Hostage Taker (36 page)

G
arcía sent word that they had a line on the Hostage Taker—in effect authorizing Tactical Operations to enter the Cathedral and begin rescuing hostages and defusing all remaining explosives.

The hostage from the attic—who gave her name as Ellen—didn’t know exactly where the Hostage Taker was located. Just the general direction.

She did confirm she had seen only one man.

García still worried they were facing more than one opponent. But he had combed the downstairs of the Cathedral, to no avail. The Hostage Taker—or Takers, if more than one—had to be here, in the upper reaches of the Cathedral.

The key would be to neutralize him before he had the chance to trigger any explosives.

García led the way. Mace followed. They stayed close to the wall, stepped onto a catwalk that spanned the length of the attic above the choir loft. It was essentially a tower passage, enabling access from the south tower to the north. The spire with the bells.

García tried to remember what he’d learned about the Bell Tower in preparation for this assault. It wasn’t regularly used—and it hadn’t been since the electronic age, when the bells were rung by a player at a miniature piano downstairs. Today they had remained silent.

The tower struck him as a perfect place for the Hostage Taker to establish the advantage.

García entered, suppressing a shiver as a gush of cold air—and a few stray snowflakes—managed to surge down the spire.

Mace was close behind.

There was a spiral staircase in the center of the tower. They began to climb, steadying themselves with handrails.

The spiral stairs gave way to ladders.

Inside the spire, everything was transformed. The lights of the city melted into an unearthly glow. The thrum of a helicopter circling above reminded García of a call to battle.

They inched toward the landing beneath the first bell room. The hanging straps of the bells swayed around them.

In here,
García mouthed.

García checked his watch. Downstairs, the Tactical team would already be securing the Cathedral.

Soundlessly, drawing his Randall #1 knife, he climbed the remaining steps of the ladder. Moved into position, entering the first bell room with a catlike leap. The bell room was shaped like an octagon and illuminated by a single sixty-watt utility bulb. There was dust everywhere—but blurred and scattered by multiple footprints. Three of the Cathedral’s nineteen copper and tin bells loomed just ahead of him. Named the Saint Patrick, the Blessed Virgin, and the Saint Joseph. Notes corresponding to B
a
, C, and D. They hung from a crossbeam. There was a flashlight resting on top of that crossbeam. And snow was blowing in, from the open louvers.

It could almost be a postcard for the tourists: bells glistening with snow, illuminated by a magical, diffused light.

He heard someone moving about. Then saw the shadow slipping between the bells. A single figure. Dressed in fatigues.

The shadow’s footsteps boomed and echoed. They seemed to come from all around.

It was the moment of truth. Decision time. Live or die.

García thought the odds were in their favor. The figure was distracted. Speaking urgently into a telephone.
Eve,
I don’t want to hear another word of this BULLSHIT!

The ID was solid.

Now he needed a visual on the hands. He had to confirm that the Hostage Taker wasn’t holding a dead man’s switch that would set fire to the Cathedral the instant he was killed.

So he waited—and watched.

Five seconds. Ten seconds.

It took twenty-seven seconds before García made a clear determination. Sullivan’s left hand was holding the phone. His right hand was gesticulating. There was no contact switch to worry about.

He whispered to Eve through his secure headset.
Do I take the kill shot?

The reply came within a second.
Affirmative. Do it.

He nodded to Mace, who eased himself soundlessly into the bell tower. Moved along an empty stretch of floor behind the bells. No sound at all. All García could hear was the wind, whistling between the louvers.

He focused his eyes. Pointed to his Glock, then made a thumbs-up.

Mace had a clear shot.

García nodded.
Go for it.

Mace moved left, fired between the bells, moved left again.

Sullivan’s body jerked, then fell. The injured man tried to reach something in his pocket, but his arm responded only with a spasm of movement.

García moved in to finish the job.

The man was trying to crawl. He couldn’t. There was blood coming from his mouth. He looked at García and said, “ ’bout fucking time.”

García hesitated.

Mace didn’t.

He fired one more shot and Sullivan said no more.

T
he fellows overseas always said the end was just pretty pink mist. Quick and painless. A descent into nothingness.

They were wrong.

The pain in his chest was intense. A confused vision filled the blackness of his consciousness. He opened his mouth to ask for Eve. He wanted so desperately to explain.

But it was too hard to breathe—and he could think only of Georgie.

Suddenly it was 7:53 in the morning again, the day before yesterday, and the snow was coming down in a fast, furious squall. Thick, fat flakes covered tree branches and patches of grass, but the streets remained wet and sloppy. Beside him, Georgie was light-footed, almost buoyant, as she moved. She wasn’t talkative most mornings, but the first snowfall of winter had put her in a good mood. Snow was exciting—even though a New York City kid like Georgie would rarely ever see a day off because of it.

