Hostage Taker (20 page)

I
imagine all kinds of things.

I imagine Eve Rossi below, shuttling between the steps of the Cathedral and her temporary office under Atlas’s globe.

“She can get headlines,” I was told. And important messages need to be heard.

I imagine the woman I took hostage with the boy, unsure whether I plan to kill her or let her go. Wondering when—or if—she’ll see her kid again.

I imagine eating a cannoli from Caffè Palermo, stuffed with pastry cream, because I am hungry.

Yes, I imagine things—future, present, past.

When I was a kid, there was a crazy old woman who liked sitting on her walker in front of the bakery on Queens Boulevard, her grocery cart beside her. Now we’d say she suffered from dementia. Back then we just called her batty.

Other kids made fun of her, but I liked her all right: She kept cookies in her pocket for passing dogs. My cocker spaniel Tosca was a fan.

The day it happened was a hot, sticky July day—the kind where heat blasts from the sidewalk and swallows you whole. Ma had sent me to the bakery to pick up bread. When I got there, I saw the walker and the grocery cart. But no sign of the crazy lady.

They found her next to the dumpster. My mother and aunts whispered about it whenever they thought I wasn’t listening. She had a name: Mrs. Brescia. She had been beaten and robbed. According to Ma, if the old lady had been healthy, she would’ve recovered. She just wasn’t strong enough. The Kinser brothers—or, as the neighbors called them, “that boisterous bunch of hooligans”—were responsible. But that wasn’t what kept everyone’s tongue wagging.

It was because the attack on that batty old crone happened on Queens Boulevard at about half past nine in the morning. Broad daylight. In front of six witnesses.

Not one of them tried to help.

Not one of them bothered to call the police.

No, not until it was far too late.

4:58 p.m.

Because of the sensitive, ongoing nature of the crisis at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, we have agreed to a request from the city to cease broadcasting live images from the site.

We do, however, have a guest calling in—John Roberts, an architect who is not involved with the restoration project ongoing at Saint Patrick’s, but whose expertise can maybe help us understand it.

John, what can you tell us about the project—and how the restoration may play into the terrifying events unfolding at the Cathedral today?

How does this landscape impact the hostage crisis?

C
assidy Jones was radiant, dressed to the nines for her presumed audition at Rockefeller Center. The white dress and matching ivory puffed jacket accentuated her resemblance to Marilyn Monroe. As she hustled inside the MRU, she flashed a dazzling smile toward the group of officers and medics who had stopped what they were doing to look up. Then she saw Haddox and her smile was all for him.

He returned it with a grin. It only seemed polite.

“I can’t take my eyes off her, which makes me feel like some kind of pervert,” Eli grumbled. “I mean, what—she doesn’t look a day over sixteen. But I always had a thing for Marilyn.”

“You, Elton John, and half the gay planet. Why is that, anyway?”

“You’ve got me.” Eli shrugged. “But my sister always said she knew I was gay when at age twelve I plastered posters of Marilyn all over my room.”

“Well, you can relax a little watching
this
Marilyn. She’s twenty-one and fully legal. As verified by the New York State DMV, Department of State, and her Actors’ Equity application.”

“What do you think the guy inside wants with her?”

“Maybe he’s looking to satisfy his Marilyn fetish. To change topics, you were jokin’ me about that number, right?”

“What number?”

Eli looked so confused, Haddox figured he must still be dreaming of
The Seven Year Itch.
“You gave me a cell number to run. Said it was personal?”

“Ri-ight.” Eli stretched the word in two long syllables.

“Well, I took a few minutes, did some digging. The phone’s battery is dead—or maybe it’s been removed. So I can only track its movements and calls up until the time it disappeared from the grid. It last emitted a signal yesterday. At precisely 7:49 p.m. When it toggled with a base station in Times Square. Heart of the theater district, actually.”

“So how specific a location can you get?”

“Given the number of base stations in Times Square, pretty specific. Let’s just say that it looks as though that phone showed up for the evening performance of
Kinky Boots.
Probably had a fantastic time.”

“
Kinky Boots
?” Eli repeated.

“You said it was a young lass, right? There’s no cause for worry. She was busy and didn’t tell everybody what she had planned. Then she used her phone too much and let the battery drain. She was out having fun. We should all be so lucky.”

“Guess you’re right.”

Haddox couldn’t resist teasing. “Fess up, mate. It’s not really her phone, is it? I’m guessing you don’t trust your new boyfriend. Is this your way of checking up on his doings?”

Eli flushed. “Hey, I’m not the one who got left high and dry in Rome. At least I know when I got a good thing going. Besides, she’s too good for you.”

“Easy, Casanova.”

Eli shook his head as he stomped away, pulling out his cell and dialing as he went.

