Hickey called out, “Maureen, we see you moving. Don’t make us shoot.”
She called back, “I know you don’t have Gallagher’s gun, because I have it. Careful I don’t shoot you.” She heard them talking among themselves, then the flashlights went out. She smiled at how the simplest bluffs worked when people were frightened. She kept crawling.
The foundation curved, and she knew she was under the ambulatory now. Somewhere on the other side of the foundation were the fully excavated basements beneath the terraces outside that led back to the rectory.
Beneath the thin layer of soil the Manhattan bedrock rose and fell as she crawled. The ceiling was only about four feet high now, and she kept hitting her head on pipes and ducts. The ducts made a noise when she hit them and boomed like a drum in the cold, stagnant air.
Suddenly the flashlights came on again, some distance off. Megan’s voice called, “We found the gun, Maureen. Come toward the light or we shoot. Last chance.”
Maureen watched the beams of light searching for her. She didn’t know if they had Gallagher’s gun or not, but she knew she didn’t have it. She crawled on her stomach, commando style, pressing her face to the ground.
The lights began tightening around her. Hickey said, “I’m counting to ten. Then the armistice is over.” He counted.
Maureen stopped crawling and remained motionless, pressed against the wall. Blood and sweat ran over her face; her legs and arms were studded with pieces of embedded stone. She steadied her breathing and listened for a sound from the basement that was only feet away. She looked for a crack of light, felt for a draft that might be coming from the other side, then ran her hands over the stone foundation. Nothing. She began moving again.
Hickey’s voice called out, “Maureen, you’re a heartless girl, making an old man crawl in the damp like this. I’ll catch my death—let’s go back up and have some tea.”
The light beams were actually passing over her intermittently, and she froze when they did. They didn’t seem to be able to pick out her blackened features in the darkness. She noticed that the stone wall turned again, then ended. Brick wall ran from the stone at right angles, and she suspected the brick wall was not a stress-bearing foundation but a partition behind which the foundation had disappeared. She rose to a kneeling position, reached for the top of the wall, and discovered a small space near the concrete ceiling. She pressed her face to the space but saw no light, heard no noise, and felt no air. Yet she was certain she was close to finding a way out.
A voice called out. Gallagher’s. “Maureen, please don’t make us shoot you. I know you spared my life—come on, then, be a good woman and let’s all go back.”
Again she knew they wouldn’t shoot, if not because of the explosives then for fear of a ricochet among all this stone. She was suddenly angry at their small lies. What kind of idiot did they think she was? Hickey might be an old soldier, but Maureen knew more about war than Megan or Gallagher would live to learn. She wanted to scream an obscenity at them for their patronizing attitude. She moved along the wall and felt it curve farther inward. She judged from the configuration of the horseshoe-shaped ambulatory that she was now below the bride’s room or confessional. Suddenly her hand came into contact with dry wood. Her heart gave a small leap. She faced the wall and knelt in front of it. Her hands explored the wood, set flush into the brick. She felt a rusty latch and pulled on it. A pair of hinges squeaked sharply in the still air. The flashlight beams came toward her.
Hickey called to her. “You’re leading us a merry chase, young lady. I hope you don’t give your suitors as much trouble.”
Maureen said under her breath, “Go to hell, you old bag of bones.” She pulled slowly on the door. Cracks of light appeared around the edges, showing it to be about three feet square. She closed the door quickly, found a broken shard of brick, and threw it farther along the wall.
The light beams swung toward the noise. She pulled the door open a few inches and pushed her face to the small aperture. She blinked her eyes several times and focused on a fluorescent-lit hallway.
The hallway floor was about four feet below her—a beautiful floor, she thought, of white polished vinyl. The walls of the corridor were painted plasterboard; the ceiling a few feet above her head was white acoustical tile. A beautiful hallway, really. Tears ran down her face.
She swung the door fully open and rubbed her eyes, then pushed her hair away from her face. Something was wrong…. She put her hand out, and her fingers passed through a wire grill. A rat screen covered the opening.
CHAPTER 40
Burke walked into the Monsignor’s inner office and looked
at Langley, the sole person present, staring out the window. Burke said, “Everybody quit?”
Langley turned.
Burke said, “Where’s Schroeder?”
“Relieving himself … or throwing up, or something. Did you hear what happened—?”
“I was briefed. Damned fools in there are going to blow it. Everyone’s all right?”
“Cardinal said so. Also, you missed two good showdowns—Schroeder versus Spiegel and Schroeder versus Bellini. Poor Bert. He’s usually the fair-haired boy, too.” Langley paused. “I think he’s losing it.”
Burke nodded. “Do you think it’s him, or is it us … or is it that Flynn is that good?”
Langley shrugged. “All of the above.”
Burke went to the sideboard and noticed there was very little left in the decanters. He said, “Why did God let the Irish invent whiskey, Langley?”
Langley knew the drill. “To keep them from ruling the world.”
Burke laughed. “Right.” His voice became contemplative. “I’ll bet no Fenian has had a drink in forty-eight hours. Do you know a woman named Terri O’Neal?”
Langley concentrated on the name, then said, “No. I don’t make it at all.” He immediately regretted the common cop jargon and said, “I can’t identify the name. Call the office.”
“I called from downstairs. Negative. But they’re rechecking. How about Dan Morgan?”
“No. Irish?”
“Probably Northern Irish. Louise is going to call back.”
“Who are these people?”
“That’s what I asked you.” He poured the remainder of the brandy and thought a moment. “Terri O’Neal … I think I have a face and a voice, but I just can’t remember… ?”
Langley said, “Flynn’s asked for a television in there. In fact, you’re supposed to deliver it to him.” Langley looked at Burke out of the corner of his eye. “You two get along real well.”
Burke considered the statement for a few seconds. In spite of the circumstances of their meeting, he admitted that Flynn was the type of man he could have liked— if Flynn were a cop, or if he, Burke, were IRA.