Father Murphy looked at the ripped louvers with obvious displeasure and then stared up at the bells hanging from their cross-beams. Flynn said nothing but looked out into the Avenue. Everything appeared as before, but in some vague, undefined way it was not. He said to Mullins, “Can you tell?”
Mullins nodded. “When?”
“Soon.” Flynn gave him two sheets of paper. “They’ve got to blind the eyes that watch them before the rest of the attack can proceed. It’s all there in the order of battle.”
Mullins ran a flashlight over the neatly typed pages, only vaguely interested in how Flynn came to have them. “My name here is Towerman North. Sounds like a bloody English lord or something.” He laughed, then read, “If Towerman North cannot be put out with sniper fire, then high explosive and/or gas grenades will be fired into bell room with launchers. Helicopter machine gunners will be called in if Towerman North is still not neutralized….” He looked up. “Neutralized … God, how they’ve butchered the language here….”
Flynn saw that Mullins’s smile was strained. Flynn said, “Try to keep us informed on the field phone…. Keep the receiver off the cradle so we can hear what’s happening….”
Mullins pictured himself thrashing around on the floor, small animal noises coming from his mouth into the open receiver.
Flynn went on, “If you survive the snipers, you’ll survive the explosion and the fire.”
“That barely compensates me for freezing half to death.”
Flynn moved to the west opening and stared down at the green and gold harp flag, glazed with ice, and ran his hand over it. He looked out at Rockefeller Center. Hundreds of windows were still lit with bright fluorescent light, and figures passed back and forth. He took Mullins’s field glasses and watched. A man was eating a sandwich. A young woman laughed on the telephone. Two uniformed policemen drank from cups. Someone with field glasses waved to him. He handed the glasses back. “I never hated them before …”
Mullins nodded. “It’s so maddeningly commonplace … but I’ve gotten used to it.” Mullins turned to Father Murphy. “So, it’s that time, is it?”
“Apparently it is.”
Mullins came close to Murphy. “Priests, doctors, and undertakers give me worse chills than ever a north wind did.”
Father Murphy said nothing.
Mullins’s eyes stared off at some indeterminate place and time. He spoke in a barely audible voice. “You’re from the north, and you’ve heard the caoine—the funeral cry of the peasants. It’s meant to imitate the wail of a chorus of banshees. The priests know this but never seem to object.” He glanced at Murphy. “Irish priests are very tolerant of these things. Well, I’ve heard the actual banshees’ wail, Father, whistling through the louvers all night … even when the wind was still.”
“You’ve heard nothing of the sort.”
Mullins laughed. “But I have. I have. And I’ve seen the coach-a-bower. Immense it was and black-polished, riding over these rooftops, a red coffin mounted atop it, and a headless Dullahan madly whipping a team of headless horses … and the coach drew past this window, Father, and the coachman threw in my face a basin of cold blood.”
Murphy shook his head.
Mullins smiled. “Well … I fancy myself a poet, you see … and I’ve license to hear things….”
Murphy looked at him with some interest. “A poet …”
“Aye.” A faint smile played over his blue lips, but his voice was melancholy. “And some time ago I fell in love 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 in
to 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?”
“May God have mercy on all your souls.”
Flynn didn’t respond.
Murphy said evenly, “If you’re going to kill me, do it quickly.”
Flynn’s face looked puzzled, then almost hurt. “No … why would you think that?”
Murphy automatically mumbled an apology but immediately felt it was unnecessary under the circumstances.
Flynn reached out and grabbed his arm. “Listen, I’ve kept my promise to you and let you run around doing your duty. Now I want a promise from you.”
Father Murphy looked at him cautiously.
Flynn said, “Promise me that after this is finished, you’ll see that all my people are buried together in Glasnevin with Ireland’s patriots. You can have a Catholic ceremony, if that’ll make you feel better…. I know it won’t be easy…. It may take you years to convince those swine in Dublin…. They never know who their heroes are until fifty years after they’re dead.”
The priest looked at him without comprehension, then said, “I … won’t be alive to …”
Flynn took the priest’s big hand firmly as though to shake it, but slapped the end of a handcuff on his wrist and locked the other end around the ladder’s rail.
Father Murphy stared at his tethered wrist, then looked at Flynn. “Let me loose.”
Flynn smiled weakly. “You weren’t even supposed to be here. Now just keep your wits about you when the bullets start to fly. This tower should survive the explosion.”
