Cathedral

Captain Bert Schroeder walked unsteadily up the steps of St. Patrick’s, a bandage covering the left side of his chalk-white jaw. A police medic and several Tactical Police officers escorted him.

Mayor Kline raced up to Schroeder, hand extended. “Bert! Over here! Bring him here, men.”

A number of reporters had been let through the cordon, and they converged on Schroeder. Cameras clicked and newsreel microphones were thrust in his face. Mayor Kline pumped Schroeder’s hand and embraced him, taking the opportunity to say through clenched teeth, “Smile, damn it, and look like a hero.”

Schroeder looked distraught and disoriented. His eyes moved over the throng around him to the Cathedral, and he stared at it, then looked around at the people talking excitedly and realized that he was being interviewed.

A reporter called out, “Captain, is it true you recommended an assault on the Cathedral?”

Schroeder didn’t answer, and Kline spoke up. “Yes, a rescue operation. The recommendation was approved by an emergency committee consisting of myself, the Governor, Monsignor Downes, Inspector Langley of Intelligence, and the late Captain Bellini. Intelligence indicated the terrorists were going to massacre the hostages and then destroy the Cathedral. Many of them were mentally unbalanced, as our police files show.” He looked at each of the reporters. “There were no options.”

Another reporter asked, “Who exactly was Major Martin? How did he die?” Kline’s smile dropped. “That’s under investigation.”

There was a barrage of questions that Kline ignored. He put his arm around Schroeder and said, “Captain Schroeder played a vital role in keeping the terrorists psychologically unprepared while Captain Bellini formulated a rescue operation with the help of Gordon Stillway, resident architect of Saint Patrick’s.” He nodded toward Stillway, who stood by himself examining the front doors and making notes in a small book.

Kline added in a somber tone, “The tragedy here could have been much greater— ” A loud Te Deum began ringing out from the bell tower, and Kline motioned toward the Cathedral. “The Cathedral stands! The Cardinal, Sir Harold Baxter, and Maureen Malone are alive. For this we should thank God.” He bowed his head and after an appropriate interval looked up and spoke emphatically. “This rescue will be favorably compared to similar humanitarian operations against terrorists throughout the world.”

A reporter addressed Schroeder directly. “Captain, did you find this man, Flynn— and the other one, Hickey— very tough people to negotiate with?”

Schroeder looked up. “Tough … ?”

Mayor Kline hooked his arm through Schroeder’s and shook him. “Bert?”

Schroeder’s eyes darted around. “Oh … yes, yes I did—no, no, not … not any tougher than—Excuse me, I’m not feeling well…. I’m sorry … excuse me.” He pulled loose from the Mayor’s grip and hurried across the length of the steps, avoiding reporters. The newspeople watched him go, then turned back to Kline and began asking him about the large number of casualties on both sides, but Kline evaded the questions. Instead, he smiled and pointed over the heads of the people around him.

“There’s the Governor crossing the street.” He waved. “Governor Doyle! Up here!”

Dan Morgan stood near the window, his eyes focused on the television screen that showed the Cathedral steps, the milling reporters, police and city officials. Terri O’Neal sat on the bed, fully dressed, her legs tucked under her body. Neither person spoke nor moved.

The camera focused on Mayor Kline and Captain Schroeder, and a reporter was speaking from off camera commenting on Schroeder’s bandaged jaw.

Morgan finally spoke. “It appears he didn’t do what he was asked.”

Terri O’Neal said, “Good.”

Morgan let out a deep sigh and walked to the side of the bed. “My friends are all dead, and there’s nothing good about that.”

She kept looking at the television as she spoke in a hoarse whisper. “Are you going to kill … ?”

Morgan drew his pistol from his belt. “No. You’re free.” He placed his hand on her shoulder as he pointed the silencer at the center of her head.

She put her face in her hands and began weeping.

He squeezed back on the trigger. “I’ll get your coat….”

She suddenly took her face out of her hands and turned. She realized she was looking into the barrel of the pistol “Oh … no …”

Morgan’s hand was shaking. He looked at her and their eyes met. The end of the silencer brushed her cheek, and he jerked the pistol away and shoved it in his belt. “There’s been enough death today,” he said. He turned and walked out of the bedroom. Terri O’Neal heard the front door open, then slam shut.

She found the cigarettes Morgan left behind, lit one, and stared at the television. “Poor Daddy.”

Burke shifted restlessly, brought out of his short sleep by the noise around him and the pounding pain in his back. He rubbed his eyes and noticed that the injured eye was blurry again, and every inch of his body felt blurry; numb, he supposed, was a better word, numb except the parts that hurt. And his mind seemed numb and blurry, free-floating in the sunny light around him. He stood unsteadily, looked over the crowded steps, and blinked. Bert Schroeder and Murray Kline were holding court—and it was, he realized, just as he would have pictured it if he had allowed himself to think of the dawn. Schroeder surrounded by the press, Schroeder looking very self-possessed, handling questions like a pro—but as he watched he saw that the Hostage Negotiator was not doing well. He saw Schroeder suddenly break loose and make his way across the steps, through the knots of people like a broken-field runner, and Burke called out as he passed, “Schroeder!”

Schroeder seemed not to hear and continued toward the arched portal of the south vestibule. Burke came up behind him and grabbed his arm. “Hold on.” Schroeder tried to pull away, but Burke slammed him against the stone buttress. “Listen!” He lowered his voice. “I know—about Terri—”

Schroeder looked at him, his eyes widening. Burke went on. “Martin is dead, and the Fenians are all dead or dying. I had to tell Bellini … but he’s dead, too. Langley knows, but Langley doesn’t give away secrets—he just makes you buy them back someday. Okay? So just shut your mouth and be very cool.” He released Schroeder’s arm.

Tears formed in Schroeder’s eyes. “Burke … God Almighty … do you understand what I did … ?”

“Yeah … yeah, I understand, and I’d really like to see you in the fucking slammer for twenty, but that won’t help anything…. It won’t help the department, and it won’t help me or Langley. And it damn sure won’t help your wife or daughter.” He moved closer to Schroeder. “And don’t blow your brains out, either…. It’s a sin— you know? Hang around long enough in this job and someone will blow them out for you.”

Schroeder caught his breath and spoke. “No … I’m going to retire—resign— confess … make a public—”

“You’re going to keep your goddamned mouth shut. No one—not me or Kline or Rourke or the DA or anyone —wants to hear your fucking confession, Schroeder. You’ve caused enough problems—just cool out.”

Schroeder hung his head, then nodded. “Burke … Pat … thanks….”

“Fuck you.” He looked at the door beside him. “You know what’s in this vestibule?”

Schroeder shook his head.

“Bodies. Lots of bodies. The field morgue. You go in there and you talk to those bodies—and say something to Bellini—and you go into the Cathedral and you make a confession, or you pray or you do anything you have to do to help you get through the next twenty-four hours.” He reached out and opened the door, took Schroeder’s arm, and pushed him into the vestibule, then shut the door. He stared down at the pavement for a long time, then turned at the sound of his name and saw Langley hurrying up the steps toward him.

Langley started to extend his hand, then glanced around quickly and withdrew it. He said coolly, “You’re in a little trouble, Lieutenant.”

Burke lit a cigarette. “Why?”

“Why?” He lowered his voice and leaned forward. “You pushed a British consulate official—a diplomat—out of the choir loft of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral to his death. That’s why.”

“He fell.”

“Of course he fell—you pushed him. What could he do but fall? He couldn’t fly.”