“West in the Gallery food court!” Sandy shouted into a radio as she ran to catch up with him.

Her legs felt like tree stumps. Her chest burned with exhaustion. But as Sandy struggled to catch up to him, the suspect labored, as well.

The blood that dripped from the wound over his eye left a trail in his wake. His legs flailed wildly. His arms swung desperately. He stumbled toward the Twelfth Street exit like a man about to fall from his own momentum.

When five officers came through the Twelfth Street doors and ran in his direction, cutting off his route of escape, he did the only thing he could. He veered left at Eleventh Street and ducked into a passageway filled with commuters going to and from the Market-Frankford Elevated.

As he lumbered toward the glass doors that would lead him to the trains and an underground tunnel to City Hall, the bleeding that had begun with a slow drip came down in a steady stream.

Commuters saw the sweat and dirt mingling with blood on his face and clothing, and they stepped aside in horror. Conversations ceased. Eyes went wide with shock. Mouths flew open in disbelief. Brows furrowed with confusion.

When Sandy came up behind him and the people realized that the blood-soaked man was being chased by the police, they backed away and made room for the inevitable.

Sixth district officers caught up with the sergeant. Transit cops moved in as well. Before they could wrestle him to the ground, the suspect fell in a bloody heap, losing consciousness as his head bounced against the floor with a sickening thud.

A few seconds later, Sandy Jackson cuffed him.

Chapter 3

As news of the suspect’s capture made its way back to the impromptu staging area at the art gallery, Coletti and Lynch remained in the back room away from the others. Lynch was making calls. Coletti was preparing to question the suspect, but first he questioned himself.

He wondered if his nightmares had jogged his memory or replaced it. He wondered if what he’d seen in the cathedral that day was real. He wondered if saving Father O’Reilly could absolve him of his sins, or if he’d need to make a few confessions of his own.

As Coletti lost himself in the past, Lynch hung up the phone. “They took the suspect to Jefferson Hospital,” he said, breaking into Coletti’s thoughts. “You can meet them over there.”

“What about Father O’Reilly?” Coletti asked. “Can we get them to put the execution on hold?”

“I just got off a conference call with the mayor and the governor’s office. The governor’s ready to give us whatever help we need. But they can’t grant a stay of execution until we come up with something more than a note that could be from a copycat.”