Cathedral

launcher nestled in the bend of his elbow. He closed his eyes against the glare of the lights coming through the broken windows and steadied his breathing. The men in the tower room were completely still, watching him. Burke listened to the distant sound of a man and woman talking, followed by two pistol shots. He spun rapidly into the doorway and raced up the side aisle along the wall, then flattened himself in the sloping aisle about halfway up the loft. From farther back near the organ pipes came the sound of breathing. The breathing stopped abruptly, and a man’s voice said, “I know you’re there.”

Burke remained motionless.

The man said, “I see in the dark, I smell what you can’t smell, I hear everything. You’re dead.”

Burke knew that the man was trying to draw him into a panic shot, and he was not doing a bad job of it. The man was good. Even in a close-in-situation like this he was very cool.

Burke rolled onto his back, lifted his head, and looked out over the rail into the Cathedral. The cable that held the chandelier nearest the choir loft swayed slightly as it was being drawn up by the winch in the attic. The chandelier rose level with the loft, and Burke saw the Guardsman sitting on it, his rifle pointed into the loft. He looked, Burke thought, like live bait. Live ones, he wanted live ones. Burke’s muscles tensed.

Leary fired, and the body on the chandelier jerked.

Burke jumped to his feet, pointed the grenade launcher at the direction of the sound, and fired its single beehive round. The dozens of needle darts buzzed across the quiet loft, spreading as they traveled. There was a sharp cry, followed immediately by the flash of a rifle that Burke saw out of the corner of his eyes as he turned and dove for the floor. A powerful blow on the back of his flak jacket propelled him headfirst into the wall, and he staggered, then collapsed into the aisle. Another shot ripped through the pews and passed inches over his head.

Burke lay still, aware of a pain in the center of his spine that began to spread to his arms and legs. Several more shots struck around him. The firing shifted to the doors, and Burke tried to crawl to another position but found that he couldn’t move. He tried to reach the pistol in his belt, but his arm responded in short, spastic motions.

The firing shifted back toward him, and a round grazed his hand. His forehead was bleeding where he had crashed into the wall, and throbbing pains ran from his eyes to the back of his skull. He felt himself losing consciousness, but he could hear distinctly the sound of the man reloading his rifle. Then the voice said, “Are you dead, or do you just wish you were?”

Leary raised his rifle, but the persistent stabbing pain in his right leg made him lower it. He sat down in the center aisle, rolled back his trouser leg, and ran his fingers over his shin, feeling the tiny entry hole where the dart had hit him. He brought his hand around to his calf and touched the exit wound, slightly larger, with a splinter of bone protruding from the flesh. “Ah … shit … shit …”

He rose to his knee and emptied his rifle toward the doors and the side aisle, then ripped off his rubber mask and pulled the gas mask from around his neck. He tore off the long robe, using it to wipe his sniper rifle from end to end as he crawled down the center aisle. Leary placed the rifle in Megan’s warm hands, reached into the front pew, and retrieved another rifle. He rose and steadied himself on the edge of the pew and slid onto the bench. Leary called out, “Martin! You out there?”

There was a silence, then a voice called back from the choir practice room. “Right here, Jack. Are you alone?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell the police you’re surrendering.”

“Right. Come out here—alone.”

Martin walked briskly into the choir loft, turned on a flashlight, and made his way through the dark into the center aisle. He stepped over Megan’s body. “Hello, Jack.” He approached Leary and edged into the pew. “Here, let’s have that. That’s a good lad.” He took Leary’s rifle and pistol, then called out, “He’s disarmed.”

ESD men began to move cautiously from both towers into the choir loft. Martin called to them. “It’s all right —this man is an agent of mine.” Martin turned to Leary and gave him a look of annoyance. “A bit early, aren’t you, Jack?”

Leary spoke through clenched teeth. “I’m hit.”

“Really? You look fine.”

Leary swore. “Fitzgerald was starting to become a problem, and I had to do her when I had the chance. Then someone got into the loft, and I took a needle dart in the shin. Okay?”

“That’s dreadful … but I don’t see anyone in here…. You really should have waited.”

“Fuck you.”

Martin shone his light on Leary’s shin. Like so many killers, he thought, Leary couldn’t stand much pain. “Yes, that looks like it might hurt.” He reached out and touched Leary’s wound.

Leary let out a cry of pain. “Hey! God … that feels like there’s still a needle in there.”

“Might well be.” Martin looked down at the sanctuary. “Malone and Baxter … ?”

A policeman shouted from the side of the loft. “Stand up!”

Leary placed his hands on the pew in front of him and stood. He said to Martin, “They’re both under the sanctuary pews there—”

The lights in the loft went on, illuminating the sloping expanse of ripped pews, bullet-pocked walls, burnt lockers, and scarred aisles. The towering organ pipes shone brightly where they had been hit, but above the pipes the rose window was intact. Leary looked around and made a whistling sound. “Like walking in the rain without getting wet.” He smiled.

Martin waved his hand impatiently. “I don’t understand about Baxter and Malone. They’re dead, aren’t they?”

The police stepped over the bodies in the aisle and moved up carefully into the pews, rifles and pistols raised.

Leary automatically put his hands on his head as he spoke to Martin. “Flynn told me not to kill her—and I couldn’t shoot into the pews at Baxter without taking the chance of hitting her—”

“Flynn? You’re working for me, Jack.”

Leary pushed past Martin and hobbled into the aisle. “You give orders, he gives orders…. I do only what I’m told—and what I’m paid for—”

“But Flynn’s money came from me, Jack.”

Leary stared at Martin. “Flynn never bullshitted me. He told me this loft would be hell, and I knew it. You said it would be—how’d that go?—relatively without risk?”

Martin’s voice was peevish. “Well, as far as I’m concerned you didn’t fulfill your contract, I’ll have to reconsider the nature of the final payment.”

“Look, you little fuck—” Two ESD men covered the remaining distance up the aisle and grabbed Leary’s upraised arms, pulling them roughly behind his back, then cuffing him. They pushed him to the floor, and he yelled out in pain, then turned his head back toward Martin as the police searched him. “If they got Hickey from below, they got the bombs anyway. If they didn’t get him, you’ll still get your explosion.”

Martin noticed Burke moving toward him, supported by two ESD men. Martin cleared his throat. “All right, Jack—that’s enough.”

But Leary was obviously offended. “I lived up to my end. I mean, Christ, Martin, it’s after six—and look around you—enough is enough—”

“Shut up.”

Two ESD men pulled Leary to his feet. Leary said, “This leg … it feels funny … burns …”

Martin said nothing.

Leary stared at him. “What did you … ? Oh … no …”

Martin winked at him, turned, and walked away.

An ESD man raised a bullhorn and called out into the Cathedral. “Police in the choir loft! All clear! Mr. Baxter—Miss Malone—run! Run this way!”

Baxter picked up his head and looked at Maureen. “Was that Leary?”

She forced a smile. “You’re learning.” She listened to the bullhorn call their names again. “I don’t know …”