The Guardian

by Konvitz, Jeffrey;

  As they stood in the room, Dr. Taguichi explained Jennifer Learson’s condition in greater detail. For one brief instant Ben thought he saw some movement. Then it was gone. He spoke to her, listed names that he thought she might recognize: Allison Parker, Detective Thomas Gatz, Michael Farmer, Monsignor Franchino. She remained mute, imprisoned in a self-created Hell. He felt his own emotions start to get away. He looked at Taguichi. Certainly, he couldn’t let himself crack in front of the hospital’s chief of psychiatry.

  He smiled faintly.

  “It’s unfortunate,” Taguichi said. “We’ve done just about everything that can be down for her, though, of course, we’ll keep trying.”

  Ben looked at the wooden cot, the simple pine table and chair, the empty gray walls; the cell could have been cropped out of a mid-nineteenth-century work of social fiction.

  “I’d like to go,” he said, sensing his own break with reality, his giving way to revulsion at the thing that Jennifer Learson had become.

  Taguichi nodded and escorted him out of the building. At the entrance to the hospital, they stopped.

  Ben had been visibly affected: Taguichi assured him that there was no way he could have avoided it. No one ever entered the world of the mentally ill without a marked emotional withdrawal.

  “If there is anything else, any new development, I’d like you to call me, doctor.”

  “Of course,” Taguichi said.

  Ben drew deeply at the fresh Long Island air. He wanted to tell Taguichi why he’d come, why he’d lied about his familial relationship to Jennifer Learson.

  But for reasons of his own safety and Faye’s, he couldn’t say a word.

  He looked straight at the doctor, lowered his eyes, and sighed.

  Within seconds Dr. Taguichi was gone and Ben was on his way to the Riverhead train station.

  Ben had been standing on the platform for about fifteen minutes, when the grinding sound of wheels on rail chattered through the air.

  He picked up an old magazine and approached the edge of the platform, being sure not to get too close to the rail pit.

  The train appeared around a bend and pulled into the station, opening its doors.

  He entered, took off his jacket, and sat in the car’s last seat. The train started to move. He sat back. Relaxed, and opened the magazine. He had nearly finished when his eye caught the headline of a small article. He held the magazine up to the light.

  The headline shouted:

  SYRACUSE GIRL SURVIVES ORDEAL ON ADIRONDACK MOUNTAINTOP. TELLS STORY OF MURDER AND THE SUPERNATURAL.

  He began to read.

  11

  Shortly after three in the morning Ben emerged through the roof door and moved toward the front face of the building.

  “Over here,” a voice called.

  He strained his eyes, but could see nothing; it was like looking into a black hole.

  “Mr. Burdett.”

  He turned. Two men dressed in sneakers and black sweat suits stepped toward him.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Ben said.

  “Forget it,” replied Frykowski. “This is Turner.”

  Ben nodded to the second man, who smiled and adjusted the wool ski cap on his head.

  “Is the platform down?”

  Frykowski nodded. “We dropped it this afternoon.”

  “Have any trouble getting into the building?”

  “No. We told the superintendent the job had been ordered by management.”

  Ben walked to the edge of the roof and looked over the wall. The platform was hanging three feet below. He checked the grapnels. They were secure.

  “You sure these’ll hold?”

  Frykowski smiled and climbed over the roof railing onto the platform. Turner checked the winches and followed.

  “Ease over the wall and step down, as if you were getting into a hot bathtub. Don’t make any quick moves.”

  “Okay,” Ben said, throwing one leg over the rail.

  Frykowski and Turner grabbed Ben’s arms and lifted him into place. The platform shook under his weight.

  “Just relax,” Frykowski said. “We’ll do all the work. We only have several feet to descend. It’ll be over in a minute.”

  Frykowski and Turner moved to the opposite sides of the platform and grabbed the pulley ropes; the platform gradually began to slide.

