The Sentinel (4 page)

"Natural?"

"Very. How did you get it?"

"Ah," he exclaimed lasciviously. "Natural light and voyeurism. The camera is a remarkable voyeur. With nudes, the texture of the subject is most important but with the knowledge of the camera's presence, the normal serenity of the body is lost. Look at her face. I could never have achieved the subtlety you see there if she had known I was shooting her. The narcissism wouldn't be as clearly stated." He lifted one of the photos and held it to the light. "Remarkable realism," he declared with a note of self-acclaim.

He began to discuss the visual ramifications.

Then it happened.

Allison had remained seated in the chair, casually thumbing through a copy of Vogue. The headache came first. Almost instantly, as if it had been there all along but had been held back by a dam whose ramparts had suddenly been torn away. It was centered at the base of her skull. Her initial reaction was surprise, then consternation. She had felt fine all week. In fact, the last headache had occurred the morning Miss Logan had called with the approval. And that really wasn't a headache, just a dull pressure that she had attributed to a residue of tension. And now? There seemed to be no logical explanation other than a reaction to the long hours under the hot lights. Yet, if it had just been a migraine, she would have dismissed it summarily. There was also a sensation of constriction along her back that made her skin prickle as if a slab of dry ice had been jammed against her body. Unnerved, she sat up, threw the magazine on the chair, walked to the closed skylight and looked over the rooftops. There wasn't much of a view. A few chimneys. The moon in its last quarter. She shook her head in a vain attempt to drive away the pain, then she turned back toward the bar and listened. "Are you sure you couldn't achieve the same effect with the right model?" she heard Lois ask. But was "hearing" the right word? The sounds were muffled as if the vibrations were being projected through a sonic sponge.

Then they ceased altogether.

She stumbled back against the glass panes. They vibrated noisily; several cracked.

Everyone turned, shocked, watching.

"I . . . I," Allison mumbled as a tingling sensation coursed along the insides of her arms toward the shoulders. Quickly she felt it spread through all her extremities and then give way to a far more alarming perception: a total deadness. Frantically, she began to rub her hands together.

Jack hurled himself over the bar, grabbed her as she was beginning to fall and carried her over the wires to the armchair. Jennifer crushed her cigarette and squirmed in pursuit.

"Allison," Jack shouted, "what's the matter?"

"I don't know!" Allison stammered in garbled tones, terrified.

"Get some ice!" said Jack.

Lois pulled several cubes from the ice bucket, wrapped them in a silk scarf and handed them to him; he pressed the bundle against her forehead after wiping off the beads of sweat.

Allison lifted her hands to her neck and rubbed the flesh. Her pulse slowed. She looked around the room and blinked unsurely as the shapes that had decomposed during the onslaught of the pain began to reassume coherency. She leaned forward in the chair and gripped her knees. She remained silent for several minutes, unresponsive to Jack's prodding. Then she looked up, breathed deeply and sat back. It s gone.

"What's gone?" Jack asked.

"I'm not sure," she replied with a look that implied an absence of total consciousness. Yet, some of her color had returned and her eyes had steadied. "I had a migraine," she said, "and this sensation, as if the sense of touch had left my hands and legs."

Jack regarded her inquisitively. "Can you hold the ice?" he asked.

She nodded and laid her hand over the scarf.

"Do you want to lie down?"

"No," she said, shaking her head deliberately. "I feel better."

"Are you sure?" asked Jennifer as she nervously leaned over the arm of the chair.

"Yes," Allison answered. She did feel better. Almost a complete reversal of her condition just moments ago. She was understandably skeptical. Could the migraine and dead-ness have disappeared that quickly? It seemed impossible. Yet the pain had arrived almost instantaneously. Surely it could have left the same way. That is, assuming there really was a headache and a polarization of her sense of touch and not a psychological mirage brought on by the heat or excitement.

"I want you to sit for a couple of minutes more," said Jack.

"Yes, I think I will," Allison said.

She did, during which time Jack hovered over her, occasionally going over to the broken skylight window to comment on the excessive heat in the studio.

