Cathedral

minutes.” He knelt down beside Peterson. “Listen, I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to be doing down here except collecting bodies because, let me tell you, there’s no way to get that joker out of there, Lieutenant.”

She moved away from the medics and limped to the edge of the vault. “You sure?”

He nodded. “I can’t fire—right? He’s got a gas mask, and concussion grenades are out. But even if we got him, there’s not much time to defuse even one bomb, and we don’t know how many there are. The damned dogs are dead, and there aren’t any more dogs—”

“Okay … okay…. Damn it … we’re so close.”

“No,” said the squad leader, “we are not close at all.” Some of the men around him coughed nervously and pointedly. The squad leader addressed Peterson. “They said this was your decision … and Burke’s decision.” He picked up the field phone beside him, but it was still dead. “Your decision.”

A voice called out from the dark, an old man’s voice with a mocking tone. “Fuck you! Fuck all of you!”

A nervous young policeman shouted back, “Fuck you!”

The squad leader stuck his head around the crypt corner and shouted, “If you come out with your hands —”

“Oh, baloney!” Hickey laughed, then fired a burst of bullets at the red glow coming around the corner of the crypt. The gunfire caused a deafening roar in the closed space and echoed far into the quarteracre of crawl space. Hickey shouted, “Is there a bomb squad lad there? Answer me!”

Peterson edged toward the corner. “Right here, Pop.”

“Pop? Who are you carling Pop? Well, never mind—listen, these bombs have more sensitive triggers to make them blow than … than Linda Lovelace.” He laughed, then said, “Terrible metaphor. Anyway, lass, to give you an example you’ll appreciate professionally—I mean demolitions, not blowing—where was I? Oh, yes, I’ve lots of triggers—photosensitive, audio—all kinds of triggers. Do you believe that, little girl?”

“I think you’re full of shit.”

Hickey laughed. “Well, then send everyone away, darlin’, and toss a concussion grenade at me. If that doesn’t blow the bombs, then a demo man can come back and defuse them. You won’t be able to with your brains scrambled, and I won’t be able to stop him with my brains scrambled. Go on, lassie. Let’s see what you’re made of.”

Wendy Peterson turned to the squad leader. “Give me a concussion grenade and clear out.”

“Like hell. Anyway, you know we don’t carry those things in spaces like this.”

She unsheathed the long stiletto that she used to cut plastic and moved around the corner of the crypt.

The squad leader reached out and pulled her back. “Where the hell are you going? Listen, I thought of that— it’s over sixty feet to where that guy is. Nobody can cover that distance without making some noise, and he’ll nail you the second he hears you.”

“Then cover me with noise.”

“Forget it.”

Hickey called out, “What’s next, folks? One man belly-crawling? I can hear breathing at thirty-forty feet. I can smell a copper at sixty feet. Listen, gentlemen— and lady—the time has come for you to leave. You’re annoying me, and I have things to think about in the next few minutes. I feel like singing—” He began singing a bawdy version of the British army song: “Fuck you aaa-lll, fuck you aaa-lll,The long and the short and the taa-lll.Fuck all the coppers, and fuck all their guns,Fuck all the priests and their bastard sons.S-o-oo, I’m saying good-bye to you all,The ones that appeal and appall.I stall and tarry,While you want to save Harry,But nevertheless fuck you aaa-lll.”

Wendy Peterson put the stiletto back in its sheath and let out a long breath. “Let’s go.”

The procession began making its way back toward the open hatch to the corridor, moving with an affected casualness that disguised the fact that they were retreating at top speed. No one looked back except Wendy Peterson, who glanced over her shoulder once or twice. Suddenly she began running in a crouch, past the moving line of men, toward the open hatch.

John Hickey squeezed out of the tight space and sat down against the column footing, the mass of plastic explosive conforming to his back. “Oh … well …” He filled his pipe, lit it, and looked at his watch. 5:56. “My, it’s late….” He hummed a few bars of “An Irish Lullaby,” then sang softly to himself, “… too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra, hush now don’t you cry….”

The Sixth Squad leader climbed the iron rungs of the south spire alone, a nylon line attached to his belt. He moved quietly through the cold dark night to a point five feet below Rory Devane, who still clung to the arms of the cross. The ESD man drew his pistol. “Hey! Jesus! Don’t move, or I’ll blow your ass off.”

Devane opened his eyes and looked down behind him.

The squad leader raised his pistol. “You armed?”

Devane shook his head.

The squad leader got a clear look at Devane’s bloodied face in the city lights. “You’re really fucked up—you know that?”

Devane nodded.

“Come on down. Nice and easy.”

Devane shook his head. “I can’t.”

“Can’t? You got up there, you bastard. Now get down. I’m not hanging here all fucking day waiting for you.”

“I can’t move.”

The squad leader thought that about half the world was watching him on television, and he put a concerned expression on his face, then smiled at Devane good-naturedly. “You asshole. For two cents I’d jam this gun between your legs and blow your balls into orbit.” He glanced at the towering buildings of Rockefeller Center and flashed a resolute look for the telescopic cameras and field glasses. He took a step upward. “Listen, sonny boy, I’m coming up with a line, and if you pull any shit, I swear to God, motherfucker, you’re going to be treading air.”

Devane stared down at the black-clad figure approaching. “You people talk funny.”

The squad leader laughed and climbed up over the curve of the finial and wrapped his arms around the base of the cross. “You’re okay, kid. You’re an asshole, but you’re okay. Don’t move.” He circled around to the side and pulled himself up until his head was level with Devane’s shoulder, then reached out and looped a line around Devane’s torso. “You the guy who fired the flares?”

Devane nodded.

“Real performer, aren’t you, Junior? What else do you do? You juggle?” He tied the end of the long line to the top of the cross and spoke in a more solemn voice. “You’re going to have to climb a little. I’ll help you.”

Devane’s mind was nearly numb, but something didn’t seem right. There was something incongruous about hanging twenty-eight stories above the most technologically advanced city in the world and being asked to climb, wounded, down a rope to safety. “Get a helicopter.”

The squad leader glanced at him quickly.

Devane stared down into the man’s eyes and said, “You’re going to kill me.”

“What the hell are you talking about? I’m risking my goddamned life to save you—shithead.” He flashed a smile toward Rockefeller Center. “Come on. Down.”

“No.”

The squad leader heard a sound and looked up. A Fire Rescue helicopter appeared overhead and began dropping toward the spire. The helicopter dropped closer, beating the cold air downward. The squad leader saw a man in a harness edging out of the side door, a carrying chair in his hands. The squad leader hooked his arms over Devane’s on the cross and pulled himself up so that they were face to face, and he studied the young man’s frozen blue features. The blood had actually crystallized in his red hair and glistened in the light. The squad leader examined his throat wound and the large discolored mass on his forehead. “Caught some shit, did you? You should be dead—you know?”

“I’m going to live.”

“They’re stuffing some of my friends in body bags down there—”

“I never fired a shot.”

“Yeah…. Come on, I’ll help you into the sling.”

“How can you commit murder—here?”

The squad leader drew a long breath and exhaled a plume of fog.

The Fire Rescue man was dangling about twenty feet above them now, and he released the carrying chair,