Ben cradled the baby in his arms, trying to stop his body from shaking.
“Ben,” McGuire said accusingly, “because of you, this has happened. Because of you, we were not given time to deal with Chazen.”
“The hell with Chazen. I don’t give a damn what happens.”
“That’s not true, Ben.”
“No?”
“Not if you love your God.”
“There is no God.”
“There is Satan. That, you know. And I can assure you, there is God.”
“Faye is dead. If she was to be the Sentinel, then there will be no Sentinel.”
McGuire moved to Ben. “You have a fine son. He should be given the chance to live a full life. There is still a chance for him. There is an alternative.”
“What?”
“You must trust me!”
“Like I trusted Franchino?”
“I am not Franchino. And you have no choice. You must listen to me and do as I say.”
Ben stared.
“Tomorrow night at twelve o’clock, you are to be in this apartment. You will leave with me now. Find a place to stay. Send the baby to relatives. Then return here at midnight tomorrow. Do you understand?”
“Yes, but you must give me a reason.”
McGuire smiled. “A reason? If you’re not here, and if Satan does not destroy you, I will! You and your son! Do you understand?”
Ben nodded slowly.
McGuire stared silently. “Good” was the last thing he said.
24
Dreams came quickly that night. Several times he woke, writhing between the bedcovers, trying to separate reality from the manifestations of terror and discover the answers to the questions that Biroc had posed about Ben Burdett’s background. He was convinced that Biroc had unearthed a precise chronology of Ben Burdett’s life and had accurately described the shocking failure of Franchino’s research. But how? Franchino had not been one for errors. How could he possibly have compiled something so erroneous? And where was the missing piece…the suicide attempt, the key that had to exist somewhere in Ben Burdett’s background to have precipitated his elevation to the post of Sentinel? No easy questions, especially in the depth of the night, facing the specter of the upcoming confrontation and the vivid recollection of the scene in Ben Burdett’s apartment, the incredible vision of Faye Burdett’s transformation and the horror of staring at the image and essence of Satan himself.
The alarm buzzed at ten.
Father McGuire jumped out of bed, showered quickly, dressed, left the dormitory, walked across the street to his office, opened the office door, and stopped abruptly, facing the three men who were already inside.
“Good morning, Father,” Detective Wausau said.
“Yes, good morning,” McGuire replied, puzzled. “Who are you? And what are you doing in my office?’
Wausau rose from McGuire’s desk chair, held up a badge, then pointed to the two other officers and identified them: Detectives Jacobelli and Dellamare. Sitting once more, he invited the priest to have a chair, stay awhile, and answer some questions.
Indignant, McGuire grabbed one of the armchairs. “What is this about?”
Wausau popped a stick of gum into his mouth. “Murder.”
“Murder?”
“You’ve heard the word before, haven’t you, Father?”
McGuire glanced at the other men, then nodded, squinting into the halo of light thrown by the desk lamp that Wausau had turned in McGuire’s direction. “But why do you wish to talk to me?”
Wausau pulled a picture from his coat pocket and tossed it onto the desk. “The dead man in the picture is Guglielmo Franchino. Monsignor Franchino. Several nights ago, he fell through the twentieth-floor hall window at 68 West Eighty-ninth Street. Apparently, it was a suicide, though you and I both know that it would have been highly unlikely for a priest to have taken his life. And Monsignor Franchino was certainly a priest, according to the Archdiocese of New York. Did you know the man?”
McGuire looked at the picture. Had Ben Burdett said anything? Impossible. “No. I’m sorry.”
“I see,” Wausau said, nodding smugly. “Do you know a man named Ben Burdett?”
McGuire tried to remain composed; he shook his head.
“Or Faye Burdett?”
“No.”
“Or anyone at 68 West Eighty-ninth Street?”
Again, McGuire shook his head.
Wausau smirked and rubbed his hands nervously together. “Have you ever been in the building at 68 West Eighty-ninth Street?”
