The Sentinel Read Online Free PDF Page B

for some unexplainable reason, she felt threatened. Perhaps she had been away from New York too long.
    Halfway down the block she stopped. She could hear footsteps echoing between the grotesque overhanging buildings. Turning quickly, she strained her eyes, but there was nothing visible; the footsteps died. She squeezed her fingers into fists. The feeling again. It returned with the same suddenness with which it had hit her in the studio. She felt a surge through her arms, then a lack of sensation, as if all the nerve endings had been cauterized. Nervously, she looked for the source of the footsteps, hoping to see Jack appear, explain away the intruder and reassure her as he had done before. Then, suddenly, the dull tingling was gone. She kicked at the ground, angered that she would let the strain of past weeks do this to her.
    Steadying herself, she took several steps and stopped again. Footsteps echoed once more. Quickly, she crossed the street, huddled in the shadow of a garment factory and looked back. The footsteps continued, but they sounded different now. They were no longer coming toward her; they were either moving away or turning into one of the side alleys. She remained frozen in place, sensing that she was still in danger, praying that the horrible tingling sensation would not return to her arms. Then she bolted through the refuse toward the corner. Running, gasping frantically, arriving under the streetlight just as an arm wrapped around her chest and pulled her to the side.
    "Hey."
    She looked around, panic-stricken; there was a man behind her.
    "Slow down, my child; you'll kill someone," he said softly.
    She stood shaking, holding on to a muscular arm that held her securely. She panted wildly, wound her fingers into the little tufts of white hair that dotted his freckled skin and focused on the diminutive nun who stood close to him, holding her rosary and using his body as a buffer against the cold night wind.
    The priest released his grip, raised his heavy white eyebrows and regarded her sympathetically.
    "Are you all right?" asked the nun.
    Allison nodded and turned.
    "What happened?" questioned the priest.
    She hesitated and, as a gesture of regained composure, tried to tidy her wildly scattered hair. She was relieved. Of all people to run into, a priest and a nun. How lucky could she have been? She quickly grabbed her crucifix-in deference to something-and held it tightly.
    Turning, she glanced down the block. There was nothing. She looked back at the priest, embarrassed. "I'm terribly sorry, Father, I thought someone was behind me. I was trying to get off the street."
    "Let me see," said the priest. He stepped away and looked down the barely visible sidewalks. "I don't see anything," he said, shaking his head. "Stay with the good sister for a moment."
    The priest began to search the doorways.
    "Sister, I'm so sorry."
    "There's nothing to be sorry about, my child," said the nun. Her cheeks glistened under the shower of light from the streetlights; her eyes reflected her warmth and sincerity. "If something scared you," she continued, "that is not your sin. You shouldn't walk alone here at this hour of the night."
    "But this has never happened before," Allison protested.
    "Something bad need only happen once." The nun reached out and took her hand. "Calm yourself, my child. No one will hurt vou now."
    They stood together under the streetlight for two or three minutes.
    At the sound of footsteps they turned; the priest stepped from the shadows.
    "Nothing," he said as he wiped some dust off his authoritative hands.
    "I'm sorry," Allison repeated once again. "I don't know what got into me."
    "I wouldn't concern myself, my child. It's very dark and every sound echoes no matter how slight. It's certainly understandable that you would become frightened."
    "Where are you going?" asked the nun. "If it's near, you can walk with us."
    "No, thank you. I have to go uptown to Eighty-ninth Street. I'll hail a cab, but I