The Guardian

by Konvitz, Jeffrey;

  McGuire tried vainly to shield his eyes.

  “I shall stand before Father Bellofontaine,” Chazen cried.

  A second vision appeared, a child dressed in black shorts and a white T-shirt, who stood near the bed and held the woman’s hand, speaking to her softly. The woman screamed, racked with pain. The boy began to cry. “Let me die,” the woman said over and over. Confused, the boy held her tight. “Do you love me?” the woman asked. “Yes,” the boy replied. “Then if you love me, disconnect the tubes and let me die.” The boy continued to sob, then pulled out the needles. The woman closed her eyes and smiled. The boy left the room.

  The vision of the woman remained.

  “I shall appear before Father Bellofontaine,” Chazen warned the priest, “and reveal his sin. He shall see what has been. And he shall know!”

  The room exploded with a blast of cold wind. Sounds grew from nothing. Trembling, McGuire held his hands together and began to whimper, overcome by the horror.

  The image of the woman faded, replaced by a room, a garage. Chazen stepped back, whipped by the wind, pointing. A boy entered the garage from the rear, the same boy who’d appeared at the bedside of the dying woman, but several years older.

  “And he shall know he is one with us!” Chazen cried, his voice as fierce as death.

  As McGuire watched, the boy closed the garage door, climbed inside an old sedan, started the motor, and pressed hard on the accelerator. Within seconds, the boy began to cough. Then he closed his eyes, trapped by the fumes.

  The vision of the boy remained.

  “Look!” Chazen cried.

  McGuire battled his will, sweat streaming from his skin, his body shaking.

  “Father Bellofontaine shall know. He shall see both his past and what would be his future.”

  The vision of the boy disappeared.

  The wind increased, tearing at Father McGuire’s body and the frail form of Sister Therese.

  Again came the rush of sounds and the hideous bale of Chazen’s laughter, echoing from infinity.

  The room grew dark and colder, then burst with an explosion of light, revealing the form of a man, seated, holding a crucifix…Father Bellofontaine, the next Sentinel…shriveled and decayed, his face rotted through to the bone and infested with maggots.

  Father McGuire screamed.

  Ralph Jenkins rolled down the car window and looked out toward the alley entrance. He could hear footsteps.

  “She’s coming,” Father Tepper said.

  Jenkins nodded and sat back, waiting.

  The car was parked in the rear of the alley against a dead-end wall. Its lights were out. Except for the glow of streetlamps about fifty feet away, they were surrounded by darkness.

  “Is it midnight?” Jenkins asked.

  “Yes,” Tepper replied. “We’ll be late.”

  “May God forgive us.”

  A figure appeared in the alley entrance. The figure waited, staring, then moved slowly toward them, footsteps lightly echoing between the buildings.

  “Turn on the lights,” Jenkins commanded.

  The driver hit the switch; the headlights came alive.

  The figure…a nun…stopped in front of the car and squinted, her features lightly filmed by perspiration. She was black, about thirty, and moderately attractive, marked by a jagged scar running from her upper lip to the base of her eye. The makeup that Father McGuire had seen covering her face was absent.

  She climbed inside the car.

  “Sister Florence,” Jenkins said, taking her hand.

  Sister Florence kissed the ring on Jenkins’ hand. “Cardinal Reggiani,” she replied.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Burdett?” Mr. Vasquez, the superintendent, asked as he placed a glass of water to Ben’s lips.

  Ben nodded, sipped the water, and sat up, holding his head, trying to regain his equilibrium. Mr. Vasquez knelt; so did the doorman.

  “I’m going to call a doctor, Mr. Burdett,” Vasquez said. He applied some gauze to the cuts on Ben’s head.

  “No!” Ben said, pushing the superintendent away. “No doctors. I’ll be fine.”

  Vasquez glanced at the doorman and shook his head. “You have some bad cuts, a couple of broken fingers, and a badly damaged shoulder.”

