“Looks like more than a mugging,” the paramedic said, “nobody can beat up someone like that unless they've got a beef with them. Maybe it was her boyfriend.”

“In a doorway on Delancey? Not likely. She's wearing designer jeans, and she's got an Upper East Side address. She was mugged.”

But when his partner went to St. Andrew's, Father Tim suspected that it was more than bad luck that had felled Grace Adams. He'd had a visit from the police only the day before to tell him that a woman called Isella Jones had been murdered by her husband that day, he had killed both of his kids as well, and then disappeared. And the policeman had suggested that Father Tim warn his nurses and social workers that the man was violent and on the run. It was possible that he would never come to St. Andrew's at all. Or he might, if he blamed them for encouraging Isella to leave him and try to get home to Cleveland. But it never dawned on him to say anything to Grace. She had been in California when Isella had shown up, beaten and terrified, with her children. Father Tim had warned the others and told them to spread the word and watch out for a man called Sam Jones. They had been going to put a bulletin on the board to alert everyone, but they had had so much to do for the past two days that they never did it.

When Father Tim heard what had happened to Grace, he was sure that the incident was related, and they put out an APB on Sam Jones, with a mug shot and his description. He'd been in plenty of trouble before and he had a record an arm long, and a history of violence. If they ever found him, the murder of his wife and kids would put him away forever, not to mention what he had done to Grace in the doorway on Delancey.

Father Tim looked sick when he asked him, “How bad is it?”

“It looked pretty bad when the ambulance left, Father. I'm sorry.”

“So am I.” There were tears in his eyes, as he pulled off a black T-shirt, and grabbed a black shirt with a Roman collar. “Can you give me a ride to the hospital?”

“Sure, Father.” Father Tim quickly told Sister Eugene where he was going, and hurried out to the patrol car with the officer. Four minutes later they were at Bellevue. Grace was still in the emergency room and a whole team of doctors and nurses was working on her. But so far, none of them was encouraged by the results. She was barely hanging on at that moment.

“How is she?” Father Tim asked the nurse at the desk.

“Critical. That's all I know.” And then she looked at him, he was a priest after all, and she probably wasn't going to make it. That's what one of the interns had told her. She was so bashed up inside, it was almost hopeless. “Do you want to see her?” He nodded, feeling responsible for what had happened. Sam Jones had gone after Grace, and nearly killed her.

Father Tim followed the nurse into the room and he was shocked at what he saw there. Three nurses were hovering over her, two interns, and the resident. She was almost naked, swathed in sheets, and her whole body was black it was so bruised and swollen. Her face looked like a deep purple melon. She was covered in ice packs, swathed in bandages, there were screens and scans and IVs and instruments everywhere. It was the worst thing he'd ever seen, and at a nod from the resident, he gave her last rites. He didn't even know what religion she was, but it didn't matter. She was a child of God, and He knew how much she had given Him. Father Tim was crying as he stood in the corner and prayed for her, and it was hours before they stopped working on her, and looked up. Her head was wrapped in bandages by then, they had stitched up her face and her throat. He had only used the knife on her neck, he had lacerated her face with his fist. One arm was broken, and five ribs. And they were going to operate as soon as she was stable. They knew by then from scans that she had a ruptured spleen, and he had damaged her kidneys, and her pelvis was broken too.

“Is there anything he didn't get?” Father Tim asked miserably.

“Not much.” The resident was used to it, but this time it looked bad even to him. She had barely survived it. “Her feet look pretty good.” The doctor smiled and the priest tried to.

She went to surgery at six o'clock and it was noon before they were through. Sister Eugene had joined him by then, and they were sitting together quietly, praying for her, when the chief resident came to find them.

“Are you her next of kin?” he asked, confused by the priest's collar. At first he'd just thought he was the hospital priest, but now he realized that he was there specifically for Grace, as was the woman with him.

“Yes, I am,” Father Tim said without hesitation. “How is she?”