After several minutes he asked how she felt. She said, "Fine." He asked if she had eaten. She said she had nibbled a hamburger at lunch. He concluded that food would do her good and pulled her to the bar, where she began to eat one of the remaining sandwiches.

She chewed slowly. She wasn't hungry. Strange! She hadn't eaten since lunchtime. And her appetite had seemed perfectly normal. Perhaps she was coming down with the flu. You could always count on the flu to arrive at the most inopportune time and bring with it the most peculiar set of symptoms imaginable. That might explain everything. Still she should have started slower. An hour booking instead of a long session. And a staggered schedule rather than consecutive commitments. She had a major commercial to shoot the next day, a national spot, which would probably require a few days' work. Then she would have to shop and cook dinner for Michael. There were several still sessions scheduled for Wednesday and a fashion show for Thursday. Rest? She doubted she would have much time for that until the weekend, providing she didn't become sick, in which event everything might have to be canceled.

Jack cleaned up the cellophane and napkins and placed the tray and discarded bottles under the bar. He walked around and gently laid his hand on her shoulders and massaged the delicate but tense muscles with the tips of his fingers. She lowered her head. He ran his hand up her neck and over the back of her scalp, following the wave of her fine-spun hair. "You're a right pretty thing, you know," he said reassuringly.

She smiled.

"I want to be sure that you feel all right before we begin. If not, we'll wait."

She swiveled around and kissed him on the cheek. "I'm fine," she said.

He pulled her from the seat, slapped her on the rear and led her back toward Jennifer and Lois, who were back on the set.

Allison watched Lois and Jennifer turn the near corner onto Fifth Avenue and disappear.

She glanced at her watch; it was late, eleven o'clock. The session had lasted longer than she had expected. She was tired. Yet apart from the "fainting spell," it had been a good first booking. A triumphant return of sorts.

She picked up her duffel, stepped out of the doorway and looked toward Sixth Avenue, now a blotch of light in the distance. She began to walk slowly, acutely aware of the darkness, shadows, and dirt. She felt curiously uneasy. Strange, she had walked this neighborhood at night many times over the past few years. And she had learned to accommodate the terrors. But tonight, for some unexplainable reason, she felt threatened. Perhaps she had been away from New York too long.

Halfway down the block she stopped. She could hear footsteps echoing between the grotesque overhanging buildings. Turning quickly, she strained her eyes, but there was nothing visible; the footsteps died. She squeezed her fingers into fists. The feeling again. It returned with the same suddenness with which it had hit her in the studio. She felt a surge through her arms, then a lack of sensation, as if all the nerve endings had been cauterized. Nervously, she looked for the source of the footsteps, hoping to see Jack appear, explain away the intruder and reassure her as he had done before. Then, suddenly, the dull tingling was gone. She kicked at the ground, angered that she would let the strain of past weeks do this to her.

Steadying herself, she took several steps and stopped again. Footsteps echoed once more. Quickly, she crossed the street, huddled in the shadow of a garment factory and looked back. The footsteps continued, but they sounded different now. They were no longer coming toward her; they were either moving away or turning into one of the side alleys. She remained frozen in place, sensing that she was still in danger, praying that the horrible tingling sensation would not return to her arms. Then she bolted through the refuse toward the corner. Running, gasping frantically, arriving under the streetlight just as an arm wrapped around her chest and pulled her to the side.

"Hey."

She looked around, panic-stricken; there was a man behind her.

"Slow down, my child; you'll kill someone," he said softly.

She stood shaking, holding on to a muscular arm that held her securely. She panted wildly, wound her fingers into the little tufts of white hair that dotted his freckled skin and focused on the diminutive nun who stood close to him, holding her rosary and using his body as a buffer against the cold night wind.

The priest released his grip, raised his heavy white eyebrows and regarded her sympathetically.

"Are you all right?" asked the nun.

Allison nodded and turned.

"What happened?" questioned the priest.

