fire flamed out of the muzzle and slammed into the padlock and chain.
Murphy and Baxter crouched as bullets ricocheted back, cracking into the marble stairs and walls. Baxter heard footsteps on the sanctuary floor. “They’re coming.”
Maureen fired a long second burst at the gate, then swung the gun up at the right-hand staircase, placed Hickey in her sight, and fired.
Hickey’s body seemed to twitch, then he dropped back out of view.
Maureen swung the gun around to the left and pointed it at Megan, who had stopped short on the first step, a pistol in her hand. Maureen hesitated, and Megan dived to the side and disappeared.
Baxter and Murphy ran down the stairs and tore at the shattered chain and padlock. Hot, jagged metal cut into their hands, but the chain began dropping away in pieces, and the padlock fell to the floor.
Maureen backed down the stairs, keeping the muzzle of the gun pointed up at the crypt door.
Police officers in the side corridors were shouting into the empty sacristy.
Baxter yelled to them. “Hold your fire! We’re coming out! Hold it!” He tore the last section of chain away and kicked violently at the gates. “Open! Open!”
Father Murphy was pulling frantically on the left-hand gate, shouting, “No! They
Baxter lunged at the right gate and tried to slide it along its track into the wall, but both gates held fast.
Flak-jacketed police began edging out into the sacristy.
Maureen knelt on the bottom stair, keeping the gun trained on the landing above. She shouted, “What’s wrong?”
Baxter answered, “Stuck! Stuck!”
Murphy suddenly released the gate and straightened up. He grabbed at a black metal box with a large keyhole located where the gates joined and shook it. “They’ve locked it! The keys—they have the keys—”
Maureen looked back at them over her shoulder. She saw that the gate had its own lock, and she hadn’t hit it even once. Baxter shouted a warning, and she spun around. She saw Hickey standing in front of the crypt door, his legs straddling Pedar Fitzgerald’s body. Maureen raised the gun.
Hickey called down. “You can shoot me if you’d like, but that won’t get you out of here.”
Maureen screamed at him, “Don’t move! Hands up!”
Hickey raised his hands slowly. “There’s really no way out, you know.”
She shouted, “Throw me the gate key!”
He made an exaggerated shrug. “I think Brian has it.” He added, “Try shooting the lock out. Or would you rather use the last few rounds on me?”
She swore at him, spun around, and faced the gates. She shouted to Baxter and Murphy. “Move back!” She saw the police in the sacristy. “Get away!”
The police scattered back into the corridors. She pointed the muzzle at the boxlike lock that joined the gates and fired a short burst at point-blank range. The bullets ripped into the lock, scattering sparks and pieces of hot metal.
Baxter and Murphy yelled out in pain as they were hit. A piece of metal grazed Maureen’s leg, and she cried out. She fired again, one round, and the rotating drum of.45-caliber bullets clicked empty. Murphy and Baxter seized the bars of the gates and pulled. The gates held fast.
Maureen swung back to find Hickey halfway down the steps, a pistol in his hand. Hickey said, “You don’t see that kind of craftsmanship today. Hands up, please.”
Megan Fitzgerald knelt at the landing beside her brother. She looked down at Maureen, and their eyes met for a brief second.
Hickey’s voice was impatient. “Hands on your heads! Now!”
Father Murphy, Baxter, and Maureen stood motionless.
Hickey called out to the police. “Stay in the corridors, or I’ll shoot them all!” He shouted to the three people, “Let’s go!”
They remained motionless.
Hickey pointed the pistol and fired.
The bullet whistled past Murphy’s head, and he fell to the floor.
Maureen reversed the Thompson, grabbing its hot barrel in her hands, and brought it down savagely on the marble steps. The gunstock splintered and the drum flew off. She threw the mangled gun to the side, then stood erect and raised her arms.
Baxter did the same. Murphy stood and put his hands on his head.
Hickey looked at Maureen appreciatively. “Come on, then. Calm down. That’s right. Best-laid plans and all that.” He moved aside to let them pass.
Maureen stepped up to the landing and looked down at Pedar Fitzgerald. His throat was already beginning to swell, and she knew he would die unless he reached a hospital soon. She found herself cursing Baxter for botching it and injuring Fitzgerald so seriously, cursing Father Murphy for not remembering the gate’s lock, cursing herself for not killing Hickey and Megan. She looked down at Megan, who was wiping the blood from her brother’s mouth, but it kept flowing up from his crushed throat. Maureen said, “Sit him up or he’ll drown.”
Megan turned slowly and looked up at her. Her lips drew back across her teeth, and she sprang up and dug her nails into Maureen’s neck, shrieking, snarling.
Baxter and Murphy rushed up the remaining stairs and pulled the two women apart. Hickey watched quietly as the struggle and the shouting subsided, then said, “All right. Everyone feel better? Megan, sit the lad up. He’ll be all right.” He poked the pistol at the three hostages. “Let’s go.”
They continued up to the sanctuary. Hickey chatted amiably as he followed. “Don’t feel too badly. Damned bad luck, that’s all. Maureen, you’re a terrible shot. You didn’t come within a yard of me.”
She turned suddenly. “I hit you! I hit you!”
He laughed, put his finger to his chest, and drew it away with a small drop of pale, watery blood. “So you did.”
The hostages moved toward the pews. The Cardinal was slumped in his throne, his face in his hands, and Maureen thought he was weeping, then saw the blood running through his fingers. Father Murphy made a move toward the Cardinal, but Hickey shoved him away.
Baxter looked up into the triforia and choir loft and saw the five rifles trained on them. He was vaguely aware that the bells were still pealing, and the phone beside the chancel organ was ringing steadily.
Hickey called up to Gallagher. “Frank, get down here quickly and take Pedar’s place.” He pushed Baxter into a pew and said, as though complaining to a close friend, “Damned dicey operation I’ve gotten myself in, Harry. Lose one man and there’s no one to replace him.”
Baxter looked him in the eyes. “In school I learned that IRA stood for I Ran Away. It’s a wonder anyone’s stayed here.”
Hickey laughed. “Oh, Harry, Harry. After this place explodes and they find your pieces, I hope the morticians put your stiff upper lip where your asshole was and vice versa.” Hickey shoved Maureen into the pew. “And you— breaking up that gun—Like an old Celt yourself you were, Maureen, smashing your sword against a rock before dying in battle. Magnificent. But you’re becoming a bit of a nuisance.” He looked at Murphy. “And
Murphy said, “Go to hell.”
Hickey feigned a look of shock. “Well, will you listen to this … ?”
Murphy’s hands shook, and he turned his back on Hickey.
Baxter stared at the television on the table. The scene had shifted back to the press room below. Reporters were speaking excitedly to their newsrooms. The gunfire, he knew, had undone the effects of Hickey’s speech and the tolling bells. Baxter smiled and looked up at Hickey. He started to say something but suddenly felt an intense pain in his head and slumped forward out of the pew.
Hickey flexed his blackjack, turned, and grabbed Father Murphy by the lapel. He raised the black leather sap and stared into the priest’s eyes.
Gallagher had come out of the triforium door and ran toward the sanctuary. “No!”
Hickey looked at him, then lowered the sap. “Cuff them.” He moved to the television and ripped the plug from the outlet.
