Crisscross rj-8

by F. Paul Wilson

  "No need to be. Just give me the answers to a few questions and you can be on your way."

  "You're not going to let me go. I've seen you, and kidnapping is a federal offense."

  He laughed again. "Rest assured that I'll have a perfect alibi. I'll simply say it's all something you cooked up to sell more papers. You've already gone public with your rabid hatred of Dormentalism—or 'Dementedism,' as you like to call it—and since you couldn't dig up any real dirt on the Church, you pulled this stunt. Remember Morton Downey when he faked an attack by skinheads? Making that sort of crazy claim will hurt you, not us. You'll be the new Morton Downey. No one will ever believe you again."

  Jamie doubted that. Doubted it big time.

  "What about Henry?" she said.

  Jensen's brow furrowed. "Henry? I don't believe—"

  "The night guard at the paper. Was he in on it?"

  "Oh, yes. Henry. I didn't know who you meant at first because that's not his real name."

  "What?"

  "He's a Dormentalist, you know."

  "Bullshit. He's been with the paper for years."

  "He's been with the Church even longer. Of course, you'll have no way of proving that since our membership rolls are sealed."

  Did he really think they could pull this off? She wasn't about to disabuse him of that particular illusion.

  For the first time since the trunk lid had slammed closed over her, Jamie Grant saw a glimmer of hope that she might come out of this alive.

  And if that was the case…

  "Let me out of this trunk. I have to go to the bathroom."

  "In a minute."

  "I have to go nowT God, she didn't think she could hold it another second. "I mean right now."

  "After you've answered a question or two." His smile broadened. "Consider bathroom privileges part of an incentive plan."

  When she got out of here, was she ever going to nail their asses to the wall.

  She pressed her thighs together and said, "Doesn't look like I have a choice. What do you want to know?"

  Jensen's smile faded. "Who is the man you were with at the cabin?"

  She could pretend she didn't know who he was talking about, but Jensen would know it was another lie. All she'd accomplish was wasting more time—time she could be spending relieving herself in the bathroom. Bladder spasms or not, though, she didn't want to give up Robertson's name.

  Jensen took the choice out of her hands by holding up Robertson's card.

  "We found this in your pocketbook. It says that John Robertson is a private detective. When did you hire him?"

  Jamie had no problem answering that.

  "I didn't. He came to me. He'd been hired to find one of your members who'd gone missing—as a fair number of them seem to do. He read my arti-cle and came to me for advice on how to sneak in. He knew I'd been kicked out and didn't want to make the same mistakes."

  Jensen stared at the card, nodding slowly. "He didn't." His head snapped up. "How do you know he's John Robertson?"

  "I checked out his PI license. It's current."

  "True, but Mr. John Robertson is not."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean he's dead. Died of cancer in Duck, North Carolina, three years ago."

  Jamie couldn't believe that. "You're lying."

  Jensen fished a piece of paper out of his back pocket, unfolded it, and held it out to her. A Xerox of an obit. She caught a flash of a grainy photo of an old guy in a Stetson hat before the paper was snatched away. He looked nothing like the man she'd been working with.

  Jensen angrily balled it up and hurled it across the room. She sensed his pent-up fury, felt it radiating from his soul like heat from an oven, and it frightened her.

  "But his license—"

  "—is current. Yes, I know. But obviously someone else has been renewing it." Jensen snarled as he poked a finger against the card. "The address here is a mail drop. And the phone number belongs to a hair salon." His rage seemed to build with every sentence. "Who is this man? I want to know and I want to know nowl"

  Jamie couldn't believe it. "His name's not Robertson?"

  "No, and it's not Farrell and it's not Amurri either."

  What was he talking about?

  "Then—?"

  He jabbed a thick finger at her. "He must've given you a number."

  His blazing eyes frightened her.

  Jamie shook her head. "No. He always called me. No, wait. He gave me a cell number. It should be in my purse."

  "There is no number in your purse."

  Oh, God, had she lost it?

