Monsignor Franchino and Father McGuire stepped inside. Both carried Bibles.
Biroc bowed, kissed the ring on Franchino’s right hand, then led the two priests through the cinderblock corridor to the elevator.
“Take us to nineteen!” Franchino ordered.
Biroc turned the key on the operating board and pressed the nineteen button; the elevator started to rise. Franchino and McGuire opened the Bibles and began to pray. Biroc listened, but kept his eyes on the elevator door.
Seconds later, the car jerked to a stop; the door opened. Franchino and McGuire got out.
“Pray for us, my son,” Franchino said.
“Yes, Father,” Biroc replied.
Biroc turned the key and stood back; the elevator door closed.
McGuire drew a watch from his pocket. “Three-thirty.”
Franchino walked to the stairwell’ McGuire followed, listening to the hypnotic cadence of their footsteps.
They entered the stairwell, climbed to the twentieth floor, and stopped at the fire door.
Franchino prayed softly once more and reached for the knob. “May God protect us!”
McGuire grabbed his arm. “Who is Charles Chazen?”
Franchino shook his head; McGuire could feel Franchino’s hands trembling, see his lips shaking, too.
McGuire fought off a wave of fear. “You must tell me,” he demanded. “I must be told, if I am expected to face him!”
“You will soon know,” Franchino declared.
Franchino slowly turned the knob; McGuire wiped the perspiration from his hands; all the blood had fled the capillaries of his face, leaving behind a hue of death.
The door swung back; Franchino eased himself into the hall.
“Father!” he called, beckoning McGuire to follow.
McGuire hesitated, then stepped to Franchino’s side.
The door creaked back into its setting.
They were situated at the extreme east portion of the hall. All the apartments were located to their left. At the far end was a window that framed part of the building to the west and a portion of the night sky. The hall itself was empty, shorn of everything but a rug and a waste receptacle near the elevator. One of the overhead lights was out; the others filtered a flat, iridescent glow over the freshly painted walls.
“Chazen is here,” Franchino declared, eyes darting; he crossed himself.
McGuire did likewise, then blotted a drop of sweat off his lips.
Franchino maneuvered himself into the center of the hall, then walked forward slowly, warily, sensing the presence of evil.
“Monsignor!” McGuire whispered, feeling the first snap of wind against his face. He steadied himself and brushed away the strand of hair that had been blown in front of his eyes. He listened; the shrill scream of wind? Yes! But from where? “There’s something!”
Franchino stopped and waited.
Again it came, pounding them. It moved straight down the hall from the direction of the window. But the window was closed!
McGuire fell to his knees.
Another blast! This one from behind, almost as if it had sifted through the wall. Franchino stumbled. McGuire lurched forward, breaking his fall with his hands, his Bible falling to the floor.
“Chazen!” Franchino said, his voice a whisper.
A shrill whistle began to rise, accompanied by the whoosh of churning air, which seemed to hang away from them, building like the approach of a tornado. Then it came from all sides, like the explosion of water through a broken dam, a torrent of violent wind. Instantly, the hall was blanketed with swirling dust and debris. The sound was unbearable.
Franchino spun into a door frame; a laceration ripped from his forehead to his cheek. Suddenly, there was no up, no down. Just the monsoon of air and dirt, beating, raging.
Franchino looked through the blood that covered his face. “We must get out of here. We cannot…”
Again, he was slammed into the wall.
“What must I do?” McGuire asked, screaming to be heard over the crescendo.
Franchino pointed at the staircase door. McGuire grabbed him and hauled him toward it, their bodies buffeted between the walls, their faces red and blistered from the attack of the windstorm.
Someone else had to hear this, McGuire thought. Someone!
They reached the door and fought the knob. It was frozen in place.
They turned back into the holocaust, their faces flattened by the pressure; they could hardly move.
“The elevator!” McGuire cried.
Franchino fell to the floor. McGuire grabbed the collar of Franchino’s coat and inched him along toward the midpoint in the hall. Almost there, McGuire covered his ears, leaning forward to shield his face from the piercing dust particles. “I can’t stand it,” he cried, his cheeks bloated like a balloon.
Franchino pressed the elevator button and rolled against the elevator door, fighting to breathe. The wind was hot, scalding; it bit at them like a thousand tiny blades.
The elevator door slid open; they dragged themselves inside, and the door slid shut. Suddenly, it was deadly silent.
They lay on the floor, exhausted, Franchino dabbed at the cut on his head. Dazed, McGuire struggled to his feet and pressed the button for the first floor.
Nothing happened.
McGuire pressed again.
Nothing!
“He won’t let us go!” McGuire cried, terrified.
Franchino hauled himself up and carefully turned around the tiny car, clicking his tongue against the bridge of his mouth, listening to the echo.
“It is too quiet,” he said, expecting the worst. “Too quiet.”
McGuire moved; he felt something. And so did Franchino. They looked around. The car started to vibrate, heaving from side to side, throwing them off the narrow walls.
The overhead light broke. Darkness!
Hearing the sound of shattering wood, McGuire felt the walls. “They’re coming apart!”
