The Sentinel (14 page)

The room was silent; there were no footsteps.

Turning on the flashlight, she flicked it over the walls. The furniture was as she had seen it earlier that day when Miss Logan had taken her through the apartments. She sniffed the air and recoiled. The musty odor was stronger than ever. She wiped her nose to kill the sting and turned toward the grandfather clocks. The faces were clogged with dust; the hands lay still. The fireplace was empty and the living room closets were open. Except for a tattered old umbrella, they too were bare.

She angled toward the bedroom hallway. The footsteps echoed again. She shut the flashlight, cowered against the wall and held her breath, fearing that even the sound of her heaving chest might be heard. The living room seemed to shrink around her, the walls converging and the ceiling lowering. Frantically, she turned. She had left the front door partially open. Every muscle begged her to break for safety. Yet she knew she could not. The bedroom lay a mere twenty feet down the short hallway. And in it the source of the footsteps, the key to her nightmares and, perhaps, the solution to the mystery of the missing tenants.

Brandishing the knife before her, she moved deliberately down the corridor, shoulder touching the wall, one step at a time.

The footsteps ceased; there was a squeaking.

She reached the open door to the bedroom and extended the knife before her. At first there was no indication of life. She waited, then turned toward the faint outline of the bed. A soft rustling drifted out of the darkness. She pressed the button on the flashlight; it didn't work. She shook the cylinder violently; the batteries jiggled but still no light. There was movement; a figure slid through the darkness and stood, back to Allison, against the outline of the rear window.

"Hello," she called, her voice choked and frightened. There was no answer. "Hello," she repeated.

The figure stood silent-motionless.

"What do you want from me?"

There was no reply.

She slowly moved toward the form, calling to it in a high-pitched voice. The knife was fully extended; she shook the flashlight in desperation. Never before had she known such fear, such restrained hysteria.

Reaching the figure, she touched its shoulder. It turned, but in the darkness of the room she could only see the outline of a head. "Who are you?" she begged, tears rolling down her cheeks. The figure stood silent, immobile. She jiggled the flashlight once more. It burst on, a powerful beam of white shattering the darkness and shining directly into the eyes of: Her father!

He was pallid white, a death mask covering his face. The lips and eyelids were swollen and hideous. Blue veins crisscrossed the crusted skin. His hair was shriveled, his eyeballs opaque. The cobalt scars that coursed along the right side of his face, down the neck and onto the right arm were festered; colorless pus oozed on the surface. And he was naked.

Her hideous scream fractured the night.

Lurching backward into a chair, she fell against the wall, still screaming, then stumbled back and forth, swinging the flashlight wildly in ever-widening arcs. The beam sporadically fell across her father's charred body as he painfully moved toward her, his right leg partially paralyzed and dragging behind. She ran backward, colliding with the furniture. The light continued to spray the room. It caught the bed and framed two fat naked women lying in an obscene position. Then darkness.

She ran into the living room, fell over an armchair and sprawled across the floor, losing her grasp on the flashlight. It flickered out. The sound of the approaching footsteps rang in her ears.

The chair had fallen on her; she pushed frantically to get it off.

The partially open door slammed shut. The figure was standing in front of her only means of escape. She screamed hysterically, shot to her feet and charged toward the door. He grabbed her by the hair with one hand, by the crucifix chain with the other. She swung the knife into the darkness. It dug into the heavy chest. A bloodcurdling scream shook the apartment. Again and again the knife plunged downward as a trickle of blood curled down her arm. More screams-a cry of death. Then a body dropped. She ran toward the door, threw it open and sprang into the hallway.

The front door of the brownstone burst open; Allison rushed out, screaming, and tumbled down the wet stone steps. She no longer had the knife. Lights switched on in the surrounding buildings in response to the cries; curious heads emerged from open windows. Pulling at her soaked hair in terror, she stumbled through the puddles, falling every few steps from the force of the wind and her own imbalance. Running-falling-she managed to make her way down the block to the corner.

