The Guardian

by Konvitz, Jeffrey;

  The wait was excruciating.

  The baby giggled and patted his hands on the surface of his chair tray. Faye leaned over, kissed him, then smiled warmly at Jenkins.

  “See, Ralph?” she said. “You come over and everyone is happy.”

  “You’re being overly kind, Faye, but maybe the enthusiasm is infectious.”

  “Enthusiasm?” Ben asked. “About what?”

  “I just received a shipment from Europe. It’s in my apartment. Both of you must come and see.”

  “See what?” Ben asked.

  “Two rare pieces of Biedermeier furniture, designed by Karl Friedrich Schinkel for Queen Louise of Prussia. They’re here for a private exhibition, and they’ve been entrusted to my care. They’re very rare and very valuable. Yes, you must see them.”

  Faye stood. “I’ll stop by after work, if you’ll be home.”

  “After seven.”

  “Good.”

  Jenkins looked at Ben, who was skimming the last page of the first section. “And you, Ben?”

  Ben glanced up, preoccupied. “Sometime this afternoon. I have some writing to do, then I’ll buzz.”

  Jenkins nodded approvingly and stood. Faye looked at her watch and grimaced; she was late.

  As she cleaned away the remnants of breakfast, Ben sank his entire attention into the paper. Then he folded it, cleared his throat, and leaned back, tilting the chair.

  “Here’s an interesting piece,” he said, “Obituary. Monsignor Guglielmo Franchino. Born Turin, Italy. Died New York City. Entered the priesthood on June 11, 1939.” He laughed…Faye and Jenkins watching…then threw the paper on the table and picked the baby out of the high chair.

  “May he rest in peace,” he said.

  Shortly before noon, after a walk in the park, Ben returned to the apartment with Joey, placed him in his playpen, and sat down at his typing table. After Jenkins and Faye had left the apartment, he’d tried once more to locate McGuire, and that failure, coupled with the unproductive walk, had left him with the book as his only means to keep his mind off Faye’s fate and McGuire’s whereabouts.

  He sat thinking about the beginning of a new chapter. Then he banged away at the typewriter keys. The more he typed, the more manic he became, pounding out his frustrations and anger. He continued, faster, breathing deeply, until he pulled the last page from the carriage, and after reviewing the material, tossed it into the trash. Then he fell on the couch and held his head, overcome by the hopelessness. And then what? Another walk? More time at the typewriter? Or the continued introspection, the relentless battering he’d been giving his mind and body?

  He picked up the baby, rocked him in his arms, walked to the door, and stepped into the hall. Jenkins had asked him to come over and look at the antiques. And that was precisely what he he’d do to occupy his mind.

  He rang the bell to Jenkins’ apartment; he heard the shuffling of feet, then the click of the doorknob.

  “Ben,” Jenkins said, as he pulled back the door.

  Ben smiled. “I came over to look at the shipment.”

  “I’ve been expecting you. And Joey, too, though I’m sure he’s not old enough to appreciate Biedermeier.”

  Ben laughed. “I may not be old enough either!”

  “Nonsense,” Jenkins said. He ushered them into the living room.

  Jenkins’ living room appeared to be cropped from an eclectic exhibit at a museum. Apart from several pieces of useful furniture; the apartment contained mostly French-provincial furnishings that were decorative, untouched, and according to Jenkins, very valuable.

  “I don’t think you’ve ever seen anything quite like these,” Jenkins declared, as he maneuvered Ben across the room and lifted the coverings from the two recent deliveries. “This is a bed, designed for Queen Louise. The veneer is pearwood.”

  Ben leaned over. The bed looked like a large crib. It didn’t appeal to him; it was too delicate and without a distinctive line.

  “And this is a very, very rare collector’s cabinet,” Jenkins continued.

