Crisscross rj-8

by F. Paul Wilson

Jack smiled. Perfect.

  Back in the hall Aveline led him to a door labeled RF-3. When he asked, she explained that the RF stood for Reveille Facility.

  Jamie Grant's words from yesterday, when he'd asked her if the Reveille Sessions were just a series of questions, came back to him.

  Oh, no. There's so much more to it than that…

  Her smile when she'd said it still bothered him.

  RF-3 turned out to be a windowless cubicle furnished with a desk, two chairs, and a white mouse. The mouse's wire cage sat on a pedestal to the right of the desk. Aveline indicated the chair before the desk for Jack. He sat and found himself facing a horizontal copper pipe fastened to the front panel of the desk by six-inch brackets at each end. A wire ran from the middle of the pipe to a black box the size of a loaf of bread on the desk; another wire ran from the box to the mouse cage.

  He didn't have to fake a baffled look. "You're going to explain this to me, right?"

  "But of course," she replied as she seated herself on the other side of the desk. "As I am sure you know, if you have read The Book ofHokano, the purpose of the Reveille Sessions is to awaken your Personal Xelton, the hemi-xelton asleep within you."

  Jack kept glancing at the mouse.

  "Right. But what—?"

  She held up a hand. "To awaken it, you must explore your present life and your PX's past lives." She pulled a folder from the desk's top drawer. "We do this by asking you a series of questions. Some of them will seem very personal, but you must trust that none of what you say will ever leave this room."

  Not according to Jamie Grant.

  Jack leaned back and rubbed his temples, using the motion to cover a look at the grille over the ventilation duct. Between two of the slats he spotted something that looked like a tiny lens pointed his way. Somewhere in the building an AV feed of the goings-on here was being monitored and most likely recorded.

  "I trust you," Jack said.

  "Good. This is your first step in a marvelous adventure of discovery. The memories from your PX's multiple lives will sound a reveille and awaken it.

  After that you will begin the task of reconnecting your PX to its Hokano half, allowing them to fuse and become whole again. It is a long process, requiring many years of classes and sessions, but in the end you will be a superior being, unafraid to accept any challenge, able to overcome any obstacle, able to cure all ills and live forever after the GF."

  She threw her arms wide at the end of her recitation and Jack jumped at the sight of a sea urchin in each armpit. Then he realized it was hair.

  "Wow," he said, trying not to stare. "The GF is the Great Fusion, right?"

  She lowered her arms and her accent thickened. "Yes. That is when the world as we know it will reunite with the Hokano world. It will be Paradise Regained, but only those who have fused their PX with its HX will survive."

  "I want to be in that number," Jack said.

  But what did the damn mouse have to do with it?

  "Wonderful, Jack. Let us get started then. First you must grip that bar before you with both hands. Grip very tight."

  Jack did as he was told. "What does this do?"

  "This makes certain that you are telling the truth."

  Jack looked offended. "I'm not a liar."

  "Of course you are not. But we all hide truths from ourselves, oui? Repress acts we are ashamed of. We all have 'vital lies' that get us through the day. We must pierce our self deceptions and thrust to the heart of truth. And do you know where that heart is? In your Personal Xelton. Your PX knows the truth."

  "I thought my PX was asleep."

  "It is, but that does not mean it is not aware. When it hears an untruth it will react."

  "How?"

  "You will not notice it, and neither will I. Only FAs who have reached FL-8 can perceive it unassisted."

  "Then how will we know?"

  She tapped the black box. "This is an XSA—a Xelton Signal Amplifier. It cannot amplify the signal enough for us to perceive it, but that mouse will know."

  "Okay." Jack felt like he'd stepped through the Looking Glass and wound up chatting with the Mad Hatter. "But how will the mouse tell us?"

  "Answer a question with an untruth and you will see." She opened the folder. "Let us begin, shall we?"

  "Okay. But I've got to tell you, I lead a very boring life—boring job, no family, no pets, never go anywhere."

  "And that is why you are here—to change all that, oui?"

  "Oui. I mean, right."

