“Then let’s all keep our eyes and ears peeled today and see if anyone shows their hand,” Fiona said.

“Knowing that someone I’ve known and probably called friend feels so harmed by me in some way that he’s willing to go to such lengths to let me know… it’s just killing me.”

“Well, that’s exactly what we’re trying to prevent, Sam,” Luke reminded him. “Because now, it is all about you…”

The air inside the church was close in spite of the fact that air-conditioning had been installed two years prior at the behest of a parishioner who couldn’t face one more Nebraska summer Sunday morning without respite from the heat. The overwhelming scent of flowers hung in the air, and as Sam had predicted, the church was packed all the way from the altar back to the front door.

Sam sat shoulder to shoulder with Tom on one side and his nephew Tommy on the other. The pew, the fifth from the altar, was taken up mostly by his family and that of a neighbor. Fiona was somewhere in the crowd, having reminded Sam that she was not there to accompany him to his friend’s funeral, but as a federal agent charged with his safety. From time to time he’d glanced around hoping to catch sight of her, but the crowd was too dense, and seated so far up front, he was highly noticeable every time he turned around, so he stopped looking. He reminded himself that she knew where he was, and that was what really mattered.

The other agents, too, were scattered here and there, though none of them in the pews closest to the altar, since those were occupied by the regular churchgoers. Sam knew they were all there, all at their most vigilant. He wasn’t worried about his back.

The casket stood at the front of the aisle, a grim reminder of why they were there. Sam was lost in memories of Drew and their boyhood escapades when the priest took his place on the altar.

The congregation stood and the service began. Sam’s mind wandered from Drew, to his parents, to his two sisters, who were several rows in front of the DelVecchio family, to the last times he’d been in this church. So many of the important events of his life had been spent under this roof. There had been weddings, christenings, and yes, funerals. His parents had been married here, as had his brother and his sister. Tommy, Jody, and Gil, and Andrea’s three kids had all been baptized here. Eileen, his sister, had been buried from this church, her coffin once standing exactly where Drew’s now stood.

Sam sat back against the hard wooden seat, his eyes straying from the altar where the priest spoke, to the pews across the aisle and the familiar faces of those who sat there. Blake Carter sat with his parents and his wife, his eyes swollen and his expression pained. He and Drew had grown up three houses apart and had been inseparable. A row behind him, Steve Molino sat with his wife. The pew had once been occupied by his entire family, but his parents’ divorce a few years following the death of his sister, Tish, had taken Steve from Blackstone to Des Moines. Billy Finnegan was two rows behind Steve, and Sam had noticed Vic when he first arrived at the church, but hadn’t had a chance to speak with him. Actually, he hadn’t spoken with any of them, the old friends he’d once known so well. One of whom was probably a killer. He glanced at their faces, one by one, but nothing they’d done so far-no expression, no gesture-gave away a thing. Not that Sam would have expected it to be that easy.

It was far from easy, looking at old friends through a different lens to try to determine which of them might have been harboring animosity-justified or unjustified-toward Sam.

One of Drew’s cousins was at a podium on the left side of the altar talking about how much Drew had loved fly-fishing in Montana every summer. Sam smiled to himself, recalling the times they’d gone to nearby lakes and fished for bass. Sam had never really enjoyed fishing-even as a kid he’d been bored and restless if he had to stay in one place for too long-but Drew had mastered the art of standing still in water up to his knees by the time he’d turned ten.

Sam’s gaze drifted upward to the stained glass windows above the altar. There were seven of them, all depicting Jesus ministering to his flock. As his eyes made their way from the first to the last, the breath caught in his throat. How many times had he seen these pictures in glass without realizing their meaning?

He forced his eyes back to the first window, where Jesus offered a platter of fruit to a woman; to the second, where He held out a cloak to a man who covered his nakedness with his hands; to the third, where He was giving yet another man a goblet. Sam skipped to the last, where He stood over a prone body, making an open-palmed gesture toward a hole in the ground.

Feed the sick. Clothe the naked. Give drink to the thirsty.

And the last: bury the dead.

He turned to the back of the church, hoping to catch the eye of one of the agents, but couldn’t locate anyone in the crowd. Tom elbowed him and he turned back toward the altar, his eyes on the stained glass windows. He turned his head and looked across the aisle. Everyone’s eyes were on the podium, where Drew’s father spoke. All but one other, whose eyes were lifted to the windows.

Sam studied the once-familiar face as it stared up at the depictions of the Church’s corporal acts of mercy. A shock ran through him as it all became crystal clear. Once, long ago, Sam had seen this same face transfixed on those same stained glass windows. That day returned to Sam in vivid detail, and he knew without question who the killer was.

How could it have taken so long to figure out when it should have been so obvious? If he’d used his training as a specialist in criminal behavior, and not permitted himself to be blinded by old friendships, he’d have known.

There was no way for him to alert Fiona or Luke or any of the others. He could only wait until the service was over. All he could do right at that moment was devise the manner in which he’d approach the man after he’d clued in the others. It was all he could do to keep in his seat, all he could do to keep from leaping into the other pew and taking apart the man who had once been one of his best buddies. He closed his eyes and mentally watched it happen in his imagination, since it could not happen in real life. At least, not now, and not here.

Patience, he told himself. There were a lot of people in the church, any one of whom could become yet another victim if Sam moved hastily. He felt certain everyone here would be at the cemetery, and that would be a much better place for a takedown. The agents could come from every side and quietly escort the killer to a waiting car. There would be no shootout, no blaze of glory, just a very quiet and efficient arrest of a serial killer who’d just attended the funeral of his last victim.

Emotionally, Sam would have preferred the leap across the aisle, but intellectually, he knew he had to sit tight and let the rest of the morning play out. Instead, he calmly took note that while the man wore a dark suit-as did almost every other man in the church-he was married to a woman with flaming red hair. If Sam lost the killer in the crowd once the service was over-and there was a good chance that he might-he could keep track of him by following the redhead.