Crisscross

by F. Paul Wilson

  “Well, it’s already after dark, so let’s hope this is an early night. I hate stakeouts anyway. And to be frank, Lou, you ain’t much of a conversationalist.”

  “I’ll have plenty to say once I have Brady where I want him,” he snapped. “I gave you your money. Don’t expect chitchat too.”

  He noticed Cordova’s quick, sidelong glance and reminded himself to remain in character.

  He let out a long sigh. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Cordova. I’m usually quite a talker. Sometimes I swear I just can’t shut up. But tonight I’m a little tense. No, I’m a lot tense. I mean, this just might be the night I get something on him.” He reached over and laid a gentle hand on the fat man’s suety shoulder. “You simply have no idea how badly I want this.”

  Cordova shrugged off his hand. “Easy with the touching stuff. I ain’t into touching.”

  Jack snatched his hand back and dropped it into his lap. “Sorry.”

  Cordova’s laugh sounded forced. “Hey, relax about the rest. If there’s something to get, I’ll get it.”

  Jack hoped they got something—the bigger the better. He had three scenarios planned. Plan A was the one most fully worked out, and would kick in if they hit pay dirt scandal-wise. If not—if Brady was involved in nothing blackmail-worthy—then Jack would go with Plan B. Plan C was the simplest and the least appealing: If Brady didn’t show up tonight, Jack and Cordova would return next Sunday.

  The thought of allowing Richie Cordova to go on breathing for another week made him queasy. And to have to spend another night with him in this car…that might just be too much to bear. Might force Jack into doing something rash.

  “Hey,” Cordova said, pointing across the street to where a black Mercedes was pulling out from the garage. “Is that our boy?”

  Jack squinted at the plates. “Yes! That’s him! Go! Go!”

  “Just take it easy,” Cordova said, singsonging as if addressing a child. “A professional doesn’t tip his hand like that. We’ll wait a few seconds, let another car get between us, then start after him.”

  Jack wrung his hands. “But we’ll lose him!”

  “No we won’t. I guarantee it.”

  13

  Jack had to admit that Cordova was good at tailing. It didn’t hurt that Jack knew the Thruway exit Brady would be taking. At least he hoped he knew. Blascoe had said Brady owned a place not far from his, so Jack assumed he’d use the same exit Jamie had when she took him to Blascoe’s. He told Cordova that he’d followed Brady twice to that exit and lost him afterward. That allowed Cordova to pass Brady and wait for him near the off-ramp. If Brady was watching his rear, he’d see no one follow him off the Thruway.

  Jack had a bad moment or two, sitting there with the pressure of the Beretta against the small of his back, wondering if he’d made the wrong choice. But then Brady’s black Mercedes came down the ramp and stopped at the light.

  After that it was a trip up the same twisty road Jack and Jamie had traveled just three nights ago. Was that all it had been? Just seventy-two hours?

  Brady passed the driveway to Blascoe’s place without even slowing. Two miles beyond he turned onto a dirt path and headed uphill. Cordova cruised farther on for a mile or so, then turned, killed the lights, and headed back.

  After he’d backed the Jeep deep into the brush about a hundred yards away from the mini-road, Cordova turned to Jack.

  “Sit tight and I’ll go see what’s up.”

  Jack popped open his door. “No way. I’m going with you.”

  “Lou, are you crazy? You don’t have any experience—”

  “I’m going.”

  Cordova cursed under his breath as he pulled his cameras and lenses from the back seat. He continued grumbling and muttering as they made their way up the hill through the brush. Jack was struck by a strong sense of déjà vu: He and Jamie had made the same sort of trip on Thursday night just a few miles back down the road.

  Cordova turned and said, “Hey, almost forgot: If you got a cell phone, turn the goddamn thing off.”

  “I already did.”

  Jack wondered about perimeter security devices but decided not to worry about them. If Brady was into something shady up here, he wouldn’t want to draw attention to the place by linking it to a security monitoring company, and especially not to the Dormentalist temple.

