Crisscross

by F. Paul Wilson

  And yet…how could he let her put her life on the line just to be first to file a story?

  Let her…listen to me…like I own her.

  He didn’t. Jamie owned Jamie, and so Jamie had to be allowed to do what she felt she had to, even if Jack thought it was insanely risky. Because in the end all that mattered was what Jamie thought. It was her life. And so what mattered most was what mattered to Jamie.

  Jack turned downtown, away from the bridge.

  “Shit! This is idiotic, Jamie! You’re going to get yourself killed. And me with you.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, you don’t think I’m going to let you go alone.”

  She placed a hand on his arm. “I appreciate that, but you don’t need to come along. Just cover my back till I’m inside. After that I’m home free: locked doors, an armed guard.”

  “I do not like this.”

  “I’m not crazy about it either, but a gal’s gotta do what a gal’s gotta do.”

  “Not funny.”

  “Wasn’t meant to be,” she said.

  3

  Jamie waited in the rear of the cab until she spotted Henry through the glass doors of The Light’s front entrance. There he was, sitting behind his kiosk, just where he was supposed to be. Time to move. Heart pounding, she hopped from the cab and raced across the sidewalk.

  As she jammed the ringer button, her head snapped left and right—would have rotated full circle had her neck allowed—looking for Dementedist goons. She knew Jack was somewhere nearby, hiding in the shadows. Still, if a couple of TPs suddenly jumped out and pulled her into a van, was he close enough to help?

  She heard a noise and jumped. About a hundred feet to her left two men in raincoats were gliding from a parked sedan.

  Oh, God!

  She started hammering on the glass and at just that moment the door swung open. She leaped inside and elbowed Henry out of the way to pull it closed behind her. As it latched she peered through the glass and saw the two men standing on the sidewalk, halfway to the door, staring at her. She resisted the urge to give them the finger.

  Henry laughed. “What’s the hurry, Ms. Grant?”

  Jamie figured if she told him that people were after her because of a story she was about to write, he’d call the cops.

  She turned and smiled. “Got a big story to write, Henry.”

  “Must be a whopper to bring you in at this hour. I mean, this is early even for you.” He leaned closer and looked at her. “Or is it late?”

  She glanced up. The lobby clock showed ten after two.

  “Late, Henry,” she said as she started for the elevators. “Very late.”

  She hadn’t slept well Wednesday, finally giving up on the possibility around four A.M. Thursday. She’d hauled herself out of bed and headed for the office. Here it was, Friday morning, which meant she’d been going full speed for over twenty-two hours. Yet she didn’t feel the slightest hint of fatigue. She was jazzed. Adrenaline strummed heavy-metal power chords along her axons.

  Good thing too, otherwise the horrors of the night—cutting through Coop’s skin…his body blowing to pieces—would have reduced her to a trembling basket case by now.

  But she couldn’t dwell on that.

  On the third floor she turned on all the overhead lights and wound through the deserted cubicle farm to her office. She paused on the threshold and looked at the comforting confusion of strewn-about books, newspapers, printouts, and scribbled-up yellow notepads.

  Bless this mess, she thought. I’m home.

  She dropped into her desk chair, lit a ciggie, and turned on her terminal. She’d rewound the tape during the trip back, so all she had to do now was pull the recorder from her shoulder bag and hit PLAY.

  She had a bad moment when she first heard the murdered man’s voice begin to speak to her from the tiny speaker…

  “You mean why I’m not in suspended animation, and how I came to be a shell of my former self? Know what? If you hold me up to your ear you can hear the ocean roar.”

  …but she held herself together and began to transcribe.

  4

  Jensen eyed the front entrance of The Light from the rear seat of the Town Car.

  “That’s the only way in?”

  Hutch the hulk was still behind the wheel. Davis, a twitchy sort who’d been watching The Light’s granite office building since Jensen had called in an alert, sat in the front passenger seat.

