She continued to move backwards as he slowly approached, flaying his arms in expectation.
"Long were to tell what I have done, what suffered with pain voyaged the unreal, vast and unbounded deep of horrible confusion, over which a broad way now is paved to expedite your glorious march."
As she became enveloped she began to move backward up the stairs. A path was cleared behind her so that her retreat would be unimpeded. Back she went, oblivious to her enslavement.
"What remains but up and enter now into full bliss!"
He stood, hands raised.
She felt the tremor under her feet. She turned. The stairwell and the hallways were jammed with colorless, emotionless forms.
She was going to come apart. Every part of her body burned in agony as if the fires were already upon her. And she did not know where to go. Back? Into those hordes! Or forward? Back she went, involuntarily. Back! Along the second-floor corridor, up the next staircase to the third floor. Completely surrounded. There was Michael's blood. And there were the lesbians, Sandra and Gerde, staring at her, their hands fondling each other, their bodies naked. Malcolm and his wife. There was nowhere to go. Behind her Chazen was ascending the staircase.
She looked around, hurled herself through the door to apartment 3 B and screamed. On the floor was Michael's blood-soaked body, his lips purple and discolored.
She ran to the wall and turned. Mrs. Clark entered from the bedroom. Behind her came the Klotkin sisters, still enormous, but now repulsively horrible. Then Detective Brenner. They all stopped several yards away and remained motionless-waiting.
"Leave me alone," she screamed. "Let me die in peace!" She screamed again. Standing motionless across the room was her father. She whimpered. Her father did not move. He waited.
The door swung open and Michael entered. He stood still a moment, then stepped to the side, near his mortal body, and waited for the entrance of Chazen, who was several steps behind. The old man came in the door-Mortimer hopping about on his shoulder-walked to the center of the room and raised his hands as the cries of his children rose to an incredible head-splitting crescendo. Amid the clamor, Jezebel entered and ran to his side, spitting at Allison.
Chazen lowered his arms and the clamor instantly ceased.
"You are the chosen of the Lord God, the Tyrant and our enemy," he said to Allison. "You are she who is to guard and protect the entrance to the earth. You are she who must take up the scepter of the Lord from the present sentinel and take his place. You are the appointed one who must be destroyed if we are to be successful. Now is the hour of decision and action." He turned around to his army. "The work will be done, she shall become one with us and then we shall up and enter into full bliss to join Sin and Death!" He turned back to Allison and extended a scepter. "You shall damn yourself with your own hand-for you must!"
Chazen raised his arms again and the clamor rose anew. Singing voices, clanging armor, and hell's own echo filled the room, the halls and building. And she began to crumple to the ground-shaking, bleeding from the mouth, vomiting, losing self-control, wanting death.
The door to apartment 5 A sprang open, held by Monsi-gnor Franchino. Father Halliran stood next to him in the doorway. His cross was extended in front of him with one hand. The other was held on his pained chest. He started forward, gasping for breath-forward to find and transfer the crucifix to Allison, lest the chain be broken and the path cleared for iniquity.
The armies of the night rebelled, rattling their spears and armor. They hurled themselves against the cross but fell in the wake of the superior force. Thousands challenged and hurled themselves against the ancient priest. But on he went amid the outcry. On and on. Searching for his successor. The chosen of God. The Sentinel!
Chapter XXVIII
"Everyone back!" The policeman turned. "Put the other one over there."
Eyes peered in the darkness.
"I want everyone behind the barricades or on the sidewalk."
Leather and rubber heels scratched the macadam; a consumptive cough split the frigid air.
"That means you too."
"Press."
"Which?"
"Daily News."
"Your pass?"
"Yes." The man dug his hand into his overcoat and removed a card which he handed to the officer.
The policeman studied the identification. "You can come around," he said.
"Thank you," the reporter said as he stepped between the two barricades that blocked the street and headed toward the center of activity about a hundred feet down the block.