“Did you know that snowflakes aren’t actually white?” She stuck her tongue out to catch a giant flake.

“They sure look white.” Especially against Georgie’s new black wool hat.

“It has to do with how ice reflects light and how our brain perceives it all wrong,” she told him.

The crosswalk showed five seconds to go. She was about to go for it, but he caught her arm and held her back. His reward was the roll of her eyes that said “overprotective.” Most of her friends got to school by themselves in eighth grade. But he passed by her school on the way to work, and Georgie walked with her head in the clouds, so for now, they stuck together.

It wouldn’t last; he already knew. She was growing up too fast, so he clung to the last signs of her childhood. The way she still slept with her favorite stuffed bear. The fact that she let him kiss her good night every evening. These morning walks together to school.

“I need to get that application in,” she said. “If I’m gonna go.”

She wanted to go to acting camp next summer, but he and her mother had reservations. The Berkshires were a long way from home, and she’d be in a dorm with kids as old as eighteen. It was a daunting prospect. Even if she was thirteen-going-on-thirty.

“Sophie’s going. I could room with her,” she added, reading his thoughts.

He nodded and said nothing. Sophie was a nice enough girl, but she was part of what his ex-wife diplomatically called the fast set.

“We’ll talk over the weekend, Georgie,” he had promised.

“It’s Georgianna now, Dad,” she reminded him, with another roll of her eyes. She was grateful that they’d had the foresight to give her a suitably dramatic name. She could imagine it emblazoned on a Broadway marquee or engraved in a Hollywood star. She was annoyed that they never used it.

They reached her school.

“Goodbye.” She had blown him a hasty kiss before she turned and brushed past him, darting up the stairs to the door.

“Bye,” he’d answered, watching her, a flash of purple and gold and black in the swirling snow. The school’s motto hovered over her image.
Consectatio Excellentiae.
The pursuit of excellence. Then she disappeared into the building, other kids crowding behind her, gossiping and talking and laughing.

He remembered thinking how in another eight hours, she’d emerge the same way, and his heart would bounce that funny way it always did every time he saw her.

Except nothing had gone as planned.

He’d seen her for the last time.

His worst nightmare had become reality.

He clutched his fingers to his heart and prayed Eve would figure it all out.

10:14 p.m.

We have just received word from the New York FBI office announcing that the hostage crisis has ended.

We repeat, the hostage crisis that has gripped New York City has been resolved.

Early reports indicate that six lives have been lost. Their names are being withheld pending notification of family members.

The identity of the man responsible is being given by unofficial sources as Captain Sean Sullivan—a police officer recently suspended while under investigation by Internal Affairs. We have no information as to what may have motivated Captain Sullivan to commit the terrible acts of today.

Stay tuned. The mayor and governor will be holding a joint news conference soon with the police commissioner and FBI director to give us more details…

S
irens filled the air. The Cathedral swarmed with different operations teams. Not just FBI, but NYPD. FDNY. Homeland Security. HRT. Bomb Squad. EMS.

The former hostages were being checked.

The Cathedral was being secured.

Snow fell harder. As though Mother Nature was desperate to cover all traces of the day’s violence with a coat of white. As though that would restore the holiday spirit—and help people forget.

Eve had been among the first to rush to the bell tower room, with Haddox and Eli close behind. They waited on the landing outside. But Eve wanted to see inside.

Inside the room where Sean Sullivan lay dead.

It was odd, not having seen the shots that ended Sean’s life. She had heard them, though.

She felt relief that the remaining four hostages had survived unharmed—though her emotions were mingled with regret. She knew that Sean Sullivan had given her no choice. And yet…

What had he wanted, really? Not absolution. Not understanding. Not even justice.

The great injury of his life had been done at the hands of a Church teacher. Yet he had focused on questioning individual witnesses in a minor case. One that never seemed to have affected him deeply. Because if it had, surely he would have asked different questions. Made different plays.

During their long verbal dance, only twice had Eve felt the genuine ring of truth.

Once when he had spoken of the abuse he suffered as a child.

Again, when he talked about his daughter. Whatever had damaged him, his love for his daughter seemed unfeigned. Something true and untainted. If he had brought her to the Cathedral, then he would have kept her in a space he was certain was safe. A place where, whatever happened, she would survive, unharmed.

A forensic tech was working over Sullivan’s body, bagging specimens of evidence. Eve watched, but her mind was spinning elsewhere.

