Crisscross

by F. Paul Wilson

  Listen to me, she thought. Completely and thoroughly paranoid.

  But still, she didn’t know enough about him to trust him with what might turn out to be a major coup. Not yet.

  15

  Jensen stepped out onto Tenth Avenue and headed for his car, leaving John Jay College behind. He’d had trouble focusing on tonight’s Police Science 207 lecture. His thoughts kept veering toward Jason Amurri. Something off-kilter about that guy. Maybe he should have listened more closely to the lecturer—the subject had been Investigative Function, and he sensed this Amurri needed some investigating.

  Jensen climbed in behind the wheel of his Hummer and sat there without starting the engine.

  Nothing seemed right in his life lately. Shalla, the woman who’d been living with him for eight years, had walked out last summer, saying he spent too much time at the temple. Well, maybe he did. Still, he missed her.

  Lately, without her to come home to, he’d been spending more time than ever on the job. He felt he owed it to the Church and to Brady, and not just for the nice salary they were paying him.

  He owed them because he was a fraud.

  When he’d reached the top of the Fusion Ladder, Jensen had had to face the devastating realization that he was a Null. Somewhere along the way his xelton had fallen into a coma from which it would never awaken, and so Jensen hadn’t achieved any sort of fusion, let alone Full. Everything he’d experienced climbing the FL had been Sham Fusion, a form of Null self-delusion: He’d wanted fusion so badly he’d imagined it happening.

  But he couldn’t tell anyone. It would pull the rug out from under his status in the Church. The HC might let him go back to being an ordinary TP, but no Null could be Grand Paladin.

  He found it hard to hide his pain with Brady and the High Council members as they sat around and traded stories about their Full Fusion powers. Jensen couldn’t remain silent—they’d wonder why—so he was forced to make up tales of levitating or leaving his body.

  Fortunately no one was required to demonstrate their powers. Luther Brady had made it clear from the outset that exhibitionism would not be tolerated. But that didn’t lessen the deep ache Jensen felt as he listened to them.

  He’d even gone through a period of doubt where he’d questioned the whole Fusion process. What if he wasn’t the only Null hiding his Sham Fusion? What if some members of the HC were also Nulls and not admitting it? What if, just like Jensen, they were concocting far-out tales to cover the truth.

  Those had been dark days. He’d even gone so far as to suggest at a meeting with Brady and the HC that they all levitate together. The shocked looks from the HC—every one of them—had worsened his suspicions.

  Brady had abruptly adjourned the meeting and taken Jensen to his private quarters. He’d pulled a book from a special cabinet and placed it before him. To Jensen’s astonishment, the title, The Compendium of Srem, was in Yoruba, his native tongue. He opened the cover and flipped through.

  And then another shock as Brady began translating one of the passages.

  “You speak Yoruba?” Jensen remembered saying.

  Brady shook his head and smiled. “Not a word. When I look at these pages I see English. If I’d been born and raised in France, I’d see French. Whatever your native tongue, that is what you see.”

  Jensen had wondered about that. He’d learned English young—an almost-native tongue in his case. He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on memories of his early English classes, forcing that language to the front of his brain, pushing the Yoruba back, then opened his eyes.

  For an instant the text swam before him in English, then transformed into Yoruba.

  It wasn’t a trick. But how—?

  “Look here.”

  Brady directed him to the end, to a strange illustration of Earth crisscrossed with lines and dots.

  The drawing rotated on the page.

  Jensen had stared in wonder, trying not to believe, but the look and feel of this book, its uncanny lightness, the odd textures of its binding were all so strange, so unlike anything he had ever encountered in his life, that he’d had no choice but to believe.

  Brady then explained what the drawing meant, told him about Opus Omega. And in that great project Jensen had seen a possibility of salvation. All who aided in the completion of Opus Omega would be saved when the Hokano world fused with this one. More than saved, they would be like gods in the new world.