  "Then… then…" What could she say? "Wait a minute. I have caller ID on my office phone. It would still be there on the call list. I'm always getting grief for leaving so many numbers in the list."

  Pure bullshit, but maybe Jensen would go for it.

  His eyes narrowed. "Then you would have seen the number. What was it?"

  "I couldn't possibly remember. I get so many calls. I vaguely recall a 212 area code, but that's it. I can check it out for you if—"

  Another Uncola Nut laugh. "If I let you go back to your office? I don't think so. Not quite yet. But maybe we can figure out some way for you to find that number from here."

  Her bladder shot a quarrel of pain into her lower back.

  "All right then, if I'm not going to my office, can I at least go to the bathroom? Now? I can't think straight with my bladder killing me like this."

  "Of course." Jensen pointed toward the front end of the car. "It's right through that door."

  She raised herself on one knee, slipped an unsteady leg over the trunk lip, past the bumper and down to the floor. When both feet were back on the ground, she straightened slowly, carefully, her back protesting all the way.

  She looked around and saw an unfinished, uninsulated garage. To the car's left sat a chair and an old table with a couple of nails driven into its thick, scarred top. A pile of heavy chain sat on the table next to a folded green towel. And just past the front bumper, a closed, unmarked door.

  "Is that it?" she said.

  He nodded, but as she turned away she felt her shoulders grabbed from behind. She was twisted and shoved into the chair and, before she could react, Jensen was wrapping the chain around her waist and chest.

  "What are you doingV

  His face was set in grim lines and he didn't answer. She tried to wriggle free but he was too strong for her. Finally, when Jamie couldn't move, Jensen spoke.

  "Time to test your memory."

  "About what?" Her pounding heart threatened to break through her chest wall. "Not the phone number! I told you—"

  "We have 2-1-2 so far. Only seven more to go."

  "But I don't know the rest!"

  Jensen grabbed her left hand and flattened her palm on the tabletop. He maneuvered her little finger until it was fixed between the two nails.

  "What are you going—"

  "I hate when things are unbalanced, don't you?"

  Jamie sensed where this was going and it doubled her terror.

  "No, I—"

  "Your right pinkie, for instance. It's so much shorter than the left."

  "No." She remembered the pain, the blood when her darling husband had chopped it off. She heard herself sobbing. "Oh, please, please…"

  "Perhaps I can overcome my dislike of an unbalanced body by hearing a phone number. A complete phone number. One that will connect me to the man I'm looking for. If not…"

  He lifted the towel to reveal a heavy, rust-rimmed meat cleaver.

  Jamie's struggling bladder gave up. She felt a warm puddle spread across the seat of the chair.

  Jensen picked up the cleaver and hefted it, then raised it over her finger.

  "We'll call this an exercise in memory stimulation."

  Jamie could barely speak. Her words gushed out in a high-pitched rasp.

  "Oh, God, Jensen, please, you've got to believe me! Please! I don't know the number, I swear, I swear, I swear I don't!"<
br />
  He looked at her. "You know, the sad thing is, I believe you."

  And then he swung the cleaver.

  12

  Gemini (May 21-June 21): You see what you want, and you know what to do to get it—give a fair dose of your winning attention, and then confidently walk away! Being too enthusiastic about a new prospect could scare him or her off or weaken your position.

  Richie Cordova's office chair groaned as he leaned back, and screeched when he jerked forward. He'd rested the back of his head against the chair and his sutured scalp had let him know it wasn't too happy with that.

  Goddamn, that still hurt.

  He resettled his weight and looked over the Gemini reading again. He liked the part that said, You see what you want, and you know what to do to get it. Damn right about that.

  Except about whoever had sent him that fucking virus. And who had split open his scalp. He knew what he wanted to do to those guys, but didn't have no way to track them down.

  He lifted the paper off the mound of his belly and checked the other side of the astrological cusp.

  Cancer (June 22-July 22): A small but satisfying victory is the beginning of a lucky streak. Do what you must to get a good deal—a little financial wrangling won't make you look bad. Tonight, lots of action with you at the center is your idea of a good time.