Franchino surged for the control board and rapidly pressed the buttons. “Back into the hall!”
The floor was splintering beneath them, the walls tearing apart, the cable supporting the car chattering more violently with each sideward surge. Desperate, Franchino continued to press, as McGuire dug his hands into the seam of the door and tried to pull it back.
A slab of floor board tore through Franchino’s leg, chewing into the bone and cartilage. McGuire reached for him, secured him against the wall, and continued to pry at the door, trying to ward off the flying wood with his body.
Suddenly, the door slid back. McGuire fell into the corridor and pulled Franchino out. Behind them, the car was splintering, the violence increasing, until in one massive paroxysm, the car shattered and fell down the shaft.
The wind died; the hall was silent.
Franchino stood up; his legs were shaking, almost incapable of holding him erect. McGuire watched from the floor.
“I defy you!” Franchino cried. “I know who you are, Charles Chazen! And I defy you!”
A thunderous explosion of wind caromed down the hall, lifting Franchino off his feet, carrying him back into the wall at the end of the corridor. The Monsignor’s body shuddered on impact.
The torrent continued, growing fiercer.
Once again, Franchino tried to open the staircase door, his hands slipping from taccumulated blood. He grabbed the fire box for support. The glass shattered; the hose flopped out. He smashed at the door with his fists. McGuire joined him, as Franchino fell to his knees, bracing himself against the wall. Suddenly, the hose shot upward and wrapped itself around Franchino’s throat, squeezing the flesh into blotches of red and blue. He gnashed his teeth and cried, trying to loosen the coil, which was tightening around him like a hungry python.
Blood spurted from Franchino’s lips.
McGuire pulled at the hose, trying to free the Monsignor. Around them, the gale continued, joined by a horrible rumble from the floor. Pieces of concrete and linoleum burst into the air; the walls shattered. McGuire screamed his agony as his flesh began to sting. Turning blue, Franchino vomited.
Fires erupted; glass fell from the exploding light fixtures.
“I defy you, Chazen!” Franchino screamed, as McGuire freed him from the noose.
Franchino’s sleeves were burning. So were McGuire’s pants. They rolled, trying to extinguish the fire; the flames on McGuire flickered out; those on Franchino increased, nearly enveloping him.
His face and arms singed, Franchino stood, cried, cursed, and stumbled to the middle of the hall.
“I defy you, Chazen!”
The hall imploded, raging inward, engulfing Franchino in a hail of glass, wood, concrete, and fire. McGuire fell on his face, shielding himself. Franchino raised his hands, a martyr against the power of Satan, his body dripping blood.
“Chazen!”
A rush of wind and noise.
“Chazen!”
A mushroom cloud of debris gathering near the wall behind the priest.
“Chazen!”
And the an enormous explosion like the thrust of a rocket engine that blew down the hallway, carrying Franchino headlong through the hall window and out into the night sky.
McGuire forced his blistered eyes in the direction of Franchino’s last cry and crawled down the hall, barely conscious. Reaching the window, he pulled himself up and looked down at the alley. Franchino’s body lay spread-eagled below.
He stood, stared down the hall, and grabbed his face; his eyesight clouded over, seeping black, where there had been flashes of everything unholy.
And then there was darkness.
Detective Wausau knelt next to Franchino’s body, his knees sinking into one of the puddles that had gathered beneath the light-falling rain.
“Any marks, signs of violence?” he asked.
The technician shook his head. “No. Not a one. I doubt it’s homicide, but we’ll have to wait for an autopsy.”
“An accident?”
The technician looked up at the twentieth floor window. The first substantial thrust of daylight had invaded the sky; it was almost six o’clock. He shrugged. “Or a suicide.”
Wausau frowned. “A priest? Never!”
He glanced over the alley; it was clean and uncluttered, separated from the street by a fence. Above him, he faced a blank wall of the building, interrupted only by the perpendicular row of hall windows.
He walked to the fence and scanned the street. Several police cars were bunched near the building. A small crowd of spectators shielded under umbrellas had gathered nearby. It was very quiet.
“Jacobelli!” he called.
Jacobelli looked over the dashboard of the nearest squad car, spoke into the car radio, then jumped out and approached.
“We contracted the Archdiocese. They’ll have someone here in a couple of minutes.’
“All right. They should be able to identify him. That is, assuming he’s a priest.”
Jacobelli narrowed his eyes, puzzled.
“He might have just come from a costume party,” Wausau suggested, smirking.
Jacobelli nodded. “We covered the building.”
“Anyone see anything?”
“Not that we know of yet.”
“You speak to the doorman?”
“Yes. He didn’t hear or see anything either.”
Wausau unwrapped a stick of gum, rolled it up like a rug, and popped it into his mouth.”How’d you like to live in this building?”
Jacobelli laughed and scratched his shock of black hair. “Not a chance.”
Wausau walked back toward the corpse. The rain had just about stopped, though the sky was still threatening. It was cold and uncomfortable.
“If you find anything, I’ll be upstairs,” Wausau said, drawing the attention of the technician, who’d been joined by a second member of the team.
The technician nodded.
