“No more questions.” He looked toward the crowd. “Jennifer!” he called.
“You’re leaving?” she asked, coming over.
“Yes. Make sure Allison’s comfortable.”
Michael opened the closet, removed his coat, and threw it over his arm. Then he grasped the handle of the black briefcase and pulled it out.
“What’s in that?” asked Allison, seemingly noticing it for the first time.
“Nothing.” Michael turned to the door.
“Michael,” Jennifer cautioned, “be careful.”
Allison glanced at her quickly, then threw her arms around Michael. He held her and stroked her hair, then pulled her arms away and pushed her in Jennifer’s direction.
“Let me go with you,” Allison pleaded meekly.
He didn’t respond. Just opened the door and left.
26
Michael blew on his hands; the cold wind and temperature had frozen them white. Cursing, he replaced his gloves, turned the corner onto Eighty-ninth Street, and walked slowly down the street.
There were no people, few sounds. It was as if all life had fled the area, perhaps in expectation of an unnatural event.
Two cars turned onto the block, passed him, and rumbled into the distance. He stopped and stared. Across the street was the brownstone.
As he scanned the front entrance and the black windows, a violent gust of wind whipped across his back. By some quirk of the senses, the wind magnified both his visual impression of darkness and the already terrifying knowledge that he would have to engage the brownstone alone.
He began to cross. In the center of the street he stopped. The angle was perfect, the light just sufficient. He’d seen nothing in the fifth-floor windows from his prior position, but in this exposed setting, somewhat nearer than before, he could see a form, undefined, but seated, apparently staring out the window, waiting. It was the priest. Father Matthew Halliran. Or William O’Rourke by birth. Was the man really blind? If there was a plot, he doubted it. No, it seemed logical that the blindness was a ploy, an assumption that, if correct, allowed the old man to sit and watch the world with impunity.
Aware suddenly of his own visibility, he quickly jogged to the sidewalk. He removed a set of keys from his pocket, cautiously walked up the stone staircase, and ducked into the vestibule. No one could see him now, but he was anything but secure. He was expecting company, and unless he was overestimating his opponents, they would be expecting him.
He placed the black briefcase on the ground, removed a flashlight from his jacket, and tested the beam. Nodding his satisfaction, he withdrew a revolver and inspected the chambers. The gun was loaded, the safety off, ready to use. He placed the gun in his belt.
Peeking from the vestibule and, seeing no one, he picked up his case, inserted Allison’s key into the front door, and opened it. As the door closed behind him, he looked up at the ceiling where the isolated bulbs burned alone, producing a strange moonlike effect. He turned on the flashlight and waved it about the walls to observe the effect of the haze on the beam. It was minimal. He turned off the light, placed the flashlight back in his pocket, pulled the gun, and began to move forward.
Flinching violently, he whipped the gun around. There was movement, but it was his own. He regarded his reflection in a full-length mirror, emitted a silent, breathy laugh, and threw his gloves on the table. Looking up into the void that was the second floor, he pulled himself up the stairs, one hand on the gun, the other on the banister.
Allison clutched her head, screamed, and staggered. Tucci grabbed her to prevent a fall.
“Somebody get some ice!”
Allison pitched and swayed. Heads turned.
“Quick!”
Allison waved her right arm and righted herself.
With her palms pressed against her forehead, she murmured, “I’ll be all right.”
The party had stopped. Everyone stood motionless.
Jennifer rushed to her side. “What is it?” she asked, panicked.
“I’m all right,” Allison answered unconvincingly.
“Come sit down.”
Without waiting for a reply, Jennifer pulled her to the sofa and forced her to sit. “I’ll get some ice.”
“I don’t need it. I’ll be all right. Just leave me for a few minutes.”
“Allison.”
“Please!”
Jennifer assented and stood up.
Sixty eyes were glued on them, inquisitive, concerned, perplexed.
Michael reached the top of the stairs and leaned back against the paneled wall; the floor lights out, he pulled the flashlight from his pocket and flicked it on. The beam highlighted an empty hall. Apartment 2B lay directly to his right, apartment 2A at the far end. He reached across to 2B, turned the knob, but the door was locked. Disappointed, he raised his hand, grabbed the little bulb, and turned it. It was dead. He shook his head, satisfied that the preparations had been made. Whoever was in control had seen that the proper atmosphere for a night of horror had been arranged. The doors were locked; the lights were out. He flashed the beam on the walls, seeing the new paneling that had been placed over the old, something he’d never noticed before. It looked strange, almost beckoning to be inspected. But that could come later. First, he was going to search each apartment and tear each apart, hoping to find a clue to help lead him to the truth, any clue.
He started with Allison’s apartment.
Apartment 3A.
When he finally left it, the living room was wrecked. He’d torn out every piece of upholstery, emptied the closets, and dumped the drawers, looking for hidden microphones, speakers, or any other gadget that might have been used to frighten her. He’d performed the same surgery in the bedroom, but since that was the site of most of the noises, his search there had been more extensive. Where would I hide a microphone he’d asked himself as a point of departure; then he’d searched. He’d found nothing; his only reward, a veil of dust and plaster that covered his entire body, giving him a ghostlike appearance, curiously appropriate for the circumstances.
