The Sentinel (28 page)

"By what divine command? The marital vow?"

"No! By possession. And a firm resolution to break the neck of anyone who sticks his nose where it doesn't belong. I don't want to argue with you any more. She's sick. A kidney ailment. That's all." He walked away, angry at Jack, angry at himself for having lost his temper. He slowly moved to the wall and sat down on the floor. He surveyed the crowd, then checked on Allison once again. She was still speaking mechanically. He tried to put himself in her place. To feel the agony, the pain and fear she was suffering. Or the cumulative effect of the recent horrors that had robbed her of her former self. But he couldn't.

"Hello," said Jennifer as she sat down next to him. "Despise our world?"

"Yes," he responded coldly.

"It's eleven twenty."

He consulted his watch and nodded. "I'll leave in five minutes."

"Not a bad party," she said, knowing that neither cared.

"The usual. Keep Jack Tucci away from her after I leave."

"Why?"

"Gut reaction. He may ask too many questions, and she's so out of it that she might answer."

"Okay."

"Is there anyone else who might get overly snoopy?"

"I don't think so."

"Know so!"

"Yes," she answered, annoyed.

"Watch her carefully. And keep them away or at least talking about nonsense. I don't want anyone to talk to her about her condition."

"I'll watch her. Don't worry."

"I heard from Gatz this afternoon." He paused. "If he comes back to my apartment again and doesn't find us there, he may come here. Under no circumstances is he to get to her. Hide her, sneak her out the back or put her under the bed. But don't let him near her." 1 won t.

He palmed a slip of paper into her fingers. "Her doctor's number is on it. If she gets sick, call him. He's familiar with her condition and he'll come."

She nodded.

He hoisted himself to his feet, tidied his jacket, and walked across the room, head lowered to prevent any time-consuming conversation.

Allison looked up from her seat on the couch. Michael took her hand. "Excuse me," he said as he pulled her up and across the room, where he leaned her against the wall. "How do you feel?" he asked.

"All right," she replied. Her lips barely moved, her voice was distant.

"No worse than before?"

"No."

"I'm leaving now," he said, trying to avoid her eyes. They disturbed him, ate at his conscience. "I'll try to get back before the party's over. If I can't, you'll sleep here and I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm not sure yet."

"But if-"

"No more questions." He looked toward the crowd. "Jennifer!" he called.

"You're leaving?" she asked, coming over.

"Yes. Make sure Allison doesn't feel uncomfortable."

Michael opened the closet, removed his coat and threw it over his arm. Then he grasped the handle of the black briefcase and pulled it out.

"What's in that?" asked Allison, seemingly noticing it for the first time.

"Nothing." Michael turned to the door.

"Michael," said Jennifer, "be careful."

Allison glanced at her quickly, then threw her arms around Michael. He held her and stroked her hair, then he pulled her arms away and pushed her in Jennifer's direction.

"Let me go with you." Allison pleaded meekly.

He did not respond. Just opened the door and left.

Chapter XXVI

Michael blew on his hands; the cold wind and temperature had frozen them white. Cursing, he replaced his gloves, turned the corner onto Eighty-ninth Street and walked slowly down the street.

There were no people, few sounds. It was as if all life had fled the area, perhaps in expectation of an unnatural event.

Two cars turned onto the block, passed him and rumbled into the distance. He stopped and stared. Across the street was the brownstone.

As he scanned the front entrance and the black windows, a violent gust of wind whipped across his back. By some quirk of the senses the wind magnified both his visual impression of darkness and the already terrifying knowledge that he would have to engage the brownstone alone.

He began to cross. In the center of the street he stopped. The angle was perfect, the light just sufficient. He had seen nothing in the fifth-floor windows from his prior position, but in this exposed setting, somewhat nearer than before, he could see a form, undefined but seated-apparently staring out the window-waiting. It was the priest. Father Matthew Halliran. Or William O'Rourke by birth. Was the man really blind? If there was a plot, he doubted it. No, it seemed logical that the blindness was a ploy, an assumption that, if correct, allowed the old man to sit and stare with impunity.

