Franchino leaned across the table. “Sister Therese next door was once Allison Parker. Sister Therese is the Sentinel. Everything you were told by Detective Gatz is true. The quotation Gatz showed you is accurate. The role of the Sentinel is as you understand it. There is more that you don’t know, but what you do know is sufficient.”
Finally, the truth. After all the digging, it had been dropped into his lap. “Why are you telling me this now?” he asked.
“Because I need your help.”
“How?”
“I will explain.”
“Does Father McGuire know anything about this?”
Franchino paused, then said, “No. I had never met Father McGuire before he contacted me.”
“I see,” said Ben before he paused to wipe the perspiration from his face. “So Sister Therese has been sitting in that window watching for the approach of Satan.” Should he laugh?
“Precisely.”
“And what if Satan should choose to appear in Ethiopia or some other godforsaken place?”
“It wouldn’t matter. Although the Sentinel sits in the window of an apartment in New York City, her purview is the world. The apartment is a physical value that humans perceive. The Sentinel’s abilities are ethereal, omnipotent, and omniscient. She can be anywhere at any time. She is God’s angel on earth, the instrument of his powers. In reality, she can sit anywhere. The physical perch of the Sentinel has been changed many times over the years, more at the whim of the Sentinel’s priestly guardians than for any other reason. Father Halliran sat in the brownstone on this very ground. Sister Therese sits as you see her. And Sister Thomasina…or Faye Burdett, if you will…her successor, will sit as well, maybe here, maybe in some other location.”
Controlling his anger, Ben inquired, “So Faye is to be the next Sentinel?”
“Yes.”
“Do you really think that I’m going to let you get away with this?”
“You have no choice. It is God’s will. And, my son, do not think of this as a horrible fate. The Sentinel is blessed. God has extended his hand and, his forgiveness. For when Satan perverted Eden through mankind’s sin and God declared that no longer would his heavenly angels sit and watch for the approach of Satan, he decreed that one of mankind would be his angel on earth, would sit in penance for sin, the attempt of suicide. Yes. To be chosen as God’s Sentinel is a blessing, my son.”
“Blessing, my ass! You’re going to rob her of her life. Shrivel her like a prune. Blind her. Deafen her. Paralyze her. And you can still there and tell me that this is a blessing?”
“My son. Do not think of the world solely in terms of mortal flesh. Beauty dies, people age, people die. Mortal bodies pass to dust. Flesh is but aimless matter. It is the soul that carries the essence of life, the spark of God and Christ. To that you must look. Faye Burrdett’s soul is in mortal danger; she has sinned. She must atone, serve penance, or she will be damned to eternal Hell. Faye Burdett has been chosen to stop Satan. She can move into the light of God’s grace, have her praises sung throughout God’s kingdom. If I were you, I would pray that she attains this noble station.”
Ben’s voice rang with sarcasm. “Why must I pray, when you’ve said it’s God’s unstoppable will?”
“Because there is an opposing will that is nearly as strong. The will of Satan. By eternal edict, if God’s angel on earth should be perverted, be suffered to sin against itself, then the chain will break, the Sentinel shall be no more, and mankind shall have brought Satan upon itself once more. Satan will try to subvert your wife. He will try to make her take her life before her transition to her seat before God. We cannot let that happen, or mankind is doomed. Beyond all else, we cannot let that happen!”
Ben was shaking his head. “How do you propose to prevent it?”
“I don’t know. But first we must identify the fiend.”
“Have the Sentinel do it for you.”
“I only wish that were possible. Satan’s powers are immense. He can change his form, his place, anything. He is most difficult to root out, but that is precisely what must be done. I can deal with him, but only if I can identify him. The Sentinel senses Satan’s presence. Satan is in the building. But he is cleverly disguised. He is waiting. Most likely in the form of the poor soul, whose body was found in the basement compactor. I am sure that Satan destroyed the body and took its place. Yes. He is here. Even I can sense his presence. I have confronted him before. There is a vibration in the air that makes me tremble.”
“You, Monsignor, afraid?”
“We must all be afraid! Do you not understand that, Mr. Burdett?”
Ben nodded slowly, acutely aware that the ravages of terror had already permeated his body.
“And what is your roll?”
“I am merely God’s servant. I am here to protect Sister Therese and see that Sister Thomasina properly fulfills her destiny.” He pointed at the window. “Sister Thomasina shall sit like no other Sentinel before her. A cathedral shall rise to shield her, to stand as a monument to her martyrdom. It shall succor her, enhance her glory, and honor her in the eyes of her children. There you shall soon see the rising foundations of her domain and her ultimate resolution, a blessed chamber overlooking the city…the transition…then immortality!”
“And if you fail?”
“God help us all.”
Ben stood and walked slowly around the table; Franchino remained entranced.
“You want me to help you?”
“Yes.”
“How can I do that? You, the old nun, and all the crazy priests and sorcerers around her haven’t been able to do it. How the hell am I going to?”
“I promise you that you can. You must listen to me and do as you’re told. Seek the answers to questions that I will propose. And then…”
Ben slammed his hand violently against the table, his body hunched over the priest, shaking. “You want me to help you destroy my wife!”