“We need to organize a search,” she said abruptly. “Mace, we need to check the Crypt as well as both Towers. García, I want to clear the Parish House and Cardinal’s Residence. Eli, can you make sure we’ve missed nothing on the main floor and choir loft?”

Haddox brushed the snow off his jacket. Donned a pair of latex gloves. “I’ll see what I can do with the different phones he used.” He reached up to grab a shopping bag full of mobile units that Eve passed down. It had been found next to Sullivan’s body.

“We need to send officers to check his home as well,” Eve said.

The forensic tech finished with the phone Sullivan had been holding when he was shot. “Want this, too?”

Eve took it, passed it to Haddox, thinking that for all the scientific advances designed to help solve the tough cases, sometimes you still couldn’t understand human behavior. It wasn’t something that could be quantified, no matter how rigorous your analysis of call patterns or social networks or money-spending habits. Stolen weapons didn’t explain it. Nor did a series of dead hostages. Sometimes you just couldn’t figure out who someone was.

He’d done monstrous things. But was he a monster?

He’d been a father who loved his child.

A husband who—at one point—had loved his wife.

A man who had found life was hard. Who couldn’t make his car payments. Or fix his teenage daughter’s pain. Or even put his belt on with the engraved initials right-side up.

“You need anything up here before we go, Eve?” Eli asked.

She was only half listening.

The belt.

The realization danced at the edge of her mind for several seconds before taking hold. Several seconds during which she noted other things.

Small things.

Like the way he had organized his supplies so they flowed back to front. His drink was to the left. The half-eaten granola bar was on the left side of a plate. The cellphone he had been using had fallen to the ground on his left. He’d been looking out the louvers, but the dust was smudged only on the left. He’d set up two laptops—on his left—to monitor activity from the cameras he had strategically placed inside and outside the Cathedral.

In fact, Sean’s final hours in this room had been spent only on the left-hand side of the room. Eve knew that because the right side was still coated in a thick layer of dust.

“You want this, too? I’ve dusted it already. I found it in his breast pocket.” The tech handed Eve a small flash drive.

Automatically, she passed that over to Haddox.

She gazed at the crossbeam. And the single item that was the exception to everything else she’d noticed.

That was where Sean Sullivan’s sniper rifle lay. Smack in the center. Neither right nor left.

A distant memory from her own days at Quantico became a thought. “García—the best snipers are usually right-handed, correct?”

“Most of the time, sure. Because sniper rifles are built for right-handed people. But it’s really more about which eye is dominant, not which hand is dominant.”

“Does it usually correspond? So right-handed people are right-eye dominant, and vice versa?”

“Again, usually. Why?”

“Can you look at that rifle and tell whether it’s set up for a right-handed or left-handed person?”

García received clearance from the forensics tech, who had already dusted the rifle for prints. He lifted it down. Looked it over. “Remember, there’s no such thing as a left-handed rifle. But I can say, this particular rifle was set up with a scope mounted for a right-handed person. Wasn’t Sullivan right-handed?”

“You know,” Mace suggested, “maybe Sullivan was ambidextrous. My left-handed layup is every bit as good as my right.”

“Sniper shooting is a whole different game,” García said.

“I agree.” And Eve explained what she had noticed. The catalog of clues that had suggested Sullivan had been left-handed. She said: “I don’t think Sullivan was the shooter.”

At first, nobody questioned her.

Then Mace erupted. “Are you telling me I shot dead a man who wasn’t a killer?”

“Sullivan was the Hostage Taker.” García matched his anger. “You heard him when we entered the room. He was right on the phone, talking to you, Eve.”

“We’ve got four hostages who now swear he was the man responsible,” Eli reminded them. “They
all
positively ID’d his photo—and testified how this man hauled each one of them into the confessional, making them admit the worst things they’d ever done.”

“We got our guy. Stopped his vigilante justice mission. So how come you don’t think he shot that sniper rifle?” Mace was furious.

García’s eyes were pure ice. “You think I’ve got all the answers? Maybe he had help. Maybe he forced one of the hostages.”

“You think he forced one hostage to shoot another? With the kind of aim only an elite sniper can brag about?”

García took a step forward. The space in the tower was already tight. His movement made it tighter. “Calm down and stop your whining. So what if he wasn’t the shooter? He was involved. He terrorized hostages. He almost certainly stole the explosives that still threaten this Cathedral. So you shot a bad cop. What do you care?”

“I ain’t trigger-happy. I’ve got a thing about killing guys for shit they didn’t do.”

It was like watching a lion face off against a hyena. Until Eve stepped between them. “Everyone needs to calm down. This is
my
case. The kill shot was
my
decision. This information complicates everything but changes nothing.”

Haddox had something in his hand; he held it up, like an offering. “Turns out we have another complication.”