18.

"Where the h.e.l.l are we?" Jack muttered as he followed Brady along a dark, twisting road through the Jersey sticks.

Seemed to be a pretty popular back road, which was good. Jack had kept his distance as he'd followed Brady off the Parkway. His Mercedes was now riding behind a battered old pickup and ahead of a Taurus. Jack kept behind the Taurus.

He was pretty certain they were in Ocean County, although they could have been at the lower end of Monmouth. He hadn't seen a sign either way. Not that it mattered. He wasn't too familiar with either.

Not so Brady. He seemed to know where he was going. Not a hint of hesitation in the way he negotiated the hilly curves and turns since the Parkway.

The next turn took Jack by surprise. As the road crested, Brady hung a sharp left and disappeared. Jack slowed as he reached the spot but didn't stop in case Brady was checking for tails. He caught a glimpse of an opening through the trees, a concrete skirt ab.u.t.ting the road's asphalt, and then nothing but open night sky.

He doubted Brady had driven off a cliff, so he continued on for about a quarter mile until he found a spot wide enough for a U-turn, then doubled back. He killed his headlights as he turned onto the skirt and stopped. He faced a wide expanse of starry sky as he sat overlooking some sort of pit, a huge excavation maybe seventy or eighty feet deep, with a cl.u.s.ter of odd-shaped buildings nestled against the near wall. Light glowed through a few windows in one of the taller structures where three or four cars were parked.

Jack backed up and drove downhill to where he'd made the U-turn. He pulled the car off the road and parked it between a couple of pines, then walked back. He hugged the wall of the pit as he made his way down the steep concrete driveway.

At the bottom he came upon a small fleet of cement mixer trucks. Each had printing on the cab doors that he a.s.sumed to be the company name. Something about the design above the name drew him to the trucks. He sidled over to one. Keeping its bulk between himself and the buildings, he risked a quick flash of his penlight.

Centered on the door was something that looked like a black sun or black sunflower. Beneath that...

WM. BLAGDEN & SONS, INC.

He'd seen that design and that name before. But where?

And then he remembered: a couple of months ago, in Novaton, Florida, on the cab door of a dump truck.

The driver had said he was hauling sand to New Jersey. Jack had thought it strange at the time-no shortage of sand in Jersey-and had meant to check it out when he got back. But with so much happening in his life these days, he'd never gotten around to it.

And yet here he was, standing in the yard of Blagden & Sons.

A familiar heaviness settled on Jack. This was no coincidence. No more coincidences in his life, and here was further proof.

In September a Blagden & Sons sand-hauling dump truck had been stolen and used to run down his father. And now in November he'd followed Luther Brady here, to the Blagden & Sons factory or mill or whatever a concrete making-mixing place was called.

And the sand? Sand was a major ingredient in concrete, and just twenty-four hours ago the late Cooper Blascoe had spoken about Brady's life project, the one he'd been funneling church funds into, and how it involved burying concrete pillars in specific locations around the globe... in the same pattern as that on the skin from a dead woman's back.

Connect the dots and form a picture. But only part of one. Most of the big picture remained obscured.

Jack knew he wouldn't be part of this particular dot right now if another woman, the one on Beekman Place, hadn't involved him with the Dormentalists.

Manipulated at every turn...

He saw his life becoming less and less his own, and loathed the idea. But despite his growing fury he couldn't seem to do a d.a.m.n thing about it.

He banked his burning frustration and focused on his mission: Was Jamie Grant here?

Keeping an eye out for any security, Jack stayed in the shadows as he crept closer to the building. No sign of guards. Too bad. He would have liked to get his hands on one of Jensen's TPs and wring Jamie's whereabouts from him.

When he reached the building he recognized Jensen's Town Car next to Brady's Mercedes; the cops obviously hadn't latched onto the GP yet-if they ever would. A big Infinity and a Saab he didn't recognize were also parked before the door. Jensen and Brady here but without a squad of TPs. Not what Jack would have expected.

He found a dirt-caked window around the corner. Using the heel of his hand he cleaned a patch large enough to spy on the interior but too small to be noticed.