  "Well then, hold on to the XS conductor bar in front of you there and we will begin."

  Jack tightened his grip. He felt unaccountably tense.

  He kept his eyes on the little white mouse sniffing nervously around its wire mesh cage as Aveline asked a string of innocuous questions—about the weather, about how he arrived here today, and so on—all of which he answered truthfully.

  Then she stared at him and said, "Very well, Jack. This is an important question: What is the worse thing you have ever done?"

  The directness took him by surprise. "As I told you, my life's not interesting enough for me to do anything wrong."

  The mouse squeaked and jumped as if it had received a shock. Jack jumped too.

  "What happened?"

  "You told an untruth. Perhaps an unconscious untruth," she added quickly, "but your xelton heard it and reacted."

  The untruth hadn't been unconscious. He'd done lots of wrong—at least by most people's criteria.

  Aveline cleared her throat. "Perhaps we are being too general here. Let us try this: Have you ever stolen anything?"

  "Yes."

  The mouse didn't react.

  "What was the first thing you ever stole?"

  Jack remembered the moment. "When I was in second grade I remember stealing an Almond Joy from a Rexall drugstore."

  The mouse was cool.

  "Good," Aveline said, nodding. "What was the biggest thing you've ever stolen?"

  Jack put on a show of deep thought, then said, "The Almond Joy is about it."

  A squeak from the mouse as it jumped two inches off its cage floor.

  A queasy feeling stole over him. The XSA was right. He'd boosted plenty of things, plenty of times—usually from thieves, but it was still stealing. So far the XSA had been right every time.

  Had to be coincidence. But still…

  "You're acting like I'm a criminal. I'm not."

  The mouse jumped again.

  This was getting spooky. He'd lied… his everyday existence was a criminal act… and Mr. Mouse had paid for it.

  Jack released the bar and waved his hands in the air. "I'm telling you the truth!"

  "The truth as you know it, Jack. What you say may be true in this life, but your xelton must have inhabited the body of a thief sometime in the past."

  "I don't like this."

  "It is all part of the process, Jack."

  Mr. Mouse had backed into a corner where he crouched and trembled.

  "Please don't hurt that mouse anymore."

  "He is not being hurt. Not really. But I am doing nothing to him. You are. You are in charge here. Now please grip the XS conductor bar again and we will continue."

  Jack did so. He noticed his palms were moist.

  "Have you ever killed anyone, Jack?"

  He stared at the mouse and said, "No."

  No reaction from Mr. Mouse.

  Gotcha, he thought. A number of people were on the wrong side of the grass because of him.

  Somehow, maybe with a floor button, Aveline was triggering an electric shock in Mr. Mouse's cage. Pretty damn potent way to mess with a new member's head. The psychological impact of causing an innocent animal harm with every untruth was enormous.

  "Are you heterosexual?" she asked.

  "Yes."

  Mr. Mouse maintained his nervous crouch.

  "Have you ever raped anyone?"

  Here was another one he could answer truthfully. "No way."

  Mr. Mouse's
squeal of pain was a signal to end this bullshit. A tantrum was in order.

  Releasing the bar, Jack shot to his feet and began pounding on the desk.

  "No!" he shouted. "Impossible! No, no, no! I'd never do something like that! Never!"

  Aveline's face paled. "Calm down, Jack. As I have told you, it is probably from some past life—"

  He pounded harder on the desk. "I don't want to hear that! I don't want a xelton that would be party to such a thing. You're mistaken! It's wrong! Wrong-wrong-wrong!"

  The door swung open with a bang and two shaved-headed, burgundy-uniformed men burst in.

  The taller of the pair grabbed Jack's arm and said, "Come with us. And don't make a fuss."

  "Who are you?" Jack cried, cringing.

  "Temple Paladins," Aveline said. "You must go with them."

  "Where?"

  "The Grand Paladin wants to see you," said the shorter one.

  Aveline's eyes widened. "The GP himself? By Noomri!"

  "Yeah," said the taller one. "He's had his eye on you since you stepped into the temple this morning."

