They left the terminal and climbed into the rear of a black limousine. McGuire tapped on the partition and motioned the driver to proceed. Franchino placed a black attaché case, which he’d been carrying in his other hand, between them.
“I hope the flight was smooth and uneventful, Monsignor.”
“It went by quickly. I’m thankful for that! I don’t mind the flights from New York to Rome, since I take the overnight and usually sleep. But Rome to New York has been a problem for me. You’ve never been to Europe, have you?”
“No,” McGuire said wistfully.
“We’ll see that that oversight is corrected, once we’ve finished our duties in New York. I may take you to the Vatican to work for me. Or perhaps I shall place you on Reggiani’s staff.”
“Monsignor Franchino! You flatter me. I’m not sure I’d be qualified for such an honor.”
Franchino faced him squarely. “I respect your modesty, Father. But it is misplaced and unwarranted. You were chosen to assist me in this peculiar endeavor, because of your abilities and talents. You are one of the most intelligent and practiced seminarians in the entire church hierarchy. Your future is very bright.”
McGuire blushed; the farthest thought from his mind was secular achievement.
They rode in silence, until the limousine had climbed the ramp onto the Long Island Expressway.
Then McGuire turned to Franchino. “There’s a problem,” he said cautiously.
“A problem?”
“Something unexpected.”
Franchino did not like the unexpected; he’d made himself very clear about that the first night they’d met. “What?” he asked.
“There was a murder last night in the building.”
Franchino stared, deep in thought. “Yes.”
McGuire recited the details, then sat back, unsure of Franchino’s reaction, not even sure whether the murder had any relevance.
“Of course,” Franchino said, showing no trace of emotion. “My devoted, devious Charles Chazen. So, this is how he makes his appearance.”
“Who is Charles Chazen, Monsignor?” He thought he could hear Franchino praying under his breath.
Franchino smiled strangely. “Charles Chazen is Satan?”
McGuire felt a cutting chill race up his spine. “Satan?”
“Yes. Does that frighten you?”
“It might if I knew what you meant.”
“It means exactly that. The man Charles Chazen is Satan. Satan personified!”
McGuire stuttered. “There is no one named Charles Chazen in that building.”
“I’m afraid that there is now. I would be very surprised if a murder of that nature had taken place by chance.”
“I don’t understand,” said McGuire, his eyes blankly staring ahead at the skyscrapers of Manhattan, now only a short distance away.
“You are not supposed to understand! You are to listen and do what you are told. And you are to say or repeat nothing. Not a thing you have done, learned, or seen.”
“Monsignor! That has been our understanding…and my oath…since the very beginning. Do you question my fealty or my strength of character?”
“I do neither. I merely warn you that fealty and strength of character are like dust in the wind in the face of the power of Satan. This I tell you, because I must. Until this moment, you have known nothing. Even now I can tell you little. But you now know the most crushing fact of all, the thing you must comprehend. It is Satan himself that we face. In all his fury!”
Father McGuire shuddered; he felt cold, dead, as it he’d been trapped in a freezer. Could what he’d just heard be true? Certainly Franchino was not the joking sort. But this? It defied the comprehension of the human mind. No matter the entire content of his education, it was impossible to grasp.
“Will I know more, Monsignor Franchino?”
“Eventually.”
“Will I be able to comprehend it?”
“We have no doubt about your ability to do so. But only time will tell, my son. We must have faith in Christ, and he will guide us.”
McGuire wiped his brow with a handkerchief.
“You will return to your duties at the seminary,” Franchino continued. “I will be in touch with you constantly. And you must command the patience of a saint.”
“I pray to God for it.”
Franchino fell silent. The limousine moved through the Midtown Tunnel. When it resurfaced, he said, “If Chazen killed the man, he did it for a reason. I would guess that he’s taken the victim’s place. That is why all means of identification were removed.” He paused, thinking deeply. “There are many men in that building. But we must find him!”
“I will see to it,” McGuire said.
“How is Faye Burdett?” Franchino asked.
“Not well.”
The limousine turned uptown.
“Father McGuire,” Franchino said casually, “my duties are dangerous. There is a chance that something may happen to me. In the event I die, you are to be my successor!”
McGuire turned in his seat. “But I don’t know…”
Franchino interrupted. “If I die, you will assume my duties. You will be instructed. You will know everything. And will do everything I would have done. The only difference is that I have faced Chazen before. But no matter. You will have the strength!
“I choose to think that nothing will happen to you, Monsignor.”