  “Circa 1835. The veneer is bird’s-eye maple and the decorations are transfers in the form of mezzotints of German scenes. Inside are a number of shallow drawers.” He demonstrated. “Cabinets of this sort were often made as masterworks by craftsmen, for they lent themselves to veneering and carving and were an excellent test of an artist’s abilities. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  Ben nodded, appraising the piece. It looked like a rectangular box set on its side, mounted on four legs. But it was ornate and pretty and far more striking than the bed.

  Jenkins covered the objects once again. Ben sat on one of the two facing sofas, wiped the baby’s chin…the baby was drooling…and listened to Jenkins explain the nature of the forthcoming exhibit, while fetching some coffee and cakes.

  “So what do you think?” Jenkins asked in conclusion, sitting across from Ben.

  “They’re beautiful,” Ben replied, admitting that he didn’t respond personally to the pieces, although he could recognize their intrinsic value.

  Jenkins laughed heartily, forgave Ben his ignorance, patted his lips with a handkerchief, then placed his cup of coffee on the table. “I’m glad you came over for another reason, Ben. There’s something I want to discuss with you. Something I did not want to bring up with Faye in the room.”

  “What?” Ben asked, puzzled.

  “I have a friend at the police department, who’s assigned to the office of the chief medical examiner. I called him this morning to find out whether the medical examiner had made a determination on Mr. Franchino. He told me they hadn’t, because they’d lost the body!”

  “What?” Ben cried, leaning forward, almost dropping the baby.

  “The morgue was robbed. The body was taken. Can you imagine?”

  Yes, Ben thought. But for Jenkins’ benefit he said, “I don’t’ believe it”.

  “Why do you think anyone would want the man’s body?”

  Ben shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “But I do.”

  Ben looked up. “You do?”

  Jenkins lifted the cup of coffee and swallowed a mouthful. “Of course, Ben. Let’s talk about good and evil.” He stared, waited; then: “Would you believe this building has been a battlefield between opposing forces? Good versus Evil. God versus Satan.”

  Ben stood, a descending curtain of fear on his face. He strained his expression, gaped at Jenkins awkwardly, then tightened his grip on the baby.

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “Yes, you do. You understand very well. You know that the Sentinel sits at the behest of God. Of course you know that, don’t you, Benjamin Burdett? Detective Gatz did a very good job. So did Monsignor Franchino. You’re very well-versed.”

  “How do you know this?” Ben asked in panic.

  Jenkins started to laugh, rising from the sofa like a leviathan, turning toward Ben and straightening his three-piece suit. “You’re frightened, Ben,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “As well you should be. But after you and I have had a long talk, you won’t be frightened anymore.”

  Ben started to move toward the door, a violent shock of tremors pulsing through his body. Ralph Jenkins’ expression had molded itself into a visor of steel; it was obdurate, lifeless.

  “Leave me alone!” Ben said.

  “I can’t Ben!”

  Ben frantically grabbed the doorknob; the knob didn’t turn.

  He fought it, holding the baby in one hand, as he kicked and scraped at the door; but it was sealed, as if it had been soldered in place.

  He looked back toward Jenkins.

  Jenkins was gone!

  “My God,” he screamed, rocking the baby in his arms, shielding Joey form whatever inhabited the apartment.

  He walked wildly around the room. What should be do? He raced to the wall
and banged as hard as he could. If the Woodbridges were home, they’d hear him. But, no, he remembered, the Woodbridges had left for the day. And banging the other walls would do no good, since they faced the open side of the building.

  He pulled the cover off the Biedermeier bed, placed the baby on the couch, and smashed the bed into the door, trying to break it down. The Biedermeier shattered; the door remained intact.

  He heard movement. “Jenkins,” he cried, grabbing the bay once more.

  Footsteps.

  He grabbed the phone; it was dead. He attempted to lift the living-room windows. Impossible. He tried the intercom. Nothing.

  “What do you want from me?” he screamed.

  Suddenly, Jenkins reappeared, moving into the living room through the bedroom doorway.

