Crisscross rj-8

by F. Paul Wilson

  No answer, so he again put the autopick to work and let himself in.

  Dark inside. He flicked his flashlight on for seconds at a time. The place seemed neat and clean, but stank from the rare delicacies nuked or fried in the bar kitchen two floors down. He spotted a poster of a robust-looking Cooper Blascoe on one wall and a shelf stacked with Dormentalist tracts on the other.

  Okay. This was the place. All he had to do now was wait for Johnny "Oroont" Roselli to show his face.

  A partially packed duffel bag sat on the bed. Planning a trip, Johnny?

  Maybe half an hour later footsteps in the hallway stopped outside the door. As a key rattled in the lock, Jack stepped behind the door and waited. Johnny flipped on the light as he closed the door behind him. Jack didn't give him time to turn. He grabbed him from behind and took him down.

  "Not a sound!" he said into Johnny's ear as he straddled his back. Jeez, his ratty clothes were filthy and he stank. "I'm not here to hurt you, just to talk. Keep it down and we both end up healthy. Start calling for help and one of us winds up hurting. And it won't be me. Got that?"

  Johnny nodded, then whispered, "If all you want is to talk, why didn't you just call me on the phone?"

  "I did, but you started calling me strange names and hung up."

  "That was you?" He started to twist his neck, turning his scraggly-bearded face toward Jack. Jack pushed it back.

  "No peeking. You see my face, I'll have to kill you."

  Johnny pushed his nose against the floor. "For Noomri's sake, what do you wantV

  "I was hired to deliver a message. Here it is: Call your mother."

  "What? That's crazy. You were hired? By who?"

  "Your mother. She's—"

  "That's impossible!"

  "She's worried about you and—"

  "My mother's dead!"

  Jack opened his mouth but closed it after a second or two. He felt his shoulders slump. He should have seen this coming.

  The problem now was how to salvage the situation.

  "Impossible. I spoke to her just the other day."

  "You couldn't have. She's been dead four years."

  "Skinny old lady with bad arthritis?"

  "Not even close. She was an Old World Italian mama."

  "Shit. Perhaps I've made a mistake."

  "Perhaps?"

  "Well, she told me her son was a Dormentalist."

  "Well, at least you got that right. You—hey!"

  Jack was digging into Roselli's back pocket. "Just checking some ID. How do I know you're not lying?"

  "I'm not. Who are you looking for? Maybe I can help."

  "Can't mention names. Professional ethics."

  The expired driver's license in the wallet showed a more clean-shaven John A. Roselli.

  "Okay. You're not him. My bad. Sorry."

  "Can I get up now?"

  "No. Remember what I said I'd have to do if you see my face?"

  Next to the license was Johnny's temple swipe card. Jack glanced at the clothes-stuffed duffel on the bed. An idea began to take shape.

  "I see you're packed for a trip. Skipping town?"

  "No. Going camping, if you must know. It's the only place a person in my state of…"

  "Ripeness?" Jack said.

  "Well, yes. Plus being alone in the wild helps me commune with—oh, never mind. You wouldn't understand."

  "You never know."

  Jack quickly pulled out his own wallet and extracted his temple entry card. No name on either card, no way to tell one from the other. He looked around and spotted a couple of magnets—with the Dormentalist logo, for Christ sake—on the refrigerator door. He leaned to the side and plucked one off.

  "What are you doing?" Roselli said.

  "Don't worry, I'm not stealing your money."

  He began rubbing the magnet along his card's magnetic strip.

  If Jensen was worth a damn as security chief, and Jack believed he was, he'd have either inactivated the Jason Amurri entry code in the computer or tagged it with a detain-on-sight warning. Either way, it was useless for getting Jack into the temple. He hadn't planned on going back, but now with Jamie incommunicado, it might prove necessary.

  Which meant he needed a working model.

  He slipped his card into Johnny's wallet and pocketed the other, then dropped the wallet on the floor next to Johnny's face.