  Perhaps if he helped Luther Brady with this project, his Null status wouldn’t matter. When the worlds merged, he might be transformed along with all the Fully Fused members of the Church. In the end, when it was over, he could join them as a godlike being in the remade world.

  And so he’d become a partner in Opus Omega, doing whatever necessary to speed it along.

  Jensen sighed and turned the ignition key.

  But he was still a Null, with no guarantee of a future. He would go on living the lie, but he would make up for it by continuing to be the most devoted GP the Church had ever known.

  Part of that effort meant keeping a close watch on Jason Amurri.

  16

  Richie Cordova sliced into the thick filet mignon still sizzling on the platter. He smiled as he inspected the purplish meat inside: black and blue, just the way he liked it.

  He took a bite: as good as it looked.

  He’d heard this place grilled a mean steak, and they weren’t kidding. Kind of upscale for the neighborhood—which meant downscale for just about everywhere else—but it seemed to be doing okay. Just down the street from his office all these years and he’d never tried it.

  Richie refilled his glass from the bottle of Merlot he’d ordered and toasted himself.

  He had a couple of reasons to celebrate tonight. First off, his horoscope had told him to, even if he had to make up an occasion. Fortunately that hadn’t been necessary. He’d received a cool thou in the mail today from a new cow. The first of many, if he had anything to say about it. Next was the successful restoration of his computer files.

  He’d had a few sweaty moments there in the office. Sure, he’d had a backup CD. He burned a new one every time he added new material and broke the old one into half a dozen pieces—too many copies lying around could only lead to trouble—but he’d never checked to see if the files had been properly recorded. What if something had been wrong with his disk burner? What if he’d only thought he’d copied the files, and when he tried to restore them, they’d all turn out blank?

  So he’d chewed a fingernail while waiting for the contents of the CD to pop up on the screen. But when they did, and when they proved to be perfect copies of all his lost files, he’d almost got up and danced. Almost.

  By the time he’d restored all his files it was well past closing time at the bank. Rather than drag the disk along to dinner, he’d left it back in the office with the money. His original plan had been to run them up to the safety deposit box in the morning, but now he was having second thoughts.

  Something wasn’t right.

  No matter how hard he’d tried, he’d been unable to come up with an explanation beyond simple bad luck for what had happened to his computer. The computer guy had had a good explanation of how the virus had gotten into his system. Matter of fact, he’d informed Richie that the new antivirus software he’d installed had detected a total of thirteen different viruses on his hard drive. Thirteen! That was why it had taken a couple of extra hours to get his computer back to him. But he promised he’d disinfected all the files and programs. The hard drive was clean.

  Richie had to admit that it was running faster and smoother now.

  So okay, his computer had been a sewer of viruses. And he hadn’t found a single scrap of evidence that someone had broken in. Plus the horoscopes hadn’t even hinted at foul play.

  So why this bad feeling? Why this gnawing suspicion that he’d missed something? Why the prickly feeling at the back of his neck that something bad might go down tonight?

  His horoscope h
ad said being in the right place at the right time was his style today. Suddenly he knew that the right place for him was his office and the right time to be there would be right after dinner. The right place for his backup CD and his money—a pretty fair amount of cake in that envelope—was safe at his house, under his pillow.

  Richie turned his attention back to the steak. He felt better already.

  17

  Jack closed the door to Cordova’s office behind him.

  The duct tape was back on the alarm plunger, the pick gun and the HYRTBU disk were in his pockets, the brand-new hot plate was under his arm, his flashlight was in his latex-gloved hand and lighting his way through the dark reception room.

  So far so good. No one had seen him come in, no one else on the second floor.

  The idea of searching for the backup disk in the receptionist’s desk vanished almost before it arrived. Right, like Fat Richie would leave his precious blackmail photos where someone could dip into them.

  No, if it was anywhere, it was in the boss’s lair.

