F. Paul Wilson: Crisscross

"It's not what you think."

She'd seen him like this before and she did know.

"One of your fix-its isn't going well, right?"

He straightened in the chair and motioned her closer. When she got within reach he took her hand and guided her onto his lap. He slipped his arms around her and nuzzled her throat.

"I have no fix-its in progress."

His breath tickled so she pulled back a few inches and looked at him. "I thought you said you were running two."

"'Were' is right. They're done. It's just that things didn't turn out so good for one of my customers."

That had such an ominous tone. They had agreed last year that Jack would give her no more than a vague outline of what he was up to. He didn't feel he should name names or give specifics about what people had entrusted to him. And that was fine with Gia. She'd worry if she were privy to the details.

All she knew about these jobs was that one had to d0 with a blackmailer and the other with finding a missing son for his mother.

"Is he all right?"

"Let's not talk about it. It's over."

If it's really over, she thought, then why are you like this? But she knew better than to ask.

"At least we still have a healthy, thriving baby."

This morning's follow-up ultrasound had shown, in Dr. Eagleton's words, "a perfectly normal twenty-week fetus."

Fetus? She remembered thinking. That's no fetus, that's my baby.

Jack's arms tightened around her. "Wasn't that great to see him moving and sucking his thumb? God, it's amazing."

" Him ? They still don't know the sex."

"Yeah, but I do. I—"

She felt Jack tense. Without releasing her he reached for the TV remote. As the sound came up she heard something about a woman entombed in concrete.

"… confirmed the remains as those of missing New York reporter Jamie Grant. Sources say early indications are that she was buried alive in the concrete.""

"Oh, God!" Gia said. "How awful."

Jack made no comment. His gaze remained fixed on the screen. He seemed hypnotized.

"Symbols molded into the concrete column have been identified as similar to those found throughout the world in temples of the Dormentalist Church, and the mold for the pillar was discovered hidden in a New Jersey concrete company owned by a member of the church's High Council.

" Ms. Grant was a respected journalist and a fearless critic of the Dormentalist Church. Her murder has sent Shockwaves throughout the world of journalism. We mourn her passing ."

"Wait a minute," Gia said, straightening and looking at Jack. "Wait just a minute. Didn't you say that the son you were looking for was a Dormentalist?"

Jack continued to stare at the screen. "Did I say that?"

"Yes, you did. I remem—"

He tightened his bear hug. "Just a sec. Look who's doing a perp walk."

She turned back in time to see a vaguely familiar-looking man being led from a doorway to a police car.

" In a related story that may or may not be coincidence, Luther Brady, head of the Dormentalist Church, is a suspect in the murder of an ex-cop in the Bronx. He has been denied bail ."

Gia swiveled to face Jack. "Did you have anything to do with this?"

It was the first time all morning she'd seen him smile.

4

"More bad news, I'm afraid," Fineman said.

Luther Brady lifted his head from where he'd been resting it on his arms, which were folded on the table. He was numb.

They'd found Grant's body. How? The news story said the Pennsylvania authorities had acted on a tip. From whom?

It had to be an insider, but that didn't make sense. Everyone high enough up to have known will be under investigation now.

Nothing made sense anymore.

Luther looked at Fineman, dapper as ever. "How could things get worse:

"Mr. Petrovich is not available, it seems. My investigator learned he drove off in his van and never came back. The van was found abandoned in Lower Manhattan. The police report mentions bloodstains on the front seat. Petrovich appears to have vanished."

Luther lowered his head again. What else could go wrong?

Petrovich had been a long shot anyway. A guy with his record probably didn't want to get within a mile of a police station, let alone walk in to swear to a statement.

"I've had feelers about a plea bargain," Fineman said.

"I will not—"

"Don't reject it out of hand, Mr. Brady. Give it careful consideration. You know what's going on outside. Your church is getting heat from all sides. It looks for all the world like someone in your organization killed that reporter to shut her up. That's not going to help you one bit."

He wanted to grab Fineman's silk tie and tell him that yes, he was part of the Grant bitch's death, a big part, and part of a host of others too, but he had nothing to do with this one. On this count he was innocent.

But he said nothing.

Fineman wasn't through, however. "Plus you've got to realize that if the

DA should go public and announce that he's seeking the death penalty, your chance for a deal will be gone. He'll be locked into that position and won't be able to let you plead down without suffering serious political fallout."

Luther didn't see that he had a choice. Making a deal meant losing his freedom but keeping his life. No deal gave him a shot at freedom, but the downside was death. Luther had decided he'd rather be dead than spend the rest of his life behind bars.

"No deals." He raised his head and looked Fineman square in the eyes. "An innocent man doesn't make deals."

At least the photos were still under wraps. He prayed to whatever power had guided him thus far that they'd stay that way.

WEDNESDAY

1

" Gevalt !" Abe said as he studied the hot-off-the-press copy of The Light .

Jack had hung around the newsstand down the street, waiting for it to be delivered. He bought a copy as soon as the string on the bale was cut and walked directly to Abe's, reading it along the way.

Four words took up the whole front page.

SPECIAL

JAMIE

GRANT

ISSUE

The first five pages were filled with loving tributes to a fallen colleague. But starting on page six, the paper tore into Luther Brady, saying that even if he personally had nothing to do with Jamie Grant's death, he'd fostered the tactic of ruthless retaliation against any and all critics of the Dormental-ist Church, creating an atmosphere of disregard for the rights and well-being of anyone considered an enemy of his church.

And then the piece de resistance: censored photos of an unidentified man—obviously Brady on closer examination—with the two boys. The paper said that it had received these photos the day before, with a note purportedly from the man Brady was accused of killing. The photos and the note had been forwarded to the police.

Abe looked up from the paper. "You're involved in this, aren't you?"

Jack tried for a guileless look. "Who, me?"

"You think I'm going to buy that Fm-so-innocent punim? I'm not. You promised me when I found you that Beretta that you—wait a minute. Wait just a minute." He narrowed his eyes and pointed a stubby finger at Jack. "Brady's supposed victim wouldn't happen to have been shot with a nine millimeter, would he?"

"That's what I hear."

"And that nine millimeter wouldn't happen to have come from a Beretta, would it?" Abe turned his palms up as his fingers did a come-here waggle. "So tell me. Tell-me-tell-me-tell-me."

Jack told him, giving him a Reader's Digest version of Sunday night and Monday morning.

When Jack was done, Abe sat back on his stool and waved a hand at the spread-out pages of The Light . His voice was hushed.