  Ben tried to stand. “I’m okay. Just leave me alone.”

  “But, Mr. Burdett…”

  “What time is it?” Ben cut in.

  The doorman glanced at his watch. “Twelve-thirty.”

  “God damn!”

  Vasquez held Ben’s arm as he struggled to the elevator. “You passed out as you came into the building. Please let me call a doctor. Your wife will be very upset.”

  “My wife?” Ben cried. “Upset?” He laughed hysterically.

  Vasquez and the doorman exchanged curious glances.

  Ben held the elevator frame and waited. Moments later, the door opened and he stepped inside, leaving a trail of blood. He looked out at the two men and smiled. “I’m fine,” he said, wincing. Then he pressed a button on the panel and stood back as the door closed.

  The elevator started to rise, bumping gently; he slumped against the wall, dizzy, fighting to withstand the pain, trying to remember everything Jenkins had told him, hoping that Jenkins would be in the apartment as planned.

  The elevator door opened, and he stepped into the hall. It was quiet. Jenkins had assured him that they’d manage the removal of all the tenants on the twentieth floor; judging by the absence of sounds, Jenkins had been successful.

  Ben walked to Sister Therese’s door and listened. Nothing. He grabbed the doorknob and turned. The door was open. Closing his eyes and breathing deeply, he passed through the doorway.

  26

  “Father McGuire?” Ben called from the foyer.

  No one answered.

  He walked into the living room, stepped around Sister Therese’s chair, and touched her face, caressing the rotted skin.

  “Father McGuire!” he called again, holding his fractured shoulder.

  A drop of blood fell onto the Sister’s frock; he touched his scalp, which was still bleeding, then walked back toward the foyer.

  Could McGuire be next door?

  He heard a sound.

  “Who’s there?” he called, looking down the bedroom hallway.

  The noise came again, a light tap.

  Terrified, he walked into the darkness and moved along the wall.

  “That’s you, Father, isn’t it?”

  No answer.

  “Mr. Jenkins?”

  Footsteps.

  At the doorway, he reached for the doorknob, then suddenly fell back.

  Someone had turned the knob from the other side.

  “Where have you been?” Father McGuire asked, as he walked out of the room.

  Cardinal Reggiani rang for the elevator again, but nothing happened.

  “Chazen,” Father Tepper said.

  Reggiani nodded. “You are to stay here, Sister.”

  Sister Florence stepped away from them and retreated to the basement entrance.

  Reggiani and Tepper turned toward the staircase and inspected their waistbands to ensure their crucifixes were securely fastened. Reggiani opened the stairwell door and entered; Father Tepper moved in behind, closing the door.

  “Franchino’s soul walks with us!” Tepper said. They started to climb.

  “May God grant our fate be better,” Reggiani replied in a whisper.

  They turned the bend, quietly moving up the steps, breathing heavily, close together, pouring sweat.

  Reaching the twentieth floor, Reggiani tried the door; it was locked.

  “Chazen is waiting,” Tepper said.

  “Yes,” Reggiani replied, grabbing the banister. “We must go down. Hurry!”

  The
y descended, stumbling, the walls and floor speckled with their perspiration. As they reached the third-floor landing, the lights went out. They were caught in the middle of a funnel, submerged in blackness.

  Reggiani wrapped his hands about his crucifix; they continued to descend.

  A terrible laugh echoed, accompanied by a blast of hot air. Reggiani heard his name called out of the blackness.

  “Chazen’s below us!” Tepper cried.

  “Back up,” Reggiani said.

  They turned and frantically began to climb.

  They heard the creak of pipes.

  “We must break out!” Reggiani screamed, the vision of Franchino’s death looming before him.

  They stopped on the nineteenth floor and attacked the door, kicking, trying to dislodge the hinges.

  Then Tepper drew back. “Something is near!” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I can feel the fires of Hell.”

  Reggiani reached into the darkness; Tepper cried in pain. “Father!” Reggiani called.

  No reply.

