“Were you in New York during the period I mentioned?”
“I already told you I was not involved.”
“I understand that, but…”
“Mr. Burdett, if it will make you happy, no, I wasn’t. I was in Rome. At the Vatican.”
Ben sipped form a glass of wine. “You know, Monsignor, we’ve been talking for almost an hour. I’ve listened carefully to you, and there should be no reason for me to doubt you. But, unfortunately, I do.”
Franchino’s entire body seemed to rise, though he stayed seated. “You’re accusing me of lying?”
“Let’s just say I don’t believe you. You may call Gatz’s story preposterous drivel, but I’ve seen and heard too much to reject it outright. And, of course, there’s the nun.
“A very unfortunate woman.”
“Perhaps.”
“You’re very uncharitable, Mr. Burdett. I checked her background. She’s supported by the Archdiocese. She spent most of her years teaching at a parochial school in the Bronx. At various times, she supplied her services to the critically ill as a staff member at St. Vincent’s Hospital. At age fifty-six, she was stricken by multiple sclerosis and has since become a charge of the church.”
Ben narrowed his eyes. “Why did you agree to this meeting if you’re an innocent? Why didn’t you tell McGuire that you were not the man…period!”
“Father McGuire was very insistent.”
“Oh, come now, Monsignor Franchino, how insistent could he have been? I told him nothing. And I’m sure the good Father didn’t twist your arm. No, Monsignor Franchino, I suspect you consented to this meeting to find out who I know and what I know.”
Franchino’s eyes blazed. “I don’t wish to be abrupt, Mr. Burdett, but you’re a suspicious, highly inventive man, who is either playing some obscure game or subject to a psychotic disorder.”
“Is that so?”
Franchino straightened the sleeves of his frock. “And I am not used to being accused of mortal sins. Of murder, subterfuge, of coordinating sinister plots against unfortunates.’”
“I haven’t accused you of anything.”
“But you’ve implied.”
“My wife’s life may be at stake. And so might my own. If you read inferences into an honest attempt to uncover facts, then so be it. And, of course, if I’m right, you have every reason to feel accused.”
The busboy removed the appetizer dishes, as the two men sat in silence, staring at each other, sipping their wine. Moments later, their main courses arrived, and Ben resumed the conversation.
“Did you ever meet Father McGuire before?”
“No.”
“A wonderful man. Very bright. He’s a credit to the church.”
“I’m sure.”
“We spent some time together on a cruise. The last night, a man tried to break into my stateroom. He failed, but left a crucifix on the handle of the door.”
“You seem to be the object of an inquisition.” Franchino laughed. “Perhaps you should consult the police. Or hire a private investigator.”
“Or perhaps I should try to get an audience with the Cardinal.”
“It’s a free country, Mr. Burdett.” He bit into his entrée, roast beef, medium-rare. “The food is very good. I hope you enjoy it.”
“I’ll try, Monsignor. Of course, it would be far more digestible, if I was in a good state of mind, and I surely would be in a better frame of mind, if you told me the truth.”
“But I have, Mr. Burdett!”
“Pardon my language. I’m not used to speaking to a priest this way, but you’re full of shit!” He kept his voice low, his tone pleasant. “Gatz told me that Michael Farmer had met with Franchino and had communicated the results of the meeting to Jennifer Learson.”
“We’ve been through this already.”
“Not quite. Farmer was very exact about his description of the man. So was Miss Learson. And Gatz, too. It seems our Franchino had a pair of very large, muscular hands. On the back of the palms were long curly tufts of white hair.” He grabbed Franchino’s right hand; Franchino made no attempt to pull it away. “Like these hands, Monsignor.”
The obdurate expression on Franchino’s face made Ben shake.
“You were the man Michael Farmer met about ten years ago. You were the man who possessed the files. You were the man, who was intimately involved with Allison Parker, who is the nun in the window. And you’re the man, who’s after my wife!”
Franchino shot to his feet, towering ominously over the table, trying to control his temper.
“Good day, Mr. Burdett,” he said, throwing his napkin onto his plate. “The meal is paid for. Please enjoy it. I wish you and your wife well. I trust you will not inconvenience me again.”
Ben said nothing: Franchino stormed out of the room. Ben waited, then walked to the window facing Third Avenue, looked out, and watched the priest enter a cab.
He smiled.
He had the right Franchino.
14
It was raining when Monsignor Franchino reached the roof of 81 West Eighty-ninth Street, next to the excavation site of St. Simons, and trained his binoculars on Sister Therese’s window. It was open, but that didn’t disturb him. Biroc had reported the platform incident within hours of its occurrence. It was Biroc, too, who’d followed Burdett to Syracuse, seizing the pictures from the dying girl, and Biroc, who’d stolen the prints from Technicolor.
Joe Biroc was a very useful man.
Franchino focused the binoculars on Sister Therese’s eyes. The thick cataracts shone like beacons. But as hideous as she seemed, she was a vision of beauty, God’s angel, who in her devotion had preserved her soul and achieved salvation. Soon, she’d be granted rest eternal and join her God, as had Father Halliran before her.