“She made it through the surgery. We took out her spleen, patched up her kidneys, put a pin in her pelvis. She's a lucky girl, we managed to get all the important stuff put back together. And the house plastic surgeon sewed up her face and swears it'll never show. The big question mark right now is the head injury. Everything looks okay on the EEG but you can't always tell. It could look fine and she might never wake up again, and just stay in a coma. We just don't know yet. We'll know a lot more in the next few days, Father. I'm sorry.” He touched his arm, and nodded at the young nun before he walked away to get some rest. She had been a tough case, but at least she'd made it and they hadn't lost her. For a while there, it had been mighty close. Grace had been lucky.

Before the resident left, Father Tim had thanked him and asked when they could see her and he said that as soon as she was out of the recovery room in a few more hours, she would be taken to ICU upstairs. He and Sister Eugene went to the cafeteria for something to eat then, and she told Father Tim that he should go home and get some rest, but he didn't want to leave yet.

“I was thinking that maybe we should call her office. No one knows what's happened to her, except us. They must be wondering why she didn't come in,” which was exactly the case. Charles Mackenzie had had one of the secretaries call her half a dozen times at home, but there was no answer. She could have overstayed on a weekend romance, but he kept insisting that it wasn't like her. He had no idea who else to call, but for all he knew, she could have slipped and hit her head in the bathtub. He had even thought of trying to locate her superintendent but decided to let it wait till after lunch. As soon as he got back, there was a call from Father Timothy Finnegan, and the secretary who answered said it was about Grace.

“I'll take it,” he said, and picked up the phone with a sudden queasy feeling. “Hello?”

“Mr. Mackenzie?”

“Yes, Father, what can I do for you?”

“Not a great deal, I'm afraid. It's about Grace.” Charles felt his blood run cold. Without hearing more, he knew something terrible had happened to her.

“Is she all right?”

There was an endless silence.

“I'm afraid not. She had a terrible accident last night. She was mugged and badly beaten after leaving St. Andrew's, the crisis center where she does volunteer work. It was late, and … we don't know all the details yet, but we're afraid it may have been the crazed husband of one of our clients. He killed his wife and children on Saturday. We're not sure if it was he that attacked Grace. But whoever did it, beat Grace within a hair of killing her.”

“Where is she?” Charles's hand shook as he grabbed his pen and a notepad.

“She's at Bellevue. She's just come out of surgery.”

“How bad is it?” It was so unfair, she was so young, and so alive, and so pretty.

“Pretty bad. She lost her spleen, though the doctor says she can live without it. Her kidneys are damaged, she has a broken pelvis and half a dozen broken ribs. Her face was pretty badly cut up, and he sliced her throat but only superficially. The worst of it is that she has a head injury. That's the main concern now. They said we'll just have to wait and see. I'm sorry to call with such bad news. I just thought you'd want to know,” and then, he didn't know why he told him, but he felt he had to, “She thinks a lot of you, Mr. Mackenzie. She thinks you're a great person.”

“I think the world of her too. Is there anything we can do for her at this point?”

“Pray.”

“I will, Father, I will. And thank you. Let me know if there's any change, will you?”

“Of course.”

The moment he hung up, Charles Mackenzie called the head of Bellevue, and a neurosurgeon he knew well, and asked him to have a look at Grace immediately. The head of the hospital had promised to put her in a private room, and see that she had private nurses. But first she was going to intensive care, where they were experts at dealing with trauma.

Charles couldn't believe what they'd told him when he called the hospital. He remembered telling her how dangerous the neighborhood was, and that she should be taking cabs. And now look what had happened. He felt shaken for the rest of the afternoon, and he called at five and asked if there was any improvement. She was in intensive care by then, but they didn't have any news. She was listed as critical. And at six o'clock, he was still at the office when his neurosurgeon friend called him back.

“You wouldn't believe what that guy did to her, Charles. It's inhuman.”

“Will she be all right?” Charles asked him sadly. He hated to see something like that happen to her, or anyone. And he was surprised to realize how fond of her he had grown. She was so young, she could have been his daughter, he realized, feeling startled.

“She could be all right,” the doctor answered. “It's hard to say yet. The other injuries should heal pretty well. The head is another story. She could be fine, or she couldn't. It all depends if she comes out of it in the next few days. She didn't need brain surgery, which is fortunate, but there's going to be some swelling for a while. We just have to be patient. Is she a friend of yours?”