  “The only way worth mentioning,” Davis said. “The side entrance is a steel door. Unless you want to get into some acetylene action, this is it.”

  Jensen’s head throbbed, especially around the scalp cut. They’d never caught up to Grant and Mr. Whoever, so when they got back to the city Jensen called a Dormentalist doctor who did work for the Church on the QT—anything for the cause and all that. The doc had said bring him to his office where he’d see what he could do. One look at Lewis’s ass—he’d been shot in the thigh too, but the ass wound was really messy—and he said he needed a hospital. He’d try to admit him as a car accident to avoid a gunshot wound report to the police, but couldn’t guarantee he’d be successful.

  He’d wanted to stitch up Jensen’s scalp but Jensen couldn’t spare the time. He let the doc butterfly it closed and then he was on his way.

  He leaned over between the seats for another quick look at his forehead in the rearview mirror. The three beveled strips of tape gleamed like white neon against his black skin. Didn’t anyone make black butterflies? Or at least dark brown?

  Why am I thinking about this shit when everything’s poised to slide into the crapper?

  He needed a way out and needed it bad. If the Blascoe story got out, he’d have to hit the road. The cops—maybe even the feds—would be grilling everybody in the Church, and sure as shit one of them would crack and start pointing a finger at him as the guy responsible for Blascoe’s death. Another murder rap would put him away for good. No way he was going back to the joint. Not even for a minute.

  Hutch said, “How about just going up to the door and ringing the bell? Get him to open up and speak to you and then you’re in.”

  Davis shook his head. “At two-thirty in the morning? Wouldn’t catch me opening that door for anybody I don’t know.”

  Davis had a point. Then Jensen remembered a couple of props he had left over from an investigation they did into a state assemblyman who was making trouble for the Church a few years back.

  “What if you two showed up at the door flashing metal?”

  “You mean guns?” Hutch said.

  Jesus! How thick was this guy?

  “No. I’m talking police detective shields.”

  “That’ll get us in. Yeah, that’ll do it.”

  Jensen lowered his voice. “Thing is, you’ll have to take out the guard.”

  Davis turned in his seat. “Take out…as in permanently? Why?”

  “Because we can’t risk even the tiniest chance of this leading back to the Church. And you know the rules: Grant has been officially declared IS, and that means anyone protecting her is IS too.”

  “In Season.” Hutch shook his head. “We haven’t had one of those in a while.”

  “Well, any IS you’ve dealt with in the past is nothing compared to this one. Grant and her pal are the biggest threat the Church has ever faced. A lot’s riding on you guys tonight. Question is, are you up for it?”

  Right off, Hutch said, “Sure.”

  Good old Hutch. Not so bright, but he’d do anything for the Church.

  Davis hesitated, then finally nodded. “To save the Church, I guess I am.”

  “No guessing, Davis.”

  A sigh, then, “Give us the badges and we’ll get this over with.”

  He tapped Hutch on the shoulder. “Get us over to the temple.” That was where he kept the badges. “And when we get back, I want Grant in one piece. The guard goes, but I need to talk to Grant.”

  Did he ever. Because one way or another she was going t
o tell him all about her boyfriend.

  5

  Jack had promised to cover Jamie until she got inside, but he’d hung on after that when he spotted Jensen’s Town Car idling across the street from The Light. If he and his goons made a move on the front door, Jack would have to act. Didn’t want that, because it most likely would involve gun play. He didn’t know what kind of marksmanship he’d be up against, but even if he got off unscathed, gunshots tended to attract cops.

  So he crouched in a shadowed doorway and waited.

  After five or ten minutes, the big car shifted into gear and roared off. Jack allowed himself to relax, but not too much. They might be simply driving around the block looking for another way in.

  But when thirty minutes had passed and they didn’t show, he called it a night. Jamie was safe behind locked doors and an armed guard. Jack didn’t see what he could add to that.

