The 1st Deadly Sin (87 page)

The days passed, he supposed, and so did the nights. But where one ended and the other began, he did not know. Days and darkness, all boundaries lost, became part of that grey, flavorless tide, warm, milky at times, without odor now. It was a great placid sea, endless; he wished he had the strength to stand and see just once more that silver river that flowed to everywhere.

But he could not stand, could not even make the effort to wipe away a thin, viscous liquid leaking from eyes, nose, mouth. When he moved his hand upon himself, he felt pulped nipples, knobbed joints, wrinkles, folds of scratchy skin. Pain had gone; will was going. But he held it tight, to think awhile longer with a slow, numbed brain.

“Daniel Blank…Daniel Blank…,” the voice called seductively. He knew who it was who called.

On the second day, an enterprising New York City newspaper hired a commercial helicopter; they flew over Devil’s Needle and took a series of photos of Daniel Blank sitting on the rock, knees drawn up. The photograph featured on the newspaper’s front page showed him with head raised, pale face turned to the circling ’copter.

Delaney was chagrined that he hadn’t thought of aerial reconnaissance first and, after consultation with Major Samuel Barnes, all commercial flights over Devil’s Needle were banned. The reason given to the press was that a light plane or helicopter approach might drive Blank to a suicide plunge, or the chopper’s downdraft might blow him off the edge.

Actually, Captain Delaney was relieved by the publication of that famous photo; Danny Boy was up there, no doubt about it. At the same time, with the cooperation of Barnes, he initiated thrice-daily flights of a New York State Police helicopter over the scene. Aerial photographs were taken, portions greatly enlarged and analyzed by Air Force technicians. No signs of food or drink were found. As the days wore away and Blank spent more and more time on his back, staring at the sky, his physical deterioration became obvious.

Delaney went along on the first flight, taking a car north with Chief Forrest and Captain Sneed to meet Barnes at an Air Force field near Newburgh. It was his first face-to-face meeting with Sam Barnes. The Major was like his voice: hard, tight, peppery. His manner was cold, withdrawn, his gestures quick and short. He wasted little time on formalities, but hustled them aboard the waiting helicopter.

On the short flight south, he spoke only to Delaney. The Captain learned the State officer had consulted his departmental surgeon and was aware of what Delaney already knew: without food or liquid, Blank had about ten days to live, give or take a day or two. It depended on his physical condition prior to his climb, and to the nature and extent of his exposure to the elements. The Major, like Delaney, was monitoring the long-range weather forecasts daily. Generally, fair weather was expected to continue with gradually lowering temperatures. But there was a low-pressure system building up in northwest Canada that would bear watching.

They were all discussing their options when the ’copter came in view of Devil’s Needle, then tilted to circle lower. Their talk died away; they stared out their windows at the rock. The cabin was suddenly cold as a crewman slid open the wide cargo door, and a police photographer positioned his long-lensed camera.

Captain Delaney’s first reaction was one of shock at the small size of Daniel Blank’s aerie. Chief Forrest had said it was “double bedsheet size,” but from the air it was difficult to understand how Blank could exist up there for an hour without rolling or stumbling off the edge.

As the ’copter circled lower, the photographer snapping busily, Delaney felt a sense of awe and, looking at the other officers, suspected they were experiencing the same emotion. From this elevation, seeing Blank on his stone perch and the white, upturned faces of the men surrounding Devil’s Needle on the ground, the Captain knew a dreadful wonder at the man’s austere isolation and could not understand how he endured it.

It was not only the dangerous height at which he had sought refuge, lying atop a rock pillar that thrust into the sky, it was the absolute solitude of the man, deliberately cutting himself off from life and the living. Blank seemed, not on stone, but somehow floating in the air, not anchored, but adrift.

Only a few times before in his life had Delaney felt what he felt now. Once was when he forced his way into that concentration camp and saw the stick-men. Once was when he had taken a kitchen knife gently from the nerveless fingers of a man, soaked in blood, who had just murdered his mother, his wife, his three children, and then called the cops. The final time Delaney had helped subdue a mad woman attempting to crunch her skull against a wall. And now Blank…

It was the madness that was frightening, the loss of anchor, the float. It was a primitive terror that struck deep, plunged to something papered over by civilization and culture. It stripped away millions of years and said, “Look.” It was the darkness.

