“This will do,” Jenkins said suddenly, as he leaned forward in the seat and tapped the driver’s shoulder.
The driver pressed the brakes and stopped the car next to a hydrant.
Jenkins opened his door and stepped out. McGuire followed.
“May God be with you,” Jenkins said, embracing him.
“May I be worthy of his love,” McGuire replied.
McGuire walked to the corner of Amsterdam, south of Columbia University, and faced downtown, looking at a stretch of old stone apartments. To the east, several blocks of low-income housing extended to Central Park, towering over the older buildings. The streets themselves were dirty, covered with papers. There were a score of Irish pubs, alive with light. Most of the storefronts, though, were black, closed for the night. A smattering of people were on the street; there were few cars.
He buttoned his coat…it had gotten chilly…and started to walk, fighting off visions of Chazen and the gripping cold of fear inside him. A sweat broke on his forehead; his feet started to drag as the blocks melted away. He was flashing, losing his sense of time and space. At each intersection he glanced up at the street sign, marking his progress. And then, as if he had been there all along, he was standing by the excavation of St. Simon’s, looking up at the form of Sister Therese, sitting in the window on the twentieth floor of her building, the moonlight defining the outline of her head.
Crossing the street, he walked into the alley, entered the backyard ramp area, and climbed the ramp to the basement door, which had remained locked, since the death of Monsignor Franchino, under orders from the building management, the Archdiocese of New York. He opened the door with a key and disappeared into the dark basement corridor.
Alone, he rode the elevator to the twentieth floor, the claustrophobic feeling in the car increasing, trapping him, the door mercifully sliding open long moments later, releasing him into the hall.
He looked around, sensing Chazen’s presence, fearing death. Soon, though, it would be over.
He opened Burdett’s apartment door with Biroc’s passkey and turned on the lights.
“Ben,” he called, wiping sweat off his palms.
The only reply was the chime of a clock.
He called again, and receiving no answer, searched the apartment.
Ben wasn’t here!
But that was impossible. The man had to be here! If not by his own will, then by the power of the Almighty God.
Father McGuire looked at his watch…11:42 p.m..
Something was terribly wrong!
The bartender hesitantly filled the glass. “I think you’ve had enough,” he said, arching his brow beneath a pair of horn-rimmed bifocals.
Ben shook his head and tried to lift his eyelids. “I’ll be all right,” he declared, belching at his reflection in the bar mirror.
“Is that so? Hey, I don’t mind if you have a good time, but I’m not going to have you keel over in my joint.”
Ben laughed, lifted the glass, and slurped off the rim. “I’m not even drunk,” he said, smiling, his expression slipping almost at once into one of confusion. The bartender looked blurred, and the place itself seemed like a surreal Chagall compilation of chairs, booths, and patrons. “Do you remember me?” Ben asked, lifting his head.
The bartender paused, glanced at another customer, who’d called his name, then shook his head.
“You’re got to,” Ben pleaded.
The bartender drew a tap beer for the other patron…here were only six people in the place…and turned back. “I’m sorry, but I don’t.”
“I came in a couple of weeks ago during the day. With a detective named Gatz.”
“I only work the night shift.”
“But you look familiar. I’m sure it was you.”
The bartender shrugged, looked up at the television, which was angled down toward the patrons, then began to clean some mugs.
Ben placed a cigar in his mouth. “The guy I came in with was murdered.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. And so were a lot of other people.”
“Look,” the bartender said, “maybe you’d better go home and get some sleep.”
Ben shook his head. “Please listen to me. My life has been destroyed. Everything.”
As Ben started to cry, the bartender leaned forward. “All right. You want to talk? Okay. I’ll listen. Let’s hear.”
Ben wiped his eyes. “Not only was Gatz murdered, but so was a priest named Franchino. And a cop named Burstein. And my wife.”
The bartender grimaced, adjusted his glasses, and filled a glass with beer for himself. “Is this on the level?”
Nodding, Ben ran his hands over the brown portfolio that lay on the bar; protruding from it was the crucifix. Jenkins had told him to carry it, no matter where he went.
“Do the police know about them?”
Ben laughed, his face a mix of humor and indignation. “They know about some of them. In fact, all accept my wife. But they have no idea who committed the murders.”
The bartender blinked rapidly; he was curious. Sure, he heard a new story every night. But occasionally one came along that was particularly interesting, and this one had suddenly become so. “Do you?” he asked.
Ben nodded. “But I can’t tell.” He belched; his head swayed.
“Why not?”
“I was sworn to silence.” He put his finger to his mouth to demonstrate.
“By whom?”
“Ralph Jenkins.”
The bartender poked at his gold inlays with a toothpick. “Who’s he?”
“My neighbor.”
“What does he have to do with it?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Look, mister, if there’s been a murder, several murders, and you know the identity of the murderer, then you’ve got to go to the police.”
“It wouldn’t do any good.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re powerless. The church is involved. And God and Satan.”
“God and Satan?” The bartender shook his head. “Are you crazy?”
“You can bet your life I’m not.”
