The Guardian

by Konvitz, Jeffrey;

  She listened. The basement door creaked open. She heard footsteps on the basement staircase, some rustling below, followed by more footsteps, more rustling below, followed by more footsteps, this time on the way up. Then silence.

  “Hey!”

  She turned.

  He smiled, his arms loaded with logs. “Thing’s filled to the top.”

  “Good,” she said. “Now, start the fire and get that sweater off or you’ll catch pneumonia.”

  He walked out of the kitchen, as she pounded her arms with her hands, trying to keep warm; she was stiff, achy, racked by the discomfort that comes from cold dampness and biting wind. Yet, she was unbelievably happy. They were alone together at the cabin just as they’d been a year ago, two weeks after meeting at the start of the fall semester at college. It had all seemed so daring then, since both of them had been on their own, away from home, for so short a time, but now it seemed just perfect, the culmination of a year together, sharing, laughing, crying, knowing each other as neither had ever known a person before.

  Annie walked to the kitchen entrance, watched him toy with the paper and wood in the hearth, then walked up behind him, knelt, and threw her arms around his neck. “How you doing?” she asked in a whisper.

  “Almost there,” Bobby replied, as he placed the last log on the pile, struck a match, and touched it to the newspaper.

  She reached over his shoulder, grabbed the bellows, and handed it to him, kissing his ear almost as an afterthought.

  He touched her hand. “I love you,” he said softly.

  The paper ignited. He fanned the flames; the underside of the wood started to smolder.

  She tightened her grip on his body and pressed close. “Let’s make love,” she said.

  He smiled. “It’s colder than Hell.”

  “It’ll warm up. And we’ll do it here in front of the fireplace.”

  “What if someone looks in the window?”

  “Who?”

  “Someone.”

  “If someone’s up here on the mountain in this weather, he deserves every bit of entertainment we can offer.”

  They laughed. He pushed her over on the rug, kissed her softly, then pulled back in reaction to a violent gust of wind. He glanced at each of the windows to assure himself that on one was there, then turned, facing the fire.

  She slowly unbuttoned his shirt, ran her tongue up his chest, removed his pants, stood, took off her own clothes slowly, suggestively, her pink body slithering through the dance of the fire’s flames, then lay down beside his again, pressing her small firm breasts against his chest.

  “Promise me something?” she asked, staring up at him with round green eyes that shone like lanterns.

  “What?”

  “That you’ll never leave me. Or let me go. Or stop loving me.”

  He smiled. “I promise.”

  She laid her head on his shoulder. The patter of rain relaxed her. So did his warm, soft body. If it poured all week, it might prove a godsend. They could lie together like this for hour after hour, isolated from the world. In fact, she wished that they might never leave, that everything could remain just as it was at this moment. She felt his hand between her legs, rubbing slowly. She wanted him…so much. But she was tired. And the pounding of the rain seemed to be moving far away, retreating like the muffled sound of a drum roll.

  Within moments, she was asleep.

  The last of the fire’s live embers died into ash, as Annie opened her eyes and yawned. The room was cold, and except for the assault of the storm, unnaturally quiet. She reached out of Bobby’s body, but felt only the coarse hairs of the animal-skin rug. She looked around the room. The lights were out and she was alone. Shivering, she put on her pants and blouse. The sleeve buttons in place, she sifted through the embers of the hearth with the poker. The remains gave off almost no heat. She must have been asleep at least five hours, and since they’d fallen out at about ten o’clock, it had to be near three in the morning. A quick glance at the total darkness outside the cabin windows assured her that she was probably right.

  She stood and turned the switch on the table lamp. Nothing. She tried the ceiling lights. Dead, too. The main fuse must have blown.

  She walked carefully through the darkness to the staircase and began to climb, the wood squeaking loudly beneath her feet. Steeping onto the top landing, she flicked on the hall switch…again no lights…and poked her head into the master bedroom. It was empty, as were the second bedroom and both bathrooms.

