Franchino and Reggiani kissed the Pope’s ring. Without a word, they turned and walked out, their footsteps echoing into silence.
Monsignor Franchino’s car turned off the autostrada and continued along a two-lane road into the wooded foothills of the Apennines. Seated behind the driver, Franchino prayed to himself, eyes closed, head tilted back, mind oblivious to the occasional farmhouse or cluster of stucco homes that sped by the windows. It was eleven o’clock. They’d been traveling for two hours, having left Rome while the last hint of daylight still trickled over the horizon to the west of the city.
“Signore…” the driver suddenly said, breaking the long silence. He slowed the limousine and indicated a sign that read: PONTE NORTE.
Franchino glanced at the fork in the road and pointed toward the right. The driver started the car up a steep incline.
“The road becomes very narrow,” Franchino cautioned. “Be careful.”
The driver veered the car from the cliff side; nodding approvingly, Franchino reached for a cabinet attached to the rear of the front seat, pulled out the files, and glanced quickly through the contents. Suddenly, he jerked forward and grabbed his chest. A sharp pain dug into his side. His throat constricted; his breathing tightened. Panicked, he reached back into the cabinet for a vial containing blue tablets of nitroglycerin, and, popping one out, placed it under his tongue and swallowed. He waited. The attack of angina began to subside. He breathed deeply, replaced the vial, and noted the time of onset of the fourth angina attack that week.
The tension was debilitating; God grant that he survive it.
“Signore…” the driver yelled once again, pointing.
Franchino held his chest a moment longer, than put on a pair of glasses to get a better view of the Montressa Abbey, now in sight on the plateau above.
“Pull up to the east entrance,” Franchino commanded. He buttoned his frock.
“Si, Signore.”
The driver gunned the car up a final rise and into the abbey driveway.
Franchino grabbed the files, opened the car door, and stepped out. Looking up, he noted that all the windows were dark, except for one on the second floor.”
“I won’t be long,” he said.
He walked through the abbey gage into the courtyard, then climbed the main staircase to the first landing; a figure was waiting in the darkness halfway down the corridor.
“Sister Angelina,” he said, as he stopped.
Franchino smiled. Angelina’s intimidating voice had lost none of its authority during the past ten years…but had it really been that long since New York?
He stepped forward, as she moved into the sweep of the moon’s presence. Embracing her, he examined her dull gray eyes. She looked old, her skin furrowed, her lips chapped. A hint of gray hair declared itself along the edge of her habit. The hands that held his sleeve were discolored and callused. But there was a solemnity on her face that he envied. Her soul had worn her temporal deprivations well.
“Did you hear the car?” he asked.
She nodded. “I have followed your progress since the Ponte Norte.”
“As ever, you are most observant, Sister.”
“As you are, Father, or you would not be here.”
He raised his brow grimly.
“Come,” she said, taking his hand. “There is brewed tea inside. A warm fire. And very discreet walls.”
“I am grateful for your hospitality.”
Angelina led Franchino to her chamber and quickly poured two cups of tea, placing both on a bare table in the center of the spartan room. He sat and opened the files. She stoked the logs in the fireplace, commented on how well he looked, then joined him.
“It had been a long time,” she said, sipping from a ceramic teacup.
“Yes…very long,” he replied. “You’ve been well?”
“Well enough. My gout has bothered me. And I have suffered other periodic disabilities. But I’ve been happy. And I’ve found peace. If there is more that one can hope for, my poor senses have proven inadequate in the search.”
“I am happy for you, Sister.”
“And you, Father? Where have you been? What have the years brought you?”
“I’ve spent most of my time in Rome. At the Vatican.” Franchino’s expression suddenly deepened. “And the rest in New York?”
“How is Sister Therese?” Angelina asked.
Franchino darted a glance at the files. “She is well.”
“May God have mercy on her.”
“And protect her.”
Angelina stared. “You’ve come a long way to find me. Though there is affection between us, your face tells me this visit is not one of hospitality.”
Franchino fidgeted. “Cardinal Reggiani sends his blessings.”
She nodded. “What does he want of me?”
“Your devotion. Your love. Your help.”
“And you?”
“I ask the same.”
She stood, walked to the window, and looked out at the night. “It is peaceful here. This is where I belong.”
“The Sentinel has served her penance. She has been touched by the hand of God. Her vigil is nearly ended.”
She turned back to him. “Chazen will not wait. Chazen will bring death.”
“There is always death.”
“Yes, I know, but I came to this place to put everything behind me, as it was my impression…our agreement…that my impersonation of the rental agent was to be my sole contribution.”
Franchino nodded. “Yes. And I can’t fault you if you resist. One confrontation is enough to ask of anyone. But without you, our trial would have been impossible. Allison Parker might never have preserved her soul as Sister Therese. The line of succession might have been broken. Now, you searched your soul for strength once before. And you can do it again.”
Angelina covered her face with her hands, praying, then looked up and leaned against the wall. “This time…I can’t.”
Franchino stood, grabbed the files, and thrust them at her. “You must!”