Wausau ambled to the open entrance, climbed the ramp, and stopped. He looked back at the body, then straight up above him at the point where the window had shattered. The man had fallen more than one hundred and fifty feet. No wonder his neck had napped. Could it have been an accident? Unlikely.
Shaking his head, he walked inside.
“Does anyone recognize this man?” Wausau asked, as he passed a picture of Franchino’s body around the room.
Everyone nodded; the clock on the mantel struck nine.
John Sorrenson stood and cleared his throat. The police had gathered everyone in Sorrenson’s apartment, so it seemed appropriate for Sorrenson to be the spokesman.
“His name is Franchino,” Sorrenson said, glancing at Ben. “He was a friend of Mr. Burdett’s. He was at Mr. Burdett’s party two nights ago.”
Wausau veered his stare to Ben, who was seated on the couch, supporting Faye. Her eyes were half-closed, her hair tussled, and her face drawn; the baby was in her arms.
“Yes, he was a friend of mine,” Ben offered hesitantly.
“Well, that’s very good, Mr. Burdett. Then maybe you can tell me why Monsignor Franchino was walking around the halls in the middle of the night!”
The word “Monsignor” drew surprised looks from everyone.
“I don’t know,” Ben replied.
Wausau began to pace over the red-and-brown Persian rug.
“Okay, Mr. Burdett. Then tell me what you do know.”
“I don’t know much,” Ben began, trying to hold together the lies as convincingly as possible. “We met in college. At the University of Chicago. I was taking graduate courses. He was teaching history. We became friendly. But we’d only spoken to each other one or two times over the years.”
“Excuse me, Inspector,” Daniel Batille said. “Did you say that Franchino was a priest?”
“That’s exactly what I said.”
An exchange of questioning glances.
“Didn’t you people know that?”
“No,” said Max Woodbridge.
“But you knew that, didn’t you, Mr. Burdett?”
Ben looked at Jenkins, who was standing next to the living-room window, dressed in a satin bathrobe. “Yes. I knew he was a priest.”
Jenkins interceded. “But didn’t you say he had a wife, Ben?”
“Yes.”
“And you never said he was a priest.”
“I know. But I didn’t know his wife. He just told me about her. I assumed he was married before he entered the priesthood.” Oh, God, Ben thought. What was going to happen? His only remaining contact was Father McGuire.
“Assuming Monsignor Franchino wasn’t married, which seems the logical conclusion, why do you think he’d have made up such a story?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Franchino ask you not to say that he was a priest?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know very much this morning, Mr. Burdett. Now, do you?”
Ben took the baby in his arms. Faye rubbed her eyes, then sat back once again.
Wausau unwrapped another piece of gum and shoved it into his mouth next to the old piece that he’d nearly chewed into oblivion.
“Why was he at your party?”
“He called me a few days ago and said he was in town and that he’d like to see me. I told him that my wife and I were having a party that evening and he was welcome to come by. He said he would, and he did.”
“He said he was in town?”
“Yes.”
“But he lived here!”
“All he said was that he’d come into town.”
Wausau blew a bubble, sucked the gum back into his mouth, and began to chew again.
“And all of you saw him at Mr. Burdett’s party?”
Batille, the two secretaries, the Woodbridges, Jenkins, and Sorrenson, all nodded.
“Did he say anything to suggest that he was suicidal? Did he do anything to make you suspect that he might be unbalanced?”
Silence.
“I asked a question and I want an answer!”
Jenkins stepped forward, drew a handkerchief from his pocket, which he used to wipe his face, then coughed uncomfortably. “Mr. Franchino or Monsignor Franchino, as the case may be, was a very disturbed man.”
Wausau sat on the arm of the couch, facing Jenkins directly. He placed his hands on his knees and condescendingly asked, “How so?”
Jenkins described everything that had happened at the party, the ritual, the seizure, the violence, everything. Wausau watched the antique collector carefully, betraying his growing interest, than asked what Jenkins thought Franchino’s behavior indicated.
“Well,” Jenkins postured. “I’d say he either was an epileptic or he had deep-seated religious psychoses. If I may, Inspector. Based on what I saw in Ben Burdett’s apartment, there’s no doubt in my mind that this Franchino was capable of killing himself, either consciously or during one of his seizures.”
Wausau sat next to Ben and placed his arm over the back of the couch. “Tell me what you think of this, Mr. Burdett. A body is found in the building compactor by your wife. She goes into shock. Inspector Burstein investigates and becomes upset when he learns that an old blind and paralyzed nun lives next door to you. He asks me to investigate a series of murders that occurred in an old building that used to stand where this building now stands. I find that the files on those murders are missing. Burstein then gets in touch with Gatz, the detective who was in charge of the investigation into those murders. Gatz contacts you. He wants to talk. You go up to his house and discover his body. You then go to speak to Burstein, who we learn has just died in a fire, arson suspected. Then, out of the blue pops a priest named Franchino, who throws a seizure during a religious ritual in your apartment and tosses himself out the window on your floor one night later. Now, this is very interesting, isn’t it?”
The Guardian Page 19