  Well, well, well. This was looking better all the time. He had a good day ahead of him. And why not take advantage of that? He'd been thinking about that nun and how the prospect of hitting a decent payday from her was looking dimmer and dimmer. She was tapped out and wasn't going to get much from that building fund—if anything.

  But her boyfriend, Metcalf… why not hit him up for the difference? He owed the nun. Owed her big time.

  He told Eddy he was going for a walk and headed for the street.

  He traveled away from the park this time, searching for a phone he hadn't used in a while. He'd thought of getting one of those prepaid cell phones, but he'd still have to leave the office. Couldn't risk Eddy overhearing him putting the teat squeeze on one of his cows.

  He found a phone in a shady spot. The air was still humid after last night's downpour and Richie had worked up a sweat during the walk. Had to lose some of this weight, get back into shape.

  Yeah, right. Mariana.

  He tapped in his prepaid calling card numbers, then Metcalf's office number. He wasn't in, so Richie tried his home and caught up to him there.

  "You know who this is?" Richie said when Metcalf picked up the phone.

  "Unfortunately, yes."

  "Good. Then listen up. I—"

  Metcalf's voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "No! You listen, scumbag. I'm through playing your game. Do what you want. I'm not paying another cent."

  For a few seconds Richie found himself speechless. Had this jerk called him a scumbag?

  "I guess you musta forgot about the photos. They'll—"

  "I don't care. Let the chips fall where they may. And don't try harassing me with more calls because I'll report you to the police and have them trace your calls. This ends it. I'm leaving town today, taking my family away on a vacation, and putting this whole thing behind me."

  Richie couldn't believe what he was hearing. Had Metcalf gone bug-fuck nuts?

  He forced a growl to his voice. "Vacation, ay? Well, enjoy it, because married life ain't gonna be so hot when your wife and kids come home and find the neighborhood plastered with bare-assed pictures of you and your little fuck-buddy nun."

  "I guess that's just a risk I'll have to take." And then Metcalf laughed—laughed!—and said, "Outfoxed by a nun. Some criminal mastermind you are. Good-bye, loser."

  He hung up, leaving Richie staring at the handset in slack-jawed stupefaction.

  Had Metcalf said what Richie thought he'd said?

  Outfoxed by a nun…

  What the hell did that mean?

  And then he saw it all. Everything clicked into place. The virus hitting his computer not once but twice… and then the little nun giving him the runaround on payments… and finally Metcalf stiffing him, all but daring him to expose the photos of him and Sister Mary Margaret.

  Why? Because he knew the photos were gone!

  Outfoxed by a nun…

  They'd hired someone to wipe his computer clean and—

  Goddamn! It must have been the same guy who mugged him and stole his backup disk! Blindsided from two different directions.

  He rammed the handset against the face of the pay phone, slamming it against the switch hook again and again until the receiver end shattered. He dropped it and turned away, ignoring the frightened look from an old woman who shied away as she passed.

  Somehow they'd found out who he was. That made twice in the past few months—September and now. Where was he slipping up? The kid in the mail drop? Had he ratted him out? Richie'd look into that later.

  He knew neither Metcalf nor the nun had the stones or the know-how to break into his operation. So who'd they hire? Another PI like himself? Richie wanted the name so he could even the score and—

  Wait a minute… why was he assuming Metcalf knew who he was? Maybe he didn't know. Metcalf had just warned him he'd have the police trace his calls. Why would he say that if he knew who Richie was? Obviously he didn't.

  But the PI they'd hired did. Had to. And who else? Sister Maggie?

  Outfoxed by a nun …

  Metcalf was giving Sister Maggie the credit. That could mean only one thing: It was the nun who'd found someone to track him down and ruin his operation—and do it in such a way that Richie wouldn't know he'd been sabotaged. Pretty smooth. It had almost worked.

  This guy knew who Richie was. Now Richie needed to know who he was. That would level the playing field. Then he could take action. Metcalf probably knew the guy's name, but he was on his way out of town—or so he said. Richie would check on that. But if true, that left the nun. He needed a little face time with her.

