The Sentinel (11 page)

"We have the probable explanation for that."

"Or the sound of footsteps above me last night?"

"Mice!"

"They were human."

"How do you know?"

"I know!" Her voice was stern.

"Okay, so someone was in the apartment last night."

"But it's supposed to be empty."

"Whoever it was walked in by mistake."

"At four fifteen in the morning? Michael, let's be rational about this. No one accidentally walks into the wrong apartment that time of night, and if he does he certainly doesn't go to the bedroom and pace back and forth for an hour."

Michael bit his lower lip, turned to the animal cages and tossed several pieces of popcorn to the waiting chimpanzees.

"I'm not concerned about bogeymen or phantom footsteps." He looked straight into the cages, trusting his voice to hold her attention. "I am concerned about your fainting spell. The way you're constructing fantasies from the antics of a few old fools and a pair of perverts. The way you're beginning to fold under the pressure. I grant you, the last few months were tough, but still, Allison, you're no child. This worries me."

"I fainted because-"

"Because?"

She paused. "I don't know," she murmured.

"Fatigue." ,

"I feel fine."

"Nervous tension. Lack of sleep. Any number of other things. But mostly an overactive imagination."

Her lips tightened; she was annoyed at his simplistic conclusions. She knew that something was peculiar about that house. No matter what he said, he couldn't convince her otherwise.

"All right, Michael, I'm not going to argue any more. I can't seem to get through to you."

"That's where you're wrong. But I'm not hearing what you think I'm hearing."

"Then what?"

He pulled her away from the animal house and toward the pool that occupied the center of the Central Park Zoo. They walked to the railing and silently watched the seals.

He ran his hand through her hair. "I want you to go to the doctor and get a complete physical examination."

"The doctors examined me in the hospital."

"They were interns. I want you to go to a specialist or two, doctors who won't let you out until they know what's the matter or that there is definitely nothing wrong. And if you have to go away for a while, fine. You need a rest. You should have taken some time before you returned to work."

She shrugged.

"Maybe you should even go see a psychiatrist."

She glanced at him angrily. "You're a damn fool," she cried as she pulled away.

Michael leaned back against the cold metal railing and watched her climb the stairs to the zoo exit. Dejected, he clapped his frozen hands together, held his breath for several seconds, then let the air out of his lungs; a vapor trail extended for several feet. It was cold. Damn cold. And overcast. There were few spaces of blue in the sky, which was gradually becoming grayer. Winter was not far away. Soon the zoo would be empty, the trees completely bare, and the ground covered with snow.

He surveyed the area, decided that she'd had enough time to cool off, and walked slowly in the same direction. He found her seated under an aging maple, her back flush against the trunk, her feet extended before her. She was carefully counting the sections of a leaf as she pulled them out. Soon the last picking fell to the ground and she was left with the narrow twisted green stalk. She closed one eye and held the stem in front of the other, trying to block her vision. Then she laid her hand back on her lap.

Standing over her, he watched her fingers tremble. The last time he had seen her so tense and disturbed, aside from the period prior to her return home last July, was the week before her attempted suicide during the "Karen Farmer" investigation two and a half years ago. Could she be in a similar state? Might something cause her to reach for the barbiturates once again? He wouldn't be surprised. He had suspected her father's death might disturb her badly. And he had realized that he might have to face the consequences directly.

She looked up as he kneeled down, but her eyes avoided his.

"Mind if I keep you company?"

She shook her head.

"What are you doing?"

She held up the stalk; he grabbed it, rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger and laid it back in her palm. "She loves me, she loves me not," he declared. "Which one?" he asked.

"I don't know."

"You didn't keep count?"

"I wasn't playing the game." I see.

She lifted her legs and pulled her knees under her chin. "I was stripping away the beauty to see what it was really like underneath."

"Did you find out?" he asked as he sat back.

"Not yet."

He nodded, raked his fingers along the sod and said, "There was no reason to walk away."

"If you say so."