  Just as Jack had expected. He went without a fuss.

  4

  "My name is Jensen." The big black man said as he loomed over Jack. Jack detected a vaguely African accent filtering through the subway rumble of his voice. "What's yours?"

  The two TPs had brought Jack to the third floor, which seemed to house the temple's security forces, and seated him in a chair in a small, windowless room. They made him wait ten minutes or so, probably looking to up his anxiety level. Jack accommodated them by fidgeting and twisting his hands together, doing his best to look like a house cat in a dog pound.

  Finally this huge black guy who made Michael Clark Duncan look svelte—hell, he looked like he'd had Michael Clark Duncan for breakfast—swung through the door like a wrecking ball and stopped two feet in front of Jack. None of his bulk looked like flab. The overhead fluorescents gleamed off the bare scalp of a head the size of an official NBA basketball. His black uniform could have doubled as a comforter on a king-sized bed.

  Pretty intimidating, Jack thought. If you're into that sort of thing.

  He started to stutter a reply. "I-I-I'm—"

  "Don't tell me you're 'Jack Farrell,' because we ran a routine check on you and learned there is no Jack Farrell at the address you gave. As a matter of fact, there isn't even a house at that address."

  "A-all right," Jack said. "My real name—"

  "I don't care what you're real name is. I just want to know your game. What are you up to? You work for that rag, The Light, is that it?"

  "No, I've never even heard of whatever it is you're talking about. I'm—"

  "Then why are you coming to us under false pretenses? We don't allow lies in Dormentalist temples—only truth."

  "But I've a good explanation about why—"

  "I don't want to hear it. As of this moment you are officially designated UP and banned from this and all other Dormentalist temples."

  Jensen turned and walked back to the door.

  "It's not fair!" Jack cried but Jensen didn't acknowledge him.

  As soon as he was gone, the two guards who'd brought Jack here led him back down to the Male RC Changing Room, watched him change, then escorted him out the door to the sidewalk. All without a word.

  Jack stood in the late-morning sun, looking dejected, then turned and began walking uptown. Pulled out his wallet and checked the slot where he'd stowed the Jason Amurri ID. The hair he'd tucked around the top of the card was gone.

  Perfect.

  He hadn't gone three blocks when he spotted the tail. But he wasn't going to try to lose him. He wanted to be followed.

  Let the games begin.

  5

  Jensen's secretary's voice rasped from the speaker on his desk. "TP Peary on line one, sir."

  Jensen had told Peary to get into his street clothes and follow this phony bastard Amurri. At first, when the routine background check on "Jack Far-rell" had come up blank—name, address, SSN, none of them had connected—he'd suspected the usual. Most troublemakers for the Church were either members of another belief system who felt Dormentalists had to be "saved," or former members with an imagined score to settle. Occasionally one turned out to be a muckraker like that Jamie Grant bitch.

  Just as Jensen had expected, when he called a raid on "Jack Farrell's" locker during the Reveille Session, they came up with a whole different set of ID. But not the ID of someone who fell easily into the usual categories.

  Jason Amurri. Okay. But from Switzerland? That had thrown Jensen. Why would a guy come all the way from Switzerland to join the New York Dormentalist temple under an assumed name? Granted, this temple was the center of the Church, its Vatican, so to speak, but why the lies? And bad lies to boot. Obviously he'd never thought they'd check up on him.

  Couldn't let anybody get away with that. Doesn't matter if you're from Switzerland or Peoria—you lie, you get the boot. That was the rule.

  Jensen stared at the phone and frowned. Kind of early for Peary to be calling in. He'd only started tailing the Amurri guy a little while ago.

  Unless…

  He snatched up the receiver. "Don't tell me you lost him."

  "No. Only had to follow him to Central Park South. He's staying at the Ritz Carlton."

  Another surprise.

  "How do you know he's not just visiting someone?"

  "Because I called the hotel and asked to be connected to Jason Amurri's room. A few seconds later the phone started ringing."

