Repairman Jack [08]-Crisscross (7 page)

After the third try he'd given up on burying the skin. Anya had been much more than she'd let on. Her strange powers hadn't prevented her death, but apparently they stretched beyond the grave. For some reason she wanted him to have this piece of her and was giving him no choice about it. That being the case, he'd go with the flow, certain that sooner or later he'd find out why.

He unfolded the rectangle of skin, supple and fresh as new leather, showing not a trace of decomposition, and stared again at the bewildering pattern of pocked scars crisscrossed with the lines of fine, razor-thin cuts. It meant something, he was sure. But what?

Quarter folding it, he put it away and picked up his Clock 19. He checked the magazine—9mm Magsafe Defenders alternating with copper-jacketed Remingtons—then slammed it home and chambered a round. He changed into darker clothes and traded his loafers for black Thorogrip steel-toed boots. He already had the AMT strapped to his ankle. He slipped the Glock into a nylon small-of-the-back holster and was good to go.

10

Jack stood on Cordova's front porch and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Last time he'd been here, the house had had no security system. But the owner had had a gun, and he'd taken a shot at Jack as he'd escaped across a neighboring roof. After Jack's break-in, chances were good Cordova had sprung for a home alarm.

He looked around the neighborhood. Nobody out and about. Sunday night and people were either asleep or watching the 11 o'clock news before heading for bed.

Williamsbridge sits in the upper Bronx—so far up that the subway lines run out of track and trestle just a couple of stops above it. Mostly a grid of old, post-war middle-class homes and row houses, the area has seen better days, but lots worse too. Crime here, they say, is on the wane, but Jack spotted a couple of guys dealing under the El as he drove along White Plains Road.

He'd cruised the main drag before hitting the house because he knew from the last time that Cordova liked to hang at a bar called Hurley's between 223rd and 224th. He'd double-parked, popped in for a look around, spotted fatso stuffed into a booth at the rear, and left. He parked half a block down from Cordova's place. He'd brought the car because his plan was to rock the blackmailer's boat by stealing his files and his computer hard drive.

Cordova's house was older than his neighbors'. Clapboard siding with a front porch spanning the width of the house. Two windows to the left of the front door, two above the porch roof, and one more looking out of the attic.

Jack checked the porch windows. Alarm systems installed during construction could be hidden, but the retrofitted ones were easy to spot. He reached into the large duffel bag he'd brought along and pulled out a flashlight with duct tape across the upper half of the lens. He aimed it through one of the front windows across the parlor to another in the left wall of the room. No sign of magnetic contact switches. He angled the beam along the upper walls to the two corners within sight—no area sensors near the ceiling. At least none he could see.

Okay. He'd risk it.

He pulled out his latest toy, a pick gun. They came in electric and manual, to be sold to locksmiths only. Sure. Abe had let him try both last month. Jack had found he preferred the manual over the electric. He liked to fine-tune the tension bar, loved to feel the pins clicking into line.

He went to work. He hadn't had any trouble last time, even with his old pick set, so now—

Hell, it was the same lock. That set Jack on edge. Not a good sign. If Cordova wasn't going to spring for an alarm system, the least he could do was change the locks.

Unless…

The pins lined up quickly. Jack twisted the cylinder with the tension bar and heard the bolt slide back. He stepped inside with his duffel, holding his breath against the chance that he'd missed something. The first thing he did was search for a keypad. If anywhere it would be right next to the door. The wall was bare. Good sign.

He made a quick check of the room, especially along the wall-ceiling crease but found no sensors. He was struck—as he'd been the first time he'd been here—by how neat and clean everything was. For a fat slob, Cordova maintained a trim ship.

Jack waited, ready to duck back outside, but no alarm sounded. Could be a silent model, but he doubted it.

Okay, no time to waste. Last time he was here Cordova had surprised him by coming home early. Jack wanted to be gone ASAP.

Flashlight in hand he ran up to the third floor. He stopped on the threshold of the converted attic space where Cordova kept his computer and his files, the heart of his blackmail operation.

"Shit!"

The filing cabinet was gone, the computer desk stood empty. He checked the closet. Last time he'd been here it was a miniature darkroom. Still was, but no file cabinets.

This explained the lack of security. He'd moved his operation. And the most logical site for relocation was his office at the other end of the park.

Time to go for a ride.

11

The gold letters on the window heralded the second-floor tenant.

CORDOVA SECURITY CONSULTANTS

LTD.

Jack shook his head.
Ltd
. Who did he think he was going to impress with that? Especially when his
Ltd
. was situated over a Tremont Avenue oriental deli with signs in English and Korean sharing space in its windows.

The inset door to the second floor lay to the left, sandwiched between the deli and a neighboring bakery. He walked past it twice, close enough to determine that it was secured with a standard pin and tumbler lock, and an old one to boot. He also noticed a little video lens pointed down at the two steps that led up to the door.

He hurried back to the car and pulled his camo boonie hat from the duffel, then returned to Tremont—officially East Tremont Avenue, but hardly anybody used the
East
—or the
Avenue
, for that matter.

Still a fair number of people on the sidewalks, even at this hour; mostly black and Hispanic. He waited till he had a decent window between strollers, then stepped up to the door, pick gun in hand. He kept his head down, letting the brim of the hat hide his face from the camera. Probability was ninety-nine percent that it was used to check on who wanted to be buzzed in and not connected to a recorder, but why take chances? He set to work on the lock. Took a whole five seconds to open it, and then he was in.

