Crisscross

by F. Paul Wilson

  “We’re expected,” Jensen said.

  She nodded knowingly. “Of course. Wait here and I’ll announce you.”

  But Jack kept going, like a moth heading for the light, ignoring calls from Jensen and the receptionist. He strolled through the doors into a high-ceilinged room clad in the same walnut paneling. He squinted in the light from the skylights and windows. To the left he noticed a pair of chromed steel doors sliding shut across a recess that contained what appeared to be a giant sphere.

  A familiar-looking man rose from a huge desk by the windows. Jack knew him from TV, usually in a tape clip associated with a sound bite. But he hadn’t seen that expression before: Luther Brady was furious.

  “I tried to stop him, Mr. Brady,” said the breathless receptionist behind him, “but he wouldn’t listen.”

  The anger flashed out of Brady’s face as quickly as it had come. He was smiling now as he came around the desk and started toward Jack.

  “Quite all right, Constance,” he said, dismissing her with a left-handed wave. He thrust out his right hand as he approached Jack. “Our guest, it would seem, has a rather unpredictable nature.”

  Constance left, shutting the door behind her. Jensen remained, standing with his feet apart, his hands clasped in front of him. Like some dark stone idol.

  “I’m so sorry,” Jack said. “I didn’t mean to barge in. It’s just that, well, the thought of meeting Luther Brady himself, in person, it…well, it just blew my manners out the window. Really, I apologize.”

  “Quite the contrary,” Brady said. “It is I”—a quick glance at Jensen here—“we who should be apologizing to you for the way you were treated yesterday.”

  “Don’t give it another thought.” Jack clasped Brady’s hand in both of his and gave it a hearty shake. “This is such an honor, sir.”

  Brady’s supercilious expression indicated that he agreed.

  “But you have me at a disadvantage, sir. You know my name but I don’t know yours.” He laughed. “I certainly can’t call you ‘Jack Farrell’ now, can I.”

  “It’s Jason…Jason Amurri.”

  “Jason Amurri,” Brady said slowly, as if rolling an unfamiliar sound over his tongue.

  You’re good, Jack thought. Very good.

  No doubt Brady and Jensen knew all about Jason Amurri by now, but Brady was putting on an excellent show.

  Ernie’s job had been to find a rich recluse in his thirties, someone who didn’t get his pictures in the pages. He’d been justly proud of coming up with Jason Amurri.

  Ernie had said Jason was the younger son of shipping magnate Aldo Amurri—not Onassis class, but up there—with a personal fortune somewhere in the couple-of-hundred-million neighborhood; nice neighborhood, but due to become lots nicer when he inherited Daddy’s company. Unlike his older brother, Jason was anything but a jet-setter. He was a recluse who’d spent much of the past ten years on the continent, mostly in his chateau in Switzerland. As such, he was not paparazzi fodder and so there was almost no public record of what he looked like.

  All perfect for Jack.

  Brady was milking his act. “I must say, Jason Amurri is a rather nice name. Why would you hide it?”

  “Well, it’s kind of embarrassing.” Jack wished he knew how to blush on demand. “I’ve read articles that say that, you know…that the church is only after…you know…money.”

  “May their xeltons never know union!” Brady’s features darkened with anger. “The Dormentalist Church has so many enemies, but not one of them will confront us on the issues—whether or not our members lead better lives because of their association with the Church, or whether or not we make the world a better place with our good works. Why not? Because they know they’d lose the argument. So they attack us with innuendo, hinting this, insinuating that, knowing we can’t fight back, that we can’t open our records without breaking the sacred pact of trust between the Church and its members.”

  No doubt about it, Brady had the gift. Even Jack found himself wanting to believe him.

  “In my heart I think I knew that, but I just, well…” He put on his best guilty expression and looked away. “I have some money behind me and I didn’t want that to be a factor or influence anyone. I just wanted to be treated like a regular Joe.”

  Brady laughed and clapped a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “You will be. We all start out as regular Joes here. It’s on the Fusion Ladder that the men are separated from the boys.”