He stepped back, intercepting the glow of the kerosene table lamp. She waited, then slowly thumbed through the pages. He could see doubt and terror in her eyes. Yet, she was engrossed. And he was convinced he could rely on her.
She walked to the table, placed the files facedown, and looked at him.
“Can I refuse?” she asked.
He clasped his hands together, emitting a small, breathy sigh. “Yes.”
“And what would you think of me?”
“I would think that you have weakened in your devotion to Christ. But I would understand and forgive you.”
“And if I say yes?”
“I would think you a fool. But I would bless you.”
He swallowed a mouthful of tea and waited. Five minutes. Ten.
“I will come,” she finally said.
He embraced her once more.
“What would you have me do?” she asked; she sat on her cot.
“You are to go to New York and take residence at the Archdiocese. There you are to do nothing until I arrive.”
She smiled, almost imperceptibly. “I almost forgot how persuasive you can be, Monsignor Franchino.”
“It is not I who did the persuading. But you. I can find nothing in your heart that is not already there. I am a simple man. Not a god.”
“A simple man, but a strong one!”
He walked to her and placed his hand under her chin. Lifting her head, he stared deep into her eyes, then nodded, convinced that they’d done the right thing by calling on her services once more.
“Will I return with you to Rome?” she asked.
“No,” he replied with a reassuring smile. “I’ll return by myself. On Tuesday I will send a car for you.”
Nodding, she patted o
ut the wrinkles on the cot and spoke wistfully. “I have not left these grounds in ten years. I had hoped I might remain here till my death, devoting myself to Christ. I had hoped that I might earn his forgiveness for my sins. But I knew that one day you would seek me out. Even on the most restful of nights, when the air of the mountains drifted lightly over the abbey and the creaking of the foundation and abutments wove together into a lullaby, I sensed that it would not last. That I would have to leave the place that I had fled to for salvation. The place where I had found what I had longed to find.”
Franchino looked at his watch. “I must leave. You need not walk me out.”
“But I will.”
He assisted her up and followed her into the corridor.
“Do you make use of any of the other rooms?” he asked, as they started down the staircase.
“Only the room next to me and the chapel. There are many chambers in the abbey that I have never even entered.”
They turned out of the courtyard to the limousine.
The driver was outside the car, leaning against the abbey gate, smoking a Gauloise that fumed offensively. Hearing footsteps, he walked to the car, opened the rear door, then climbed behind the wheel.
Franchino stopped, looked up at the abbey, then back at Angelina. “I will see you in Rome.”
“If God wills it.”
Franchino slipped into the car and closed the door. “Andiamo,” he ordered.
The car started down the path. Franchino turned partway around in the seat and watched the figure of Sister Angelina recede into the blackness.
Thank the Lord, he thought to himself. And then he closed his eyes.
Sister Angelina reentered the abbey, praying to Christ for strength and guidance. She had thought she’d never have to leave this place. Or think back to what had been. To New York. To Allison Parker! She remembered the first time she’d met the girl. The day Allison Parker had walked into the rental office and confronted her with the newspaper listing. It had all been so painful. The charade as Miss Logan. The careful hours of surveillance, scheming to keep Allison Parker from succumbing to the will of Satan…Charles Chazen. And now it was to happen all over again. And she was once again part of it.
She gazed blankly at the sepulchral walls, abandoned for nearly a century, then climbed the staircase to the landing, stopping at the first open archway. Over the stone banister she could see the lights of Franchino’s car just below. Once again, she was alone, secure within the familiar walls.
She reentered her chamber and sat down by the window to mediate.
A high-pitched shriek sliced through the silence.
She turned. There was something in the room. Something moving.
Petrified, she grabbed a lamp, pointed it, illuminating the dank corners, then cried out, jumping backward toward the far wall. Next to the table was the biggest rat she’d ever seen, leering sinisterly through a pair of glowing, marble-sized eyes.
She reached for a copper pot on the mantel, as the rat moved into the light. She watched it slink toward her, stop in the middle of the room, and wait.
Another shriek. And a third. There was a second rat on the windowsill. And an even larger one on the corner of her bed. They began to move in on her, their front incisors flexing rapidly.
She threw the pot, missing the largest rat by inches. Terrified, she dropped the lamp and ran to the door. One of the rats bit at her leg, tearing flesh. She screamed, opened the chamber door, then stopped abruptly.
Three rats stood at the top of the staircase. Several more were on the landing. And more on the edge of the ceiling abutment.
Below and to the rear, she could hear the scratching sound of feet on concrete. She looked down. A wave of rats was heading toward the staircase from the cliff-side trees. She clamped her palms over her ears, trying to close out the high-pitched skirl of the vermin.
“Oh…God!” she cried, the veins on her face popping through the flaccid skin.
Above her, rats began to pour over the roof.
She desperately backed along the corridor, holding the rail. As she turned, a rat jumped onto her face, digging its claws into her cheeks. She grabbed it by the throat, pulling it off. Crying, she fell to the ground. Another rat dug its teeth into her thigh.
Rats were everywhere. Below. Above. Screeching. Biting. Clawing.
