The Sentinel (26 page)

"It's Michael," he replied.

The speaker clicked off.

He grabbed the doorknob; the lock buzzed. He pushed through, walked around the bend in the lobby to the right and entered an open elevator which was filled with garbage bags collected on the superintendent's rounds. He scowled- the odor was dreadful-pushed the button marked "3" and, while counting the passing floors, reviewed the precise information he would reveal and the plan of action he would undertake. He needed help, but unfortunately the usual sources were foreclosed to him. Jennifer would have to do, and in all likelihood she would be perfect. With Allison's life at stake, he could count on her to do exactly what he would tell her and then keep her mouth shut. She was Allison's best friend, wasn't she?

He stepped off the elevator, quickly greeted Jennifer in the doorway of her apartment, entered, laid the contents of his case on the dining table, reviewed the events in the brownstone, then quickly explained the significance of the documents.

She listened incredulously.

He repeated everything to emphasize the seriousness of the problem and his absolute certainty as to the facts. Finally he sat back and waited to field what he hoped would be very few questions-and unprobing ones at that.

He was wrong.

"What about the person she supposedly stabbed?" asked Jennifer as she walked toward him from the far end of the brightly furnished living room. She stopped by a tall bookcase, removed a slow-burning cigarette from a shelf, puffed nervously, then continued to his side, cigarette in hand.

"I don't know," he replied, knowing full well that it was Brenner who had been cut to ribbons when he had stumbled into the apartment. "I still think she imagined the murder. Don't forget, she was still hysterical during the entire sequence from the moment she woke and heard the footsteps." The rationale appeared sound. In actuality, though, Brenner had failed to complete a relatively simple assignment. Anyone could have done it right, but Brenner couldn't keep himself out of trouble, so the idiot was dead for no reason whatsoever, and because of it he now had that little bastard Gatz on his back again. As if he didn't have enough problems. Yet he had only himself to blame; he should never have run the risk of using Brenner again for anything.

"Why don't we go to the police?" Jennifer was saying.

"No," he countered quickly.

"Why not? Nobody's done anything wrong. Even if Allison did stab someone, it certainly wasn't murder."

No, it wasn't, he thought to himself. There at least he was in agreement. If anything, it was an unfortunate accident. But he couldn't go to the police. He was concerned with the identity of the detective and the possibility that the police might establish a link between himself and the corpse. And God forbid they should discover or be told the information in Franchino's files.

"No police," he declared.

"You're not making any sense," said Jennifer.

"If the police get involved, they'll deal with this the way they would deal with a burglary and do it incompetently. Then nothing will save Allison. If we don't do things my way, she's finished." He stared at Jennifer intently.

"But-"

"No!"

"We're dealing with something we don't understand," said Jennifer.

"If we don't, the police certainly won't. No, I won't go to the police, and that's final." He began to shuffle the papers on the table. "Let's assume for one minute that we accept all this as the truth." He held several of the documents in the air and shook his head. "Allison is meant to lose her identity and reappear as someone else."

"Sister Therese?"

"Whatever that is."

"A nun," added Jennifer needlessly.

He nodded, the absurdity of the situation not mitigated by the evidence-at least as far as he was concerned. But since he was making assumptions, he had no alternative but to follow them to their conclusions, no matter how illogical.

"And Halliran?" questioned Jennifer once again.

"Judging from these histories, Halliran will also disappear, and Allison in the person of Sister Therese will take his place."

Jennifer dragged hard on the cigarette.

Michael lifted the translation and read, " 'To thee thy course by Lot hath given charge and strict watch that to this happy Place no evil thing approach or enter in.' It's obviously directed to Allison. Sets her up as a sentinel of some sort. Father Halliran, if we continue with our prior assumptions, is also a sentinel."

They stood silently reviewing the files.

"What about her father and the other people she saw in the brownstone."

"I thought they were illusions. It made sense. She had always despised her father."

"Yes."

