F. Paul Wilson: Crisscross

"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.

He was sure they were being observed through the pane of mirrored glass set in the wall before them.

"We could leave now. I could demand that they either charge you and arrest you, or we walk."

"Arrested… I don't want to be—"

"Don't worry." Barry patted his arm. The gesture retracted the sleeve on his charcoal Armani suit, revealing his glittering Rolex. "I don't do criminal defense, but I know enough to tell you that they'll need a lot of evidence to put the cuffs on someone of your stature and pristine record. And we know they don't have that evidence— can't have that evidence, right?"

He sounded as if he wanted reassurance. Well, Luther would give it to him.

"Barry, listen to me and trust me when I say that I have never even heard of this Richard Cordova, let alone done him harm. And they say it happened up here in the Bronx. I don't know if I've ever in my life even set foot in the Bronx."

Another pat on the arm. "Well, then, we've nothing to worry about. They need motive and, considering that you've never heard of the man, you have none. They need opportunity, and a man who's never been to the Bronx could not have committed a crime here."

"But they took my pistol…"

Barry frowned. "That bothers me a little too. Was it out of your possession at any time during the past twenty-four hours?"

"I haven't been carrying it around, if that's what you mean. It's been in my desk."

"Which is in your office, and we both know what a fortress that is."

Yes, a fortress to which only he and Jensen—

Jensen! He could have taken the pistol. Luther couldn't imagine why, but—

No. He remembered seeing a report this morning from the Paladin office tracing Jensen's whereabouts last night. Nothing about going to the twenty-second floor. In fact, no one had entered the top floor last night—neither by elevator nor the stairway.

So it couldn't have been Jensen. But could his death be in some way connected…?

"The pistol will vindicate you," Barry was saying. "That's probably why they've kept us waiting: ballistics tests. They'll compare slugs from your gun to the ones in the murdered man. When they get no match, they'll have to apologize. And that's when I'll go to work. They'll regret they ever heard your name."

"But that's the big question: Where did they get my name? There must be thousands and thousands of nine-millimeter pistols registered in this city, and who knows how many unregistered. But detectives from the Bronx show up on my doorstep. Why?"

Barry frowned again and shrugged.

Luther pressed on. "What worries me more is that one of the cops said my gun had been fired recently. And that there was blood and tissue in the rear sight. And I looked as he was bagging it and… and I thought I could see a brown stain there."

Barry's frown deepened. He appeared to be about to speak but stopped when the door next to the mirror opened.

Detectives Young and Holusha entered. Holusha carried a manila folder. He dropped it on the table as he and Young took seats opposite Luther. Young's expression was neutral, but Holusha's sent a spasm through Luther's bowels. He looked like a chubby cat contemplating a trapped mouse.

"I'll cut to the chase," Young said. "The ballistics people say the slugs that killed Cordova came from your pistol."

"Yeah," Holusha added. "Got a perfect match on the grooves, and guess what—you missed one of your brass. We found it in the darkroom. Tests show your firing pin fired that round."

A spasm again ran through Luther's gut. "That's impossible!"

Young ignored him and picked up without missing a beat. "The lab found blood on the rear sight that matches the blood type of the victim. DNA results are weeks away, but…" He left the rest to the imagination.

This couldn't be! It wasn't possible! This had to be a nightmare and he'd awaken any minute now.

"He's being framed!" Barry cried. "Can't you see that?"

"Two sets of fingerprints were lifted from your pistol," Young said, his gaze never shifting from Luther's face. "Yours, Mr. Brady—which we have from your gun permit application—and the victim's." His eyes narrowed. "Anything you want to tell us, Mr. Brady?"

"He has nothing to tell you except that he's being framed!" Barry said, slamming his palm on the table. "The pistol was stolen from his office, used to murder a man he's never heard of, and then returned! It's the only explanation!"

"A man he's never heard of?" Holusha said through a tight smile. "You're sure of that?"

"Damn right, he's sure of that! You may have a weapon, detectives, but you do not have a motive!"

"No?" Holusha opened the folder and arranged three photos in plastic sleeves before him. Then he slid them across the table. "I'd say these were motive, wouldn't you? Mucho motive."

Luther's blood turned to ice when he saw them.

13

"Glaeken…" Jack rolled the unfamiliar name over his tongue. "Strange name."

"It is ancient. He goes by another name these days." Don't we all, Jack thought.

"Well, then, why don't you tell Glaeken what's going on?"

"He knows."

"He knows!" Jack leaned forward. "Then why isn't he out there kicking Adversarial butt?"

Herta sighed. "He would if he could, but Glaeken no longer has the powers he once did. He was relieved of his immortality in 1941 after the Adversary was killed, and has aged since."

"But that was over sixty years ago. He must be…"

"Old. Still quite a vital man, but he could never stand up to the Adversary in his present condition. That is why you have been… involved."

Involved , Jack thought. Nice way to put it. Dragged kicking and screaming into something I want no part of is more like it.

Slow nausea curdled his stomach as he began to realize there might be no way out for him. The Ally's torch was going to be passed his way, no doubt sooner than later if Glaeken was as old as Herta said.

Then he thought of something else…

"The Adversary is hiding from a frail old man… that means he doesn't know." He barked a laugh—first laugh in a couple of days. It felt good. "Oh, that's rich!"

"This is not a laughing matter. As long as the Adversary remains unaware of Glaeken's circumstances, he will be cautious in his doings. He will work through surrogates to prepare the way for the Otherness. But should he learn the truth…"