The crowd was closing in now, the noose tightening fast. The ringleader—Buck’s aide-de-camp, bolstered by increasingly frenzied followers—raised the hand with the rock. Watching him, Hayward saw his eyes widen, his nostrils flare. She’d seen that look before: it was the look of someone about to strike.
“Don’t!” she shouted. “This isn’t what you’re about! It’s against everything you stand for!”
“Shut up, centurion!” Todd cried.
She stumbled, righted herself. Even at this moment of extreme danger, she realized she could not show fear. She kept her eyes on Todd—he was the greatest threat, the match for the powder keg—and let her gun hand hover near her piece. As a last resort—a very last resort—she’d have to use it. Of course, once she did, that would be the end. But she wasn’t going to go down like a cat under a pack of dogs.
Something about all this isn’t right. Something was going on; something was being played out here that she didn’t understand.
The cries of the crowd, their strange epithets, made no sense. Centurion. Soldier of Rome. What was this talk? Something Buck was subtly encouraging in recent sermons? And speaking of Buck, why had he seemed disappointed when she arrived—and then just walked away? Why the glassy, expectant look in his eyes? Something had happened to him, between this visit and the last.
What was it?
“Blasphemer!” Todd screamed. He took another step closer.
In response, the crowd tightened around Hayward. She had barely enough room to turn around now. She could feel rancid breath on the back of her neck; feel her heart beating like mad. Her hand strayed closer to the butt of her gun.
There was a pattern here, if only she could see it. There had to be.
She fought to stay rational. Her only way out of this was Buck himself. There was no other.
Quickly, she went back over her knowledge of deviant psychology, over Buck’s possible motivations. What had Wentworth said? Possibly paranoid schizophrenic, potential for a Messianic complex. Deep down, she was still convinced Buck was no schizophrenic.
But a Messianic complex . . . ?
The need to be the Messiah. Perhaps—just perhaps—Wentworth was more right on that point than he knew.
Then, in an instant of revelation, it came to her. All of Buck’s new hopes, new desires, were suddenly laid bare. This talk about Romans—they weren’t talking about Roman Catholics. They were talking about real Romans. Pagan Romans. Centurions. The soldiers who came to arrest Jesus.
She suddenly understood the script Buck was following. That was why he ignored her, walked back into the tent. She didn’t fit into his vision of what had to happen.
She faced the crowd, addressed them in her loudest voice. “A band of soldiers are coming to arrest Buck!”
This had a galvanic effect on the crowd. The yelling faltered a little, front to back, like the ripple of a stone on a pond.
“Did you hear!”
“The soldiers are coming!”
“They’re coming!” Hayward yelled encouragingly.
The crowd took up the cry as she hoped they would, acting as a megaphone to Buck. “The soldiers are coming! The centurions are coming!”
There was a movement in the crowd, a kind of general sigh. As one group moved back, Hayward saw that Buck had reappeared at the door of his tent. The crowd seethed with expectation. Todd raised his rock once again, then hesitated.
It was the opening she needed. Momentary, but just enough to call Rocker. She slipped out her radio and bent forward, shielding herself from the crowd.
“Commissioner!” she called out.
For a moment, static. Then Rocker’s voice crackled over the tiny speaker.
“What the hell’s going on, Captain? It sounds like a riot. We’re mobilizing, we’re going in now and getting your ass out—”
“No!” Hayward said sharply. “It’ll be a bloodbath!”
“She’s using her radio!” Todd screamed. “Betrayer!”
“Sir, listen to me. Send in thirty-three men. Thirty-three exactly. And those undercover cops you’ve been using for on-site intel, the ones dressed like Buck’s followers? Send in one of them. Just one.”
“Captain, I have no idea what you’re—”
“Shut up, please, and listen. Buck has to act out the passion of Christ. That’s how he sees himself. He’s New York’s sacrificial lamb. There’s no other explanation for his behavior. So we’ve got to play along, let him act it out. The undercover cop, he’s the shill, he’s Judas, he’s got to embrace Buck. Do you hear, sir? He’s got to embrace Buck. And then the cops move in and make the cuff. You do that, Commissioner, and there’ll be no riot. Buck will go peacefully. Otherwise—”
“But thirty men? That’s not enough—”
“Thirty-three. The number in a Roman band.”
“Get her radio!” Hayward was jostled. She spun away, shielding her radio.
“Are you telling me Buck thinks—”
“Just do it, sir. Now!”
Hayward felt herself shoved hard from behind. She lost her grip on the radio, and it went flying into the crowd.
“Agent of darkness!”