Crisscross

by F. Paul Wilson

  “But he didn’t squander it. He had a flair for business so he joined a brokerage house—Merrill Lynch, Paine Webber, Morgan Stanley, one of those multiname firms. I don’t pay much attention to such things. Doesn’t matter anyway. What is important is that he was an astounding success. He handled my money along with his and by the end of the nineties he had increased my net worth to an amount that I can only describe as obscene.” Another tight little smile. “Well, almost obscene. God only knows what Johnny himself was worth.”

  Even better, Jack thought sourly. She wants me to find a Gordon Gekko wannabe.

  The kitchen was small but equipped with a glass-door Sub Zero refridge and a Dacor range. She pointed to a corner cabinet. “The tea is on the first shelf.”

  Jack found a box with Green Tea in red letters; those were the only English words, the rest was Chinese. As he pulled it out he noticed a dozen or so pill bottles lined against the wall on the counter. Maria must have followed his gaze.

  She raised one of her twisted hands. “Rheumatoid arthritis. No fun. The medicines that don’t make me sick give me this moon face.”

  Close up now Jack could see a lacework of red splotches across her nose and cheeks. He felt a twinge of guilt about his annoyance at having to make her tea. Maria’s hands didn’t look useful for much. Good thing she had money.

  “What do you do for food when the maid’s not around?”

  “What anybody does: I have it delivered.”

  As he filled the kettle Jack said, “Back to your son: I’d think that if someone that high powered disappeared there’d be a ton of people looking for him. Especially his clients.”

  “He didn’t disappear. He quit. Despite all the money he was making, he became disillusioned. He told me he was sick of being lied to—by the companies, even by the research teams in his own brokerage. He didn’t feel he could trust anyone in the business.”

  So maybe Johnny wasn’t a Gekko. Sounded like he had something resembling a conscience.

  “This is pre-Enron, I take it.”

  She nodded. “After hearing about all the double-dealing from Johnny, the Enron scandal came as no surprise to me.”

  Jack found two gold-rimmed china cups—with the emphasis on China—and dropped a tea bag in each.

  “So he quit and did what?”

  “I think he…I believe ‘snapped’ is the term. He gave a lot of his money to charities, worked in soup kitchens, became a Buddhist for a while, but he couldn’t seem to find whatever it was he was looking for. Then he joined the Dormentalists and everything changed.”

  The Dormentalists…everyone had heard of them. Couldn’t read a paper or ride a subway without seeing their ads. Every so often some movie star or singer or famous scientist would announce his or her membership in the Dormentalist Church. And the exploits and pronouncements of its flamboyant founder Cooper Blascoe had been gossip-column fodder for years. But Jack hadn’t heard much from him for a while.

  “You think they’ve done something to your son?”

  Every so often the papers would report sinister goings-on in the cult—mind control and extortion seemed to be two favorites—but nothing ever seemed to come of the accusations.

  “I don’t know. I don’t want to believe that anyone has done anything to Johnny, especially not the Dormentalists.”

  “Why? What’s so special about them?”

  “Because being a Dormentalist transformed him. I’d never seen him so happy, so content with life or himself.”

  The kettle whistled as the water started to boil. Jack filled the cups.

  “I’ve heard that some cults can do that.”

  “I quickly learned not to call it a cult in front of Johnny. It made him very upset. He went on and on about it being a church, not a cult, saying that even the United States government had recognized it as a church. I still thought it was a cult, but I didn’t care. If Johnny was happy, so was I.”

  “Was? I take that to mean things changed.”

  “Not things—Johnny changed. He used to stay in touch. He’d call me two or three times a week to see how I was doing and to give me a sales pitch on Dormentalism. He was always trying to get me to join. I must have told him a thousand times that I wasn’t the least bit interested, but he kept after me until he…” Her lips tightened as moisture gathered in her eyes. “Until he stopped.”

  “Just like that? Three calls one week and nothing the next?”

  “No. They tapered off as he started to change.”