Now standing in the hall, he looked at his watch; it was twelve forty-five. He considered his alternatives. He could go up to the priest’s apartment or stop at one on the way. The former seemed more expedient but, in effect, might not be helpful. The old man had never opened the door before and he was sure that the priest was not about to open it now, at least not for him.
The two apartments that remained of interest were 4A and 5B.
He’d search 4A first.
Allison held the ice bag to her head. Most of the guests had returned to their food and drink.
“Feeling better?” Jennifer asked.
“Yes, much,” replied Allison softly. She certainly didn’t look it.
“Keep the bag there a while longer. In a little while you can lie down in the bedroom and close your eyes.”
Tucci approached. He stood over Allison momentarily, then sat down and placed his hand on her thigh. “Shouldn’t we call a doctor?” he asked, turning to Jennifer.
“I…”
Allison interrupted by shaking her head fiercely.
“Allison…”
“No, please. No doctor,” she struggled to say. The words were muffled, as she had difficulty coordinating her lips and tongue.
Tucci looked at her uncomfortably; Allison tried to smile.
Then, suddenly, she screamed. “My head!” The bloodcurdling cry pierced the room. “I…can’t stand it. I…”
The ice bag fell to the floor; she grabbed her scalp frantically, continuing to scream as Jennifer and Tucci tried to hold her spastic body still. Her mouth opened and shut in a convulsive spasm, foam rose along the corners of her lips, as her tongue coiled to snap back into her throat and choke her.
“Pry her teeth open and get her tongue,” screamed Jennifer, amid the commotion.
Tucci rammed his hand into Allison’s mouth; her teeth ripped his fingers. “Get me a spoon, quickly!”
“There are some on the table.”
Two men ran for a spoon, as Tucci locked his fingers over Allison’s lower teeth and, placing his palm under her chin, pried them downward. With his other hand, he grabbed her tongue.
“Here!” he shouted. He shoved the spoon into her mouth and pulled out his bleeding hand.
Suddenly, she stiffened, then rocked forward and pitched off the couch onto her face, unconscious.
The precinct corridor was empty. An occasional sound of laughter drifted through closed doors, filtered down the hall and echoed from the cinder blocks.
Gatz and Rizzo exited an office and ambled down the hall to the end. Gatz opened a door to his left, entered his office, walked to his desk, and threw his hat on the blotter. He sat down in the swaybacked chair and leaned back, placing his heels on the desk. Then he ripped a match along the underside of the chair and lit the remainder of his cigar. The end flared, heated, and burned. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the taste of the tobacco. He scratched the stubble on his chin; he hadn’t shaved since early morning…almost nineteen hours before. He yawned, then yawned again.
“Rizzo, go down to McGuire’s office and get me a cup of coffee.”
Rizzo nodded and hurried out as Detective Richardson entered.
“Sir,” Richardson began.
Gatz sat up. “What is it?”
Richardson approached the desk and dropped a typed note on the blotter.
Gatz cleared his throat and moved the paper under the desk lamp. He stood excitedly. “Where’d you get this?” he asked.
“In a hidden compartment in the rear of one of Brenner’s desk drawers.”
Gatz slammed his fist on the blotter. “I’ve got him!” he cried. He turned to Richardson. “Thank you,” he said.
Richardson wheeled away from the desk and out the door, as Gatz flicked the intercom.
“McGuire, is Rizzo still there?”
“Yes,” bellowed a deep voice in response.
“Can you hear me, Rizzo?”
“Yes.”
“Bring in Farmer.”
“To question?”
“No. To book.”
Gatz released the button on the intercom and, once again, reclined in his seat. He smiled broadly, his grin reflecting hatred more than anything else. The moment had arrived for the thrust, right to the jugular.
He picked up the desk phone and dialed. The phone at the other end rang several times.
“Inspector Garcia,” he called, when someone answered the phone, and then finally said, “We’ve cracked the nut. Richardson just brought a detailed note on Allison Parker, establishing the connection we need. They found it in Brenner’s office.” Gatz fell silent, listening, the continued. “No. I’ve already sent him, and we should have Farmer here in less than half an hour.”
Gatz lowered the receiver, reached across the desk, and grabbed the mousetrap. He pulled it in front of him, picked up a wire, and inched the wire slowly forward. The trap cracked down on its metal prey. He’d made no effort to remove the wire. “Caught like a rat,” he announced.
The room was filled with whispers.
Allison lay in bed with an ice pack on her forehead. Her condition hadn’t improved. She seemed nearly comatose, at times moaning unintelligibly, at times completely insensate.
Jennifer sat next to her, speaking quietly into the white phone. Tucci lifted the ice bag, felt Allison’s head, then squeezed the sack. “Get some more ice,” he ordered, as he leaned protectively over the bed.
A young woman pushed through the crowd, removed the flattened bag, and replaced it with a new one.
Jennifer set the phone down and said, “The doctor’s on his way.” She pulled a cigarette from a crushed pack and lit it nervously. “He suggests we keep everyone out of the room except someone to watch her. He’s afraid a crowd may upset her more.” Watching Tucci’s positive response, she stood up and extended her arms, motioning as if she were herding sheep. “I’d appreciate it,” she announced, “if everyone would go back to the living room.”