  As much as Jack wanted to move a good six or ten feet away from this smelly clown, he couldn't let him up yet. Also he was curious as to what Roselli had done to deserve being declared a lapser.

  Jack made a loud sniffing noise. "You ever hear of soap? Or dry cleaning maybe?"

  "Of course. Normally I'm a very clean person."

  "Yeah?" What had Jensen called his punishment? Oh, yeah. Solitarian Exile. "So how long are you stuck in SE mode?"

  He felt Roselli tense beneath him. "How do you know about that?"

  "I know a lapser when I see one. Used to be in the church myself. That's why I was hired to find this missing FA."

  "Used to be?"

  "Yeah. Got out years ago." He needed to stick to the Dormentalist patois here. He tried to picture the list Jamie had given him. What the hell did they call ex-Dormentalists? "They started saying I had Low Fusion Potential and wanted me to take all these extra courses to raise it. But I couldn't afford it so I went DD on my own before they could kick me out."

  Roselli laughed—a single, bitter bark. "That's pretty close to why I'm not allowed to bathe or shave or change my clothes for a month."

  "LFP too?"

  "No. Because as soon as fall rolled around the Church raised the fees on every course for every step of the FL. I said it was too much, that it would hold too many people back from FF. That was an unpopular position with the FPRB, so I wound up LFA for objecting."

  "And you just take it? They say go make yourself dirty and stinky and you do it?"

  "I have given myself to the Church and must abide by its decisions."

  "Does that also mean you've given up the right to your own opinion? Your pride? Your self-esteem? I once saw this film of thousands of Shütes whipping themselves bloody in the streets of Teheran during Ramadan. If the FPRB told you to do something like that, would you?"

  "I… I don't—yes, yes, I would. The work of the Church is far more important than one man's foolish pride."

  Jack could only shake his head. True Believers never failed to amaze him.

  But on a more practical level, he wondered if Roselli was as rich as his ersatz mother had said.

  "Well, seeing how you live, I can see why you'd object to rising prices on the Dormentalist menu."

  Roselli tensed again. "Too many creature comforts are distracting and clutter the road to Full Fusion. Money is not a problem for me. I live this way because I choose to."

  "Yeah, right."

  "I have a decent amount in the bank, enough to support me, but I gave all the rest—a small fortune, if you care to know—to the Church."

  "And this is how they thank you?"

  "I didn't give it for thanks. I wasn't looking for special treatment. I gave it to further the Church's mission."

  Jack wished he could open this turkey's eyes.

  "So after they pretty much sucked you dry, they gave you the shaft by raising the fees."

  "No, that doesn't affect me. I gave the Church so much that I'll never be charged FL fees, no matter how high they go. It wasn't—isn't myself I'm concerned about, it's the others who aren't so lucky."

  "Not so lucky? I'd say their luck will change for the better when they get booted from the church for not being able to come up with the necessary jing to stay in."

  "So, that's it. You've become a WA. Lots of DDs do."

  "Wall Addict? Out to destroy Dormentalism? Not likely. You have to care about something before you want to destroy it. I don't even think about the church these days."

  That would have been true last week, even early yesterday. But after what had happened to Blas
coe last night, and with Jamie missing, nothing would please him more than seeing Brady and Jensen and their whole crew brought down. Way down.

  But he couldn't let Roselli know that. Blindly loyal Dormentalist that he was, he'd go running to Jensen.

  Jack rose to his feet and placed one of his Docs on Roselli's back.

  "Don't move."

  He reached over to the wall and flicked off the lights. Then he paused, searching for the right parting note as he left this loser in his self-imposed filth.

  "Looks like I made a mistake about you. You're not the guy I was looking for. We'll let bygones be bygones, okay. I'll keep looking for the right guy, you keep avoiding soap. And hey… sorry about your mother."

  Jack slipped out, closed the door behind him, and hurried down to the street. On his march back to the subway station, he placed another call to the lady who called herself Maria Roselli. Still no answer.

  Are you avoiding me, lady? he thought. Hope not. Because I need to talk to you. I mean, we really need to talk.

