The Sentinel (30 page)

"Do you want me to play games with you?" Michael cried angrily. "Then let me assume from recent reading that this place is the entrance to the underworld and that you're the resident bogeyman. Congratulations. I just hope your union has a good pension. If not, I'll renegotiate the deal." Michael realized his words sounded ridiculous, but he had run out of intelligent things to say. And even so, saying anything was useless.

Halliran continued to chant.

"Say something, for God's sake!" screamed Michael at the top of his lungs.

Gatz charged through the front door of the precinct house and hurried down the stairs. His expression was serious. His movements deliberate. Beside him was a patrolman.

The patrolman opened the rear of the squad car and got in as Gatz slid into the front seat next to Rizzo.

"No idea where they might have gone besides Learson's?" asked Gatz.

"No."

"Did you have the line checked?"

"Yes. Off the hook."

Gatz nodded, his concentration intense. The car sputtered, whined and sped down the block.

"Where's the apartment?"

"In the Fifties."

"Go through the park," ordered Gatz.

"Yes, sir," replied Rizzo.

"Rizzo," Gatz announced, "I got a feeling that tonight something is going to happen."

Chanting continuously, Halliran opened the door that had been so frustratingly closed.

He walked toward the window before which he had invariably been seen sitting still and quiet. Before it stood an antique wooden chair. As Michael followed the man, he noticed the severe angles and inflexibility of the seat. It looked uncomfortable. It must have been torture for the old arthritic cleric to sit hour after hour in the same position against its hardwood frame. But as Michael flashed the light about, he realized that the old priest had no choice. There was no other furniture in the apartment.

In the center of the room he turned the beam toward the bedroom. The door was open; there was no furniture in there either. Could it have been possible that the entire world of the priest, his entire existence, was tied to that baroque piece of furniture? That he sat there and slept there and ate there. He shivered. There was no sign of any food or kitchen utensils.

The old man sat down, held the cross in his lap and looked out the window. "Bastard," yelled Michael. "Bastard. I'm going to tear you apart with my bare hands. I'm going to choke what I want out of you."

He moved around the side of the chair and wound his cold, bloodless fingers about the old priest's neck. He began to squeeze. The old man continued to chant in unintelligible Latin.

"Bastard! Talk, you bastard!" Michael raged. Halliran continued to chant, but now the rhythm was hyphenated by choking. His windpipe was being depressed; breathing was becoming difficult. But no matter how hard Michael squeezed, the priest did not defend himself. Instead, he just continued to hold his shaking hands about the cross.

The chair toppled over; Michael and the priest sprawled across the floor. "I'll kill you," Michael cried, struggling. "Bastard! Bastard!"

A heavy object swept out of the darkness through the soft light that trickled in through the gray-tinted window. It landed heavily against the skull. Again and again! Blood splattered onto the barren floor. The sound of flesh being pulled across the wood. More groans. More blood. And then silence.

Allison opened her eyes.

She shook her head. She was groggy. Where had she been? Where was she? And wherever she was, how had she gotten there?

The air was still cold and dry; the wind continued to blow fiercely. And she wasn't wearing a coat. She was freezing.

She raised her eyes from the sidewalk, looked around and then straight ahead. She gasped. Across the street was the brownstone. Dark, quiet and uninviting.

One thought took precedence: Michael was in the house. She stepped off the curb and paused, sensing the weakness in her limbs as they shook from the effect of the freezing air and wind. Her teeth chattered mercilessly; she rubbed her hands together. Then, summoning her strength, she ran across the street and into the house.

The light above was still shining; the air possessed the same foggy density.

She walked to the mirror, lifted the pair of gloves off the table and examined the leather closely. They were Michael's. He was possibly within reach, certainly within the sound of her voice. She turned from the mirror which held her sallow reflection and screamed, "Michael!" The sound echoed overhead and died. "Michael, are you here?" she repeated in a loud, quivering voice. There was no answer. "Why did you come here?" she said more softly. "Why?" And then she cried again. "Michael!"

