Frank De Felitta - For Love of Audrey Rose

“Dr. Geddes. Ask him to describe me. He’ll know who I am.”

“Check it out, Cooper,” Wilkins ordered.

Snatches of radio broadcast suddenly increased in volume: MOVING TO THE UPPER PLATFORM … GIRL VISIBLE … UP ON THE HIGH ROOF … RIFLES MOVE INTO POSITION …

Wilkins reached into the patrol car and picked up the radio phone.

“Wilkins here,” he said gruffly. “No rifles. Can’t see your ass from your front end up there. Let’s get the kid alive, all right?”

He replaced the radio phone, just as Cooper came back quickly slipping on the ice, then grabbing hold of the patrol car bumper. He nodded to Wilkins. His words came rushing out.

“There is a man escaped from the Eilenberg Clinic,” he said. “Name’s Templeton.”

“Dangerous?”

“No record of violence.”

“All right, miss,” Wilkins said to Janice. “You’re on. Think you can talk to this husband of yours?”

“I can try.”

Janice followed Wilkins through the cordon of police. Now she saw, far overhead, weirdly foreshortened by the towering perspective, a man’s form, the white shirt bright against the winter clouds. The face was lost in darkness, but against the chest was a large bundle.

“Bill!” she shouted.

No answer, but the crowd sensed something and grew silent.

Wilkins and Janice went into the main door, now brightly lit with portable lamps and flashlights as well as the main corridor lights. Swinging arcs of the news team followed her, making their shadows leap and swarm. Wilkins angrily slammed the door shut.

“Scavengers,” he hissed.

Wilkins led her up the floors, at each of which was a patrolman, armed with a long rifle. Wilkins knocked at the Hernandez door and then forced it open. Two policemen looked up. Huddled against the corner were Mrs. Hernandez, her sister, and two young men Janice had never seen before.

Mrs. Hernandez turned to Janice, her face swollen and red, the tracks of tears down her cheeks and around to her lower lip, making the once pretty face grotesque.

“Mrs. Templeton?” she whispered, puzzled.

“He’s my husband, Mrs. Hernandez. I’ve come to help. If I can—”

“But why he do this? He say he from Welfare. I open the door. He start talking funny. I try to close the door. And look — my head. He push me down and hurt my head. Then he take my Juanita.”

“He’s not well,” Janice said. “He’s sick, up here, but he won’t hurt Juanita.”

“He’s a dead man if he does,” snarled one of the young men.

“Let’s try the window,” Wilkins said to one of the patrolmen.

The patrolman led the way to the living room, rammed the window open as far as it would go, and stuck his head out. He drew back in.

“It’s a bad angle, sir. Especially since he moved back.”

Wilkins poked his head out and bellowed. “Templeton! Listen to me! That girl is not yours! You bring her back and we’ll get you some proper help! Hear me?”

They listened. There was only the soft sound below of cold men stepping on new-fallen snow; that, and a derisive crowd hooting from far away. Wilkins turned to Janice.

“You try.”

Janice leaned so far out the window that Wilkins braced himself and held on to her.

“Bill!” she yelled. “Listen to me, Bill! The girl’s name is Juanita! She doesn’t belong to us! Bill! Bring her back!”

Wilkins pulled her back in.

“Gorman! There’s a fire escape platform that goes up to the roof. See if you can find a way to get up there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t go up there. Just let me know what it looks like.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mrs. Hernandez burst into wailing, a keening sound as though already mourning the loss of Juanita.

“Is he — is he gonna jump?” one of the young men asked.

“I don’t know what the hell he’s going to do, kid,” Wilkins said. “Listen, Mrs. Templeton. Is he religious?”

“Not exactly.”

“No priest or anybody he would listen to?”

Janice thought a moment. Wilkins’s face was only inches in front of her, waiting aggressively, staring at her as though he had trouble with his eyes. They were all watching her and they sensed her sudden uneasiness.

“Maybe there is somebody,” she said softly.

“Well, who, God damn it?”

“His name is Sri Parutha. He’s Master of the Hompa Hongwanji Buddhist Temple in Greenwich Village.”

Wilkins raised a gray tuft of an eyebrow.

“I might have known,” he muttered. “You, uh, wouldn’t know the telephone number?”

“Yes. It’s 555-2024.”

“Okay, Cooper. You know how to use the telephone.”

While Cooper ran down to the telephone booth, Wilkins paced around and around. They sensed when Bill was moving by the “ooohs” and “ahhhhs” of the crowd down below. Mrs. Hernandez rocked back and forth, refusing all comfort, as though she herself had passed the brink of death.

Wilkins checked his watch.

“I don’t like this,” he murmured. “That girl’s going to get real sick out in the cold like this.”

Janice touched his sleeve. Surprised, he turned.

“Let me go up to the roof,” she said. “If he saw me, he’d become himself again.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. I know it. He’s a good man. He’s just frightened.”

“All right. Let’s take a look at that fire escape.”

As they went outside into the corridor, Borman came up to Wilkins, who snapped:

“What about that fire escape?”

“It’s solid up to the roof. The top step is missing. Pretty bad ice, sir.”

“Can we get Mrs. Templeton on the roof?”

“I’m not sure, sir.”

“I wasn’t really asking, Borman. I want her up there.”

“Yes, sir.”

Borman, Wilkins, and Janice hurriedly walked to the end of the hall. A thin vertical bar gave them purchase, but the ribbed metal stairs were slippery to the touch. Below was the gaping crowd, unaware as yet of what was happening.

“Goddamn fire traps,” Wilkins growled.

Borman swung out into the air, supported by his two arms, his legs then grabbing firmly against the step. Bit by bit, the noise of the crowd solidified and rose, jeering, offering encouragement. Borman extended his hand. Janice grabbed it and swung upward onto the step.

“Keep your head down until you can verify he’s unarmed,” Wilkins ordered.

“Will do, sir.”

Borman, one step ahead of Janice, pulled her, steadied her on the treacherous steps. The frigid wind whipped through her hair. Her hands burned on the cold metal rails. Twice she thought she was falling until Borman tilted her face upward to face the clouds, and not the ground.

“I’m going to stay just below,” he whispered to Janice. “It’s best he not know I’m here.”

“I understand.”

“Say whatever you want. Just bring him down.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

Borman paused. “Because, I have to tell you. I’ve been on a few of these. They’re going to choose between him and the girl, Mrs. Templeton, and it’s not going to be him. It’s too cold for her to be out any longer. Do you know what I’m saying?”

Janice nodded, feeling the bitter wind bite into her cheeks.

“Now you go on over the top. He won’t see you for a few seconds. He’s facing the street below.”

Janice felt a steady pressure at her elbow, then at her hip, then her foot, and she felt the roof slide under her, and the hiss of the crowd and the glare of the arc lamps swinging madly, trying to catch her, until she knelt, then stood cautiously on the hard, icy roof.

Bill turned.

He was twenty yards from her, across the roof, partially obscured by a series of small chimneys, broken bottles, icy cardboard boxes stacked against one another. His face was unnaturally white, his hair wildly disheveled.