The messages may have been prearranged to send at specified times, Haddox explained.
Penelope Miller was weeping. Father DeAngelo’s eyes were closed. The priest appeared lost in prayer.
Another round of chirps. There is a bomb in this room. You must do exactly what I say.
Eve shoved her hands in her pockets to keep them steady. A rumble of noise rose from the crowd. People were talking, but not moving. They had gone stiff with panic.
Yo—Mace! You see anything? García demanded.
Nothin’ so far, Mace replied.
Do we even know he’s in this room? Eli’s voice quavered.
“Don’t think he’d dare miss it.” Eve stood on her tiptoes, straining for a better view.
Another text chirped, a hundred times over. SA Rossi needs to come to the front of the room.
Eve’s heart was pounding. It didn’t matter that the room was packed as tight as a can of sardines. The moment she began moving, a path opened in front of her. The mass of people parted, just like the Red Sea.
More chirps. Then: Find my witnesses. Tell them to spread out, so they can see and be seen!
Now Eve’s heart thudded an irregular beat. The witnesses had clustered together, not far from the mayor and his entourage. In a spot close enough that he could honor them with a special word. Let them be recognized. To a one, they had their phones out. They were reading the texts, too.
Sinya Willis let forth a long, keening wail. Blair Vanderwert was trembling like a leaf.
Eve caught Alina Matrowski’s eye. “Please do as he says. I’m working on this.”
Alina nodded. She had enough presence of mind to help the others move. Until they formed a half-circle in front of Eve.
The text came again. Plenty of law enforcement types in this room. Plenty of people who are decent shots. That includes you, Eve.
“No!” Eve protested.
The moment one of you puts a bullet through one of their heads, we all go home. That’s what ends this crisis, once and for all.
Someone shrieked. A few women began crying; others began praying.
Five min. Or the bomb blows.
Eve heard Mace through her headset. Is there really a bomb? Wasn’t this room thoroughly screened?
’Course, García’s voice crackled. But all these people with bags and news cams and mikes? We can’t be sure something didn’t slip in.
Eve could hear the sounds of Christmas outside. The bells of Saint Patrick’s pealing. Revelers—probably just allowed to return to their homes and businesses—were shouting in the streets.
Another text, another demand. Their lives hang in the balance. At least one of you is going to die. Who in this room is going to help?
Eve’s eyes scanned the room. Searching for the guilty one responsible for these messages. These messages were for her, but everyone in the room continued to receive them. Some still cried and prayed, but many had grown quiet. Their voices strangled by panic.
Eve focused on Alina. The only witness who seemed to have any presence of mind. Cassidy jerked right and then left; her flight instinct had fully kicked in. But the room was jam-packed; there was no place to go. The others stood, stiff and unmoving—their faces blank with terror.
Tell them to beg—and bow their heads like the confessors they are!
Eve didn’t have to ask. Alina and Cassidy immediately assumed the pose of the confessional. Blair nodded awkwardly. Sinya continued to sway back and forth, keening. Their words were a whisper at first—then they slowly gained volume. “Help. Help me! HELP!”
Eve heard Eli over the headset. Just shut down the cell tower. Make the bastard talk to Eve, direct!
No can do, Mace broke in. Assuming there’s a bomb, disrupting the cell signal could automatically trigger it.
Eve cursed. There were no good options. “Just ID the carrier and shut down these texts!”
Working on it, Haddox muttered.
Cameras were still rolling. All eyes were on her. Expecting her to fix this situation, if only because she was the one at the front of the room. Because the sender of the text messages had mentioned her by name.
The mayor’s security team was huddled tight. Planning their exit strategy.
The former hostages stood awkwardly behind a cluster of cops. Penelope and Luke Miller were locked in a tight embrace. Ellen Hodge stood stoically, blinking up into the lights. Father DeAngelo still prayed. Ethan Raynor was texting furiously on his phone. Except he wasn’t a threat. A cop was proofing his every word, right over his shoulder.
Another text: 4 minutes.
Eve’s heartbeat was racing, but she knew how to keep her cool. Her strategy was simple: She imagined the Prelude of Bach’s Cello Suite in G, a piece her mother had played. Its steady rhythm kept Eve’s sense of time from spinning out of control. A mind trick—one that allowed her to become calm and focus on what was most important.
She caught a glimpse of Director Ma and the police commissioner, arguing heatedly. Monsignor Geve and his companion were attempting to edge toward the door, without success.
Everyone’s phone beeped. Someone must step up. Shoot just one witness. Save the rest in this room!
The messenger had to be here. Had to be watching—gauging the effect of these words.
Eve spoke in a clear, loud voice. “Is that what this is about? The fact that these witnesses didn’t help you that day on the subway?”
No answer.
Just the sounds of people in the room: keening and crying and nervous breathing. An elderly man was mumbling the Our Father. People behind Eve were praying the rosary.
A chorus of phones beeped. 3 minutes. Kill one witness—or my bomb explodes.
The room rustled in panic.
“Don’t you want them to explain?” Eve demanded. She locked eyes with Alina. “Last July. The subway station. You witnessed a mugging. The victim needed help. So did the eyewitness who intervened. Tell us what happened.”
