“Why don’t you sit on the couch?” Ben suggested, as he moved toward the Monsignor.
Franchino waved him off and struggled to his feet. “No, let’s continue.”
“Mr. Franchino,” Grace Woodbridge said, “don’t you think you should rest? The strain might…”
“I’m fine,” Franchino protested. “Let’s continue.”
Sorrenson and Batille threatened to leave.
“I don’t want anyone to go,” Ben declared.
“Are you crazy, Ben?” Sorrenson asked.
“No,” Ben replied. “But I want the ritual completed.” He glanced at Franchino, searching for assurance. “And now!”
Ben maneuvered everyone back into the circle and lowered the lights again. Franchino raised the crucifix over his head and began to mutter and move. Suddenly, Ben felt a twinge of frigid air touch his skin. Where had it come from? The air conditioner wasn’t on, and besides, it felt like nothing he could remember; it was as if someone had placed a slab of frozen stone against his body.
Franchino stopped chanting.
Did anyone else feel it?
The feeling intensified. Ben started to shake. Franchino tried to continue, but couldn’t.
“It’s freezing in here,” one of the secretaries said.
Then, a sound. Pressure on their bodies, as if they’d contracted the bends. Franchino’s cry. The sound of impact.
Someone hit the lights.
Franchino lay in the corner, toppled over the armchair, fighting a pair of imaginary hands that were tightening around his throat. He was bleeding from a cut over the right eye; his face was red from asphyxia.
Panicked, Ben fell to Franchino’s side. “Franchino!”
“What’s going on here?” Grace Woodbridge yelled from behind.
Franchino spurted saliva; his eyes rolled up. Ben loosened Franchino’s collar and retrieved the crucifix from the floor.
Confusion.
“Call a doctor,” Jenkins said.
“No!” Ben cried. “No doctors.”
Crying, Faye was on her knees.
Then suddenly Franchino stopped writhing. He looked around the room and slowly rose to his feet once more.
Ben moved close to him. “What’s going on?”
“Chazen won’t let me do it!”
“Who’s Chazen?” Sorrenson asked. Everyone had heard Franchino utter the name.
“Chazen?” Franchino asked blankly.
“Yes,” said Faye. “You said Chazen won’t let you do it.”
Franchino looked at Ben
“Who’s Chazen?” Faye asked again.
“I don’t know,” Franchino replied, staring into space.
“Christ!” John Sorrenson declared, his mouth hanging open in amazement.
Ben looked around the room; it was a shambles. Franchino had just left. He had tried a third time, against everyone’s objections, to conduct the ritual, nearly killing himself.
“He must be crazy!” Grace Woodbridge concluded. She held tightly to her husband’s arm. At her feet was the stem of a broken lamp.
Ben glanced at Faye; she was ashen.
“You knew this man in college?” she asked.
Ben nodded.
“Why hadn’t you ever mentioned him until tonight?”
Ben shrugged. “I just hadn’t.”
Jenkins breathed deeply. The lapel of his jacket was ripped. Franchino had torn it when Jenkins had seized Franchino during the fit, trying to keep Franchino from swallowing his tongue. “What do you make of it?” Jenkins asked, staring at Ben.
Ben shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like that before. Maybe he’s sick. An epileptic. I don’t know.”
Sorrenson picked the crucifix off the rug and examined it. It was slick from Franchino’s perspiration.
Ben took the crucifix and placed it back in the drawer. “I’m sorry this happened. I apologize.”
“I think we should call it a night,” Faye said cautiously. She bent down and righted the coffee table.
“All right?”
There was no opposition; within minutes everyone was gone.
The floor was dry, a desiccant for his dripping body. He lay flat on his face, hands buried under his chest, eyes tightly shut, as if they had been welded together. His mind throbbed as he felt the taut pull of his arteries, the pain of angina.
He glanced ahead. The window frame was filled with darkness; the hem of Sister Therese’s robe caught the corner of his eye; he could smell the acidic odor of her body.
