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the terrorist, and he actually heard what she said to him, then relief so profound he shook with it. And pride, he could have burst with pride. It was over and she’d survived.
    He watched the Crown Vic pull away. Where were they taking her?
    Every TV station was going back and forth from JFK to St. Pat’s, newspeople on scene, so excited to be at ground zero, they were nearly stuttering. They had huge news stories to tell right on top of each other. Naturally, they tied the two incidents together—it was a time-honored terrorist strategy, wasn’t it? To get the first responders out of the way of the prime target, St. Patrick’s Cathedral? If it hadn’t been for the bravery of Father Joseph Reilly, a former Gulf War vet turned priest—and on and on it went. He saw Romeo Rodriguez, the altar boy who’d found the bomb in barely enough time, a thin, white-faced little boy, maybe three, four years older than Sean, and cameras showed him close up beside the priest, his small hands clasping the priest’s.
    Homeland Security put every airport in the nation on high alert. But how would they protect the large historic cathedrals? There were so many to choose from, if a terrorist was bent on destroying prime symbols of Western culture and civilization. Savich took calls from Director Comey; his own boss, ADA Jimmy Maitland; and every member of the CAU; Sherlock’s parents in San Francisco; a few FBI agents in New York, Nicholas Drummond among them; and the chief of security operations at JFK, Guy Alport. Savich had watched him being shotgunned with questions until he’d looked ready to bolt or shoot them all. Alport called to tell him Sherlock was scary good, that Savich was a lucky man to have that woman. He said he wanted to meet her husband, the guy she called a Big Dog. He laughed, then sobered immediately. “That priest at Saint Pat’s, I’d sure like to hire him, but God beat me to it.”
    Finally, Savich set his cell to vibrate, put the landline on automatic message, and fetched Sean from next door.
    When he finally heard from Sherlock at eleven o’clock that night that she was on her way home—hallelujah—he left Gabriella to watch Sean and left for Reagan National Airport, surprised her flight was only three hours late. At last he saw her walk past the luggage carousels, a bulging black FBI briefcase in one hand, a small black handbag in the other. Even from a distance he could see she was exhausted, running on fumes, but when she saw him, her face lit up. A few people recognized her, but she didn’t acknowledge them, kept her eyes straight ahead, never looking away from his face.
    When Savich finally got her into the Porsche, guarded by airport security in a no-parking zone, he revved the sweet engine and pulled away from the curb, relieved to see no reporters. He said nothing until he could exit the airport. He pulled her against him, held her tightly until she reared back in his arms. “I’m okay, you can see I’m okay. Do you know what, Dillon? They gave me a first-class seat on the flight home and three bottles of champagne. The flight attendants wrapped them in napkins so they wouldn’t break and I stuffed them in my briefcase. Do you know some people even asked for my autograph on the plane?”
    He laughed, told her she should take a bath in all that champagne.
    On the way home he told her about the calls from President Gilbert and Vice President Foley, and perhaps most important, the call from the CEO of Virgin America, offering Sherlock free lifetime first-class tickets to wherever she wanted to go. He wondered if the Pope would invite Romeo Rodriguez to the Vatican for a private reception, Father Joseph to accompany him, once he recovered from his injuries.
    He saw she was still wound tight, knew it would be good to get her mind off New York, and so he told her about the bizarre murder at the Rayburn House Office Building earlier that day. The victim was a young man who’d been stabbed through