Cathedral

by Nelson DeMille

  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 you, running out on your boss like that. Shame—”

  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.

  Maureen knelt over Baxter’s crumpled body and examined the wound on his forehead. “Bloody bastards—” She looked at the choir loft where Flynn played the bells. Gallagher took her wrist and locked on a handcuff, then locked the other end to Baxter’s wrist. Gallagher cuffed Murphy’s wrist and led him to the Cardinal. Gallagher knelt, then passed the cuff through the arm in the throne and gently placed the cuff over the Cardinal’s blood-streaked wrist. Gallagher whispered, “I’ll protect you.” He bowed his head and walked away.

  Father Murphy slumped down on the top step of the raised platform. The Cardinal came down from the throne and sat beside him. Neither man spoke.

  Megan came out of the stairwell carrying her brother in her arms. She stood in the center of the sanctuary looking around blankly. A blood trail led from the stairwell to where she stood, and the trail became a small pool at her feet. Hickey took Pedar from his sister’s arms and carried the limp body down to the chancel organ. He propped Pedar Fitzgerald against the organ console and covered him with his old overcoat.

  Gallagher unslung his rifle and went down to the crypt landing. He shouted to the police who were cautiously examining the gate. “Get back! Go on!” They disappeared to the sides of the sacristy.

  Megan remained standing in the pool of blood, staring at it. The only sounds in the Cathedral were the pealing bells and the persistently ringing telephone.

  Brian Flynn watched from the choir loft as he tolled the bell. Leary glanced at Flynn curiously. Flynn turned away and concentrated on the keyboard, completing the last bar of “Danny Boy,” then began “The Dying Rebel.” He spoke into the microphone. “Mr. Sullivan, the pipes, please. Ladies and gentlemen, a song.” He began singing. Hesitantly, other voices joined him, and Sullivan’s pipes began skirling.

  “The night was dark and the battle ended.

  The moon shone down O’Connell Street.

  I stood alone where brave men parted,

  Never more again to speak.”

  John Hickey picked up the ringing telephone.

  Schroeder’s voice came over the line, very nearly out of control. “What happened? What happened?”

  Hickey growled, “Shut up, Schroeder! The hostages are not dead. Your men saw it all. The hostages are cuffed now, and there’ll be no more escape attempts. End of conversation.”

  “Wait! Listen, are they injured? Can I send a doctor?”

  “They’re in reasonably good shape. If you’re interested, though, one of my lads has been hurt. Sir Harold Baxter, knight of the realm, bashed his throat in with a rifle. Not at all sporting.”

  “God … listen, I’ll send a doctor—”

  “We’ll let you know if we want one.” He looked down at Fitzgerald. His throat was grotesquely bloated now. “I need ice. Send it through the gates. And a tracheal tube.”

  “Please … let me send—”

  “No!” Hickey rubbed his eyes and slumped forward. He felt very tired and wished it would all end sooner than he had hoped.

  “Mr. Hickey …”

  “Oh, shut up, Schroeder. Just shut up.”

  “May I speak to the hostages? Mr. Flynn said I could speak to them after the press—”

  “They’ve lost the right
to speak with anyone, including each other.”

  “How badly are they hurt?”

  Hickey looked at the four battered people on the sanctuary. “They’re damned lucky to be alive.”

  Schroeder said, “Don’t lose what you’ve gained. Mr. Hickey, let me tell you, there are a lot of people on your side now. Your speech was … magnificent, grand. What you said about your suffering, the suffering of the Irish—”

  Hickey laughed wearily. “Yes, a traditional Irish view of history, which is at times in conflict with the facts but never inhibited by them.” He smiled and yawned. “But everyone bought it, did they? TV is marvelous.”

  “Yes, sir, and the bells—did you see the television?”

  “What happened to those song requests?”

  “Oh, I’ve got some here—”

  “Shove them.”

  After a short silence Schroeder said, “Well, anyway, it was really incredible, you know—I’ve never seen anything like that in this city. Don’t lose that, don’t—”

  “It’s already lost. Good-bye, Schroeder.”