And there was pain.
His limbs. Back. Hands. Face. All pinched by the claw of Charles Chazen’s fury.
He’d known beforehand that Chazen wouldn’t let him finish the ritual. But at least, now, he was certain. Chazen had been present!
Once again, his mind picked at memory. He could see Allison Parker’s face, what it had been the night he’d performed the transition, over ten years before.
Was he reliving it once again, or was this Chazen’s torture?
The images. Memories. Impulses. Replaying in his mind. As if it was all happening once more in real-time.
Michael Farmer, who’d uncovered the transition files and had vowed to alter Allison Parker’s fate, had arrived at the brownstone, years before, just before midnight. Franchino now remembered the clutch of fear that had gripped him, when, while watching from the hidden recesses of the building, he’d seen Farmer uncover the inscription over the entrance of the Gates of Hell: ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HERE. He also remembered the dissevering jolt of expectation he’d experienced, when he saw Father Halliran descend the brownstone staircase to the first floor in order to warn Farmer of his impotence. But Farmer, who’d been unable to grasp Halliran’s silent message, had then followed Halliran to Halliran’s fifth-floor apartment, trying to make the mute divulge the truth, and, when failing, wrapping his hands around the cleric’s throat and smashing the cleric’s head against the hard wood floor. It was only then that he’d been forced to react, to try to stop Farmer’s interference. Entering the apartment and raising the base of a metal lamp over his head, he’d smashed at Farmer’s skull, again and again, until Farmer had fallen, dead.
Fighting these memories, Franchino now crawled to the base of Sister Therese’s chair. He could see her face, bathed in the morbid light of a partial moon. Was there movement in her eyes? No, nothing but a flicker of what had been, of what she was, of the fragile woman he could remember entering the brownstone over ten years before, half in a trance, searching, programmed by forces beyond her comprehension, programmed to respond, to appear, to obey, called to the brownstone to prepare for her transition.
He remembered how he’d watched from the shadows, as she’d searched the brownstone for Farmer, finding only a trace of Farmer’s blood and one of Farmer’s cufflinks that had fallen off when he’d moved Farmer’s body into one of the other apartments. Panicked, she’d sealed herself in her apartment, certain it was empty. But was it? Moments later, she’d heard footsteps and she’d moved into the bedroom closet. Although he’d remained in 5A with Halliran, he knew what had happened. Michael Farmer’s soul had confronted Parker, Farmer now having become a soldier in Satan’s legions, condemned to eternal Hell for having arranged the murder of his wife, and now Satan’s instrument, too, the means to lead Allison Parker toward suicide. As he’d revealed his true self, she’d broken into the hall, racing to the ground floor. And there, Charles Chazen, the Satan, had stood waiting, beseeching her to strike at herself and rid herself of God’s eternal pestilence. She’d retreated upward, while the souls of Satan’s armies, her neighbors, her father, and Michael Farmer, had surrounded her…condemned, vapid forms, rattling armor. Trying to escape, she’d entered apartment 4B and then in they’d rushed to torment her, led by Chazen, to bid her join them and betray her God
.
And at that moment, he led Father Halliran into the hall and the armies of the night gave challenge, rattling their spears and armor, throwing formless bodies against the ancient priest. But on they’d battled, he and Halliran, amid the infernal outcry. On and on. Searching for Halliran’s successor. Allison Parker. The chosen of God. The Sentinel!
They’d found her in apartment 4B, surrounded by the infernal multitudes, Chazen, his arms raised, his armies screaming, clanging armor, filling the room, the halls, the building with Hell’s own echo. And she’d fallen to the ground, shaking, wanting death, suddenly believing her fate was to damn herself with her own hand.
Even now Franchino remembered the terror, as he’d fought to transfer the crucifix. But beyond that there was little. Recollection swirled in a vortex. And so it had always been from the moment he’d kissed the ring of Father Halliran’s hand, murmured the last rites over the lifeless priest, prayed for forgiveness for his own mortal sins, and had hustled Allison Parker, now Sister Therese, from the building.