“No. I should think that would be obvious by now.”
“Obvious, Father?” Wausau walked around the desk and sat on the edge. “Did you know a man named Tom Gatz?”
“No.”
“An Inspector Burstein?”
McGuire shook his head.
Wausau laughed. “Have you ever been accused of lying, Father?”
McGuire sat up in the chair, the focus of his stare narrowing. “No.”
“That’s unfortunate. Because I’m going to be the first to do so. We have reason to believe that you know everyone of the people I’ve named. Not only know them, but are actively involved in their lives, and possibly, in the case of Gatz, Burstein, and Franchino, their deaths. Father? Weren’t you with Monsignor Franchino the night he died?”
McGuire surged to his feet “I told you I’ve never heard of or met the man.”
“Yes, I know.” Wausau paused, his eyes meandering. “Didn’t you and Franchino have an argument in the hall the night Franchino was murdered? Didn’t Franchino threaten to report some of your very un-Catholic activities to the Archdiocese? Didn’t you hit him with a pipe you had secreted under your robe? Didn’t you take the Monsignor, who was unconscious, and throw him through the hall window to his death?”
McGuire blistered with rage, as he again denied knowing any of the people or having been involved in any of their lives or deaths.
Wausau listened, then pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and tossed them to Jacobelli. “Read him his rights.”
“There must be some mistake!” McGuire cried.
“I’m sorry, Father,” Wausau said. “But you’re under arrest.”
“On what charge?”
“The murder of Monsignor Franchino.”
“But how? Why? I never…”
“Save it for the jury,” Wausau said, interrupting. “You’re going to need lots of help. There was a witness, Father, who’s just come forward. Unfortunately, the witness waited, afraid to be implicated, afraid of retaliation. The witness saw you in the hall. The witness saw you strike Franchino and then toss him out the window. The witness also took a picture.” He reached into his pocket once more and tossed a photo onto the desk. Astonished, McGuire picked it up…a glossy of Franchino lying on the hall floor, bleeding, and McGuire standing over him holding a pipe.
Angrily, McGuire threw the picture on the blotter. “This is a sham! A fraud!”
The detectives laughed and shook their heads. Jacobelli read McGuire his Miranda rights from a small note card and clamped the cuffs on McGuire’s wrists.
“Who was the witness?” the priest asked.
Wausau walked to the office door and opened it. “A woman name Faye Burdett!” he answered.
The pounding at the base of his skull had nearly obliterated his senses. It had started shortly after his arrest and had continued to intensify in the confines of his tiny cell, which was located in a midtown precinct, somewhere on the second floor at the end of a barren corridor.
All he could do was wait. Prior to being booked, he’d phoned the Archdiocese and had spoken to Father Tepper. Tepper had cautioned him to remain calm and had advised that the Archdiocese would send counsel to try to arrange for bail, but so far…it was nearing seven o’cloc
k…no one had arrived. Certainly, someone had to come. The transition was scheduled for midnight.
He felt like crying out. Bu who would hear him? The old man who lay prone on the cot behind him? The other prisoners in the cellblock? No, his frustrations would resonate only in his own ears. Only he could appreciate what Chazen had done, reappearing as Faye Burdett, manufacturing the picture of Franchino and him, placing him in an impossible situation.
At eight o’clock, he contacted the Archdiocese again and asked for Tepper; he was told that the priest had left. He tried to find someone else, who might be able to help, but there was no one in authority remaining at the Archdiocese. He called the Cardinal’s residence, but was told that the Cardinal was out of town and that he’d have to contact one of the Cardinal’s subordinates in the morning. Disgusted, he returned to the cell and fell on his cot…the headache continuing…and lay, eyes open, sensing a growing desperation whittling at his self-control. The old man in the cell was still asleep. He could hear voices in the other cells; one prisoner was whistling. Every few minutes an obese guard inspected the area. After the guard’s tenth passage, he again looked at his watch. Almost nine o’clock. The window above his head was already dark. And still no one from the Archdiocese. No word or message. His patience worn, he rose from the cot and started to pace, sweating heavily, his heart beating like the slap of a hammer. Then, suddenly, the cellblock door opened, and the obese guard entered.
