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After communion, the mass ended, and everyone prepared to follow the hearse to bury Octavia at Forest Lawn, where the first of her family, a great-grandfather, Damian Ryan, had been buried in 1907.
“The Lord be with you.”
“And with your spirit.”
“May almighty God bless you, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen. The mass is ended, go in peace.”
Savich saw Sherlock wipe her eyes and hugged her against him. Mr. Maitland stood to embrace family and friends, a rock in a massive tide of pain. Savich wondered how Victor knew where Octavia would be on her last weekend. Everyone believed he’d been following her, but she hadn’t noticed. And why should she?
Sherlock had frowned. “But Octavia would have noticed, Dillon, if he’d followed her there,” she’d said. “She dealt with very bad people.”
Of course, a lot of people knew about Victor Nesser, but none had spoken to him or seen him. None admitted to telling anyone outside of work of Octavia’s plans to spend the week in Willicott with Agent Sala Porto.
Octavia’s funeral procession assembled. Six men, all colleagues of hers, took their places beside Octavia’s coffin, waiting for the priest and the celebrants to lead them down the aisle and outside to the hearse. Father McKay, his two deacons, and a single altar girl stepped out in front of the coffin as the organ began to play “In Paradisum.” There was no conversation, only people standing, waiting to leave their pews to fall in behind the coffin as it passed. As the procession started down the aisle, there was a deafening explosion. Stained-glass windows shattered inward, showering people with glass. The music soared. The building heaved, the pulpit shook, and Octavia Ryan’s photograph toppled off the easel.
There was pandemonium.
33
* * *
Mr. Maitland was already yelling into his cell phone. Savich jumped onto the pew, cupped his mouth, and shouted, “Everyone, stop! Stay calm. Father, pallbearers, move Octavia’s coffin as quickly as you can out of the church. Those FBI agents near the exits, lead people out safely. All other FBI agents, take a pew and form a line. People, if anyone in your line is hurt, help them. Everyone, do not panic.”
Sherlock grabbed his arm, “I smell smoke, Dillon. The church is on fire!”
He shouted again, “Cover your mouths, do not inhale the smoke. Quickly now! Move! We will all get out of here—”
There were already sirens in the distance.
Savich heard the flames now, smelled the gas from the pipes in the basement. The church would come down fast. He felt the building heave beneath his feet, watched the pulpit crash forward onto the floor and roll down the six deep steps into the nave. The thick old timbers overhead creaked.
He shouted, “Keep walking. Do not run, take care of those around you. We will all get out of here.”
Mr. Maitland pressed forward to reach Octavia’s mother, who was standing stunned, shocked immobile, staring up at the beams, leaning into her daughter. “Mama, let’s go, please.”
Mr. Maitland took Mrs. Ryan’s hand and gently led her from the pew. He weaved his way toward the nave exit, leading the dozen family members to safety, and ran back into the church. He saw Savich lifting a sobbing old woman into his arms. People moved aside for him as he carried her out of the church, gave her to an agent, and ran back in.
The cathedral was thick now with smoke, billowing up from the basement, the heat of the flames burning the air. Savich pulled a handkerchief away from his face and shouted, “Keep your faces covered! Everyone, you’re doing great! Keep moving and help anyone who needs it.” Another stained-glass window burst overhead. People coughed and moved. Children were screaming, parents were trying desperately to protect them from the fire that was raging closer and closer.
A wild-eyed man with a camera around his neck was screaming, “We’re going to burn to death! I can feel the fire coming right under my feet! We’re going to die!” He shoved people aside to get to the exit. Savich grabbed his arm, jerked him around, and cold-cocked him. Savich handed him off to two men in line, who dragged him between them.
The air was choked with thick, acrid smoke, the heat from the closing fire fearsome. Not much more time, Savich knew, before the building collapsed, before the flames engulfed all of them, but the lines of mourners kept moving out the exits. Savich saw Sherlock leading a line of people through the opposite side door. She was safe, too.
Fire trucks, police cars, and ambulances jammed the street a block away from the church. It was too hot to get closer. Police and firefighters ran forward to help agents with the last of the stragglers and help the injured away. The fire was blazing hot and fast, a scene from hell, flames licking into the sky, the smoke black and thick, gushing out of the inferno.
Sala saw Bill Culver walk quickly to the hearse. A huge spear of stained glass had stabbed through the hood, and it wouldn’t start. The hearse, once black, was now covered with gray ash. Sala saw Octavia’s brother wave Culver off, saw his expression was hard with dislike and distrust, but Bill ignored him. The pallbearers pushed the hearse forward, away from the building.
The fire burned so hot, people kept moving away, staring at the once-beautiful cathedral so quickly reduced to rubble, trying to make sense of what had happened. Ty heard a small boy ask, “Papa, what happened to God’s house?”
There were screams and shouts when the roof, blazing brighter than the sun, collapsed, and rancid smoke gushed into the air.
Ty saw a young woman, tears streaming down her face as she rocked a baby. Why was she alone? Where was the rest of the family? Ty hugged the young woman and her child close and eased her into a
crowd, whispered to an older couple, “Please, comfort her as best you can and keep the reporters away from her.” People were coughing, some hacking up the smoke that had filled their lungs, and she prayed they would be all right. EMTs were circulating, tending to those with burns or smoke inhalation. Ambulances screamed in and out of the scene.
Ty saw a reporter closing fast on Octavia’s family, a mic in his fist, his eyes shining with excitement. Nothing like pain and tragedy to bring out a soulless vulture. She started forward to steer the reporter away, but she saw Mr. Maitland move to stand between him and the family, a rock. The reporter was yelling about freedom of the press, but Mr. Maitland didn’t move. She thought he snorted.
Ty heard someone shout terrorists had blown up the cathedral. That’s when it hit her hard. There was no doubt in her mind Victor Nesser had set the bombs. Was he here, watching and gloating, pumping his frigging fist? She lightly laid her hand on the arm of an older man whose breathing was too fast. “Take shallow breaths, slowly. That’s it. Everyone got out. It’s over.” She prayed that was so. Thankfully, the man’s breathing slowed. Still, he held on to her hand like a lifeline. “Where is your family?”
