“Ms. Grant was a respected journalist and a fearless critic of the Dormentalist Church. Her murder has sent shockwaves throughout the world of journalism. We mourn her passing.”
“Wait a minute,” Gia said, straightening and looking at Jack. “Wait just a minute. Didn’t you say that the son you were looking for was a Dormentalist?”
Jack continued to stare at the screen. “Did I say that?”
“Yes, you did. I remem—”
He tightened his bear hug. “Just a sec. Look who’s doing a perp walk.”
She turned back in time to see a vaguely familiar-looking man being led from a doorway to a police car.
“In a related story that may or may not be coincidence, Luther Brady, head of the Dormentalist Church, is a suspect in the murder of an ex-cop in the Bronx. He has been denied bail.”
Gia swiveled to face Jack. “Did you have anything to do with this?”
It was the first time all morning she’d seen him smile.
4
“More bad news, I’m afraid,” Fineman said.
Luther Brady lifted his head from where he’d been resting it on his arms, which were folded on the table. He was numb.
They’d found Grant’s body. How? The news story said the Pennsylvania authorities had acted on a tip. From whom?
It had to be an insider, but that didn’t make sense. Everyone high enough up to have known will be under investigation now.
Nothing made sense anymore.
Luther looked at Fineman, dapper as ever. “How could things get worse?”
“Mr. Petrovich is not available, it seems. My investigator learned he drove off in his van and never came back. The van was found abandoned in Lower Manhattan. The police report mentions bloodstains on the front seat. Petrovich appears to have vanished.”
Luther lowered his head again. What else could go wrong?
Petrovich had been a long shot anyway. A guy with his record probably didn’t want to get within a mile of a police station, let alone walk in to swear to a statement.
“I’ve had feelers about a plea bargain,” Fineman said.
“I will not—”
“Don’t reject it out of hand, Mr. Brady. Give it careful consideration. You know what’s going on outside. Your church is getting heat from all sides. It looks for all the world like someone in your organization killed that reporter to shut her up. That’s not going to help you one bit.”
He wanted to grab Fineman’s silk tie and tell him that yes, he was part of the Grant bitch’s death, a big part, and part of a host of others too, but he had nothing to do with this one. On this count he was innocent.
But he said nothing.
Fineman wasn’t through, however. “Plus you’ve got to realize that if the DA should go public and announce that he’s seeking the death penalty, your chance for a deal will be gone. He’ll be locked into that position and won’t be able to let you plead down without suffering serious political fallout.”
Luther didn’t see that he had a choice. Making a deal meant losing his freedom but keeping his life. No deal gave him a shot at freedom, but the downside was death. Luther had decided he’d rather be dead than spend the rest of his life behind bars.
“No deals.” He raised his head and looked Fineman square in the eyes. “An innocent man doesn’t make deals.”
At least the photos were still under wraps. He prayed to whatever power had guided him thus far that they’d stay that way.
Wednesday
1
“Gevalt!” Abe said as he studied the hot-off-the-press copy of The Light.
Jack had hung around the newsstand down the street, waiting for it to be delivered. He bought a copy as soon as the string on the bale was cut and walked directly to Abe’s, reading it along the way.
Four words took up the whole front page.
SPECIAL
JAMIE
GRANT
ISSUE
The first five pages were filled with loving tributes to a fallen colleague. But starting on page six, the paper tore into Luther Brady, saying that even if he personally had nothing to do with Jamie Grant’s death, he’d fostered the tactic of ruthless retaliation against any and all critics of the Dormentalist Church, creating an atmosphere of disregard for the rights and well-being of anyone considered an enemy of his church.
And then the pièce de résistance: censored photos of an unidentified man—obviously Brady on closer examination—with the two boys. The paper said that it had received these photos the day before, with a note purportedly from the man Brady was accused of killing. The photos and the note had been forwarded to the police.
Abe looked up from the paper. “You’re involved in this, aren’t you?”
Jack tried for a guileless look. “Who, me?”
“You think I’m going to buy that I’m-so-innocent punim? I’m not. You promised me when I found you that Beretta that you—wait a minute. Wait just a minute.” He narrowed his eyes and pointed a stubby finger at Jack. “Brady’s supposed victim wouldn’t happen to have been shot with a nine millimeter, would he?”
“That’s what I hear.”
“And that nine millimeter wouldn’t happen to have come from a Beretta, would it?” Abe turned his palms up as his fingers did a come-here waggle. “So tell me. Tell-me-tell-me-tell-me.”
