He moved the light around the room, looking for anything else of interest. Seeing nothing, he returned his attention to the desk and began to open the drawers. Again, nothing. But the middle drawer on the right side was locked. He took the chisel once more and jimmied the drawer open. It was empty, except for a manila folder similar to those in the locked cabinet. He held it up, his eyes widening in terror. The folder was labeled: ALLISON PARKER/THERESE. His hands trembling, he opened it. In the Allison Parker section was the resume’ of her life up to December 19, 1973, including a detailed history of her attempted suicides, her defection from the church, the complete series of events surrounding Karen Farmer’s death…all incredibly accurate…and a resume of his own activities over the last three years. In the Therese file was a complete nun’s history, beginning on December 19, 1973.
Today was December 18. Michael carefully examined both resumes and studied Allison’s picture that was attached. Then he closed the folder and placed it on top of the others he’d removed. The room had suddenly become stifling. Sitting down in the desk chair, his eyes lifting to the ceiling, he thought about what he’d uncovered…the magnitude, the horror. But he still couldn’t understand what was happening. Or how the church knew all those details.
The church was involved with Allison, she was involved with the old priest, and something diabolical was planned for her. Why? He didn’t know. Where? He did. The brownstone. When? He knew that also. Tomorrow. Maybe she hadn’t imagined the presence of Chazen and the others. Maybe they were part of what was now appearing to be some monstrous, inconceivable plot. The Catholic Church? Involved in something like this? As irreligious as he was, he still couldn’t believe it. He looked up at the cross and restrained the impulse to rip it from the wall and smash it.
He lowered his head; whatever was going to happen, he’d stop it. Both for Allison’s preservation and, in view of what he’d read, his own.
He turned off the flashlight, lifted the files, gingerly made his way to the window, and jumped out into the darkness.
24
The sky was blue, a rare occurrence in New York. The sun, angled toward its winter solstice, shone brilliantly. As Michael hurried down the crowded street, he squinted against the blinding rays that reflected off the moving cars and massive glass and steel skyscrapers. He shivered, wearing only a light jacket. One hand continually rubbed his shoulders to maintain the circulation; the other remained at his side, wrapped tightly about the handle of an attaché case.
He walked east on Fifty-second Street, across heavily traveled Third Avenue, and into the residential neighborhood that bordered the business district. His thoughts in chaos, he stopped outside a garden apartment, squeezed his hand to verify that his case was still safe and protected, and opened the frost-covered door. His handprint remained for several seconds, gradually clouded, then disappeared, as the warm moisture left by his sweaty palm froze, coated the glass, then evaporated.
He consulted the list of tenants and pressed the button next to apartment 3R. After a second ring, the speaker crackled. “Hello?” a voice said.
“It’s Michael,” he replied.
The speaker clicked off.
He grabbed the doorknob; the lock buzzed. He pushed through, walked around the bend in the lobby to the right, and entered an open elevator, which was filled with garbage bags collected on the superintendent’s rounds. He scowled…the odor was dreadful…pushed the button marked 3 and, while counting the passing floors, reviewed the precise information he’d reveal and the plan of action he’d undertake. He needed help, but, unfortunately, the usual sources were foreclosed to him. Jennifer would have to do, and, in all likelihood, she’d be perfect. With Allison’s life at stake, he could count on her to do exactly what he’d tell her to do and then keep her mouth shut. She was Allison’s best friend, wasn’t she?
He stepped off the elevator, quickly greeted Jennifer in the doorway of her apartment, entered, laid the contents of his case on the dining table, reviewed the events in the brownstone, then quickly explained the significance of the documents.
She listened incredulously.
He repeated everything to emphasize his absolute certainty as to the facts. Finally, he sat back and waited to field what he hoped would be very few questions and un-probing ones at that.
He was wrong.
“What about the person she supposedly stabbed?” Jennifer asked, as she walked toward him from the far end of the brightly furnished living room. She stopped by a tall bookcase, removed a slow-burning cigarette from a shelf, puffed nervously, then continued to his side, cigarette in hand.
“I don’t know,” he replied, knowing full well that it was Brenner who’d been cut to ribbons when he’d stumbled into the apartment. “I still think she imagined the murder. Don’t forget, she was still hysterical during the entire sequence from the moment she woke and heard the footsteps.” The rationale appeared sound. In actuality, though, Brenner had failed to complete a relatively simple assignment. Anyone could have done it right, but Brenner couldn’t keep himself out of trouble, so the idiot was dead for no reason whatsoever, and because of it, he now had that little bastard Gatz on his back again. As if he didn’t have enough problems. Yet, he’d only himself to blame; he should never have run the risk of using Brenner again for anything.
“Why don’t we go to the police?” Jennifer asked.
“No,” he countered quickly.
“Why not? Nobody’s done anything wrong. Even if Allison did stab someone, it certainly wasn’t murder.”