  16

  Jack saw no sense in going back to Beekman Place, especially dressed as he was. Even if the mystery lady were home, the doorman wouldn't let him past the front door.

  He picked up the late city issue of the Post before getting on the train.

  He paged through it on the uptown ride. His heart fell as he came across the piece he'd been looking for but hoping he wouldn't find.

  Jamie Grant, reporter for The Light, was missing. Police were speculating whether her disappearance might be related to the murder of the night security guard.

  Shit. Jensen had her. No question.

  Instead of going home, Jack got off at Columbus Circle.

  The first thing he did when he hit street level was dial 911 on his Trac-fone. He hated to turn to the cops, but it was time. He was one man and Jamie could be anywhere in the five boroughs, maybe beyond.

  "Listen up," he said when the emergency operator picked up. "I just read in the paper where the cops are looking for a missing reporter named Jamie Grant. She was kidnapped by members of the Dormentalist Church for writing exposes about them."

  "What is your name, sir, and where can we reach you?"

  "Never mind that. Listen: She was kidnapped by a guy named Jensen who's the Dormentalist head of security. Keep an eye on him and you'll find Jamie Grant."

  "Sir—"

  "Got that? Jensen. Dormentalist Church."

  He broke the connection. Maybe they'd write off his call as the ravings of an MDP, maybe not. Jamie had been very publicly at odds with the Dor-mentalists, so the charge wouldn't sound complete blue sky. Jack hoped they'd focus at least some of their manpower and resources on Jensen and his church.

  He walked down to the Avis place on West Fifty-fourth. He'd been using the John L. Tyleski identity for the past few months, and since he was a paid-up Visa Card holder with a current driver's license—courtesy of ID-maestro Ernie—he was allowed to cruise away in his usual rental—a Buick Century.

  Jensen and his TP crew would be on the lookout for Jack's Crown Vic. This would give him a different look.

  Jamie had said the Dormentalist bigshots kept their cars in a garage around the corner from the temple. Jack found a spot on the street downstream from the exit and parked. He checked his watch. Almost eight. He'd give it four hours, then call it quits.

  Could be a long night.

  But half an hour later, as he talked on his cell to Gia, he was pleasantly surprised to see a black Mercedes pull out of the garage. As it passed, Jack recognized Brady behind the wheel. Jamie had said he drove himself only on special occasions. Could this special occasion be a meeting with Jamie Grant?

  Brady stopped at the red light at the end of the block. Jack waited for it to go green, then pulled out and followed.

  17

  Fog… the world was fog… all fog…

  And pain. A dull pain in her left hand… her left little finger. It throbbed and burned and—

  Then Jamie remembered. Jensen. The cleaver. Her finger. The indescribable pain as the blade sliced through skin and bone and tendon and nerve.

  Bad as it was, the pain hadn't lasted too long. The sweet-smelling cloth had been jammed against her face again, taking away the world and the pain.

  For a while.

  Now both were back.

  And other sensations… chill air on her skin… bands about her arms and legs and body, tight against her stomach and especially her chest, making it hard to take a deep breath. She opened her mouth for more air and realized she couldn't. Some sort of cloth had been shoved between her teeth and taped into place.

  Gagged!

  Fighting panic, she forced her gummy lids open and blinked her eyes into focus. Whatever light there was came from above. Images formed slowly. First came the lines, vertical and horizontal, all around her. For a moment she thought she might be dreaming… a nightmare in which she'd fallen into a Mondrian painting. But as the lines became clearer she made out their ribbed surfaces and recognized them as steel reinforcing rods, welded into a heavy-duty lattice.

  What was she doing in a steel cage?

  And beyond the rods loomed the inner surface of a giant metal tube, maybe twenty feet tall and five in diameter.

  She felt a cool draft against her skin and looked down at herself. Shock blasted away the lingering effects of whatever they'd drugged her with.

  She was naked.