  Jack shook his head despondently. “I don’t know…that Reveille Session was so upsetting. That poor mouse…”

  Brady’s grip tightened on Jack’s shoulder. “I realize that some of us are more sensitive than others, and since you’ve already had one bad experience…” He paused, looking thoughtful, then directed his gaze over Jack’s shoulder. “What do you think, GP Jensen? Should I handle this myself?”

  “Oh, I don’t see how, sir,” Jensen rumbled from behind Jack. “Your schedule is so full as it is. I don’t know where you’ll find the time.”

  Sounded as if he was reading it off a teleprompter.

  “You know what?” Brady turned away from Jack and walked to the windows where he struck a wide-legged, hands-clasped-behind-the-back pose as he stared out at the city. “I’m going to make time.”

  “I don’t understand,” Jack said.

  Brady turned and focused the full wattage of his pale blue gaze on Jack. “I am going to take you through the Reveille process myself.”

  Jack feigned a weak-kneed wobble. “No! I can’t believe this!”

  “Believe it.” Brady moved closer. “With my guidance I can have you through the RC level and into an FA uniform in no time. But first you must tell me why you wish to join our Church. What do you think we can do for you that you can’t do for yourself? What are your goals?”

  “Well, I’d really like to become a more effective person. I’ll be facing major responsibilities before too long and—”

  “What sort of responsibilities?” Brady made it sound like a casual conversational query.

  Jack cleared his throat. “Well, uh, my brother and I will be running the family business soon.” He didn’t expect Brady to ask what business that was; he wasn’t supposed to be interested in that sort of thing. Besides, he already knew. “It’s a major responsibility and I don’t know if I’m, you know, ready for it.”

  Did that sound ineffectual enough? He hoped he hadn’t overdone it.

  Brady laughed. “Well then you’ve come to the right place! The Dormentalist Church is all about maximizing personal potential. Once your xelton half is fused with its Hokano counterpart, the world will be yours for the taking. There will be no task too difficult, no responsibility so great that you cannot handle it with ease!”

  Jack grinned. “If I can achieve only a fraction of that I’ll—”

  “A fraction? Nonsense! With me guiding your Reveille, we’ll awaken your sleeping xelton and have you on the path to Full Fusion in no time!”

  Jack forced a little laugh and shook his head. “I’ve got to warn you. I’m a very closed-in, uptight person. You may have your work cut out for you.”

  Brady’s expression became serious. “You forget that you are dealing with someone who has achieved Full Fusion. There is nothing I cannot do. We will conduct your Reveille right here in my little domain where no one will disturb us. It will go quickly, I promise you.”

  “I hope so.”

  Probably the first true thing Jack had said since his arrival.

  3

  Luther Brady arranged to meet with Jack tomorrow morning to restart his Reveille Sessions, gave him his “personal” phone number that he could call any time, then told Jensen to show him around the temple.

  Jensen acted cool about it but Jack could tell he thought he had better things to do than play tour guide for some rich twit who wanted to be more effectual.

  Jack made a trip to one of the rest rooms and used the break to put in a quick call to Cordova’s office. Knowin
g he was probably being watched, he kept the conversation brief and oblique. In response to “Is he in?” the receptionist said she was expecting her boss around ten-thirty. A late-night investigation, you know.

  A late-night investigation into the bottom of a beer glass at Hurley’s, you mean.

  Okay, that gave him about an hour.

  The tour turned out to be about as interesting as a limited warranty statement. The whole damn building seemed little more than a collection of classrooms and offices. So far Jack wasn’t seeing what he wanted: the place where the temple kept its membership records. He’d been thinking that if they were computerized and if he could persuade Jensen to give him his e-mail address, he could have Russ hack into the system and locate the whereabouts of Johnny Roselli.

  Only two of the upper floors turned out to be interesting. The twentieth couldn’t be accessed without a special swipe card. Here was Celebrityland. The entire floor had been converted to luxury suites for high-visibility visitors—the actors, rock stars, scientists, politicians, and so on who’d joined the Dormentalist fold.