No, it wasn’t, he thought to himself. There, at least, he was in agreement. If anything, it was an unfortunate accident. But he couldn’t go to the police. He was concerned with the identity of the detective and the possibility that the police might establish a link between himself and the corpse. And, God forbid, they should discover or be told the information in Franchino’s files.
“No police,” he declared.
“You’re not making any sense,” said Jennifer.
“If the police get involved, they’ll deal with this the way they’d deal with a burglary and do it incompetently. Then nothing will save Allison. If we don’t do things my way, she’s finished.” He stared at Jennifer intently.
“But…”
“No!”
“We’re dealing with something we don’t understand,” Jennifer snapped.
“If we don’t, the police certainly won’t. No, we won’t go to the police, and that’s final.” He began to shuffle the papers on the table. “Let’s assume for one minute that we accept all this as the truth.” He held several of the documents in the air and shook his head. “Allison is meant to lose her identity and reappear as someone else.”
“Sister Therese?”
“Whatever that is.”
“A nun,” Jennifer added needlessly.
He nodded, the absurdity of the situation not mitigated by the evidence…at least as far as he was concerned. But since he was making assumptions, he’d no alternative, but to follow them to their conclusions, no matter how illogical.
“And Halliran?” Jennifer questioned once again.
“Judging from these histories, Halliran will also disappear and Allison in the person of Sister Therese will take his place.”
Jennifer dragged hard on the cigarette.
Michael lifted the translation and read, “To thee thy course by Lot hath given charge and strict watch that to this happy Place no evil thing approach or enter in.” It’s obviously directed to Allison. Sets her up as a sentinel of some sort. Father Halliran, if we continue with our prior assumptions, is also a sentinel.”
They stood silently reviewing the files.
“What about her father and the other people she saw in the brownstone.”
“I thought they were illusions. It made sense. She’d always despised her father.”
“Yes.”
“The scene she confronted in the brownstone was the recreation of an event earlier in her life. Could I have made any other logical conclusion? What was it? A hallucination? A nightmare? A breakdown? Take your pick. But now I’m not so sure. And that goes for Chazen and the others also. No, I think they were actually in the brownstone, supplied by the Archdiocese.” He paused, drank from the glass of Coke, which she’d poured for him, and continued. “They might have her under some kind of hypnosis. That would explain many things. How she saw that book passage. How she found the rental listing in the paper when there was no such listing.”
Jennifer removed the deed from the stack of papers and held it out.
“I went to the landlord’s apartment to ask him some questions. He wasn’t there. Monsignor Franchino must have known I was lying when I said I was Caruso’s lawyer. For all I know, the inquisition could be meeting right now to determine what to do with me.”
“Michael,” Jennifer said, “this is all well and good, but how do you stop them?”
“I don’t know, but I will. According to those files, whatever’s going to happen will happen tomorrow. I intend to stand guard at the brownstone, starting at twelve tonight.”
“But…”
“I’ll be damned if I’ll let a bunch of religious fanatics destroy Allison.” He spun from the table and paced nervously around the room. “And let’s not get too carried away with this mumbo jumbo. We’re dealing with some very real characters, not magic. The question is, what are they after?”
“I think we should call the police.”
“No. For the last time, no!”
“Please?”
“I don’t want to even discuss it. No police.”
“Why? Because you’re afraid of them? Because what I’ve found out about your past may be true?”
“I don’t think…”
She interrupted. “What you did is unimportant right now. Allison’s in trouble; if you really care for her, you’ll put her first, no matter what you’re afraid might come out.”
“I am putting her first!”
“No, you’re not!”
“No? Do you think I’m involved in this for my enjoyment?”
“I really don’t know why you’re involved or how.” Jennifer paused, then continued. “Maybe you made up all these files. Maybe you did take Allison into the museum intentionally to see the statue of the woman. Maybe you’re involved with these priests. Maybe there are no priests. And maybe you want to set me up as an alibi, so that you can kill her like you did Karen and place the blame elsewhere.”
Michael grabbed her by the hair and bent her over the back of the chair. She shook him off, unafraid.
“Don’t mention Karen again,” he warned. “For once and for all, Karen killed herself, because I left her.”
Jennifer straightened her hair. “You know, Michael, I’ve always known that under that regal calm was a vile temper.”
“I still insist on handling this my way.”
“And that is?” she asked skeptically.
“I’m going to bring her here tonight.” He paused, thinking, then continued. “I want you to have a dinner party. Get on the phone and call everyone you know. Have them here by ten, so that by the time I bring Allison, there’ll be enough people to keep her surrounded and occupied while I’m at the brownstone.”
Jennifer stared, her expression implying agreement.
“And make sure she stays here! No matter what happens, keep her here.”
“What if she gets sick?”
“I’ll leave you her doctor’s number. He’ll come right over.”
Jennifer nodded haltingly; she had no alternative.
