Grable’s mouth sagged but no sound came out.
The crowd was pressing in, a wall of people quickly forming at the front, others streaming in from every direction, ringing the tent, a babble of angry voices.
Shit. She turned to face the crowd. “Look, friends, we’re not here to cause trouble.”
“Liar!”
The cry went up. “Blasphemers!”
They pressed in. Buck said nothing, did nothing; he just stood there, the picture of dignity.
“Look,” said Hayward, holding out her hands, keeping her voice calm, “there’s just the two of us. Nothing to get excited about.”
“Godless soldiers of Rome!”
“Keep your filthy hands off the reverend!”
This was even uglier than she thought. Grable was backing up instinctively, eyes roaming for an escape route that did not exist.
The crowd surged forward, growing angrier.
“Touch either one of us and it’s assault,” Hayward said, loudly but calmly.
This paused the front of the crowd; but with others behind pressing forward, it was only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed.
Grable dropped the handcuffs and went for his gun.
“Grable, no!” Hayward yelled.
Immediately, a roar went up. “He’s going to shoot! Murderer! Judas!” The front wall surged forward.
Whang! went the gun into the air, the reaction to the sudden sound rippling through the crowd. And in that instant, Buck, standing only a few feet behind Grable, knocked the gun from his hand with one swift, sure motion.
Thank God, thought Hayward, keeping her hands in sight and well away from her own piece. Something had to be done right away, or they were toast. She turned and spoke to Buck. “You better do something, Reverend. It’s all in your hands.”
Buck stepped forward, raising his hands. There was silence from the crowd, an instant stillness.
He let a moment pass, and then slowly lowered his arm and aimed a steady finger at Grable. “This man came here under the cloak of the Prince of Darkness to arrest me. But God has exposed his deceit.”
Grable appeared speechless.
“These centurions, these soldiers of Rome, entered our encampment like skulking snakes, on the devil’s own errand. And they have been defeated by their own shame and cowardice.”
“Shame, cowards!”
Hayward took advantage of a lull to speak quietly to Buck. “We’d like to go now.”
Another roar erupted from the crowd. “Shame!”
A stick flew out of the crowd, landing in the dust by their feet. She could see others being brandished above the crowd. People on the fringes had begun to hunt among the shrubbery for rocks.
Hayward leaned forward, speaking again in a low voice she hoped only Buck could hear. “Reverend Buck? What’s going to happen to you and your followers if we get injured? Or taken hostage? How do you think the NYPD will react to that?” She smiled coldly. “It’ll make Waco look like a Sunday barbecue.”
There was a moment of silence. Then, not even acknowledging he’d heard, Buck raised his hands again and bowed his head. Once more a silence immediately fell.
“My people,” he said. “My people. We are Christians. They may come with malice, but we must show them compassion and forgiveness.” He turned to his aide-de-camp. “Open a way for the unclean ones, Todd. Let them go in peace.”
Slowly, the sticks were lowered. A lane appeared amidst the shuffling throng. Hayward bent forward, face burning; picked up Grable’s gun, tucked it into her belt. She turned away only to realize Grable wasn’t following. He was still rooted in place.
“You coming, Captain?”
He started, looked around, then walked past without looking at her. After a moment, he broke into a trot. A great cheer rose up from the crowd. Hayward followed at a dignified walk, eyes straight ahead, struggling not to betray in any way—through expression, posture, voice—that she was enduring the worst humiliation of her entire career.
{ 67 }
A gunshot, terribly loud, sounded in D’Agosta’s ear. It was Pendergast, firing over the heads of the crowd.
The assassin turned and saw them approaching. He glanced back down at the crumpled figure at his feet, looked quickly around him, then turned and fled. Monks in brown robes were clustered around their fallen brother, some praying, others crying out and gesticulating.
A number of monks were pointing to the back of the church. “Da questa parte! è scappato di là!”
Pendergast shot them a glance. “Vincent, after him!” He had his cell phone out and was already calling for a medevac helicopter.
A monk leaped up and grasped D’Agosta’s arm. “I help you,” he said in broken English. “Follow me.”