“If God wills it.”
The limousine cut cross-town and started up Broadway. Franchino changed the subject, though he could see McGuire teething at the bit. He remembered his own reactions, his initial confusion upon learning of the existence of the Sentinel. But that was years ago. It would do him no good to dwell on the weaknesses of the past.
The limousine turned onto Eighty-ninth Street and stopped in front of an old brownstone, about fifty feet from the excavation site of St. Simon’s. Franchino felt a wave of dizziness, as he climbed out of the car. It happened every time he returned to this spot, every time he stood within sight of Sister Therese.
McGuire walked to Franchino’s side, as the Monsignor looked up at the twentieth floor of 68 West Eighty-ninth. The angle was too oblique. He could see nothing. Yet, Sister Therese was there, alone, vigilant. He could feel her presence. The communication was evident, the telekinetics of her power pervasive.
He glanced at McGuire, who was also staring at the building. “You have noticed her?”
“Yes. Who is she?”
“Her name is Sister Therese.”
“Is she part of this?”
“Perhaps.” There was revelation in his voice.
They entered the basement of the brownstone. Inside, there was very little light. The corridor was strewn with garbage, and they could smell the mist in the stagnant air. The door at the end of the corridor was closed. McGuire knocked. Footsteps approached from the other side. The door opened. The man in the darkness switched on the light. McGuire and Franchino entered and sat down on an old velvet sofa that had lost much of its stuffing. They said nothing. Neither did the man, until he knelt and kissed Franchino’s right hand.
“Monsignor Franchino,” Biroc said tremulously, “I am your servant.”
7
“The name is Gatz. Detective Gatz. With a Z.” Gatz smiled, revealing a mouth of beaver like teeth that stretched across his face and left the impression that the lower part of his head was a huge dental bridge.
“Please come in,” Ben said, noticing the piercing nature of the little ferret’s ambivalent grin; it disarmed him.
Gatz stepped through the door with an uncompromising stride and an expression steeped in suspicion.
“I still don’t understand,” Ben said.
Gatz opened his coat and searched for a place to sit. Ben pointed toward the couch. Gatz nervously chewed on the e
nd of his cigar and plopped down on the pillows.
“I don’t make it a habit of being too specific on the telephone, Mr. Burdett. You know…wiretaps!”
“Isn’t that a bit paranoid, Mr. Gatz?”
Gatz’s stare sliced through the apartment. “I used to lay them. So it ain’t my imagination, okay?”
Ben nodded. In his day, Detective Gatz must have been one tough cop.
“Let me repeat what I told you on the phone. I used to be chief of detectives, Manhattan Homicide Division. Inspector Burstein worked for me. So did a lot of other people. Because of the compactor murder, Inspector Burstein asked me to take a look. So I’m looking!”
“For what?”
“I don’t know. Not exactly.” He chewed off the end of his cigar, rolled it into a ball, and dropped it into the ashtray.
“I’ve told the police everything I know,” Ben said.
“I’m sure you did, Mr. Burdett,” Gatz replied coldly, crossing his legs. There were holes in the soles of both his shoes. And his collar was ripped. “The building you live in is over ten years old. Before it was put up, this entire street was occupied by several old brownstones…and one in particular. It didn’t look very special. A plain brown building. But shortly before it was torn down, there were several murders committed there. I was the detective in charge. Officially, the murders were never solved.”
“That’s an interesting bit of history, Mr. Gatz, but this is years later! You’re not seriously suggesting that the murder in the basement had anything to do with those homicides, are you?”
“I’m not suggesting anything.”
“And why the hell are Faye and I the center of attention? Because she found the body?”
“In part, Mr. Burdett. In part!”
Ben’s voice flushed angry. “Well, then, give me the other part.”
Gatz stood, walked to the wall, and listened. “The other part? The nun!”
“Now, listen,” Ben said, as he exploded across the room and jammed his face next to the detective’s. “I’ve had enough of this. That old woman has lived here for a long time and hasn’t bothered anyone. If the police or the building management don’t like her, they can have her evicted. I don’t give a shit. Okay? She leaves us alone. We leave her alone. We have nothing to do with her. She has nothing to do with us!”
“I wouldn’t bet on that, Mr. Burdett.”
“Well, I would!” Ben shouted.
“Mr. Burdett,” Gatz said, mellowing his expression, “I didn’t come here to argue with you. I came to help. Someone in this building may be in terrible danger. I don’t know who it is for sure, but it may be your wife.”
Ben’s face tightened.