The cop surveyed the scores of people that huddled behind the police lines. He listened to the charged voices, spat on the ground and watched the spotlights that were fixed on the front of the building.
The police had arrived some forty minutes before. Two cars. The first with Detective Gatz, Rizzo and two other detectives. The second with several other policemen, a doctor and Jennifer Learson. Gatz, Rizzo and three others had immediately entered the building, leaving the girl outside in the company of the remaining officers. They had stayed inside, without word, for ten minutes before one of the uniformed police and Detective Rizzo left the building, spoke with their associates and placed a call over a car radio. Within minutes scores of police cars descended on the area. Spotlights were brought in and barricades were set up to hold back the gathering mob.
There had been no word as to what had happened inside. Except for the two who had made the call earlier, none of the policemen who had entered the building had reappeared. The tension was extreme. And it had begun to snow.
The front door to the brownstone opened slowly and Gatz walked out with Rizzo at his side. At the base of the stone staircase were the reporters. Gatz stopped in the vestibule, looked down at them, then turned to Rizzo. "Call the lab and get a man down here." Rizzo nodded and ran through the reporters and to the police cars. Gatz stared down at the expectant newspapermen. "There is no statement as of yet. It is a homicide. More than that I can't say. As soon as Inspector Garcia gives the okay, we'll call you all together and go over the whole incident. Now I would appreciate it if you all would step aside. There's going to be a lot of traffic in and out of here."
"Who was killed?"
"Later, I said. Now let's go." He motioned to Richardson who stood behind the reporters. "Put up a blockade over there and put the reporters behind it." He turned to the other officer. "What time is it?"
"Three forty-five."
Gatz extended his hand outside the vestibule and grabbed several snowflakes. They were large and presaged the onslaught of a heavy fall. He squeezed them together, fused them into a tiny ball and tossed it to the ground.
"It's a cold night, sir."
"Yes, more than you think."
"Why?"
"Why?" He smiled. "It would take a long time to explain." He walked outside, felt the snow hit his face and turned to the policeman. "Stay in the doorway. Don't let anyone in except for the normal crew."
"Yes, sir."
He walked briskly down the stairs, surveyed the crowded street, and walked to an empty patrol car. He leaned against the front fender, adjusted his scarf and looked at the building from top to bottom.
"They're sending a blood man and a crew to take prints," said Rizzo as he joined his superior.
"Good."
Rizzo unfolded a scrap of paper and handed it to Gatz. "Here's the woman's name who called the police."
"Which building?"
"That," he said, pointing to the yellow apartment across the street.
"Where's she now?"
"At the station house. They won't question her until you get there."
"Did you speak to her?"
"No."
"Who did?"
"Jake."
"And?"
"It was Parker. The description fits. The woman said she was looking out the window-she couldn't sleep-saw the girl go in."
"Where do you think she went?" asked Rizzo.
"I don't know, but we'll find her. Does Learson know?"
"I just told her."
"She take it hard?"
"Yes. The doctor had to give her a sedative."
Gatz spit into the thin layer of snow that had accumulated on the cold cement and stared at the entrance to the brown-stone. "Did you ever have a real disappointment-one that ripped you apart?"
"Yes."
Gatz glanced back at Rizzo and squeezed his fists.
"Why do you ask?"
"Because I wouldn't want to have been the only one."
"I don't understand."
"I think I was wrong, Rizzo. Dead wrong. After being so positive!"
"You can't be sure."
"No, I can't. But then again, I have this feeling in my gut." Gatz was uncharacteristically reflective and somber. The events of the night and their apparent implication had destroyed countless hours of effort and analysis.
Jake Burstein came toward them. "The doctor examined the old priest," he said. "Apparent cardiac arrest."
"What about the marks on his neck?"
"They were made by hands and nails."
"Strangulation?"
"Maybe. But it didn't kill him."
"He's sure?"
"No. It'll have to wait for autopsy. But he's confident it was a heart attack."
Gatz nodded. "Anything on Farmer besides the wounds?"
"No."
Gatz shook his head.
