F. Paul Wilson - Crisscross

He removed the stack of Cordova's photos from the envelope and shuffled through them a second time. Familiarity did not make the task any less nauseating. Last night, while Cordova was unconscious, Jack had sorted them into three stacks: Brady alone, Brady pulling on the mask, and the masked Brady with the boys. He'd picked one at random from each of the first two, but it had taken him a while to find three from the third with the boys faced away from the camera. He'd cut off the corners where the camera had imprinted the date and time, and left them all with Cordova.

On this new pass through the stacks, Jack culled the most damning examples from each pile, then set to work with the X-Acto, cutting out the centers of the boys' faces. No need for something like this to follow them the rest of their lives. Again he cut off the camera's date-and-time imprint.

That done, he placed them in a FedEx envelope along with the letter he'd printed out from Cordova's office computer.

If you're reading this, I am dead, and this is the man who did it. Please don't let these pictures go to waste.

Richard Cordova

He sealed it and addressed it to The Light . He made up the return address.

Then he picked up his cell phone for the first of two calls he had to make. Information connected him to the Pennsylvania State Police. When he said he wanted to report a crime, he was shunted to another line. He told the officer who answered that they needed to go to a certain farm where a concrete cylinder had been buried, and that within that cylinder they'd find the remains of the missing New York City reporter, Jamie Grant. He also told them where they could find the mold used to make the cylinder and that the symbols on it were strictly Dormentalist.

The officer wanted to know who he was and how he knew all this.

Yeah, right.

The second call went to Mrs. Roselli-Not. She picked up on the second ring.

"Good morning, Jack."

That startled him. He had no name listed with his phone. Even with caller ID, how could she…?

Maybe she recognized his number. Or maybe she didn't need electronics.

"Good morning. Peeling well enough for company today?"

"Yes. Finally. You may come over now if you wish."

"I wish. See you in about half an hour."

He got dressed, switched his latex gloves for leather, and headed out. He had the overnight envelope in hand and Anya's skin in the pocket of his coat. One he'd mail along the way. The other was for show and tell—he'd show and the old lady would tell.

He hoped.

9

Gia stood at the corner of Second Avenue and Fifty-eighth and marveled at how good she felt today. She seemed to have regained most of her strength and ambition. She'd even done some painting this morning.

But now it was time for some fresh air. This was the first time she'd been out of the house in almost a week. It was good to know the city was still here. It even smelled good. A fall breeze was diluting the fumes from passing cars and trucks. And most amazing of all: traffic was moving.

She planned to walk up to Park, maybe head downtown for a few blocks, then circle back home. As she waited for the light to change, she felt the baby kick and had to smile. What a delicious sensation. Tomorrow she was scheduled for another ultrasound. Everything was going to be fine, she just knew it.

Finally, the walking green. She took one step off the curb but froze when she heard a blaring horn. She looked up and saw a delivery van racing toward her along the avenue. Gia heard a scream—her own—as she turned and leaped back onto the sidewalk. One of the front tires bounced over the curb just inches from her feet. The sideview mirror brushed the sleeve of her sweater as the truck slewed sideways and slammed into the rear of a parked UPS truck.

The rest of the world seemed to stand silent and frozen for a heartbeat or two as glittering fragments of shattered glass tumbled through the air. catching the sunlight as they showered the impact area, and then cries of shock and alarm as people began running for the truck.

Gia stood paralyzed, feeling her heart pounding as she watched bystanders help the shaken and bloodied driver from the car. She looked back to where she'd been standing and realized with a stab of fear that if she hadn't moved, the truck would have made a direct hit. At the speed he'd been going, she could not imagine anyone, especially her and the baby, surviving an impact like that.

She looked back and saw the driver shuffling toward her across Fifty-eighth. Blood oozed from the left side of his forehead.

"Dear lady, I am so sorry," he said in accented English—Eastern Europe, maybe. "The brakes, they stop working… the steering it no good. I am so happy you are well."

Unable to speak yet, Gia could only nod. First the near miscarriage, now this. If she didn't know better she might think somebody up there didn't want this baby to be born.

10

Sitting at his office desk, Luther Brady studied the printout as TP Cruz stood at attention on the other side. Cruz looked exhausted, as he should: He'd been up all night and had lost his boss to boot.

"So the elevator records show this John Roselli going to the twenty-first floor and nowhere else."

"Yessir. At least not by elevator. GP Jensen used it next."

The printout showed the elevator going directly to twenty-one a second time. The next use after that was when it was called back to twenty-one and taken to the lobby.

"And this time?" He tapped the paper.

"That was Roselli again, sir. He's on the tape. But there was something strange going on with Roselli and the tapes."

"For instance?"

"Well—"

"Excuse me?"

Luther looked up and saw his secretary standing in the office doorway.

"Yes, Vida?"

"I just got a call from downstairs. The police are here again and want to see you."

Luther rubbed his eyes, then glanced at his watch. Only ten A.M. When would this morning end?

"Tell them I've already given my statement and have nothing more to add."

"They say they're here on a murder investigation."

"Murder?" Did they think Jensen was murdered? "Very well, send them up."

He dismissed Cruz, then leaned back in his desk chair and swiveled it toward the morning sky gleaming beyond the windows. Jensen murdered… Luther remembered his impression when he'd first heard the news. But who could survive a confrontation with that human mountain of bone and muscle, let alone hurl him down an elevator shaft? It didn't seem possible.

Minutes later Vida opened the door and looked in on him. "The police are here."

"Send them in."

Luther remained seated as she stepped aside and admitted a pair of middle-aged, standard-issue detectives. Both wore brown shoes and wrinkled suits under open, rumpled coats. But they weren't alone. A trio of younger, more casually dressed men followed them. Each carried what looked like an oversized toolbox.

Alarm at the number of invaders and the looks on the detectives' faces drew him to his feet.

"What's all this?"

The dark-haired detective in the lead had a pockmarked face. He flashed a gold badge and said, "Detective Young, NYPD." He nodded toward his lighter-haired partner. "This is Detective Holusha. We're both from the Four-Seven precinct. Are you Luther Brady?"

The detective's cold tone and the way he looked at him—as if he were some sort of vermin—drew the saliva from Luther's mouth.

He nodded. "Yes."

"Then this"—Young reached into his pocket, retrieved a folded set of papers, and dropped them on Luther's desk—"is for you."

Luther snatched it up and unfolded it. His eyes scanned the officialese but the meaning failed to register.