  “You know, Burdett, I don’t like to ask no questions or cause no problems. But this is the craziest thing I’ve ever done. I saw the old nun in the window, and I gotta believe she ain’t gonna be too happy about this.”

  “She’s deaf, dumb, blind, and paralyzed.”

  “But still…”

  “Keep your voice down,” Ben cautioned.

  The platform reached the top of the nun’s window.

  “Now slow,” Frykowski said.

  “We’re all right,” Turner replied, tightening his glove-covered hands on the ropes.

  Ben fell to his knees and placed his palms against the glass. Slowly more of it appeared, fronting a dark lace curtain and the face and body of the old nun. Even at that close range, it was so dark that the contours of her features remained obscured.

  “Tie it off!” Frykowski commanded.

  Turner secured his rope, nodded, and remained to the side. Frykowski tied off his end, moved toward Ben, and looked in the window.

  “It beats me.” he said. “An old broad, holding a crucifix, sitting in a window. If I were you, I wouldn’t go near this pussy.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Frykowski, but I paid you to get me down here, not to lecture me. Okay?”

  “Sure. Sure.”

  A gust of wind ripped past the platform. Ben grabbed frantically for the railing. Frykowski laughed.

  “Nothing’s gonna happen, Burdett.”

  Ben reached for the base of the window frame.

  “Help me get it up.”

  They fought the window. It wouldn’t move. Ben stood, looked over the top of the lower frame, then returned to his knees.

  “The lock’s open; the frame must be jammed.”

  Frykowski took two chisels from his pocket. He handed one to Ben. They inserted the tools along the edge of the window frame, sliding them through the frozen mortar. Ben tried to lift the window once more. It seemed to give. They poked with the chisels several more times. Ben tried again. This time the window slid quickly to its apex.

  Ben pulled the curtain aside. “I don’t believe it,” he mumbled, fighting back the impulse to scream.

  The woman was the most repulsive thing he’d ever seen. The shriveled skin. The knotted veins in her hands, the swollen, distended blood vessels that crept perilously close to the surface of her face. The matted web of hair. And the eyes, encased in cataracts.

  She was dressed in the black robes of the sisterhood. Her hands were callused and old, topped by long, pointed nails. And if she was breathing, there was no way to tell.

  “This is bad news, man,” Frykowski said, gritting his teeth.

  “What is it?” Turner called from the side.

  “Nothing. You stay there.” He turned to Ben. “I want to pull us up. Right now!”

  “It’ll only take me a minute. Please.”

  Ben pulled a wineglass, wrapped it in a handkerchief, from his pocket, then tried to pull the nun’s hands off the cross. Her grip was incredibly strong. He asked Frykowski to help. Reluctantly, Frykowski tugged until the nun’s left hand slipped off the metal. Ben spread her fingers and wrapped them around the glass, carefully pressing the tips. Then he rewrapped the glass in the handkerchief and placed it back in his pocket.

  A violent gust of wind, then another, tossed the carriage from side to side.

  “We’re going up,” Frykowski said.

  “One second,” Ben pleaded, as he pulled out a Nikon.

/>   “Up!”

  Turner started to untie the pulley ropes.

  Ben set the exposure and started to snap at the nun.

  “Up,” screamed Frykowski once more. He raced to his side of the carriage and grabbed hold of his rope.

  Turner freed the system and started to pull.

  “You’d better hold on, Burdett,” Frykowski warned.

  Ben continued to snap.

  Another gust swiped them. The platform lurched, nearly throwing everyone off. Ben quickly pushed the camera into his pocket.

  “All right, let’s go. But close her window.”

  “Fuck the window, man!” Frykowski screamed.

  Turner pointed upward. “Look!”

  Ben and Frykowski followed the line of Turner’s hand.

  “The rope!”

  Both lines of the right support were withering.

  “Christ!”

  The platform started to sag toward the building; Ben grabbed for the rail.

