The Sentinel (19 page)

She stared. The dwarf invoked images. Distasteful ones that should best have remained in the past. Tsk, tsk, tsk, she imagined him saying. The birthday party. Jezebel. Chazen. The Klotkins. The others. He would have fit perfectly. She questioned herself. Was the world evolving into a series of transitory images of that night? Had even the most familiar everyday occurrence become part and an extension of the ingenious plot against her sanity? She looked at Michael. He stared at her with the irrepressible stubbornness of Charles Chazen. His eyes said he would not relent; they would go into the museum together. She shuddered.

"What's the problem?" he asked.

"Must I be obvious?" she replied.

He smiled. "If you wish."

"Ten days ago I lived through a nightmare. I haven't been well since. I am not well now. I have no intention of becoming worse if I can help it. And the last thing I can think of to aid my state of mind is a stroll through an exhibition of depravity."

"It will be therapeutic."

She looked at him directly, angrily. "Oh, really!"

"Yes. Really."

"Michael, you can't possibly think-"

He interrupted, coaxing gently. "Are you going to run from the darkness for the rest of your life? Or live in fear of nightmares behind every wall?" He paused, his mouth twisted with concern. "I'm not going to let you do it to yourself. I'm going to make you return to normal. I told you that in the restaurant and I mean it!"

"Yes, he does," screeched the dwarf.

She looked at Michael and nodded her head. He placed money into the dwarf's outstretched hand, received two tickets, clasped her arm and pulled her through the door and down a carpeted staircase.

A red light illuminated the museum entrance. Beneath it a poster indicated the direction of each exhibit. Beyond was the darkness.

They entered.

The museum was a complex of corridors, cubicles and turns, each dedicated to a different theme. The halls were poorly lit; the exhibits highlighted by indirect lighting. The effect was startling, so much so that many of the wax forms seemed to possess a vitality approaching life.

Had she been in the museum before? She seemed to remember the layout. But it would have been a long time ago. Perhaps just after her arrival in New York. That might account for the feeling of familiarity, the sensation that she was walking through a recurring dream.

She listened to their isolated footsteps and the otherwise infinite silence. She watched their bodies move in and out of the artificial shadows. Intruders in a world of imagery. Walking slowly.

At each exhibit Michael paused to editorialize. She remained silent, unreceptive to his words.

Then she heard him laugh.

"Reminds me of Gatz," he declared.

She looked up. A deformed Caucasian stood over her, smiling insanely. "That's such a pleasant thought," she said. "I'm always amazed at how topical you are. If we were in a bakery, I'm sure you'd discuss the liberation of Auschwitz."

"Forget the cerebral exercises," he said and began to walk past the remaining statues in the exhibit, pausing to read the inscriptions. Reaching the terminus of the corridor, they cut back to the center, down another short hall and into the section devoted to torture devices. "Some pleasant toys," he commented as they began to slowly pass the glass enclosures.

"It's sick."

"It's history."

"I don't want to look at this stuff."

"Allison-"

She interrupted. "Forget the semantics and rhetoric, Michael. I want to go."

He shrugged and led her in the direction of the exit, through a dark doorway and into the main passageway, then down another side corridor.

She looked up. The sign read "Famous Murderers and Victims." Angered, she said, "What do you want from me, Michael? Blood?"

He stood motionless, silent.

There was a lot she wanted to say, but it was hopeless. The best she could do, rather than have another argument, was to close her eyes, follow him and let him get his charge. She had been stupid enough to let him take her in to the museum in the first place. She should have gotten in a cab, gone home and climbed into bed. That's where she belonged. Not here in the darkness.

The collection was typical: Jack the Ripper, Lizzy Borden, the Boston Strangler and other lesser mass murderers.

He walked slowly; she followed, keeping her head bowed, glancing obliquely at the exhibits. She was uneasy, the darkness invoking an image of the staircase in the brownstone. At any moment she expected to hear the high shrill screech of Jezebel and feel the round hairy body compress under her foot. With each step she looked out of the corners of her eyes for her father or Chazen or some other creature of her nightmare. Foolish apprehension? Perhaps. But as she turned the corner she saw it looming above her-a figure-a woman.