  Jack laid the brand-new hot plate on Cordova’s desk. What a job finding one. He’d figured someplace like Macy’s would carry them in their kitchen section, but no. Not a one. He’d finally found a selection at a chef’s supply shop. Of the two single-coil models, he’d noticed that one was made by Acme. Remembering a certain coyote’s bad luck with that brand, he’d bought the other.

  Jack squatted in the kneehole of the desk and slipped Russ’s HYRTBU disk into the floppy drive. He turned on the computer and crossed mental fingers. If Cordova hadn’t had antivirus software before, he surely had it now. But Russ had promised that his disk would slip past any protective program and reinsert HYRTBU. He’d better be right.

  As the box beeped and the hard drive rattled to life, Jack went through the desk first, being careful to replace everything in the exact position he’d found it. Cordova might be a fat slob, but that didn’t carry over to his home or office.

  No luck.

  He moved to the file cabinets. A lot of stuff in these. He knew from his last trip here that going through them would take a while—a long while. He hated the thought of pawing through every one of those folders again, so he decided to leave the cabinets till last.

  He searched the furniture as he’d done last night—under the cushions, the undersides of the seats and drawers, between the desk and the wall. Nada.

  And then a d’oh! moment.

  The computer—what if Cordova had left the backup disk in the CD drive?

  Jack quickly hit the eject button. The tray popped out, looking like a coffee-cup holder—an empty one.

  That left the file cabinets. What made the prospect of rummaging through them again so daunting was the possibility that Cordova had taken the disk home with him. But why would he? In fact there were good reasons not to take it to Williamsbridge—like losing it along the way, for instance.

  But he’d never thought of Cordova as smart. Crafty and devious, yes. But no brainiac.

  He was about to pull open the top drawer on the first cabinet when he heard a noise at the outer door—a key rattling in a lock.

  Cleaning service? Receptionist? Cordova? Shit!

  Jack turned off his penlight and squeezed back against the filing cabinets as the lights in the reception area came on. He pulled his Glock from its holster at the small of his back—he knew Cordova had a carry permit—as he listened to the beeps of someone punching a code into the alarm keypad. Then with a gut-spiking jolt he noticed the hot plate sitting on the desk. He did a quick tiptoe out from hiding, grabbed the plate, and ducked back out of sight just as the office overheads came on.

  Back pressed against the wall, he waited. He couldn’t see who it was but from the wheezy breathing figured it must be the Fat Man himself.

  What the hell was he doing here? He was supposed to be back in Williamsbridge, either drinking in Hurley’s or at home, just like every other night.

  Jack hadn’t turned on the computer monitor, but Cordova might notice the glowing power light or hear the hard drive. He held his breath, waiting. When he heard a grunt on the far side of the room, he chanced a peek.

  Cordova’s arm was in mid-reach behind the radiator. He pulled out the padded envelope Jack had seen last time, checked inside, and smiled.

  The disk—he must have put it with the money. Good thing Jack hadn’t found it, otherwise Cordova would go on a rampage and find Jack in the process.

  Ten seconds later the lights were out and the outer door was closing.

  Jack remained where he was for a few heartbeats, wondering what to do. He needed that disk, had to get it away from Cordova before he returned it to his safety deposit box, otherwise three days of work would go up in smoke, and Sister Maggie would still be on the hook.

  Jack retrieved the HYRTBU disk, turned off the computer, and moved toward the door.

  Time to improvise.

  Jack hated to improvise.

  18

  Jack gave Cordova enough time to travel half a block, then stepped out onto the sidewalk. As expected, Fatso was heading for the subway station, waddling along and playing it cool with the envelope tucked casually under his arm, like it held nothing more valuable than a home remodeling contract.

  Jack stayed close behind, looking for an opportunity. He was going to have to take him before or after his ride home. Too much light on the train itself. Jack didn’t want to show his face.

  Only scattered pedestrians out and about at the moment, fair amount of traffic to the right, locked-up storefronts to the left. This wasn’t looking good.

