hitting you, either,” I informed him.

He looked scared. No one had ever really hit him before. That was obvious. He lived in a world where God was on his side and being wrong and being hurt weren’t possibilities for him. I gave him a quick kick in the groin to prove my point.

“And that was gentle,” I said as he sputtered a protest. It was, compared to how hard I wanted to hit him.

“Police brutality,” he finally spat out through the blood on his lips.

“I’m not the police. And this isn’t brutal. Not compared to the ton of brick and board that you let crush the life out of Sister Fatima. Did you kill Betty Peterson?”

“No, I swear. I had nothing to do with that. She was my girlfriend.”