High above the street the old priest-awake, but still motionless-sat at the window, hands braced in front of him. The rain continued to fall. The wind blew fiercely. The house stood dark and silent.

Chapter XIII

"This way, ma'am."

"I hope this won't take too long."

"I wouldn't know, ma'am."

"I'm anxious to see her."

"That's up to the man inside."

The detective opened an opaque glass door.

"Thank you," said Jennifer Learson as she walked by the man and into the room.

The detective looked at the lettering on the door. It was marked "Bellevue Hospital-Police Interrogation." "Just take a seat on the bench," he said officiously.

The room was small, sparsely furnished. The walls were discolored; chips of paint hung from the plaster or already lay on the gray cement floor. The furniture was plain, splintered and untended-a long brown bench along the right wall, a simple square unpainted table to the left.

Jennifer sat down on the bench.

The detective closed the door.

A squat little man with an angular face was seated behind the table. He possessed a pair of black eyes, a long nose with a bump on the bridge, and two unnaturally thin and colorless lips. On his head was an old fedora which blended perfectly with his oversized suit. His shirt was covered with ashes that had fallen from a short chewed-up cigar that hung from his mouth and bobbed about as he ruminated.

He smiled at Jennifer, revealing a beaverlike mouth of teeth that stretched across his face and left the impression that the lower part of his head was a huge dental bridge. He held the smile and said nothing. She fidgeted on the bench, unnerved by the unprotected, sterile surroundings and the piercing nature of the little ferret's ambivalent grin.

"My name's Gatz, Detective Gatz, with a Z." His voice, a low-pitched twang, was irritating to the ear. The sound emanated from deep in his throat and took much of its form from the unnatural tucked-in position of his jaw, which caused the muscles to constrict and the vocal cords to compress.

"Yes, sir," she replied as she watched the misleading smile recede from his face.

"I'd like to talk to you."

"Yes, sir," she repeated. Her fingers ran nervously along the pleats of her blue skirt.

"Your name is Learson, Jennifer Learson?"

"Yes."

He held up a piece of paper. "Home: Three eleven East Fifty-first Street. Profession: Model."

"Yes."

"Good."

"I wanted-"

He interrupted. "I trust detective Richardson filled you in?" he asked, glancing at the tall, unresponsive detective behind him.

She paused, then replied, "Vaguely."

"I see. Well, we'll try to clarify the picture a bit more. You know Miss Allison Parker, I presume?"

"Yes, sir, but-"

"When's the last time you saw her?"

"About four days ago. Look, I'm very upset! Can't you tell me what happened?"

"In a moment." His voice implied more command than explanation. "When was the last time you spoke to her?"

"Also four days ago."

"What did you talk about?"

"Clothes."

"That's all?"

"Yes, well, she talked about a party."

"What party?"

"A housewarming she was going to have."

"When?"

"She didn't say. She just said she was going to have one and asked me for suggestions on who she should invite."

"And you gave them?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'd like you to make a list of the names you mentioned."

She nodded. "They were all her friends."

"Good. What else did you talk about?"

"That's it. Clothes and the party."

"And she said nothing out of the ordinary?"

"No."

"Nothing strange or disturbing?"

"No."

"You're positive?"

"Yes."

He held up another piece of paper, read it and declared, "She's been in the building on 89th Street a week."

"Almost two," Jennifer corrected.

Gatz added a notation to the paper. "Have you seen her apartment?" he asked. "Or been in the building?"

"No," she replied.

"Has anyone you know?"

"Her boy friend."

He grinned. "I see," he said with a peculiar note of anticipation in his voice.

The door opened once more; Michael entered the room. He nodded at Jennifer, then walked, unaware of Detective Gatz's presence, to the bench and sat down.

Seeing Gatz, he shot to his feet, his cheeks a deep crimson.

Gatz sat grinning coldly, his right foot beating slowly on the cement floor. "Sit down!" he ordered, his eyes revealing a hatred that matched Michael's virulent expression. "Sit!"

"What the-"

"Sit down, I said!" commanded the detective angrily.

