Repairman Jack [08]-Crisscross (57 page)

They had to be mistaken about his pistol… had to be.

That reddish-brown stain he'd spotted in the rear sight couldn't be blood. But if not, what was it?

11

"What should I call you?" Jack said. "I mean, since your name isn't Roselli?"

The old woman looked up at him from the seat of a Far Eastern fan-backed armchair. Her gnarled hands rested on her silver-handled cane. Her face was still round and puffy, her sinophilic apartment as crowded as ever with screens, statues, and inlaid tables. She wore a red turtleneck and blue slacks this time.

She cocked her head. "What makes you think it's not?"

Jack had run the gauntlet of Esteban the doorman and Benno the Rottweiler—who'd subjected him to an uncomfortably thorough inspection of his crotch—and demurred the offers of tea and shortbread cookies. Now, finally, he stood before the old lady who'd told him she was Maria Roselli.

"Because I found Johnny Roselli and he says his mother's been dead four years. You look pretty alive to me, Mrs…?"

"Why don't you just call me Herta."

"Is that your name?"

A small smile. "It's as good as any."

Swell. "Okay… Herta. I can go with that. But—"

She lifted one of her thin, gnarled hands from atop her silver-headed cane in a stop motion. "Just let me say that Johnny was both right and wrong when he told you his mother was dead. That may be true of his birth mother, but not of me. For I am his mother too, just as I am yours."

Jack felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He wasn't going to have to argue with her. She'd just—in so many words—admitted who she was.

He sank into a chair opposite her.

"So there it is: You're one of them."

A small smile stretched the tight skin of her moon face. "And who would 'them' be?"

"The ladies with the dogs. The ladies who know too damn much. You're the fourth."

The first had been the Russian lady with the malamute in June. The next had been younger, wearing a sari and leading a German shepherd. And the last had been Anya with Oyv, her fearless chihuahua. They'd all claimed to be his mother.

He had no idea who these women were, or how many more of them existed, but somehow they represented a mysterious third force in the eternal tug of war between the Otherness and the Ally.

"Yes, I suppose I am."

"On our first meeting you told me you didn't know Anya Mundy. But obviously you do. How many other lies have you told me?"

Under different circumstances he might have been angry, but now he was too tired.

"I did not lie. You said, 'Do you know an older woman named Anya?' I did know such a person, but she is gone. You should have asked me, 'Did you
ever
know an older woman named Anya?' Then I would have given you a different answer."

Annoyed, Jack leaned forward. "Okay, let's bypass the wordplay and cut to the chase: You manipulated me into getting involved with the Dormentalism. Why?"

Herta reached out and stroked Benno's head. The dog closed its eyes and craned its neck against her hand.

"Because it must be destroyed. Or barring that, it must be damaged, crippled, driven to its knees."

This lady didn't mince words.

"Because it's connected to the Otherness?"

She nodded. "It was inspired by the Otherness, and has become its tool."

"How does a cosmic force inspire a cult?"

"Through a man whose drug-addled mind was open to influence when the Adversary was conceived—or I should say,
reconceived
."

The Adversary… also known as the One… who moved about under even more identities and names than Jack… the Otherness's agent provocateur in this world… whose True Name Jack had learned only a few months ago…

Rasalom.

And Jack was pretty sure he could name the owner of that drug-addled mind.

"Cooper Blascoe told me he got the idea for Dormentalism from a dream back in the late sixties. Was that when Rasa—"

Herta's hand shot up. "Do not say his True Name! I don't want him to know where I am. And neither do you."

Jack hated to admit it, but she had that right. He'd had a taste of what this Rasalom guy could do. Pretty scary.

"What do you mean, 'reconceived'?"

"After millennia of striving to maximize the human misery that fed him, he was permanently eliminated shortly before World War II. At least that was what was thought. But in 1968, through a freak set of circumstances, he contrived to be reconceived in the womb of an unsuspecting woman."

The date rang a bell… Jack had been to a town where a "burst of Otherness" had occurred in 1968… been there a number of times. None of his visits had been pleasant, and he'd nearly lost his life there.

"That wouldn't have been in Monroe, Long Island, would it?"

She nodded. "It would. And that was not the first time he came back from the dead."

"Anya mentioned that he'd been reborn a number of times. But look, I've got to tell you, Cooper Blascoe didn't seem like a bad guy. Hard to believe a hippie like him was working for the Otherness."

"He was merely a pawn. His dream of the Hokano world that he turned into a pamphlet was Otherness-inspired. He planted the seed that Luther Brady later twisted into the monstrous entity of his church, to use as a tool to help the Otherness dominate this sphere."

Jack shook his head. "But as I understand it, the Otherness means to change everything here, make our reality living hell. Brady doesn't seem the type who'd try to screw himself. Unless of course he's insane."

"He is quite sane, but is possessed of the notion that the one who completes the Opus Omega—"

"Opus…?"

"Opus Omega: the Last Task, the End Work—burying those obscene columns in all the designated spots."

"You mean…" Jack pulled the flap of Anya's skin from his pocket and unfolded it for Herta to see "… in a pattern like this?"

A cloud of pain passed across the old woman's puffy face.

She sighed. "Yes. Just like that."

"So it all comes together. 'No more coincidences,' right? The flap of skin I can't throw away, your hiring me to infiltrate the Dormentalists where I'd get a view of Brady's globe and recognize the pattern… everything's been carefully orchestrated."