She screamed. He looked up at the hovering figure. He shook his head. Another murderess, so what? She didn't even look frightening. Just an old woman with an ax.

"What's the matter?" he pleaded, grabbing her by the shoulders.

She stood paralyzed, shaking violently and staring at the figure. The inscription below the display read:

MRS. ANNA CLARK, CONVICTED MURDERESS, SENT TO THE ELECTRIC CHAIR AT SING SING, OSSINING, NEW YORK, ON MARCH 27, 1948, FOR THE HATCHET MURDER OF HER LOVER AND HIS WIFE. REPUTEDLY, HER LOVER, STANTON RIDGER, HAD FINALLY REFUSED TO LEAVE HIS WIFE OF TEN YEARS' MARRIAGE. THE MURDER WAS MRS. CLARK'S GOODBYE. POLICE DESCRIBED THE KILLING AS THE MOST GRISLY AND DIABOLICAL IN THE STATE'S HISTORY. THE MARRIED COUPLE WERE SLAUGHTERED IN THEIR BED DURING THE ACT OF INTERCOURSE.

Mrs. Clark, a friend of Charles Chazen, a tenant in her building, a missing person who had vanished into thin air several days before-dead twenty-five years, a murderess!

Allison lurched from Michael's grasp and ran into the darkness, once again unaware of her surroundings, fighting to escape, stumbling back and forth in the passageway, screaming hysterically.

As she reached the main hallway, he caught her. "Allison!" he cried. Her eyes rolled up into her head. "What's the matter?"

She choked and threw up. He stood helpless, holding her by the shoulders. Her lips were blue; a cold sweat adhered to her face. He pulled out a handkerchief and began to wipe the vomit off.

"Take your hands off me!" she screamed.

He blanched from the stench. "But," he stammered.

"Get away!" she cried again as she fought desperately to break from his grasp.

In desperation he slapped her. Then again.

A small door opened in the darkness and out popped a squat little man in overalls carrying a flashlight. The attendant. "What's going on here?" he asked. He walked across the room. "My God," he cried on seeing the vomit.

"Nothing serious," said Michael. "My friend saw something that upset her."

"Let's take her into the office."

"Right." He moved to turn her around.

"No," she said unexpectedly. "I'll be all right." She activated her hands and began to straighten her clothes.

The attendant stammered, "You're sure now?"

"Yes, I'll be fine. Could you get me a wet rag so I can wipe myself off?"

The little man scurried nervously back to the door and disappeared into the little room. Moments later he returned with a wet washcloth.

"Are you sure you're okay? You could come sit down in my office and I could call the doctor."

She braced herself against a pillar to prevent her shaking legs from giving way. "That won't be necessary," she said as she wiped her face with the cloth.

Michael stood several feet away, perplexed, unsure of what to say or do. "Let's get out of here," he suggested finally.

She nodded, then followed him up the staircase, out of the museum and down the block. Before they had reached the corner, he took her by the shoulders and turned her around.

"What happened in there?" he asked.

She did not respond.

He put his hand under her chin; she pulled away and leaned against a brick wall.

"Allison, you must tell me what happened in there!"

She turned on him viciously. "You know darn well-" She stopped. No, now was not the time for accusations, even though she knew he was aware of what she was thinking. That could come later. "It was the wax statue of the old woman," she stated. "She was one of the women at Jezebel's birthday party." She knew she had seen "Mrs. Clark" before.

"I should have realized," he said. "We're back to the house again."

How could he? she kept asking herself. Could she have been so wrong? About everything? She looked up at him. She clutched at the crucifix and declared angrily, "God damn it, what should I do? What do you want me to say? That it didn't happen or that I didn't see that woman in the house. All right, I'll say it: It all didn't happen and I didn't see that woman in the house. But I'm lying. I said it and I'm lying."

"That woman was executed twenty-five years ago. You know darn well she wasn't in the brownstone." He paused. "Maybe someone who looked like her, but-"

"She was introduced to me as Mrs. Anna Clark."

"There could be more than one."

"Stop," she screamed.

He exhaled deeply.

"Michael," she said, "I want to be alone."

"Why?"

"I just do. Please."

"I'll take you home and leave for a while."

"No, I want to be alone now."

"Allison, I can't let you, not after what just happened."

"I don't think you have a choice."