  But the twenty-first floor was altogether different. At the end of a short hallway lay a large open space with floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides.

  “This is the Communing Level,” Jensen told him. “FAs can come here at any time of the day or night to meditate with their xelton and, if they’re far enough along toward fusion, its Hokano counterpart.”

  Canned patter if Jack had ever heard it.

  He looked around and saw about a dozen people scattered throughout the space, most in chairs facing the windows but a few sat on the floor with their limbs folded into something resembling the lotus position.

  Not a bad spot to commune with your inner xelton, or your inner coleslaw, or inner anything. The 180-degree view was spectacular. The south wall was taken up by a row of booths.

  “What are those for?”

  “For those FAs who wish to commune in privacy.”

  Privacy? Jack doubted that. Privacy seemed a rare bird in the temple. He’d spotted video pickups everywhere Jensen had taken him.

  He heard a latch click and saw someone step out of one of the booths and walk their way. His hair looked oily, face unshaven, and he was dressed in raggedy clothing. Looked like a squeegee man. As he passed, eyes averted, Jack caught his scent: major BO.

  He also caught sight of a long nose with a bulbous tip.

  Could it be?

  “I didn’t know you had homeless Dormentalists,” Jack whispered as the raggedy man passed.

  Jensen glared at him with a scandalized expression. “All Dormentalists are productive citizens. That man isn’t homeless, he’s a lapser.”

  At first Jack thought he might be referring to some sort of subsect, then remembered seeing the term on one of Jamie Grant’s summary sheets. Couldn’t remember what it meant, though.

  “Lapser?”

  Jensen sighed as if everyone should know this. “A Lapsed Fusion Aspirant. He engaged in LFP behavior and this was the punishment meted out by the FPRB.”

  “The same people dealing with my RT from yesterday?”

  Jack congratulated himself. He was starting to get with the lingo.

  “Exactly.”

  “That’s his punishment? Sack cloth and ashes?”

  “So to speak.”

  Just to be sure of that nose, Jack wanted another look at this seedy guy before he hit the elevators. He hurried after him.

  “Wait,” Jensen said behind him. “You can’t—”

  But Jack kept going. He couldn’t let on that he recognized him—no way Jason Amurri would know Johnny Roselli—so he had to try a different tack.

  He came abreast of the guy and said, “Excuse me?”

  Yeah, that was the nose, and those were Maria Roselli’s eyes flashing toward him, then quickly away. He’d found Sonny Boy.

  Now what?

  Jack was about to ask him his name, just to be absolutely sure, when he felt a big hand close around his arm.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Jensen said.

  Jack looked after the retreating Johnny Roselli who hadn’t even broken stride.

  “I just wanted to ask him what he did wrong.”

  Jensen shook his head. “He’s not allowed to tell you, I’m not allowed to tell you, and you’re not allowed to ask.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because when you see someone dressed like that, it means they’ve been declared SE—a Solitarian Exile. He has to wear clothes he found in a trash heap and may not bathe or shave for the term of his punishment. He’s an outcast, an untouchable who may not speak or be spoken to by another Dormentalist unless it’s a Paladin or a member of the FPRB.”

  Jack made a face. “How long does that go on?”

  “In his case, four weeks. He has about a week left.”

  “What’s his name?”

  Jensen’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Just curious. I might want to look him up after he’s no longer an SE and ask what it was like not to bathe for a month. Must be awful.” Jack smiled. “Although not as awful as for someone who has to live with him.”

  Jensen didn’t seem to find any humor in that. “If you see him afterward, he can tell you all about it himself, if he so desires.”

  Jack knew an opening when he saw one.

  He’d finished the first half of the Roselli job: He’d established that Johnny was here instead of wandering around Uganda or some such place as a Dormentalist missionary. And though he looked like an SRO hotel regular, he seemed healthy enough.

  To finish the job he now had to get in his face and tell him to call Mama. That would mean finding out where he lived, which might involve getting into the membership files.