Eli was a
feckin’ gobshite and Haddox planned to tell him as much. First, Haddox needed to tell Eve news she wouldn’t want to hear.

He poked his head into the primary MRU and saw Eve. She had somehow found a black sweater and draped a burgundy wool scarf around her neck. Her sweater was form-fitting, and it would have been open at the top—except for the scarf. Her hair was a tangle of curls, pulled back in a low ponytail. Even tired and stressed, she still looked grand. “I have good news and bad news,” he announced. “Which do you want first?”

No response. She was staring out the small window at the Cathedral itself.

Haddox walked over and looked, too. While the surrounding buildings had been blacked out, the floodlights of Saint Patrick’s bathed its towering spires in soft white as they stretched toward pea-soup clouds. The effect was otherworldly. “It’s a spectacular piece of architecture, isn’t it? We’ve got a Saint Patrick’s in Dublin. It’s stately—but it doesn’t hold a candle to your Saint Patrick’s here. I keep imagining the people who were involved in building it. Different generations working in fits and starts over the years. That’s always the way, isn’t it? The money runs out.”

Eve nodded. “Which was why it took twenty-one years between laying the cornerstone and celebrating its grand opening. Plus, the Civil War didn’t help.”

“Wars never do.” Haddox stepped beside her to look. “Doesn’t stop people from fighting them.”

“I keep wondering: Why today? Why here? Why choose
this
building as the setting for so much bloodshed? Why is it special to him?”

Haddox squinted, again admiring the twin spires as they rose up—over the scaffolding, over Fifth Avenue, over the small group of forensic techs in full body armor who were securing evidence from the steps. The scene sparked a barrage of memories: Going with his mother to Sunday Mass, a wiggly boy in a stiff blue suit and fancy dress shoes. The way the priest’s chalice would glisten when the morning light danced through stained-glass windows. How he’d played darts in the rear churchyard with Kiernan Donohue, using the trunk of an old yew tree.

And other memories, too: the countless times Mass had been interrupted by bomb threats—and the eerie sensation of free fall, coming out of Church to find himself on the wrong side of the police barricade. This was
his
Church—and it had shaped the life he’d chosen to live. First as an influence. Later, as something to rebel against.

As a child, he’d loved its mystery and ceremony. As an adult, he’d hated its hypocrisy. Disliked the priests who thought they knew all the answers. Never married, but plenty to say about marriage. Not family men, but they’d preach ’til they were blue in the face about the importance of family. Didn’t they realize most families were completely feckin’ nuts? His own included—which boasted alcoholics and gamblers, wife-beaters, killers, and cheats. Since the Church didn’t answer the questions that really mattered, he had satisfied his curiosity elsewhere—thanks to Internet access and the siren call of technology. The community he’d found there was almost family.
His
version of it, anyway.

“I dunno why he chose Saint Pat’s.” Haddox returned to the present. “It’s a major landmark, but it has religious significance as well. Maybe that’s what this is about. I’m sure being Irish skews my perspective, but seems to me that most of the violence we humans have inflicted on each other has been done in the name of religion.” He smiled thinly. “Not to be overly reductive of several hundred years of human history, of course.”

“His three killings were deliberate, methodical crimes. He was in control of his targets—so completely he knew they wouldn’t run. He acted like a showman, managing the timing of their deaths for maximum effect. And he adapted: I believe that he was aware when we discovered his sniper position, and that was when he changed his method of killing.”

“Yet the hostages are random individuals. He couldn’t have known who would show up for Mass this morning.”

“We have preliminary ID on a handful of those held inside. To your point, they appear to be strangers. Completely unconnected.”

“What about the cop?”

“A handful of agents are on it. He’s the wild card in all this.” She turned away from the window, frowning. He wondered when she’d last eaten. “These people may have been taken hostage at random, but I’m worried. Do they represent something—or someone—he despises? And the witnesses are the same. He’s given us names—but I can’t help but think each one symbolizes something to him. Even though they seem to have nothing in common.” She sighed and drew up her shoulders. “I’ll take the good news first.”

“We’ve located and spoken with all five of the witnesses.”

“You’re right; that is good news.”

“Even better, four of them are on-site already. Safe and secure.”

“And the fifth?”

“That’s the bad news. I tracked Ramos to the basement of a Chinese restaurant in Harlem. Just when I thought he was onboard, he took off like a jackrabbit into the crowds. We’re not gonna see him again anytime soon.”

“Damn. We were so close. How am I going to spin that to the Hostage Taker?” Eve wondered aloud. “Tell the truth—or fake it?”

“Depends on how well he really knows these people. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

“I don’t believe in luck. I believe in patterns and predictability. Order and planning.”