Father Matthew Halliran, William O’Rourke by birth. Ten years a memory. Were it not for the vivid beat of droplets against his face and the numbing cold that bit his skin, he might have questioned the rapid drift of time. Looking through the binoculars, he could see the vision of what had been a recreation of that night many years ago, when he’d stood on this exact spot and had focused a similar set of binoculars on the third-floor apartment occupied by Allison Parker. It, too, had been a rainy night. Realizing Chazen was prepared to move against the girl, he’d hurried there just as a figure had walked across the street and entered the brownstone, a figure later identified as a Detective Joseph Brenner. A short time thereafter, Allison Parker had appeared on the street, covered with blood, hysterical, running through the rain. He’d watched her disappear before entering the brownstone to survey the damage. What had happened? What had Chazen done? And who had entered the building? Unexpectedly, he’d found Detective Brenner’s body, skewered with knife wounds. He’d quickly removed it from the building, deposited it in the trunk of an abandoned car, then returned to apartment 4A to remove whatever traces of blood he could find, even though he was certain Chazen would alter the rooms to prevent the police from discovering evidence of struggle. The job done, he’d then left the apartment, only to confront Chazen, standing at the base of the third-floor staircase. Never had he known such terror. As sweat poured from his body and his very soul had ached, he’d stood and faced the thing, praying to Christ for strength, guidance, the power to survive. And from somewhere it had come. Before his eyes, Chazen passed through the dimension and was gone.
Franchino remembered driving to the Archdiocese that night and spending it face down on his cot, crying. And then the images bled away and he confronted the present, Sister Therese, Ben, and Faye Burdett, the rain, the cold, the tiny twinges of angina that had started earlier in the day, as he’d accepted the fact that Chazen was about to commit himself once more.
“Faye,” Ben called. He squinted across the bedroom.
There was no light in the room, no movement.
“F
aye!” She must be in the kitchen, he thought.
What time was it? Three? Christ.
The baby rolled over and coughed in his sleep.
Ben turned on the light and jumped out of bed, his head aching. Damn thoughts of the previous day’s lunch with Franchino had eaten a hole in his brain.
“Faye!” he called; he entered the living room.
No one on the couch; no one in the kitchen. The bathroom? No.
He listened. It was raining outside. Where had she gone?
He dressed quickly and left the apartment, eavesdropping at the doors on the floor, hoping to hear voices, her voice. Perhaps unable to sleep, she’d gone to Sorrenson’s or to Mr. Jenkins. But there was nothing.
He rang for the elevator, and when it arrived, he rode down to the first floor.
The night doorman was asleep on the couch, a dripping umbrella tilted against his legs.
Ben woke him.
“Yes?” the doorman said, startled.
“Did you see my wife?”
The man looked up. “I must have fallen asleep,” he said. “Who did you say, Mr. Burdett?”
“My wife!”
“No. Not that I recall. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep.”
Ben nodded, thinking quickly. The street? Maybe. But why? She’d have been crazy to go out in the rain in the middle of the night. But then where?
“If you see her, buzz me.”
“Of course, sir,” the doorman said. He struggled to his feet and adjusted his coat.
Ben returned to the elevator and started up to the twentieth floor.
Where? Why? More question. His mind was a jumble.
The elevator stopped and the door slid open, screeching into the silence.
He stood on the lip of the car, body against the door frame. Suddenly, he knew. The basement! She was down there!
He moved back inside and pressed the basement button. Once again, the car started to descend. This time, though, it seemed to be crawling; he could almost taste the seconds moving by, taunting him. Suddenly, he felt claustrophobic.
The basement appeared beyond the sliding door. He stepped out. Somewhere down the corridor, he could hear the drip of a faucet, perhaps in the janitor’s room. The pipes were knocking, too.
Call out! No.
She’d not been in the basement, since the night the body had been discovered. Why had she come down here now? It made no sense.
As he turned the corner, he heard something behind him. There was someone there, and it wasn’t Faye.
Some more steps, and now he was convinced that there was life nearby. He could sense the pressure of a heaving chest trying to still its breathing, so as not to betray itself!
Could it be Faye? He was sure it wasn’t. Faye was ahead of him somewhere.
The corridor was spinning around him, as he stumbled toward the compactor room, stopping ten feet away. This was the spot. Blood. A body. Death. What was she doing here?
“Faye! he called. If she was in the compactor room, she would hear him.
No answer, but an intensified sense of presence assaulted his senses. There was someone ahead, and someone behind.
Gripping the cinder-block walls, he inched toward the room and looked inside.
The red light was on. Faye was standing in front of the compactor, erect, petrified.
“Faye!”
She didn’t move.
He entered and grabbed her; she was stiff. He called her name again and shook her. She was in a trance. Although she could see him, she registered nothing.
“Come on, honey. I’m going to take you upstairs.”
He turned her around; her feet were locked. He would have to drag her to the elevator.
He grabbed her by the waist, then stood still. There were voices in the corridor, low, sibilant whispers and catlike rustles on the concrete.
“Faye! Do you hear me?”
Laughter in the hall.
