Foley prayed no one would be killed, prayed the bomb squad would get here in time to defuse the bomb before it caused massive destruction to one of the most revered religious landmarks in the world. Where was the bomb squad? New York City had the fastest bomb squad response time in the nation. Where were they? And shouldn’t there be more cops? Soon now it would be too late, and all the beautiful stained-glass windows inside St. Pat’s would be shattered, its incredible art destroyed. It seemed to Foley that everyone around him was thinking the same thing. An eerie silence fell as they stood and waited, Foley praying as hard as he had when he’d heard his son had been in an auto accident three months before. They all stared at St. Pat’s, at the final lines of mourners racing to safety. Was everyone out now? He stood stiff beside Mrs. Greiman, holding one of her gloved hands while her daughter held the other; she didn’t quite understand what was going on.
Foley couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He stared, appalled to see Cardinal Dolan, Monsignor Ritchie, priests, and deacons wheeling out Senator Greiman’s coffin. Some of them carried objects from the altar, a monstrance and the tabernacle holding the Eucharist. The cardinal walked calmly alongside the gurney, helped lift it down the steps and into the street, pushing it faster now, to safety, the senator’s grandson and the police joining them. Foley had the insane urge to laugh. He knew how much Card would have enjoyed all that attention. He didn’t know it, but in his death, Card had become a symbol. Perhaps they were all symbols, and symbols counted.
Where was the bomb squad? Not that it mattered, because there was no time left, Foley thought, no more time.
Father Joseph knew time was fast running out. He’d heard a Secret Service agent tell another that the New York bomb squad and upward of one hundred cops were at JFK because of a terrorist incident, and they weren’t going to make it back in time. A second bomb squad wasn’t going to make it, either. Was there enough explosive to gut the cathedral? Bring down the scores of concrete pillars?
Father Joseph and everyone else were wondering the same thing, but he knew the cathedral better than they did. He imagined the terrorist bomb tearing through the sanctuary and the Baptistry, and all the chapels that would be destroyed. At least there would be no loss of life in God’s house today.
Father Joseph slipped across the street and inside a doorway. He looked beyond the Altar of Saint Elizabeth to the Lady Chapel, and he knew he wasn’t going to let this happen. He couldn’t. He ignored the two cops who were yelling at him from the street to move back out of the cathedral, and he ran toward the closet. He grabbed the backpack and ran, flinging open one of the side front doors onto Fifth Avenue. As he ran out, a cop yelled at him but didn’t try to stop him. He started running beside him.
Oddly, only the senator’s big black hearse remained at the curb; everything and everyone else were well away. Thank you, God. There was a blur of sounds around him, thousands of horns blaring from distant drivers who had no clue what was happening, people shouting, police yelling at him, screaming at him to drop the damned backpack and run, but he didn’t. He hurled the backpack as far as he could onto Fifth Avenue.
The bomb exploded in midair just beyond the hearse, the concussion from the blast so powerful it hurled Father Joseph and the policeman next to him back toward the bronze cathedral doors. Even as he struck his head, Father Joseph saw one of the hearse doors fly through the air and land against the sidewalk, not a dozen feet away. The force of the explosion was so tremendous that shards of metal—were they nails? Bolts?—were spewed high into the air and were still falling on the street and on the police cruisers, some of them landing in the crowds behind them. There were shouts of surprise, of pain, people scrambling to move farther away. He looked down at himself and over at the policeman next to him to see how badly he was injured. The police officer was propped up on his elbows beside him, shaking his head, staring at the mayhem around them, and then their eyes met. “Are you all right, Father?”
Father Joseph nodded even though he knew shards of metal had torn through his cassock and into his body, but it didn’t matter. They’d both survived. “And you?”
“Yes. You’ve a brave man, Father.”
“So are you.” They smiled at each other. Father Joseph saw the cop was an older man, maybe close to fifty, his face scored with years of life. He took one of the officer’s hands in his. Together they watched.
Foley heard ambulances, sirens blaring, saw scores of paramedics making their way through the crowds, saw several of them on their knees beside Father Joseph and the cop who’d come running out of the cathedral with him. He saw a young altar boy in his white cape run to Father Joseph and fall to his knees beside him. He saw the priest speak to the boy, take his hands, squeeze them, saw the boy’s lips moving in frantic prayer. The agent beside Foley told him it was the young altar boy Romeo Rodriguez who’d alerted them to the bomb. He saw the paramedics didn’t try to send the boy away.