So it had been, and so it had ended, and now it was about to begin once again.
“Help me, God,” he cried, grasping at the base of Sister Therese’s chair. “Give me the strength. I beg you. Give me the strength.”
He lowered his head on the floor. A trickle of salty sweat creased his lips. Then he curled into a ball and prayed for the sensuous caress of the sun.
Shortly after ten o’clock in the morning, Franchino entered his office at the Archdiocese. He was exhausted. A brutal welt marked the crest of his cheekbone; dried blood colored the ridge of his upper lip.
Father McGuire was waiting.
“Are you all right?” McGuire asked.
“Yes,” Franchino replied.
“Was Chazen in the room?”
“Yes.”
“But it failed?”
“Yes.”
McGuire sat down across from the desk. “Biroc completed his investigation.” He handed a folder to Franchino.
Franchino opened it.
“He did as complete a job as he could. There are reports on Batille, Jenkins, Sorrenson, Max Woodbridge, and Lou Petrosevic. Everything matches our previous records, except for the file on Jenkins. Biroc could not verify a single fact. Jenkins is our mystery man, perhaps even Satan.” He waited for a response.
Franchino remained silent, reading Biroe’s intelligence.
“But no matter what the conclusion, it still makes no sense. Even if Satan had murdered Jenkins and replaced him, Jenkins must have had an identity before.”
Franchino nodded thoughtfully.
“What should I do?” McGuire asked.
Franchino looked up. “Have Biroc recheck Jenkins’ past. And I want him to obtain the birth records for Joey Burdett!”
“The baby?”
Franchino nodded.
“Why? Chazen can’t possibly be the child. The body found in the incinerator was a man’s. And how could he influence the Sentinel’s existence from a crib?”
Franchino turned on McGuire angrily. “You are to do as I say. I want the child checked, and all the facts about him verified. I want it done immediately. Do you understand?”
Shocked, McGuire nodded.
“I must determine why Charles Chazen embarked upon the charade in the basement…the beatings. Beyond everything, I must figure that out. It is in that act of terror that the trail to Satan’s identity lies hidden.”
Franchino returned his attention to the files.
McGuire waited momentarily, until he was convinced that Franchino had said all he was going to say, then walked out of the room.
16
The afternoon smog had begun to dissolve with the setting of the spring sun. It was half-past seven. Traffic was still bad. It had been three days since Monsignor Franchino had attempted the ritual. In the interim, Faye had returned to work, the building had recaptured a semblance of sanity, and Ben had not been contacted by Franchino or anyone else for that matter.
“I’m glad we decided to walk home,” Faye said. She held tightly to his arm.
Ben smiled and kissed her.
They turned onto the Sheep Meadow bicycle path and headed across.
They’d been in Central Park for an hour. Ben had met her in front of the General Motors Building on Sixtieth. From there, they’d walked through the Central Park Zoo to the skating rink before turning uptown.
“It’s the nicest night I can remember,” she said, looking up through the trees. A hint of a cloud hung over the buildings on upper Fifth Avenue; the rest of the sky was clear and a three-quarter moon had emerged, along with a solitary star at the base of the western horizon. “Don’t you think?”
“Yes,” he replied, walking slowly, his mind far away.
“Tonight reminds me of Chicago, Ben.”
“It does?”
“You know. The clear nights. The walks we used to take around the Loop. The little apartment we had overlooking Lake Michigan.”
“The lousy job I had with the airline.”
She shook her head. “Our life-style probably wasn’t the best, but we were so happy.”
He ran his hand through her hair. “I know. But aren’t we happy now?”
Her eyes flared, opening wide like gaping tunnels. “Happy? How could anyone be happy having gone through what we’ve been through? Oh, you know, I’m happy with you. I’ve always been, I always will be. But I’m so confused and frightened. Sounds scare me. Shadows. Almost anything. I just wish it was over.”