Aware suddenly of his own visibility, he quickly jogged to the sidewalk. He removed a set of keys from his pocket, cautiously walked up the stone staircase and ducked into the vestibule. No one could see him now, but he was anything but secure. He was expecting company, and unless he was overestimating his opponents, they would be expecting him.

He placed the black briefcase on the ground, removed a flashlight from his jacket and tested the beam. Nodding his satisfaction, he withdrew a revolver and inspected the chambers. The gun was loaded, the safety off, ready to use. He placed it in his belt.

He peeked from the vestibule and, seeing no one, picked up his case, inserted Allison's key into the front door and opened it. As the door closed behind him, he looked up at the ceiling where the isolated bulbs burned alone, producing a strange moonlike effect. He turned on the flashlight and waved it about the walls to observe the effect of the haze on the beam. It was minimal. He turned off the light, placed it back in his pocket, removed the revolver and began to move forward.

Flinching violently, he whipped the gun around. There was movement-but it was his own. He regarded his reflection in a full-length mirror, emitted a silent breathy laugh, and threw his gloves on the table. Looking up into the void that was the second floor, he pulled himself up the stairs, one hand on the gun, the other on the banister.

Allison clutched her head and screamed; she staggered. Jack grabbed her to prevent a fall. "Somebody get some ice!" Allison pitched and swayed. Heads turned. "Quick!"

Allison waved her right arm and righted herself. With her palms pressed against her forehead, she murmured, "I'll be all right."

The party had stopped. Everyone stood motionless.

Jennifer rushed to her side. "What is it?" she asked, panicked.

"I'm all right," Allison answered unconvincingly.

"Come sit down." Without waiting for a reply, Jennifer pulled her to the sofa and forced her to sit. "I'll get some ice.

"I don't need it. I'll be all right. Just leave me for a few minutes."

"Allison."

"Please!"

Jennifer assented and stood up. Sixty eyes were glued on them, inquisitive, concerned, perplexed.

Michael reached the top of the stairs and leaned back against the paneled wall. The floor lights were out. He pulled the flashlight from his pocket and flicked it on. The beam highlighted an empty hall. Apartment 2 B lay directly to his right, apartment 2 A at the far end. He reached across to 2 B, turned the knob, but the door was locked. Disappointed, he raised his hand, grabbed the little bulb and turned it. It was dead. He shook his head, satisfied that the preparations had been made. Whoever was in control of the situation had seen that the proper atmosphere for a night of horror had been arranged. The doors were locked; the lights were out. He focused the beam on the walls, seeing the new paneling that had been laid over the old, something he had never noticed before. It looked strange, almost beckoning to be inspected. But that could come later. First he was going to search each apartment and tear them apart hoping to find a clue-any clue.

He started with Allison's. Apartment 3A. When he finally left it, the living room was wrecked. He had torn out every piece of upholstery, emptied the closets and dumped the drawers, looking for hidden microphones, speakers or any other gadget that might have been used to frighten her. He had performed the same surgery in the bedroom, but since that was the site of most of the noises, his operation had been far more extensive. Where would I hide a microphone? he had asked himself as a point of departure; then he had searched. He had found nothing; his only reward was a veil of dust and plaster that covered his entire body, giving him an appropriate ghostlike appearance.

Standing in the hall he looked at his watch; it was twelve forty-five. He considered the available alternatives. He could go up to the priest's apartment or stop at one intermediate. The former seemed more expedient but in effect might not be. The old man had never opened the door before and he was sure that he was not about to now-at least not for him. The two apartments that remained of interest were 4 A and 5 B. First would be 4 A.

Allison held the ice bag to her head. Most of the guests had returned to their food and drink.

"Feeling better?" asked Jennifer.

"Yes, much," replied Allison softly. She certainly didn't look it.

"Keep the bag there a while longer. In a little while you can lie down in the bedroom and close your eyes."

Jack approached. He stood over Allison momentarily, then sat down and placed his hand on her thigh. "Shouldn't we call a doctor?" he asked, turning to Jennifer.

Allison interrupted by shaking her head fiercely. "Allison . . ."

"No, please. No doctor," she struggled to say. The words were muffled, as she had difficulty coordinating her lips and tongue.

