The Guardian

by Konvitz, Jeffrey;

  “I heard something!”

  He glanced toward Central Park West; they were opposite Eighty-third Street, about a hundred yards inside the park. It was very dark along the path, which was overgrown with bushes. Although the brightly lit buildings of Central Park West were only a short distance away, it still seemed as if they were thousands of miles from civilization.

  “Ben, I’ve heard footsteps for the last five minutes. Every time we’ve stopped, the footsteps have stopped.”

  “You’re probably imagining it.” But was she?.

  “I’m frightened. I want to get out of here.”

  “All right. The paths intersect just ahead, and we’ll be on the street in a few minutes.”

  They started to walk. But this time they both heard the sounds, footsteps.

  He whirled around, while she buried her mouth in the palms of her hands, stifling a cream.

  More steps. Then silence.

  He moved toward the edge of the path, disappearing into the shadows.

  “Ben, don’t leave me!” she said.

  He returned. “Let’s go. And quick!”

  He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the intersection that lay just ahead. He could see the terror in her eyes, the look that reflected the same fear he’d felt in the basement before the beatings. And he wasn’t immune either. He felt the pulse of his jugular beating against his throat, the damp ooze of panic seeping onto his clothes.

  “Turn,” he cried.

  He pushed her in the direction of the street.

  She jerked to a halt. A man was standing ahead, planted on the side of the path, about sixty feet away, watching them, hiding something in his hand. Strangely, though, the footsteps continued.

  Ben turned, confused. Where should they go?

  Faye grasped at him. “Ben!” she cried, her face slick with perspiration.

  He took a step toward the figure and squinted. Should he call out? The figure’s right arm was swinging, though the rest of its body was rigid. And the footsteps continued to tap out of the bushes, so softly that they seemed to be carried by the wind. Whoever it was, was circling. And the figure ahead? Were they connected? Ben felt disoriented, frightened. Why had they walked through the park at night? Didn’t he know better?

  “This way. The bushes!”

  They ran across the path through a row of hedges. She fell. He picked her up, looking around, and forced her to continue through the thorns and barbs.

  “Over there!”

  The footsteps were still audible.

  But there was light. Windows in the towering buildings. Street lamps. Traveling beams from cars.

  They followed the stone wall to the Eighty-sixth Street exit and ran out onto the concrete sidewalk of Central Park West. Faye fell, lacerating her knee. Blood poured down her leg. Neither noticed.

  Exhausted, Ben placed her on a sidewalk bench and told her to wait. Then he walked back along the wall to a point opposite the path; he could still see the figure standing there. He waved down a patrol car and two policemen climbed out. He told them what had happened. One of them held out a flashlight and sprayed the beam down the path, catching what Ben and Faye had thought was a figure. It was an inoperative lamppost. Someone had draped a coat over it and had tied a stick to one of the sleeves. The officers laughed. Ben thanked them, returned to Faye, and told her about the lamppost. Still stunned, she hugged him.

  “Would you believe it?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  But what about the footsteps? Those had been real. No one could convince him that he and Faye had not been followed.

  He walked several paces back into the park, listened, and peered into the darkness. Whoever had been there had gone.

  Returning to Faye, he helped her to her feet. But as they started to walk to the corner, he saw someone far down the walk, racing to the curb and hailing a taxi, someone who might easily have just come out of the park, having climbed the wall.

  The man was a long way off, and it was night. But Ben was sure: it was Father McGuire!

  He said nothing. They waited for the light to change. Then they crossed the street and walked up Central Park West to Eighty-ninth, Ben trying to sort out the pieces of the puzzle. And digest a new element, one he’d not expected, but should have foreseen.

  Father James McGuire was part of it.

  Joe Biroc opened the building’s front door. “Is anything wrong, Mrs. Burdett?”

  “No, Joe,” Faye said.

  “She just feels faint,” Ben added, holding her by the arm. “Do you have any water?”