Murphy’s face went red, and he shouted again. “You’ve no right to do this! Let me go!”
Flynn ignored him. He pulled a pistol from his belt and jumped down into the ladder opening. “It may happen that Megan, Hickey … someone may come for you. …” He laid the pistol on the floor. “Kill them.” He dropped down the ladder. “Good luck, Padre.”
Murphy bent down and grabbed the pistol with his free hand. He pointed it at the top of Flynn’s head. “Stop!”
Flynn smiled as he continued his climb down. “Erin go bragh, Timothy Murphy.” He laughed, and the sound echoed through the stone tower.
Murphy shouted after him. “Stop! Listen … you must save the others too…. Maureen … For God’s sake, man, she loves you….” He stared down into the dark hole and watched Flynn disappear.
Father Murphy threw the pistol to the floor and tugged at the cuffs, then sank to his knees beside the ladder opening. Somewhere in the city a church bell tolled, then another joined in, and soon he could hear the sounds of a dozen different carillons playing the hymn “Be Not Afraid.” He thought that every bell in the city must be ringing, perhaps every bell in the country, and he hoped the others could hear them, too, and know they were not alone. For the first time since it had all begun, Father Murphy felt tears forming in his eyes.
CHAPTER 55
Brian Flynn came down from the tower and walked up the nave aisle, his footsteps echoing from the polished marble. He turned into the ambulatory and approached John Hickey, who stood on the raised platform of the chancel organ and watched him approach. Flynn walked deliberately up the steps and stood facing Hickey. After a short silence Hickey said, “It’s 4:59. You let Murphy waste valuable time trying to save already damned souls. Does everyone know their orders at least?”
“Has Schroeder called?”
“No—that means either nothing is new or something is wrong.” Hickey took out his pipe and filled it. “All night I’ve worried that my tobacco would run out before my life. It really bothered me…. A man shouldn’t have to scrimp on his tobacco before he dies.” He struck a match, and it sounded inordinately loud in the stillness. He drew deeply on his pipe and said, “Well, where’s the priest?”
Flynn motioned vaguely toward the towers. “We’ve no grudge against him…. He shouldn’t pay the price for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Why not? That’s why the rest of us are going to die.” He flashed a look of feigned enlightenment. “Ah, I suppose playing God means you have to save a life for every ten score you take.”
Flynn said, “Who are you?”
Hickey smiled with unrestrained glee. “Have I frightened y
ou, lad? Don’t be frightened, then. I’m just an old man who amuses himself by playing on people’s fears and superstitions.” Hickey stepped over the body of Pedar Fitzgerald and came closer to Flynn. He sucked noisily on his pipe, a pensive look on his face. “You know, lad, I’ve had more fun since I had myself buried than ever I did before I was interred. You get a lot of mileage out of resurrection—someone made a whole religion out of it once.” He jerked a thumb toward the crucifix atop the altar and laughed again.
Flynn felt the old man’s breath against his face. He put his right hand on the organ console. “Do you know anything about this ring?”
Hickey didn’t look at it. “I know what you believe it is.”
“And what is it really?”
“A ring, made of bronze.”
Flynn slipped it from his finger and held it in his open palm. “Then I’ve held it too long. Take it.”
Hickey shrugged and reached for it.
Flynn closed his hand and stared at Hickey.
Hickey’s eyes narrowed into dark slits. “So, you want to know who I am and how I got here?” Hickey looked into the glowing bowl of his pipe with exaggerated interest. “I can tell you I’m a ghost, a thevshi, come from the grave to retrieve the ring and bring about your destruction and the destruction of the new Fenians—to perpetuate this strife into the next generation. There’s the proper Celtic explanation you’re looking for to make you feel better about your fears.” He looked directly into Flynn’s eyes. “But I can also tell you the truth, which is far more frightening. I’m alive. Your own dark soul imagined the thevshi, as it imagines the banshee, and the pooka, and the Far Darrig, and all the nightmarish creatures that walk the dark landscape of your mind and make you huddle around flickering peat fires. Aye, Brian, that’s a fright, because you can’t find sanctuary from those monsters you carry within you.”
Flynn stared at him, examining the furrowed white face. Suddenly Hickey’s eyes became benign, sparkling, and his mouth curled up in a good-natured smile. Hickey said, “You see?”
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