  Something was wrong; she could feel it. Her stomach churned into a knot, as a cold perspiration began to dampen her skin.

  Running down the staircase, she moved quickly to the door and grabbed for the peg where Bobby had put the house and car keys; the peg was empty.

  “Bobby,” she yelled, almost in tears.

  No response. Only the continued beating of the storm. And an almost audible sense of stalking terror.

  She threw open the door. A chill blast of wind struck her face. She walked out and glanced over the porch railing. The mist had now spread everywhere, and she could barely see the car. Stepping down into the mud, she slowly maneuvered along the path and threw open the car door. The key wasn’t there. And no sign of Bobby. She opened the glove compartment, took out a flashlight, turned it on, and looked toward the trail over the hood. Glancing downward, she gasped. The hood was partially open; ends of wires extended from inside and over the fender to the ground.

  Terrifyingly aware that there was no telephone and no way down the mountain in the storm, she ran back to the cabin, slammed and locked the cabin door behind her, and panned the flashlight carefully over the room, examining the corners, looking for movement. Apart from the shadow of her own body, there was nothing.

  The cabin was unbearably cold and she was wet. She had to get the fire started again.

  She ran to the basement entrance, opened the door, and looked down the rickety staircase, the flashlight beam dancing from step to step. She called Bobby’s name, as she descended. No answer.

  The basement was a storage area. Toward the rear were several old couches and love seats piled on top of each other. Cardboard boxes were stacked in the corners, filled with utensils and broken bits of furniture. The woodbin was underneath the staircase, nestled next to the side foundation.

  Laying the flashlight on the floor, she grabbed the top of the bin; it was jammed. She fought it, prying it up, until the hinges snapped and the lid opened. She felt for the logs; the bin seemed empty. But Bobby had said it was filled!

  She picked up the flashlight and aimed it inside. Bobby was in the bin, jammed into the corner, one eye open, staring, his throat slashed, his body dismembered.

  She screamed into the cold damp air. Then everything went blank, as she ran up the stairs, crying, clutching at the walls and banister, the beam of the light ricocheting wildly off the walls. She stumbled over the top step, dropped the flashlight, and careened into the couch, falling to the floor. Struggling to her feet, she reached for the door, throwing it open.

  She stopped, frozen in place, so terrified that the cry that erupted from her throat was silent, a funnel of air.

  A man was standing on the porch, the sleeves of his shirt covered with blood. He was old, short, emaciated, his sunken eyes black and cold. The hair on his head was dirty, strewn wildly around his shoulders and against a crusty face covered with several days’ growth of beard.

  He stepped inside and croaked a horrible, demented laugh.

  She screamed and stepped back.

  “Shut up!” he commanded gruffly.

  She grabbed the table lamp and threw it. As the lamp cord whipped across the man’s face, his eyes exploded with anger.

  Turning wildly, she raced for the staircase and threw herself upward, falling flat on her face. She looked up; two teenage boys were hulking over her, laughing
, holding knives in their hands.

  “God,” she cried. “Help me.”

  The boys started down the steps. She fell backward, over and over, reaching the living-room floor on her side, half delirious.

  The old man grabbed her by the hair. The boys ripped off her blouse and pants. She kicked for their groins, as the old man grabbed her breasts, pressed the knife to her throat, and slapped her repeatedly.

  “Beg for your life!” he said.

  “Please,” she cried. “Rape me, do anything, but don’t kill me.”

  They all laughed…insane, maniacal, piercing laughs.

  She quieted, moving her stare quickly from one to the another. Then she pushed past the old man and ran to the front door. It was locked. She turned, watched the men move slowly toward her through the shadows, then jumped through the front window, landing facedown, cut all over, pieces of glass buried in her body. She pulled herself to the feet and ran across the parking area to the woods, stumbling frantically through the underbrush. Behind her the men were calling to her, barking death. She started toward the main road. She could hear them getting closer; she could fell blood pouring from her body, but she could see almost nothing…nothing except a soft light in the distance that suddenly appeared, as she climbed over a low rock wall and slid down the other side.

