Crisscross rj-8

by F. Paul Wilson

  The date rang a bell… Jack had been to a town where a "burst of Otherness" had occurred in 1968… been there a number of times. None of his visits had been pleasant, and he'd nearly lost his life there.

  "That wouldn't have been in Monroe, Long Island, would it?"

  She nodded. "It would. And that was not the first time he came back from the dead."

  "Anya mentioned that he'd been reborn a number of times. But look, I've got to tell you, Cooper Blascoe didn't seem like a bad guy. Hard to believe a hippie like him was working for the Otherness."

  "He was merely a pawn. His dream of the Hokano world that he turned into a pamphlet was Otherness-inspired. He planted the seed that Luther Brady later twisted into the monstrous entity of his church, to use as a tool to help the Otherness dominate this sphere."

  Jack shook his head. "But as I understand it, the Otherness means to change everything here, make our reality living hell. Brady doesn't seem the type who'd try to screw himself. Unless of course he's insane."

  "He is quite sane, but is possessed of the notion that the one who completes the Opus Omega—"

  "Opus…?"

  "Opus Omega: the Last Task, the End Work—burying those obscene columns in all the designated spots."

  "You mean…" Jack pulled the flap of Anya's skin from his pocket and unfolded it for Herta to see "… in a pattern like this?"

  A cloud of pain passed across the old woman's puffy face.

  She sighed. "Yes. Just like that."

  "So it all comes together. 'No more coincidences,' right? The flap of skin I can't throw away, your hiring me to infiltrate the Dormentalists where I'd get a view of Brady's globe and recognize the pattern… everything's been carefully orchestrated."

  He felt like a goddamn puppet.

  "'Orchestrated' gives me too much credit. No one—not the Otherness, not the Ally, and certainly not I—has that much control. People and objects are placed in proximity in the hope that certain outcomes will ensue."

  "Is Brady in the same boat?"

  "Luther Brady is driving himself. I doubt he has any concept of what the Otherness's new world order will be like, but I have little doubt that he believes that the man who completes the Opus Omega will be rewarded with an exalted position in it."

  "But how does he even know about this Opus Omega?"

  "He too had a dream, but his was of a map of the world. It showed the nexus points around the globe, each radiating lines toward the others. Wherever three lines crossed, the intersection glowed. He had no idea of its significance until a forbidden book, The Compendium of Srem, was delivered into his hands."

  "Forbidden, huh? How exactly does a book become forbidden? Like banned in Boston?"

  She offered him a tolerant smile. "In a way. It was banned in the fifteenth century by the Catholic church."

  "Six hundred years… pretty old book."

  "That was merely when it was banned. It's much older than that. No one is quite sure how old. The Compendium first came to the church's attention during the Spanish Inquisition when it was discovered in the possession of a Moorish scholar whose name is lost. He was put through unimaginable agonies before he died, but either could not or would not say who had given it to him.

  "The Grand Inquisitor himself, Torquemada, is said to have been so re-pulsed after reading only a part of The Compendium that he ordered a huge bonfire built and hurled the book into the flames. But it would not burn. Nor would it be cut by the sharpest sword or the heaviest ax. So he dropped it into the deepest well in the Spanish Empire; he filled that well with granite boulders, then built the monastery of St. Thomas over it."

  Jack gave a low whistle. "What the hell was in it?"

  "Many things. Lists and descriptions of unspeakable rites and ceremonies, diagrams of ancient clockwork machines, but the heart of The Compendium is the outline of the Opus Omega—the final process that will assure the ascent of what it calls 'the Other world.'"

  Jack felt a chill. "The Otherness. Even back then?"

  "Surely you realize that this cosmic shadow war is about far more than humanity. The millions of years since the first hominid reared up on its hind legs are an eye blink in the course of the conflict. It began before the Earth was formed and will continue long after the sun's furnace goes cold."

  Jack did know that—at least he'd been told that—but it was still hard to accept.

