Cathedral, as it was meant to do for a different purpose. And Flynn had placed two very weird people up there. “What are our options for knocking out the loft?”
The ESD sergeant rubbed his jaw. “Well, we could bring new spotlights into the triforia, have helicopters machinegun through the rose window, break through the plaster lathing in the attic over the loft…. Lots of options … but all that ordnance isn’t handy … and it takes time….”
Burke nodded again. “Yeah …”
“But the best way,” said the sergeant, “is for somebody to sneak into that loft from one of the towers. Once you’re past the door, you’ve got space to maneuver, just like them, and you’re as invisible as they are.”
Burke nodded. The alternate answer was to get to the explosives through the crawl space and worry about the sniper and the hostages later. Then 6:03 wouldn’t matter anymore. Burke picked up the field phone and spoke to the switchboard. “What’s the situation in the crawl space?”
The operator answered, “The new ESD squad is in—found some survivors dragging wounded back. Dogs and handlers dead. Bomb Squad people all out of it except Peterson, who’s wounded but still functioning. There’s a crazy guy down there with an automatic weapon. The survivors say there’s no way to get to any remaining bombs except through the bronze plate.” The operator hesitated, then said, “Listen … Peterson said this guy could probably set off the bombs anytime he wants … so I’m signing off because I’m a little close to where the bombs are supposed to be. Commo is going to be broken until I get this switchboard set up someplace else. Sorry, Lieutenant.” He added, “They’re searching both towers and the attic for the radio jammer, and if they find it, you’ll have radio commo. Okay? Sorry.”
The phone went dead. Burke turned on a radio lying near his feet, and a rush of static filled the air. He shut it off.
The ESD commo man beside him said, “That’s it. Nobody is talking to nobody now. We can’t coordinate an attack on that loft if we wanted to—or coordinate a withdrawal….”
Burke nodded. “Looks like getting in was the easy part.” He looked around the dark gallery. “Well, it’s a big place. Looks pretty solid to me. The architect seemed to think this end would stand if the main columns over there went….”
One of the men asked, “Anybody guaranteeing that? Is anybody sure there aren’t bombs under these columns?” He tapped one of the columns.
Burke responded, “Logically, they wouldn’t have bothered with fires in the attic if the whole place was rigged to explode. Right?” He looked at the men huddled around him, but no one seemed relieved by his deductions.
The sergeant said, “I don’t think logic has anything to do with how these cocksuckers operate.”
Burke looked at his watch. 5:54. He said, “I’m staying … you’re staying.” He entered the south tower and began to climb down to the loft level.
Maureen looked at her watch, then said to Flynn, “I’m going back.”
“Yes … no … don’t leave….” His voice was much weaker now.
She wiped his brow with her hand. “I’m sorry … I can’t stay here.”
He nodded. “Do you have much pain, Brian?”
He shook his head, but as he did his body stiffened.
She took another Syrette of morphine and removed the cap. With the blood he had lost, she knew this would probably kill him, but there would be no pain. She bent over and put her arm around his neck, kissing him on the lips as she brought the Syrette to his chest, near his heart.
Flynn’s lips moved against hers, and she turned her head to hear. “No … no … take it away….”
She drew the Syrette back and looked at him. He had not opened his eyes once in the last several minutes, and she did not understand how he knew … unless it was that he just knew her too well. She held his hand tightly and felt the large ring pressing into her palm. She said, “Brian … can I take this … ? If I leave here … I want to return it … to bring it home….”
He pulled his hand away and clenched his fingers. “No.”
“Keep it, then—the police will have it.”
“No…. Someone must come for it.”
She shook her head and then kissed him again. Without a word she slid back toward the winding stairs.
He called to her, “Maureen … listen … Leary … I told him … not to shoot at you…. He follows orders…. You can tell when Megan is covering the tower door … then you can run….”
She lay still on the stairs, then said, “Baxter … ?”
“Baxter is as good as dead…. You can go … go …”
She shook her head. “Brian … you shouldn’t have told me that….”
He opened his eyes and looked at her, then nodded. “No, I shouldn’t have … stupid…. Always doing the wrong thing….” He tried to sit up, and his face went white with pain. “Please … run … live …” His chest began to rise and fall slowly.
Maureen watched him, then slid slowly down the stairs and rolled quickly over the few feet of exposed floor and crawled between the pews, coming up beside Baxter.
Baxter said, “I wanted to follow you … but I thought perhaps …”
She took his hand and pressed it.
“He’s dead?”
“No.”
They lay side by side in silence. At 5:55 Baxter asked, “Do you think he could— or would—call off Leary and Megan?”
She said, “I didn’t ask.”
Baxter nodded. “I see…. Well, are you ready to run for it?”
“I’m not certain that’s what I want to do.”
“Then why did you come back here?”
She didn’t answer.
He drew a short breath and said, “I’m going….”
She held his arm tightly and peered under the pew at the long expanse of blood-streaked white marble that seemed to radiate an incandescence of its own in the candlelight. She heard the staccato bursts of Megan’s fire hitting the tower doors but no longer heard the sound of Leary’s bullets striking in the Cathedral. “Leary is waiting for us.”
“Then let’s not keep him waiting.” He began moving toward the end of the pew.
She kept a grip on his arm. “No!”
A policeman’s voice called out from the sacristy stairwell behind the altar. “Listen, you’re keeping two men here—I don’t like to put it this way, but we’d rather be gone—you know?—so are you coming or not?” He thought he spoke just loud enough for them to hear, but the acoustics carried the sound through the Cathedral.
Two shots whistled out of the loft and cracked into the marble midway between the pews and the altar. Maureen slid beside Baxter and turned her face to him. “Stay with me.”
He put his arm around her shoulders and called out to the stairwell. “Go on— there’s no point in waiting for us.”
There was no answer, and Maureen and Baxter edged closer to each other, waiting out the final minutes.
Wendy Peterson knelt behind the back wall of the crypt as a medic wound a bandage around her right forearm. She flexed her fingers and noticed that they were becoming stiff.
The medic said, “You better go back.” Another medic was tying a pressure bandage around her right heel.
She looked around the red-lit area. Most of the original group had been left behind, dead from head wounds as a result of the ground-skimming fire. The rest were being evacuated, suffering from wounds in the limbs or buttocks or from broken clavicles where the flak jackets had stopped the head-on bullets. In the red light, pale faces seemed rosy, red blood looked black, and, somehow, the wounds seemed especially ugly. She turned away and concentrated on moving her fingers. “Damn it.”
The new ESD squad leader assembled his men at the corner of the crypt and looked at his watch. “Eight
