The Guardian

by Konvitz, Jeffrey;

  “My pleasure.”

  “By the way,” McGuire added, almost as an afterthought. “What did Jack Cooper do for you?”

  “Old Jack? Well, when he wasn’t turning tricks in the alleys like the good male prostitute he’d been for years, he tended bar for me part of the time.”

  “And the other part of the time?”

  Kellerman broke out laughing again. McGuire turned fully around, at once curious.

  “Well?”

  Kellerman pointed to the corner, toward a cardboard box tied together with twine. He asked McGuire to bring it over and undo the knot. That accomplished, Kellerman opened the top. Inside were hundred of photographs. He started to sift them. McGuire moved in close.

  Suddenly, Kellerman stopped, closed the top of the box, laughed again, and looked closely at the picture in his hand. “Yes, sir,” he said. “This is Jack Cooper. And you want to know what he did for me the other part of the time?”

  McGuire nodded once more. Kellerman handed McGuire the picture. McGuire walked to the shuttered window, opened the slats, and examined the eight-by-ten.

  Seconds later, he turned back to Kellerman, hands and body shaking.

  He knew!

  22

  The wheels of the black sedan gouged through the potholes, shaking the chassis and jostling Father McGuire against the rear passenger door. Joe Biroc was seated next to him, holding a notepad and flashlight in hand, the tenacious lines of his face etched deeper than ever. There was a third man in the rear, another in the shotgun seat, and one behind the wheel, all dressed in soiled black coveralls and dark hats. Outside, it was overcast. Ahead, the road reached into the distance, unlit and unmarked. They were not far from New York, somewhere in Westchester, along a stretch of desolate, uninhabited land, a strange place to have buried a murder victim, disposed of under the auspices of the Chief Medical Examiner of the City of New York. But it was here, according to Biroc, that the compactor body had been buried in an unmarked grave.

  “How much longer?” McGuire asked.

  The driver glanced at an unfolded map. “Not long,” he said. “Maybe three or four miles…ten minutes at most.”

  As the car kicked onto a stretch of newly laid macadam, McGuire looked at his watch and nodded. The holes and ruts behind them, the driver accelerated, drove several miles to a river crossing, then turned off onto a dirt road that curved past an abandoned mill. Reaching the crossroad immediately beyond, he slowed the car, carefully scanned the roadside, then stopped.

  “There!” he said, pointing.

  Just ahead was a high fence fronted by two heavy gates padlocked together with a chain. The area was deserted, shrouded in darkness. McGuire rolled down a window. The air was heavy with the odor of sewage and the surroundings were strangely silent, devoid of cricket beats and the movement of foraging night animals.

  The driver maneuvered the car into a bank of trees, where it would be hidden from the road.

  “Don’t slam the doors!” McGuire warned. “And if you have to talk, do it in a whisper.”

  They all climbed out. Biroc opened the trunk, took out a black satchel, then turned the flashlight on the fence.

  “Let’s go,” McGuire said.

  They started to walk. The ground was loose, jelled together with a clay composition that stuck to the bottom of their shoes. Reaching the fence, Biroc took a wire cutter from the bag, snapped the chain, pulled the gates open, waited until everyone was inside, then closed the gates and placed the chain back in position, so if anyone happened by, the barrier would appear unmolested.

  Leading the group beneath a line of old maples, Biroc carefully examined the area. The cemetery was overgrown and cluttered, unmarked by signposts and covered with the same red clay that bordered the road. There were no lights and no roadways.

  Stopping, Biroc pulled a schematic drawing of the cemetery from his pocket, showed it to McGuire, and indicated the route to the victim’s grave. McGuire asked Biroc to lead. Biroc pointed to get his bearings, then walked along a cobblestone path to the top of a hill and turned off to the right into the rows of tombs and sepulchers.

  McGuire was last in the procession, acutely attuned to the myriad of lifeless stones, knee-high tombs eaten away and covered with vines. Biroc and the three men walked ahead, unaware of the magnitude of what they were about to do.

  “Are we okay?” McGuire asked, after Biroc had spoken to the driver, altered their path, and continued ahead.