  “Wait! Hold it! One last thing. Mr. Flynn said you’d turn off the radio jammer— ”

  “Don’t blame your radio problems on us. Buy better equipment.”

  “I’m just afraid that without radio control the police might overreact to some perceived danger—”

  “So what?”

  “That almost happened. So, I was wondering when you were going to shut it off—”

  “It will probably shut off when the Cathedral explodes.” He laughed.

  “Come on now, Mr. Hickey … you sound tired. Why don’t you all try to get some sleep? I’ll guarantee you an hour—two hours’ truce—and send some food, and— ”

  “Or more likely it’ll be consumed by the flames from the attic. Forty long years in the building—Poof—it’ll be gone in less than two hours.”

  “Sir… I’m offering you a truce—” Schroeder took another breath, then spoke in a cryptic tone. “A police inspector gave you a … a status report, I believe….”

  “Who? Oh, the tall fellow with the expensive suit. Watch that man, he’s taking graft.”

  “Are you considering what he said to you?”

  “As the Ulster Protestants are fond of saying, ‘Not an inch!’ Or would they now say centimeter? Inch. Yes, inch—”

  “It’s a fair solution to—”

  “Unacceptable, Schroeder! Don’t bother me with it again.”

  Schroeder said abruptly, “May I speak with Mr. Flynn?”

  Hickey looked up at the loft. There was a telephone extension on the organ, but Flynn had not used it. Hickey said, “He’s come to a difficult passage in the bells. Can’t you hear it? Have a little consideration.”

  “We haven’t heard from him in a long time. We expected him at the press conference. Is he … all right?”

  Hickey found his pipe and lit it. “He’s as well as any young man can be who is contemplating his imminent death, the sorrow of a lost love, the tragedy of a lost country, and a lost cause.”

  “Nothing is lost—”

  “Schroeder, you understand Irish fatalism, don’t you? When they start playing melancholy songs and weeping in their beers, it means they’re on the verge of something reckless. And listening to your whimpering voice will not improve Brian Flynn’s mood.”

  “No, listen, you’re close—it’s not lost—”

  “Lost! Listen to the bells, Schroeder, and between their peals you’ll hear the wail of the banshee in the hills, warning us all of approaching death.” He hung up.

  Megan was staring down at him from the sanctuary.

  Hickey glanced at Pedar Fitzgerald. “He’s dying, Megan.”

  She nodded hesitantly, and he looked at her. She seemed frightened suddenly, almost childlike. He said, “I can give him over to the police and he may live, but …”

  She understood clearly that there would be no victory, no amnesty for them, or for the people in Northern Ireland, and that soon she and everyone in the Cathedral would be dead. She looked at her brother’s blue-white face. “I want him here with me.”

  Hickey nodded. “Yes, that’s the right thing, Megan.”

  Father Murphy shifted around on the throne platform. “He should be taken to a hospital.”

  Neither Megan nor Hickey answered.

  Father Murphy went on, “Let me administer the sacrament—”

  Hickey cut him off. “You’ve got a damned ritual for everything, don’t you?”

  “To save his soul from damnation—”

  “People like you give eternal damnation a bad name.” Hickey laughed. “I’ll wager you carry some of that holy oil with you all the time. Never know when a good Catholic might drop dead at your feet.”

  “I carry holy oil, yes.”

  Hickey sneered. “Good. Later we’ll fry an egg with it.”

  Father Murphy turned away. Megan walked toward Maureen and Baxter. Maureen watched her approach, keeping her eyes fixed steadily on Megan’s.

  Megan stood over the two cuffed people, then knelt beside Baxter’s sprawled body and ripped the belt from his pants. She stood with her feet spread and brought the belt down with a whistling sound across Baxter’s face.

  Father Murphy and the Cardinal shouted at her.

  Megan raised the belt again and brought it down on Maureen’s upraised arms. She aimed the next blow at Baxter, but Maureen threw herself over his defenseless body and the belt lashed her across the neck.

  Megan struck at Maureen’s back, then struck again at her legs, then her buttocks.

  The Cardinal looked away. Murphy was shouting at the top of his lungs.

