The Guardian

by Konvitz, Jeffrey;

Reggiani and Tepper had not reemerged.

  Chazen’s horrible voice assaulted the room. “I call ye and declare ye now returned,” he cried, the call nearly buried by the howling wind churning through the apartment and holding the fires apart like the parted Red Sea.

  The armies of the night filled the room, arrayed to challenge the Almighty God and his chosen.

  Choked by smoke, Ben stood silently by the lifeless body of Sister Therese. Cardinal Reggiani remained still, pointing at McGuire, who lay coiled on the floor, clutching his withering body, vomiting, attuned to the voice of Chazen, frozen in the nightmare of his past, the years of repression undone in an instant, his subconscious mind laid bare to his conscious self.

  “It was me all the time!” McGuire shouted.

  “All along!” Reggiani said. “You are Father Bellofontaine. You are the chosen.”

  And Chazen’s voice echoed. “You are the chosen of the Lord God, the tyrant and our enemy. You are he who is to guard and protect the entrance to the earth. You are he who must take up the scepter of the Lord. You are the appointed one, who must be destroyed, if we are to be successful. Now is the hour of decision and action. The work will be done. Ye shall become one with us, and then we shall up and enter into full bliss to join Sin and Death! You shall damn yourself with your own hand… for you must!”

  Inspector Wausau clicked on the light, blindly turning his head in the pillow that had propped his head.

  “Fucking phone!”

  He seized the receiver, placing it to his ear.

  Damn clock said 3:14 a.m.

  It was the middle of the night. And he hadn’t gotten to bed until late, because of the precinct disaster.

  How much sleep? Forty minutes? God fucking damn!

  “Yeah, who is it?”

  Detective Jacobelli identified himself and reported the blaze at 68 West.

  Wausau jumped up, shocked, losing his pajama bottoms. “What’s the line on it?”

  “Don’t know,” Jacobelli said. The connection was bad; Wausau could barely hear his subordinate and the static and echoe in the phone was beyond irritating. “I’m at headquarters. It was called in.”

  “You stay there. I’m going.”

  Wausau hung up, dressed quickly, and ran out the apartment door, cursing.

  Something was up. Seriously up.

  An aurora of blue flames, white-tipped, furiously hot, framed the twentieth-floor hall. Shielding Father Bellofontaine, who held the crucifix in his hands, the transition complete, Reggiani looked back at the door to the Burdett apartment.

  Ben was standing silently under the arch, an unwilling party to a nightmare, dying inside from the pain of loss.

  “You must come!” Reggiani cried, cringing from the heat.

  Ben looked into the void. The armies of the night had retreated, as had Chazen. Ben said nothing. Nor did he move.

  “God will forgive you, my son.”

  Reggiani entered the stairwell with Father Bellofontaine beneath a rain of wood and fire.

  The death of the structure cried out; the sounds were deafening. Reggiani looked back at Ben, whose face was raining tears.

  “My God!” Ben cried in agony, looking up at the flaming debris as it fell.

  And then he was gone, buried beneath the collapsing roof, hungrily devoured by the inferno.

  Cardinal Reggiani grabbed Father Bellofontaine and started down into the pit of the blaze, the dancing coils to fire converging, engulfing them.

  27

  Detective Wausau angled the squad car to the curb, jumped out, shading his eyes from the blinding light, and looked up and down the street, trying to locate someone in authority. All he could see was confusion. The block was jammed with fire engines. Blockades at either cross avenue held back pedestrians, while patrolmen manned the alleys and doorways.

  Above him, the inferno, which had started less than an hour before, continued uncontrolled, surpassing the ferocity of any fire he’d ever witnessed. What had once been 68 West Eighty-ninth Street was engulfed in flames, the heat so intense that Wausau had to cover his face with his hands to prevent the searing of his flesh.

