Thursday 8:46 P.M.
Ian grabbed his phone. The four of them scrambled out of the choir loft and down the stairs. Turner saw flames in the direction from which they’d entered. They hurried in the opposite direction toward the transept. They ran into the others in the nave.
“Not that way,” Fenwick yelled. “There’s fire back there.”
They ran toward the altar. Flames and smoke filled the exit they used to go to Bruchard’s office Saturday night.
Pelagius yelled, “We’re all going to die.” The chance of dying was what it took to move the prelate from his pseudo-suave manner.
Demarco said, “This way.”
He led them to a confessional booth, opened the central door, and slipped inside. “Through here,” he called back.
Most of them had to turn sideways to get through. The detectives let the civilians slip into the narrow opening.
Duggan turned at the entrance. “We should save the paintings!”
“Screw the paintings.” Bruchard tried to shove him forward. “They aren’t your personal property. Besides, they’re all fake. And they’re insured.”
“That’s insurance fraud.”
Bruchard grinned. “Yes, I know.”
“You set the fire?” Duggan yelled.
“Are you mad? I’ve been with you.”
“You could have ordered it.”
“Not while I’m inside, you moron. Get moving.” He shoved him again.
Duggan stumbled and fell. Bruchard stepped on him in his rush to get out, but his ankle twisted and he fell on top of the prelate.
Turner and Fenwick untangled them, helped them up. When everyone else was out of the transept, Fenwick started through. Turner looked back. Flames had caught on the pews and were licking up some of the wooden trusses.
Demarco was on the other side. He pointed the way to go. In moments they were outside.
In the courtyard, fire trucks and lights filled the lawn and parking lot. An odd scene played out as Turner stumbled through the door. Ian was on top of Tresca. The bishop was squirming and struggling. Duggan and Bruchard were trying to rip Ian off of Tresca. Pelagius slapped at the mêlée ineffectually. Prelates went flying as Fenwick waded in. Demarco stood aside. The other religious leaders’ screams were lost in the cacophony of the building conflagration and the accumulating apparatus to fight it.
“What the hell is going on?” Fenwick demanded. Ian had Tresca’s right wrist up against the middle of his back. Every time Tresca attempted to struggle, he twisted the wrist and tried to yank it higher on his back. Tresca gave up trying to get free and began shouting to be let go.
Fenwick had his arms wide holding back any intervention by the angry prelates.
Turner saw that Ian had blood on his lip. Red oozed from Tresca’s nose.
Breathing heavily, Ian responded to Fenwick’s question. “He tried to run. I tackled him. He seemed to think making a mad dash away from us was a good idea. I felt like stopping him. I decided not to be gentle.”
Duggan said, “He gang-tackled him. Let him go.”
Fenwick ignored him. Fire personnel swirled around them, directing their group away from the buildings. When they got to the street, Fenwick found a group of uniformed officers. He pointed to Tresca. “Cuff him. Take him to the back of a squad car.”
Fenwick ignored all the prelates’ protests.
Turner told the next few uniformed cops, two of whom were Sanchez and Deveneaux, “Keep these guys in one place.” He indicated Pelagius, Drake, Bruchard, and Duggan. “Don’t let them leave.”
Fenwick added, “If they try anything, cuff them too.”
Pelagius got in Fenwick’s face. “I have diplomatic immunity.”
Fenwick asked, “Do I look like the kind of guy who gives a shit about that right now?”
A group of priests, Turner presumed from the Abbey, stood half a block away inside the police perimeter but outside the walls of the grounds. They gesticulated and pointed towards their high ranking colleagues, but none of them moved closer.
The uniformed cops got Tresca into the back of a cop car. They surrounded the remaining clerics and Drake with a cordon of officers. They put Sanchez in charge.
They left the bellyaching clerics and headed back toward the burning Abbey. Turner noted the representatives of the church avoided getting near any of the crush of television vehicles and reporters standing half a block away behind the police line.
As Turner, Fenwick, and Ian walked toward the fire, the reporter dabbed at his still-oozing lip.