  6

  Jamie lifted her head and looked around. She thought she’d heard a noise. Like maybe the elevator. She went to her door and stared out at the cubicle sea. She waited to see if anyone came through the hallway door. She supposed it would be way too much to expect Henry to stop by with a much-needed cup of coffee, but it didn’t hurt to indulge in a little of that stuff that springs eternal.

  Nope. Nobody showed. Maybe after she was done with the transcribing situation she’d head downstairs and grab a cup.

  She was almost done. She’d typed in only Coop’s remarks, leaving out Jack’s comments, and hers as well. As soon as she finished she’d e-mail it to her Hotmail account—just in case some Dementedist hacker got into The Light’s system and started messing with her files.

  After that, the writing would begin. She’d cull out the good passages, the really damning ones, and begin to shape her article around them.

  She was nearing the point where the interview stopped and the surgery began when she heard the scrape of a shoe. She looked up in time to see a big man in a wet overcoat hurtling through her doorway. She tried to dodge a black-gloved fist swinging toward her face, but couldn’t move fast enough. Pain exploded in her cheek as he connected.

  The blow knocked her out of the chair. She sprawled on the floor, dazed, trying to muster a scream through the disorienting haze. As she opened her mouth she felt a sweet-smelling cloth clamped over her lips and nostrils. The fumes burned her eyes.

  “We’ve been trying to get to you all night,” said a voice.

  Where was Henry?

  She held off as long as she could but finally had to take a breath. As soon as the fumes hit her lungs she felt an oddly pleasant lethargy begin to invade her limbs. Her vision fogged but she still could see. And she saw another man, smaller than the first, seating himself at her desk.

  She watched him grab her tape recorder and hold it up.

  “Got it!” He pocketed it and stared at her monitor. “Now let’s see what she’s been writing.”

  “Jensen told you not to read it. If you—”

  “Hey, she mentions Cooper Blascoe here. This must be it. The bitch is writing shit about the PD!” He started hitting the keys. “Well, we’ll just have to get some deletion action going, won’t we.”

  Jamie felt her consciousness ebbing. The voices started to fade away, echoing down a dark, bottomless canyon.

  Had she e-mailed the file to herself as she’d planned? No…hadn’t had the chance. Everything she’d done, the whole transcription was right there on the screen. All her work…

  Work? screamed a voice in her head. Forget your damn story, these guys are going to kill you!

  With panic welling in her, Jamie tried to struggle free but her limbs had become stretched-out rubber bands.

  “Okay, that’s done,” said the one at the desk. “And the program says that’s the only thing she’s worked on since yesterday.” He rose and turned toward Jamie. “Okay, let’s bag her up.”

  Bag…?

  Seconds later the cloth was removed from her mouth and nose and fresh air flooded her throat. But only for a heartbeat before a coarse canvas sack closed over her head and down along her body. She felt herself lifted and twisted and jostled into something that seemed like a huge sail bag.

  “Don’t forget her handbag,” the big guy’s voice said. “Jensen said to make sure we didn’t forget that.”

  She opened her mouth to scream as she was lifted free of the floor, but her voice hadn’t returned. She heard an umph! as she was slung like a sack of wheat over someone’s shoulder. Probably the big guy’s. And then she was on the move, bouncing along to who knew where. The point of his shoulder jabbed into her stomach with every step.

  She tried to scream but again her voice failed her. She heard the elevator doors slide open. A moment later the car lurched into motion—downward motion. Did they think they could carry her out like this right through the lobby? Henry would—

  Oh, no. Had they done something to Henry? Please, God, make it so they just tied him up. Please!

  As soon as the elevator doors opened she made another try at a scream. This time she managed a faint squeak, like a kettle readying to boil.

  No one bothered them as they passed through the lobby and out the front doors. They stopped moving and she was dumped off the shoulder onto a hard surface. From the way it bounced she knew it was a car, but it wasn’t upholstered.