Later, when copies of the aerial photos were delivered to him, along with brief analyses by the Air Force technicians, he took one of the photos and thumb-tacked it to the outside wall of the gate-keeper’s cottage. He was not surprised by the attention it attracted, having guessed that the men shared his own uncertainty that their quarry was actually up there, that any man would deliberately seek and accept this kind of immolation.

Captain Delaney also noted a few other unusual characteristics of the men on duty: They were unaccountably quiet, with none of the loud talk, boasting and bantering that usually accompanied a job of this type. And they were in no hurry, when relieved, to return to their warm dormitory in the high school gymnasium. Invariably, they hesitated, then wandered once again to the base of Devil’s Needle, to stare upward, mouths open, at the unseen man who lay alone.

He discussed this with Thomas Handry. The reporter had gone out to the roadblocks to interview some of the people being turned back by the troopers.

“You wouldn’t believe it,” Handry said, shaking his head. “Hundreds and hundreds of cars. From all over the country. I talked to a family from Ohio and asked them why they drove so far, what they expected to see.”

“What did they say?”

“The man said he had a week off, and it wasn’t long enough to go to Disney world, so they decided to bring the kids here.”

They were organized now: regular shifts with schedules mimeographed daily. There were enough men assigned to cover all the posts around the clock, and the big searchlights and generator truck were up from New York City so Devil’s Needle was washed in light 24 hours a day.

Captain Delaney had a propane stove in his cottage now, and a heavy radio had been installed on the gate-keeper’s counter. The radiomen had little to do and so, to occupy their time, had rigged up a loudspeaker, a timer, and a loop tape, so that every hour on the hour, the message went booming out mechanically: “Daniel Blank…Daniel Blank…come down…come down…” It did no good. By now no one expected it would.

Every morning Chief Forrest brought out bags of mail received at the Chilton Post Office, and Captain Delaney spent hours reading the letters. A few of them contained money sent to Daniel Blank, for what reason he could not guess. Blank also received a surprisingly large number of proposals of marriage from women; some included nude photos of the sender. But most of the letters, from all over the world, were suggestions of how to take Daniel Blank. Get four helicopters, each supporting the corner of a heavy cargo net, and drop the net over the top of Devil’s Needle. Bring in a large group of “sincere religious people” and pray him down. Set up a giant electric fan and blow him off his rock. Most proposed a solution they had already rejected: send up a fighter plane or helicopter and kill him. One suggestion intrigued Captain Delaney: fire gas grenades onto the top of Devil’s Needle and when Daniel Blank was unconscious, send up a climber in a gas mask to bring him down.

Captain Delaney wandered out that evening, telling himself he wanted to discuss the gas grenade proposal with one of the snipers. He walked down the worn path toward Devil’s Needle, turned aside at the sniper’s post. The three pale-faced men had improved their blind. They had dragged over a picnic table with attached benches. From somewhere, they had scrounged three burlap bags of sand—Chief Forrest had helped with that, Delaney guessed—and the bags were used as a bench rest for their rifles. The sniper could sit and be protected from the wind by canvas tarps tied to nearby trees.

The man on duty looked up as Delaney approached.

“Evening, Captain.”

“Evening. How’s it going?”

“Quiet.”

Delaney knew that the three snipers didn’t mix much with the other men. They were pariahs, as much as hangmen or executioners, but apparently it did not affect them, if they were aware of it. All three were tall, thin men, two from Kentucky, one from North Carolina. If Delaney felt any uneasiness with them, it was their laconism rather than their chosen occupation. “Happy New Year,” the sniper said unexpectedly.

Delaney stared at him. “My God, is it?”

“Uh-huh. New Year’s Eve.”

“Well…Happy New Year to you. Forgot all about it.” The man was silent. The Captain glanced at the scope-fitted rifle resting on the sandbags.

“Springfield Oh-three,” Delaney said. “Haven’t seen one in years.”

“Bought it from Army surplus,” the man said, never taking his eyes from Devil’s Needle.

“Sure,” the Captain nodded. “Just like I bought my Colt Forty-five.”

The man made a sound; the Captain hoped it was a laugh. “Listen,” Delaney said, “we got a suggestion, in the mail. You think there’s any chance of putting a gas grenade up there?”

