then he looked away. “Sorry. Thought you’d be done.”
Maureen pulled on her skirt, then picked up her blouse and slipped into it.
Flynn came into the room and looked around. He fixed his attention on the bandages and iodine. “History does have a way of repeating itself, doesn’t it?”
Maureen buttoned her blouse. “Well, if we all keep making the same mistakes, it’s bound to, isn’t it, Brian?”
Flynn smiled. “One day we’ll get it right.”
“Not bloody likely.”
Flynn motioned to Jean Kearney, and she left reluctantly, a disappointed look on her face.
Maureen sat at the vanity and ran a comb through her hair.
Flynn watched for a while, then said, “I’d like to speak to you.”
“I’m listening.”
“In the chapel.”
“We’re perfectly alone here.”
“Well … yes. Too alone. People would talk. I can’t compromise myself—neither can you….”
She laughed and stood. “What would people talk
He took her arms and turned her toward him.
She shook her head. “No, Brian. Much too late.” His face had a look, she thought, of desperation … fright almost.
He said, “Why do women always say things like that? It’s never too late; there are no seasons or cycles to these things.”
“But there are. It’s winter for us now. There’ll be no spring—not in our lifetime.”
He pulled her toward him and kissed her, and before she could react he turned and left the room.
She stood in the center of the bride’s room, immobile for a few seconds, then her hand went to her mouth and pressed against her lips. She shook her head. “You fool. You damned fool.”
Father Murphy sat in the clergy pews, a pressure bandage over the right side of his jaw. The Cardinal stood beside him. Harold Baxter lay on his side in the same pew. A winding bandage circled his bare torso, revealing a long line of dried blood across his back and a smaller spot of red on his chest. His face showed the result of Pedar Fitzgerald’s blows. Megan’s kick had swollen one eye nearly shut.
Maureen moved across the sanctuary and knelt beside the two men. They exchanged subdued greetings. Maureen said to Baxter, “Hickey told me you were dead and Father Murphy was dying.”
Baxter shook his head. “The man’s quite mad.” He looked around. Flynn, Hickey, and Megan Fitzgerald were nowhere to be seen. That, for some reason, was more unnerving than having them in his sight. He felt his hold on his courage slipping and knew the others were feeling that way also. He said, “If we can’t escape … physically escape … then we have to talk about a way to survive in here. We have to stand up to them, keep them from dividing us and isolating us. We have to
Maureen thought a moment, then said, “Yes, but they’re hard people to know. I never understood Brian Flynn, never understood what made him go on.” She paused, then said, “After all these years … I thought I’d have heard one day that he was dead or had a breakdown like so many of them, or ran off to Spain like so many more of them, but he just keeps going on … like some immortal thing, tortured by life, unable to die, unable to lay down the sword that has become so burdensome. … God, I almost feel sorry for him.” She had the uncomfortable feeling that her revelations about Brian Flynn were somehow disloyal.
The Cardinal knelt beside the three people. He said, “In the tower I learned that Brian Flynn is a man who holds some unusual beliefs. He’s a romantic, a man who lives in the murky past. The idea of blood sacrifice—which may be the final outcome here—is consistent with Irish myth, legend, and history. There’s this aura of defeat that surrounds the people here—unlike the aura of ultimate victory that is ingrained in the British and American psyche.” The Cardinal seemed to consider, then went on. “He really believes he is a sort of incarnation of Finn MacCumail.” He looked at Maureen. “He’s still very fond of you.”
Her face flushed, and she said, “That won’t stop him from killing me.”
The Cardinal answered, “He would only harm you if he thought you felt nothing for him any longer.”
She thought back to the bride’s room. “So what am I supposed to do? Play up to him?”
Father Murphy spoke. “We’ll all have to do that, I think, if we’re going to survive. Show him we care about him as a person … and I think at least some of us do. I care about his soul.”
Baxter nodded slowly. “Actually, you know, it costs nothing to be polite … except a bit of self-respect.” He smiled and said, “Then when everyone is calmed down, we’ll have another go at it.”
Maureen nodded quickly. “Yes, I’m willing.”
The Cardinal spoke incredulously. “Haven’t you two had enough?”
She answered, “No.”
Baxter said, “If Flynn were our only problem, I’d take my chances with him. But when I look into the eyes of Megan Fitzgerald or John Hickey … Maureen and I spoke about this before, and I’ve decided that I don’t want tomorrow’s newspapers to speak of my execution and martyrdom, but I would want them to say, ‘Died in an escape attempt.’”
The Cardinal said acidly, “It may read, ‘A foolish escape attempt’ … shortly before you were to be released.”
Baxter looked at him. “I’ve stopped believing in a negotiated settlement. That reduces my options to one.”
Maureen added, “I’m almost certain that Hickey means to kill us and destroy this church.”
Baxter sat up with some difficulty. “There’s one more way out of here … and we can all make it…. We
Father Murphy seemed to be struggling with something, then said, “I’m with you.” He glanced at the Cardinal.
The Cardinal shook his head. “It was a miracle we weren’t all killed last time. I’m going to have to insist that—”
Maureen reached into the pocket of her jacket and held out a small white particle. “Do any of you know what this is? No, of course you don’t. It’s plastic explosive. As we suspected, that’s what Hickey and Megan carried down in those suitcases. This is molded around at least one of the columns below. I don’t know how many other columns are set to be blown, or where they all are, but I do know that two suitcases of plastic, properly placed, are enough to bring down the roof.” She fixed her eyes on the Cardinal, who had turned pale. She continued, “And I don’t see a remote detonator and wire up here. So I have to assume it’s set to go on a timer. What time?” She looked at the three men. “At least one of us has to get out of here and warn the people outside.”
Brian Flynn strode up to the communion rail and spoke in an ill-tempered tone. “Are you plotting again? Your Eminence, please stay on your exalted throne. The wounded gentlemen don’t need your comfort. They’re comforted enough knowing they’re still alive. Miss Malone, may I have a word with you in the Lady Chapel? Thank you.”
Maureen stood and noticed the stiffness that had spread through her body. She walked slowly to the side steps, down into the ambulatory, then passed into the Lady Chapel.
Flynn came up behind her and indicated a pew toward the rear. She sat.
He stood in the aisle beside her and looked around the quiet chapel. It was unlike the rest of the Cathedral; the architecture was more delicate and refined. The marble walls were a softer shade, and the long, narrow windows were done mostly in rich cobalt blues. He looked up at one of the windows to the right of the entrance. A face stared back at him, looking very much like Karl Marx, and in fact the figure was carrying a red flag in one hand and a sledgehammer in the other, attacking the cross atop a church steeple. “Well,” he said in a neutral tone, “you know you’ve arrived as a lesser demon when the Church sticks your face up in a window. Like a picture in the celestial post office. Wanted for heresy.” He pointed up at the window. “Karl Marx. Strange.”
She glanced at the representation. “You wish it was Brian Flynn, don’t you?”
He laughed. “You read my black soul, Maureen.” He turned and looked at the altar nestled in the rounded end