  What had his Cancer horoscope said?

  Tonight, lots of action with you at the center is your idea of a good time.

  Oh, yeah. Tonight… if he could work it. If not, tomorrow for sure. Get some answers, and maybe grab a little payback along the way.

  No, not a little. She and her boyfriend and whoever they'd hired had screwed up his entire operation. Richie was going to need a lot of payback.

  13

  Jack was having no luck on the phone today. Repeated calls to Jamie's house and office had left him no wiser as to her well-being or whereabouts.

  Same with Maria Roselli. After two calls this morning, and two more this afternoon, all unanswered, Jack had decided to visit Beekman Place in person.

  He wore a blue sweater this time, but looked pretty much the same as before. One difference was the small shopping bag he carried. Anya's map was folded within. He'd started thinking of it as Anya's "map," preferring that to Anya's "skin."

  A woman with a dog had sent him on a mission into the Dormentalist temple, which housed a replica to the skin map from the back of another woman with a dog.

  He'd been told that there would be no more coincidences in his life; but even if he hadn't, he'd have known this was no coincidence. Maria Roselli had more on her agenda than finding her son, and now Jack had to know what. He also wanted to know her connection to Anya.

  The only one who could fill in those blanks lived in the brick and granite building he was approaching.

  He found the uniformed Esteban in the white marble atrium.

  'I'm a little concerned about Mrs. Roselli," Jack told him. "I've been calling her all day and she doesn't answer."

  Esteban smiled. "The lady, she's fine. She's been in and out—in fact, she's out now—and probably missed your calls."

  "No answering machine?"

  Esteban smiled. "Mrs. Roselli doesn't like them. She told me if someone wants to talk to her about anything important, they'll call back."

  "Would you ask her to call me when she comes in? The name's Jack a
nd she has my number. It's urgent that I get in touch with her."

  "Jack." Esteban nodded. "I will tell her."

  Back on the sidewalk, Jack decided if he couldn't speak to the mother, he might as well have a chat with the son. Maybe Oroont could fill in a few blanks.

  Oroont… sheesh.

  14

  Richie Cordova had positioned his car where he could see the front doors of both St. Joe's church and the convent. He had the windows rolled up against a chill breeze and the doors locked against a chance visit by one of the locals. The Lower East Side's slow gentrification hadn't reached this area yet. He'd left the driver's window open an inch or so to vent his cigar smoke.

  This afternoon he'd been all revved at the prospect of grabbing Sister Maggie and hauling her off to an old abandoned warehouse he'd scouted in Flushing. But sitting here outside her church had cooled him. Blackmailing a nun was one thing. But staking her out and snatching her if she showed… that would be a big step where anyone was concerned. But a nun…

  Must be all those years in Catholic school, he thought.

  He wished he was outside Metcalf's place instead. But Metcalf had been telling the truth: He'd skipped town with his family. A call to his office confirmed that he'd be gone for a week.

  That left Sister Golden Hair. If she didn't show tonight he'd be back here tomorrow, and the day after that. Sooner or later he was going to catch up to her.

  And then he'd treat her to a showing of The Catholic School Kid Strikes Back.

  15

  Jack had cabbed home and changed into something more suited to the far West Village—black jeans, a faded White Stripes T-shirt, and Doc Martens. He'd finished it off with an oversized black bomber jacket, big enough to hide the Glock in his SOB holster.

  He took a couple of trains down to the West Village. There, in the fading light, he stood on a narrow, debris-strewn street across from The Header and kept an eye on Sonny Boy's window as an uneven stream of bikers pulled up and swaggered into the bar.

  He gave it ten minutes, letting the light dim more. No sign of life up there, so he crossed over and went to the side door where the apartment dwellers entered and made quick work of the lock with his autopick. On the third floor he found the apartment he assumed to belong to Johnny, and knocked. Picking the lock of an occupied apartment could be, well, embarrassing.