The sniper raised his eyes to the top of Devil’s Needle. “Rifle or mortar?”

“Either.”

“Not mortar. Rifle maybe. But it wouldn’t stick. Skitter off or he’d kick it off.”

“I guess so,” Captain Delaney sighed. “We could clear the area and blanket it with gas, but the wind’s too tricky.”

“Uh-huh.”

The Captain strolled away and only glanced once at that cathedral rock. Was he
really
up there? He had seen the day’s photos—but could he trust them? The uneasiness returned.

He went back to the cottage, found a heavy envelope of reports a man coming on duty from Chilton had dropped off for him. They were from Sergeant MacDonald, copies of all the interrogations and statements of the people picked up in the continuing investigation. Delaney walked out to the van, got a paper cup of black coffee, brought it back. Then he sat down at his makeshift desk, pulled the gooseneck lamp closer, put on his heavy glasses, began reading the reports slowly.

He was looking for…what? Some explanation or lead or hint. What had turned Daniel G. Blank into a killer? Where and when did it begin? It was the motive he wanted, he needed. It wasn’t good enough to use words like nut, crazy, insane, homosexual, psychopath. Just labels. There had to be more to it than that. There had to be something that could be comprehended, that might explain why this young man had deliberately murdered five people. And four of them strangers.

Because, Delaney thought angrily, if there was no explanation for it, then there was no explanation for anything.

It was almost two in the morning when he pulled on that crazy coat and wandered out again. The compound around the cottage was brilliantly lighted. So was the packed path through the black trees; so was the bleak column of Devil’s Needle. As usual, there were men standing about, heads back, mouths gaping, eyes turned upward. Captain Delaney joined them without shame.

He opened himself to the crisp night, lightly moaning wind, stars that seemed holes punched in a black curtain beyond which shone a dazzling radiance. The shaft of Devil’s Needle rose shimmering in light, smoothed by the glare. Was he up there? Was he
really
up there?

There came to Captain Edward X. Delaney such a compassion that he must close his mouth, bite his lower lip to keep from wailing aloud. Unbidden, unwanted even, he shared that man’s passion, entered into him, knew his suffering. It was an unwelcome bond, but he could not deny it. The crime, the motive, the reason—all seemed unimportant now. What racked him was that lonely man, torn adrift. He wondered if that was why they all gathered here, at all hours, day and night. Was it to comfort the afflicted as best they might?

A few days later—was it three? It could have been four—late in the afternoon, the daily envelope of aerial photos was delivered to Captain Delaney. Daniel G. Blank was lying naked on his rock, spread-eagled to the sky. The Captain looked, took a deep breath, turned his gaze away. Then, without looking again, he put the photos back into the envelope. He did not post one outside on the cottage wall.

Soon after, Major Samuel Barnes called.

“Delaney?”

“Yes.”

“Barnes here. See the photos?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think he can last much longer.”

“No. Want to go up?”

“Not immediately. We’ll check by air another day or so. Temperature’s dropping.”

“I know.”

“No rush. We’re getting a good press. Those bullhorn appeals are doing it. Everyone says we’re doing all we can.”

“Yes. All we can.”

“Sure. But the weather’s turning bad. A front moving in from the Great Lakes. Cloudy, windy, snow. Freezing. If we’re socked in, we’ll look like fools. I say January the sixth. In the morning. No matter what. How do you feel about it?”

“All right with me. The sooner the better. How do you want to do it: climber or ’copter?”

“ ’Copter. Agreed?”

“Yes. That’ll be best.”

“All right. I’ll start laying it on. I’ll be over tomorrow and we’ll talk. Shit, he’s probably dead right now.”

“Yes,” Captain Delaney said. “Probably.”

The world had become a song for Daniel Blank. A song. Soonngg…Everything was singing. Not words, or even a tune. But an endless hum that filled his ears, vibrated so deep inside him that cells and particles of cells jiggled to that pleasant purr.

There was no thirst, no hunger and, best of all, there was no pain, none at all. For that he was thankful. He stared at a milky sky through filmed eyes almost closed by scratchy lids. The whiteness and the tuneless drone became one: a great oneness that went on forever, stretched him with a dreamy content.