“But every once in a while, you need to turn to karma and kismet. Fate and divine intervention. It’s the only way to explain certain mysteries in life. Like the healing waters of Lourdes. Or the 1969 New York Mets. Or”—he shook his head—“how I ended up meeting you—and getting roped into working for the feckin’ Feds.”

F
ifth Avenue had grown eerily quiet. Cops and Feds were waiting in anticipation of their next move. Only the soft strains of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” drifting from the deserted ice rink at Rockefeller Plaza, broke the hushed spell.

A priest intercepted Eve before she had a chance to walk over to the secure unit where the four witnesses were waiting. He was gaunt, with sharp, high cheekbones, keen blue eyes, and an awkward gait. He clunked along like the Tin Woodman from
The Wizard of Oz.

“Hello there.” The words were friendly. His smile wasn’t.

“Are you the priest I requested?” Eve asked him.

“I’m here to represent the interests of the Church. My name is Monsignor William Geve.”

“Special Agent Eve Rossi,” she answered, offering her hand. “You’ve previously served at Saint Patrick’s?”

“No—I’m a senior director of New York City Catholic Charities.”

Eve frowned. “I was hoping they would send someone active in the ministry. Familiar with the Cathedral. Listen, I don’t have a lot of time—”

He cut her off. “I
was
a parish priest serving a congregation. I created a program to combat homelessness; it thrived and I seemed to do some good. So the powers-that-be decided charity development was my true calling. I was given a fancier title and more charity organizations to run. But at root, I’m a pastor, and my heart belongs to that Grand Lady. Even covered in scaffolding, she is magnificent, is she not?”

“So you don’t normally support His Eminence, the Archbishop?”

“The Cardinal and his staff are traveling, Agent Rossi,” the Monsignor replied coldly. “Has no one told you that? They left the Vatican yesterday; by now they are en route to the refugee camps outside Syria, where their ministry will occupy them for the next fourteen days.”

“The key is that I need help from someone who’s familiar with the Cathedral. Someone with intimate knowledge of its every nook and cranny.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” The Monsignor’s smile still struck her as cold. False. “Did I not mention that long ago, I served there?”

“Father, I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but can you help me or not? Time is of the essence.”

“Many of us have grown to feel a special bond with Saint Patrick’s; after all, it’s no ordinary Church. Never has been. When James Renwick was commissioned to build it, his instructions were to make it larger than any other Cathedral. It needed to tower over the city it served, to show the world that everything else was small and insignificant, compared to God.”

“That didn’t last,” Eve reminded him.

“Few things on this earth do, Agent Rossi. But it still manages to dominate the city, doesn’t it? Even with so many skyscrapers dwarfing it. It’s my job to ensure that it weathers whatever Armageddon your Hostage Taker intends—or whatever onslaught you direct your tactical teams to prepare.”

Eve had met bureaucrats like Geve before—and despite the priest’s collar and title, that was clearly the role that he was here to play. She understood his position too well: He was there to protect the Church’s reputation—and the Church’s physical architecture. The lives at stake weren’t his concern.

“If you know the Church so well, maybe you can answer my question. If I need to get inside Saint Patrick’s—but without walking through one of the main doors—how would I do it?”

“I wouldn’t,” he answered coldly. “Any untraditional entry is certain to destroy something of architectural significance.”

“We have no choice. Every door to the Cathedral has been booby-trapped. Go through a traditional entryway, the Cathedral will go up in flames and hostages will die.”

The Monsignor almost said something but changed his mind. Instead, he offered, “You could take the underground passage connecting the Rectory and the Cathedral. It goes right through the Crypt—then you can head up around the altar to the high pulpit.”

“That would be a great idea if the entrance to the Crypt weren’t also booby-trapped. I’m asking you if there’s something else. More secret—something few people know about.”

“You’re hoping for a secret tunnel, like runs under Grand Central or the Public Library.” His voice was suave.

Eve’s heart sank. He was going to be of no help. “Those are documented. Those we know about.”

“There’s a whole labyrinth of tunnels running under Old Saint Patrick’s downtown. People say the stonemasons who built its replacement—this Saint Patrick’s here on Fifth—didn’t want to be outdone by their predecessors.”

“Do you personally know of a secret passageway?”

“If I did, why would I tell you? That would just allow you to send a tactical assault team in. And irreplaceable Church treasures could be destroyed.”

“We always work to minimize the risk. Are lives less important than Church treasures, Monsignor?”

His lips tightened. “Do you know what a Cathedral is, Agent Rossi? We call it a prayer, set in stone.”

Eve watched the Monsignor turn on his heel and disappear into the crowd of cops and Feds. She thought:
He’d be singing a different tune if someone he loved were inside.