Tears were streaming down Alina’s face—creating ugly dark rivers of black mascara. “I remember the mugging. I remember it was awful. I remember watching. But I froze. I wasn’t scared, exactly. I just couldn’t move.”
“Me, too,” Sinya chimed in. “It was like a bad dream. Like my body and my brain were trapped in a nightmare. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t stop watching.”
2 minutes.
“Please!” Cassidy begged. “I don’t want to die! Somebody stop this!”
“Where’s your SWAT team now? Where’s the police? The FBI?” Vanderwert found his voice. “It doesn’t look to me like anybody’s doing a damn thing! We’re all just standing here, and this bastard says one of us has got to die for the room not to blow, and no one’s lifting a finger! Can’t somebody do something?”
What he had said wasn’t true. Every pair of law enforcement eyes was working double-time.
Watching. Observing.
Cops had managed to return two bomb-sniffing dogs to the room.
García was eagle-eyed. Mace muscled his way through, checking the perimeter. Eli was alert in the thick of it all. Haddox was isolating the cell carrier that was enabling these damn texts.
Eve’s eyes continued to probe every individual. Searching for the body language that would betray the architect of this madness.
Sixty seconds. fifty-nine, fifty-eight…
One bomb-sniffing dog was working the left side of the room. The other was checking the right.
Forty-four. Forty-three. Save yourselves. Save this roomful of people. Just kill a witness.
Time was running out. People began mumbling. Then shouting. Screaming.
The mayor’s security detail pressed tighter around him. Eve watched their coordinated movements. They were preparing to break the mayor out of there.
Thirty-two. Thirty-one. Will no one step up? Be a hero? Save the many?
“Why not you?” Eve called out. “You can save all of us. You can be the hero. Instead of standing by like a coward, exactly lik
e the witnesses on that subway platform.”
On the left side of the room, people were moving. Away from the wall. The bomb-sniffing dog had given a signal.
All eyes went there. Searching.
“That woman! That bag! Right there!” One of the cops pointed to a woman in a cream coat who looked completely bewildered. Who had an olive-colored gym bag sitting by her feet.
“You’re right!” A man with an egg-shaped shiny head opened the bag. Revealing something electronic inside.
Panic consumed the room. The warning that the bomb would go off if anyone moved was forgotten. A crush of people moved toward the door.
Twenty-three. Twenty-two.
“JUST SHOOT ONE OF THE DAMN WITNESSES!” The egg-headed man charged, tried to take the gun from the officer nearest him. Another cop tackled him. They ended up flailing on the floor.
The mayor’s team was pushing forward. Eve could no longer see Henry. Three of the witnesses were trying to join the mass exodus—except the room was bottlenecked.
Only Vanderwert still stood—trembling, completely paralyzed.
The texts were still coming. Nineteen, eighteen. But the shouting and screaming were now so loud, no one could hear the chirps that announced them.
People were pushing. Everyone was trying to flee. This had all the hallmarks of a stampede.
Except Eve noticed: One person was moving differently.
“García,” she breathed. “Do you see what I see?” She was remembering what Sean Sullivan had said. Not the obvious answer.
Sean had been right—though not quite in the way Eve had imagined.
One person was moving toward the lectern. Eve recognized the haircut and bearing as military. She saw the steady sense of purpose amid the panic. But that didn’t explain it. There was something more.
In the corner of her eye, Eve saw Mace angling for position, trying to see what still eluded him. Do you see a gun? A detonator? What kind of threat are we looking at?
“It’s in the body language,” Eve replied. She knew what she saw, but how could she put in words what she understood? Some mental leaps were a matter of intuition—made in the space between the mind and the gut.
I’ve got the shot, García confirmed.
No, Eve—not again, Mace warned.
She ignored him. García understood. “Take the shot,” she ordered.
Eve forced herself to focus on the moment. This moment. Ignoring past decisions that went wrong.
The mayor’s security team was moving. The hostages were moving. The witnesses were moving.
Across the room, she looked and saw the metal glint from the gun in García’s hand.
There was a chorus of screams. People shouting No! He’s going to shoot a witness!
A lone voice countered LET HIM!
Four witnesses shrunk into the wall. There was no escape.
García fired.
The sound was amplified by stone walls, and the flash was brighter than a camera’s.
One of the hostages fell to the ground.
And the Cardinal’s Residence erupted into a panicked exodus.
Chapter 89
Eve went from standing still to moving faster than lightning. She fought her way through the panicked crowd. She flashed her FBI shield at the security detail who’d closed ranks around the mayor.
The hostage’s body had jerked backward from the impact. It landed just eight feet away from the mayor.
Eve heard the sound of running feet. In the tight quarters of the Cardinal’s Residence, it sounded like a thousand steps.
Someone was yelling commands—ordering paramedics and summoning an ambulance for another victim with a GSW.
There was a scuffle ongoing in the west side of the room. It took five guards to subdue García. He wasn’t taking it well.
“What the hell, Eve?” Henry Ma’s face was twisted with fury. “Your guy was the shooter? The ex-Ranger—the one who’s lost his marbles?”