“Mr. Burdett!”
Ben grabbed the Monsignor’s collar and pulled Franchino’s head over the table; Franchino made no move to protect himself.
“You want me to destroy her! You bastard!”
Franchino slowly straightened himself and removed Ben’s hands.
“I suggest you control yourself, Mr. Burdett. Explosions of temper will not help you or me. I did not want to tell you, to give you too much hope, but there is an alternative.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t be specific. But there is a way to alter your wife’s fate without endangering mankind. It can be done with your cooperation, and only with your cooperation. It will be difficult. But if you do not defy me, I offer you relief from your agony.”
“You know damn well I’ll do anything.”
“I’m sure.”
“That’s assuming, for one brief moment of lunacy that I believe all of this.”
“Mr. Burdett, after what you’ve been through and seen and heard, if you have any questions about the reality of the Sentinel and the danger that exists, you are a fool, a sick, simpleminded fool.”
Ben just nodded.
Franchino stood. “I will contact you with instructions. You must arrange for me to meet everyone on this floor.”
“Why?”
“Because Satan is here! On this floor.”
“Okay. But before you go, what really happened in the basement?”
“You and your wife were beaten.”
“By whom? Three black teenagers from the streets?”
Franchino approached the door. “No. There were no teenagers down there. There were no people, other than you and your wife. It was a staged event, created and choreographed by Charles Chazen…the Satan.”
“Why?”
Franchino opened the door and moved halfway out. He looked puzzled. “I don’t know why,” he said,
closing the door.
Ben sat down at the table again. He placed his head in his hands, sat quietly for several minutes, then began to cry.
15
“I was worried,” John Sorrenson announced, as he nibbled the end of a scraped carrot. “It was not like you and Ben to close yourselves up in the apartment and disappear. And for ten days, mind you!”
“We thought it best to have as much solitude as possible,” Faye replied, avoiding the truth. Ben had warned her that no one could be told what had happened in the basement or in any way suspect that they’d been nursing themselves back to health. “Ben and I needed to be alone. It was just something we had to do.”
“But to shut yourselves off…to avoid your friends…not even to speak to us!”
“John, if I could only make you understand …”
Sorrenson scratched his head. He wasn’t wearing his hat, but had on a vivid plaid suit, a pink shirt, and a red bowtie. And his cheeks were especially rosy, giving him the appearance of a clown. “Fortunately, Biroc told me he’d spoken to you and that you were both all right. If not, I might have called the police.”
Faye smiled. “John, I can always count on you to look out for our welfare.”
“Indeed you can. Indeed.”
She hugged him, careful to keep the glass of wine in her hand from spilling.
As Max Woodbridge had observed shortly after arriving for the dinner party, Faye looked better than ever. The ebullient smile had returned to her face, as had her healthy color. Of course, the progression did not seem that unusual; prior to the second basement incident, she’d seemed well on the mend, and since no one had any inkling that something else had happened in the interim, they’d had no reason to suspect an interruption in her continuous improvement.
Across the room, Ben was standing alone, watching. Except for Sister Therese and Lou Petrosevic, everyone on the floor was there. Including Charles Chazen! Franchino had assured him of that. But who?
“I was just speaking to your friend,” Jenkins said, after he’d approached Ben. “A very interesting man. I’m surprised that you’ve never invited him over before.”
Ben broke from his thoughts. “I have. But he’s been busy. This time we got lucky.”
“How so?”
“He teaches history and religion at the State University of New York. When I told him about the nun, he was curious and wanted to take a look.”
“What does he think?”
“He thinks she’s a very unfortunate woman.”
“But without religious significance?”
“Believe it or not, Ralph, those were his exact words.”
“What’s his name again?” Jenkins asked, tapping his lips with his index finger.
“Franchino.”
“William?”
“Yes.”
Ben looked across the room; Monsignor Franchino was seated on the couch, dressed in lay clothing.
“Well, let me tell you, Ben, he may not know much about the nun, but he knows a great deal about antiques.”
“Is that so? He’s never mentioned antiques to me.”
“He said his former wife was an aficionado.”
“That could be,” Ben agreed.
“But, of course,” Jenkins said, smiling at Faye, as she hurried by, “I’m sure Mr. Franchino has encountered antiquities himself. Anyone who fluently speaks as many languages, as he does, has to have lived throughout Europe, and that’s the surest way to develop an appreciation for different styles of furnishings.”
“I thought Bill spoke only Italian and English.”
“That’s not the half of it, Ben. Try German, Spanish, French, Russian, and Polish, too.”
“I’m impressed,” Ben said, noticing Franchino rise and move toward them, acutely aware of every move, sound, and word in the room. And why not? Charles Chazen knew Franchino’s identity; Franchino did not know Chazen’s.
“Ben,” Franchino said, “I can’t tell you how much I’m enjoying this.”
“I’m so glad you were able to come.”
“And your wife couldn’t be lovelier.”
“Thank you,” Ben glanced at Faye. “By the way, I didn’t know you were a linguist, Bill.”