Jack looked at her uncomfortably, Allison tried to smile. Then suddenly she screamed. "My head!" The bloodcurdling cry pierced the room. "I . . . can't stand it. I . . ." The ice bag fell to the floor, she grabbed her scalp frantically, continuing to scream as Jennifer and Jack tried to hold her spastic body still. Her mouth opened and shut in a convulsive spasm, foam rose along the corners of her lips as her tongue coiled to snap back into her throat and choke her.

"Pry her teeth open and get her tongue," screamed Jennifer amid the commotion.

Jack rammed his hand into Allison's mouth; her teeth ripped his fingers. "Get me a spoon, quickly!"

"There are some on the table."

Two men ran for a spoon as Jack locked his fingers over Allison's lower teeth and, placing his palm under her chin, pried them downward. With his other hand he grabbed her tongue.

"Here!" he shouted as he shoved the spoon into her mouth and pulled out his bleeding hand.

Suddenly she stiffened, then rocked forward and pitched off the couch onto her face, unconscious.

The precinct corridor was empty. An occasional sound of laughter drifted through closed doors, filtered down the hall and echoed from the cinder blocks.

Gatz and Rizzo exited an office and ambled down the hall to the end. Gatz opened a door to his left, entered his office, walked to his desk and threw his hat on the blotter. He sat down in the swaybacked chair and leaned back, placing his heels on the desk. Then he ripped a match along the underside of the chair and lit the remainder of his cigar. The end flared, heated and burned. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the taste of the tobacco. He scratched the stubble on his chin; he hadn't shaved since early morning-almost nineteen hours before. He yawned, then yawned again.

"Rizzo, go down to McGuire's office and get me a cup of coffee."

Rizzo nodded and hurried out.

Gatz rubbed his eyes, closed them and leaned back in the chair.

"Sir?" asked Detective Richardson who stood at the door.

Gatz sat up. "What is it?"

Richardson approached the desk and dropped a typed note on the blotter.

Gatz cleared his throat and moved the paper under the desk lamp. He stood excitedly. "Where'd you get this?" he asked.

"In a hidden compartment in the rear of one of Brenner's desk drawers."

Gatz slammed his fist on the blotter. "I've got him!" he cried. He turned to Richardson. "Thank you," he said.

The detective wheeled away from the desk and out the door as Gatz flicked the intercom.

"McGuire, is Rizzo still there?"

"Yes," bellowed a deep voice over the static.

"Can you hear me, Rizzo?"

"Yes."

"Bring in Farmer."

"To question?"

"No. To book."

He released the knob on the intercom and once again reclined in his seat. He smiled broadly, his grin reflecting hatred more than anything else. The moment had arrived for the thrust, right to the jugular.

He picked up the desk phone and dialed. The phone at the other end rang several times.

"Inspector Garcia," he asked, and then finally said, "we've cracked the nut. Richardson just brought a detailed note on Allison Parker, establishing the connection we need. They found it in Brenner's office. No. No. I've already sent him, and we should have Farmer here in less than half an hour."

Gatz lowered the receiver, reached across the desk and grabbed the mousetrap. He pulled it in front of him, picked up a wire and inched it slowly forward. The trap snapped and cracked down on the hook. He had made no effort to remove his weapon.

"Caught like a rat," he announced.

The room was filled with whispers.

Allison lay in bed with an ice pack on her forehead. Her condition had not improved. She seemed nearly comatose, at times moaning unintelligibly, at times completely insensate.

Jennifer sat next to her, speaking quietly into the white phone. Jack lifted the ice bag, felt Allison's head, then squeezed the sack. "Get some more ice," he asked someone as he leaned protectively over the bed.

A young woman pushed through the crowd, removed the flattened bag and replaced it with a new one. Jennifer set the phone down and said, "The doctor's on his way." She pulled a cigarette from a crushed pack and lit it nervously. "He suggests we keep everyone out of the room except someone to watch her. He's afraid a crowd may upset her more." Watching Jack's positive response, she stood up and extended her arms, motioning as if she were herding sheep. "I'd appreciate it," she announced, "if everyone would go back to the living room."