“You can thank me later, Henry,” she said, her eyes scanning the floor.
“Thank you?” he sputtered.
“For giving the order that saved lives.” Eve searched behind the lectern.
“You never shoot one to save the many.” The vein running across Henry’s forehead was throbbing, threatening to pop. “You never take a nutjob demand like that seriously. García shot a hostage.”
Eve saw cords and mikes and news camera cables. Hidden among them, she found the proof she wanted.
She didn’t touch it.
She pointed it out to Henry and the mayor’s security detail.
“Bring the Bomb Squad over here,” she ordered. “The woman’s bag out there? It’s just a distraction, probably filled with trace explosive. This is the real thing. Get this building cleared.”
“What the hell?” The mayor had elbowed his way through the crowd.
It was a detonator. Of a slightly different style than the others used throughout the Cathedral.
“You’re saying someone tried to kill me?” The mayor was ashen.
“No more than anyone else,” Eve replied. She was so cold, she felt she might be shaking. “The goal was to make us all bystanders. To make us literally stand by—and witness our own deaths.”
“I don’t follow,” Henry said.
Eve was just putting it together herself, but she understood now. The hostage-taking—and the bringing of witnesses—had been a play. Sean Sullivan had been cast as the sacrifice. And it had all been designed for this moment—this scene. In order to replay a crisis where the Bystander Effect would come into play. Just like on the subway platform—with the same witnesses on hand to see it. With even higher stakes: the lives of the mayor and city leaders and hundreds of onlookers.
Not just to punish those original witnesses—the ones who refused to help.
Not just to illustrate a moral lesson for the world—which was corrupt and unfeeling.
But because re-creating the pain—and sharing it with the world—was the only way to manage an unbearable hurt.
“Who is she?” Mace was now right at her side.
Eve almost answered The sniper.
Or The person who kidnapped Sullivan’s daughter.
Or simply the name on the woman’s New York State Driver’s License. Ellen Hodge.
Instead, she answered, “A Trojan horse.”
As Eve said the words, Ellen Hodge lifted a bloody hand and wiped the scar that ran across her cheek.
Chapter 90
Inside the ambulance, Ellen Hodge was hovering at the edge of consciousness. The attending medics shook their heads when Eve approached. The prognosis was not good.
But Eve didn’t need much time. This wasn’t going to be a long discussion. She had no interest in the woman’s justification or rationale. She didn’t care that Hodge was mumbling something about sins of omission and commission.
Eve just had one question. “Where is the girl?”
“Why should I tell you?” The words slurred together.
“Absolution. For all you’re guilty of.”
“Don’t need it. Don’t want it.”
“Not from the Church. From Society.”
Ellen Hodge tossed, moaning. In extreme pain.
“Tell me where the girl is,” Eve repeated, “and you’ll be the hero you wanted to be. The headlines will affirm it. That you stepped up, and didn’t just stand by. Isn’t that what you want?”
The only answer was a hoarse, choking sound.
A remembered phrase echoed in Eve’s mind. “Otherwise, what will you be guilty of?”
Ellen Hodge tilted her head toward Eve. She opened her mouth to say something. But no words came out, only a bright trickle of blood. Her eyes went blank.
HOUR 17
After Midnight
We return to our continuing coverage of the astonishing hostage drama that unfolded today at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.
The source who had identified New York Police Captain Sean Sullivan as t
he Hostage Taker responsible for today’s events has since retracted his statement. We await further word on the person or persons responsible.
In a situation that may or may not be related to the crisis, we are receiving reports that several streets in a Queens neighborhood have just been evacuated, as SWAT teams converge on a residence there.
There continues to be no word as to when the area around Fifth Avenue in the Fifties will reopen to the public. Stay tuned, right here, for all the latest developments.
Chapter 91
Ellen Hodge’s house in Queens was on a street filled with small Cape Cods, Queen Annes, and Tudors—almost all of them decorated for the season with lights and green wreaths. But this house was a forlorn place—surrounded by skeletal trees and neglected flower beds.
Eve and Haddox watched via live video feed as officers in protective gear opened doors, foraged closets, and explored the attic.
They watched together in silence. There was no audio. The only sound Eve heard was the thump of her own heartbeat.
Haddox kept one eye on the video feed. Another eye on the in-depth background profile he was generating. “She was forty-seven. A widow; her husband died in Afghanistan. Awful situation—she was deployed with him.” He went on to explain all the details.
“So when Stacy Hodge died, and nobody stepped up to save him—when even she wasn’t able to save him—Ellen became obsessed with the failings of bystanders,” Eve surmised. “The incident following the subway mugging tipped her over the edge: Suddenly she was a victim who needed help, and no one stepped forward to help her.”
The search team smashed open a basement door secured by a padlock. The door swung wildly on its shattered hinges.
Inside, the stairs were dark. Mops and brooms and dustbins hung on the wall.
At the bottom, the floor was nothing but compacted dirt.
The search team split into three groups.
“Looks like Hodge’s family was connected to Saint Patrick’s,” Haddox explained. “Her father, grandfather, and great-grandfather were all laborers—stonemasons who worked to build the Cathedral.”
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