  Another attempted scream and this time she achieved conversation-level volume, but before she could try a second, a door was slammed down over her and the faint sounds of the city were abruptly shut off.

  That sound…not a door. It could only be a trunk lid.

  No! They’d locked her in a car trunk!

  As the car lurched into motion, Jamie began kicking and screaming, but knew with a despair as black as Luther Brady’s soul that no one was going to hear her.

  7

  “The problem is partially solved.”

  Luther Brady felt the muscles that had been wound spring tight since Jensen’s last call begin to unwind.

  “Partially?”

  “We have Grant. The former Jason Amurri is still out there.”

  “Did you get to her in time?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Believe isn’t good enough.”

  “I’ll ask her. Then we’ll know.”

  “How will you be sure?”

  “She’ll tell me.”

  The finality of that simple statement sent a warm glow of reassurance through Luther.

  Jensen added, “What do we do after that?”

  Luther had been thinking about that, and had an answer ready.

  “We’re pouring a column tonight. Bring her there. I’ll have the volunteer notified that she’ll have to wait till next time.”

  “You’ll be there?”

  “Have I ever missed? Ten o’clock. And who knows? Maybe you’ll have the other half by then.”

  Luther hung up and allowed himself a smile. A tiny one.

  Two in one pillar…an intriguing possibility.

  8

  Jack had brought Entenmann’s crumb donuts to the traditional Friday morning perusal of the latest film reviews before the Isher Sports Shop opened for business. The papers were spread on the counter, collecting the crumbs, but only briefly: Parabellum was on clean-up duty, and he was devoted to the task.

  Jack had checked in with Gia earlier. She’d said she was doing fine but he sensed something forced in her tone. He planned to stop in later.

  He was halfway through a review of the latest Robert Rodriguez film when Abe spoke around a mouthful of Entenmann’s.

  “Nu? Haven’t you been talking to someone at The Light lately? What do you think about that murder there last night?”

  Jack almost choked as his throat clenched.

  “What? There’s nothing in the paper about—”

  “Happened too late for the paper. It’s all over the radio this morning. Don’t you listen?”

  Aw, no. A shattering rush of guilt paralyzed him. He hadn’t been persuasive eno
ugh. He hadn’t watched The Light long enough. He’d failed her.

  Jack didn’t want to hear the answer but had to ask: “Did they say anything about how she was killed?”

  “She? No, a he. The guard at the front desk. Shot in the head. I hear the police suspect an inside job because there was no sign of a break-in or a struggle. Probably someone he knew.”

  Jack’s burst of relief was short-lived. That poor unsuspecting guard’s death—Jamie had called him Henry—had to be related to what they’d learned last night.

  Jack yanked his phone from his pocket and called information for The Light’s number. A few seconds later the switchboard was putting him through to her extension.

  But a man answered, his voice gruff, sounding annoyed. “Yeah?”

  “Jamie Grant, please.”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “A friend. Is she there?”

  “Not at the moment. Give me your name and number and I’ll tell her you called.”

  Jack cut the call. If that wasn’t a cop, he’d eat a pair of Abe’s roller blades for lunch.

  This was looking very bad.

  He checked his voice mail—he’d given her one of his newer numbers because the one on the Robertson card was purposefully obsolete—but no message from Jamie. He couldn’t imagine her being stupid enough to go home, but he called her apartment anyway. Her answering machine picked up on the second ring.

  He left a cryptic message: “Jamie, this is Robertson. Call me at that number I gave you.”

  No sense in leaving Jensen even the faintest of trails.

  He gave Abe a quick rundown on what had been going on.

  “You think this Jensen’s got her?”

  Jack shrugged. “The only other possibility is that they botched an attempt to grab her and she’s gone to ground. But I’d think she’d have called the police then.”

  “How do you know she didn’t? Maybe that coplike person answering her phone is there because she’s under protection.”