  “Change how?”

  “Over the past few months he’s grown increasingly remote and strange. He started insisting that I call him ‘Oroont.’ Can you imagine? He’s been Johnny Roselli all his life and now he’ll answer only to Oroont. Two weeks ago he didn’t call at all, so last Sunday I began calling him. I’ve left at least a dozen messages but he doesn’t call back. I have a key to Johnny’s apartment, so on Wednesday I sent Esteban to have a look—you know, in case Johnny was sick or, God forbid, dead. But he found it empty—no furniture, nothing. He’d moved out and hadn’t even told me. I know it’s got something to do with the Dormentalists.”

  “How do you know he didn’t just quit them and head for California or Mexico or Machu Picchu?”

  Maria shook her head. “He was too involved, too much of a true believer.” She nodded to the teacups. “They’ve steeped enough. Bring them into the living room, if you would.”

  With a cup and saucer in each hand, Jack followed Benno who was following Maria. As she settled into her straight-backed chair, Jack set the cups on the intricately inlaid top of a bow-legged oriental coffee table.

  “He’s still there,” she said.

  “Where?”

  “At their New York temple—on Lexington Avenue. I know it, I can feel it.” One of her gnarled hands wriggled into a pocket and came up with a photo. She handed it to him. “Here. That’s him.”

  Jack saw a slim, very intense-looking dark-haired man. The dark eyes and slightly bulbous nose were identical to Maria’s. He looked to be about Jack’s age.

  “I was only nineteen when I gave birth to him. Perhaps we were too close as he was growing up. Perhaps I coddled him too much. But after George died he was all I had. We were inseparable until he went away to college. That nearly broke my heart. But I knew he’d have to leave the nest and find his own life. I just never thought I’d lose him to some crackpot cult!” She all but spat the last word.

  “So, no wife and kids, I gather.”

  She shook her head. “No. He always said he was holding out for the right woman. I guess he never found her.”

  Or maybe he was just a tad too close to Momma?

  Maria stared at him over the rim of her teacup. “But I want him found, Mr.…I never did get your last name.”

  “Just Jack’ll do fine.” He sighed. How to tell her? “I don’t know, Maria. It seems like you could get more bang for your buck with someone else.”

  “Who? Tell me. You can’t, can you. All you have to do is work your way into that Dormentalist temple and find Johnny. How hard can it be? It’s one building.”

  “Yeah, but it’s a worldwide organization. He might not be there. He could have been assigned to the Zambia chapter or whatever.”

  “No. He’s in New York, I tell you.”

  Jack sipped his bitter green tea and wondered how she could be so sure.

  “Why don’t we start with calling the New York temple and asking if he’s still there?”

  “I’ve already tried that. They tell me they release no information about church members—wouldn’t even confirm or deny that Johnny was a member. I need someone to go inside and find him.” She leveled her dark eyes at Jack. “I will pay you twenty-five thousand dollars in advance to do that.”

  Jack blinked. Twenty-five large…

  “That…that’s a lot more than I usually charge, Maria. You don’t have to—”

  “The money means nothing. It’s a week’s interest from my treasury notes. I’
ll double it, triple it—”

  Jack held up a hand. “No-no. That’s okay.”

  “You’ll have expenses, and perhaps you can use whatever is left over to offset the fee for someone who can’t afford you. I don’t care about the money, just find…my…son!”

  She underscored the last three words by rapping the tip of her cane against the floor. Benno, who’d been stretched out next to her, jumped up from his nap and looked around, ready to attack.

  “Okay.” Jack responded to her pained expression, to the need calling through her eyes. “Let’s say I do work my way into this temple, and let’s just say I find your son. What then?”

  “Tell him to call his mother. And then tell me you’ve found him and how he is.”

  “And that’s it? That’s all?”

  She nodded. “That is all. I simply want to know if he’s alive and well. If he doesn’t want to call me, it will break my heart, but at least I will be able to sleep at night.”

  Jack finished his tea in a gulp. “Well, that’s a relief.”