  Biroc turned and nodded. “We’re doing fine.”

  Suddenly, Biroc stopped, consulted the schematic, turned off the path, and knelt next to a stone marked only be a number. “This is it,” he said.

  McGuire wiped the perspiration from his face, leaving a smudge of clay. “All right,” he ordered, “get it out.”

  The three men took folded shovels from the satchel, snapped them open, and tore into the ground.

  “According to the medical records,” Biroc said softly to McGuire, “there’s a pin holding the patella in place. We’ll break the kneecap. The pin should be visible. We can also look for a hairline fracture on the fourth rib.”

  McGuire nodded.

  The sound of the shovels echoed, dropping dirt, sliding earth, grunts, minute after minute, and then the impact of metal on wood.

  “We have it,” the driver said, his body extended from the hole.

  McGuire looked inside the grave. The top of a plain wooden box was visible beneath the remaining crust.

  “Open it!” he commanded.

  The men lifted the coffin, eased it onto the mound of dirt, took chisels from the satchel, jammed them under the lip of the coffin top, and pried the nails from the wood. Father McGuire stood back, watching, his mind picking up light strains of music and the whisper of choral voices, all plucked from the recesses of his memory, the vestige of a Hollywood horror movie seen as a child, the association so vivid it hurt.

  The men removed the coffin top.

  McGuire looked down at the clump of burned and decayed flesh. A wave of nausea mushroomed up his esophagus. “Get it over with,” he said.

  Biroc grabbed the corpse’s right knee. Pieces of ash that had been flesh decomposed in his hand. He grimaced, but moved closer.

  A massive rip of thunder exploded above them.

  “What is it?” Biroc cried, looking up, terrified.

  “Quiet!” McGuire warned, staring at the sky.

  The air settled, recapturing its tranquility.

  The grave diggers backed off, shielding themselves under a tree. McGuire glanced at them, then turned to Biroc.

  “Quickly!” he whispered.

  Biroc reached into the coffin.

  Again it came, bursting against their ears. Biroc buried his face in his hands. McGuire grabbed him and forced him to look inside.

  “If you’re not going to do it, I will.”

  “I’m sorry, Father,” Biroc said, struggling with his will.

  A shattering bolt of lightning surged across the sky. They waited for the clap of thunder, but none came.

  Once more Biroc grabbed the leg.

  Suddenly, McGuire’s eyes fused shut from the ignition, the hideous flash of lightening that bore down on them from above, its heat searing his face and burning the edges of his clothes.

  The lightning struck the coffin, incinerating it. Biroc was frozen in position, burned beyond recognition, cremated.

  Chazen knew! He could not let them inspect the remains!

  “God!” McGuire cried, his cry answered by a wild crash of thunder.

  The gravediggers ran toward the cemetery exit. Half in shock, McGuire trailed behind, rushing along the dirt path and out into the road. Hearing the whine of the car engine, he ran toward it, then moved out of the way as the car backed furiously into the clearing. He screamed for help. Whipped with panic, the men
ignored him.

  The sky blackened; a roar of thunder began to build once more, illuminated by intermittent streaks of lightning. McGuire turned dizzily in place, covering his eyes, hunched in pain. The sound increased; so did the frequency of the flashes. Then they joined, focusing into a laser of energy.

  It came, like the whoosh of wind and fire that had claimed Franchino, shooting downward, enveloping the car in a fission of heat and fire. The car exploded. A terrible concussion pitted his ears, the burning pieces of metal spiraling through the air. And then the thunder and lightning were spent. Within minutes, it was dark again and silent.

  McGuire stumbled forward, his eyes fastened catatonically on the road. He was alive. He’d been spared.

  Tears streaming down his face, his clothes ripped and hanging off his body, he started up the road, licking parched lips, wiping his black-streaked face, praying for the morning.

  23

  “That’s the doorbell, honey,” Faye said. She wrapped a large towel around her bust line and sat on the bed. She’d just gotten out of the shower and was still wet. “Could you get it?”

  Ben popped out of the bathroom. “What?”

  “The door.”

  He nodded, disappeared into the bathroom again, then emerged moments later wearing a terry-cloth robe.