  Ben glared, incredulous. What was Jenkins wearing? And what had Jenkins become?

  Jenkins pointed at the couch. “Sit down, Ben,” he commanded.

  In terror Ben fell onto the sofa, the baby buried tightly in his arms. Jenkins walked to him, looking down through eyes sculptured in granite, hypnotic eyes that riveted Ben in place, paralyzed him, froze his will.

  “Pray, Ben Burdett. Pray to your Almighty God.”

  20

  Buried in silence, Father McGuire ran his hands across the Florentine etchings, as if they were Braille, then opened the book. The print was large, the words Latin. This, then, was the means by which he would learn of Franchino’s duties, now his own. He wiped the drops of perspiration from his face and glanced at eh death mask of his predecessor, which glistened like freshly poured wax beneath the flickering lights of the room’s candles. Why was Franchino’s corpse there, he asked himself, revolted by the presence of death. Could he not have read the volumes without seeing the reminder of his guilt? That it had been Franchino alone, who’d died at the hands of Satan.

  His fingers trembling, he began to scan the lines, reading slowly, realizing he was reliving the dawn of iniquity, the confrontation between God and the fallen Archangel.

  The liturgy spoke of God’s summons to his angels, who came from the ends of heaven to hear the Almighty reveal the existence of a Son to whom all power would be bestowed.

  Hear, all ye angels

  This day I have begot an only Son

  To him shall bow all knees in heaven.

  And him who disobeys me

  Will be cast into darkness

  And it spoke of Satan, the first Archangel, whose envy and jealousy rose against this pronouncement, and, who, thinking himself impaired, resolved to dislodge the Almighty throne.

  Meanwhile the Almighty, whose sight

  Discerns all thoughts, saw

  Rebellion rising, saw what multitudes

  Were banded to oppose his high decree

  And the Almighty charged his Son to protect the mighty throne, which charge the Son of God gladly accepted. And the Almighty sent his angels Michael and Gabriel to battle Satan and his legions to drive them to their place of punishment, the Gulf of Tartarus.

  Now storming fury rose, and clamor

  Arms on armor clashing, horrible discord

  Dire was the noise of conflict

  All heaven resounded, as

  Millions of fierce angels

  Fought on either side.

  McGuire stopped reading. He listened; the silence continued unabated. Avoiding Franchino’s face, he tried to insulate himself from the urge to panic that had been growing inside him. For the last few hours he’d been part of it all, the words transformed into vivid images, an incredible, penetrating flash through his mind. And, yet, there was more to come, hundreds of pages more. He found his place and delved into the primordial war.

  Two days are passed since Michael went

  Forth to tame these disobedient.

  The third day is Thine, Son, and

  The glory of ending this great war is thine.

  Go, then, ascend my chariot,

  Pursue these sons of darkness.

  Drive them into the utter deep.

  And the Son of God did as his Father commanded, driving Satan from heaven.

  He drove them from the bounds of heaven

  And into the wasteful deep.

  Hell received them and on them closed

  Hell, fraught with fire

  The house of woe and pain.

  McGuire read of the Son’s triumphant return to heaven. Then, despite a wave of exhaustion, he released the ties that held the next ten score of pages together. When they opened, he read of the perversion of man by Satan, man’s fall, and God’s subsequent charge to man, creating the Sentinel. He fought to keep himself awake, his body sagging under the hours of strain. He prayed for an end to the torment. But there was more, page after page of detailed instructions, the nature of the transition, the entire sweep of numbing truth. And, at last, he knew everything Franchino had known.

  Pounded by vertigo, he closed the volume, stood, walked back to the door, rapped on the wood, and waited. The door remained shut, the room silent. He pounded again, fighting a strange sensation of terror, then returned to his seat, laid his head on the books, and closed his eyes. He was so tired. He wanted sleep.