  “Of course. Just a second.”

  Biroc retreated into the doorman’s office and returned moments later with a paper cup, brimming over.

  Ben took it, placed Faye’s purse on the counter, and held the cup to her lips, coaxing her to sip.

  “We were in the park,” Ben said, “walking up from Central Park South. It was a dumb thing to do.”

  Biroc nodded. “You have to be crazy to go in there after dark. What with the muggings and other things.”

  “You’re right,” Ben said. “Anyway, we heard footsteps, which frightened Faye. Just down the street, she began to feel dizzy.”

  “Please don’t’ make a big thing about this and worry Joe,” Faye said, trying to support herself. “I’m all right.”

  “Now, mind you, Mrs. Burdett,” Biroc said, “if there’s any worrying that has to be done, I’d just as soon be the one to do it.”

  Faye smiled. Ben patted Biroc’s shoulder affectionately. Biroc walked ahead of them and pressed the call button.

  “If you have a problem up there, Mr. Burdett,” he advised, “call down. I’ll be right up.”

  “Thanks, Joe,” Ben said.

  The elevator arrived. Ben helped Faye inside, as Biroc retreated to the front entrance.

  “Could you hit twenty please?” Ben asked the man, who was standing by the control board.

  The man leaned forward and pressed the twenty button. The elevator started to move. Ben propped Faye against the wall and stood next to her, facing the other rider.

  Instinctively, Ben knew something was wrong.

  The man seemed to be looking right through them. He was tall, slim, his eyes luminous, deep brown, almost hypnotic, his features sharp, olive-toned. He was wearing a blue blazer and a white shirt, the sleeves of which were held together with gold cufflinks initialed MSF. His shirt was open; there was a small stain just beneath the right collar.

  “How are you?” Ben said.

  The man nodded and stared.

  “Is anything wrong?” Faye whispered. She had felt Ben’s body tense.

  “I don’t know,” Ben whispered back, aware that the incident in Central Park might have colored his impression of everyone.

  The car continued upward, gently rocking back and forth.

  “You forgot to press your floor,” Ben pointed out.

  The man looked at the board. Only twenty was lit. The man smiled and closed his eyes.

  Ben glanced quickly at Faye; she was puzzled, starting to feel uncomfortable herself.

  “Who are you visiting on twenty?” Ben asked.

  The man looked at him, cleared his throat brusquely, smiled once more, revealing a set of perfect teeth, and again said nothing.

  Ben drew closer to Faye. Could this possibly be the killer? No. Franchino had insisted that Charles Chazen had committed the murder and substituted himself for the victim, a victim familiar to everyone in the building. And this man was a stranger. But still…there was something wrong.

  The elevator started to slow, then stopped; Ben and Faye entered the hall. Ben took out the key to their apartment, two doors away. The man also stepped out, but remained near the elevator, staring at them.

  “Can we help you?” Faye asked.
>
  The man shook his head.

  Faye grabbed Ben’s hand; he could feel her fingers trembling.

  The man moved toward them, then stopped, as the service-elevator door opened and Biroc emerged, announcing they’d left Faye’s purse downstairs.

  The man quickly stepped behind Biroc, moved past Sister Therese’s apartment, drew out a key, opened John Sorrenson’s door, and entered.

  “Who was that man?” Faye asked after thanking Biroc.

  “I don’t know,” Biroc replied. “He must be a friend of Mr. Sorrenson’s.”

  “Did you see him enter the building?” Ben was very disturbed.

  “No, but he might have come in before I went on my shift. Where’d he get into the elevator?”

  Ben and Faye exchanged rapid glances.

  “Where?” Faye asked. “He was inside the elevator when Ben and I got in.”

  “He was?”

  “Joe, are you feeling all right?” Faye touched his hand. “He was right in front of your eyes, standing next to the call board.”

