with Leanhaun Shee, the Gaelic muse who gives us inspiration. She lives on mortal life, as you may know, in return for her favor. That’s why Gaelic poets die young, Father. Do you believe that?”
Murphy said, “They die young because they eat badly, drink too much, and don’t dress well in winter. They die young because unlike most civilized poets they run off to fight in ill-conceived wars. Do you want to make your confession?”
Mullins knelt and took the priest’s hands.
Flynn climbed down to the room below. A strong gust of wind came through the shattered windows and picked up clouds of ancient dust that had been undisturbed for a century.
Father Murphy came down the ladder. “This”—he motioned toward the broken windows—“this was the only thing that bothered him…. I suppose I shouldn’t tell you that….”
Flynn almost laughed. “Well, one man’s prank may be another’s most tormenting sin, and vice versa.” He jumped onto the ladder and descended to the spiral stairs, Father Murphy following. They came out of the tower into the subdued lighting and warmer air of the choir loft.
As Father Murphy moved along the rail he felt that someone was watching him. He looked into the choir pews that rose upward from the keyboard, and let out a startled gasp.
A figure stood above them, motionless in the shadows, dressed in a hooded monk’s robe. A hideous, inhuman face peered out from the recesses of the cowl, and it was several seconds before Father Murphy recognized it as the face of a leopard. Leary’s voice came out of the immobile face. “Scare you, priest?”
Murphy regained his composure.
Flynn said, “A bit of greasepaint would have done, Mr. Leary.”
Leary laughed, an odd shrill laugh for a man with so deep a voice.
Megan rose from between the pews, dressed in a black cassock, her face covered with swirls of dull-colored camouflage paint, expertly applied, thought Flynn, by another hand.
She moved into the center aisle, and Flynn saw that it was an altar boy’s robe and that it revealed her bare forearms. He saw also that her legs and feet were bare. He studied Megan’s face and found that the paint did not make her features so impenetrable that he could not see the same signs he had seen in Jean Kearney. He said, “With death so near, Megan, I can hardly blame you.”
She thrust her chin out in a defiant gesture.
“Well, if nothing else good comes of this, you’ve at least found your perfect mate.”
Father Murphy listened without understanding at first, then drew in a sharp breath.
Megan said to Flynn, “Is my brother dead?”
Flynn nodded.
Her face remained strangely impassive. She motioned toward Leary as she fixed her deep green eyes on Flynn. “We won’t let you surrender. There will be no compromises.”
Flynn’s voice was sharp. “I don’t need either of you to explain my duty or my destiny.”
Leary spoke. “When are they coming? How are they coming?”
Flynn told them. He said to Leary, “This may be your richest harvest.”
“Long after you’re all dead,” said Leary, “I’ll still be shooting.”
Flynn stared up into the dark eyes that were as fixed as the mask around them. “Then what?”
Leary said nothing.
“I find it difficult, Mr. Leary, to believe you’re prepared to die with us.”
Megan answered, “He’s as dedicated as you are. If we have to die, we’ll die here together.”
Flynn thought not. He had an impulse to warn Megan, but he didn’t know what to warn her about, and it didn’t seem to matter any longer. He said to her, “Goodbye, Megan. Good luck.”
She moved back into the pews, beside Leary.
Murphy looked at the two robed figures. They stared back at him. He suspected they would snuff out his life from their dark perch with no more hesitation than a man swatting an insect. Yet … “I have to ask.”
Flynn said, “Go ahead—make a feel of yourself again.”
Murphy turned to him. “You’re the feel who brought them here.”
Megan and Leary seemed to sense what the discussion was about. Megan called out in a mocking voice, “Come up here, Father. Let us tell you our sins.” Leary laughed, and Megan went on, “Keep you up nights, Father, and turn your face as scarlet as a cardinal’s hat. You’ve never heard sins like ours.” She laughed, and Flynn realized he had never heard the sound of her laugh.
Flynn took the priest’s arm again and moved him into the south tower without resistance. They climbed the stairs and passed through a door into the long southwest triforium.
George Sullivan stood at the parapet staring down at the north transept door. Sullivan’s kilts and tunic, thought Flynn, were incongruous with his black automatic rifle and ammunition pouches. Flynn called to him, “Confessions are being heard, George.”
Sullivan shook his head without looking up and lit a cigarette. His mind seemed to be elsewhere. Flynn nudged him and indicated the empty triforium across the transept. “You’ll have to cover Gallagher’s sectors.”
Sullivan looked up. “Why doesn’t Megan go up there?”
Flynn didn’t answer the question, and Sullivan didn’t press him. Flynn looked out at Abby Boland. These personal bonds had always been the Fenian strength— but also the weakness.
Sullivan also glanced across the nave. He spoke almost self-consciously. “I saw she made a confession to the priest…. These damned women of ours are so guilty and ashamed…. I feel somehow betrayed …”
Flynn said lightly, “You should have told him your version.”
Sullivan started to reply but thought better of it. Flynn extended his hand, and Sullivan took it firmly.
Flynn and Father Murphy walked together back into the south tower and climbed the ten stories into the louvered room where Rory Devane stood in the dark, his face blackened and a large flak jacket hanging from his thin shoulders. Devane greeted them affably, but the sight of the priest wearing the purple stole was clearly not a welcome one.
Flynn said, “Sometime after 5:15 snipers will begin pouring bullets through all eight sides of this room.”
“The room will be crowded, won’t it?”
Flynn went on. “Yet you have to stay here and engage the helicopters. You have to put a rocket into the armored carrier.”
Devane moved to a west-facing opening and looked down. Flynn briefed Devane, then said, “Father Murphy is interested in your soul.”
Devane looked back at the priest. “I made my confession this morning—right here in Saint Pat’s, as a matter of fact. Father Bertero, it was. I’ve done nothing in the meanwhile I need to confess.”
Murphy said, “If you say an act of contrition, you can regain a state of grace.” He turned and dropped into the ladder opening.
Flynn took Devane’s hand. “Good luck to you. See you in Dublin.”
“Aye, Brian, Kavanagh’s Pub, or a place close by the back wall.”
Flynn turned and dropped down the ladder, joining Murphy on the next level. The two men left the south tower and made their way across the choir loft. They entered the bell tower, and Flynn indicated the spiral staircase. “I have to speak with Mullins again.”
Murphy was about to suggest that Flynn use the field phone, but something in Flynn’s manner compelled him not to speak. They climbed until they reached a level where the stairs gave way to ladders somewhere below the first bell room where Mullins was.
Flynn looked at the large room they were in. The tower here was four-sided, with small milky-glass windows separated by thick stone. Mullins had knocked holes in some of the panes in the event he had to change his location, and Flynn pulled off a thick triangle of glass and looked at it, then looked at Murphy. “A great many people watching this on television are morbidly fascinated with the question of how this place will look afterward.”
Murphy said, “I don’t need any more revelations from you tonight. As a priest nothing shocks me any longer, and I still cling to my faith in humanity.”
“That is truly a wonder. I’m in awe of that….”
Murphy saw that he was sincere. “I observed how your people cared for each other, and for you…. I’ve heard some of their confessions…. There are hopeful signs amid all this.”
Flynn nodded. “And Hickey? Megan? Leary? And me?”