She hesitated and, as a gesture of regained composure, tried to tidy her wildly scattered hair. She was relieved. Of all people to run into, a priest and a nun. How lucky could she have been? She quickly grabbed her crucifix-in deference to something-and held it tightly.

Turning, she glanced down the block. There was nothing. She looked back at the priest, embarrassed. "I'm terribly sorry, Father, I thought someone was behind me. I was trying to get off the street."

"Let me see," said the priest. He stepped away and looked down the barely visible sidewalks. "I don't see anything," he said, shaking his head. "Stay with the good sister for a moment."

The priest began to search the doorways.

"Sister, I'm so sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry about, my child," said the nun. Her cheeks glistened under the shower of light from the streetlights; her eyes reflected her warmth and sincerity. "If something scared you," she continued, "that is not your sin. You shouldn't walk alone here at this hour of the night."

"But this has never happened before," Allison protested.

"Something bad need only happen once." The nun reached out and took her hand. "Calm yourself, my child. No one will hurt vou now."

They stood together under the streetlight for two or three minutes.

At the sound of footsteps they turned; the priest stepped from the shadows.

"Nothing," he said as he wiped some dust off his authoritative hands.

"I'm sorry," Allison repeated once again. "I don't know what got into me."

"I wouldn't concern myself, my child. It's very dark and every sound echoes no matter how slight. It's certainly understandable that you would become frightened."

"Where are you going?" asked the nun. "If it's near, you can walk with us."

"No, thank you. I have to go uptown to Eighty-ninth Street. I'll hail a cab, but I would appreciate it if you could wait with me until one comes. I'm still a little unnerved."

"Of course," said the priest. "We'll stand on the other corner."

They crossed the street and waited for several minutes until a taxi passed.

"Thank you again," Allison said as she stepped into it.

"Don't mention it," replied the priest. "Just stay off dark streets." He closed the door.

She turned and looked out the back window. A car was coming toward her, partially illuminating West Twenty-sixth Street. She watched the car's progress until it reached the corner. Seeing nothing, she laid her head back on the poorly upholstered seat.

"Eighty-ninth and Central Park West, please."

The cab jolted forward.

She lifted her head once again and peered out the dirty back window. The priest and nun were walking slowly up the block. She smiled, thankfully, but the smile quickly faded. She was furious with herself. Silly! Cowardly! Paranoid! The epithets ran quickly through her head. She couldn't believe how she had just acted. She had to get control of herself. The tactile strangeness. The sensation of footsteps. The headaches.

All nonsense.

She promised herself it would not happen again. And she promised herself she would say nothing to Michael.

Chapter IV

"Damn, it's hot," she cried as she emerged from the confines of the tiny kitchen.

She hustled down the corridor carrying two round porcelain bowls. Cautiously, she set them on the dining table, blew on her singed fingers, lifted the lids to check the condition of the vegetables, then stepped back, surveyed the fruits of her considerable labor and realigned the mirrored settings at either end of the white tablecloth. She lifted two long-stemmed wine glasses and placed them next to a tear-shaped decanter and a bottle of French wine, finest vintage, that had been selected earlier in the day according to Michael's strictest instructions.

Quickly noting the time on the grandfather clocks, she squeezed her hands nervously, scurried back into the kitchen and re-emerged with a hot plate. She skirted the end of the table, placed it on a portable bronze heater, applied a match, and stood back to admire the bright blue flame that shot up to singe the bottom of the metal casserole. She was satisfied. There was still more to do, but she was beginning to create some order out of the previous two hours' chaos.

The doorbell rang. She jumped up and quickly glanced once more at the clocks. They read nine-thirty; Michael was half an hour early. How could he have done this to her? He had never been early for anything in his life.

"Coming!" she shouted.

She ran to the mirror and straightened her pants suit. Not that it needed straightening, but a woman surprised is a woman unkempt, and the first thing she invariably does, whether the feelings of dishevelment are illusory or not, is check her clothes and makeup. She tossed her hair, frowning slightly at the sight of a few loose ends, and placed the dangling crucifix inside the top of her jacket. The bell rang again.