  “That won’t help,” Turner cried. He stumbled to the center of the carriage. “Into the window.”

  Frykowski grabbed for the window frame. So did Turner. Ben fell back. The camera popped out of his pocket and onto the platform. He dove, caught it just as it was going off the end, and stuffed it inside his shirt.

  Turner was already inside the window. “Come on, man!”

  Streaming sweat, Frykowski pulled himself into the apartment. One of the lines broke. Ben grabbed the outer edge of the platform and started to inch back toward the window.

  Frykowski and Turner leaned out, groping for Ben’s legs.

  Everything was turning; Ben looked down at the street. It seemed to be reaching up to him. Above, he could hear the strands breaking.

  The final support broke, the platform careening violently into the side of the building. Only the left support lines prevented it from crashing to the street. There was shouting, but Ben could hear nothing. He was dangling by his hands, twenty stories above the ground.

  “Shimmy up and swing over,” Frykowski cried.

  Ben pulled up, trying to climb. The heavy burlap ate into his hands; his body was getting heavier, hanging like a slug of lead.

  A blast of wind whipped across his face. He looked down, then up. The other line was beginning to wither.

  “Help me,” he begged.

  But Frykowski and Turner could do nothing.

  “Pull harder!” Frykowski called. “Harder!”

  Ben squeezed the rope. His hands were soaked. So was his body. Down the wall, he could see the lights in the Woodbridge apartment snap on.

  He started to pull, trying to climb, reaching just beyond the break point as the line ripped through. Shuddering, the platform broke away and crashed to the street.

  More lights came on.

  He started to swing toward the window. Frykowski and Turner leaned out, trying to grab him. They were short. He pushed off the ledge next to the nun’s window and jackknifed toward Frykowski, who grabbed his leg and secured his arms. Seconds later Ben was inside the apartment, on the floor behind the nun, heaving phlegm and racked by tremors.

  The apartment was dark; other than the chair in which the old nun was sitting, there was no furniture.

  Frykowski and Turner fell to the floor. They could hear voices in the hall. Ben recognized John Sorrenson’s, then Daniel Batille’s, and one of the secretaries’.

  Ben caught his breath, aware of what could have been another inch. Another few seconds. And he was dead. “I thought you said you’d checked the ropes.”

  Frykowski coughed. “We did. And they’re new, purchased less than a month ago. And we’ve used them at least ten times. I could understand one breaking. But all four?”

  “Maybe someone cut them.”

  “No way. They’re kept locked up. And I told you, we checked them. There was nothing wrong with those ropes.”

  Ben looked around the room. All he could see was the nun’s back. She loomed over him like a horrible vision in a nightmare.

  “Something made those ropes break!” he said.

  “Why don’t you ask the nun?” Frykowski snapped. “I told you she wasn’t going to like what we were doing. Just look at the thing. You think that’s human? Do you? Well, if you do, you’re nuts! That ain’t human! I don’t know what she is or where she came from, but I want nothing to do with her.” He stood, helped Turner to his feet, and struggled to the door. Outside, the commotion had ceased. “She’s all yours. But let me give you a word of advice. This adventure tonight cost me a platform…”

  “I’ll reimburse you.”

  “And almost cost us our lives. If that doesn’t ring any bells in your head, you’re fucking crazy!”

  Frykowski flipped the locks and opened the door. He peered out, pushed Turner ahead of him, followed, and shut the door.

  Suddenly, Ben was alone with Sister Therese. He stood and checked for the camera. It was still there. So was the wineglass. Both had survived the ordeal undamaged.

  He moved toward the nun, then stopped, staring. Though much larger, the crucifix in her hands was identical to the one that lay under the papers in his drawer.

  He felt the darkness moving in on him, and a crawling sense of claustrophobia. It was as if something was forbidding him to move forward.

  “What do you want from us?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer. He retreated to the door and closed his eyes, wishing that she would go away. Then, breathing deeply, he opened the door and walked out.