"All I did was suggest some help, if you feel you need it. There was nothing else intended."

"If you say so."

He lowered his eyes. "I remember the last time a woman ran away from me. When I first met her. She wouldn't talk at all. So I chased her like a fool. But it was worth it."

"That's very romantic, Michael," she said coldly.

He lowered his head. "But I caught her and everything worked out all right."

"Everything?"

"Yes, everything. And now I've caught her again."

"So everything will work out fine again?"

"Right, if you do what I tell you."

"And if I don't?" He didn't respond. "Do I wind up like Karen?"

He slapped her across the face. Her head spun back; a welt raised on her cheek. Stifling a cry of pain, she rubbed the bruise with her hand, trying to massage the sting away.

He had never hit her before. If he had thought, even for a moment, he would have held back. But Karen's name had stabbed him like a machete.

He looked at his open palm. He looked at Allison. "I'm sorry." He grabbed for her hand; she pulled away. "You've got to believe me. I don't know what came over me. I don't understand. I just don't. Why Karen? Why now?"

"Because."

"Why resurrect something that should remain buried?"

"Should it?" Her voice was meek; her mouth barely moved.

Michael leaned forward and placed his hands on her shoulders. "Forgive me."

"I've heard that before."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing."

"Bullshit. You said it because you meant it."

"Every once in a while you remind me of someone."

"Who?"

"No one."

"Let's cut the riddles."

"Why do they bother you? I thought you liked riddles."

"Not particularly."

She stood up. "I don't want to talk about . . ." she said.

His eyes intensified. "Perhaps we should talk about your frigidity. Or why you left home."

"No."

"Or the crucifix?"

"No."

"Or why suddenly Karen is such a hot topic?"

"I don't want to talk about anything."

"Just throw out little puzzle pieces for me to play with."

"Call it what you will."

He stared.

"I forgive you," she said perfunctorily. But her voice was cold and shallow.

"I don't want you to mention Karen again. There's no reason why we should torture ourselves."

She tossed the stem of the leaf to the ground. "Can we go back to your office?"

He nodded.

Michael's office was typical. Rows of lawbooks filled the hardwood shelves; two diplomas hung on the wall. There were pictures of a famous judge, several caricatures of early English judicial proceedings and a reproduction of the Magna Carta. A rectangular desk filled much of the floor space. Two chairs, a couch and a carved wood table occupied the rest. Having been purchased within the last several weeks, they sparkled with newness.

Michael leaned back in the desk chair and lit an imported cigar. "If it will make you happy, fine," he declared. "Call Miss Logan. There's no harm to be done!"

Allison sat down on the edge of the desk and removed a piece of paper from her purse. "It will make me ecstatic." She pulled the receiver from the desk phone, glanced at the paper and dialed the listed number.

Michael began to blow smoke rings, oblivious to her presence.

In a moment Allison greeted Miss Logan and, without being specific, asked if they could meet. They agreed on twelve o'clock. In the coffee shop across from the rental office.

"Do you want me to come?" Michael asked as she lowered the phone.

"No."

"Do you want me to say I'm sorry again?"

"No."

She walked around the desk and kissed him on the forehead. There was little in the kiss other than goodbye. The incident in the park was still fresh in her mind, the red welt still visible on her left cheek.

"Michael."

"Yes," he said expectantly.

"I'll speak to you later."

Disappointed, he replied, "I'll be here."

She turned and hurried out the door. He sat blowing smoke rings, thinking. Should he get up and go after her? He wasn't sure. He decided not to. Instead he reached across the desk and grabbed his phone book. He opened it, flipped a few pages, found a number and wrote it down. He looked at it momentarily, picked up the phone and then dialed. "Brenner," he said after a pause. "This is me. I've got something for you."

Chapter X

It was noon; the restaurant was filled.

Allison walked past the counter into the dining area, sighted Miss Logan in the corner and approached her table.

"I hope this is not an inconvenience," she said apologetically. She took off her jacket and placed it on the coat hook attached to the booth.