His attention was drawn immediately to the metal column braced upright under a chute on the far side of the vaulted s.p.a.ce. He spotted a group of people on a walkway ten feet off the floor. Jensen was the easiest to recognize. And here came Luther Brady walking toward them.

If only he could hear what they were saying.

19.

Luther nodded and greeted the four High Council members who had come along: Glenn Muti, Marissa Menendez, d.i.c.k Cunningham, and of course, Bill Blagden. Why did some of the HC feel they had to be present at every pouring? He still hadn't figured out whether they were motivated by a sense of duty or sheer morbidity.

He pulled Jensen aside and lowered his voice.

"Everything ready?"

The big man nodded and rumbled, "All set."

"What about the man? Any trace of him?"

Jensen's already dark face darkened further. "It's like he's vanished off the face of the Earth."

"Well we both know he didn't do that. He has to be somewhere."

"But to find him I've got to know who he is. He's an onion. Every time I peel away one bogus ident.i.ty, I find another."

"Please keep it down. I don't want the HC to know about this."

He could sense Jensen's frustration, but it was his rising volume that concerned Luther.

Jensen lowered his voice. "Okay, but who is is this guy? It's like he doesn't exist. How can I find a guy who doesn't exist?" this guy? It's like he doesn't exist. How can I find a guy who doesn't exist?"

"Stop obsessing. I have a feeling he'll come to us. Are you fully ready for him?"

"Of course."

Jensen opened his coat to reveal his omnipresent .44 Magnum in a shoulder holster. He had the size to carry the big weapon without showing a bulge.

Luther wondered if he should have brought his Beretta. He was licensed to carry and was an excellent shot. But he doubted he'd have to call on that skill. Especially here. Jensen had wanted to bring along a few of his TPs as security, but Luther had vetoed that. The fewer people who knew the final disposition of Jamie Grant, the better.

"Just be patient," Luther told him, "and it will all work out."

"Let's hope so."

Luther flicked a glance at the HC contingent, then at the cylindrical mold. "They don't know who's inside?"

"No. They think it's just another Null."

"And the original Null has been notified?"

Another nod. "She was heartbroken."

"She'll get over it."

"I promised her next time for sure."

The Compendium had been very specific: In order for a pillar to be valid, to be able to move Opus Omega closer to completion, someone had to die within it. A cadaver would not suffice. The person's life had to be extinguished within the pillar. had been very specific: In order for a pillar to be valid, to be able to move Opus Omega closer to completion, someone had to die within it. A cadaver would not suffice. The person's life had to be extinguished within the pillar.

In the old days the pillars were solid stone that had to be quarried from specific locations-from stone found near nexus points. In those times a chamber would be hollowed out and a living person sealed within it.

Luther had modernized the process. Instead of stone he'd switched to concrete, but made with sand taken from areas close to nexus points. The sand in tonight's mixture had been taken from an Everglades cenote that housed a nexus point; it was particularly rich in Hokano influence.

He'd fashioned a mold of the proper size that would imprint the symbols in the surface of each pillar. All he had to do was fill it with the special mix Bill Blagden whipped up for him on demand and-voila-a new pillar.

Well, not quite. He needed that final, critical ingredient for each.

When he'd a.s.sumed the task of completing Opus Omega, he'd thought to look outside the Church among human flotsam and jetsam for lives to extinguish within the pillars, but that struck him as wrong. He would not sully Opus Omega with worthless lives.

To that end he had created the concept of the Null-the FA whose personal xelton had died. Without a viable PX within, fusion with the Hokano counterpart would be impossible.

Of course, Null status was never identified until the FA had invested a good amount of cash in climbing the FL. Luther made a point of selecting Nulls from the most devoted, most vulnerable-as determined from the interviews conducted after the completion of each rung-most cash-strapped FAs. Invariably they were crushed by the news and devastated by the realization that they would not survive the Great Fusion when this world joined with the Hokano world.

