Crisscross Read online

  “But what do they believe?”

  “Get yourself The Book of Hokano and read, bubbie, read. And trust me, with that in front of you, insomnia will be no worry.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll sleep even better if you find me a way to become a citizen again.”

  Impending fatherhood was doing a number on Jack’s lifestyle, making him look for a way to return to aboveground life without attracting too much official attention. It wouldn’t have been easy pre-9/11, but now…sheesh. If he couldn’t provide a damn good explanation of his whereabouts for the last fifteen years, and why he wasn’t on the Social Security roles or in the IRS data banks as ever filing a 1040, he’d be put under the Homeland Security microscope. He doubted his past could withstand that kind of scrutiny, and he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life under observation.

  Had to find another way. And the best idea seemed to be a new identity…become someone with a past.

  “Any more from your guy in Europe?”

  Abe had contacts all over the world. Someone in Eastern Europe had said he might be able to work out something—for a price, of course.

  Abe shook his head. “Nothing definite. He’s still working on it. Trust me, when I know, you’ll know.”

  “Can’t wait forever, Abe. The baby’s due mid-March.”

  “I’ll try to hurry him. I’m doing my best. You should know that.”

  Jack sighed. “Yeah. I do.”

  But the waiting, the dependence on a faceless contact, the frustration of not being able to fix this on his own…it ate at him.

  He held up the book. “Got a bag?”

  “What? Afraid people will think you’re a Dormentalist?”

  “You got it.”

  8

  “Slow down, Vicky,” Gia said. “Chew your food.”

  Vicky loved mussels in white wine and garlic sauce. She ate them with a gusto that warmed Jack’s heart, scooping out the meat with her little fork, dipping it in the milky sauce, then popping it into her mouth. She ate quickly, methodically, and as she worked her way through the bowl she arranged her empty shells on the discard plate in her own fashion: inserting the latest into the previous, hinge first, creating a tight daisy chain of glistening black shells.

  Her hair, braided into a French twist, was almost as dark as the shells; she had her mother’s blue eyes and perfect skin, and had been nine years old for a whole two weeks now.

  Every Sunday since his return from Florida, Jack had made a point of taking Gia and Vicky out for what he liked to think of as a family dinner. Tonight had been Vicky’s turn to decide where they ate and, true to form, she chose Amalia’s in Little Italy.

  The tiny restaurant had occupied the same spot on Hester Street off Mulberry since shortly after the discovery of fire. It had gained the status of a Little Italy institution without becoming a tourist trap. The main reason for that was Mama Amalia, who decided who got seated and who didn’t. No matter if a stranger had been waiting for an hour on a busy night, if she knew you from the neighborhood or as a regular, you got the next available table. Countless tourists had left in a huff.

  Like Mama Amalia could care. She’d been running her place this way all her adult life. She wasn’t about to change.

  Mama had a thing for Vicky. The two had hit it off from the start and Mama always gave Vicky the royal treatment, including the traditional two-cheek air kiss she’d taught her, a big hug, and an extra cannoli for the trip home. The fact that her mother’s last name was DiLauro didn’t hurt.

  The seating was family style, at long tables covered with red- and white-checkered cloths. With the crowd light tonight, Gia, Vicky, and Jack wound up with a table to themselves. Jack worked on his calamari fritti and a second Moretti while Gia picked at her sliced tomatoes and mozzarella. She and Vicky were splitting a bottle of Limonata. Normally Gia would have been sipping a glass of Pinot Grigio, but she’d sworn off alcohol as soon as she discovered she was pregnant.

  “Not hungry?” Jack said, noticing that she’d only half finished her appetizer.

  Gia had let her blond hair grow out a little but it was still short by most standards. She wore black slacks and a loose blue sweater. But even in a tight top he doubted anyone would know she was pregnant. Despite nearing the end of her fourth month, Gia was barely showing.

  She shrugged. “Not particularly.”

  “Anything wrong?”

  She hugged her arms against herself as she glanced at Vicky who was still absorbed in her mussels. “I just don’t feel right.”

  Now that she’d said that, Jack noticed that she did look a little pale.

  “A virus?”

  “Maybe. I feel kind of crampy.”

  Jack felt a stab of pain in his own stomach.

  “What kind of cramps?” He lowered his voice. “It’s not the baby, is it?”

  She shook her head. “No. Just…cramps. Only now and then, few and far between. Don’t worry.”

  “Don’t worry about what?” Vicky said, looking up from her mussel shell rosette.

  “Mommy’s not feeling so hot,” Gia told her. “Remember how your stomach was upset last week. I think I may have it now.”

  Vicky had to think a moment, then said. “Oh, yeah. That was gross, but not too bad. You’ll be okay if you drink Gatorade, Mom. Just like me.”

  She went back to arranging her shells.

  A virus…Jack hoped that was all it was.

  Gia grabbed his hand. “I see that look. Don’t worry, okay? I just had my monthly checkup and Dr. Eagleton says everything’s going fine.”

  “Hey, if she can’t tell whether it’s a boy or a girl yet, how do we know she—?”

  Gia held up her hand in a traffic-cop move. “Don’t go there. She delivered Vicky and she’s been my gynecologist ever since. As far as I’m concerned she’s the best OB on the planet.”

  “Okay, okay. It’s just I worry, you know? I’m new to this whole thing.”

  She smiled. “I know. But by the time March rolls around, you’ll be a pro.”

  Jack hoped so.

  He poked at his calamari rings. He wasn’t so hungry anymore.

  9

  Jack returned to his apartment after dropping off Vicky and Gia—who was feeling better—at their Sutton Square townhouse. He’d been carrying his .380 AMT Backup at the restaurant but wanted something a little more impressive along when he visited Cordova’s place—just in case he got backed into a corner.

  He wound through the Victorian oak furniture of his cluttered front room—Gia had once called it “claustrophobic,” but she seemed used to it these days—and headed for the old fold-out secretary against the far wall. He occupied the third floor of a West Eighties brownstone that was much too small for all the neat stuff he’d accumulated over the years. He didn’t know what he was going to do with it once he and Gia were married. It was a given that he’d move to Sutton Square, but what would happen to all this?

  He’d worry about it when the time came.

  He angled the secretary out from the wall and reached for the notch in the lower rear panel. His hand stopped just inches away. The hidden space behind the drawers held his weapons cache—and, since Florida, something else. That something else tended to make him a little queasy.

  He pushed his hand forward and removed the panel. Hung on self-adhering hooks or jumbled on the floor of the space lay his collection of saps, knives, bullets, pistols. The latest addition was a souvenir from his Florida trip, a huge Ruger SuperRedhawk revolver chambered for .454 Casulls that would stop an elephant. Not many elephants around here, and the Ruger’s nine-and-a-half-inch barrel made it impractical as a city carry, but he couldn’t let it go.

  Another thing in the hidden compartment he couldn’t let go—or rather, wouldn’t let go of him—was a flap of skin running maybe ten inches wide and twelve long. Another leftover from that same trip, it was all that remained of a strange old woman named Anya. Yeah, a woman with a dog, a heroic little chihuahua named O
yv.

  He’d tried to rid himself of this grisly reminder of the horrors that had gone down in Florida, but it refused to go. He’d buried it once in Florida and twice again during the two months since he’d returned, but it wouldn’t stay. By the time he got home it was already here, waiting for him. As little as a year ago he would have been shocked, repulsed, horrified, and questioning his sanity. Now…he simply went with it. He’d come to the gut-wrenching realization that he was no longer in control of his life. Sometimes he wondered if he’d ever been.

  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 Glock 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.