He was nonplused. "Allison," he said.

"No, I'm asking you again. I want to be alone. Go home. I'm going to take a cab and ride around. I'll be at your apartment in an hour. I just want to be alone to think."

He started to protest. She walked to the curb and waited, disregarding his objections. She hailed a taxi and crawled into the back seat. He started to follow. She slammed the door and locked it.

Angrily, he stepped back; the cab lurched forward. "God damn it!" he cried. Then he walked off as the taxi turned the corner and disappeared.

Chapter XVII

"Are you all right?" The driver turned and peered through the plastic partition. "Miss?"

The cab swerved into uptown traffic. The driver refocused his attention on the street. "I can take you to a hospital," he offered.

"Just keep driving," she said meekly.

"It's your money," he concluded. He looked through the side windows. "We've passed this spot five times already."

"Just keep going," she cried angrily.

"Yes, ma'am," he said. He pressed the brake, looked up at the bright red light that glowed overhead in the darkness and then looked in the rearview mirror at the passenger who lay sprawled on the back seat. He shook his head and shuddered. The woman looked near death, her swollen eyes reflecting a non-presence that infused the entire cab with a sensation of crawling terror. "Just drive on the West Side between Forty-second Street and One Hundredth Street," she had said, and for the last hour that was exactly what he had been doing. The girl was sick and needed a doctor. There was no doubt about it. If she suddenly croaked on the back seat it wouldn't have surprised him.

The light turned green; the taxi moved forward.

The last hour had been horrible. She had lain immobile, sprawled across the back seat, sweating like a pig, frightened, and unable to look out the windows or do anything other than choke. Her eyes seemed to be on fire; her head pounded. Relentlessly, she rubbed her scalp, gasping, her mind flashing to Michael. What was he up to? He knew the statue of the old woman was there. He had to or he wouldn't have been so insistent that they go into the museum And if he knew that, he would know what had happened to Chazen, the lesbians and the others. And what had happened that night in the brownstone. But why? The more she thought, the more confused she became and the more nauseated.

She pulled herself up and leaned against the window. The rows of buildings and houses shot by in darkness. The cab was moving quickly, too quickly to allow her to comprehend the passing view.

"Pull over," she screamed suddenly.

"What?" he asked.

"Pull over. This is where I want to get off."

"Here?"

"Yes, stop the cab."

The tires screeched; the cab stopped.

The driver looked around the dark street and turned toward the back. "This is a bad place to get out, miss. A rough Puerto Rican neighborhood. I don't think-"

"How much?" she interrupted.

The driver shook his head and checked the meter. "Nineteen dollars and ten cents."

She dug into her pocket, removed a twenty and laid it in the protruding dish. "Keep the change," she declared.

She kicked open the door, stepped onto the curb and looked up at an old and beaten two-story building.

The cab driver leaned partway through the open door. "Miss, you really don't look too well," he cautioned hesitantly. "Why don't you get back in the cab and I'll take you to a doctor or a hospital." He paused. "Can you hear me?"

He listened but received no reply. His patience ended, he slammed the door and sped off down the block.

She watched the cab recede into the darkness, then glanced at her hands; they were shaking, bloodless. Blinking nervously, she turned toward the curb. A brown paper bag blew across the concrete in front of her, tossed aimlessly by the swirling wind blowing off the Hudson. She looked about. A crusty mongrel romped in a pile of garbage cans nearby; the remainder of the block was empty and silent. Most of the buildings were boarded, marked for demolition. The street was gouged by potholes. Broken furniture lay on the sidewalks, decorated with graffiti written in English and Spanish.

She coughed and held her spinning head. The street seemed to fade in arid out of reality. She squinted, tensing, fighting for balance. Then she turned toward an old building and looked at the inscription over the doorway: "CHURCH OF THE IMMACULATE CONCEPTION." The letters were large, cut in stone and eroded, the once sharp incisions now rounded and dull. She had seen the legend out of the corner of her eye when she had pulled herself up in the seat. It had startled her. Yet, now, standing in front of the building, it seemed as if some unexplainable force was impelling her to do something she had not done in so many years. A strange coercion, but not unprecedented in its similarity to the impulse that had eased her into her father's bedroom to retrieve the crucifix.