“Your attorney’s here,” the guard said, pointing at him.
“My attorney?” McGuire asked.
The guard retreated. McGuire sat down on his cot, glanced at the old man once again, looked at his watch, then stood, responding to the encroaching echo of footsteps.
The guard opened the gate and admitted Ralph Jenkins.
“Please sit down,” Jenkins said, removing his hat.
McGuire was astonished. What in the world was Ralph Jenkins doing here?
“I’ve been asked to help you,” Jenkins said. “I assume you know who I am.”
“Ralph Jenkins.”
Jenkins nodded. “And Ralph Jenkins will do for the moment.” He smiled. “I will have you out of here before midnight.”
“How?”
Jenkins angled his brow. “Preliminary bail was denied, pending your arraignment, which is to be held tomorrow morning.”
“But that will be…”
“Too late? Yes.”
“Then how?”
“Arrangements have been made.”
“What kind of arrangements?”
Jenkins glanced over his shoulder. The hall was empty. He looked at the old man. McGuire assured him that the man was asleep.
“We are going to break you out,” Jenkins whispered.
“You can’t be serious,” McGuire said.
“Just remain calm and quiet, Father, and do not ask questions.”
McGuire wiped his expression clean. Jenkins again cautioned him to remain calm, then called for the guard, who opened the gate.
“You’re all talked out?” the guard asked.
“Yes,” Jenkins replied. He stepped out the door and turned to McGuire. “I’ll see you in the morning, Father.”
The guard locked the gate.
“Thank you, Mr. Jenkins,” McGuire said, joining the charade.
Seconds later, he heard the main cell door close and lock. He took off his watch and placed it on the pillow, where he could consult it easily. Then he leaned back against the cold slab of wall and closed his eyes.
Thrown onto the floor, he grabbed the leg of the cot and held it tightly. The roar had momentarily deafened him. The entire building was shaking. There’d been an explosion below, somewhere on the first floor, perhaps in the basement. He could smell smoke. Soot was belching out of the exhaust and air-conditioning ducts at each end of the corridor. There was pandemonium in the cellblock, cries for help, the sound of chairs and beds being smashed against bars. Next to him, the old man had woken and was screaming for the guards.
Desperate, he ripped the pillowcase from the pillow and folding it in half, pressed it against his mouth to keep his lungs free from smoke.
“We’re gonna die,” the old man cried. He retreated to the rear of the cell and grabbed the priest.
“No one’s going to die, my son,” McGuire said assuringly.
The building’s alarm sounded.
McGuire pulled the old man down to the floor, as another explosion pounded the building.
“Down here,” he said. “There’s less smoke.”
The man nodded, his eyes flashing terror.
McGuire waited. The cries continued, growing more frantic. Was this his means of escape? It seemed impossible. Would they endanger the lives of everyone in the building just to get him out? Unlikely. But, yet, if he didn’t reach freedom, all their lives and many more besides would be imperiled. Pressing the cloth harder against his face, he prayed. Then he looked at the watch…10:43. For all he knew, everyone had fled, abandoning the prisoners, leaving them to die in flames.
Suddenly, he heard a sound down the hall. Starting to cough, he crawled to the gate and looked out. Two guards wearing gas masks had entered the cellblock door and were racing between the cells, opening the gates and releasing the prisoners, who were surging ahead, trying to get to the main staircase before being overcome by smoke.
The obese guard opened McGuire’s cell. “Let’s go,” he screamed.
“Come,” McGuire said, helping the old man through the gate.
Stumbling, they exited the cellblock. There was less smoke in the hall, though there was little reason to feel secure. The guard told them that the basement boiler had exploded, the entire basement and part of the first floor were in flames, and that flames had advanced through the ducts to other parts of the building as well.