"I showed the black attache case to the girl," said Jake.
"She recognized it?"
"Yes, but she wanted to know where the papers were."
"What papers?"
"I don't know. She seemed frantic, but when I asked her about them, all she would say was that Farmer had some papers in the case."
"No papers were found?"
Jake shook his head.
"Have them search the whole building for them. I'll have to talk to her."
Jake started to leave, then turned back to Gatz. "Tom, cheer up."
"Rizzo!" said Gatz suddenly.
"Yes?"
"Get a warrant out for Allison Parker."
"Charge?"
"Attempted murder of the photographer. Suspicion of the murder of Michael Farmer. Suspicion of conspiracy in the murder of Karen Farmer."
"Yes, sir," he said obediently. He stared at Gatz for a moment and then turned away.
Gatz leaned back against the police car once again and rubbed his gloved hands together. It was over. God, he was tired. He thought about Allison Parker, the girl he had absolved of all complicity in the "suicide of Karen Farmer." Could he have been so wrong? Could she have been involved and now have destroyed her co-conspirators to cover her past? He slammed his fist against the car door, sniffed at the cold night air and turned his attention to the front of the brownstone.
The heavy door opened. A uniformed police officer stepped through and held it back. There was no movement for several seconds, then a figure clad in white appeared, followed by a stretcher and several more attendants. The body that lay on the stretcher was covered. The stretcher was carried to a waiting ambulance and placed inside. The rear door was closed. The driver gunned the engine and the ambulance steered around the barricade and into the night.
Gatz threw his cigar into the snow.
The front door opened again and another group of attendants exited with another stretcher and another covered body. The white sheet was stained red.
Gatz turned away to find the girl and question her about the contents of the briefcase.
Gatz had finished detailing the evidence accumulated in the four days since the murder, most of which consisted of Jennifer Learson's statements. Although little made sense, he finally was paying a visit to the Archdiocese.
The cardinal stared at him. "With all due respect to the authorities and your investigation," he began, "I can only say that what you have told me is an impossibility. It is beyond the realm of reason, though no doubt the forces of God and Satan are continually locked in confrontation."
Gatz nodded respectfully.
"There is little more that I can say," continued the cardinal, "other than to assure you that the truth lies elsewhere."
Gatz stood. "I certainly do not question Your Eminence, but if I might ask one more thing."
The cardinal nodded.
"The priest involved was a Monsignor Franchino. I have tried to locate such a man in this archdiocese, but have been unsuccessful."
The cardinal stood and smiled softly. "That is easily understood. There is no one with that name under my authority." He turned to an aide, who nodded agreement, and then turned back to Gatz. "Nor has there ever been."
"I see," said Gatz, standing. He flushed, somewhat embarrassed. "Thank you for your time," he added politely as he turned to leave.
Moments later he climbed into a patrol car next to Rizzo and proceeded uptown to his final appointment of the day, with David Caruso.
Caruso met them at the door in his wheelchair. He and Gatz exchanged some pleasantries, after which he repeated that he had told Gatz everything and could conceive of no other information to add.
"Only a few questions," Gatz responded.
Caruso gestured Gatz to a chair.
"Have you heard from Miss Logan?" asked the detective.
Caruso shook his head.
"Were you able to locate her home address?"
"I told you before, I never had it."
Gatz glanced at Rizzo. "Have you ever heard of a priest named Monsignor Franchino?"
Caruso reflected briefly, then said, "No."
"Did you have any dealings with anyone from the Archdiocese concerning Father Halliran?"
"You've already asked me that five times."
"Tell me again," said Gatz.
"No. The old owner made the arrangements with the church. I merely bought the building from him before he died. Miss Logan had no contact with anyone that I know of. We just received the rent checks signed by M. Lefler, the comptroller."
Gatz shook his head, then thanked Mr. Caruso for his time and patience. "Let's go," he ordered Rizzo, and after they had left the apartment he added, "take the Jennifer Learson statement and file it away."