  The light seemed to be close by, beyond a few trees and on the other side of the road. Yet, as far as she could remember, there was nothing there.

  The pounding of feet interrupted her stupor. She looked over her shoulder. The three men were on top of the rocks, staring down, oblivious of the pelting rain. She started to run again, faster, through the branches, toward the light, which seemed to grow brighter, then wane. Yet, that was probably an illusion, a figment of her imagination. Maybe there was no light, only a diabolical trick of nature’s elements, a mirage born of desperation. If only this was a dream, she thought to herself, as she stumbled forward, a nightmare that would end when she opened her eyes. Bobby would be next to her, sleeping. The fire would be burning. The room would be warm and safe. If only! She screamed. The old man called her name. How did he know it?

  She ran into a small gully and squinted in the direction of the light. Yes, she could see it, no more than a hundred feet away. She pushed forward, aware of the men walking calmly close behind, delighting in her agony.

  Brushing aside some branches, she entered a clearing. Standing across from her was a figure in a nun’s habit, surrounded by a strange aura of light. The nun’s eyes, bulging and swollen, were covered by hideous white cataracts. Her skin was wrinkled and cracked like dried clay, her lips blue and thin. Her hair was dead, stringy and broken, laid over a waxen complexion. She was breathing slowly. Her hands clutched a gold crucifix.

  Annie approached the nun and fell at her feet behind her. The men raced into the clearing and stopped. Seeing the nun, the two boys retreated and disappeared. But the old man remained. He dropped his knife, moved closer, and began to shake.

  “The Lord’s cunt,” he screamed.

  Annie cringed; his voice ripped at her. She looked at the man, then the nun.

  The old man pointed. “I name thee damned, Sister Therese,” he said. “And your rejoicing should be considered. Your penance is nearly served.” He stepped closer. “Then shall the minions of Hell o’erstep these bounds. I, Charles Chazen, declare the moment at hand!”

  Annie buried her head at the nun’s feet, as the ground erupted, shaking, pulses of light battering her senses. Her body hurt, her ears pounded, her head throbbed. Everything started to turn. She cried. And screamed. And tore at herself.

  Then, suddenly, there was silence. She looked up. A light sprinkle of rain hit her face. The nun was gone; so was the man who’d called himself Charles Chazen. At her feet lay his knife.

  She picked it up, dragged herself to the edge of the clearing, and looked out blankly, seeing nothing.

  A tear dropped down her cheek. And she was frozen, like a statue in a park.

  March 1979

  The hour hand of the clock on the outside wall of the Banco di Roma stuttered toward midnight, as a black Mercedes limousine pulled out of an alley onto the Via del Tritone and turned west, heading toward the Vatican behind a Carabiniere van.

  In the rear of the limousine, Monsignor Guglielmo Franchino scanned the passing streets. His face was taut, though expressive; his hands, topped by tufts of white curly hair, lay in his lap, wrapped tightly around two large manila files. He was a big man with a ruddy complexion, the angular features of the northern provinces, and a commanding, insular expression reflecting the years of lonely hours he’d devoted to ecclesiastical history under the auspices of Cardinal Luigi Reggiani of the Holy Office and Scared College.

  The limousine passed below Trinita dei Monti, curled through Piazza dei Popolo, crossed the Tiber into St. Peter’s Square and stopped in front of the pontifical residence. Within minutes, another limousine pulled behind. Franchino sat silently, his animated eyes tethered ahead. The door of the other car opened. Footsteps approached. Cardinal Reggiani appeared and smiled graciously.

  Franchino climbed out of the limousine; he and Reggiani embraced.

  “I was afraid you had not gotten my summons,” Reggiani said, as they entered the building.

  “It came just as I returned from Lake Como,” Franchino replied smiling.

  Reggiani cleared his throat and popped a medicated lozenge into his mouth. “You have the files?”