  He burrowed into the melee, avoiding the confused network of hoses that stretched from the hydrants and engines to the building, moving from one truck to the next, his eyes shifting from the burnished faces to the hulk of flaming wood and metal above, his thoughts wandering, sifting the improbabilities. Only several hours before, a precinct headquarters had blown up and burned to the ground, a building that had held Father McGuire, the man who’d been arrested for the murder of another priest, Monsignor Franchino, who’d died inside the very building that was rapidly decomposing only yards away. Surely, both fires could have started from natural causes. It was illogical to draw a parallel. Yet, that was precisely what he was doing, including for good measure the fact of Inspector Burstein’s untimely death had been by fire, too. Fire seemed to be the implement of eradication, the means of destroying people who knew and facts that existed.

  He located the fire captain near the largest of the trucks and identified himself; the two men slid into a nearby patrol car and closed the doors.

  “She’s completely out of control,” the chief said, looking up at the building through the windshield.

  “How long will it take to put the fire out?”

  “Several hours at least.” His voice was strained. “We’re trying to contain it.”

  Wausau shook his head. “Any idea how it started?”

  “No. We can only guess. We questioned some of the tenants. No clue there. Fortunately, most of the tenants escaped.”

  “You said most?”

  “The building employees helped us get a head count. There are fifteen people unaccounted for, including everyone on the twentieth floor.”

  Wausau’s eyes stretched wide. “Are you sure of this?”

  “Pretty much.” He pointed toward a fireman standing near the command area. “He’d be the one to talk to. But there’s no rush. No one’s coming out of there alive anymore. We can take a more accurate count later.”

  Wausau popped a piece of gum into his mouth and nodded. “Where did it start?”

  The fire chief began to answer, then stopped as a violent explosion ripped through the frame. “We’re not sure,” he finally said, “though it probably began on one of the top floors. The doorman received a call from a tenant on eighteen, who reported smoke in the halls and heat along the ceiling. The doorman called for help, then evacuated the building. By the time we got here, the fire was out of control.” He paused, rubbing his hands through the stubble of a beard. “Until it’s out and we’ve had enough time to investigate, there’s no sure way to tell where and how it started and whether or not there’s arson involved.”

  “I see,” Wausau said.

  He watched a segment of the building’s wall cave, then thanked the chief, left the car, approached the man the chief had indicated, identified himself once more, and reviewed the list of known survivors. No one from the twentieth floor was listed. Either none of them had been inside…unlikely…or they’d fled the building and the area as quickly as possible…also unlikely…r they’d all perished.

  Wausau returned the list. It occurred to him that they might never uncover the truth about the compactor murder or discover the identity of the victim, much less unravel the peculiar sequence of recent events and its possible relationship, if any existed, to the series of deaths that had occurred in the old brownstone more than ten years before. As he looked up at the fire, he realized that Father McGuire was his only hope. McGuire alone held the key to the mystery. And McGuire was still missing.

  He looked at his watch. Soon, it would be morning. Perhaps the detail in charge of the precinct disaster had found McGuire or had, at least, discovered a clue to his whereabouts.

  Returning to his car, he climbe
d inside, popped another piece of gum into his mouth, then drove off through the blockade into the night.

  Two days later, Detective Jacobelli entered Wausau’s office and sat, holding a clipboard in his hand.

  “You have the report?” Wausau asked, sipping form a can of Coke.

  “You’re not going to like it,” Jacobelli warned.

  Wausau nodded. “I know.”

  Jacobelli consulted the paper. “The precinct fire had one certified fatality, an old prisoner found in the stairwell, who died of smoke inhalation. Father McGuire is the only person in the building unaccounted for. He did not die in the flames, and we assume he escaped. How, we don’t know.”

  “Okay,” Wausau said, nodding.

  “Sixty-eight West Eighty-ninth Street. All but four people survived. One victim was the nun, Sister Therese. She was found in her twentieth-floor apartment. A second victim was a priest, a Father Tepper, found in the stairwell. We’re checking the Archdiocese for additional information on him to help us contact relatives, if there are any. The third victim, found on twenty also, was Benjamin Burdett.”