The onlookers turned and walked out.
Jennifer closed the door and dragged deeply on the cigarette. “Did you notice the texture of the skin on her cheeks and eyelids?” she asked, as Tucci looked up.
“Yes,” he replied.
“Like sandpaper or dried-out wood. As if something had sucked out all the life. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Tucci gently touched Allison’s skin, then sat up and opened the collar of his shirt. “Where’s Michael?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t?” His tone, skeptical. “He’s a jackass! Kidney disease? I don’t know what she has, but I’ll be damned if it has anything to do with her kidneys.” He stiffened. “He should have his bleeding teeth rammed down his throat.”
“Now is not the time for that. Will you watch her while I go back outside?”
“Yes.”
She smiled, touched his arm affectionately, and walked out of the room, concerned for Allison, but at the same time concerned for Michael, who she knew would be up to his neck in trouble if Allison’s condition was any indication!
Preceded by the beam of light, he walked down the corridor, past the kitchen and bathroom, and out into the living room. Behind him, he’d left another room in shambles. The bedroom of Apartment 4A. The nexus of the confrontation. In his belt he carried a screwdriver and a chisel, which he’d taken from Allison’s kitchen. Both had been useful.
But again the results were disappointing.
He walked to the sofa and sat. He was tired and frustrated-mostly frustrated. He pulled the screwdriver form his belt, buried it into the couch, ripped out a wad of stuffing and threw it to the dust-strewn rug. He had an uncontrollable urge to lash out and destroy, but he was restraining himself, waiting for the right target.
He flashed the light around the room. “Damn!” he whispered. “A rotting mess.” The same living room, where the mistake had been made, the mistake that had cost Brenner his life. There was really no reason to examine the area again. He was sure he’d find nothing. But, then again, he’d nothing better to do….yet.
He pulled himself off the sofa and began to dismantle every drawer, closet, and floor piece.
The search was unproductive.
Frustrated, he returned to the hall and looked at his watch…one forty-one…and listened to the rhythmic ticking. He’d been in the house almost two hours. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe nothing was going to happen. Could they have called the charade off? Afraid that he’d found out too much? Afraid that he’d come to the house with help?
He started up the staircase to the fifth floor. Halfway there, he stopped. Should he break open the priest’s door and declare his presence, even though the old man could not help but know that he was there already? He had few options and few ideas. Yet, his gut reaction was to delay his confrontation with Halliran, at least until he had no alternative.
So he reversed himself and started down the staircase.
He heard a sound, the creaking of a door.
He felt a cold shiver and then an intense sensation of fear. There was something evil behind him. He wasn’t sure, but he sensed it and he had to get away.
He descended like a heavy weight falling to earth, gathering speed and momentum with each step, pulled by the force of the darkness below, repelled by the uninviting unknown above. Every sense in his body was intensified, the slightest groan in the building was like a screech of a hideous gorgon. Down and down he went, his feet sliding from one step to the next, one hand holding the flashlight, the other wrapped around the gun with his index finger on the trigger. His pulse began to race, to pound. He lost his perception of time, descending th
rough a cyclone that was the brownstone. Away from the unknown. Faster, Faster.
Then he stopped.
He whirled abruptly and threw the beam of light down the hall. There was nothing. He sighed, restraining his rapid panting. He was scared, so terrified that he questioned himself. Had he been the one to conjure a fantastic plot from the antics of a few old fools and some crazy clerics?
He flashed the light toward Apartment 2A. He listened. Nothing. And the chill was gone. He turned the light around the corridor, near the staircase, and up on the wall. The beam hit the dead bulb and then danced onto the new paneling.
The new paneling! He moved toward it. Yes, it looked strange and certainly worthy of a quick inspection. He looked up, removed the chisel from his pocket, and rapped it against the wood.
The sound was puzzling. He examined the edges of the slab and then knocked his fist on the wood to test its density. A hollow echo returned. The overlay seemed thin and was not laid flush against the material underneath. He knocked again. There was no mistaking it. Perhaps he’d found the spot for the speakers, or whatever. He did not even know what he was looking for, just that he was looking.
He jammed the chisel under the side edge of the paneling, levered it, and began to pull the wood out.
He tore through the boards at the center and along two planes of parallel lines, one horizontal, the other vertical. He then surveyed his work in the light of the flashlight, which he’d placed on the floor on top of the gun, so that the beam would land directly in the center of the slab. Frantically, he began to tear at the exposed boards until, under a hail of dust and wood slivers, all the strips had fallen away and the area underneath lay exposed.
Jennifer opened the door quietly and tiptoed into the room. She screamed.
Tucci lay on the floor, his skull split, a trickle of blood running from above his right ear, down his neck, and onto the floor. The lamp, which had stood on the night table to the right of the bed, lay on the rug, a collection of fragments, large and small…all covered with blood.
The bed was empty; the window, which led to an emergency fire escape, was open.
As she stepped into the room, the other guests piled up behind her.
The Sentinel Page 23