  “Yes.” Franchino held them up.

  “And Sister Angelina?”

  “I will contact her tomorrow.”

  They reached an imposing door at the crest of a long corridor. Reggiani pressed the bell. Seconds later, the Pope’s secretary appeared, inviting them inside.

  The Pope, a small, unprepossessing man with very Latin features, was seated behind a fourteenth-century, Neapolitan desk. He rose as the secretary closed the chamber door. Franchino and Reggiani greeted him, then stood back as the Pope repositioned himself in the desk chair.

  “I will pray for you, my son,” he said, staring at Franchino.

  “Your Holiness,” Franchino replied, bowing.

  There was silence. Submerged in thought, the Pope beckoned toward Franchino, indicating the files.

  Franchino handed him the first. “The background of Sister Therese/Allison Parker,” he declared, his voice not far above a whisper.

  The Pope read the material and gave it back.

  “The successor,” Franchino said, handing over the second.

  The Pope read this more carefully, expressed his satisfaction, then placed the file on the desk and sat back, waiting.

  The secretary opened a corner cabinet and withdrew a volume of writings covered with a sheepskin etched with Florentine figures. He opened the volume, placed it next to the file, and left the room, closing the door. The Pope placed a pince-nez on his nose and began to read.

  Franchino braced his body for the long hours ahead. He’d been through this before, having read the words himself during the death watch over his predecessor, Monsignor Wilkins. Intuitively, he knew which passages were important and which would spark that dread feeling of anticipation for the upcoming confrontation with Charles Chazen. Remaining immobile, he gradually edged into a stupor, until recalled by the Pope’s detail of Uriel’s charge to the Angel Gabriel:

  Gabriel, to thee thy course by lot hath given

  Charge and strict watch that to this happy place

  No evil thing approach or enter in.

  This day came to my sphere

  A spirit alien from Heaven

  One of the banished crew

  Hath ventured from the deep

  Him thy care must be to find.

  He watched the dance of images that grew like pristine paintings from his imagination. He could hear Gabriel’s voice ordering the seraphim to E
den’s bower, where they would find Satan at Eve’s ear. And he could perceive the image of Satan, who, once ejected, would return as a mist by night to drag man to his eventual fall.

  The Pope detailed the fall of man, described how God sent his Son to judge them, then continued reading, his voice drying and cracking, his face sagging from fatigue. Outside the small window, Franchino could see the first hint of daylight, as the Pope recounted Satan’s return to Purgatory, where he charged his minions to follow him to the new world.

  I call, and declare ye now, returned,

  Successful beyond hope, to lead ye forth

  Triumphant out of this infernal pit

  Abominable, accursed, the house of woe,

  And dungeon of our tyrant:

  Franchino felt a crawl of sweat ooze over his body, while flashing those moments, over ten years earlier, when Satan had tried to emerge from the bowels of Hell. He looked at Reggiani. The Cardinal’s eyes were closed, his face serene. The Pope’s words seemed to fall on Reggiani’s ears like music. Of course, Reggiani had never faced Charles Chazen. Franchino had!

  By noon, the Pope had completed most of the text. They’d been standing for twelve hours. Finally, the Pope lifted the manuscript and recited the Almighty’s charge to his children. Since man had transgressed, perverting Eden, then man would be given the task of guarding against the approach of Satan…just as Gabriel had been charged by Uriel. And all such Sentinels would be chosen for their iniquity…attempted suicides…not only to guard the Kingdom of the Lord, but to sit penance for their sins and, thus, save themselves from damnation.

  No longer in Paradise shall man dwell

  Eject them, Son

  And know ye that Satan, swearing his return

  Shall be their charge

  That their issue, conceived in sin

  To sit and watch for Satan’s return and

  Thus incur my eternal forgiveness

  To cleanse their souls by eternal penance

  To sit as Sentinels

  The Pope placed the volume on the desk and indicated the chamber door. Franchino opened it. The secretary reentered.