  “I told Sorrenson not to come over so early,” he said, glancing at the bedroom clock. “It’s not even eight.”

  He walked out of the bedroom, across the living room, and into the foyer to the door.’”Who is it?” he asked.

  “Father McGuire.”

  “McGuire?” Ben mumbled. He snapped the latch, removed the chain guard, and opened the door.

  “Good morning, Ben,” McGuire said. “Can I come in?”

  “Yes, of course,” Ben stuttered. He moved back, staring at the priest.

  McGuire pulled his bloody hands from the door frame and entered. His feet were covered with red clay; his face was smeared with blotches of blood. The unmistakable smell of smoke reeked from his clothes. “Where is the child?” he asked, as he stepped into the living room.

  “In the bedroom.”

  “With Faye?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bring them to me.”

  Ben hesitated. “What happened to you, Father?”

  “Do as I say!”

  Ben shrugged, loped into the bedroom, and reappeared moments later with Faye and the baby.

  “Father McGuire!” Faye cried the moment she saw the priest. She embraced him, ignoring his appearance. Ben had warned her in the bedroom that something was wrong. “Oh, am I happy to see you. I was so angry when Ben didn’t tell me you had called. But, now, well…” She stared. “I just hope you’re all right.”

  McGuire took her hand. “Sit on the couch. I want to talk to you and Ben.”

  Faye stroked her lips with her tongue. “Of course, Father.”

  She back-stepped to the couch and sat. Ben gave her the baby.

  “Several days ago,” McGuire said, staring at Ben “I asked you about your son.” He took the baby from Faye, kissed the child on the cheek, and brushed back the strands of blond hair that flopped over his ears. “Do you still maintain he was born in the Presbyterian Hospital?”

  “What’s this about?” Faye asked, alarmed.

  “Was he?” McGuire prompted.

  Ben nodded. “Yes.”

  McGuire turned toward Faye. “Where was the child born, Mrs. Burdett?”

  “At Presbyterian Hospital.”

  McGuire advanced to the couch and placed the baby’s face next to Faye’s, then Ben’s. He examined their curious reactions and returned the child to his mother.

  “There’s not much of a resemblance, is there?”

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at,” Faye snapped, “but there’s a damn good resemblance…Joey looks just like me. And he has his father’s nose.”

  McGuire smiled sardonically. “He may well have his father’s nose, but not Ben’s. And if he looks like you, it’s solely a coincidence of nature. Now, tell me the truth!” Silence. “Then I’ll tell it to you. The child was born in Massachusetts General Hospital. His natural mother lives in New Hampshire, and his father lives in the Midwest. Joey Burdett was adopted! You were never pregnant, Faye. Your pregnancy was a charade. You did not have a baby. Nor could you ever!”

  McGuire swallowed hard, the first vestige of fear trickling into his voice, an onslaught of terror eroding the ambivalent expression he’d carried into the apartment.

  Faye held the child close. Ben stood and caressed Faye’s shoulders.

  “So what?” he said. “So the baby was adopted. What does it matter?”

  “What does it matter?” McGuire raged, the muscles in his neck tightening like thongs of leather. “Faye Burdett could not have had the baby, because Faye Burdett is a man! A man whose name used to be Jack Cooper, a transvestite, male prostitute and female impersonator, perhaps the most convincing the world has ever known, a sinner against God and Christ!”

  McGuire threw the picture Charlie Kellerman had given him into Faye’s lap.

  “Look at it!”

  Faye glanced at the photo.

  “Jack Cooper, now known as Faye Burdett, dressed as a woman in 1966 at the Club Soiree, just prior to going onstage.”

  Ben stared at the priest, hate and fear warping in his face.

  “Jack Cooper…Faye Burdett!” McGuire repeated, easing closer to Ben. “Do you deny it?”

  “They’ll take the baby from us if they know!” Faye cried.

  “Do you deny it?”

  “No.”