  “I’m sorry; Mrs. Burdett, but I didn’t see him. Maybe I didn’t look inside. I might have been thinking of something and…I don’t know…my mind must have been elsewhere.”

  Ben felt a surge of nausea.

  Biroc advanced to Sorrenson’s door and rang the bell. After the tenth ring, he turned back. “No one’s there!” he said.

  “There’s impossible!” Ben knocked angrily on the door. “Get a passkey. Open it up!”

  “I can’t do that unless it’s an emergency.”

  “Well, dammit,” cried Faye, “this is an emergency. Something might have happened to Mr. Sorrenson.”

  “Yes,” Ben added.

  Biroc shook his head. “No. Sorrenson left the building no more than five minutes before you arrived. He took that car of his, and I know he hasn’t come back.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course.”

  Frustrated, Ben rammed his fist into Sorrenson’s door; it shook, barking an echo down the hallway, but again no one responded.

  “It’ll have to wait until Sorrenson returns,” Biroc declared. “But if you hear anything up here or see the man again, call me, please.”

  Ben nodded and walked to his door.

  Faye wrapped her arms around his waist and held tight.

  Behind them, Biroc entered the service elevator.

  Ben rubbed his hands across his face. “What a night!” He turned and caressed her gently.

  “That man had something to do with all this, didn’t he?” she asked, staring hard at her husband.

  “I don’t know,” Ben replied. “I just don’t know!”

  Shortly after three o’clock in the morning, Ben climbed out of bed, opened the draperies on the bedroom window, and looked up at the moon, which was even more prominent than it had been earlier that evening. He’d been tossing and turning for the last hour, reviewing his impressions of the man they’d seen in the elevator. There was something, something he sensed. But he couldn’t identify it, at least not while he’d remained between the covers.

  He yawned and pressed his face against the glass.

  Tall, dark, slim, olive-skinned. Blue blazer, white shirt.

  He grabbed a cigar off the night table, stuffed it into his mouth, chewing deeply into the end, leaving it unlit. He looked down at Faye, his thoughts hopelessly winding down a maze of dead ends.

  And then it hit him like a bolt of lightning.

  He remembered the cufflinks. Gold. Round. Initialed MSF. Michael Spencer Farmer!

  “I told you not to attempt to contact me!” Franchino screamed as he bolted the office door.

  Ben restrained himself and looked around.

  The office was large and lavishly furnished, befitting a man of the Monsignor’s stature. A carved crucifix hung on the wall. On one side was a picture of the Pope, on the other the Cardinal. The resemblance was remarkable, as if by some grand design God had chiseled the features of his disciples from the same pattern. Even Franchino’s face was vaguely similar.

  “What do you want?”

  “Some words with you!”

  Franchino sat down and stared.

  “Father McGuire is involved, isn’t he?”

  Franchino continued to stare, then said, “Yes!”

  “He followed Faye and me in the park. Why?”

  “Because I told him to.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s none of your business. But I’ll answer your question anyway. He was there to protect you from Chazen.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I didn’t want to.”

  “You miserable bastard.”

  “Shut up and sit down, Mr. Burdett!”

  Ben dropped into Franchino’s armchair.

  “Are you finished?” Franchino asked.

  “No. Last night Faye and I were followed in the building, too. But not by McGuire.”

  “Then who?”

  “A man who wore gold cufflinks initialed MSF.”

  Franchino remained calm. He nodded and smiled. “That wasn’t a man, Mr. Burdett. That was a soul! A member of Chazen’s legions.”

  “What was he doing there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Now, look, Franchino, I…”

  “You are not to come here again,” Franchino shouted, interrupting, his face flushing, his voice exploding. “You are not to contact me. You are to stay in your apartment, or else!”

  Ben looked up, his eyes bulging.

  “I can’t afford your interference. Not now! Tonight is the crossroads, Mr. Burdett. Your piddling complaints are but a nuisance. And I will not hear any more of them.”