The bartender smirked. “I only bet on sure things. Look. I get all kinds of kooks in her talking about the end of the world or the coming of the Messiah.” He placed a clean mug on the bar and filled it with beer. “I don’t dig that crap. And I ain’t got the time for it. So if you don’t mind…”
Ben grabbed the bartender’s wrist. “Look. It’s not crap. Its all happened. There’s a plot.”
The bartender ripped Ben’s hand off his wrist. “You do that again and I’m gonna break your arm. Understand?”
Ben inched backward, wiped some saliva from his mouth, and looked at his watch – 11:45. He had to get out of there. Jenkins had told him to be waiting for McGuire at midnight. And it was a five-minute walk back to the apartment.
“I better go,” Ben said, pulling himself off the barstool.
“That’s a good idea, mister. Go home. Get some sleep. Then, in the morning, when you’re sober, all the dead bodies will be gone and you’ll feel like a million bucks!”
Ben wobbled in place, dropped the cigar on the bar top, edged the portfolio under his arm, and turned to the door. Leaving a smudge track in the sawdust, he bumped through the exit, walked onto the street, and looked around, getting his bearings. Home was four blocks away, two east and two north. He walked to the corner and crossed the street. Except for the hum of a broken alarm ringing loudly in the still night air, the neighborhood was peculiarly quiet. He rubbed his face, trying to throw off the effects of the alcohol, assuring himself that he wasn’t in a dream, that he was actually awake, and moving toward a rendezvous with terror.
He walked along the edge of the curb. Several cars passed, their headlights temporarily blindi
ng. All his senses seemed enervated. His memory, too. He could see Faye standing before him, her image fading into a vision of Jack Cooper. He hadn’t wanted to fall in love, certainly not with a transvestite and male prostitute. But it had happened. Oh, so many things had happened. And now this! And what would become of Joey, especially if he didn’t make it through the night, if he joined Gatz, Burstein, and Faye in death? A vivid possibility and one that strangely didn’t frighten him. No, death was easy. Staying alive and continuing to face the horrors of his life was difficult.
Why had it all happened? He could have been happy forever. Faye was a fantastic woman, having developed a full-blown female personality over the years. When they’d started together, he’d doubted whether it would ever happen. But then it had, so suddenly. And it was strangely satisfying. At once, both his homosexual and heterosexual desires were being satisfied by one person.
Another car passed, another explosion of light, the sound of a grinding engine. He watched the car bounce over broken macadam, stop, and switch gears, and arch a tight turn back in his direction, the beam from the headlights striking his face. He tried to identify the driver. But behind the wheel was a black hole. Was it possible? He looked behind him at the sheer wall of a building, then down at the corner, fifty feet away, then back at the car and the sway of its beams. Suddenly, the car gained speed, angling toward him. He grabbed at his mouth, trying to hold his insides in, and started to move along the side of the building, heading for the corner. As the car neared, he began to run. The car cut steeply to the left, careening onto the sidewalk and into the wall, barely missing him. He looked inside again. There was a driver. Charles Chazen. Smiling. The car pulled back from the wall, bounced down the concrete, and bore down, hitting his shoulders. He cried, grabbing the lacerated flesh, stanching the flow of blood; part of his collarbone was exposed, the shoulder socket dislocated. He almost blacked out. Everything turned.
The car engine raced again. Chazen’s narrow features leered through the windshield. Ben jumped behind the rear of a pickup truck; the car smashed into the plate-glass window of a Chinese laundry.
Ben struggled across the street and ran into the stairwell of a subway station, falling down most of the steps, his free hand barely maintaining a grip on the banister. At the bottom, he located the change booth, ran to the window, bought a token, deposited it at the turnstile, descended the next staircase to the train platform, and fell to his knees, sweating heavily, eyes darting. The place was empty. He listened for sounds, as he started to crawl toward the end of the platform, where he could hide in the darkness, hauling himself along like an ape, one arm for balance; his body crouched low and bent at the hips. Then he stopped. Footsteps descended toward the platform, slow, chugging noises, deliberate, and he was sure calculated just for him. He tried to move faster, but couldn’t. He looked back. There was still no one on this level. Suddenly, more sounds came from ahead…footsteps and laughter. Shadows moved across the wall. He hunched himself into a ball, stifling a cry of pain. A roar echoed out of the tunnel like the explosion of a Gatling gun, the rhythm of slowing wheels. Looking over the edge of the pit, he saw the beam of a train’s lamp turning a bend a short way off.
The train raced into the station, its windows moving by like flying mirrors. The train stopped and its doors opened. He crawled into the last car. The doors closed. The car was empty; a conductor was riding on the coupler. He heard the brakes release and felt the first jerk of the car, as the train gained speed and burrowed toward the black tunnel ahead.
