Ben nodded. “Mr. Thompson?”
“Yes. Please come in.”
Ben entered and followed Thompson into the living room, a quaintly decorated rectangle with a distinct air of country charm.
“Please sit down, Mr. Burdett,” Thompson suggested.
Ben chose the rocking chair.
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your kindness,” Ben began uncomfortably. How to begin? Where? “I know this is very hard for you, but I had to see your daughter.”
Mr. Thompson’s eyes reflected the agony of ceaseless pain. “Please, Mr. Burdett. You are as important to me as you say I may be to you. If there is any hope, I’ll use any means I can find to help Annie…”
Ben nodded. “She’s upstairs?”
“Yes, with the nurse. After we’ve talked, we’ll look in on her.”
Ben examined the man carefully. He had fine features, a dark stubble of beard, strong blue eyes, and a look of intelligence. Yet, he seemed to be wound into knots. Both his hands were clasped tightly into fists; there was also an annoying quiver in his jaw and a clay-like color to his skin.
“For the last two years, Mr. Burdett, it’s been hell for me. Can you understand that?”
“Of course.”
“I love my daughter more than life. She’s all I have left. My wife died when Annie was only a baby, and I’ve raised her by myself. Believe me, Mr. Burdett, Annie was the most lovely girl. So pretty. So gentle and loving. I don’t think she had an enemy in the world. Do you have any idea what this has done to me? No one could. It’s as if someone had torn out my insides. Better she should have died. Then I could have killed myself and it would have been all over.”
“You shouldn’t talk like that, Mr. Thompson.”
“I know. I should pretend it didn’t happen. Relegate it to a remote region of the brain. Forget that I haven’t slept one night in God knows how long. Forget that my daughter has become a zombie.” He shook his head. “But please don’t feel scolded, Mr. Burdett. I’m used to such advice. The psychologists. Psychiatrists. Doctors. Police. All of them have said the same thing, though, of course, in much more eloquent terms.”
Ben lowered his eyes; he felt like shrinking through the floor. He bled for the man; he bed for himself.
“Mr. Thompson. It’s very difficult for me to speak to you. I want you to know that and if anyone appreciates your situation, it’s me. But instead of condemning ourselves and the people we love, we must try to work together. I know what your daughter went through. You know my situation. And if there’s anything I was unclear about on the phone, please ask.”
Thompson stiffened. “No, you were very precise.”
“I live with a terrible reality,” Ben said. “I’m convinced your daughter saw the nun, Sister Therese, the nun, whose successor may just be my wife.”
Thompson nodded ever so slightly.
“If we can establish that both nuns are one and the same, we might be able to give credence to the facts as told to me by detective Gatz. Then, anything might be possible.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. But something. We might be able to locate the priests involved in the plot. We could go to the top of the church hierarchy. We could go to the police. The newspapers. The district attorney in Manhattan.”
Thompson’s eyebrows shot swiftly upward. “Do you know what you’re saying, Mr. Burdett? Go to those people for help? Let me tell you something. From the day my daughter was discovered in that clearing, the police, the press, the district attorney…all of them have been pointing their grimy little fingers at her, at the girl incapable of defending herself. If you’d like, I’ll show you a stack of letters and articles that will turn your stomach. The district attorney even considered empanelling a grand jury to charge my daughter with murder!”
“You’re joking.”
“No. They found no footprints, no fingerprints, no sign of anyone other than Annie and Bobby Joe. That was certainly enough circumstantial evidence against her, wasn’t it?”
Ben shook his head. “Was she lucid when they brought her off the mountain?”
“At times. At other times she wasn’t. Unfortunately, her condition worsened rapidly, helped along by the attitude of the authorities.”
“What do the doctors make of it?”
Thompson shrugged. “They don’t know their asses from their elbows. First, they said it was a psychosis. Then, a physical ailment. Then a little of both. None of the tests have proven anything. Frankly, I haven’t let any of them in this house in months.”
“I understand,” Ben said, moistening his lips. He looked toward the kitchen. “Would you have some water?”
“Of course,” Thompson replied.
Thompson walked slowly to the kitchen and returned with a glass. Ben noted just how ponderously he moved, even though he was tall and slim, built like a distance runner. The mental strain had taken a physical toll.
Ben sipped from the glass, placed it on the coffee table, and took out the pictures. He handed over Allison’s glossy first.
“That was Allison Parker. The picture was given to me by Gatz.”
Thompson nodded without saying a word.
Ben handed him the pictures of the nun.
“I shot these two nights ago.”
Thompson slowly sifted through the stack; he began to sweat.
“Gatz insisted that both women are the same. I compared the pictures of Allison and the nun, and I can’t be sure. What do you think?”
“I don’t know,” Thompson said thoughtfully; he reexamined each again, fighting back a growing look of astonishment.
Ben saw tears in the man’s eyes.
“This is her,” Thompson suddenly said, indicating the pictures. “This is the woman Annie saw… my poor baby.”
“How do you know?”
“I know. She fits the description. You read the description in the paper. You know damn well it fits. You knew it the moment you took those shots.”
“But I wanted to hear it from you.”
