The Sentinel (25 page)

"You're making me sick." said Michael disgustedly.

"How unfortunate," stated Gatz. His expression hardened. "Why did Miss Logan disappear and how? Why is it that the detective's wounds are so easily explained in Miss Parker's story and why is a fine gentleman like yourself seemingly involved in yet another mysterious death and an apparent disappearance."

Michael jumped from the sofa. "Your reference to our friendship was presumptuous and the conversation you so desired has proven to be a big down. If you have nothing else to say, put your drink back on the bar and get out. You've got proof of nothing and I don't want to see your face in my apartment again."

Gatz smiled. He drained the last drop of Scotch, replaced the glass, grabbed his hat from the armchair and walked over to Michael. Pointing his finger at Michael's face, he said, "You're right. I've got no proof, yet. And I'm not sure how these pieces fit, but my nose tells me that they do, and like I've said a thousand times, my nose has never been wrong."

"It was wrong once."

"As far as I'm concerned, never!"

"Get out!"

Gatz saluted Allison and walked to the door. Rizzo followed him out.

Michael slammed the door. "That monster is getting on my nerves."

Allison sat motionless on the sofa. That one bit of information. Joan Logan definitely missing. Why? And then the detective. Could he have been the person she had stabbed? The man Michael had said had come in the door? But if he was, how did he get to the lot? Transported by her "father" and two naked women? And what was he doing in the building at that time of night? Every question offered no answer, just many more questions. "Where could Miss Logan have gone and why are there no records of her existence?" she asked meekly.

"I don't know," answered Michael, his temper worn short.

She trembled, not out of remorse for the agent, but from the overwhelming pressure of events. "And that detective, could he-"

Michael interrupted. "That detective had nothing to do with this." He sat down and gently stroked her hair.

She viewed him ambivalently, not sure whether he was involved in a terrifying scheme to drive her mad or legitimately concerned for her welfare. She lifted her hands and laid her head into the cup formed by the meeting of her two palms.

"I didn't get the material translated," he said to distract her, "but I'm going to hear from someone by Monday who will have the answer." He knew that was a lie, but he still didn't know what the inscription meant, and for some irrational reason thought it best to conceal the little he had learned.

He kissed her on the forehead.

She wept.

Chapter XXIII

Michael looked in both directions-toward Fiftieth Street and toward Fifty-first-satisfied himself that no one was approaching, circled the brown metal gate and disappeared around the side. It was late, approximately four; the moon was in its first quarter; the shadow was short, thin and almost imperceptible. As he crept quietly next to the building, he examined the first row of windows, barely two feet above the ground. They were barred, heavily plated and fused shut with gray mortar.

He stopped and looked back over his shoulder at the spires of St. Patrick's Cathedral, which rose into the sky and formed a proscenium for the stars and hovering moon, then he continued forward, musing that he now was doing the precise thing for which he had sent countless felons to jail. Imagine if he, Michael Farmer, were caught burglarizing, of all places, the Archdiocese of New York.

He crawled to the fourth window, removed a chisel from his pocket and unsuccessfully attacked the shielded bases of the bars. They were buried too deep; he would have to get into the building another way. He looked at the second row of windows about eight feet above the ground. The one he wanted was directly over him. He stepped onto the lowest ledge and reached upward; his hands touched the edge of the sill. He stepped onto the next ledge and pulled himself up. The window was now accessible, the sill at chin level. Forcing the chisel into the mortar, he pushed under the bottom edge of the frame and jiggled violently. The heavily encased glass shuddered; the coating cracked like dry sand. He began to push upward. Slowly, the window started to move, until in one violent spasm it slid halfway up the frame. He leaned against the wall, replaced the chisel in his pocket and climbed into the building.