As the train roared from the station, he saw Chazen on the platform staring. Then he fell on the passenger bench, still holding tightly to the portfolio, the crucifix inside. Dazed and breathless, white from fear, he buried his head in the palms of his hands, listening to the rhythmic grind of wheels on track. The train was moving very quickly, too quickly, the car bouncing furiously form side to side. He looked for the conductor; the man was no longer in sight. He walked to the door, pressing his face against the glass. The next station shot by; the train didn’t stop, didn’t slow. Something was wrong. He moved to the connecting door and left the car, moving toward the next forward car, holding the chain rail between the cars for safety. He tried the front car door. It was jammed. He reached behind him, taking the handle of the car he’d just left. It, too, was frozen. The train’s velocity increased. At any second he expected it to shoot off the tracks. He turned his face away from the fierce blast of wind that rage through the tunnel. Another station appeared, then disappeared. He looked into the lead car. The conductor had returned, standing with his back to the window. Ben pounded on the car door’s window, screaming. The conductor remained frozen in position. Suddenly, more speed. Tremendous vibrations. He grabbed the hold bars of the front car. The train lurched up and forward, throwing him to his face between the cars, the crucifix dangling below and skipping along the oily railbed gravel. He looked back under the car into the rain of pebbles, then stood and banged once more on the first car door. The conductor moved, touching his hand to his cap, then turned, smiling.
Charles Chazen!
How?
Ben recoiled, the taste of bile surging into his mouth, as it had so many times during the last few weeks. His grip weakened, as the train began to bang off the tunnel walls. The train reached ninety, a hundred miles an hour, speeds he knew New York subway trains were incapable of reaching.
Ahead, he saw the gleam of station lights. He grabbed a hand bar and extended himself. The lights came closer, then the train entered a station, hurtling by the platform. He let go, throwing himself off the train, onto the concrete platform, finally slamming against the station wall.
His hands exploded pain up his right arm. Two of his fingers were broken. Blood spurted from deep lacerations on his scalp and legs. He fought to get up, responding to the squeal of the train’s brakes. He heard the train stop, then start again, backing up.
“God,” he cried, realizing that the crucifix was gone.
The train pulled into the station and sat silently, its doors closed. He glanced along the cars, looking for Chazen. A burst of steam and noise erupted from the brakes. Then silence again.
He crawled backward toward the platform gate. The train doors opened. He waited.
Seconds crept by.
Then something darted by one of the windows.
He inched closer to the gate, reaching for the handle.
“Ben Burdett!” Chazen cried.
Ben looked back at the train. Chazen was standing in front of the next-to-last car, laughing.
“God damn you!” Ben cried, his anger freezing his terror.
Chazen spread his arms; the station grew dark.
Chazen stepped toward him, then, suddenly, retreated into the car and disappeared behind closing doors.
Ben watched the train move out of the station and disappear, its red lights bleeding into the distance.
What had happened?
He pulled himself to his feet, holding the gate for support. He looked around; there was no one in sight. Slowly, painfully, he staggered into a transit hallway that branched from the subway platform.
At twelve o’clock, Father McGuire felt a charge of electricity surge through his body, a sensation that warned of Chazen’s presence. He’d sensed Chazen’s absence for the past twenty minutes, a feeling that had made him vaguely uncomfortable. But now Chazen had returned…there was no doubt about it…returned to prevent the transition between Sister Therese and Father Bellofontaine.
Father McGuire left the apartment and entered Sister Therese’s.
He’d never been inside before and had never seen the woman up close. And although he’d been warned about what he’d find, the sight made his stomach turn. The apartment was empty, and there was no light. Sister Therese was seated in front of the open window, immobile, her body rigid, her face as revolting as ever. He felt a clutch of emotion as he looked at
her, trying to comprehend. The years of devotion to her God had left their mark. Her body was covered with spider webs. Mice were clustered at her feet; her skin was pocked with sores.
“Father McGuire!”
He turned.
Chazen was standing at the door, dressed in a frayed, creaseless gray suit. The top two buttons of the jacket were missing, as were those from the sleeves, though the button threads still remained. In his lapel was a shriveled flower, on his shoulder a green and gold parakeet. “This is Mortimer,” Chazen said, indicating the bird. “And this is Jezebel.” He held up a frazzled cat that had been cradled in his arms. “They’re friends of Sister Therese, old friends. So I thought I would bring them along to say good-bye to the good Sister, who will be leaving us tonight. Isn’t that true, Father?”
McGuire steeled himself against the vision.
“Now, come, Father. You’re not afraid, are you?”
“I defy you, Chazen!” McGuire cried.
Chazen laughed. “You do? Where is Ben Burdett, Father?”
McGuire stared.
Chazen laughed again. “He’s not coming, because he’s dead!”
McGuire’s body surged forward. “I defy you and your lies. You cannot destroy a chosen!”
“But he can destroy himself. And he has.” Chazen smiled, enjoying the strange dialogue.
McGuire pointed to Sister Therese. “She would know!”
The cat spit at the holy sister. Chazen’s eyes burned with hate. “Then where is he?” he asked.
McGuire moved close to Sister Therese and fell to his knees, praying to Christ. Chazen spit like the cat at the mention of the Son’s name, then stood over the priest and raised his hands. The room shook. Behind them, near the apartment door, the air began to shimmer. McGuire looked up, appalled by the vision that appeared through the walls. Before him was a bed. In it was a woman of forty, her cheeks sunken, her skin colorless, her body invaded by wires and tubes attached to machines and bottles of plasma. She was breathing heavily. On her hands were clumps of blue liver spots; her feet were swollen.
The Guardian Page 25