  “There’s a cabin,” Cordova said, pointing ahead to where lights glowed through the trees. “Time to slow down and keep it quiet as possible.”

  Soon they reached the edge of a clearing. The cabin—made of real logs as far as Jack could tell—stood at its center, windows aglow. A plank porch ran across the front and around the left side.

  Cordova motioned Jack to wait and slunk into the clearing. Jack followed. When Cordova noticed, he waved him back, but Jack kept coming. The fat man’s annoyance showed in the slope of his shoulders. Jack didn’t care. He wasn’t going to wait for Cordova to develop his film to see what Brady was up to.

  As they neared a side window Jack began to hear music. All the doors and windows were shut, so the volume had to be near max. Sounded classical. Jack couldn’t identify it. Didn’t even try. Except for some Tchaikovsky, he found most classical music unlistenable.

  They reached the side window and peeked through. The interior was similar to Blascoe’s. So similar that Jack would bet they’d been built from the same design. The major difference was the collection of maybe half a dozen full-length mirrors spaced around the great room.

  “Must love to look at himself,” Cordova said.

  And then the man himself appeared, wrapped in a big white terry cloth robe. He strode to the kitchen counter and poured himself some Glenlivet on the rocks.

  Shit, Jack thought. This wasn’t quite what he’d been hoping for.

  Cordova’s snide tone said he agreed. “Oh, yeah,” he whispered—probably could’ve yelled, considering the volume of the music inside—“shots of this are gonna do real damage.”

  “The night is still young.”

  “Yeah, but he’s alone.”

  “For the moment.”

  “You know something?”

  “No. Just hoping.”

  “Yeah, well keep on hoping. Because even if we get shots of him whacking off or doing himself with a dildo, it’s no big deal. You can embarrass the hell out of him, maybe, but you ain’t gonna bring him down with stuff like that.”

  But it’ll be something, Jack thought. All I need is one thing…anything…just one little thing, and Plan A goes into effect.

  They hung around the window, Cordova calibrating and testing the low-light image intensifiers on his cameras, Jack studying Brady through the window. He watched him leaf through some big, antique-looking book, a hungry look in his eyes. What was it? Ancient porn?

  Unlike his burning rage against Cordova, Jack felt cold, clinical, almost detached about Brady. He could torture Cordova, do to him what he’d done to Sister Maggie, and not feel an instant’s regret or remorse. But that wouldn’t do for Brady. Jack had other plans for him, plans that Brady might well find worse than torture.

  “I say we give it an hour or so,” Cordova said, now that his cameras were ready.

  “We stay until we get something or he goes to bed, whichever comes first.”

  “Lemme tell you something: I ain’t standing out here freezing my ass off till God knows when.”

  Jack put a hand on Cordova’s shoulder, just as he’d done back in the car.

  “Please, Mr. Cordova. I told you how much this means to me.”

  He leaned away from Jack’s hand. “And I told you how I feel about being touched. Now lay off, got it? If we—”

  Through the window Jack saw Brady pull a cell phone from the pocket of his robe.

  “Hey. Looks like he’s getting a call.”

  He and Cordova watched Brady go to the stereo and turn down the volume, then smile as he spoke on the phone. When the call ended, he upped the music again, and closed the big old book he’d been rea
ding.

  “This could be it,” Jack said.

  Cordova grunted. “And it could be nothing. But he sure do look happy, don’t he. Wouldn’t be surprised if—oh, shit!”

  Brady had carried the book to the center of the room where he knelt and pulled up a trapdoor that perfectly matched the rest of the floor. He started down into the basement.

  “If he stays down there we’re fucked,” Cordova said.

  Jack kept silent, watching. Moments later Brady reappeared and closed the trapdoor. What was down there? A secret library of some sort? Something that could be used against him? If the photos didn’t work out, then maybe—

  “Oh, man!” Cordova said.

  Brady had tossed off his robe to reveal a well-toned, well-tanned body.

  “Buffed and baked,” Jack said. “This is good. This is very good.”

  Cordova was already snapping pictures. “Don’t get too excited now.”