“What?”
“Whatever’s happening.”
“There’s nothing happening.”
“Please, Ben. Don’t treat me like a child. Something is happening. I’m involved and you’re involved. And God knows who else. I don’t understand why you’re hiding the truth from me.”
He stopped, wrapped his arms around her, pressing his face against the wave of her hair. “Honey, I’m not hiding anything from you, because there’s nothing to hide. And we’ve been through this before. Last week, remember?”
She looked at him blankly.
“Don’t tell me you don’t remember. The night you questioned me about Syracuse?”
She pushed away, walked under a bridge, and continued up a tree-lined path. He waited momentarily, then followed. It was getting dark; he didn’t want her to stray too far away alone.
“There are other things,” she said, as he jogged up beside her.
“Like what?”
“Why didn’t we call the police, after we were beaten in the basement?”
“I explained that already,” he said. “Neither of us could have described the boys accurately. It wouldn’t have done any good. And what would we have accomplished? Nothing. We would have wasted our time and the police would have caught no one.”
“All right. I grant that. But, Ben, there was no reason for us to shut ourselves in the apartment for ten days.”
He gestured apologetically. “All right. Maybe there wasn’t. But could you imagine if Sorrenson or any of the others had found out about what had happened? There’d have been panic. The whole place is still spooked by the compactor murder. One word about the beatings and the police phone lines would have been flooded! They’d have driven us crazy. We’d have had absolutely no peace.”
She sat down on a gray boulder and looked off into the rapidly deepening darkness; he paused, then joined her, leaning back against a supporting hedge.
“Maybe the beatings were related to the murder. That’s a possibility, isn’t it?”
“A possibility. But not likely.”
“But assuming there was a connection; it would be our duty to report it to the authorities.”
“And your point is?”
She looked at him and fought to hold back the tears that were welling in her eyes. “I
don’t know what my point is. If I did, I wouldn’t be so confused. I wouldn’t be driving us both crazy.”
He reached out for her, caressing her shoulders.
“I don’t care what you say about that Franchino, what I saw in our apartment was abnormal.”
“I never said it wasn’t. Franchino’s obviously a sick man.”
“A sickness, which surfaced right after the beatings, which occurred right after the murder, which took place during a whole series of other strange incidents.”
He laughed. “It does sound ridiculous.”
“See,” she said, seizing even his partial agreement. “Even you think so.”
“All right, I think so. But that’s secondary. What’s important is you. That you feel well. That your head is together. That you know you have a husband, who loves you very much, and is going to see that nothing else happens to you. And that you have a son who at this moment is probably crying for his mother and driving Grace Woodbridge crazy.”
He ran his lips over the bridge of her eyebrows, softly tickling her skin with his tongue. She placed her hands on his knees and buried her body under his arms. There was no light in the alcove. The nearest lamp was fifty yards away, over toward the wall that fronted the sidewalk on Central Park West. They were isolated, perched like two statues, insensitive to the distant noise on the avenues. They sat that way for a quarter of an hour, until the first strong puffs of wind from the Hudson spanked against their faces. Then, they stood and started to walk along the path once more.
“You know, Ben,” Faye said, as they passed into an illuminated cul-de-sac, “When you hold me, I almost believe that none of this has happened. When you reassure me, I almost begin to feel that it will end. That we can go back to the way things were. But in the end, I have to admit that for the first time since I’ve known you, I don’t believe you.”
He stopped and stared.
“Ben, you’re lying to me. I don’t believe a word you’re telling me. Not a word!”
“I’m not lying!”
Suddenly, she stopped, frozen in place, eyes darting. “Do you hear that?”
“I don’t hear anything.” Ben held tightly to her hand, while he looked around at pulses of green and black, hulking trees, and shadows crossed like rapiers.
The Guardian Page 17