  Wausau shook his head. “Was the fourth his wife?”

  “No. There’s no sign of her. The remaining body was a man’s. Apparently Mrs. Burdett wasn’t in the building at the time of the blaze. The people, who were taking care of her baby, contacted us; they haven’t heard from her yet.”

  “I want her found!” Wausau said.

  “I’ve already issued the orders.”

  Wausau nodded. “Who was the man?”

  “We don’t know. His body was discovered in the elevator shaft, so burned, shredded and decomposed that accurate identification may be almost impossible.”

  “Can the medical examiner’s office pin the ID down?”

  “They doubt it, but they’ll try.”

  Wausau leaned toward Jacobelli and took the clipboard. He looked over the report, shaking his head, then placed it on the desk, unwrapped a new stick of gum, and popped it into his mouth.

  The 1956 DeSoto backfired, as John Sorrenson pressed the accelerator and wheeled the car off Central Park West onto Eighty-ninth Street. The day was warm and humid. The tart smell of a recent rain shower remained. Sorrenson’s jacket lay on the back seat next to an uncovered cello and a hastily packed suitcase that was losing its contents. His white shirt was soiled, stained by sweat, and his beard was heavy.

  He abruptly stopped the car midblock and stared at the monument of twisted metal, wood, and wire that stood where 68 West used to be. “My God,” he said, rubbing the deep stubble of beard, his eyes flared in shock, his body shaking.

  He pulled the car quickly to the curb, jumped out, and leaned against the barrier that had been raised around the debris. The scent of fire still tainted the air, though no doubt it had been several days since the blaze. He read the notice posted by the New York Fire Department. Then he walked along the sidewalk, staring at the remains.

  An elderly woman was standing nearby

  “What happened here?” he asked her.

  “A fire,” she said, swinging a hatbox in her chubby right hand. “A bad one, I hear. Killed some tenants, too.”

  “When? How?” Sorrenson was confused.

  The woman stared at the old man, shrugged, then walked toward the corner.

  “This was my home!” Sorrenson screamed, moving quickly behind her.

  The woman ignored him; he shook his head and returned to the car. Leaning against the fender, he massaged his forehead, squinting into a splash of late-afternoon sunlight. Then he crossed the street and looked through a hole in the fence surrounding the construction site of St. Simon’s. The area was empty, the excavation partially filled with water; all the trucks and heavy machinery were gone and there were no workmen on site.

  Confused, he climbed back into the car and started the engine. There was a police precinct on Columbus, two blocks downtown. Someone there could tell him what had happened, perhaps even suggest who he could contact to determine whether anything had been salvaged.

  He disengaged the parking brake, pressed his foot nimbly on the accelerator, and maneuvered the car down the block.

  The sun had descended beneath the roof lines when Sorrenson returned to the site of the disaster and parked his car alongside the remains of the building he’d called his home. Wiping tears from his eyes, he placed his hands in his lap and stared at the foundation, trying desperately to harden himself against the terrible reality of what he’d learned. A chill had replaced the afternoon’s warmth. Starting to shiver, he grabbed his jacket off the back seat and draped it over his shoulders, handling the fabric carefully; it was all he had left. All his possessions had been housed in his twentieth-floor apartment, and according to the police, nothing had been salvaged. He had little faith in banks, so most of his savings, kept in a box under the kitchen sink, were gone, too.

  The sun had set by the time Sorrenson wrenched himself from self-pity. He had no family, but he hoped one of the members of the philharmonic would house him temporarily…at least until he’d settled his affairs and arranged a loan.

  He would go to Philharmonic hall first.

  As he started the car, a cab pulled in front of him. Max and Grace Woodbridge climbed out.

  “Max!” Sorrenson called.

  Seeing the building, Grace Woodbridge started to scream. Max grabbed her and tried to console her.

  Sorrenson got out of his car and rushed to their side. Grace was hysterical, trying to climb over the temporary NYFD barrier, grasping at her husband, crying, pounding her fists against her side.