  Oh, God, Jensen or one of his drones must have stripped her while she was out. She wondered if they'd done anything else to her, but she didn't feel as if she'd been…

  Her mind froze as she realized she wras bound hand, foot, and body to a dozen or more of the reinforcing rods… bound and suspended half a dozen feet off the ground… inside a tube…

  Jamie tried to calm herself. This had to be a dream, a very bad one, because it couldn't be real. Things like this didn't happen to people, especially her. It was surreal, had no basis in the real world…

  Check out the inner surface of the cylinder, for instance… all those strange looking, sharp-edged, geometric projections running up and down and around. She'd never seen anything like those before.

  A dream…

  But dream or not, something about the oddly unsettling shapes poured a stream of acid into her already quaking stomach.

  What was this? Where was she? And why?

  And then a part of her interview with Blascoe tumbled back to her. The part about the pillars Brady was burying all over the world. It seemed like years since she'd typed the words into her computer…

  … the concrete's gotta be made with a certain kind of sand, and the columns gotta be inscribed with all sorts of weird symbols …

  She'd been tied up and suspended inside one of Brady's columns. But why on Earth would—?

  Blascoe's next sentence provided a chilling hint.

  … And then they've gotta put something else inside it before they can bury it…

  The old man hadn't known what that something else might be, but now Jamie did.

  The gag muffled her screams.

  18

  "Where the hell are we?" Jack muttered as he followed Brady along a dark, twisting road through the Jersey sticks.

  Seemed to be a pretty popular back road, which was good. Jack had kept his distance as he'd followed Brady off the Parkway. His Mercedes was now riding behind a battered old pickup and ahead of a Taurus. Jack kept behind the Taurus.

  He was pretty certain they were in Ocean County, although they could have been at the lower end of Monmouth. He hadn't seen a sign either way. Not that it mattered. He wasn't too familiar with either.

  Not so Brady. He seemed to know where he was going. Not a hint of hesitation in the way he negotiated the hilly curves and turns since the Parkway.

  The next turn took Jack by surprise. As the road crested, Brady hung a sharp left and disappeared. Jack slowed as he reached the spot but didn't stop in case Brady was checking for tails. He caught a glimpse of an ope
ning through the trees, a concrete skirt abutting the road's asphalt, and then nothing but open night sky.

  He doubted Brady had driven off a cliff, so he continued on for about a quarter mile until he found a spot wide enough for a U-turn, then doubled back. He killed his headlights as he turned onto the skirt and stopped. He faced a wide expanse of starry sky as he sat overlooking some sort of pit, a huge excavation maybe seventy or eighty feet deep, with a cluster of odd-shaped buildings nestled against the near wall. Light glowed through a few windows in one of the taller structures where three or four cars were parked.

  Jack backed up and drove downhill to where he'd made the U-turn. He pulled the car off the road and parked it between a couple of pines, then walked back. He hugged the wall of the pit as he made his way down the steep concrete driveway.

  At the bottom he came upon a small fleet of cement mixer trucks. Each had printing on the cab doors that he assumed to be the company name. Something about the design above the name drew him to the trucks. He sidled over to one. Keeping its bulk between himself and the buildings, he risked a quick flash of his penlight.

  Centered on the door was something that looked like a black sun or black sunflower. Beneath that…

  WM. BLAGDEN & SONS, INC.

  He'd seen that design and that name before. But where?

  And then he remembered: a couple of months ago, in Novaton, Florida, on the cab door of a dump truck.

  The driver had said he was hauling sand to New Jersey. Jack had thought it strange at the time—no shortage of sand in Jersey—and had meant to check it out when he got back. But with so much happening in his life these days, he'd never gotten around to it.

  And yet here he was, standing in the yard of Blagden & Sons.

  A familiar heaviness settled on Jack. This was no coincidence. No more coincidences in his life, and here was further proof.

  In September a Blagden & Sons sand-hauling dump truck had been stolen and used to run down his father. And now in November he'd followed Luther Brady here, to the Blagden & Sons factory or mill or whatever a concrete making-mixing place was called.