  "And as with all forbidden things," Herta went on, "77ie Compendium could not stay buried. A small subsect of monks within the monastery spent years digging tunnels and secretly excavating the well. They retrieved the book, but before they could put it to use they were all slain and the book disappeared for five hundred years."

  "If a boulder-filled well with a monastery overhead couldn't keep it out of circulation, where did it hide during those centuries?"

  "In a place built by the Ally's warrior—"

  "You mean the one Anya told me about—the one I'm supposed to replace? He's that old?"

  Here was another thing Jack couldn't or wouldn't accept: Like it or not, he'd been drafted into this cosmic war.

  "Much older," Herta said. "Almost as old as the Adversary. More than five centuries ago he trapped the Adversary in a stone keep in a remote pass in Eastern Europe. He sealed away many forbidden books there as well, to keep them out of the hands of men and women susceptible to the Otherness. But the fortress was broached by the German Army in the spring of 1941. Fortunately the Adversary was killed—albeit temporarily—before he could escape."

  "But this Compendium thing made it out?"

  "Yes. It and other forbidden books ended up in the hands of a man named Alexandru, one of the keep's caretakers. After the war he sold them to an antiquarian book dealer in Bucharest who in turn sold The Com-

  pendium to an American collector. A quarter of a century later, the collector was murdered and the book stolen."

  "Let me guess who was responsible for that: Rasa—I mean, the Adversary, right?"

  "Not personally. He was a child at the time. But his guardian then, a man named Jonah Stevens, committed the crime and saw to it that The Compendium reached a recent college graduate named Luther Brady."

  "And the book told him to start burying concrete columns at these spots around the globe?"

  Herta shook her head. "Not start—finish. The Opus Omega had been begun long before, but there was no way for those ancients to reach certain parts of the Old World, let alone the New. Remember, The Compendium was already sealed in the Transylvania Alps when Columbus set sail for the Americas."

  "So Brady picked up where they left off. But why Brady?"

  "Because he's the sort who is highly susceptible to Otherness influence. He was and still is inspired by dreams of power—of literally changing the world."

  "I didn't mean Brady specifically. I mean, why work through someone else at all? Why doesn't the Adversary just go out and bury these pillars himself? This Opus would probably be finished by now, and he wouldn't have to deal with all this Dormentalist bull along the way."

  "But that would mean revealing himself, something the Adversary does not want to do."

  "Why not?"

  "Fear. He avoids drawing attention to himself for fear of alerting the Ally's champion. So he must work behind the scenes."

  "I've seen some of what the Adversary can do, and if he's afraid… well, this champion must be one tough cookie. Do you know him?"

  Herta nodded. "I know him well."

  "What's his name?"

  Herta hesitated, then, "His mother called him Glaeken."

  12

  Luther Brady leaned toward Barry Goldsmith, his personal attorney for the past dozen years. Barry had met him here at the Forty-seventh Precinct house and the two of them had been sitting alone at this battered table in this stuffy interrogation room for what felt like hours.

  "How long can they keep us here?" Luther whispered.

  He was sure they were being observed through the pane of mirrored glass s
et in the wall before them.

  "We could leave now. I could demand that they either charge you and arrest you, or we walk."

  "Arrested… I don't want to be—"

  "Don't worry." Barry patted his arm. The gesture retracted the sleeve on his charcoal Armani suit, revealing his glittering Rolex. "I don't do criminal defense, but I know enough to tell you that they'll need a lot of evidence to put the cuffs on someone of your stature and pristine record. And we know they don't have that evidence—can't have that evidence, right?"

  He sounded as if he wanted reassurance. Well, Luther would give it to him.

  "Barry, listen to me and trust me when I say that I have never even heard of this Richard Cordova, let alone done him harm. And they say it happened up here in the Bronx. I don't know if I've ever in my life even set foot in the Bronx."

  Another pat on the arm. "Well, then, we've nothing to worry about. They need motive and, considering that you've never heard of the man, you have none. They need opportunity, and a man who's never been to the Bronx could not have committed a crime here."