  “There’s nothing we can do,” Max said, watching her dab at her eyes with a handkerchief.

  “Nothing at all,” Sorrenson agreed, his own frustrations fraying his voice. “The fire happened. There’s no way we can bring back the building or anything that was in it.”

  The two men helped Grace Woodbridge into Sorrenson’s car.

  “What happened, John?” Max asked.

  “I just spoke to the police. The place burned four days ago in the middle of the night. They think the fire started on the twentieth floor. There was nothing the fire department could do.”

  “My God,” Grace moaned. “Oh…my God,”

  Max took her hand. “Was anyone hurt?”

  Sorrenson nodded. “Yes,” he said, his voice quavering. “The old nun died. So did Ben Burdett.”

  “Oh no!” Max said, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “And Faye?” Grace asked, crying brokenly.

  “The police haven’t been able to find her. Fortunately, the baby survived. Ben had luckily sent little Joey to friends for the evening.”

  Max placed his arm around Sorrenson’s shoulder. “It’s incredible, John. Just unbelievable. How will we ever dig ourselves out of this?”

  Sorrenson shrugged. “We’ll just have to do so, that’s all.”

  “We’re lucky we went away,” Max observed, swallowing heavily.

  “Yes,” Grace agreed. “So lucky.”

  Sorrenson stared at them. “Yes…you were most fortunate. But where were you?”

  “What do you mean, John?” Max was puzzled.

  “Where were you? Where did you go? Why did you leave town?”

  Max stared at his wife. His expression was blank. He rubbed his chin with his hand, then drew his fingers through his thinning gray-black hair. “I don’t know!” he said, overcome with confusion. “Do you, dear?”

  Grace thought for a second, then shook her head.

  “You must have gone somewhere.”

  “Of course, John,” Max said, suddenly smiling. “We went to…” He stopped talking again, shaking his head, trying to remember, confused.

  “Max,” Sorrenson said, gripping his forearm, “something is very wrong.”

  “Because we don’t remember wher
e we were?”

  “Yes. And because I don’t either.”

  “You don’t?”

  Sorrenson shook his head. “The last four days are blank, and I didn’t realize it until the police asked me the same question I just asked you.”

  Grace wiped her dripping mascara with a tissue. “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I,” said Sorrenson. “And neither do Daniel Batille or the two secretaries.” He cleared his throat and buttoned his jacket. “They also returned here after being away for four days. They also went to the police and were asked about their whereabouts. None of them could remember where they’d been.”

  “And Jenkins?”

  “No one knows where he is. The police found a man’s body in the elevator shaft. It could be him.”

  Max Woodbridge shook his head. “Four days. Four dead days. It’s impossible!”

  Sorrenson glanced back at the remains of the building. A dog was rummaging through the toppled wood. Two children were playing with a window they’d dragged over the barrier. The rest of the lot was deserted.

  “Impossible?” he asked, smirking.

  EPILOGUE

  It was nearly noon. The temperature was just over eighty, the air dry and invigorating.

  A Yellow Cab pulled to the curb on St. Ignacio Street in the barrio of East Los Angeles and deposited two passengers in front of a three-story Tudor house with a broken front stoop and boarded-up, ground-floor windows. The house was seemingly abandoned, but a shadow behind a drawn beige curtain in the center third-floor window suggested the presence of an occupant.

  Cardinal Reggiani looked at Sister Florence and smiled, pleased with the neighborhood; the decision to remove the Sentinel from New York had been wise, and he felt he’d selected the right place.

  They walked up to the front entrance. Reggiani opened the door with a key. They paused at the base of the main staircase, inspecting the interior. The walls and floors were bare. There was no furniture. The air was heavy with the smell of mildew.

  The banister swayed, as they started to climb. Sister Florence shivered, disturbed by the surroundings. Cardinal Reggiani reassured her, then led her up the final ascent to the third floor, which was as uninviting as the rest of the building.