She fidgeted with the thin leather gloves. She would have to climb the stairs into the darkness and inspect each apartment. Perhaps he was in one of the bedrooms, shielded from the sound of her voice by the thick plaster walls. Or maybe he just wasn't able to answer for some terrible reason.

She pulled at the fingers, turned them inside out and threw them back on the table.

"Michael, please answer me," she screamed again.

She waited momentarily; there was no response. She grabbed the rail and began to climb. The yellow fog sped away as she ascended the old wooden steps. She stopped halfway up and shook the banister. It was still as sturdy as ever. At least there was something in the brownstone on which she could rely. She shook the banister again and step by step climbed the rest of the way to the second floor.

She turned sharply at the top of the staircase, bypassing the barely visible inscription, and walked down the hall. "Michael!" she cried again.

She looked up the staircase to the third floor and sighed deeply, relieved to see that the small yellow light that jutted from the wall at the top of the landing was working, illuminating the stairs. She went on slowly, remembering once again the night she had stepped on the cat.

She reached the third floor, walked toward the far end of the hall and stopped abruptly. There was something on the tile: a large round stain with smaller streaks and stains reaching down the corridor. She puzzled, then kneeled down and touched the substance. It was liquid, viscous and warm. She lifted her hand, smelled the ends of her fingers and rubbed them together, each one tinted with the fluid. And then she knew. It was blood.

She gasped and looked along the floor at the smaller pools and scratch lines which suggested that a body had been dragged along the floor. She looked in the other direction. The trail seemed to end in the middle of the hall, as if the body had been picked up and hurled out of the brownstone. She trembled. "Michael, please help me! Please, wherever you are." Then she fell to her knees and began to crawl, exhausted, incapable of standing, heading for the door to her apartment and the only safety she knew in the entire building.

As she was about to pull herself up and insert her key into the lock, her hand touched something hard and cold. She lifted the dull piece of gold-colored metal and examined it closely. It was a cufflink. Fourteen carats. With the initials MSF: Michael Spencer Farmer. Covered with blood.

She screamed and clutched it in her fist while the other hand reached for the immediate security of her crucifix. Frantically, she inserted her key into the keyhole that seemed to be dancing all over the metal plate, unfastened the lock, pushed in the door and fled from the hall. Leaning back against the wall, she closed her eyes and gasped, "Michael! No!" She rubbed her forehead, then grabbed strands of her hair, pulling them out at the roots. "Help me! Help me!" But there was no one there. Only darkness. "I confess! I have sinned," she cried. "Sinned. But leave me alone. Whoever you are, leave me alone!" Her hysteria increased in its violence. Her nails dug into her skin, leaving long scratches.

Suddenly she whirled around, snapped the lock shut, rammed the bolt across the door and closed the guard chain. She turned again, studied the dark apartment, ran across the room to the granny lamp and pulled the switch. Nothing. She tried the main light, but it too was out. She sped across the room to the coffee table and pushed the button on the small lamp. It went on and illuminated the room. She was alone.

Shuddering, she returned to the door to check the locks once more. Then she rushed to the bedroom hallway, poked her head into the kitchen and the bathroom. They were both empty. The kitchen light was out; the bathroom light was working. What was going on with the lights? she wondered as she carefully traced her steps to the bedroom, tried the main switch and then, it being out, flicked on the wall lights. The bedroom was empty also. She was safe; at least while she was in the apartment. But was it really safety? She had no phone. No means of communication. Sooner or later she would have to leave the apartment and enter the halls. And no matter what time of day, it would be like night in the corridors. What could she do? She looked around the room, then suddenly bolted from the bedroom and tore down the hall into the living room. The front windows! She could open them and scream. No matter that it was late. Someone would hear her, go for help and bring the police.

She raced around the couch, past the lamps, the guardian grandfather clocks and the fireplace, finally stopping in front of the draperies. Furiously pulling them apart, she gasped! The windows were gone; in their place was a solid wall. "No!" she screamed as she rammed her fists against the wood. Again and again she pounded, her knuckles swelling, her dry eyes aching. She shuddered. The back window faced a solid wall. From there no one could hear her cries. She was trapped!