Michael reluctantly did so.

"What are you doing here?" Michael said at last.

"It's my job, isn't it?"

"There are other detectives in the city!"

"How true! But this case interests me. You see, I was sitting in Division Headquarters when the call came in. Sounded like the usual nut case murder. So I was about to assign one of the third-grade detectives. There's just something about psychos that don't intrigue me. I like murders that are the products of evil minds. But you know that already. So as I'm saying, I was about to do a disappearing act when I heard the name of the broad and the guy whose calling card was in her pocket. And what do you know? I come flying out of my office faster than hell, because I knew that with you involved it had to be a pretty dirty matter."

"What happened to Allison?" asked Michael, ignoring the insult.

Gatz scowled. "What was the name of your wife-the poor kid-Karen?"

Michael gripped the underside of the bench. It was all he could do to restrain himself from leaping at Gatz and smashing him through the wall.

Gatz smiled. He enjoyed watching Michael torture himself.

"What happened to Allison?" repeated Michael through gritted teeth.

"Allison Parker?" Gatz was taunting him.

Realizing the detective's purpose, Michael released his grip on the bench, relaxed the taut muscles in his face and sat back calmly. "Yes, sir, Allison Parker."

The game was over. Gatz reclined in his chair and gathered his thoughts. "The Karen Farmer case." He had spent six months digging and probing until his superiors had forced him to close the file. Then he was transferred to another division and busted in rank. He would never forget it-nor the fact that he was sure he had been right and everyone else wrong. And here right in front of him was Michael Farmer, but as much as he wanted to, he couldn't dig back into the past. At least not yet. Right now he had the "Allison Parker case," and he had to get to the bottom of it first. Then, if his luck held, discover the truth about the death of Michael Farmer's wife.

"I haven't got much of an idea as to what happened. So as far as I'm concerned, nobody's suspected of anything yet. And that includes you too, Farmer. Like I say, a man's innocent until proven guilty."

"Did you think that up all by yourself?"

"Don't start, my friend," cautioned Gatz, standing up. The sheriff's chair rocked behind him, squeaking. Detective Richardson leaned over and stopped the seat. Gatz glanced approvingly at his assistant and began to pace the floor.

"It seems we had a rather strange incident last night. One Allison Parker was found roaming the streets, hysterical, screaming she had just stabbed her father to death."

Michael gasped. He sat frozen in place as did Jennifer, and then he blurted, "That's impossible! Her father died of cancer weeks ago!"

Gatz frowned. He leaned forward and pulled a clipboard off the table. Simultaneously he picked up a pair of hornrimmed glasses and, after placing them precariously above the bump on his nose, examined his notes with deepening interest. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"Absolutely! You can call her mother if-" He caught himself midway through the sentence. "No, you had better not," he corrected. "I don't think she could handle this. Call the police authorities in her home town. They'll confirm."

Gatz removed a cheap pen from his shirt pocket, leaving behind a dark ink stain; he shook the pen violently to force the oozing ink down toward the point where it belonged. The paper crackled as he carefully crossed out the name and address of Allison's father and inscribed the word "deceased." Returning the amended paper to the table, he once again sat back in the chair and stared at Michael.

"Let me review some facts. Your relationship with Miss Parker is?"

"Friend."

Gatz gritted his teeth, indicating his displeasure.

"Boy friend," Michael corrected.

Gatz smiled impolitely. Satisfied, he turned his eyes toward Jennifer. "And you're her friend?" he asked.

"You already know that."

"And you two know each other." It was a statement rather than a question. He had observed their silent greeting when Michael had first entered the room. Nodding, Gatz stood and once again began to pace the floor. The cigar which continued to hang from his mouth was somewhat shorter now; he had bitten off a portion of the chewed-up end.

He stopped and leaned against the wall below the sealed windows. He regarded his two captives suspiciously.

"We found some blood on her clothing, but it turned out to be her own-from a cut on her forearm. Type AB, Rh negative. Then we searched the apartment in the building where she said she killed the old man and we found no blood, no corpse."