  "But they took my pistol…"

  Barry frowned. "That bothers me a little too. Was it out of your possession at any time during the past twenty-four hours?"

  "I haven't been carrying it around, if that's what you mean. It's been in my desk."

  "Which is in your office, and we both know what a fortress that is."

  Yes, a fortress to which only he and Jensen—

  Jensen! He could have taken the pistol. Luther couldn't imagine why, but—

  No. He remembered seeing a report this morning from the Paladin office tracing Jensen's whereabouts last night. Nothing about going to the twenty-second floor. In fact, no one had entered the top floor last night—neither by elevator nor the stairway.

  So it couldn't have been Jensen. But could his death be in some way connected…?

  "The pistol will vindicate you," Barry was saying. "That's probably why they've kept us waiting: ballistics tests. They'll compare slugs from your gun to the ones in the murdered man. When they get no match, they'll have to apologize. And that's when I'll go to work. They'll regret they ever heard your name."

  "But that's the big question: Where did they get my name? There must be thousands and thousands of nine-millimeter pistols registered in this city, and who knows how many unregistered. But detectives from the Bronx show up on my doorstep. Why?"

  Barry frowned again and shrugged.

  Luther pressed on. "What worries me more is that one of the cops said my gun had been fired recently. And that there was blood and tissue in the rear sight. And I looked as he was bagging it and… and I thought I could see a brown stain there."

  Barry's frown deepened. He appeared to be about to speak but stopped when the door next to the mirror opened.

  Detectives Young and Holusha entered. Holusha carried a manila folder. He dropped it on the table as he and Young took seats opposite Luther. Young's expression was neutral, but Holusha's sent a spasm through Luther's bowels. He looked like a chubby cat contemplating a trapped mouse.

  "I'll cut to the chase," Young said. "The ballistics people say the slugs that killed Cordova came from your pistol."

  "Yeah," Holusha added. "Got a perfect match on the grooves, and guess what—you missed one of your brass. We found it in the darkroom. Tests show your firing pin fired that round."

  A spasm again ran through Luther's gut. "That's impossible!"

  Young ignored him and picked up without missing a beat. "The lab found blood on the rear sight that matches the blood type of the victim. DNA results are weeks away, but…" He left the rest to the imagination.

  This couldn't be! It wasn't possible! This had to be a nightmare and he'd awaken any minute now.

  "He's being framed!" Barry cried. "Can't you see that?"

  "Two sets of fingerprints were lifted from your pistol," Young said, his gaze never shifting from Luther's face. "Yours, Mr. Brady—which we have from your gun permit application—and the victim's." His eyes narrowed. "Anything you want to tell us, Mr. Brady?"

  "He has nothing to tell you except that he's being framed!" Barry said, slamming his palm on the table. "The pistol was stolen from his office, used to murder a man he's never heard of, and then returned! It's the only explanation!"

  "A man he's never heard of?" Holusha said through a tight smile. "You're sure of that?"

  "Damn right, he's sure of that! You may have a weapon, detectives, but you do not have a motive!"

  "No?" Holusha opened the folder and arranged three photos in plastic sleeves before him. Then he slid them across the table. "I'd say these were motive, wouldn't you? Mucho motive."

  Luther's blood turned to ice when he saw them.

  13

  "Glaeken…" Jack rolled the unfamiliar name over his tongue. "Strange name."

  "It is ancient. He goes by another name these days." Don't we all, Jack thought.

  "Well, then, why don't you tell Glaeken what's going on?"

  "He knows."

  "He knows!" Jack leaned forward. "Then why isn't he out there kicking Adversarial butt?"

  Herta sighed. "He would if he could, but Glaeken no longer has the powers he once did. He was relieved of his immortality in 1941 after the Adversary was killed, and has aged since."

  "But that was over sixty years ago. He must be…"

  "Old. Still quite a vital man, but he could never stand up to the Adversary in his present condition. That is why you have been… involved."

