F. Paul Wilson: Crisscross

"Nice little park."

"Peter Detmold Park. Benno loves it down there."

Jack turned and looked at her frail frame. "You walk him often?"

She frowned and shook her head. "No. Esteban takes him out before and after his shift. They're fond of each other."

"I'm sure." Might as well get down to it: "Do you know an older woman named Anya?"

Maria Roselli's brow furrowed. "I don't think I do. What's her last name?"

"Mundy."

She shook her head. "No, I do not know anyone by that name."

"Truth?"

"Of course. Why do you ask?"

"Nothing."

But it wasn't nothing. Over the past four or five months three women with dogs had passed through his life—a Russian lady, a younger Indian woman, and a Long Island yenta. Each had known more about Jack's life and situation in the cosmos than they should have. He couldn't help wondering if he might now be dealing with a fourth.

But New York does have a huge population of women with dogs. They couldn't all be mysterious witchy types with preternatural knowledge. A woman with a dog could be just a woman with a dog.

"One more question: Where did you get my name and number?"

"From someone who would prefer not to be identified."

"I need to know this before we go any further."

She looked away. "I need your help. Can we make a deal? I'll tell you when you find my son?"

Oh, jeez. A missing person job. That wasn't Jack's thing.

"Mrs. Roselli, I—"

"Maria. Please."

"Okay. Maria. Missing people are better found by the police. You need access to computers, databases, networks, all stuff that I don't have, so—"

"I don't want the police involved. At least not yet. I have a good idea where he is, but I can't contact him. If he's fine, and he very well may be, I don't want to cause him any embarrassment."

No cops… a good start. Jack dropped into the chair she had offered. He'd give a little listen.

"Okay, Maria. Where do you think he is?"

"First, can I offer you a drink?"

"That's okay."

"Tea?"

He realized he was not yet properly caffeinated

"Well, I wouldn't mind some coffee if you've got it."

"I've got green tea and that's what you'll have. It's much better for you than coffee. Loaded with antioxidants."

The only times Jack drank green tea was in Chinese restaurants, but what the hell? Be wild.

"Okay. Tea it is."

"Good. You can make me some too while you're at it." She pointed to his left. "The kettle's in the kitchen."

Jack had an urge to tell her what she could do with her kettle, but another look at those gnarled, twisted fingers changed his mind.

"Sure. Why not?"

As he moved toward the kitchen, she struggled to her feet and hobbled after him on her cane. Benno followed her.

"Let me tell you about Johnny first."

"Johnny? How old is Johnny?"

"Thirty-three. He's a good boy. Really, I know all mothers say that, but Johnny really is, despite his privileged life. I made my money the old-fashioned way." She gave him a tight smile. "I inherited it. Before his death, Johnny's father created a generous trust fund for him, contingent on Johnny's graduation from college. When he did graduate— cum laude , I'll have you know—he became an instant millionaire."

Swell, Jack thought. Find a thirty-something trust fund brat. Only one way this could go from here: downhill. He felt like heading for the door, but he'd already promised her a cup of tea. So he'd let her ramble.

"But he didn't squander it. He had a flair for business so he joined a brokerage house—Merrill Lynch, Paine Webber, Morgan Stanley, one of those multiname firms. I don't pay much attention to such things. Doesn't matter anyway. What is important is that he was an astounding success. He handled my money along with his and by the end of the nineties he had increased my net worth to an amount that I can only describe as obscene." Another tight little smile. "Well, almost obscene. God only knows what Johnny himself was worth."

Even better, Jack thought sourly. She wants me to find a Gordon Gekko wannabe.

The kitchen was small but equipped with a glass-door Sub Zero refridge and a Dacor range. She pointed to a corner cabinet. "The tea is on the first shelf."

Jack found a box with Green Tea in red letters; those were the only English words, the rest was Chinese. As he pulled it out he noticed a dozen or so pill bottles lined against the wall on the counter. Maria must have followed his gaze.

She raised one of her twisted hands. "Rheumatoid arthritis. No fun. The medicines that don't make me sick give me this moon face."

Close up now Jack could see a lacework of red splotches across her nose and cheeks. He felt a twinge of guilt about his annoyance at having to make her tea. Maria's hands didn't look useful for much. Good thing she had money.

"What do you do for food when the maid's not around?"

"What anybody does: I have it delivered."

As he filled the kettle Jack said, "Back to your son: I'd think that if someone that high powered disappeared there'd be a ton of people looking for him. Especially his clients."

"He didn't disappear. He quit. Despite all the money he was making, he became disillusioned. He told me he was sick of being lied to—by the companies, even by the research teams in his own brokerage. He didn't feel he could trust anyone in the business."

So maybe Johnny wasn't a Gekko. Sounded like he had something resembling a conscience.

"This is pre-Enron, I take it."

She nodded. "After hearing about all the double-dealing from Johnny, the Enron scandal came as no surprise to me."

Jack found two gold-rimmed china cups—with the emphasis on China —and dropped a tea bag in each.

"So he quit and did what?"

"I think he… I believe 'snapped' is the term. He gave a lot of his money to charities, worked in soup kitchens, became a Buddhist for a while, but he couldn't seem to find whatever it was he was looking for. Then he joined the Dormentalists and everything changed."

The Dormentalists… everyone had heard of them. Couldn't read a paper or ride a subway without seeing their ads. Every so often some movie star or singer or famous scientist would announce his or her membership in the Dormentalist Church. And the exploits and pronouncements of its flamboyant founder Cooper Blascoe had been gossip-column fodder for years. But Jack hadn't heard much from him for a while.

"You think they've done something to your son?"

Every so often the papers would report sinister goings-on in the cult—mind control and extortion seemed to be two favorites—but nothing ever seemed to come of the accusations.

"I don't know. I don't want to believe that anyone has done anything to Johnny, especially not the Dormentalists."

"Why? What's so special about them?"

"Because being a Dormentalist transformed him. I'd never seen him so happy, so content with life or himself."

The kettle whistled as the water started to boil. Jack filled the cups.

"I've heard that some cults can do that."

"I quickly learned not to call it a cult in front of Johnny. It made him very upset. He went on and on about it being a church , not a cult, saying that even the United States government had recognized it as a church. I still thought it was a cult, but I didn't care. If Johnny was happy, so was I."

"Was? I take that to mean things changed."

"Not things—Johnny changed. He used to stay in touch. He'd call me two or three times a week to see how I was doing and to give me a sales pitch on Dormentalism. He was always trying to get me to join. I must have told him a thousand times that I wasn't the least bit interested, but he kept after me until he…" Her lips tightened as moisture gathered in her eyes. "Until he stopped."