“Look. That brownstone was a plain old building…physically plain…but there was something very distinctive about it.”
“What?”
“In the middle of the fifth floor, in a window, there was a man, a priest. An old blind and paralyzed priest, who sat without moving, never leaving his place. Does that ring a bell?”
“A coincidence,” Ben said defiantly.
“Oh? Is that so, Mr. Burdett?”
Ben stared.
“Where’s your son? Gatz asked.
“Downstairs. In the park with a neighbor.”
“And your wife?”
“In the bedroom.”
“I’d like to talk to her.”
“She’s still not well.”
“After two days? Mr. Burdett! She wasn’t the one who was attacked. She only found the body. I can understand that she’d be shaken, but…”
Ben frowned. He, too, had found it strange that Faye had remained in such intense shock for so long a period.
“If she’s asleep,” Gatz said, “I’d like to take a look at her. I won’t disturb her. It’s very important.”
They entered the bedroom. The curtains were drawn. Only a wisp of dull light crept through the window.
They could hear Faye breathing softly. They approached her. Ben took her hand. She opened her eyes. They were red and glazed.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
Faye licked her lips and moved her fingers in his hand. “Tired. So tired. And dizzy.”
Ben sat down and stroked her hair, which was knotted and unkempt. She mumbled. He moved down closer and listened. “Mr. Gatz is a friend,” he said.
Gatz stared at her face and hands.
“A friend of mine. He wanted to see you and wish you well.”
Gatz nodded. “I heard what happened, Mrs. Burdett. I’m sorry.”
Faye barely moved. Her eyelids fell. She was too full of tranquilizers and sleeping pills to respond.
After a long pause, Ben stood. “Have you seen enough?”
“Yes.”
They walked back to the living room.
“You think she’s in shock?” Gatz asked. He placed his foot on the coffee table and relit the stump of the cigar.
“Yes.”
“Look, Burdett, I’d like to have a talk with you. But somewhere else. Away from your wife.”
Ben looked toward the bedroom. “All right. But only for a short while.”
“That’ll be long enough.”
They left the apartment, took the elevator to the lobby, and walked onto the street, crossing to the other side. There they stopped. Gatz pointed up at the nun’s window. They could see very little, just the outline of a body.
Ben watched the facial muscles in the former detective’s face twitch and roll. Gatz’s concentration was intense, almost crazed.
“She’s been there, since I moved into the building,” Ben said.
Ben waited for a comment. There was none.
O’Reilly’s Pub, on the corner of Columbus Avenue, was a perfect place for an intimate discussion.
They took the first booth in the rear, ordered two Heinekens, and waited until the beer had been placed on the table.
Then Gatz cleared his throat and leaned forward. “I know you’re skeptical. I also know damn well I may go through this and you might tell me to get lost. It’s happened before. But I don’t think you will, because I’m positive I’m going to convince you, and it may be easier than you probably think right now.”
Ben crossed his arms and eased himself back in the seat. “I’m not thinking anything, Mr. Gatz. Not a damn thing. I’m all ears.”
Gatz slugged a mouthful of beer and flicked a fly off the tip of his nose. “It started over ten years ago. An assistant district attorney named Michael Farmer was getting rich taking bribes in plea-bargaining sessions. There were a lot of guys on the force who knew about it, but there was little anyone could do without proof. Farmer and I were at each other’s throats. I never liked him. From the moment I met him, I knew he was a sleazy, ambitious grade-A son of a bitch.” He paused, smiled, then continued. “He was married to a socialite whose maiden name was Karen Birmingham. She wasn’t very attractive. Or even that rich. Farmer married her for position and power, since her father, a partner in a big Wall Street law firm, was big in the Republican Party. Unfortunately, Farmer couldn’t keep his cock in his pants. He got the hots for a young fashion model named Allison Parker, who fell in love with him, but didn’t know about the wife. Once Miss Parker found out about the wife, she exploded and gave Farmer an ultimatum: either the wife goes or she does. Farmer asked for a divorce. Karen Farmer freaked out. A week later, they found Karen Farmer in the alley of their New York apartment building, an apparent suicide. I was put on the case. I knew he’d had her murdered. She’d probably threatened to tell the district attorney about the bribes, and he realized that he had to get rid of her. Unfortunately, I couldn’t prove it. The medical examiner ruled the death a suicide. No charges were brought; I was pulled off the case, even though I’d been able to find threads of supportive evidence. Anyway, all you need to know is t
hat Farmer’s wife died, that I knew he’d had her murdered, and that a couple of months later the guilt-ridden girlfriend, Allison Parker, tried to slit her wrists. Once again, I became involved, and once again I got nowhere.”