  Involved, Jack thought. Nice way to put it. Dragged kicking and screaming into something I want no part of is more like it.

  Slow nausea curdled his stomach as he began to realize there might be no way out for him. The Ally's torch was going to be passed his way, no doubt sooner than later if Glaeken was as old as Herta said.

  Then he thought of something else…

  "The Adversary is hiding from a frail old man… that means he doesn't know." He barked a laugh—first laugh in a couple of days. It felt good. "Oh, that's rich!"

  "This is not a laughing matter. As long as the Adversary remains unaware of Glaeken's circumstances, he will be cautious in his doings. He will work through surrogates to prepare the way for the Otherness. But should he learn the truth…"

  "The gloves will come off."

  "As far as Glaeken is concerned, yes. He hates Glaeken. And he should, for Glaeken has killed him more than once. The Adversary will hunt him down and destroy him."

  "And when he's finished with Glaeken, what happens to me?"

  "You'll take his place. But don't worry about that now. It hasn't happened yet. It may never happen."

  "But—"

  She waved a hand in the air. "There is no point in worrying about events and situations over which you have no control."

  No control… that's the part I worry about.

  "Can I ask an obvious question: Why doesn't the Ally just step in and squash the Adversary and these Otherness ass-kissers like the bugs they are?"

  "First off, you must remember—and this is always a blow to the human ego—that we are not that important. We are a mere crumb of crust on the edge of the pie they are vying for. Secondly… I don't know this for sure, but from what I've observed I sense a certain game play in the conflict. I

  sense that how one side increases its share of the pie is almost as important as the securing of the extra piece itself."

  "Swell."

  "That's just my sense of it. I could be wrong. But I can assure you that the Ally is active here in a limited way, and that's good, I suppose."

  "You suppose?"

  "Well, it counterbalances the Otherness, but I'd prefer that this world, this reality, had been left out of the conflict altogether." She raised a fist toward the picture window. "Take your fight somewhere else and leave us alone!"

  "Amen to that."

  "The Ally's presence, though minimal, will prevent the Adversary from becoming too bold even should he learn the truth ab
out Glaeken."

  "Which brings us back to Brady and Dormentalism and buried pillars. What's the story there?"

  "The Compendium laid out the requirements of the Opus Omega: Find each site as laid out on the map, and there bury a thirteen-foot column of stone quarried from a site proximal to a nexus point. Luther Brady improvised a method of substituting concrete that included some sand or earth from within or around a nexus point. But special rock or sand isn't all that is necessary. Each column requires one more indispensable ingredient: a living human being—at least living when the column is sealed. Dormentalist "martyrs"—missionaries who go missing while spreading the Dormentalist gospel in Third World countries—aren't missing at all. They're buried in cylindrical tombs all over the globe."

  "Not all of them are Dormentalists," Jack said, feeling a heaviness settle on him.

  Herta nodded. "Yes, I know. Your friend, the reporter. I'm sorry."

  Friend… we didn't know each other long enough to be close friends. But still…

  "That is what Dormentalism is all about," she said. "Luther Brady turned a silly, hedonistic cult into a money-making machine to finance Opus Omega. Brady knows that fusion is a hoax. No powers are achieved at the top of the Dormentalist ladder. But the exercises practiced along the long slow road to the upper rungs do have a purpose: They identify people susceptible to Otherness influence. The aspirants may believe the nonsense about getting in touch with their inner xelton, but what they're really doing is more finely attuning themselves to the Otherness. Luther Brady reveals Opus Omega to the select few who reach the top of the ladder, telling them it will bring about the Grand Fusion—never mentioning the Otherness. He then appoints these sick folk as his Continental and Regional Overseers to further the Opus."

  "Let's just say he completes this Opus Omega. What then?"

  "When pillars are buried in all the designated sites, the Otherness will become ascendant. The Adversary will then come into his own and the world will begin to change."