Cathedral

over the parapet in the southeast triforium and blew it away with a single shot. “I’m hot! God, I’m hot today!”

Burke heard the shotgun blasts from the loft, followed by the short, quick bursts of the M-16 and then the whistling of the sniper’s rifle as rounds chipped away at the balustrade over his head.

The ESD man beside him said, “Sounds like the weekend commandos didn’t capture the choir loft.”

Burke picked up the field phone and spoke to the other three triforia. “At my command we throw everything we’ve got into the loft.” He called the sacristy stairs. “Tell Malone and Baxter we’re putting down suppressing fire again, and if they want to give it a try, this is the time to do it—there won’t be another time.”

Burke waited the remainder of the five minutes he had given the 69th, to be sure they were not going to try again to get into the loft, then put the field phone to his mouth. “Fire!”

Twenty-five ESD men rose in the four triforia and began firing with automatic rifles and grenade launchers. The rifles raked the loft with long traversing streams, while the launchers alternated their loads, firing beehive canisters of long needles, buckshot, high explosives, gas grenades, illumination rounds, and fire-extinguishing gas.

The choir loft reverberated with the din of exploding grenades, and thick black smoke mingled with the yellowish gas. The smoke and gas rose over the splintering pews, then moved along the ceiling of the Cathedral like an eerie cloud, iridescent in the light of the burning flares below.

Megan and Leary, wearing gas masks, knelt in the bottom aisle below the thick, protruding parapet that ran the width of the loft. Leary fired into the triforia, moved laterally, fired, and moved again. Megan sent streams of automatic fire into the sanctuary as she raced back and forth along the parapet.

Burke heard the sounds of the grenade launchers tapering off as the canisters were used up, and he heard an occasional exclamation when someone was hit. He stood and looked over the balustrade, through the smoke, and saw small flames flickering in the loft. From the field phone in his hand came excited voices as the other triforia called for medics. And still the firing from the loft went on. Burke grabbed an M-16 from one of the EDS men. “Goddamned sons of bitches—” He fired a full magazine without pause, reloaded and fired again until the gun overheated and jammed. He threw the rifle down savagely and shouted into the field phone, “Shoot the remaining fire-extinguishing canisters and get down.”

The last of the canisters arched into the loft, and Burke saw the fires begin to subside. Impulsively he grabbed the bullhorn and shouted toward the loft, “I’m coming for you, cocksuckers. I’m—” He felt someone knock his legs out from under him, and he toppled to the floor as a bullet passed through the space where he had stood.

An ESD man sat cross-legged looking down at him. “You got to be cool, Lieutenant. There’s nothing personal between them and us. You understand?”

Another man lit a cigarette and added, “They’re giving it their best shot, and we’re giving it our best shot. Today they got the force with them—see? And we don’t. Makes you wonder, though…. I mean in a cathedral and all that …”

Burke took the man’s cigarette and got control of himself. “Okay…. okay…. Any ideas?”

A man dabbing at a grazing wound across his jaw answered, “Yeah, offer them a job—my job.”

Another man added, “Somebody’s got to get into the loft through the towers. That’s the truth.”

Burke saw the dial of the other man’s watch. He picked up the phone and called the sacristy stairs. “Did the hostages make it?”

The commo man answered, “Whoever’s behind that M-16 up there wasn’t shooting at you guys—it was raining bullets on the floor between the pews and the stairs—Christ, somebody up there has it in for these two.”

“I’m sure it’s not personal.” Burke threw the phone down. “Still, I’m getting a little pissed off.”

“What the hell is driving those two Micks on?” an ESD man asked. “Politics? I mean, I’m a registered Democrat, but I don’t get that excited about it. You know?”

Burke stubbed out a cigarette and thought about Bellini. He looked down at the coagulated gore on his trousers that had been part of Bellini, those great stupid brains that had held a lot more knowledge than he had realized. Bellini would know what to do, and if he didn’t, he would know how to inspire confidence in these semi- psychotics around him. Burke felt very much out of his element, unwilling to give an order that would get one more man killed; and he appreciated—really and fully appreciated—the reason for Bellini’s erratic behavior all night. Unconsciously he rubbed at the stains on his trousers until someone said, “It doesn’t come off.”

Burke nodded. He realized now that he had to go to the loft, himself, and finish it one way or the other.

Maureen listened to the intense volume of fire dying away. The arm of the policeman who had fallen from the triforium above dangled between the pews, dripping blood into a large puddle of red. Through the gunfire she had thought she heard a sound coming from the pulpit.

Baxter said, “I think that was our last chance, Maureen.”

She heard it again, a low, choked-off moan. She said, “We may have one more chance.” She slid away from Baxter, avoiding his grasp, and rolled beneath the pews, coming out where they ended near the spiral pulpit staircase a few feet across a patch of open floor. She dove across the opening and flattened herself on the marble-walled steps, hugging the big column around which the steps circled. As she reached the top she noticed the red bloodstains on the top stairs. She looked into the pulpit and saw that he had dragged himself up to a sitting position, his back to the marble wall. His eyes were shut, and she stared at him for several seconds, watching the irregular rising and falling of his chest. Then she slid into the pulpit. “Brian.”

He opened his eyes and focused on her.

She leaned over him and said quietly, “Do you see what you’ve done? They’re all dead, Brian. All your trusting young friends are dead—only Leary, Megan, and Hickey are left—the bastards.”

He took her hand and pressed it weakly. “Well … you’re all right, then … and Baxter?”

She nodded, then ripped open his shirt and saw the bullet wound that had entered from the top of his shoulder. She moved her hands over his body and found the exit wound on his opposite hip, big and jagged, filled with bone splinters and marrow. “Oh, God …” She breathed deeply several times, trying to bring her voice under control. “Was it worth it?”

His eyes seemed clear and alert. “Stop scolding, Maureen.”

She touched his cheek. “Father Murphy … Why did you … ?”

He closed his eyes and shook his head. “We never escape what we were as children…. Priests awe me….” He drew a shallow breath. “Priests … cathedrals… you attack what you fear … primitive … self-protecting.”

She glanced at her watch, then took him by his shoulders and shook him gently. “Can you call off Leary and Megan? Can you make them stop?” She looked up at the pulpit microphone. “Let me help you stand.”

He didn’t respond.

She shook him again. “Brian—it’s over—it’s finished—stop this killing—”

He shook his head. “I can’t stop them…. You know that….”

“The bombs, then. Brian, how many bombs? Where are they? What time—?”

“I don’t know … and if I did … I don’t know … 6:03 … sooner … later … two bombs … eight … a hundred…. Ask Hickey….”

She shook him more roughly. “You’re a damned fool.” She said more softly, “You’re dying.”

“Let me go in peace, can’t you?” He suddenly leaned forward and took her hands in a surprisingly tight grip, and a spasm shook his body. He felt blood rising from his lungs and felt it streaming through his parted lips. “Oh … God … God, this is slow….”

She looked at a pistol lying on the floor and picked it up.

He watched her as she held the pistol in both hands. He shook his head. “No…. You’ve got enough regrets … don’t carry that with you…. Not for me….” She cocked the pistol. “Not for you—for me. ”

He held out his hand and pushed her arm away. “I want it to be slow….”

She uncocked the pistol and flung it down the steps. “All right … as you wish.” She looked around the floor of the pulpit, and from among a pile of ammunition boxes she took an aid kit and unwrapped two pressure bandages.

Flynn said, “Go away…. Don’t prolong this…. You’re not helping….”