"The scene she confronted in the brownstone was the recreation of an event earlier in her life. Could I have made any other logical conclusion? What was it? A hallucination? A nightmare? A breakdown? Take your pick. But now I'm not so sure. And that goes for Chazen and the others also. No, I think they were actually in the brownstone, supplied by the Archdiocese." He paused, drank from the glass of Coke which she had poured for him and continued. "They might have her under some kind of hypnosis. That would explain many things. How she saw that book passage. How she found the ad in the paper when there was no ad."

Jennifer removed the deed from the stack of papers and held it out.

"I went to the landlord's apartment to ask him some questions. He wasn't there. Monsignor Franchino must have known I was lying when I said I was Caruso's lawyer. For all I know the inquisition could be meeting right now to determine what to do with me."

"Michael," said Jennifer, "this is all well and good, but how do you stop them?"

"I don't know, but I will. According to those files, what-ever's going to happen will happen tomorrow. I intend to stand guard at the brownstone starting at twelve tonight."

"But-"

"I'll be damned if I'll let a bunch of religious fanatics destroy Allison." He spun from the table and paced nervously around the room. "And let's not get too carried away with this mumbo jumbo. We're dealing with some very real characters, not magic. The question is, what are they after?"

"I think we should call the police."

"No. For the last time, no!"

"Please?"

"I don't want to even discuss it. No police."

"Why? Because you're afraid of them? Because what I've found out about your past may be true?"

"I don't think-".

She interrupted. "What you did is unimportant right now. Allison is in trouble; if you really care for her you'll put her first, no matter what you're afraid might come out."

"I am putting her first!"

"No, you're not!"

"No? Do you think I'm involved in this for my health?"

"I really don't know why you're involved or how." Jennifer paused, then continued. "Maybe you made up all these files. Maybe you did take Allison into the museum intentionally to see the statue of the woman. Maybe you're involved with these priests of yours. Maybe there are no priests. And maybe you want to set me up as an alibi, so that you can kill her like you did Karen and place the blame elsewhere."

Michael grabbed her by the hair and bent her over the back of the chair. She shook him off, unafraid.

"Don't mention Karen again," he warned. "For once and for all, Karen killed herself because I left her."

Jennifer straightened her hair. "You know, Michael, I've always known that under that legal calm was a vile temper."

"I still insist on handling this my way."

"And that is?" she asked skeptically.

"I'm going to bring her here tonight." He paused, thinking, then continued. "I want you to have a dinner party. Get on the phone and call everyone you know. Have them here by ten, so that by the time I bring Allison, there'll be enough people to keep her surrounded and occupied while I'm at the brownstone."

Jennifer stared, her expression implying agreement.

"And make sure she stays here! No matter what happens, keep her here."

"What if she gets sick?"

"I'll leave you her doctor's number. He'll come right over."

Jennifer nodded haltingly; she had no alternative.

He put his arm around her and placed his mouth next to her ear. "No matter what you think, I love that girl and no one's going to hurt her. No one!" It was an admission-a significant gesture of emotion for him. "I mean that."

She stood back. "I suppose you do," she said, still regarding him suspiciously.

He gathered the papers and placed them back in his briefcase.

"Shouldn't I keep them tonight?" asked Jennifer.

"Why?"

She lowered her eyes. "Just in case."

"No, I think I'd better keep the papers with me," he said. "I might need them."

He opened the door and walked out with the briefcase at his side. Had he told her too much? He wasn't sure. He wasn't even sure if she could be trusted. She could be on the phone with the police right at this very moment as he was on his way uptown toward home. Yet, he'd had no choice. Someone had to be with Allison this evening, someone who had some knowledge about what might occur.

He walked up Madison, ignoring the window displays, then he turned onto Seventy-first, stopped and stood on the corner looking toward the gray stone wall in the distance that bounded Central Park on Fifth. The long bench that lay shielded beneath the shoulder-high wall had only one occupant-an old hunched-over gentleman in a top hat, with a long black cane. The street was quiet.