Atop the stairway he found a short hall. Two offices up here, Cordova's facing the street, the second toward the rear. He stepped up to the first door, an old wooden model that had been slathered with countless coats of paint over the years. An opaque pane of pebbled glass took up a good portion of the upper half. When Jack spotted the foil strip running around its perimeter, he knew where Cordova had stashed his dirt: right here.

Why pay for a security system at home when his office was alarmed?

But if this system was as antiquated as it appeared, Cordova was going to pay.

Oh, how he was going to pay.

But Jack needed to lay a little groundwork first. He'd tackle that tomorrow.

12

Back in his apartment, Jack thought about calling Gia to see how she was feeling, but figured she'd be asleep by now. He'd planned to watch a letterbox version of
Bad Day at Black Rock
in all its widescreen glory on his big TV—John Sturges and William Mellor knew how to stretch CinemaScope to the breaking point—but that would have to wait.
The Book of Hokano
was calling.

So Jack settled into his big recliner and opened the copy he'd picked up at Barnes & Noble. The two-inch spine was intimidating, but he opened it and began to read.

Abe hadn't been kidding: Dormentalism was a mishmash of half a dozen different religions, but the original parts were way over the top. And dull.
The Book of Hokano
made a civics textbook read like
The Godfather
.

He flipped through until he came to the appendices. Appendix A was called
The Pillars of Dormentalism
—a rip-off of the Pillars of Islam, maybe?

Looked like there were more than five. A lot more. Oh, goody.

He began to read…

First… there was the Presence and only the Presence. The Presence created the World, and it was good.

The Presence created Man and Woman and made them sentient by endowing each with a xelton, a Fragment of Its Eternal Self.

In the beginning Man and Woman were immortal
—
neither the flesh of the body nor the xelton within sickened or aged
.

But Man and Woman rebelled against the Presence by believing they were the true Lords of Creation. This so displeased the Presence that It sundered Creation, dividing it in half The Presence erected the Wall of Worlds to separate this, the Home world, from its twin, the Hokano world.

These two parallel hemi-creations are mirrors of each other. Therefore each object in the Home world, living or inanimate, material or immaterial, has an exact counterpart in the Hokano world
—
separate but intimately linked
.

When Creation was divided, so was each xelton. At first the halves remained linked across the Wall of Worlds, but through the millennia this link has stretched and attenuated as the xelton half within fell into a deep sleep. As a result, people on the Home side of the Wall are no longer aware of the existence of their xelton or their Hokano counterparts.

Another result of the Great Sundering was that human flesh was no longer immortal. It aged and decayed while the xelton within, being a fragment of the Presence itself, remained immortal. Each xelton passes through a succession of humans, being reborn immediately into a new body after an old one dies.

All the miseries that afflict humanity
—
war, pestilence, hunger, greed, hate, even death itself
—
are a direct result of our sleeping xelton and our loss of awareness and estrangement from our Hokano counterpart
.

All the miseries that afflict humanity
—
war, pestilence, hunger, greed, hate, even death itself
—
can be conquered by awakening the inner xelton, reestablishing its contact with its Hokano counterpart, and fusing with it
.

These Truths were unknown to Mankind until 1968 when they were revealed to Cooper Blascoe in the Black Rock desert of Nevada by a glowing Hokano traveler. The Hokano's name was Noomri and he was sacrificing his life by crossing the Wall of Worlds to bring the Good News to our side: All the Hokano people have awakened their xeltons and are anxiously awaiting contact from their counterparts in this world.

But Noomri said that strengthening contact across the Wall of Worlds requires effort on both sides. The Hokanos are alert and trying to fortify the links, but our Home world remains unaware. Without effort from our side, the links will remain attenuated.

Noomri revealed that there are ten levels of contact that if diligently pursued will result infusion of the sundered xelton halves. The human hosting a fused xelton will experience wondrous benefits
—
success, happiness, long life, contentment, fulfillment, and seemingly magical powers
.

But that is only a small part of the reward for fusion. Noomri foretold that once enough xeltons are reunited and fused with their missing half, once the two parts again become one, the Presence will be pleased and will remove the Wall of Worlds. Then will come the Great Fusion when the two halves of Creation will rejoin into an Eternal Paradise.

Noomri warned that those beings on either side, flesh and xelton alike, who have not yet rejoined with their Hokano counterpart by the time of the Great Fusion, will be blasted from existence and will not partake of the Eternal Paradise.

Noomri sadly added that over the millennia a certain number of xelton halves have deteriorated to a state from which they cannot be awakened. These unfortunate xeltons and the people housing them are called "nulls" and will never experience fusion. Noomri was a null, and since he would never see the Eternal Paradise, he was bravely sacrificing himself for his fellow Hokanos and the people of the Home world. His time was running out, for one cannot long survive after crossing the Wall of Worlds.

Before he burst into flame and died, Noomri begged Cooper Blascoe to carry his words to all the people of the Home side.

Cooper Blascoe has done exactly this, forsaking all his personal needs and goals to create the Dormentalist Church to carry out this sacred mission.

Jack slumped in the chair and slowly shook his head. How could people—tens, maybe hundreds of thousands of them—fall for this line of bull? It read like bad science fiction.