She struggled to her knees and crawled toward the chapel, leaving a trail of blood. She was nearly blind; yet, she could see the chapel door, ten feet away, guarded by hundreds of rats, watching her with hideous eyes.
At the base of the chapel doors, she reached up. The fury of the attack increased. Gasping for air, she fought the bolt, which gradually started to slip. Then a lurch. And her weight. The bolt skipped. The door creaked open. She dropped onto the chapel floor.
The deflected light of the moon fell onto the giant crucifix that hovered over her.
The rats convulsed.
Downstairs, Monsignor Franchino burst through the abbey gate. The main entrance was covered by thousands of convulsing rats. He picked up a stick and began to beat them. Frothing, they nipped and charged, bunching and groveling at his feet. He kept swinging, killing, moving upward into the inhuman cries of woe. He called out Angelina’s name. No reply. Struggling, he reached the top of the staircase. The corridor floor was strewn with the vermin, many dead, others still writhing.
He stumbled to the entrance of the chapel and looked inside.
Lying on the floor in a pool of blood, and tattooed by the shadow of the cross, Angelina moaned and moved her head. He fell to her side. She was barely alive. She tried to move her lips; only a rivulet of saliva trickled out. He said the last rites and lifted her head.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I knew there was danger, and I had to return.” He felt the creeping ooze of death slide over her skin. Then he lowered her head and pulled at her habit. She did not have her crucifix.
Looking at the dead furies from Hell, he carried her back to her chamber and laid her gently on the cot. He did not have time to properly dispose of the remains. He would return to Rome and see to it from there. Forgive me, he thought to himself, as he touched her face.
He left the chamber, descended the staircase, paused in the courtyard to lift his boot and bring it down on the throat of a struggling rat, one of the few still alive. He looked at the rat’s glazed eyes and tightened his already resolute expression.
“And so it begins,” he said defiantly. “So it begins!”
SO IT BEGINS
1
“What do you think?” Ben Burdett asked, as he turned from the mirror.
Faye Burdett rose from the stateroom couch. “Close the jacket,” she replied.
He flipped the middle button into place and stood erect, dropping his arms to his side.
He was tall and the dark complexion on his pleasant face was unmarred by blemishes.
Faye patted down the tuxedo lapels, inspected the pleats in his shirtfront, and straightened the silk bow tie, which had been listing to the right. “You look great, honey,” she said.
She kissed him and moved to the dressing table to make a minor adjustment in her own outfit, a gray and black pantsuit and black silk blouse. Behind her, Ben examined himself in the mirror, nodding approvingly. Then he turned and bent over the edge of his eight-month-old son’s crib, proudly accentuating the frills of his dress shirt with his fingers. “What do you think, Joey?” he asked.
Joey looked up and spanked his hands against the mattress. Ben kissed him and then sat on the sofa waiting for Faye to finish. He yawned, tired. Two weeks on the ship had dulled his senses. He was sporting a potbelly, a painful raw sunburn, and a droll expression that begged for city activity. But that was not to say that he hadn’t enjoyed the cruise. He had…ad nauseam. Fortunately, though, they would dock in New York City in the morning. He merely had to suffer t
hrough the final banquet, which Father McGuire had told them he was going to miss, and it would all be over.
Faye swiveled from the mirror and smiled, the dimples on each side of her mouth deepening against the tint of her skin. The pantsuit fit her perfectly. She was very thin. With long legs. Curly blond hair. Not much of a bust-line to speak of. And a face that most admirers described as clean, pretty, and slightly offbeat.
“What time do you have?” she asked.
He pulled back the sleeve of his ruffled shirt and clicked the knob of his digital watch. “Ten to eight.”
She glanced impatiently at the cabin door. “Miss Iverson should be here any minute.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” he advised.
Twenty minutes later, the baby-sitter, a woman of thirty-five, employed during the day in the ship’s salon, arrived, half an hour late, because of a mix-up on the duty roster, or so she said. Since dinner was scheduled for nine, they’d certainly have missed the best of the hors d’oeuvres and a round or two of cocktails.
The ship was yawing gently, as Ben and Faye emerged from the aft section, B corridor, and stepped onto the main deck, moving in the direction of the master ballroom.
It was cooler than most other nights had been, but then again, they were no longer in the tropics. They could hear the rhythmic thump of the bow cutting through the waves. Above, the sky was clear and a brisk wind was blowing from portside. Except for two stewards and a lone gray gull that signaled the approach of land, the deck was empty.
They walked hurriedly by the empty chaises and entered the cocktail lounge. As Ben had expected, the buffet was nearly empty. Through the open ballroom door, they could see the banquet tables filling rapidly. The room was wildly decorated, as if the toll of New York’s Eve were just hours away. Streamers and colored balloons hung from the ceiling.
A ten-piece orchestra played from the stage.
“Hey,” Ben called, moving along the buffet.
Faye turned and stuffed some caviar into her mouth.
“We can eat inside. Let’s go.”
“Okay. Okay.” She licked off her fingers and quickly sipped from the glass of champagne in her hand.
The Guardian Page 3