Gatz stopped and ordered another beer. Ben could see rage and frustration moving across Gatz’s features like a kaleidoscope.
Gatz pulled a half-smoked cigar from his pocket, lit it, and jammed it into his mouth. “Nothing happened for two years. Then one night all Hell broke loose. A girl was found roaming the streets in her nightgown at four in the morning hysterical, claiming she’d murdered her father. I went to the hospital, and who did I find? Allison Parker. From what she told us, we were able to construct the following scenario: After Miss Parker recovered from the suicide attempt, she moved in with Farmer and began to play house. Everything was fine for two years, until she received a call from her mother, who told her that her father was dying of cancer. She went home to Indiana to be with the family, refusing to let Michael Farmer visit. The old man lingered on for a couple of months. It was a terrible strain on Miss Parker, because she hated the bastard. But he eventually died and she returned to New York, convinced that she had to find her own apartment. She then saw a rental listing, met the agent, a woman named Joan Logan, and saw an apartment on the third floor of a brownstone at 68 West Eighty-ninth street.” He stopped as Ben flinched, then continued. “While she was inspecting the premises, she noticed a priest in the 5A apartment window. The agent dismissed the priest, whose name was Matthew Halliran, as an old harmless, blind, and paralyzed cleric. Miss Parker took the apartment. But, soon, she began to have fainting spells. Then, during the next few weeks, she met her neighbors. First a man named Charles Chazen, his cat, Jezebel, and his parakeet, Mortimer, who lived in 5B, down the hall from the priest. Then two lesbians in 2A, who came on a little too strong. Finally, she attended a birthday party for Chazen’s cat and met Emma and Lillian Klotkin, Anna Clark, and the Stinnets, the Klotkins’ cousins from across town. That night she heard footsteps and clanging in the apartment above. But 4A was supposed to be empty. Miss Parker complained to Miss Logan, who told her that except for the priest, there were no other neighbors, and hadn’t been for years. Miss Logan returned with her to the building and escorted her through each of the apartments…all empty, except for the priest’s, which they couldn’t enter. Miss Logan left. Miss Parker tried to call Michael Farmer, but couldn’t reach him or her best friend, a model named Jennifer Learson. So, she stayed in the brownstone. That night, she woke at four o’clock again. Overhead, she heard footsteps. Clanging, too. She grabbed a knife and flashlight and climbed the steps to the fourth floor. Halfway up, she stepped on the cat, which had the parakeet, dead, in its mouth. Then the cat ran away. She entered 4A and, in the dark bedroom, walked smack into her dead father. Terrified, she stabbed him and ran out of the building, hysterical. And that’s where I became involved. We checked the brownstone. There was no sign of violence. No blood. And no neighbors. We tried to find Miss Logan, but couldn’t. We checked on Allison Parker’s father and had his body disinterred. He was rotting in the box. We typed the blood on her arms; it matched her own and could have come from any number of wounds. So, there were only two conclusions we could reach: first, the girl had had a nightmare or a series of hallucinations, which certainly was not inconsistent with her psychiatric history, or she’d actually met the missing neighbors and killed someone. If the second possibility was true, I knew that Michael Farmer had to be involved. Unfortunately, there was nothing I could do without a body. But within a week we had one, a detective named William Brenner, an underground, small-time trickster. He was found in the trunk of a car not far from Eighty-ninth Street, dead of multiple stab wounds. We typed his blood. It matched the blood found on the girl. I was convinced that for some reason Farmer had sent Brenner into the brownstone disguised as the father and Miss Parker had killed him by mistake. I was also convinced that Brenner had been involved in the Karen Farmer murder. But for a long time I had no way to connect Farmer and Brenner. Then came a fatal night, when everything jelled. My detectives discovered information in Brenner’s apartment that linked Michael Farmer to Brenner, both at the time of Karen Farmer’s death and on the night that Allison Parker supposedly killed her father. I ordered an arrest warrant, then went to pick up Farmer. At the same time, Jennifer Learson called, reporting that Allison Parker had gone to the brownstone. And so had Michael Farmer. There was supposedly a bizarre religious plot underway involving the Catholic Church. We went to the brownstone and found Farmer dead, his skull crushed. Father Halliran was dead, too. Heart attack. And Allison Parker was missing. We issued an all-points and obtained a warrant for her arrest.”
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