He felt like a goddamn puppet.

"'Orchestrated' gives me too much credit. No one—not the Otherness, not the Ally, and certainly not I—has that much control. People and objects are placed in proximity in the hope that certain outcomes will ensue."

"Is Brady in the same boat?"

"Luther Brady is driving himself. I doubt he has any concept of what the Otherness's new world order will be like, but I have little doubt that he believes that the man who completes the Opus Omega will be rewarded with an exalted position in it."

"But how does he even know about this Opus Omega?"

"He too had a dream, but his was of a map of the world. It showed the nexus points around the globe, each radiating lines toward the others. Wherever three lines crossed, the intersection glowed. He had no idea of its significance until a forbidden book,
The Compendium of Srem
, was delivered into his hands."

"Forbidden, huh? How exactly does a book become forbidden? Like banned in Boston?"

She offered him a tolerant smile. "In a way. It was banned in the fifteenth century by the Catholic church."

"Six hundred years… pretty old book."

"That was merely when it was banned. It's much older than that. No one is quite sure
how
old.
The Compendium
first came to the church's attention during the Spanish Inquisition when it was discovered in the possession of a Moorish scholar whose name is lost. He was put through unimaginable agonies before he died, but either could not or would not say who had given it to him.

"The Grand Inquisitor himself, Torquemada, is said to have been so re-pulsed after reading only a part of
The Compendium
that he ordered a huge bonfire built and hurled the book into the flames. But it would not burn. Nor would it be cut by the sharpest sword or the heaviest ax. So he dropped it into the deepest well in the Spanish Empire; he filled that well with granite boulders, then built the monastery of St. Thomas over it."

Jack gave a low whistle. "What the hell was in it?"

"Many things. Lists and descriptions of unspeakable rites and ceremonies, diagrams of ancient clockwork machines, but the heart of
The Compendium
is the outline of the Opus Omega—the final process that will assure the ascent of what it calls 'the Other world.'"

Jack felt a chill. "The Otherness. Even back then?"

"Surely you realize that this cosmic shadow war is about far more than humanity. The millions of years since the first hominid reared up on its hind legs are an eye blink in the course of the conflict. It began before the Earth was formed and will continue long after the sun's furnace goes cold."

Jack did know that—at least he'd been told that—but it was still hard to accept.

"And as with all forbidden things," Herta went on, "77ie
Compendium
could not stay buried. A small subsect of monks within the monastery spent years digging tunnels and secretly excavating the well. They retrieved the book, but before they could put it to use they were all slain and the book disappeared for five hundred years."

"If a boulder-filled well with a monastery overhead couldn't keep it out of circulation, where did it hide during those centuries?"

"In a place built by the Ally's warrior—"

"You mean the one Anya told me about—the one I'm supposed to replace? He's that old?"

Here was another thing Jack couldn't or wouldn't accept: Like it or not, he'd been drafted into this cosmic war.

"Much older," Herta said. "Almost as old as the Adversary. More than five centuries ago he trapped the Adversary in a stone keep in a remote pass in Eastern Europe. He sealed away many forbidden books there as well, to keep them out of the hands of men and women susceptible to the Otherness. But the fortress was broached by the German Army in the spring of 1941. Fortunately the Adversary was killed—albeit temporarily—before he could escape."

"But this
Compendium
thing made it out?"

"Yes. It and other forbidden books ended up in the hands of a man named Alexandru, one of the keep's caretakers. After the war he sold them to an antiquarian book dealer in Bucharest who in turn sold
The Compendium
to an American collector. A quarter of a century later, the collector was murdered and the book stolen."

"Let me guess who was responsible for that: Rasa—I mean, the Adversary, right?"

"Not personally. He was a child at the time. But his guardian then, a man named Jonah Stevens, committed the crime and saw to it that
The Compendium
reached a recent college graduate named Luther Brady."

"And the book told him to start burying concrete columns at these spots around the globe?"

Herta shook her head. "Not start—finish. The Opus Omega had been begun long before, but there was no way for those ancients to reach certain parts of the Old World, let alone the New. Remember,
The Compendium
was already sealed in the Transylvania Alps when Columbus set sail for the Americas."

"So Brady picked up where they left off. But why Brady?"

"Because he's the sort who is highly susceptible to Otherness influence. He was and still is inspired by dreams of power—of literally changing the world."

"I didn't mean Brady specifically. I mean, why work through someone else at all? Why doesn't the Adversary just go out and bury these pillars himself? This Opus would probably be finished by now, and he wouldn't have to deal with all this Dormentalist bull along the way."

"But that would mean revealing himself, something the Adversary does not want to do."

"Why not?"

"Fear. He avoids drawing attention to himself for fear of alerting the Ally's champion. So he must work behind the scenes."

"I've seen some of what the Adversary can do, and if he's afraid… well, this champion must be one tough cookie. Do you know him?"

Herta nodded. "I know him well."

"What's his name?"

Herta hesitated, then, "His mother called him Glaeken."

12

Luther Brady leaned toward Barry Goldsmith, his personal attorney for the past dozen years. Barry had met him here at the Forty-seventh Precinct house and the two of them had been sitting alone at this battered table in this stuffy interrogation room for what felt like hours.

"How long can they keep us here?" Luther whispered.