Crisscross

Esteban smiled. "The lady, she's fine. She's been in and out—in fact, she's out now—and probably missed your calls."

"No answering machine?"

Esteban smiled. "Mrs. Roselli doesn't like them. She told me if someone wants to talk to her about anything important, they'll call back."

"Would you ask her to call me when she comes in? The name's Jack and she has my number. It's urgent that I get in touch with her."

"Jack." Esteban nodded. "I will tell her."

Back on the sidewalk, Jack decided if he couldn't speak to the mother, he might as well have a chat with the son. Maybe Oroont could fill in a few blanks.

Oroont… sheesh.

14

Richie Cordova had positioned his car where he could see the front doors of both St. Joe's church and the convent. He had the windows rolled up against a chill breeze and the doors locked against a chance visit by one of the locals. The Lower East Side's slow gentrification hadn't reached this area yet. He'd left the driver's window open an inch or so to vent his cigar smoke.

This afternoon he'd been all revved at the prospect of grabbing Sister Maggie and hauling her off to an old abandoned warehouse he'd scouted in Flushing. But sitting here outside her church had cooled him. Blackmailing a nun was one thing. But staking her out and snatching her if she showed… that would be a big step where anyone was concerned. But a nun…

Must be all those years in Catholic school, he thought.

He wished he was outside Metcalf's place instead. But Metcalf had been telling the truth: He'd skipped town with his family. A call to his office confirmed that he'd be gone for a week.

That left Sister Golden Hair. If she didn't show tonight he'd be back here tomorrow, and the day after that. Sooner or later he was going to catch up to her.

And then he'd treat her to a showing of The Catholic School Kid Strikes Back.

15

Jack had cabbed home and changed into something more suited to the far West Village—black jeans, a faded White Stripes T-shirt, and Doc Martens. He'd finished it off with an oversized black bomber jacket, big enough to hide the Glock in his SOB holster.

He took a couple of trains down to the West Village. There, in the fading light, he stood on a narrow, debris-strewn street across from The Header and kept an eye on So

He gave it ten minutes, letting the light dim more. No sign of life up there, so he crossed over and went to the side door where the apartment dwellers entered and made quick work of the lock with his autopick. On the third floor he found the apartment he assumed to belong to Joh

No answer, so he again put the autopick to work and let himself in.

Dark inside. He flicked his flashlight on for seconds at a time. The place seemed neat and clean, but stank from the rare delicacies nuked or fried in the bar kitchen two floors down. He spotted a poster of a robust-looking Cooper Blascoe on one wall and a shelf stacked with Dormentalist tracts on the other.

Okay. This was the place. All he had to do now was wait for Joh

A partially packed duffel bag sat on the bed. Pla

Maybe half an hour later footsteps in the hallway stopped outside the door. As a key rattled in the lock, Jack stepped behind the door and waited. Joh

"Not a sound!" he said into Joh

Joh

"I did, but you started calling me strange names and hung up."

"That was you?" He started to twist his neck, turning his scraggly-bearded face toward Jack. Jack pushed it back.

"No peeking. You see my face, I'll have to kill you."

Joh

"I was hired to deliver a message. Here it is: Call your mother."

"What? That's crazy. You were hired? By who?"

"Your mother. She's—"

"That's impossible!"

"She's worried about you and—"

"My mother's dead!"

Jack opened his mouth but closed it after a second or two. He felt his shoulders slump. He should have seen this coming.

The problem now was how to salvage the situation.

"Impossible. I spoke to her just the other day."

"You couldn't have. She's been dead four years."

"Ski

"Not even close. She was an Old World Italian mama."

"Shit. Perhaps I've made a mistake."

"Perhaps?"

"Well, she told me her son was a Dormentalist."

"Well, at least you got that right. You—hey!"

Jack was digging into Roselli's back pocket. "Just checking some ID. How do I know you're not lying?"

"I'm not. Who are you looking for? Maybe I can help."

"Can't mention names. Professional ethics."

The expired driver's license in the wallet showed a more clean-shaven John A. Roselli.

"Okay. You're not him. My bad. Sorry."

"Can I get up now?"

"No. Remember what I said I'd have to do if you see my face?"

Next to the license was Joh

"I see you're packed for a trip. Skipping town?"

"No. Going camping, if you must know. It's the only place a person in my state of…"

"Ripeness?" Jack said.

"Well, yes. Plus being alone in the wild helps me commune with—oh, never mind. You wouldn't understand."

"You never know."

Jack quickly pulled out his own wallet and extracted his temple entry card. No name on either card, no way to tell one from the other. He looked around and spotted a couple of magnets—with the Dormentalist logo, for Christ sake—on the refrigerator door. He leaned to the side and plucked one off.

"What are you doing?" Roselli said.

"Don't worry, I'm not stealing your money."

He began rubbing the magnet along his card's magnetic strip.

If Jensen was worth a damn as security chief, and Jack believed he was, he'd have either inactivated the Jason Amurri entry code in the computer or tagged it with a detain-on-sight warning. Either way, it was useless for getting Jack into the temple. He hadn't pla

Which meant he needed a working model.

He slipped his card into Joh

As much as Jack wanted to move a good six or ten feet away from this smelly clown, he couldn't let him up yet. Also he was curious as to what Roselli had done to deserve being declared a lapser.

Jack made a loud sniffing noise. "You ever hear of soap? Or dry cleaning maybe?"

"Of course. Normally I'm a very clean person."

"Yeah?" What had Jensen called his punishment? Oh, yeah. Solitarian Exile. "So how long are you stuck in SE mode?"

He felt Roselli tense beneath him. "How do you know about that?"

"I know a lapser when I see one. Used to be in the church myself. That's why I was hired to find this missing FA."

"Used to be?"

"Yeah. Got out years ago." He needed to stick to the Dormentalist patois here. He tried to picture the list Jamie had given him. What the hell did they call ex-Dormentalists? "They started saying I had Low Fusion Potential and wanted me to take all these extra courses to raise it. But I couldn't afford it so I went DD on my own before they could kick me out."