Jack told him, giving him a Reader’s Digest version of Sunday night and Monday morning.
When Jack was done, Abe sat back on his stool and waved a hand at the spread-out pages of The Light. His voice was hushed.
“You did this? By yourself you brought down a global cult?”
“I wouldn’t say ‘brought down.’ It hasn’t gone away. I can’t see it ever going away completely.”
“But you kneecapped it.”
“Yeah, but it’s still got more than enough members and resources to go on burying their pillars.”
All Dormentalism might be reeling and in disarray, but Brady’s machinery still existed. Before too long a new insertion site would be chosen, and another Dormentalist High Council fanatic would be preparing another column…and setting up another victim.
“A moratorium they’ll call. Too many eyes looking at them. And without their guiding light…”
“Yeah, he’s out of the picture for good, I hope.”
“If not, it won’t be for lack of trying on your part. But whatever, the Dormentalist Church is—”
“Hang on,” Jack said. “Turn up your radio a sec.” Jack thought he’d heard Brady’s name.
Abe always had a radio going and, natch, always tuned to an all-news station.
Sure enough, the newsreader was saying that the Bronx DA had announced he was seeking the death penalty in the Cordova murder case. She also mentioned that Luther Brady had been denied bond and would be transferred to Riker’s Island later this morning.
“Mazel tov,” Abe said, beaming. “You should tell your lady friend.”
“I’ll bet she knows.”
But giving Herta a call wasn’t such a bad idea. Jack whipped out his cell phone and dialed her number.
No answer.
Probably out shopping…but a hint of warning put him into motion.
“I think I’ll tell her in person.”
He gave Abe a wave and headed for the door. When he hit the sidewalk he broke into a loping run toward Columbus Avenue, looking for a cab.
2
“She’s gone!” Esteban looked upset.
Jack tried to keep his cool as unease writhed through him.
“What do you mean, gone? When did she go out?”
“She didn’t just go out, she left. Men came and packed up all her things, and she left. Her apartment is empty.”
“You sure she left on her own? Could she have been kidnapped or something?”
Esteban shook his head. “Oh, no. She left me a nice note and a very generous gift. I will miss her.”
“Then where’d she go?”
A shrug. “She did no
t say. I know she was not jumping her rent because she is paid up until the end of the year.”
Had she been frightened off, or was this one of those my-work-here-is-done things?
Jack ground his teeth. He still had so many unanswered questions.
“She was a nice lady,” Esteban said.
“Yeah, she was.” He clapped him on the arm. “And you were a good friend to her. I know she appreciated it.”
Jack left a beaming doorman behind and headed for First Avenue. He needed another taxi to take him to his rental car. He had two more stops to make before he returned it.
3
As Jack walked away from Sister Maggie’s flower-smothered grave, he heard someone call his name.
“Jack! Would you be having a moment to spare.”
Jack turned and saw Father Edward Halloran, an aging leprechaun in a cassock and Roman collar, hustling toward him across the grass. Father Ed had said the funeral mass, which Jack had skipped, and recited the graveside prayers. Jack had been touched by the hundreds of tearful, mourning parishioners who had made the trip from the Lower East Side to pay their respects to a beloved teacher.
“What happened, Jack?” the priest said in a low voice. Tears rimmed his eyes. “May the Lord strike me dead if a finer, sweeter, more God-loving woman ever walked the earth.”
Jack looked at the bare trees rimming the fading green of the lawn, the ornate, old-fashioned gravestones filling this Queens graveyard.
“Yeah, she was something.”
“But who—?”
“Doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Of course it does! He must be—” And then his words cut off. He looked up at Jack. “Ah, would you be telling me that he’s passed beyond human justice?”
“I’ll let you draw your own conclusion.”
“Sure and I’ll be knowing what happened to a certain fellow I asked you to keep an eye on a while back. Hasn’t been seen or heard from since, has he?”
“Not by me, at least.”
Father Ed sighed. “I don’t want to be after condoning such things, don’t you know, but, well, if justice was done, then, I guess justice was done. Still that poor woman…what was done to her. We had to keep her coffin closed.”
Jack tried not to remember the sight of Maggie inside that body bag.
He took a breath. He’d planned to catch Father Ed later today or tomorrow at the rectory. Wanted to discuss something with him. Might as well do it now.
“On the subject of Sister Maggie, how do I set up an education fund in her name?”
Father Ed’s eyes widened. “Why would you be doing that?”
“Something she told me…about some girl named Fina who’d have to leave St. Joe’s because of money problems.”
