“She said they can’t do this. He has job.”

“He’s an illegal,” Danny said.

“Bah,” she said. “Half this neighborhood illegal. They deport everyone?”

Danny shook his head. “Just the ones who annoy them. Tell her.”

Mrs. DiMassi held her hand out below Arabella’s chin. “Dammi quel che tieni sotto il cappotto, o tuo marito passera’il prossimo Natale a Palermo.”

Arabella said, “No, no, no.”

Mrs. DiMassi cocked her arm again and spoke as fast as Arabella. “Questi Americani ci trattano come cani. Non ti permettero’di umiliarmi dinanzi ad uno di loro. Apri il cappotto, o te lo strappo di dosso!”

Whatever she said—Danny caught “American dogs” and “don’t disgrace me”—it worked. Arabella opened her coat and removed a white paper bag. She handed it to Mrs. DiMassi who handed it to Danny.

Danny looked inside and saw a stack of paper. He pulled out the top sheet:

While you rest and kneel, we worked. We executed.
This is the beginning, not the end. Never the end.
Your childish god and childish blood run to the sea.
Your childish world is next.

Danny showed the note to Steve and said to Mrs. DiMassi, “When was she supposed to distribute these?”

Mrs. DiMassi spoke to her niece. Arabella started to shake her head, then stopped. She whispered a word to Mrs. DiMassi who turned back to Danny. “Sundown.”

He turned back to Steve. “How many churches have a late mass?”

“In the North End? Two, maybe three. Why?”

Danny pointed at the note. “‘While you rest and kneel.’ Yeah?”

Steve shook his head. “No.”

“You rest on the Sabbath,” Danny said. “You kneel in church. And at the end—your blood runs to the sea. Gotta be a church near the waterfront.”

Steve went to Mrs. DiMassi’s phone. “I’m calling it in. What’s your guess?”

“There’s only two churches that fit. Saint Teresa’s and Saint Thomas’s.”

“Saint Thomas doesn’t have an evening mass.”

Danny headed for the door. “You’ll catch up?”

Steve smiled, phone to his ear. “Me and my cane, sure.” He waved Danny off. “Go, go. And, Dan?”

Danny paused at the door. “Yeah?”

“Shoot first,” he said. “And shoot often.”

St. Teresa’s stood at the corner of Fleet and Atlantic across from Lewis Wharf. One of the oldest churches in the North End, it was small and starting to crumble. Danny bent to catch his breath, his shirt drenched in sweat from his run. He pulled his watch from his pocket: five-forty-eight. Mass would end soon. If, like Salutation, the bomb was in the basement, about the only thing to do would be to rush into the church and order everyone out. Steve had made the call, so the bomb squad couldn’t be far off. But if the bomb was in the basement, why hadn’t it detonated? Parishioners had been in there for over forty-five minutes. Ample time to blow out the floor beneath them….

Danny heard it then, off in the distance, the first siren, the first patrol car leaving the Oh-One, surely followed by others.