He put his arm around her and placed his mouth next to her ear. “No matter what you think, I love that girl and no one’s going to hurt her. No one!” It was an admission, a significant gesture of emotion for him. “I mean that.”
She stood back. “I suppose you do,” she said, still regarding him suspiciously.
He gathered the papers and placed them back in his briefcase.
“Shouldn’t I keep them tonight?” Jennifer asked.
“Why?”
She lowered her eyes. “Just in case.”
“No, I think I’d better keep the papers with me,” he said. “I might need them.”
He opened the door and walked out with the briefcase at his side. Had he told her too much? He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t even sure if she could be trusted. She could be on the phone with the police right at this very moment, as he was on his way uptown toward home. Yet, he’d had no choice. Someone had to be with Allison this evening, someone who had some knowledge about what might happen.
He walked up Madison, ignoring the window displays, then he turned onto Seventy-first Street, stopped and stood on the corner looking toward the gray stone wall in the distance that bounded Central Park on Fifth. The long bench that lay shielded beneath the shoulder-high wall had only one occupant, an old, hunched-over gentleman in a top hat with a long black cane. The street was quiet.
He kicked at the discolored leaves that had fallen from one of the trees. He was nervous. The role of the hero did not become him. He realized that more than ever as he said to himself, “Mr. Gatz, I wish you were dead.” Then he turned and entered his building.
“Good evening,” said the doorman.
“Hello, George.” Michael started to hurry through the hall.
“Mr. Farmer?”
“Yes.”
“A gentleman went up to your apartment a moment ago.”
“Who?”
“I don’t remember his name.”
He thought for a moment, then asked abruptly. “What’d he look like?”
“Kinda short with a shriveled cigar in his mouth.”
“Damn you. Why’d you let him up?”
“Miss Parker said to,” he stammered.
Michael shook his head and turned to the elevator. Then he stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “His name is Gatz. Detective Gatz.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t forget it. And don’t ever let him back in here again without my okay.”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
Michael raced around the bend in the hall to the elevator and pressed the up button. He waited. The elevator doors opened and Detective Gatz started out. Seeing Michael, he jolted to a stop and stepped back into the empty elevator.
Michael hesitated. The other elevator arrived; the doors opened. He quickly squirmed in past a small boy. Gatz jumped from his elevator and rammed his hand between the closing doors. The doors stopped and reversed.
“Bastard!” cried Michael, bracing himself.
“How crude,” said Gatz smiling.
Michael coiled and pushed himself off the wall toward the doorway. Gatz reacted quickly; he blocked the exit, jammed his hand into Michael’s throat and hurled him back.
The elevator shook violently, as if the suspending cables were about to snap.
The detective jumped into the car. The doors closed behind him. “Now you keep your ass still.”
“You got a warrant?”
“No.”
“Then up yours.”
“We don’t need a warrant to talk.”
Michael tried to press the open button, but Gatz smashed Michael’s hand and pinned his shoulders against the panel.
“Cool it, my friend,” the detective cautioned.
“You cool it and keep your hands off me.” Michael pulled away. “What did you want with Allison?”
“Nothing.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see you.”
“For another friendly chat?”
“How’d you guess?”
> “I’m not interested.”
“Yes, you are!” Gatz’s voice was raised, his meaning unmistakable. He and Michael were going to talk whether Michael liked it or not.
Michael stared angrily, then lowered his raised fists. “I can’t resist your charms,” he finally said.
“I’ve had a hunch about you ever since I first heard that big mouth of yours,” Gatz began. “And I have a hunch about you now. Few facts, no real proof. Not much more than an idea as to what you’re up to and why. But my nose told me…”
“And it ain’t never been wrong. I’ve heard that a thousand times.”
Gatz pointed his second finger at Michael, holding it an inch from his face. “I’m warning you.”
The doors to the elevator opened. A middle-aged woman with a small white poodle in one hand and a gift-wrapped package in the other, stepped inside.
Gatz raised his hand. “Please use the other elevator.”
“Excuse me,” said the startled woman.
Gatz dug his hand into his pocket, removed his wallet, and held it open in front of her, his badge showing. “Police business. Take the other elevator.” He wasn’t asking; he was commanding.
The woman ogled the little detective, then turned to Michael for some explanation. Michael looked away and the woman stepped back off the elevator. The door closed.
Gatz bobbed his cigar and continued. “I got hold of Andrew Parker’s will. A lot of money and almost all of it left to his beloved daughter. A most tempting sum of money. Like a big lump of cheese.” He grabbed the mousetrap from his pocket and pulled it out. “Now this is interesting, but then again a lot of people get left big sums of money from their fathers.”
“So what?”
“So what?” That’s a very interesting fact. Perhaps the reason why you might want to get rid of the girl or scare her to death or just plain scare her.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. If I ever tried something like that, I’d be sure to have married her first. Now, my friend, I’m getting off the elevator.”
The Sentinel Page 21