“Well, now you’ve heard it!” He started to sob uncontrollably. “My God. Oh, my God.”
Ben leaned over and touched his shoulder. “Please. I know how you feel, but you’ve got to control yourself. We need all the self-control we can muster.”
Thompson screeched; Ben recoiled, horrified by the sound. It was as if Thompson’s soul had escaped and cried out against the hopelessness he’d known for the last two years.
It took several minutes to quiet Thompson down.
“I’d like to see your daughter,” Ben said, when the man had stopped whimpering.
Thompson nodded and drew a pair of hairy, strong hands across his face. “I’m sorry. I get like this. There’s no way I can control it.”
“I know,” Ben said, his voice filled with empathy. “Come.” He helped Thompson to his feet.
Thompson returned the glass to the kitchen, then led Ben up the staircase to the second floor, where they entered the last room at the end of the corridor.
The room was a mausoleum, a tomb for Annie Thompson. It was silent, devoid of sunlight, overwhelmed by a shroud of lifelessness. The lace curtains of the windows were unruffled, permanently closed. The antique dresser was bare. The air was still and uninviting.
Annie Thompson was in bed, buried under a patchwork quilt. Next to the bed were two chairs. An old woman occupied one. Thompson introduced her as Annie’s nurse. He explained that he didn’t have much money, but that the little he did have, he spent on his daughter’s welfare.
Ben stood in the doorway, staring. The girl in the bed was nearly a carbon copy of Jennifer Learson, all the way from the color of her skin to the dead expression on her face, to the morbid odor that seemed to emanate from her pores.
He walked inside and looked at Annie’s face; her eyes were
open. He was convinced that she could see him, even though there was no reaction.
Thompson spoke softly to her, reassuring her that they were there.
“Can she hear?” Ben asked.
Thompson shrugged. “No one knows.”
Ben touched her skin. Cold. Dry. He pinched his fingers together to relive the unpleasant sensation.
“Hello, Annie. I’m here to help you. I know you can’t talk, but maybe you can understand me. I’m a friend of your father’s. I came to show you something.”
Thompson tilted his head. What was Burdett up to?
“I’m going to show you a picture. If you recognize the person, see if there is some way you can let me know. Blink your eye. Move a finger. Anything. I’ll see it.”
“Do you think you should?” Thompson asked.
“We have nothing to lose.”
Ben leaned close to the girl, his shadow crossing her face; he could feel the uneven flow of her rancid breath on his nostrils. He took out the pictures of the nun and chose the one he thought was best. He turned if face up, and placed it in front of her eyes.
They waited.
“She doesn’t understand,” the nurse said meekly.
“Shh,” Ben warned, raising his finger.
Slowly Annie’s eyelids began to twitch. Something was happening. She started to move about in the bed.
Thompson sat down and grabbed her hand.
“She recognizes the nun!” Ben said.
The terror of the realization stalked across the room.
“She recognizes her!” Ben repeated.
Annie’s face was animated.
“She does. Yes. She does!”
Thompson called to her and draped his body over her chest; he was crying.
“This is the nun you saw, isn’t it?” Ben asked.
The girl’s reaction was intensifying.
“Isn’t it?”
The girl retched. Ben jumped back. Thompson hurled himself at her. She exploded upward, foaming at the mouth.
“Christ!” Thompson shouted. “Help me grab her.”
Chaos broke. Annie kicked and screamed. The nurse moved in. So did Ben. Annie kicked Ben in the balls and he doubled over, holding his groin, writhing in pain.
Thompson grabbing at Annie. The nurse shouting. Annie…remote, catatonic for years, dead…suddenly flaying, screaming, all the pictures of the nun now clutched in her hand.
“Oh…God.”
Still hunched over in agony, Ben tried to grab her legs.
“See if we can tie her down.”
She kicked Thompson’s face. Blood spurted.
“Dammit,” Ben screamed, as Annie bit into his hand, jumped up from the bed, and beat at them, her face a picture of supernatural rage.
There was more blood, grappling, cursing. Then, suddenly, Annie ran toward the door, knocking the nurse onto her face. Ben grabbed for her nightgown; it ripped off in his hand. Annie was naked.
She collided with the door frame, still holding the pictures.
“Stop her!”
Thompson hurled himself into the corridor, reached for Annie’s feet, smacked off the banister, and fell down the steps to the first floor; there he lay still, bent obtusely like a coiled spring.
Ben looked down the steps; the nurse was next to him, shaken, useless.
“Annie!”
She opened the door and raced into the street.
Ben skirted down the steps, stopped briefly to look at Thompson…out cold, maybe even dead…then followed the naked girl outside.
She was already halfway down the block, heading toward a crowded intersection, attracting the amazed stares of at least a dozen people.
“Stop her!” Ben shouted.
No one moved; they stood frozen, orchestrated by the sound of the noon whistle that suddenly ripped through the air.
Ben charge down the street, running as fast as he could, fighting the pain of struggling lungs. Two people grabbed at Annie, slowed her down. Ben moved faster, gaining, feet pounding into the gray concrete slabs of the sidewalk.