She turned nervously away. "Oh, Mother," she whimpered as she thought of home. She needed her mother now. More than anything in the world. Her mind was wandering, and as she began to pace, her brain slowly welcomed the return of the dizziness and nausea to compound the fierce headache that had been building since she had awakened in the street. She was alone. Shut off from the world. By whom? For what purpose? And Michael. Poor Michael. Her pace quickened. She needed someone to protect her. She stopped and looked at the television. Yes, she could count on it. She turned it on. The tube buzzed and sputtered. A test pattern! She changed the station. Music. "The Star-Spangled Banner." Again. Nothing. Again. Finally! The late show. She stared at the screen. It was alive, filled with movement and noise. The myriad of colored dots swallowed her consciousness. She continued to walk about the furniture, but now her eyes remained fixed on the screen. And they remained so until her feet and body could no longer bear the stress. Painfully, she wrenched her focus from the set and moved down the hallway to the bedroom, where she fell to her knees next to the fourposter and laid her head in her trembling hands. The fingers touched skin that at any other time would have scourged her senses, but she perceived nothing. "Angel of God, my Guardian dear" she prayed hypnotically. The television buzzed in the background. She continued her prayer, but the rest of the words were garbled and lost in the palms of her hands. If only she could get back to that church and sit in the confessional again. It had been her only moment of peace. She rolled her forehead on the bedding, lay inert for a few moments, then looked around wildly. Footsteps. Again? Back and forth they went just like on those other nights. Thumping. Then she realized the sounds were not coming from above.

The television snapped off. She jumped. There were footsteps in the living room. Then silence. Someone was in the apartment! She gagged her mouth with her hands. How? She had checked the apartment. And she had bolted the door, and the windows were now a wall. Then she remembered the living room closet which she hadn't checked. Whoever was in the other room had been in there, probably behind the clothes, waiting.

Two more footsteps. The sound of heavy breathing.

She looked wildly about for anything that might protect her. In desperation she ducked into the bedroom closet and shut the door. Holding the knob in her right hand, she leaned back into the hanging clothes. Her muscles were frozen in place, her body motionless.

Heavy footsteps resounded in the hallway. They were moving slowly but deliberately toward her, and as the magnitude of the echo increased, so did the feelings of hopelessness-for the closet held no protection for her. Whoever was in the apartment knew she was there and would find her.

The footsteps stopped at the entrance to the bedroom.

She pulled harder on the knob, as if she were trying to permanently fuse the door closed and isolate the terror outside.

She inhaled, the acerb odors of the naphthalene that protected the clothes from moths scorching her lungs and eyes. She lifted her hand and held her chest. Her already overworked heart was beating with frantic irregularity, exerting so much stress that at any moment she expected it to blow her organs through the door into the bedroom.

The footsteps resumed; they seemed to course over the far side of the room, stop near the window for several seconds, then move back to the dresser.

She pulled the knob harder.

The footsteps started again and moved to the bed.

She held her breath, afraid to make any sound, risking suffocation rather than discovery. She took her hand off the knob, dried it and returned it to its place. Her other hand was wrapped around the crucifix. She was soaking wet.

As the footsteps circled the bed and moved in the direction of the closet, she felt her entire body constrict. A warm flow of fluid ran down her leg and onto her feet. She had urinated. She looked down at the soft light that crept in under the door and saw the wretched liquid slowly filtering under the crack and into the bedroom. She cringed and tightened her muscles, hoping to cut off the flow. But it was impossible. She squeezed her eyelids shut as she thought of the pool that was oozing into the bedroom and betraying her presence.

The footsteps moved by the dresser and stopped in front of the door. She could see the shadow of the two feet in the light. This was it! Again came the surge of horror, nausea and dizziness. The doorknob began to turn; she receded.

The door opened an inch and stopped. The intruder breathed deeply, then pulled back the door with a violent thrust. She opened her mouth in terror.