  So Jack jumped on the segue Jensen had presented.

  “Ah, yes. Confidentiality. I’m really impressed with how seriously you take that here. I assume your membership records are computerized.”

  “Of course. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, you know, hackers, disgruntled employees. I’m a very private person and hate the thought of someone snooping through my file in your computer.”

  “Not to worry. We have state-of-the-art security and virus protection. Only Mr. Brady, myself, and the Overseers have full access.”

  “Excellent.” He glanced at his watch. He needed to be up in the Bronx soon. “Oh, look at the time. I have a couple of family matters to attend to, so—”

  Jensen held up a hand. “Before you go, Mr. Brady wanted me to register you for an EC.”

  “I love old comics!”

  Jensen’s face showed an instant of confusion. “It’s an Entry Card that will pass you through the front entrance without signing in. It’s highly unusual for an RC to be issued one, but Mr. Brady feels we owe it to you.”

  “Oh, you’re too kind, but that isn’t necessary.”

  “Oh, but we insist. Our pleasure.”

  Jack did not want this. It meant having his picture taken and entered into the computer. But how could he refuse without compromising his credibility?

  Damn.

  4

  Jensen watched Jason Amurri sit for his photograph. He appeared upbeat about it, but Jensen sensed an undercurrent of unease.

  Why? This was a unique privilege—one that Jensen had been against, but he’d been overruled—so why wasn’t Amurri happy?

  Just one more thing about this guy that didn’t add up. He was supposed to be some kind of rich loner, but he didn’t move like a guy who’d grown up deciding which silver spoon to put in his mouth. And his eyes…they didn’t miss a thing. Jensen was sure he’d spotted some of the video pickups, maybe all of them, but he hadn’t asked about them.

  Of course he might have expected them as part of the security system, but wouldn’t a guy so hooked on privacy have made some sort of squawk?

  Then again, maybe Jensen was wrong. Maybe Amurri hadn’t spotted the pickups.

  Still, he was getti
ng an itch about this guy—no red-flashing alarms or anything like that, just a feeling that something wasn’t quite what it seemed.

  He wouldn’t tell Brady yet. The boss saw dollar signs when he looked at Amurri and would brush off Jensen’s suspicions. So right now he’d keep them to himself and have Margiotta do a little more digging. And maybe have Peary follow him again.

  Scratch an itch and sometimes you find a chigger.

  5

  A large Dunkin’ Donuts coffee in one hand, the Post in the other, Richie Cordova elbowed his office door open and breezed through the reception area.

  “What’ve we got today, Eddy?”

  “New client at two.”

  He stopped in mid-breeze. “That’s it?”

  “Afraid so.”

  He shook his head. Christ, things were slow.

  In his office he dumped his weight into the chair behind his desk, set down the coffee and paper, and pulled a bag containing a pair of glazed chocolate donuts from the side pocket of his jacket.

  He hadn’t been able to resist. Damn. He had everything else in his life pretty much locked down the way he wanted. His appetite was the only thing not under control.

  Maybe tomorrow.

  He hit the power button on his computer and gobbled one of the donuts while it warmed up.

  He’d had a dream last night about that nun. A hot one. Must’ve been because he’d talked to her during the day. He knew what Sister Golden Hair looked like in her birthday suit and she was nothing great—sure as hell nothing like the faked-and-baked babes in the shots he downloaded from teen-lust.com—but she wasn’t bad, and she was real. And he’d been there, watching in real time as he snapped shots. Last night he’d had that pale, hot little body sweating over him instead of Metcalf.

  Richie entered his password and went directly to his photo files.

  Photo-wise, he was moving away from film to digital. Eventually he’d be all digital, but old habits were hard to break. Photos of any kind had stopped being worth much in court these days. Too easily faked. Hell, even negatives could be faked. But things were different in the good old Court of Public Opinion. A compromising photo could still mess up a reputation. Even if you came out and swore on a stack of Bibles that the pictures were fakes, those images stuck in people’s minds long after the explanations had faded away.