But wait... all was not lost. The Church had found a way to reanimate a dead PX. But Xelton Resurrection would require boundless faith, devotion, and courage. XR was being offered only to a few select Nulls deemed worthy of salvation. The XR process would not only revive their PX, but bestow immediate Fusion. They'd achieve FF status without climbing the FL, and be ready to face the GF with heads held high.

Every Null approached over the years had jumped at the chance.

Jensen was always the bearer of this good news. The chosen Null was not told the specifics of the XR process, just that he or she would be traveling to a secret destination for a special kind of missionary work, and would be absent for an indefinite period.

The members of the religion Luther had invented rarely failed to amaze him. A startling number of the XR Nulls climbed right into the cylinder and allowed themselves to be strapped in as if they were going on an amus.e.m.e.nt park ride. Not all, of course. The ones who developed cold feet when the moment arrived had to be drugged before they were placed in the mold.

Jamie Grant would have the honor of being the first non-Dormentalist to give up her life for the cause since Luther had taken over the Opus. He didn't want the HC members to know that, though. He didn't want to be bothered with their questions or have them start second-guessing him.

"I suppose it's time," he told Jensen. He nodded toward Bill Blagden, the owner of the plant. "I hope Bill remembered to add the accelerator. It's cold in here."

"All taken care of. He told me he added enough calcium chloride to cut set time by two-thirds."

"Excellent. Let's get it done then. But I want to pull the lever this time."

"Any special reason? You know Bill sees the lever as his duty."

"I know. But this woman insulted the Church in print-called us 'Dementedists,' remember?-and was trying to destroy all that we've worked for. Decades of struggle would be negated if she'd been allowed to go public with what she'd learned. She has been a thorn in my side since she first darkened the temple's doorway. I claim the honor of sending this dangerous WA to her destiny."

Jensen nodded. "I'll tell Bill."

Luther had tried not to take Grant's ravings too personally. He didn't need need to pull the lever himself. He could let Blagden have his usual fun. After all, the important thing was knowing that the b.i.t.c.h would never write or utter another critical word about the Church. That should have been enough. to pull the lever himself. He could let Blagden have his usual fun. After all, the important thing was knowing that the b.i.t.c.h would never write or utter another critical word about the Church. That should have been enough.

But it wasn't.

20.

Jamie heard a noise above as a shadow fell over her. She craned her neck and saw that a large chute had swung over the opening of the cylinder. She screamed through her gag and ducked her head as she saw the thick, wet, gray concrete begin to sluice toward her.

The pasty, lumpy stream missed her by inches, splattering and clattering instead against the cylinder wall before sliding to the floor.

As she watched it begin to collect just a few feet below her and rise like a riptide, she knew she had only seconds to live. A part of her had accepted the inevitable, but another part refused to give up. So she struggled against the ropes that bound her to the reinforcing rods, trying to slip one of the loops, but they'd been expertly tied... by someone who knew what he was doing... someone who'd done it before... and more than once...

Frantic, she looked around. On either side she saw a vertical seam. This cylinder wasn't a single piece, it was two half cylinders bound together. If she could push the side of one of those seams outward, bulge it just a little, maybe the rising concrete would seep through it, and maybe the increasing weight behind would further bulge the cylinder wall, maybe split the seam wider until the cement flowed out rather than up.

She stretched her arms wide, to their limits, straining her weight back and forth against the coils around her torso, inching her fingers toward the seams.

The concrete lapped against her feet, oddly warm, almost comforting.

She pushed harder. Somewhere a knot slipped along one of the reinforcing rods. Not much, but enough to allow her to touch the seams on either side. Her left hand was still exquisitely tender but she pushed through the pain, forcing every fiber of her strength and will into the effort.

The warm cement tide rose to her thighs, her waist.

She moaned behind her gag as the stub of her left pinkie began to spurt blood again. She ignored the agony and pushed hard left and right and-it gave! A small section of the right seam bulged outward, letting in a thin shaft of light.

The concrete was caressing her bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s now and moving toward her throat.

Push! Push Push!

Jamie was still pushing when the lumpy tide swirled to her chin, then engulfed her head, filling her nostrils and sealing her eyes.

21.