Luck had preserved John from almost certain death. First off, Mary Farrell decided at the last moment to go with John to the library.

At the subway exit, she took advantage of the assailant's momentary surprise--a split-second hesitation when he saw her there--to slap his arm, deflecting the deadly shot from the Stroheim and Roman 320. The bullet lodged in John's lung instead of his heart--serious but not fatal.

At the church, Buddy, a homeless Vietnam Veteran in the neighborhood, treated the wound, using the old MedEvac kit he always kept at the bottom of his shopping cart. Buddy's training and good heart made up for a slightly unsteady hand.

"How can I ever repay you?" Mary had asked.

"Repay?" Buddy said, "Why, just saving one more life . . . I never thought I'd . . ."

He stared into the distance. Mary saw what might be a tear slide down the vet's haggard cheek. Then he said gruffly:

"Look; if you give me money, I'll just spend it on drink. I got a chance to wash my hands in hot water for the first time in days. That's plenty."