Crisscross rj-8

by F. Paul Wilson

  "I'll say!"

  "I promise you she's being disciplined. She'll be sent before the FPRB and—"

  "The what?"

  "The Fusion Progress Review Board. Her behavior will be reviewed and appropriate disciplinary measures taken."

  Electroshock therapy, I hope, Jack thought, remembering that hapless mouse.

  He figured it was time to waver, but not before twisting the knife.

  "Well, that's encouraging, but what about you? You didn't even give me a chance to speak. Are you going before this FPRB?"

  "Well, ah, no. You have to understand, Mr. Farrell, that the Church i& under constant assault, and sometimes we get jumpy. I realized that you had volunteered your real name but I wouldn't listen, so I discussed the matter with Mr. Brady."

  Time to be impressed. "Luther Brady? You discussed me with Luther Brady himself?"

  "Yes, and he was very upset that you'd come to the Church for help and we'd turned you away. He wants to meet with you personally when you come back."

  Bump it up to breathy-voiced awe: "Luther Brady wants to meet with me? That's… that's…" a little catch in the voice here "… wonderful! When can I come back?"

  "Anytime you wish, but the sooner the better as far as we're concerned."

  "I'll be right down."

  "Excellent! I'll have somebody meet you at—"

  "Not just 'somebody,'" Jack said, unable to resist one last turn of the blade. "You. I want the Grand Paladin himself there to bring me in."

  Jack heard Jensen swallow, then say, "Why, of course. I'd be happy to."

  Oh, yeah. I'll bet you're just dying to be my escort to Luther Brady.

  Jack considered asking Jensen to bark like a dog but canned it. He grinned as he ended the call.

  Finding Johnny Roselli was turning out to be fun.

  2

  Grand Paladin Jensen took up most of the elevator cab. Jack managed to squeeze in beside him and find a way to stand without rubbing elbows with his black uniform, but that was it. The two of them pretty much maxed out the space. Gollum might have been able to make it a threesome, but that was iffy.

  As Jensen pressed the 22 button, Jack decided to go into chatty mode.

  "All the way to the top, huh?"

  Jensen nodded, staring at the doors. "That's Mr. Brady's floor."

  "The whole floor?"

  Another nod. "The whole floor."

  "I'm really looking forward to meeting him. Will he be waiting for us?"

  Jensen had the look of a man trying to be cool while a Doberman sniffed his crotch.

  "He's expecting us."

  "Do you have a first name, Mr. Jensen?"

  "Yes."

  Jack waited a few seconds. When it became obvious Jensen wasn't going to volunteer anything else, Jack said, "And that would be…?"

  Jensen kept staring straight ahead. "That would be a name I don't use."

  Yessiree, the size of a GE double oven but less personality.

  "And speaking of names," Jensen added, finally looking at Jack, "what do we call you?"

  Before Jack could answer, the cab stopped but the doors didn't open. He noticed that the floor indicator read 21.

  "Are we stuck?"

  "No, merely being cleared through."

  Jack checked the upper corners and spotted a mirrored hemisphere front left. Security camera. Seemed like Luther Brady didn't like drop-in company.

  The cab began moving again, then stopped on twenty-two. The doors slid open onto a hallway with a gleaming parquet floor and walnut-paneled walls. Ahead a pair of doors stood open revealing a large sunny space. A young, gray-uniformed receptionist sat behind a black desk to the right.

  "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 oi 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 Dormen-talist 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 tor 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. Knowing 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 me
mber 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."