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Dale whips off the altar cloth and sends the candlesticks crashing. Dade’s got the crowbar, and three taps later they’ve pried up the plate. Underneath is a wooden box–old, as old as the parish. The lock is tarnished.

“Patella of Saint Agnes the Pure,” reads Dade when they’ve snapped it off.

“We already got two patellas!” groans Dale.

“Doesn’t matter,” says Dade. He knows they’ll fit it somewhere. Every Catholic church has a relic like this, hair or teeth or knucklebones; they’ll keep hitting them until they’ve got enough. Then they’ll build a new one. Saint Everybody, Patron of Us.