Cathedral

Father Murphy addressed Maureen and Baxter sitting beside him on the pew. “I’m going to speak to His Eminence. Will you come with me?”

Maureen shook her head.

Baxter said, “I’ll be along shortly.”

Father Murphy crossed the marble floor, knelt at the throne and kissed the episcopal ring, then rose and began speaking to the Cardinal in a low voice. Maureen watched them, then said to Baxter, “I can’t stay here another moment.”

He studied her closely. Her eyes were darting around wildly, and he saw that her body was shaking again.

He put his hand on her arm. “You really must get a grip on yourself.”

“Oh, go to hell! How could you understand? For me this is like sitting in a room full of nightmares come to life.”

“Let me see if I can get you a drink. Perhaps they have tranquilizers—”

“No! Listen, I’m not afraid of …”

“Talk about it if it will help.”

Maureen tried to steady her shaking legs. “It’s lots of things…. It’s him. Flynn. He can … he has a power … no, not a power … a way of making you do things, and afterward you wished you hadn’t done them, and you feel awful. Do you understand?”

“I think—”

“And … these people … They’re my people, you see, yet they’re not. Not anymore. I don’t know how to react to them…. It’s like a family meeting, and I’ve been called in because I’ve done something terrible. They’re not saying anything, just watching me….” She shook her head. Once in, never out. She was beginning to understand what that really meant, and it had nothing to do with them but with oneself. She looked at Baxter. “Even if they don’t kill us … There are worse things….”

Baxter pressed her arm. “Yes … I think I understand—”

“I’m not explaining myself very well.”

She knew of that total suppression of ego that made hostages zombies, willing participants in the drama. And afterward the mixed feelings, confusion, guilt. She remembered what one psychologist had said, Once you’re a hostage, you’re a hostage for the rest of your life. She shook her head. No. She wouldn’t let that happen to her. No. “No!”

Baxter squeezed her hand. “Look here, we may have to die, but I promise you, I won’t let them abuse you … us. There’ll be no mock trial, no public recanting, no …” He found it difficult to say what he knew her fears were. “No sadistic games, no psychological torture …”

She studied his face closely. He had more insight into these things than she would have thought of a prim career diplomat.

He cleared his throat and said, “You’re a very proud woman…. It’s easier for me, actually. I hate them, and anything they do to me just diminishes them—not me. It would help if you established the proper relationship between yourself and them.”

She shook her head. “Yes. I feel like a traitor, and I’m a patriot. I feel guilty, and I’m the victim. How can that be?”

“When we know the answers to that, we’ll know how to deal with people like Brian Flynn.”

She forced a smile. “I’m sorry I bothered you with all of this.” Baxter started to interrupt, but she went on. “I thought you had a right to know, before I—”

Baxter grabbed at her arm, but she vaulted into the pew behind her, then jumped into the last row and grabbed at the two wooden columns of the carved screen, swinging her legs up to the balustrade before jumping down to the ambulatory six feet below.

Frank Gallagher leaned over the edge of the triforium. He pointed his rifle straight down at the top of her head, but the rifle was shaking so badly he didn’t fire.

Eamon Farrell sighted across the sanctuary at her back but shifted his aim to her left and squeezed off a single round, which exploded into the stillness of the Cathedral.

George Sullivan and Abby Boland in the long triforium at the front of the Cathedral looked quickly at the source of the shot, then down at the aim of Farrell’s rifle, but neither moved.

Leary had read the signs before Maureen even made her first move. As she came out of the pew he leaned farther over the parapet of the choir loft and followed her through his rifle scope. As she swung up to the balustrade he fired.

Maureen heard the sharp crack of Farrell’s fire ring out behind her, then almost simultaneously heard the report roll down from the choir loft. Farrell’s shot passed to her left. Leary’s shot passed so close over her head she felt it touch her hair, and the wooden column near her left ear splintered in her face. Suddenly a pair of strong hands grabbed her shoulders and yanked her backward into the pew behind her. She looked up into the face of Harold Baxter. “Let go of me! Let go!”

Baxter was agitated and kept repeating, “Don’t move! For God’s sake, don’t move!”

A sound of running footsteps came to the sanctuary, and Maureen saw Megan leaning into the pew, pointing a pistol at her face. Megan spoke softly. “Thank you.” She cocked the pistol.

Baxter found himself sprawled over Maureen’s body. “No! For God’s sake, don’t.”

Megan screamed. “Move, you stupid bastard! Move!” She struck Baxter on the back of the head with her pistol, then pushed the muzzle into Maureen’s throat.

The Cardinal was halfway across the sanctuary, shouting, “Stop that! Let them alone!” Father Murphy moved quickly behind Megan and grabbed her forearms. He picked her high into the air, spun around, and dropped her on the floor. Megan slid on the polished marble, then shot up quickly into a kneeling position, and pointed the gun at the priest.

Brian Flynn’s voice came clearly from the communion rail. “No!”

Megan pivoted around and stared at him, her pistol still leveled in front of her.

Flynn jumped over the gate and mounted the steps. “Go into the choir loft and stay there!”

Megan knelt on the floor, the pistol shaking in her hand. Everyone stood around her, motionless.

John Hickey quickly mounted the sanctuary steps. “Come with me, Megan.” He walked to her, bent over at the waist, and took her arms in his hands. “Come on, then. That’s it.” He pulled her to her feet, and pushed her gunhand down to her side. He led her down the steps into the center aisle.

Flynn walked to the side of the pews and looked down. “Baxter, that was very gallant—very knightly. Stupid, too.”

Harold Baxter picked himself up, then pulled Maureen up beside him.

Flynn looked at Maureen. “You won’t get off that easy. And you almost got Sir Harry killed, too.”

She didn’t answer.

Baxter pressed a handkerchief to Maureen’s cheek, where she had been hit by the wooden splinters.

Flynn’s arm shot out and knocked Baxter’s hand away. He went on calmly, “And don’t think Mr. Leary is a bad shot. Had you gotten to the door he would have blown both your ankles away.” Flynn turned. “And that goes as well for His Eminence and the good Father. And if by some miracle someone does get out of here, someone else dies for it.” He looked at each of them. “Or should I just bind you all together? I’d rather not have to do that.” He fixed each of the silent hostages with a cold stare. “Do not leave this sanctuary. Do we all understand the rules? Good. Everyone sit down.” Flynn walked behind the altar and descended the steps to the crypt door landing. He spoke quietly to Pedar Fitzgerald. “Any movement down there?”

Fitzgerald answered softly. “Lot of commotion in the corridors, but it’s quiet now. Is anyone hurt? Is my sister all right?”

“No one is hurt. Don’t leave this post, no matter what you hear up there.”

“I know. Look out for Megan, will you?”

“We’re all watching out for Megan, Pedar.”

A TPU man burst into the Monsignor’s suite and ran to the inner office, out of breath. “Sergeant!”

Tezik and Burke both looked up.