  Franchino grabbed Ben under the arm, snapped him to his feet, hurled him toward the door, then followed. “I have discovered the identity of Charles Chazen! Tonight, I must move against him!”

  “Who is he?”

  Franchino opened the door. “Get out!”

  Ben hesitated, staring at the stone mask of Franchino’s face. The Monsignor repeated, “Get out!” then placed his hands in the small of Ben’s back, pushed him out into the hall, and slammed and locked the door.

  “Hey!” Sorrenson cried, as he rushed from his apartment, holding a cello bow in his hand.

  Ben, who’d ridden up the elevator with Daniel Batille, turned and stared blankly, the confrontation with Franchino having obliterated his awareness of his surroundings. “What’s the matter?” he asked coldly.

  “The matter?” Sorrenson smiled. “Nothing. Nothing bad, that is. Didn’t Faye tell you?”

  “I’ve been gone…and tell me what?”

  “They found Lou Petrosevic!”

  Batille tightened his grip on his law books. “Where?” he asked, obviously pleased.

  “Well, I just spoke to him. I was practicing in the apartment and he called. He had no idea what had happened here. He phoned his secretary yesterday to apologize for his behavior and absence, and she told him the police were looking for him – and that he was suspected of either having committed a murder or having been the victim.”

  “That’s a pleasant choice,” Batille said, while chewing into a stalk of licorice.

  “So where was he?” Ben asked.

  “I always told you that Petrosevic’s eye would get him in trouble. The client Petrosevic went to see the day he disappeared happens to have been a very charming young lady, so I’m told, and Petrosevic just up and disappeared with her into the mountains for…well, let’s call it a rendezvous.”

  “And he didn’t call his secretary?” Ben asked.

  “Guess not.”

  “Must have had a good time!” Batille said, laughing, Sorrenson admonished the young law student with a pointed glance, then wave
d his arms enthusiastically. “Anyway, he spoke to the police and they’ve tentatively cleared him of any complicity in the murder, and I just think it’s great.”

  Ben grabbed the bow. “You’ll poke out my eye, John.”

  Sorrenson giggled, apologized, and placed the bow behind his back. “You don’t look overjoyed,” he said, staring at Ben.

  “Overjoyed? No. Let’s just say I’m happy for Lou. When’s he coming back?”

  “In a couple of days.”

  Batille excused himself and entered his apartment. Sorrenson moved closer to Ben, his expression deepening. “By the way,” he said, “Biroc told me about last night.”

  “Did you know the man?”

  Sorrenson shook his head, looking puzzled. “I don’t understand it. I checked the apartment. Nothing was taken. Other than a broken cello string, which must have snapped by itself, there was nothing out of place. So I didn’t call the police.” He flipped his lip with his finger, thinking. “What do you make of it, Ben?”

  “I don’t know,” Ben replied, placing his key in his door. “Best forget about it.” He turned the lock. “Oh, and if you talk to Petrosevic again, give him my regards and tell him Faye and I were pleased to hear he was safe.”

  “Of course, Ben.”

  “See you later, John.”

  “Ben,” Sorrenson said, stopping, disturbed by Ben’s grave expression, “are you all right.”

  “I’m fine,” Ben said, closing the door.

  17

  It was 3:14 A.M.

  The air was warm, choked with a heavy shroud of humidity. The sky was overcast. It would soon rain. The streets were empty, though an occasional taxi or police car could be heard rumbling nearby. All the parking spaces on Eighty-ninth Street were taken. The wood fence surrounding the foundation of St. Simon’s had been sealed. The main door to 68 West was locked; the night doorman was seated in the office, drinking a cup of coffee, watching the late-night movie on a portable TV.

  Nothing unusual.

  Joe Biroc snapped open his eyes and stood.

  Knocking!

  He quickly shut off the light in the janitor’s room, closed the door, shuffled down the dimly lit corridor, past the compactor chamber and laundry room, and opened the rear basement entrance.