Flynn and Hickey played the organs, and George Sullivan played the pipes. Eamon Farrell, Frank Gallagher, and Abby Boland sang “My Wild Irish Rose.” In the attic Jean Kearney and Arthur Nulty lay huddled together on a catwalk above the choir loft. The pipes of the great organ reverberated through the board on which they lay. Pedar Fitzgerald sat with his back against the crypt door. He half closed his tired eyes and hummed.
Flynn felt the lessening of the tensions as people lost themselves in reveries. He could sense a dozen minds escaping the cold stone fortress. He glanced at Megan and Leary. Even they seemed subdued as they sat on the choir parapet, their backs to the Cathedral, drinking tea and sharing a cigarette. Flynn turned away from them and lost himself in the thunderous organ.
Father Murphy knelt motionless before the high altar. He glanced at his watch.
Harold Baxter paced across the sanctuary floor, trying to appear restless while his eyes darted around the Cathedral. He looked at his watch. No reason, he thought, to wait the remaining minutes. They might never get an opportunity as good as this. As he passed by Father Murphy, he said, “Thirty seconds.”
Maureen lay curled up on a pew, her face buried in her arms. One eye peered out, and she saw Baxter nod to her.
Baxter turned and walked back toward the throne. He passed close to the Cardinal and said, “Now.”
The Cardinal stood, came down from the throne, and walked to the communion rail. He opened the gate and strode swiftly down the center aisle.
Father Murphy heard Baxter say, “Go.” Murphy made the sign of the cross, rose quickly, and moved toward the side of the altar.
Flynn watched the movements on the sanctuary in the organ mirror as he played. He continued to play the lilting melody as he called out to Leary. “Turn around.”
Leary and Megan both jumped down from the parapet and spun around. Leary raised his rifle.
Hickey’s organ stopped, and Flynn’s organ died away on a long, lingering note. The singing stopped, and the Cathedral fell silent, all eyes on the Cardinal. Flynn spoke into the microphone as he looked in the mirror. “Stop where you are, Cardinal.”
Father Murphy opened the circuit-breaker box recessed into the side of the altar, pulled the switch, and the sanctuary area went dark. Baxter took three long strides, passed the sacristy staircase, and hit the floor, sliding across the marble toward the brass floorplate. Maureen rolled off the pew and crawled swiftly toward the rear of the sanctuary. Baxter’s fingers found the grip on the brass plate and lifted the heavy metal until its hinges locked in place. Maureen pivoted, and her legs found the opening in the floor.
The four people in the triforia were shouting wildly. A shot rang out from the choir loft, and the shouting stropped. Four shots exploded in quick succession from the triforia.
Maureen dropped through the hole and fell to the earth floor below.
Baxter felt something—a spent bullet, a piece of marble—slam into his chest, and he rocked backward on his haunches.
The Cardinal kept walking straight head, but no one looked at him any longer.
Father Murphy crawled to the sacristy staircase and collided with Pedar Fitzgerald running up the steps. Both men swung wildly at each other in the partial darkness.
Baxter caught his breath and lunged forward. His arms and shoulders hung into the opening, and his feet slid over the marble trying to find traction.
Maureen was shouting, “Jump! Jump!” She reached up and grabbed his dangling arm.
Five more shots rang out, splintering marble and ringing sharply from the brass plate. Baxter felt a sharp pain shoot across his back, and his body jerked convulsively. Five more shots whistled through the dark over his head. He was aware that Maureen was pulling on his right hand. He tried to drop headfirst into the hole, but someone was pulling on his legs. He heard a shout very close to his ear, and the firing stopped.
Maureen was hanging from his arm, yelling up to him, “Jump! For God’s sake, jump!”
Baxter heard his own voice, low and breathless. “Can’t. Got me. Run. Run.” Someone was pulling on his ankles, pulling him back from the hole. He felt Maureen’s grip on his arm loosen, then break away. A pair of strong hands rolled him over on his back, and he looked into the face of Pedar Fitzgerald, who was kneeling above him, holding the submachine gun to his throat. In the half-light Baxter saw that there was blood spreading over Fitzgerald’s neck and across his white shirt.
Fitzgerald looked down at him and spoke between labored breaths. “You stupid son of a bitch! I’ll kill you—you goddamned bastard.” He pounded his fist into Baxter’s face, then crawled over him to the hole and pointed the barrel of the gun down into the opening. He steadied himself and fired two long, deafening bursts into the darkness.
Baxter was dimly aware of a warm wetness seeping over the cold floor beneath him. His eyes tried to focus on the vaulted ceiling ten stories above his face, but all he saw were the blurry red spots of the Cardinals’ hanging hats. He heard footsteps running toward the altar, coming up the stairs, then saw faces hovering over him— Hickey, then a few seconds later Flynn and Megan Fitzgerald.
Baxter turned his head and saw Father Murphy lying near the stairs, his hands pressed to his face and blood running between his fingers. He heard Megan’s voice. “Pedar! Are you hit? Pedar?”
Baxter tried to raise his head to look for the Cardinal. Suddenly he saw Megan’s shoe flying into his face, and a red flash passed in front of his eyes, followed by blackness.
Flynn knelt beside Pedar Fitzgerald and pulled the barrel of the gun out of the hole. He touched Fitzgerald’s bloody neck wound. “Just grazed you, lad.” He called to Megan. “Take him back to his post. Quickly.”
Flynn lay prone at the edge of the opening and called down. “Maureen! Are you all right? Are you hit?”
Maureen knelt a few yards from the opening. Her body was trembling, and she took long breaths to steady herself. Her hands ran over her body, feeling for a wound.
Flynn called down again. “Are you hit?” His voice became anxious. “For God’s sake, answer me.”
She drew a deep breath and surprised herself by answering, “No.”
Flynn’s voice sounded more controlled. “Come back.”
“Go to hell.”
“Come back, Maureen, or we’ll shoot Baxter. We’ll shoot him and throw him down there where you can see him.”
“They’re all dead anyway.”
“No, they’re not.”
“Let Baxter speak to me.”
There was a pause, then Flynn said, “He’s unconscious.”
“Bloody murdering bastards. Let me speak to Father Murphy.”
“He’s … hurt. Wait. I’ll get the Cardinal—”
“Go to hell.” She knew she didn’t want to hear any of their voices; she just wanted to run. She called back, “Give it up, Brian. Before more people are killed, give it up.” Hesitantly she called, “Good-bye.”
She drew away from the opening until her back came into contact with the base of a column. She stared at the ladder that descended from the opening. She heard someone speaking in half-whispered tones, and she had a feeling someone was ready to come down.
Flynn’s voice called out again, “Maureen—you’re not the kind who would run out on your friends. Their lives depend on you.”
She felt a cold sweat break out over her body. She thought to herself, Brian, you make everything so damned hard. She stepped toward the opening but then hesitated. A new thought came into her mind. What would Brian do? He’d run. He always ran. And not out of cowardice but because he and all of them had long ago agreed that escape was the morally correct response to tight situations. Yet … he’d stayed with her when she was wounded. She vacillated between the column and the opening.