… the concrete's gotta be made with a certain kind of sand, and the columns gotta be inscribed with all sorts of weird symbols …
She'd been tied up and suspended inside one of Brady's columns. But why on Earth would—?
Blascoe's next sentence provided a chilling hint.
… And then they've gotta put something else inside it before they can bury it…
The old man hadn't known what that something else might be, but now Jamie did.
The gag muffled her screams.
18
"Where the hell 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 abutting 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 cluster 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 assumed 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 Dormen-talists.
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 damn 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 space. 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, Dick 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 identity, 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 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.