  Jack put on a huffy tone. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I mean, this kind of beefcake ain’t gonna hurt him. Might get him lots of calls from the ladies, though. Or the guys. Maybe even—holy shit!”

  Jack watched, fascinated, as Brady placed a feathered mask over his head, leaving only his eyes and mouth exposed. He examined himself in one of the mirrors, then slipped back into his robe.

  Cordova’s shutter was clicking like mad. “I got a feeling we might be heading for pay dirt.”

  “Shhh!” Jack whispered as he raised a gloved finger to his lips. “Is that a car?”

  Cordova cupped a hand around an ear. “Damn right it is.” He picked up his cameras and began moving away. “Let’s ease back into the bushes and wait.”

  Jack followed him. They crouched in the brush as a pair of headlights became visible through the trees. Before long a Chevy van pulled up and stopped before the front door.

  “Get a shot of the plates,” Jack told Cordova. “I want those plates.”

  But Cordova already had his eye to the viewfinder. “So do I.”

  A gray-haired man about Cordova’s age, but whippet lean, was illuminated by the courtesy lights as he stepped out of the van. He opened a rear door and out hopped two boys, maybe twelve years of age, fourteen tops. He ushered them up to the front door where Brady was waiting. After the boys were inside, the man returned to the car and drove away.

  As soon as the car was out of sight Cordova was on the move toward the cabin, chortling. “Ho-ho-ho! The plot sickens!”

  Jack hesitated, then followed.

  Back at the window, he saw Brady offer the boys beers, then light up a joint and pass it around.

  “Giving beer and pot to minors,” Cordova said. “That’s a good start.”

  The kids looked fairly comfortable, as if they were used to this sort of thing. Jack knew what they were: male prostitutes. Teenagers. “Chickens” to the trade. Usually kids kicked out of their homes because they’re gay; they gravitate to cities but can’t support themselves, so they wind up fodder for chicken hawks. And Brady was a chicken hawk.

  Jack had hoped for something big to use against the man, but never imagined…

  As Brady threw off the robe and the two boys began to undress, Jack moved away.

  “Hey, where you going?” Cordova said.

  “Back to the car.”

  Cordova’s tone was mocking. “No jacking off now.”

  Jack wanted to kill him right there. Do an HVAC job on his skull, then burst through the door and do the same to Brady. But that wasn’t in the plan. And it wouldn’t change the lives of those two boys. They’d spend some time in the state child-welfare mill, then wind up back on the street.

  The night sky seemed bright compared to the darkness in Jack’s heart.

  14

  While Jack waited in the Jeep he got the Mikulski brothers’ phone number from information. Brad, the older one, answered.

  “It’s me: Jack.”

  “Hey. What’ve you got for us?”

  Jack never made social calls to the Mikulskis. This was no exception. But he wanted to be careful since he was on a cell phone.

  “Got a New York license plate for you. Write this down.” Jack recited it from memory. “You might want to do business with the guy.”

  “What’s he into?”

  “Chickens. Export and import, I believe.”

  “That so?”

  “And I also believe he’s ripe for a takeover bid.”

  “How ripe?”

  “ASAP.”

  “All right. We’ll get on it tomorrow. Thanks for the heads-up, man.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Jack ended the call, then leaned back in the passenger seat. Calling the Mikulskis in made him feel a little better. Weird pair, those two. Had a real jones for pedophiles. Didn’t know what was in their past to make them that way, and didn’t want to. But he did know they’d track that van, and if they witnessed what Jack was sure they would, a certain chicken runner would be out of business. Permanently.

  Jack wanted him gone before the shit hit Brady’s fan.

  He shifted in the seat and felt something jab him in the thigh. He reached down and came up with a crucifix on a broken chain. Just like the one he’d seen hanging around Sister Maggie’s neck.

  Jack closed his eyes and tried to stay calm. The only thing that worked was repeating…it won’t be long now…won’t be long now…over and over.

  Cordova showed up a few minutes later. He placed his cameras in the rear, then rolled onto the driver’s seat. He laughed as he started the car.

  “What’s so funny?” Jack said.