  “Why? What else did you think I’d want you to do?”

  “Abduct him for deprogramming.”

  She chewed her upper lip. “And what if I did?”

  “No deal. If he’s not being held against his will, I won’t yank him out. I believe in everyone’s inalienable right to be stupid.”

  “What if he is being coerced?”

  “Then I’ll do what I can to yank him. If I can’t, I’ll do my damnedest to provide you with enough probable cause to get officialdom involved.”

  “Fair enough.” She extended her right hand. “Then we have a deal?”

  Jack gently gripped her twisted fingers. “We do.”

  “Excellent. Look in the top drawer of that bureau over there. You will find an envelope and a newspaper article. Take both. They’re yours.”

  Jack did as she asked. He opened the white legal-size envelope and thumbed through the bills—all Grover Clevelands.

  “What if I can’t deliver?”

  “Either way, keep the money. I know you’ll try your best.”

  He looked at the sheets of newspaper. A multipage, two-week-old article on Dormentalism from The Light by someone named Jamie Grant.

  The Light…of all the papers in New York, why’d it have to be The Light? He’d had a bad experience with one of the paper’s reporters a few months ago. Memories from June flooded back and swirled around him…his sister, Kate…and that kid reporter…what was his name? Sandy Palmer. Right. The kid had given him a few gut-clenching moments.

  “Make sure you read that,” Maria said. “It will serve as a good primer on Dormentalism.”

  Jack checked out the title: “Dormentalism or Dementedism?” He smiled. Whoever Jamie Grant was, Jack liked him already.

  He tucked the envelope into a front hip pocket but held on to the article.

  “I’ll get to work on this right away.”

  “Wonderful.” Her smile faded. “You won’t fail me, will you?”

  “Not if I can help it. All I can guarantee is that I’ll give it my best shot.”

  Maria Roselli sighed. “I suppose that’s all one can ask for. What will be your first step?”

  Jack held up the newspaper. “First I’m going to have to learn about this Dormentalism stuff. Then I guess I’ll become a convert.”

  3

  Back on the street, Jack was tempted to make a quick run to Gia’s—she lived less than ten blocks uptown from Maria Roselli’s—but his visit had taken longer than expected and he was running late for a meeting with another customer.

  In the old days, long before he was born, a person could have hopped the El on Second Avenue. Or Third. Today he settled for a crosstown bus at Forty-ninth Street. He’d take the 27 over to the West Side and catch a subway up to Julio’s.

  He dipped his Metrocard and found a seat on the half-full bus. As he unfolded the Dormentalism article he glanced up and noticed one of the ads above the opposite seats. He looked closer. Damned if it wasn’t for the Dormentalist Church. He stood for a closer look.

  Dormentalism!

  Another better You slumbers within! The Dormentalist Church will help you awaken that sleeping part of you. Reestablish contact with your hidden self now! DON’T DELAY! Momentous change is coming! You don’t want to be left out! PREPARE YOURSELF! Join the millions of Seekers like Yourself. Find the nearest Dormentalist Temple and discover the Other You…before it’s too late!

  A toll-free number and a Midtown address on Lexington Avenue ran along the bottom. Jack jotted them down on the margin of the article.

  “You’ll stay away from that lot if you know what’s good for you,” said a creaky voice behind him.

  Jack turned and saw a chubby, hunched old woman staring up at him from a nearby seat.

  “Sorry?”

  “You heard me. How can they call themselves a church when they never mention God? They’re doing the devil’s work, and you’ll endanger your immortal soul if you even go near them.”

  Jack instinctively looked around for a dog of some kind, but didn’t see one. She wasn’t carrying anything big enough to hide one.

  “Do you have a dog?” he said.

  She blinked up at him. “A dog? What sort of question is that to ask? I’m talking about your immortal soul and—”

  “Do…you…have…a…dog?”

  “No. I have a cat, not that it’s any business of yours.”