  Above him, the pipes continued to groan. A drop of water hit his forehead. He heard a cry, then the sound of a falling body.

  “Father Tepper!”

  “I’m all right,” Tepper called from the landing below. “I lost my footing.”

  Again Reggiani was splashed with water. The pipes creaked once more. He pushed close to the wall, listening to the sound of seepage, then the thud of a rupture. Water was running. The roar increased. His feet were wet; a stream was flowing down the steps. He moved to the edge of the landing. “Chazen is trying to drown us. We must get out!”

  “I can’t move,” Tepper cried. “I think my leg is broken.”

  Reggiani grabbed the banister. “I’m coming,” he yelled, shuddering at the sound of an explosion above. Looking into the darkness, he could feel a spray of water against his body, increasing in ferocity. The water pipes, perhaps even the water tank, had burst.

  A tidal rush slammed against him, pulling his feet from under him. He held to the banister, sliding down the steps, spitting water, trying to breathe. He could hear Tepper choking and slapping with his arms.

  Water surged in giant eddies, filling the concrete stairwell, carrying everything in its way down through the darkness.

  Reggiani went under, then surged up into the air, frantically fighting the flood, slammed off the banisters, clutching, dropping from one landing to the next, reaching out blindly for Tepper, who had ceased screaming.

  Over the horrible thunder of deluge, he could hear Chazen laughing, shouting his contempt for God and Christ.

  Reggiani swept around a landing, his mouth and lungs filled with water. He was submerged, drowning in a rapid descent. Trying to keep his head up, he turned over, fell headfirst, and was carried to the first landing, where he was heaved against the basement door under a crushing wave.

  Father McGuire pointed at Ben. “You are the next Sentinel, Ben Burdett.” Ben stared, unmoved. “You are the successor to the Angel Gabriel and his successors. You are the one who must guard against the approach of Satan.” He placed his hands on Sister Therese’s shoulder. “Chazen will try to make you destroy yourself. Chazen will prey on the weaknesses of your past, which you have buried in your subconscious. Chazen will do so, until the crucifix is successfully transferred.” He fell to his knees and began to pray. Ben watched the incredible sight. Then McGuire extended his hand. “You are the chosen,” he said.

  Cardinal Reggiani opened his eyes; the staircase was a blur. Holding his head, he blinked, trying to clear his vision. He was cold, shaking, lying on his back in a deep pool of water. The runoff from above had nearly stopped; except for a hollow tinkle, the stairwell was dead silent.

  He pulled himself to his knees, sliding on the slippery concrete, and dabbed at the deep gash on his arm. How long had he been unconscious? And where was Father Tepper?

  Grabbing the banister, he wobbled up the steps. “Tepper!” he called, craning his neck to look up the staircase. He listened to the lifeless echo, then started to climb, barely able to cling to the handrail. Reaching the second-floor landing, he stopped, staring at a dull red stain carried by a thin film of flowing water. He knelt and ran his hands through it, the blood sticking to his palm. Something hit his shoulder. More blood. He glanced upward.

  Father Tepper’s body dangled above, his lifeless head wedged between the joining banisters, his body hanging as if he’d been strung from a gallows.

  “God have mercy!” Reggiani cried, his face frozen with anger.

  He heard the clink of metal. He stepped up, nearing Tepper’s body. Caught in the banister was Tepper’s crucifix, held by its leather strap, banging against the iron rail.

  Sister Therese surged out of the chair, grabbing her chest with her right hand. Father McGuire, who’d been prone, completing his incantations, stood and held her. Ben backed off.

  Sister Therese grabbed McGuire’s arm. The blood vessels on her face exploded under the skin. Saliva dribbled from her mouth. Whatever color had remained in her flesh fled rapidly. Sickened, Father McGuire gagged.

  “She’s dying,” he screamed.

  Still silent, Ben just stared. Suddenly, a flash of light exploded through the room, blinding them. Sounds grew. A violent wind tore at them.