"Not at all," answered the agent as she fidgeted with her dated hairstyle.

"I was afraid it was."

"No. We couldn't meet at the office because my associate is interviewing this afternoon. And you know how small the room is."

Allison slid into the booth. "This place is fine." Before her stood a cup of coffee.

"I took the liberty," said Miss Logan. "I hope it's not cold."

Allison lifted the cup and sipped slowly. "No. It's just right. Hot coffee is good on a day like today."

"Yes, it is getting cold. But then again, we had that warm day two days ago."

"You never can predict how the weather's going to tumor when."

Miss Logan nodded approvingly.

Allison sipped her coffee; Miss Logan cleared her throat.

"How have you been, Miss Parker?"

"All right, and yourself?"

"Splendid. Renting apartments by the dozen."

"I'm glad someone is making a living."

"Why? Are you having trouble with your career?"

"Not exactly. I haven't slept much lately and I haven't felt that well, so it's having an effect on my work."

"That's too bad. I hope it's nothing serious." Miss Logan appeared genuinely concerned.

"I hope not," Allison replied.

Miss Logan missed the innuendo. She lifted the cup of tea in her right hand and sipped. Miss Logan was a tea drinker. Allison had known that instantly. There are some people who look coffee, some who look tea, and Miss Logan's preference was obvious.

"Well now," Miss Logan began, "what seems to be the problem? I hope there's nothing wrong with your apartment?"

"No."

"The workmen were there?"

"Yes and they did a good job."

"And the painters?"

"They did a fine job too."

"You like the color I suggested?"

"Yes, but-" Allison stopped, looked at Miss Logan and sipped more of the coffee.

"Yes?"

"Everything's . . . uh, perfect." Allison kicked herself. Tell her! There was no reason not to. Criticizing neighbors is not a crime. And she had never before shied away from saying what was on her mind.

"Come now, Miss Parker, obviously something is bothering you," chided Miss Logan.

Allison took a deep breath. "To be frank, Miss Logan, something is. It's not the apartment but the occurrences of the last few days in the building."

"Like what?"

"Well . . ." she stammered once more.

"I warned you about the old priest."

"No, it's not him. I haven't seen or heard him at all. It's the other tenants."

Miss Logan looked at Allison blankly. "The other tenants? Which ones in particular?"

"Mr. Chazen in five B. Those two young lesbians in the apartment below me. The taller one-you know, Gerde-attacked me. And there's that strange Mrs. Clark in apartment- I don't remember which. Those immense Klotkin sisters are nice, but you must admit a little strange. And last night I heard footsteps pacing back and forth in that supposedly empty apartment above me. And then clanging. Now, it's getting a little unnerving. And to be honest, I'm afraid of those two perverts in two A. Every time I walk by their door my skin crawls."

She sat back waiting for a response. Miss Logan just stared.

"I see," the agent finally said. Then suddenly she stood up, pulled her coat off the hook and began to put it on.

"Where are you going?" Allison asked, puzzled.

"I said before that this was not an inconvenience, but it has become so. And I am a very busy woman."

"I don't understand."

"Don't you?"

"I really wish you'd explain."

"My dear Miss Parker, aside from the old priest, and now you, no one has lived in that building for three years!"

Allison blanched. She looked up at the renting agent, her lips quivering. Surely Miss Logan was joking! She had been with these people. Talked to them. Touched them. And now to be told that none of them existed. It was impossible!

"What do you mean, no one lives there?"

"Just what I said!"

"But I saw-"

Miss Logan interrupted. "If you've seen tenants, I'd suggest you consult a psychiatrist."

"But I saw them, talked to them." Allison's voice was hardly audible.

Miss Logan looked down at her. "Three years ago the landlord decided not to rent out any apartments-for what reason I don't know. The old priest was the only one living there at that time, and he'd been there for many years. And that's the way it's been. No renting, no tenants. Our agency has literally taken care of the building."