  “We got him! We got him six ways from Sunday! He’s as good as dead! Even if those pictures don’t land him in the slammer, he’ll never be able to show his face again! He’s gonna have to hide away in his little love nest and never come out!”

  He laughed again and bounced in his seat like a kid who’d just been told that Christmas had been extended to 365 days a year.

  Jack said, “I’d almost think that you had as much against him as I.”

  Cordova immediately sobered. “Oh, well, no, I mean I’m just always happy when an investigation comes through for the client. And you gotta admit, this puppy came through in spades. I can’t wait to see those photos.”

  “Neither can I. Where do you get them developed?”

  “I got a little lab in my house.”

  Jack knew that. He’d seen it. Just a converted closet, but a small-time operator like Cordova didn’t need more.

  “Wonderful. Let’s go. And don’t tell me I’m not coming along, because I am. I paid for those photos and I want to see what I’ve got. If they’re what I need to bring Brady down, you’ll get the extra thousand I promised right then and there.”

  “What? Come to my place? I never…” He paused for a few heartbeats, then, “Well, I guess it would be okay. I mean, seeing as you’re laying out all this money and all. Yeah. Sure. Why not.”

  Cordova had agreed just a little too easily. Jack had known he’d go along eventually, but had expected him to play a little harder to get.

  15

  Sweet Jesus, Richie thought as he arranged the prints across his desktop. They were…fantastic was the only word for them.

  He sat in his darkened attic office and stared. The only sound was the breathing of the guy leaning over his shoulder. Gorcey had insisted on printing every frame. Immediately. He wanted them now. Not tomorrow or the next day. Now.

  That was okay by Richie. The prints wouldn’t go to waste. He’d scan them and copy them onto a CD. Then he’d stick them in an envelope marked Personal & Confidential and address it to Luther Brady.

  He wanted to get up and dance. This was the mother lode. This was the California gold rush and the key to De Beers rolled into one.

  Even though he’d had to take the photos through a screened window into a moderately lighted room, the images were clear enough to detail the goings-on in that cabin. Brady without his mask before the boys arrived;
Brady putting on his mask; Brady making the boys earn their pay—really earn it.

  Brady, Brady, Brady.

  Richie had been a little sickened by the stuff that went down in that room, but he’d hung in there until he’d had enough. More than enough.

  Luther Brady, you are my meat, you are my bitch. From this day forward, I own you.

  Only one thing stood in the way: the guy behind him. Louis Gorcey.

  He couldn’t let him walk out of here. The only way Gorcey was leaving this house was horizontal and feet first.

  But he couldn’t risk giving Gorcey even a hint of what was coming.

  He spoke without looking up. “See anything you like?” he said, knowing it could be taken two ways.

  “I like none of it. I am appalled. I was hoping for something scandalous, but this…this is unspeakable.”

  Gorcey sounded offended. That surprised Richie. After all, didn’t gay guys like young stuff? He knew he did. Girls, of course. Not boys. But teen girls, with the way they dressed these days in their tight tops and low-riding jeans leaving their smooth, rounded bellies showing, it just wasn’t fair to a guy who wasn’t getting much. How he’d love to pull down a pair of those hip-hugging jeans and put his face…

  Fat chance. Like one of them would go for a guy forty years older—older than their dads, probably. And fat to boot.

  Richie sighed. The closest he’d ever get to one of those was on the Internet. But he could dream. Oh, yeah, he could dream real good.

  He tore himself away from young girls and got back to these pictures of young boys.

  “Well, did I earn the extra grand?”

  “Yes. You earned your bonus.”

  “Great. Now, what do we do?” When Gorcey didn’t answer, Richie looked up at him. “Hello? Did you hear what I—?”

  Gorcey’s face looked strange. He’d finally taken off his sunglasses. Left his gloves on but had to remove the shades, what with the room being kind of dark. His brown eyes were scary. Murderous, almost. Richie’s heart stopped for a second when he thought that look might be for him. But how could it be? They’d only met tonight, and it was Brady that Gorcey was after.