“Annie!” he said, as he smacked away the pouring sweat that was eating into his eyes.
She stumbled, almost fell, stumble again, turned about aimlessly, cried out, held up the pictures. She was at the intersection; she turned directly toward Ben and focused on him, almost as if she wanted him to clutch her, hold her, save her from the torment that was her life.
He stopped, no more than ten feet away. They looked at each other. Behind her, traffic flowed in spasms; cars stopped everywhere, people watching. The streets were clogged with pedestrians, their attention glued to the incredible scene, a naked girl, holding pictures, crying, a man chasing her, the two of them fixated on each other like wild animals.
“Annie. I want you to come with me. I can help you.” He stopped, inching air into his lungs, trying to get his breath back. “Please, Annie. I know you can understand me.”
She said nothing; she continued to foam at the mouth. And she was shaking, vibrating, as if her body temperature had been raised beyond human limits.
What was going on? Ben considered. A girl locked in a catatonic trace for years, suddenly alive, wild. Should he wait or run at her?
“Everyone. Please stand back.” He could see the crowd moving in; he could hear whispers, interspersed with laughter. “This is a very sick girl. Please.”
He started to talk to her again. Behind him, he heard the someone say that they were going for the police. But he couldn’t stop now. He had to deal with Annie. He tried to reassure her. Did she understand what he was saying? He couldn’t tell.
Her agitation increased; she started to waver. A tear dropped down her cheek. Her lips moved. Then she cried the most unearthly sound he’d ever heard, far worse than her father’s screech of woe.
He moved toward her; she raced into the street. Cars skidded to the side; she wove about them. One car swiped his hip. He cursed and continued to follow.
A bus turned the corner. Annie threw herself in front. The driver tried to stop, but skidded. The bus hit her flush and jammed her into a stalled car, crushing her. Blood poured from her mouth and nose. As Ben raced up, he could hear her body-shuddering death. He tried to pull her out, but she was already gone.
“Oh, no,” he said, once more feeling a sickening surge of bile. “Oh…my …God.”
The crowd was all over him; police sirens rang in the distance. Someone hit him on the head. He fell to the macadam, dizzy, fighting unconsciousness. An eternity seemed to pass. Then his vision cleared. He raised himself to his knees and tried to find the pictures. There was no sign of them. He crawled under the bus and under the nearest cars. The pictures were gone.
He stood and began to back away. He had to get back to the house and try to revive Annie’s father. And he had to get away from there before the police arrived. He didn’t want to go through another interrogation.
He left the scene of the accident and returned to the Thompson house. Mr. Thompson was still on the foyer floor. The nurse was in the living room, crying.
Mr. Thompson?” Ben asked.
“Dead. I called the police and an ambulance.”
Ben nodded. “I see.”
“They asked me for your name, but I didn’t know it. They told me to tell you to stay.”
“I see,” Ben said. He looked about wildly. “I have to go out to my car. I’ll be back in a minute.”
The woman nodded, numb.
He reentered the hall, stopped momentarily to look at Mr. Thompson’s body, then walked out into the street.
Annie had found peace; so had Mr. Thompson. Maybe they were better off, Ben thought.
He walked very quickly to the corner.
Maybe.
Ben closed the phone-booth door and looked at his watch. He h
ad ten minutes to board the New York bound jet. Plenty of time.
He took out a scrap of paper and dialed the number written on it, the number of Technicolor in New York. A receptionist answered the phone. He asked for the developing manager and waited. Several minutes later, the manager took the phone.
“Mr. Burdett…” the man began in a strained voice.
“Look,” Ben said, “I have to catch a plane, so I’ll make this quick. I lost all the pictures. I want you to strike some duplicates off the negatives.”
Silence.
“Hello?”
“Yes, Mr. Burdett. I hear you. But I can’t.”
“Why not?” Ben felt himself start to choke.
“Someone broke into the lab last night and took the negatives.”
After a long pause Ben asked, “Just those?”
“Believe it or not, just those.”
Ben pulled the receiver away from his ear and looked at it.
“Mr. Burdett?” the man’s voice called out from the phone.
Ben said nothing. He dropped the phone, stepped out, and walked to the glass window that looked out over the runways.
A thought kept repeating itself in his mind, repeating like the headline on a wire-service ticker tape: HE WAS IN FOR THE FIGHT OF HIS LIFE.
13
“Ben!” Father James McGuire called, as he walked along the balcony.
Ben smiled and stepped off the staircase. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”
“Of course not,” McGuire said, shaking Ben’s hand. “What a surprise.”
“I was in the neighborhood and I couldn’t resist stopping in.”
Father McGuire was genuinely pleased. “Well…I’m glad you did. I was wondering when I might hear from you. In fact, I was thinking of calling you myself. I’ll show you. I have it on the calendar for Thursday.”
Ben nodded. “It’s good to see you, Father.”
“Come. Let’s go into my office and share a glass of wine. And tell me about Faye and the baby.”
McGuire pointed down the corridor to the last door on the right, then led Ben into a small, cluttered room devoid of all but the rudiments of religious trappings.
The Guardian Page 13