Standing in the darkness, he closed the window and lowered the shade. He waited until his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, then he reached into his pocket, drew out a flashlight and laid the beam on the wall. Part of the crucifix filled the circle; it seemed more prominent in the solitary light than it had that afternoon when the vastness of the room had mitigated its commanding effect. He hesitated. The figure of Christ was comforting and majestic, but at the same time it was a big brother watching his every action. He removed the beam, studied the pictures of the pope and cardinal and then tiptoed to the file cabinets from which Mon-signor Franchino had removed the folder on Father Halliran that afternoon.

They were open. He searched until he located the G-J file; quickly he pulled it open, inspected the contents and removed the manila folder that contained the information on Father Halliran. Laying it across the open drawer, he examined the papers once again. There was nothing of additional interest; nothing had been added since that afternoon. He replaced the file and selected several more at random, finally concluding that if there was material of any relevance in Monsignor Franchino's office it would be in a more secure location-possibly the locked file cabinet behind the desk.

He quietly closed the last drawer and tiptoed back across the room. He removed a cloth from his pocket, wrapped it around the handle of the chisel and inserted the point beneath the double-locked drawer. Then he grabbed a bulky stapler from the desk and slammed it against the tool. A sharp crack shot through the office. He listened; the risk of noise was unavoidable. He hit the chisel again, but the drawer wouldn't budge. The combination lock had to be broken first. He removed the chisel and placed it under the edge of the dial. Once again he rammed the chisel with the stapler. Then again. The dial snapped off, the mechanism broke and the combination lock was freed. He reinserted the chisel into the side space, smacked it authoritatively and wedged the drawer open.

With the flashlight he searched the file; the first folders were clearly labeled and obviously irrelevant. But in the rear was one that read "WILLIAM O'ROURKE / MATTHEW HALLIRAN."

He removed it, sat in Franchino's chair and opened it on the desk. It was divided into two sections. The first was on William O'Rourke, the second on Halliran. He decided to review the Father Halliran material first. It was identical to the other Halliran file, except that a picture of a shriveled old man-obviously the blind priest-was stapled to the upper right inside corner of the manila folder. He focused the light on the wrinkled face and noted the worn, tired features, the most striking of which were the eyes; they were wide and glassy and possessed a strange glow that gave Michael a chill. The focus and intensity were those of a lunatic, but there was something more, something he couldn't define. He turned the file over, hiding the picture, placed it to the side and picked up the written material once again. Yes, it was the same-from 1952 onward-and like the file in the other cabinet it contained no information for any period prior to that date.

He frowned and picked up the papers on O'Rourke. He started to read rapidly, then slowed. The information was startling. It gave the life history of William O'Rourke, a teacher from Boston who was born in Brockton, Massachusetts, in 1891. And though the history contained nothing extraordinary other than an extended reference to an attempted suicide, the termination date was mind-boggling. It ended in

1952.

There was a police document dated July 12 of that year certifying the disappearance of a man named William O'Rourke on July 9. And there was a picture. Although the man was young, with a fine complexion, well-spaced eyes and a handsome shock of sand-colored hair, there was no mistaking the fact that this man was the same one who appeared in the snapshot of Father Halliran. They were the same person.

He analyzed the information, unsure of its meaning or significance. He flipped the resume over and removed an additional piece of paper from the rear of the file. It was a deed to realty. The paper vested the ownership of the brownstone to a David Caruso. Obviously Franchino knew him or knew of him, and just as obviously the monsignor had been aware that Michael was not the attorney for the building and that the whole interview had been a charade.

He quickly flipped through the double folder once more, replaced the deed and put the file back in the drawer. He grabbed the remaining folders and took them to the desk. Carefully, he began to examine each one. The first was labeled "ANDREW CARTER/DAVID SPINETTI." The pattern of the file followed the other. It gave a history for Father Spinetti, a Jesuit priest, dating from June 1921 until July 9, 1952, the day on which Father Halliran's identity was assumed. In the second section of the file was a long resume on a man named Andrew Carter. He was born in 1863, spent most of his life as a professional soldier, participating in the Spanish-American War as a member of Roosevelt's Rough Riders, the First World War as a French officer and prior to those two conflicts as a soldier of fortune for the Turks in the Russo-Turkish War. By the date of his disappearance on December 25, 1921, he had retired and was working as an instructor at a military academy. The only additional things in the file were the two pictures-one of Father Spinetti, the other of Carter, both the same-and a detailed description of Carter's two attempted suicides.