  A sharp reply leaped to his lips but he swallowed it. Just some Paleolithic busybody. He glanced back at the ad. The last line bothered him.

  Other You…

  He’d got to the point where the word other triggered all sorts of alarms. And now this old lady warning him against the Dormentalists. But the strange women who’d been popping in and out of his life lately never appeared alone. They always had a dog along.

  Jack dropped back into his seat. Second-guessing every little thing that happened was a sure shortcut to the booby hatch.

  “Just trying to give you a friendly warning,” the old lady said in a low voice.

  Jack looked back and noticed she was pouting.

  “I’m sure you were,” he told her. “Consider me warned.”

  He turned to the article from The Light. “Dormentalism or Dementedism?” delved into the early days of the cult—sorry, church. Founded by Cooper Blascoe as a hippie commune in California during the sixties, it mushroomed into a globe-spanning organization with branches in just about every country in the world. The Church—apparently they liked an uppercase C—had been run by a guy named Luther Brady, who Grant called a “propheteer,” since Blascoe had put himself into suspended animation in Tahiti a couple of years ago.

  Whoa. Suspended animation? Jack hadn’t heard about that. No wonder Blascoe hadn’t been in the news. Suspended animation does not exactly make you the life of the party.

  The reporter, Jamie Grant, contrasted the early Dormentalist commune, which seemed little more than an excuse to have orgies, to the upright, uptight corporate entity it had become. The Dormentalists’ cash flow was top secret—apparently it was easier to ferret eyes-only documents out of NSA than the Dormentalist Church—but Grant estimated that it was well into nine-figure country.

  The question was, what was it doing with all the money?

  Except for a few high-profile locations in places like Manhattan and L.A., the Church was run on a tight budget. Luther Brady’s doing, Grant said—he had a business degree. Grant reported that the High Council, based here in New York, had been buying plots of land all over the place, not only in this country but around the world, spending whatever it took to secure them. To what end was anyone’s guess.

  In the next installment, Grant promised in-depth profiles of the inanimate Cooper Blascoe and on Dormentalism’s Grand Poo-bah, Luther Brady. And perhaps the reason behind the ongoing land acquisitions.

  Jack refolded the article and stared out the window as the bus crossed Fifth Avenue. He watched a you
ng, orange-haired Asian woman in black talking on a cell phone as she waited for the walk signal. A guy next to her was talking into two phones at once—on a Sunday? The pair of antennae gave him an insectoid look. On a weekday in Midtown there were so many antennae on the street it looked like an ant farm.

  Nobody wanted to be disconnected anymore. Everyone was on call twenty-four hours a day for anyone with their number. Jack recoiled at the prospect. He had a prepaid cell phone but he left it off unless he was expecting a call. He often went days without turning it on. He loved being disconnected.

  Back to the article: As much as he liked its sardonic, in-your-face style, he felt vaguely dissatisfied with what it didn’t say. It concentrated on the structure and finances of the Dormentalist Church without going into its beliefs.

  But then, according to the tagline, this was only part one. Maybe those would be covered later.

  4

  Jack got out at Broadway. Before heading for the subway he picked up the latest copy of The Light, which turned out to be last week’s issue. It came out every Wednesday. He thumbed through it but found no follow-up article. He did find the paper’s phone number, though.

  He pulled out his cell and dialed the number. The automated system picked up and put him through a voice tree—“If you don’t know your party’s extension” blah-blah-blah—that required him to punch in the first three letters of Grant’s name. He did as instructed and was rewarded with a ring.

  Not that he expected Grant to be in on a Sunday, but figured he’d break the ice with a voice mail to set him up for some talk tomorrow. But someone picked up on the third ring.

  “Grant,” said a gravely woman’s voice.

  “Is this Jamie Grant, the reporter?” The article’s tone had given him the impression that Grant was male.

  “One and the same. Who’s this?” She sounded as if she’d been expecting someone else.

  “Someone who just read your Dormentalism article.”

  “Oh?” A sudden wariness drenched that single syllable.