Maybe it was nothing…neighbors, kids off the street, the janitor…but at this hour in the morning?
“Is anyone there?” he called, simpering like an idiot.
Silence replied.
He stuck his head out into the hall. As he began to call out again, he felt a stab of pain. He grabbed for his face. Blood poured over his hands. Another stab of pain. The sensation of crashing fists.
Three men were around him, punching and kicking at his head; through the rain of blood, he could just make out their faces. There were teenagers, all black. One was holding a knife. The tallest had a scar across his forehead.
Ben held up his hands to protect himself. The boy with the knife slashed it across Ben’s wrist. The others continued to punch.
More blood.
They dragged Ben into the compactor room, then pounded him and kicked at his genitals with their feet.
“You scared, man?”
God…someone had to come down to stop this. Please!
“Scared?”
“Lookit that snatch!”
“Leave her alone!”
“Shut up, you motherfucker.”
Ben groaned, as a kick landed in his groin.
The tallest boy ripped off Faye’s blouse and bit her breasts. Another screamed something in Spanish.
Ben cried out, seeing the knife slash across Faye’s chest, and blood rushing down her skin.
They pulled her to the floor, kicking her in the chest. She broke from the trance.
“Ben,” she cried, seeing him doubled over.
She reached for him; one of the boys stepped on her arm and ground his heel into her flesh, lacerating the skin.
They fell on her, slobbering, their tongues on her face. Each time she resisted, they punched, until huge crimson welts covered her cheeks. Within minutes, she’d been beaten into a stupor.
Ben tried to protect her; they grabbed his head and beat it against the wall. Then they pulled off their clothes and dragged Faye across the room and up against the compactor chamber.
“Please leave me alone. Don’t hurt me!”
“Shut up, you sleazy cunt!”
“Beg, cunt! You’re gonna beg for all the cock you can get!”
“No!” Ben screamed.
The tallest boy grabbed Faye’s lips and forced them open. He inserted his penis. The others jabbed at her groin.
She babbled hysterically, as they slapped and beat her.
Ben rolled on his stomach and lifted his head, watching the shuffling bodies. Then he crawled toward Faye, sliding over his own blood, reached up, and grabbed one of the black, hairless legs.
“I’ll kill you all!”
One of them stood and cocked his foot. Ben saw it coming toward hm, the black boot filling his field of vision. He felt a thud against his forehead.
And then there was nothing.
Wiping water and perspiration form his face, Monsignor Franchino raced across the street, passed under Sister Therese’s window, and ran through the alley to the rear entrance of the building. Firmly, he navigated the trenches of water, entered the basement, and walked quickly toward the compactor room.
Whatever had happened, had happened there.
How long had he been on the rain-pelted roof? It no longer mattered.
The room was ahead.
No sounds, except maybe whimpering.
He felt the angina again. The pills? He’d left them on the railing of the roof.
What was Chazen doing? And why?
God give him strength!
It was stifling hot. Hard to breathe. Or could it have just been his terror manifesting itself?
He held onto his crucifix, as he approached the compactor-room door and stepped inside.
Ben Burdett was seated, his back against the wall, his face covered with bruises. On his la
p was Faye’s head. She was staring up at the ceiling, fixated on nothing. Her breathing was slight.
Ben froze his attention on Franchino.
Franchino advanced and knelt. He said nothing.
Ben wet the laceration on his lip, sniffed to clear his nose, and tightened his grip on Faye’s body. She mumbled in pain.
“Monsignor Franchino!” Ben exclaimed. “Monsignor Franchino.”
The sun had risen, painting the city with a spectacular coat of uncontaminated light. In the street below the Burdetts’ apartment, the first noises of day had begun to echo. Faye was in bed, sleeping uncomfortably, her head covered with bandages. Ben and Monsignor Franchino were seated at the dining table, exhausted, sipping coffee. Ben had frantically tended to Faye alone for the last half hour, and now, as he faced Franchino, he was still in a near-fury.
“It’s time you and I discussed the truth, Monsignor!”
Franchino lowered the angle of his stare and drank from his cup.
“Or are you still going to play dumb?”
“No. I’m not going to play anything.”
Franchino’s manner was very somber, but far more open than Ben could remember it being at lunch.
“What were you doing in the basement, Monsignor?’
Franchino breathed deeply. “I came down to find you.” He was still perspiring, the sweat welling in the grooves and pockmarks of his face.
“How did you know we were there?”
“I knew.”
“But how?”
“Does it matter, Mr. Burdett? I knew you were there. I knew something was going to happen.”
“Why didn’t you stop it?”
“I couldn’t.”
Ben spilled some coffee on the tablecloth. “Why couldn’t you?”
“I did not have the power.”
“Look, Franchino, I went through these riddles at lunch. I’m in no mood for them now. Three black teenagers trap us in the compactor room and proceed to beat us. Five minutes after they leave, you arrive…the cavalry to the rescue. Then you say you knew it was going to happen, but did not have the power to stop it. Franchino, I’ve got to admit that if this were happening to someone else, I’d have a good laugh. But it’s not, and I’m not laughing.”
The Guardian Page 15