Michael kicked at the discolored leaves that had fallen from one of the trees. He was nervous. The role of the hero did not become him. He realized that more than ever as he said to himself, "Mr. Gatz, I wish you were dead." Then he turned and entered his building.

"Good evening," said the doorman.

"Hello, George." Michael started to hurry through the hall.

"Mr. Farmer?'

"Yes."

"A gentleman went up to your apartment a moment ago."

"Who?"

"I don't remember his name."

He thought for a moment, then asked abruptly. "What'd he look like?"

"Kinda short with a shriveled cigar in his mouth."

"Damn you. Why'd you let him up?"

"Miss Parker said to," he stammered.

Michael shook his head and turned to the elevator. Then he stopped and looked back over his shoulder. "His name is Gatz. Detective Gatz."

"Yes, sir."

"Don't forget it. And don't ever let him back in here again without my okay."

"Yes, sir. I understand."

Michael raced around the bend in the hall to the elevator and pressed the "up" button. He waited. The elevator doors opened and Detective Gatz started out. Seeing Michael, he jolted to a stop and stepped back into the empty elevator.

Michael hesitated. The other elevator arrived; the doors opened. He quickly squirmed in past a small boy. Gatz jumped from his elevator and rammed his hand between the closing doors. The doors stopped and reversed.

"Bastard!" cried Michael, bracing himself.

"How crude," said Gatz, smiling.

Michael coiled and pushed himself off the wall toward the doorway. Gatz reacted quickly; he blocked the exit, jammed his hand into Michael's throat and hurled him back.

The elevator shook violently, as if the suspending cables were about to snap.

The detective jumped into the car. The doors closed behind him. "Now you keep your ass still."

"You've got a warrant?"

"No."

"Then up yours."

"We don't need a warrant to talk."

Michael tried to press the "open" button, but Gatz smashed his hand and pinned his shoulders against the panel.

"Cool it, my friend," the detective cautioned.

"You cool it and keep your hands off me." Michael pulled away. "What did you want with Allison?"

"Nothing."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you."

"For another friendly chat?"

"How'd you guess?"

"I'm not interested."

"Yes, you are!" Gatz's voice was raised, his meaning unmistakable. He and Michael were going to talk whether Michael liked it or not.

Michael stared angrily, then lowered his raised fists. "I can't resist your charms," he finally said.

"I've had a hunch about you ever since I first heard that big mouth of yours," Gatz began. "And I have a hunch about you now. Few facts, no real proof. Not much more than an idea as to what you're up to and why. But my nose told me-

"And it ain't never been wrong. I've heard that a thousand times."

Gatz pointed his second finger at Michael, holding it an inch from his face. "I'm warning you."

The doors to the elevator opened. A middle-aged woman with a small white poodle in one hand and a gift-wrapped package in the other, stepped inside.

Gatz raised his hand. "Please use the other elevator."

"Excuse me," said the startled woman.

Gatz dug his hand into his pocket, removed his wallet and held it open in front of her, his badge showing. "Police business. Take the other elevator." He wasn't asking; he was commanding.

The woman ogled the little detective, then turned to Michael for some explanation. Michael looked away and the woman stepped back. The door closed.

Gatz bobbed his cigar and continued. "I got hold of Andrew Parker's will. A lot of money and almost all of it left to his beloved daughter. A most tempting sum of money. Like a big lump of cheese." He grabbed the trap from his pocket and rolled it in the fingers of his right hand. "Now this is interesting, but then again a lot of people get left big sums of money from their fathers."

"So what?"

"So what? That's a very interesting fact. Perhaps the reason why you might want to get rid of the girl or scare her to death or just plain scare her."

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. If I ever tried something like that, I'd be sure to have married her first. Now, my friend, I'm getting off the elevator."

"No, you're not."

"You're going to force me to pull some strings again."

"Be my guest."

"I take it you've forgotten that-"