  “You met at the Soiree in 1966. Ben called himself Arthur Seligson, a fictitious name he utilized when prowling the gay bars to protect his otherwise normal way of life. You spent time together, first occasionally, then more often, until the relationship grew into a love affair. During the courtship, Jack Cooper remained at the Soiree, tending bar, performing in the cast of a transvestite revue and turning tricks. After a year, Arthur Seligson disappeared. Later, Jack Cooper vanished.” He grabbed Ben. “You are Arthur Seligson.” He looked at Faye. “And you are Jack Cooper. Or at least you were!”

  Ben stood, his face drained of color. Finally, it had come out. They’d known that someday it might. But so what?

  Ben walked to the window, leaving Faye behind, crying on the couch. The morning sunlight struck his face. He turned.

  “All right. You know everything. Yes, Faye is Jack Cooper. Yes, we adopted the baby. But for all purposes, Faye is a woman. And has always been. But what were we supposed to do, announce it to the world? If the authorities had known, they might never have allowed the adoption, and if they find out now, they might Joey away! Father, what does it all matter? We’ve been happy. She’s my wife. We’ll raise the baby like any other. Joey will be a fine, normal boy. What does it all matter?”

  “What does it matter?” McGuire screamed, his body rearing. “Besides being a sin against God and Christ, this perfidy has fooled everyone, endangered all of mankind, possibly ended all hope, and certainly would have, had it not been for Joe Biroc, may he rest in peace.”

  Ben soundlessly mouthed the name Biroc.

  “The compactor victim was a man. Thus, Franchino and I concluded that Chazen, who’d taken the victim’s place, had to be a man. When the Sentinel identified Chazen’s presence on the twentieth floor, it narrowed the possibilities. Chazen had to be Sorrenson, Jenkins, Batille, Max Woodbridge, or Ben Burdett! Caught by the charade, Franchino and I were blinded from the truth, and further misled by Chazen’s cleverly orchestrated rape sequence in the basement, designed to camouflage the truth, to allay any suspicions we might have had.” He moved toward Faye, who stood, meeting his accusatory stare. “The real Faye Burdett or Jack Cooper was killed in the compactor room by Charles Chazen. The body in the compa
ctor was Faye Burdett’s. Her soul has since been condemned to eternal Hell, joining the very legions she was to oppose.” He braced himself. “You are Charles Chazen. You are Satan!” He waited, then pointed. “I curse you. Anathematize you. Execrate your existence. You are the eternal malediction. The scourge, plague, and affliction of humanity. The nefarious, noxious essence of Hell. I curse you. And defy you!”

  Faye said nothing; she did nothing.

  The mantel clock ticked forward with the cadence of a metronome. Once again, McGuire hurled invectives at the figure, who maintained the appearance of Faye Burdett.

  Ben moved between them, reaching for Faye’s hand. His face was wet, sopped by perspiration. He questioned himself. Could this be true? Oh, but it was. It had come down to this. He knew it. “Is this so?” he asked, abhorring the sudden mannequin-like texture of Faye’s skin and the dispossessed look in her eyes.

  She pulled away her hand and faced McGuire.

  “I defy you!” McGuire cried.

  Faye laughed, the decibels of sound increasing. Ben and McGuire grabbed for their ears. The baby wailed in agony. Faye moved toward them, her expression ebbing and flowing like hot wax, her features slithering from one pose to another, the movement accompanied by a loathsome laughter that kept getting louder, more revolting. And then the air began to smell foul, as if a piece of carrion had been flung into their midst.

  “Faye!” Ben cried, not at this thing, but for his wife, who had died in the compactor; he fell to his knees and buried his head in his hands.

  The discreet outline of Faye’s body began to disengage. Slowly, her skin became thin and brittle, fading in and out of the dimension, altering her female form, materializing the image of the Charles Chazen, who Franchino had met years before.

  The air rang with an invasion of wind. Papers began to fly. The ashtrays emptied. Pictures fell. The fury of the wind increased. McGuire grabbed the mantel for support. Ben shielded the baby.

  As he backed to the door, Chazen continued to laugh, reveling in their terror.

  The air backened. Everything whirled; furniture toppled. McGuire and Ben looked up. Chazen was leaning against the wall. And then, as quickly as the wind and sound had come, they were gone, and so was Chazen…vanished like the fade-out of a desert mirage.