“Serafina! Yes, Sister Maggie was looking for a way to keep the Martinez children in school. Did you meet them?”
“No…”
“Then why would you be wanting to help?”
The leftovers from the twenty-five large Herta had given him plus the cash he’d boosted from Cordova came to a tidy sum. He couldn’t very well return it to Herta.
“Let’s just say I don’t want to see her forgotten. Maybe you can set something up where some money can be invested, use it for the Martinez kids till they move on to high school, then use what’s left for other kids who need that kind of help.”
“Why, that’s wonderful, Jack. The Sister Mary Margaret O’Hara Education Fund…it has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? I’ll get on it right away. When would you be sending the check?”
“Check?”
“Well, I assume you’ll be wanting the tax deduction.”
“Already have plenty of those. Cash won’t be a problem, will it?”
Father Ed’s eyes twinkled. “No problem at all.”
4
Luther Brady moved in a daze.
A chain ran between his feet. His wrists were chained to his waist. A cop led him down a hallway of the detention center. Another followed, and one on either side guided him by the elbows. They were moving him quickly toward a rectangle of light—a doorway to the outside. And beyond that, a van to take him to Riker’s.
Visions of being gang-raped by a parade of huge laughing black men weakened his knees. There had to be Dormentalists in prison. All he needed were a few…for protection…
And then he was squinting in the sudden glare of sunlight. After a second or two he realized that it wasn’t the sun alone, but camera lights as well. And reporters flanking his path to a police wagon, machine-gunning questions as they shoved microphones at his face.
He blinked, then straightened as he realized that this was his chance to present his case, create sound and video bites that would air again and again.
“I’m innocent!” he shouted, slowing the pace of his walk. “Innocent, I swear it!”
He scanned their faces. Some he knew, some he didn’t. Through hundreds of public appearances he’d honed his natural ability to project sincerity and dignity. He called on that ability now, looking them directly in the eyes and showing no fear.
“But what of the evidence, those photos?” someone said.
“Lies and forgeries. This is all a colossal frame-up to discredit me and Dormentalism! You’ll see! The truth will out! The truth—!”
The words died in his throat as he recognized a face in the crowd, toward the rear. Not a reporter. No, he’d seen this face in the temple. He was the one who’d pretended to be Jason Amurri, the one Jensen had wanted so badly to find.
As their eyes locked, Luther Brady saw something there, and it ignited an epiphany: This man was behind it all.
No. He couldn’t be. That would be saying that one man had exposed Opus Omega, killed Jensen, and framed Luther for murder.
Impossible!
But then the man lifted his right hand, folded it into a gun shape, and pointed it at Luther. He smiled, cocked his head, and snapped down the thumb trigger.
“There!” Luther shouted. “Over there!” He struggled against his chains. If only he could point! “There’s the man responsible for all this! There’s the real killer! Grab him and ask him! He’ll…”
People turned to look, but the man was gone.
And all the cameras were still running.
Luther Brady put his head back and screamed out his anger, his frustration, his helplessness, and most of all, his horror.
www.repairmanjack.com
Also By F. Paul Wilson
Repairman Jack Novels
The Tomb
Legacies
Conspiracies
All the Rage
Hosts
The Haunted Air
Gateways
The Adversary Cycle
The Keep
The Tomb
The Touch
Reborn
Reprisal
Nightworld
Other Novels
Healer
Wheels Within Wheels
An Enemy of the State
Black Wind
Dydeetown World
The Tery
Sibs
The Select
Implant
Deep as the Marrow
Mirage (with Matthew J. Costello)
Nightkill (with Steven Spruill)
Masque (with Matthew J. Costello)
The Christmas Thingy
Sims
The Fifth Harmonic
Midnight Mass
Short Fiction
Soft and Others
The Barrens and Others
Editor
Freak Show
Diagnosis: Terminal
Acknowledgments
Thanks to the usual crew for their editorial help on the manuscript: my wife, Mary; my editor, David Hartwell; his assistant, Moshe Feder; Coates Bateman; Elizabeth Monteleone; Steven Spruill; and my agent, Albert Zuckerman.
Special thanks to my gunnies: NY Joe (Joe Schmidt), Angel (Janada Oakley), and Ken Valentine, for their invaluable as
sistance. As usual, I did a little improvising along the way, so any errors in the weaponry department are mine.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
CRISSCROSS: A REPAIRMAN JACK NOVEL
Copyright © 2004 by F. Paul Wilson
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
Edited by David G. Hartwell
A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Forge® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
ISBN: 978-0-7653-0691-3
Crisscross Page 44
