F. Paul Wilson: Crisscross

A toll-free number and a Midtown address on Lexington Avenue ran along the bottom. Jack jotted them down on the margin of the article.

"You'll stay away from that lot if you know what's good for you," said a creaky voice behind him.

Jack turned and saw a chubby, hunched old woman staring up at him from a nearby seat.

"Sorry?"

"You heard me. How can they call themselves a church when they never mention God? They're doing the devil's work, and you'll endanger your immortal soul if you even go near them."

Jack instinctively looked around for a dog of some kind, but didn't see one. She wasn't carrying anything big enough to hide one.

"Do you have a dog?" he said.

She blinked up at him. "A dog? What sort of question is that to ask? I'm talking about your immortal soul and—"

"Do… you… have… a… dog?"

"No. I have a cat, not that it's any business of yours."

A sharp reply leaped to his lips but he swallowed it. Just some Paleolithic busybody. He glanced back at the ad. The last line bothered him.

Other You…

He'd got to the point where the word other triggered all sorts of alarms. And now this old lady warning him against the Dormentalists. But the strange women who'd been popping in and out of his life lately never appeared alone. They always had a dog along.

Jack dropped back into his seat. Second-guessing every little thing that happened was a sure shortcut to the booby hatch.

"Just trying to give you a friendly warning," the old lady said in a low voice.

Jack looked back and noticed she was pouting.

"I'm sure you were," he told her. "Consider me warned."

He turned to the article from The Light . "Dormentalism or Demente-dism?" delved into the early days of the cult—sorry, church. Founded by Cooper Blascoe as a hippie commune in California during the sixties, it mushroomed into a globe-spanning organization with branches in just about every country in the world. The Church—apparently they liked an uppercase C —had been run by a guy named Luther Brady, who Grant called a "propheteer," since Blascoe had put himself into suspended animation in Tahiti a couple of years ago.

Whoa. Suspended animation? Jack hadn't heard about that. No wonder Blascoe hadn't been in the news. Suspended animation does not exactly make you the life of the party.

The reporter, Jamie Grant, contrasted the early Dormentalist commune, which seemed little more than an excuse to have orgies, to the upright, uptight corporate entity it had become. The Dormentalists' cash flow was top secret—apparently it was easier to ferret eyes-only documents out of NSA than the Dormentalist Church—but Grant estimated that it was well into nine-figure country.

The question was, what was it doing with all the money?

Except for a few high-profile locations in places like Manhattan and L.A., the Church was run on a tight budget. Luther Brady's doing, Grant said—he had a business degree. Grant reported that the High Council, based here in New York, had been buying plots of land all over the place, not only in this country but around the world, spending whatever it took to secure them. To what end was anyone's guess.

In the next installment, Grant promised in-depth profiles of the inanimate Cooper Blascoe and on Dormentalism's Grand Poo-bah, Luther Brady. And perhaps the reason behind the ongoing land acquisitions.

Jack refolded the article and stared out the window as the bus crossed Fifth Avenue. He watched a young, orange-haired Asian woman in black talking on a cell phone as she waited for the walk signal. A guy next to her was talking into two phones at once—on a Sunday? The pair of antennae gave him an insectoid look. On a weekday in Midtown there were so many antennae on the street it looked like an ant farm.

Nobody wanted to be disconnected anymore. Everyone was on call twenty-four hours a day for anyone with their number. Jack recoiled at the prospect. He had a prepaid cell phone but he left it off unless he was expecting a call. He often went days without turning it on. He loved being disconnected.

Back to the article: As much as he liked its sardonic, in-your-face style, he felt vaguely dissatisfied with what it didn't say. It concentrated on the structure and finances of the Dormentalist Church without going into its beliefs.

But then, according to the tagline, this was only part one. Maybe those would be covered later.

4

Jack got out at Broadway. Before heading for the subway he picked up the latest copy of The Light , which turned out to be last week's issue. It came out every Wednesday. He thumbed through it but found no follow-up article. He did find the paper's phone number, though.

He pulled out his cell and dialed the number. The automated system picked up and put him through a voice tree— uIf you don't know your party's extension" blah-blah-blah—that required him to punch in the first three letters of Grant's name. He did as instructed and was rewarded with a ring.

Not that he expected Grant to be in on a Sunday, but figured he'd break the ice with a voice mail to set him up for some talk tomorrow. But someone picked up on the third ring.

"Grant," said a gravely woman's voice.

"Is this Jamie Grant, the reporter?" The article's tone had given him the impression that Grant was male.

"One and the same. Who's this?" She sounded as if she'd been expecting someone else.

"Someone who just read your Dormentalism article."

"Oh?" A sudden wariness drenched that single syllable.

"Yes, and I'd like to talk to you about it sometime."

"Forget it," she said, her voice harsh now. "You think I'm an idiot?"

A loud clatter broke the connection. Jack stared at his phone.

What did I say?

5

Jack was late and Maggie was already waiting at Julio's when he arrived.

During his uptown ride on the 9 train he'd got to thinking about how he'd go about earning the money Maria had given him. Since he didn't know a single Dormentalist—at least no one who admitted it—he'd have to be his own mole. Infiltrating the lower echelons would probably be easy, but wouldn't get him access to membership records. He needed an advance placement course, or maybe become someone they'd usher into the inner circle.

And that had given him an idea.

So he'd made an unscheduled stop at Ernie's ID and described what he needed. Ernie wasn't so sure he could deliver.

"I dunno, man. This ain't my usual thing. Gonna hafta do a lotta research on this. Gonna take time. Gonna cost me."

Jack had said he'd cover all his expenses and make the extra effort more than worth his while. Ernie had liked that.

As Jack entered the bar, Julio pointed out Maggie—no last name, which was fine with Jack—sitting at a rear table, talking to Patsy. Well, more like listening. Patsy was a semi-regular at Julio's and a Patsy conversation usually consisted of him talking and the other party trying fruitlessly to get a word in. Jack could see Maggie nodding and looking uncomfortable in the rear dimness.

Jack ambled over and laid a hand on Patsy's shoulder.

"This guy bothering you, lady?"

Patsy jumped, then smiled when he saw Jack. "Hey, Jacko, how's it goin'? I been keepin' her company while she's waitin' for you."

He had a round face and a comb-over that started behind his ear. He wore double-knit slacks and watched the world through aviator glasses day and night, indoors and out. Wouldn't surprise Jack if he wore them to bed.

"That's great, Patsy. What a guy. But now we've got some private talk, so if you don't mind…"

"Sure, sure." As he began backing away he pointed to Maggie. "I'll be at the bar. Think on what I said about dinner."

Maggie shook her head. "Really, I can't. I have to be—"