  He heard movement. He looked up, back at the door, listening, trying to identify the sound. It intensified, waned, then burst on him like a storm. He grabbed for his ears, holding his head, then stood and backed away. Franchino’s body had risen. Amid a howl of sounds, it hovered over him. Terrified, he fell to his knees, his eyes slammed shut to ward off the vision, his ears pressed closed to exorcise the sound. He felt afire, as if touched by the breath of Satan, and then he was transported away, carried back in time to what had been before. He heard the clanging, saw the swish of souls, their bodies bedecked in armor, their leader, Charles Chazen, beseeching them onward, their prey, Allison Parker, helpless on the floor of the brownstone apartment, their foe, Father Matthew Halliran, the Sentinel, moving forward, aided by Franchino, attempting to transfer the crucifix and send Chazen, the Satan, back into the throes of Tartarus, the eternal Hell, to bathe and writhe in the molten fires. Exploded through time to moments immortal, yet still in the room, he witnessed the transition and the imposition of penance upon the mortal soul of Allison Parker. Then the vision of Sister Therese diffused and was gone, dissolved from his mind, replaced with a shattering headache and a loud ring in his ears. He opened his eyes, his senses raped by the sight of Franchino’s mortal body, the flesh withered, standing before him. Again, he flashed to blackness. He sensed the thing trying to become one with him. And he knew! This was not mortal flesh, for Franchino’s mortal form still lay in the box. No, Franchino’s soul was imparting itself. This was his true ordeal, a transmigration, the succession of not only the Sentinel, but of the mortal seraphim conscripted to serve the Almighty, to ensure the continuation of the line of succession.

  Delirious, he dropped to his knees. A presence had entered his body, reinforcing his will. He stiffened, feeling a myriad of sensations, until, drenched in a clinging sweat, he fell unconscious onto the floor.

  Father Tepper entered the room and walked to the chapel door. He’d changed clothes; he was clean shaven, though he carried the same grim expression that had marked his face since the start of Father McGuire’s ordeal.

  He grabbed the metal door bolt and drew it back.

  Moments later, Father McGuire walked out.

  Biroc looked up, appalled at the sight. Yes, it was Father McGuire, but he’d aged, unbelievably advancing through time in the past forty-eight hours. His hair had turned white; his face was deeply etched; his eyes had grown cold and distant.

  McGuire approached and placed his hand on Biroc’s shoulder. “My son!” McGuire said, his expression comforting, yet commanding.

  “Are you all right, Father?” Biroc asked.

  McGuire nodded. “There is much to
do.”

  “I am your servant, Father.”

  McGuire moved the Slav toward the door. “I want to know everything there is to know about the Burdetts’ child and Faye and Ben Burdett, too. I want you to use your considerable resources to accomplish this as quickly as possible. There is little time, and we must use that time expeditiously.”

  Biroc nodded. “I will start immediately.”

  McGuire assisted the Slav into the car, then stepped back as it started down the street.

  Then McGuire turned and reentered the church.

  21

  Four days later, Joe Biroc called Father McGuire at the seminary and told him that his attempt to gather information about the Burdett baby had proven far more complicated than expected. Notwithstanding their previous information, which fixed the baby’s birthplace as Presbyterian Hospital in Manhattan, a check of the Presbyterian files contained no references to the Burdetts whatsoever. In fact, he’d had been unable to locate any record of the child’s birth anywhere.

  Puzzled, McGuire instructed him to continue the search. Then he called the Burdetts and talked to Faye, who told him that Ben had gone to the Knickerbocker Athletic Club and that if he called within the next hour, he could reach Ben there.

  Rather than calling, McGuire left the seminary, taxied to the athletic club, and located Ben on the squash courts. Climbing to the third floor, ten feet above the playing area, he pressed close to the glass of the court-two observation window. Moments later, Ben saw him.

  Father McGuire walked away from the glass and descended the steps to the squash court; Ben was waiting.

  “I want to talk to you!” Ben said contemptuously, while staring at McGuire’s hair. What had happened to the priest?