“Then where do we go?” the old man asked.
“Down the staircase!” the guard screamed.
The old man looked over the railing; the base of the staircase was clogged with flames.
“It’s impossible.”
The guard grabbed the man and pushed him onto the steps. “You have no choice. Get going.”
“Please!”
“And pray.”
The old man grabbed the guard’s leg, holding it tight. The guard kicked him in the face and pushed him down the steps. McGuire tried to follow. The guard jammed him against the banister.
“He’ll die!” McGuire screamed.
“Too bad.” The guard pulled his gun and placed it next to McGuire’s temple. “You make one move down those steps and I will blow out your brains!”
McGuire looked down the hall. Flames were shooting up the walls. The ceiling had started to buckled.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” the guard screamed. “But not this way.”
“Then where do we go?” McGuire asked, holding the guard’s arm, while looking after the old man, who’d already disappeared.
“Shut up!” the guard shouted. He grabbed McGuire by the shirt collar and pulled him back into the cellblock.
“Are you crazy?” McGuire cried.
“Shut up!” the guard warned again.
“We’ll die in here!”
The guard took a second mask from his jacket and placed it over McGuire’s head. Then he moved McGuire to the rear exit, the one that had always remained locked, and opened the door with a key.
Beyond was a concrete stairwell, free from smoke. The guard pointed downward. McGuire descended several steps, then stopped, turned, and looked up. The guard was gone; the door was closed once more, probably locked. Having no alternative, he started down, reaching the first floor. The exit door was closed too. He fought the hot bolt, finally snapping it open. Pushing the door aside, he emerged into the alley behind the station. Above, flames were shooting from the building; Pieces
of wood and concrete were showering down; the alley was strewn with debris. There was a gaping hole in the lower wall, probably at the point where the boiler had blown.
One alley exit led to the street in front of the precinct station, while another, directly across, stretched in the opposite direction.
He moved forward, toward the second, still choked by smoke inhalation. Behind him, he could hear the arrival of fire engines. Ahead was darkness.
Halfway down the alley a figure leaned out of a doorway and pulled him inside. In the hallway were three men. One was Ralph Jenkins. Another was Father Tepper. The third man, whom he’d never seen before, picked up a bottle of oxygen and applied it to McGuire’s mouth. After several seconds, he pulled it away and set it down again.
“You blew the building!”
Jenkins nodded.
“People may have died in there!”
“We pray that that is not so.”
McGuire started to cough. Jenkins applied the oxygen once more. Then, placing the bottle on the floor, he grabbed McGuire by the arm and pointed toward the staircase. “This way, Father McGuire,” he said.
25
“Who are you?” Father McGuire asked.
“I am your friend,” Jenkins answered.
Father Tepper, who was seated in the front seat, his attention riveted on the circuitous journey of the car, looked at his watch. “Eleven-twenty-one,” he announced.
“We’ll let you off on Ninety-fifth Street and Amsterdam Avenue,” Jenkins said, staring at McGuire’s desperate eyes.
Moments later, the car left the park at Seventy-second Street and Central Park West and started slowly uptown.
“You won’t answer my question?” McGuire asked.
“There’s no need for questions or answers,” Jenkins replied. “You are committed. You know your duties. When Sister Therese joins her God, Father Bellofontaine must be seated. That responsibility will not change, no matter what I reveal.”
Nodding, McGuire focused on the hypnotic vibrations of the car. Of course, Jenkins’ identity was superfluous. There was only one significance in his life: Sister Therese…Father Bellofontaine…Charles Chazen…Ben Burdett…the transition. He breathed deeply, sucking courage from his gut, carefully reviewing Father Tepper’s tutelage, the instructions in the literature, the subliminal sensations of the death watch, realizing that Father Bellofontaine was not the only pawn in God’s hand. He’d become one, too, the Almighty’s instrument.
The Guardian Page 24