  He realized he was still wearing latex gloves and carrying the hot plate. He was about to dump both in a trash can coming up on his right when he spotted the dark slit of an alley ahead.

  Jack’s heartbeat kicked up its tempo as he decided to give this a shot. He broke into a trot and intercepted Cordova just as he came abreast of the alley mouth. He gave the big man a hard shove into the darkness, then clocked him once, twice on the back of his head with the hot plate.

  Cordova stumbled and landed on his belly with a whoosh of breath. Jack tossed the hot plate to the side and pounced on his back. Had to be quick now. He grabbed the hair at the base of his neck to hold his head in place. He didn’t want Cordova to get a look at him, even in the dark.

  “Gimme your wallet, Fatso,” he hissed as he pawed at the man’s hip.

  Cordova seemed dazed, his coarse breaths rumbling in and out.

  Jack took the wallet, then felt around front for a gun. When he didn’t find one, he grabbed the envelope. Cordova came alert then and fought for it.

  “No!”

  “Shut up!” Jack shoved his face against the pavement. Hard. “Whatta ya got there? Jewelry, huh?”

  “There’s cash,” Cordova grunted. “Take it. Go ahead, take it all, just leave me the computer disk.”

  “Yeah, right.” Jack wrestled the envelope free. “Like I’m gonna sit here and play games.”

  He gave Cordova another face slam, then he was up and out of the alley, fast-walking to the first cross street where he turned and broke into a run.

  As he opened the padded envelope he noticed the blood on his gloves. Looked like he’d laid open Cordova’s scalp with that hot plate. At least he’d found some use for it.

  Inside the envelope he found the cash—looked like even more than last night—and a CD jewel box. He snatched it out and stopped under a light. He scanned its gold surface for a label. Nothing beyond Sony CD-R. But this had to be it.

  Yes! And though Cordova might suspect that he’d been set up, he’d never know for sure. And he’d never know by whom.

  Jack went through Cordova’s wallet, transferring the cash and credit cards to the envelope, then he tossed it in the gutter. He inverted his bloody gloves as he pulled them off and stuffed them into another pocket.

  He remembered a subway stop on 174th Street, just a few blocks down. He’d catch the next 2 or 5 train and get the hell out of
the Bronx.

  But the game wasn’t over. Not until Jack was sure Cordova didn’t have another backup. If he did, it meant extra innings.

  Thursday

  1

  Richie didn’t remember the last time he’d made it to the office this early. Maybe never. He beat Eddy by ten minutes. Her surprised look at his mere presence escalated to shock when she saw his bandaged face and head. He told her what he’d told the cops last night.

  The last thing he’d wanted to do was call 911, but he was bleeding like a pig from the back of his head and knew he needed stitches. He’d been straight with them, told them he’d been caught from behind by a scumbag he hadn’t seen coming or going. The only thing he’d held back on was the money in the stolen envelope. Even if he was an ex-cop and getting special treatment, that much cash would lead to too many questions.

  The cops found what the jerk had used to open his head: a hot plate. Assaulted with a hot plate! He couldn’t fucking believe it.

  So they did a search while his head was being sewn up in the ER. They found his wallet—empty, of course—but not the envelope, empty or otherwise.

  Not that he’d had any hope of ever seeing it again.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck!

  Why’d it have to happen to him, and why when he was carrying a couple of thou? Talk about bad fucking luck.

  But it was that backup disk that worried him. He didn’t want anyone going through those picture files…it could screw up everything.

  And having no backup at the moment was making him nervous as all hell. But he could fix that real quick.

  He sent Eddy out for coffee and fired up his computer. He slipped a blank disk into the CD-R drive and ran the copy program that automatically copied everything out of certain folders.

  When the program finished, he leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. Done. He was protected. He felt better on that score at least. His stomach felt a little queasy, though, and he had a pounding headache that four Advil hadn’t touched.