  Ben wiped sweat from his forehead. “When I returned to the apartment, Faye was still sleeping. The noise hadn’t awakened her, but it had woken everyone else. When I left his morning, I ran into one of my neighbors, Daniel Batille, who couldn’t understand why I hadn’t heard the crash. I dropped Faye and the baby off in the park and came right here. How’re you doing?”

  “Fine,” said Nicky Macario. He manipulated the glass under the desk lamp. “I’ll have something in a minute.”

  Ben watched him dust.

  Macario, whom Ben had met at the Knickerbocker Athletic Club, had been one of the NYPD’s most talented print experts, and even though he’d been off the force for several years, operating a restaurant in Greenwich Village, he’d forgotten very little.

  “So you don’t know why the ropes broke!”

  “No,” Ben said, leaning against the wall of the closet-sized room. “They must have been defective.”

  Nicky nodded. “I still can’t figure out why you went through all the trouble.”

  Ben raised his brow. “I can’t tell you that, Nicky. Just take my word that it’s very important to me. Okay?”

  “Sure. No skin off my back.”

  Macario worked for several minutes more, then turned and handed Ben the glass. “Congratulations,” he said. “You went through hell for nothing. There are no prints.”

  “No prints? I made firm impressions.”

  “The outlines of the fingertips are there, but there are no patterns inside. Absolutely nothing”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I.” Macario shrugged. “But that’s what we have.”

  “You sure?”

  Macario’s eyebrows rose. “Of course, I’m sure.”

  “Damn,” Ben cursed.

  “What are you going to do?” Macario asked.

  “Buy you dinner for your time.”

  “I’d rather you bring the wife into the restaurant when she feels better. But I didn’t mean for me. I meant about the nun. What are you going to do?”

  Ben shook his head and belched a hollow laugh. “I don’t know,” he said.

  After leaving Macario’s, Ben had a cup of coffee at a luncheonette, then taxied to the theater district and got out on Forty-seventh Street in front of the Technicolor labs
.

  The developing manager, whom Ben had spoken to earlier that day, was waiting for him. He took the negatives and told Ben to take a seat. It would be a while.

  Ben sat in the waiting room and read the paper, pausing once to call Faye to tell her that he’d be home within the hour. Then he returned to his seat and started to skim a copy of Sports Illustrated. He was interrupted moments later.

  “All done,” the developer said, as he popped through the lab door.

  He handed Ben several prints.

  “Strange-looking old woman.”

  Ben nodded, as he examined the proofs. “They’re perfect,” he said, patting the man on the shoulder. “Just what I need.”

  “Where did you find the old thing?”

  “Just sitting around,” he said sarcastically. “Look, I wonder if you could do me a favor?

  “If I can.”

  “Keep the negatives for safekeeping. In case I lose these pictures, I want you to have the negatives to strike some more prints. There’s no way I’d be able to get the nun to sit for a portrait again. She wasn’t a good subject the first time.”

  “I see. Well, I don’t see why not. Sure. I’ll keep them. Just let me know when you want them.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Ben thanked the manager and left the building, stopping on the corner of Broadway to study the pictures in the revealing light of the afternoon sun. The nun was reality…a horrible, decrepit, revolting reality, but a living fact nonetheless. He shivered involuntarily, then put the pictures in his pocket, walked to Forty-second Street, and entered the subway.

  12

  At ten a.m., Ben disembarked from American Airlines’ Flight 42 in Syracuse, New York, and walked out of the main terminal, holding a folder containing the newspaper article, the glossy of Allison Parker, and pictures of the old nun. He hailed a taxi and directed it to 625 Iroquois Street in a busy suburb in the northern section of the city. There he pressed the bell on a three-story, white colonial home and waited.

  After the fifth ring, a tall Lincolnesque man opened the door.

  “Mr. Burdett?” he asked with a degree of certainty in his voice.