  Hickey began playing the chancel organ, joining with the bells. Frank Gallagher sat on the blood-smeared landing where Fitzgerald had lain and listened to the sounds of blows falling; then the sharp sounds were lost as the organ played “The Dying Rebel.”

  George Sullivan looked away from the sanctuary and played his bagpipe. Abby Boland and Eamon Farrell had stopped singing, but Flynn’s voice called to them over the microphone, and they sang. Hickey sang, too, into the organ microphone.

  “The first I saw was a dying rebel.

  Kneeling low I heard him cry,

  God bless my home in Tipperary,

  God bless the cause for which I die.”

  In the attic Jean Kearney and Arthur Nulty lay on their sides, huddled together on the vibrating floor boards. They kissed, then moved closer. Jean Kearney rolled on her back, and Nulty covered her body with his.

  Rory Devane stared out of the north tower, then fired the last flare. The crowds below were still singing, and he sang, too, because it made him feel less alone.

  Donald Mullins stood in the tower below the first bell room, oblivious to everything but the pounding in his head and the cold wind passing through the smashed windows. From his pocket he took a notebook filled with scrawled poems and stared at it. He remembered what Padraic Pearse had said, referring to himself, Joseph Plunkett, and Thomas MacDonagh at the beginning of the 1916 uprising: “If we do nothing else, we shall rid Ireland of three bad poets.” Mullins laughed, then wiped his eyes. He threw the notebook over his shoulder, and it sailed out into the night.

  In the choir loft Leary watched Megan through his sniper scope. It came to him in a startling way that he had never once, even as a child, struck anyone. He watched Megan’s face, watched her body move, and he suddenly wanted her.

  Brian Flynn stared into the organ’s large concave mirror, watching the scene on the altar sanctuary. He listened for the sound of Maureen’s cries and the sound of the steady slap of the belt against her body, but heard only the vibrant tones of the chimes, the high, reedy wail of the bagpipes, the singing, and the full, rich organ below.

  “The next I saw was a gray-haired father,

  Searching for his only son.

  I said Old Man there’s no use in searching

  Your only son to Heaven has gone.”

 
; He lowered his eyes from the mirror and shut them, listening only to the faraway chimes. He remembered that sacrifices took place on altars, and the allusion was not lost on him, and possibly some of the others understood as well. Maureen understood. He remembered the double meaning of sacrifice: an implied sanctification, an offering to the Deity, thanksgiving, purification…. But the other meaning was darker, more terrible—pain, loss, death. But in either case the understanding was that sacrifice was rewarded. The time, place, and nature of the reward was never clear, however.

  “Your only son was shot in Dublin

  Fighting for his Country bold.

  He died for Ireland and Ireland only

  The Irish flag green, white and gold.”

  A sense of overpowering melancholy filled him—visions of Ireland, Maureen, Whitehorn Abbey, his childhood, flashed through his mind. He suddenly felt his own mortality, felt it as a palpable thing, a wrenching in his stomach, a constriction in his throat, a numbness that spread across his chest and arms.

  A confused vision of death filled the blackness behind his eyelids, and he saw himself lying naked, white as the cathedral marble, in the arms of a woman with long honey-colored hair shrouding her face; and blood streamed from his mouth, over his cold dead whiteness—blood so red and so plentiful that the people who had gathered around remarked on it curiously. A young man took his hand and knelt to kiss his ring; but the ring was gone, and the man rose and walked away in disgust. And the woman who held him said, Brian, we all forgive you. But that gave him more pain than comfort, because he realized he had done nothing to earn forgiveness, done nothing to try to alter the course of events that had been set in motion so long before.

  CHAPTER 47

  Brian Flynn looked at the clock in the rear of the choir loft. He let the last notes of “An Irish Lullaby” die away, then pressed the key for the bell named Patrick. The single bell tolled, a deep low tone, then tolled again and again, twelve times, marking the midnight hour. St. Patrick’s Day was over.

  The shortest day of the year, he reflected, was not the winter solstice but the day you died, and March 18 would be only six hours and three minutes long, if that.