  The Ritz Carlton? Jesus. Years ago, while the luxury suites were being refurbished here in the temple, Jensen had had to book rooms in the Ritz for visiting Dormentalist celebrities. He remembered how a rear single with a view of a brick wall had cost almost seven hundred a night. And, of course, none of the visiting high rollers wanted that. No, they wanted a park view. Cost a damn fortune.

  "What do you want me to do next?" Peary said.

  "Come back in."

  He hung up. No sense in having Peary waste his time watching a hotel. Jensen now knew where the guy was and who he was.

  Well, not really who. Just his name. And home address in Switzerland. And that he was staying at just about the most expensive hotel in the city. That meant he had some bucks. This Jason Amurri was full of surprises.

  A worm of unease wriggled in Jensen's gut. He didn't like surprises.

  He reached for the buzzer and hesitated. What was his new secretary's name? The brainless little twits came and went so quickly. He seemed to go through them like a fox through chickens. No one applied to be his secretary anymore; they had to be drafted from the volunteer pool. Was he that hard on them? Not that he cared what they thought, it was just that some of them had long learning curves.

  He decided he didn't give a shit about her name.

  He buzzed and said, "Get me Tony Margiotta."

  Jensen loved what computers could do for him but, beyond e-mail, he let other people deal with them. Margiotta was the computer whiz among the TPs. He'd find out what Jensen needed to know.

  He just hoped it wasn't something he didn't want to know.

  6

  "Here you go," Richie Cordova said, handing a five to the kid from the mail drop.

  Every time something popped into his box at the drop—hardly ever more than three times a week—the kid ran it up the two blocks to Richie's office on his break. Worth the fiver every time. Saved Richie the trip, but more important, it meant he never had to show his face down there.

  A good thing to avoid. Never knew when one of the cows might get the dumb idea of watching Box 224 to see who opened it. Might see Richie and follow him back to the office, or home, and look for a chance to get even. Didn't want none of that shit.

  With Richie's delivery setup, they'd be waiting till they was dead and gone before seeing anyone so much as touch Box 224.

  "So what've we got today?" Richie muttered when the kid was gone.

  One man
ila envelope. Typed label. Hmrara.

  He pulled a folding knife from a desk drawer and slit il open. He found a legal-sized envelope within. Inside that was a note in a woman's hand and a hundred-dollar bill.

  A hundred bucks? What's this shit?

  The note was from the nun, whining about how she didn't have no more to give. Richie smiled. Normally he'd be royally pissed at the short payment, but not with this little lady. Oh, no. He wanted her tapped out—at least personally.

  But was today the right day to put the screws to her?

  He picked up the Post and turned to the horoscope page. He'd been there once already this morning and hadn't been too crazy about what he'd seen. He folded the tabloid into a neat quarter page for a second look.

  Gemini (May 21—June 21): It seems as if you have a dwindling safety margin. Don't confuse aggression with initiative. Live in the moment, follow the rules, and close the week in triumph despite these obstacles.

  Dwindling safety margin… that didn't sound so good.

  But it might not be so bad. His birthday was June 20, which meant he was officially a Gemini. But because Cancer started June 22, lots of astrology experts said people like him was "on the cusp" and could go either way.

  He checked the next reading.

  Cancer (June 22-July 22): It might be necessary to experience what you thought you wanted in order to better appreciate what you have. Dearest ones help you find fresh resources which might be able to hook you up in a surprising way.

  He read the first sentence three times and still couldn't scope out what it was saying. As for the rest…

  Dearest ones? That would have to be the crowd at Hurley's.

  Sure as hell couldn't be a woman. He'd been split for seven years now from the stupid bitch he'd married, and his mother was five years gone. No gal at the moment—most of them were slobs anyway and the ones who weren't never seemed to stay. His mother, God love her, had left him her house in Williamsbridge and everything in it. He'd grown up there and, because it was so much better than the crap apartment he'd been living in after his divorce, he'd moved back instead of selling.

  He decided what these horoscopes was telling him was that since he was going to fmd fresh resources today, his dwindling safety margin wouldn't matter, and he'd close the week in triumph.