  “Chazen is here!” McGuire cried.

  Plaster fell from the ceiling, the glass in the windows shattered, and fire erupted at the base of the draperies.

  Mr. Vasquez raced out of his apartment into the hall. “Who called down?” he asked, grabbing the house phone.

  “Mr. Chupa in 18E!” the doorman said.

  Vasquez rang back. “This is Vasquez,” he said, when the tenant had picked up the line.

  Chupa reported a fire somewhere on the floors above. The odor of smoke had reached the eighteenth floor and the ceiling was getting hot.

  “Get the hell out of there!” Vasquez yelled. If you can, alert the other people on the floor! And use the stairs. There may be fire in the elevator shaft.” He slammed down the phone and grabbed the doorman by the arm. “Get this building evacuated!”

  “Right away.” The doorman sounded the building alarm and began to buzz apartments.

  Vasquez ran down the hall and raced around the bend to the staircase. Shocked, he stopped. The rugs were flooded; water was sleeping under the door.

  He grabbed the handle; the door was jammed.

  Cardinal Reggiani looked up at the hole in the roof. Part of the water-tank superstructure extended down and water still leaked over the edge. There was space to climb through, though, and since there was no other way out of the stairwell, he had no choice.

  He glanced quickly below…smoke had started to sift under the door on the twentieth floor…and climbed up the roof ladder. Reaching the hole, he grabbed the metal tank support and pulled himself onto the roof.

  He made his way to the edge of the building and looked down the perpendicular row of windows. Directly to the side was a drainage pipe, stretching to the alley below. He lowered himself over the edge and began to shimmy down, barely keeping his grip, fighting the wind and the dizzying height.

  Reaching the twentieth floor hall window, he extended his foot and kicked in the glass, slashing his ankle. In pain, glass slivers embedded in his muscles, he extended his leg through the hole, the sharp broken edges cutting into his thigh. He released his grip on the pipe, grabbed the bottom frame, reached inside the window, and pulled himself through into the hall.

  Father McGuire stood over Sister Therese’s body, chanting the last rites, then looked up and stared at Ben Burdett, who was holding the crucifix in his hand. Ben didn’t seem to be enveloped by the power of the Lord god. Nor had he aged.

  “Father Bellofontaine!” McGuire called.

  And Ben just smiled.

  Fire was shooting out the windows on the uppe
r floors by the time most of the tenants had been evacuated. The lower floors were still untouched, though the blaze was rapidly advancing down the side of the building. Vasquez and the doorman were at the intercom. A detachment of police was assisting the stragglers.

  “Keep trying!” Vasquez yelled.

  The doorman pressed the twentieth-floor buttons; no one responded. “If they’re up there, they’re finished.”

  Down the hall, the elevator arrived; three tenants ran out, holding whatever belongings they could salvage. Vasquez surged for the car, got inside, and pressed the button. The door started to close, then shorted out. Reentering the hall and hearing the sound of sirens, he grabbed an axe from the utility closet, hurried back to the stairwell door, and attacked the lock, shattering it. As he pulled back the door, he was thrust against the wall by the explosion of fumes. It was too late. He ran back to the building entrance and joined the doorman in the street, as the first of the fire trucks turned off the corner of Central Park West and headed down Eighty-ninth. Moments later, a violent explosion ripped out the center section of the building.

  Vasquez looked up and shook his head. “It’s gone.”

  As the form of the dying mother and her son once again appeared through the walls, accompanied by the sound of Chazen’s laughter, Cardinal Reggiani, bleeding badly, pointed across the room at Father McGuire, and through the rising wall of fire cried, “Take the crucifix, Father Bellofontaine!”

  McGuire looked at Ben, who was standing nearby, buried in smoke, then back at Reggiani. “I don’t understand!” he screamed.

  Sister Florence walked through the dark shadows, her attention riveted on the top floors of the apartment. From her position, along the St. Simon’s fence, she could see the burning face of 68 West and the access alley to the rear.