Michael laid the file aside, adjusted the position of the flashlight and opened the next file in the pile. This one was labeled "MARY THOREN / MARY ANGELICA." Again, the pattern was the same. An ecclesiastical identity-a nun evolving from a secular. And again an attempted suicide.

He reanalyzed the information and concluded that at given intervals certain laymen had vanished to reappear with complete manufactured clerical identities. The question was why? And why were the files so carefully secreted?

He riffled through the next. The most immediate was in French, unintelligible to him. So were the next three. Then there was a series in German, then French again. The only information he could glean from these files were the dates. They went back at least as far as a.d. 731.

Hastily, he gathered the folders and replaced them in the cabinet. He closed the drawer, pondered the missing knob and opened it again. It was ridiculous to replace the files; Franchino would certainly know someone had broken in. Michael took the most recent out again and laid them on the desk within easy reach, ready for his exit.

He moved the light around the room, looking for anything else of interest. Seeing nothing, he returned his attention to the desk and began to open the drawers. Again, nothing. But the middle drawer on the right side was locked. He took the chisel once more and jimmied the drawer open. It was empty, except for a manila folder similar to those in the locked cabinet. He held it up, his eyes widening in terror. The folder was labeled "ALLISON PARKER / THERESE." His hands trembling, he opened it. In the Allison Parker section was the resume of her life up to December 19, 1973, including a detailed history of her attempted suicides, her defection from the church, the complete series of events surrounding Karen Farmer's death-all incredibly accurate- and a resume of his own activities over the last three years. In the Therese file was a complete nun's history, beginning on December 19, 1973.

Today was December 18. Michael carefully examined both resumes and studied the picture of Allison that was attached. Then he closed the folder and placed it on top of the others he had removed. The room had suddenly become stifling. Sitting down in the desk chair, his eyes lifting to the ceiling, he thought about what he had uncovered-the magnitude, the horror. But he still couldn't understand what was happening. Or how they knew all those details.

The church was involved with Allison, she was involved with the old priest and something diabolical was planned for her. Why? He did not know. Where? He did. The brown-stone. When? He knew that also. Tomorrow. Maybe she hadn't imagined the presence of Chazen and the others. Maybe they were part of what was now appearing to be some monstrous, inconceivable plot. The Catholic Church! Involved in something like this. As irreligious as he was, he still couldn't believe it. He looked up at the cross and restrained the impulse to rip it from the wall and smash it.

He lowered his head; whatever was going to happen he had to stop it. Both for Allison's preservation and, in view of what he had read, his own.

He turned off the flashlight, lifted the files, gingerly made his way to the window, and jumped out into the darkness.

Chapter XXIV

The sky was blue, a rare occurrence in New York. The sun, angled toward its winter solstice, shone brilliantly. As Michael hurried down the crowded street, he squinted against the blinding rays that reflected off the moving cars and massive glass and steel skyscrapers. He shivered, wearing only a light jacket. One hand continually rubbed his shoulders to maintain the circulation; the other remained at his side, wrapped tightly about the handle of an attache case.

He walked east on Fifty-second Street across heavily traveled Third Avenue and into the residential neighborhood that bordered the business district. His thoughts in chaos, he stopped outside a garden apartment, squeezed his hand to verify that his case was still safe and protected, and opened the frost-covered door. His handprint remained for several seconds, gradually clouded and disappeared as the warm moisture left by his sweaty palm froze, coated the glass, then evaporated.

He consulted the list of tenants and pressed the button next to apartment 3 R. After a second ring, the speaker crackled. "Hello?" it said.