“A barely passable one,” Franchino countered.
“You’re being modest,” Jenkins insisted.
“Modesty is a very difficult assignment for an egomaniac,” Franchino said. He looked at his watch as they laughed. “I can’t stay much longer, Ben. I have work to do at home, and as usual, an insufficient amount of time.”
“I never thought time was a problem for teachers,” Jenkins observed, straightening the lapel of his nattily tailored suit. “You know, off hours, sabbaticals, summer vacations, and that sort of thing.”
“I wish that was true,” Franchino replied. “But when you’re a tenured professor, the faculty expects you to publish, and that takes long hours of work.”
“What are you working on now?” Ben asked, having prepared the question in advance.
Franchino paused, as Batille joined the group. “I’m investigating Renaissance religious beliefs in Slavic Europe.”
“Eastern Orthodoxy?” Batille asked.
“In part,” Franchino replied, “but I’m more concerned with ethnic variations and non-Catholic influences.”
“For example?”
“Well, there was a sect in the provinces of what is now Bulgaria that conducted a ritual that combined concepts of black magic and the established tenets of Eastern Orthodoxy. They believed in the indelible power of the cross. Once a year they gathered, looking for the sign of Satan.”
“And what was that?” Sorrenson asked, having walked up behind them unnoticed.
“It was their belief that a crucifix, forged of white iron ore from eastern Bulgaria, possessed properties that would leave a mark on the legions of Satan and Satan himself, a narrow burn under the border of the metal shaft. They conducted intricate ceremonies with these artifacts and vowed to condemn the marked ones to death.”
“Was anyone ever marked?” Sorrenson asked.
“We can’t be sure. We do know from authenticated extracts that many were sent to the stake.”
“Are any of those crucifixes still in existence?” Ben asked. He knew the answer already. That afternoon Franchino had identified the crucifix from the ship as one of the relics. A coincidence? Hardly.
“Yes. There are several. I’ve identified at least three of the hundred that were forged in the kilns, all of them housed in a private collection in Bucharest.”
“So you’re saying,” said Batille, “that the mere touch of the crucifix will leave a mark.”
“If touched during the ritual.”
“What baloney!” Sorrenson said.
As Sorrenson questioned the accuracy of history, Ben pulled the crucifix form the top desk drawer. “Is this one?” he asked, turning it in his hand.
Surprised, Faye walked over. “I thought you threw that away!”
Ben looked at her, shrugged apologetically, and gave the crucifix to Franchino.
Franchino inspected it. “Unfortunately, no. if it was, it would be quite valuable.”
“Do you know the ritual?” Ben asked.
“Yes,” replied Franchino.
“Then do it. Who knows? Maybe…”
Sorrenson waved his arms, interrupting. “Ben, this is a dinner party, not a séance.”
“Come on, John, it’ll be fun.” He looked at Faye. “I leave it to you.”
Faye said nothing.
Max Woodbridge walked to Ben’s side. “This isn’t the right time, Ben.”
“It isn’t?”
Ignoring Woodbridge, Ben announced that Franchino would demonstrate the ritual.
But Franchino said, “Maybe I shouldn’t.”
The room was silent.
“Do it!” Ben repeated.
Franchino hesitantly arranged the reluctant guests in a circle, drew a line across the floor, bisecting it, stationed himself midway, and had the lights turned down. Then he began to mutter in Latin, garbled sounds, gutturally-toned, again and again.
Slowly, Franchino’s voice became louder.
The echo of breathing intensified, the strain of pumping lungs, the Woodbridges together, Ben and Faye facing each other, the secretaries and Batille across from Sorrenson and Jenkins.
Franchino raised the crucifix over his head, increased the speed of his incantations, and started to move.
Was the ritual anything other than a deception? Ben asked himself, feeling dizzy, disoriented.
Suddenly, Franchino screamed, the sound emerging from deep in his diaphragm and dissipating rapidly.
Hurriedly, Ben turned on the lights.
Franchino was slumped on his knees, holding his chest, gasping for breath.
“What is it?” Ben cried.
Confused, everyone started to move.
Franchino pointed toward a black purse he’d left on the dining table. Max Woodbridge retrieved it. Inside was a vial. He took it out and handed it to Ben.
“This?” Ben asked.
Franchino nodded and fell on his side, rolling in agony.
Grace Woodbridge ran to the kitchen and returned with a glass of water.
Franchino’s skin had started to discolor, shading toward blue; his body was racked by tremors.
Ben rolled Franchino over and popped a pill onto his tongue. Franchino jerked it in; Ben gripped him under the jaw, forced open his mouth, and poured in the water. Franchino coughed and swallowed, dribbling over himself.
“Get some air in here,” Batille commanded.
The two secretaries opened the windows.
Gradually, Franchino drew himself up onto his knees. Though he was still clutching his chest, Ben could tell that the pain was easing.
“Are you all right?” Grace Woodbridge asked.
Franchino balanced himself and etched a tentative smile. “Yes…angina… I’ve had it for years. It comes and goes. As long as I get nitro, it can be controlled.”
The Guardian Page 16