He had to do something.
Maybe go for a ride. To Jersey, perhaps. To a cement plant where they poured concrete into a strange mold.
It was a Saturday in mid-fall. The place might not even be open.
All the better.
He sighed. Probably a waste of time. Certainly nowhere near the fun of making fatso Cordova's life miserable. Jack almost wished he hadn't finished the blackmail fix so quickly.
3
"Sister Maggie?"
"No, this is Sister Agnes. Sister Margaret Mary isn't available at the moment. Can I help you?"
"Oh, hi, Sister. This is Maggie's cousin. I was just calling about Uncle Mike."
"Not bad news, I hope."
"Well, it isn't good. Do you know when she'll be back?"
"She's working in the soup kitchen in the basement of the church. She'll be there until after the midday meal. I can give you the number if you want to call over there."
"No, no, that's okay. Don't even tell her I called. You know how she is. She'll just worry. I'll catch her later."
Richie Cordova hung up the phone.
"Yessiree," he said. "Catch her later."
4
Jack parked his rented Buick in the same spot as last night, identifiable by the crushed brush and weeds between the two trees. A good spot in the dark but kind of obvious in daylight.
Yeah, well, so what? He'd looked around and hadn't found anyplace better, so this would have to do. Frustration on the Jamie Grant front had made him edgy and grumpy and a little reckless.
The afternoon sun was fading behind a blanket of low clouds as Jack reached the lip of the Wm. Blagden & Sons driveway. He looked down on the plant and its sandy, barren grounds, virtually devoid of vegetation beyond patches of scrub brush and clusters of the ubiquitous and fearless ailanthus.
The place looked more deserted than last night. Not a car in sight. Apparently Blagden & Sons took weekends off—at least this particular weekend.
Figuring the less time out in the open the better, Jack broke into a trot down the steep slope of the entry drive, slowing to a walk when he reached the fleet of silent trucks. He wound through them cautiously. Just because the place looked deserted didn't mean it was.
He made his way to the tall building and found his window with its clean corner of glass. He peeked through. Light filtering through dusty skylights lit an interior much changed since last night. The tall metal cylinder was gone, replaced by a winch-equipped flatbed truck. A large concrete pillar, etched with the angular symbols he'd seen on the cylinder, lay on the truck's bed. Chains and straps locked it down.
This is what they'd been pouring last night. Here was one of the columns Luther Brady was burying all over the world. Was he nuts? It was a hunk of doodad-decorated concrete.
Jack knew there had to be more to it. Brady had to think it was part of some grand plan, a means to some momentous end, else why go to the trouble and expense of building that illuminated globe in a closed-off alcove?
Jack needed a closer look at those symbols.
He rounded the corner to the door where the cars had been parked last night: locked. He'd left his kit of B-and-E tools in the trunk of the rental. He could run up and get them, but hated wasting the time.
Out of curiosity, he stepped around the next corner to a pair of truck-sized double doors and found them unlocked. A thick chain and heavy-duty padlock lay in a bucket to the right.
Jack slipped between the doors and stood in the high, open space, listening. Silence. On guard, he approached the truck and its cargo.
As he stood beside the bed and looked up at the column, studying the symbols, he wished he'd planned this better. He should have brought a camera to photograph the thing. Someone at Columbia or NYU might be able to translate the symbols. He thought again about going back to the car, this time to hunt up a 7-Eleven or drugstore that sold those dinky little disposable cameras. Pick one up and bring it back here and…
His scanning gaze passed and then darted back to a small brownish area that bulged amid the unbroken gray of the rest of the column. Enough out of place to pique Jack's curiosity.
He moved to his left until he was directly opposite it. He leaned on the bed of the truck for a closer look. Reddish brown… almost like…
A chill like cold, wet concrete sludged down Jack's spine.
He levered himself up to the truck bed where he went down onto one knee for a closer look. It did look like blood. If this was part of the design, it was the only one like it that Jack could see.
He pulled out his Spyderco Endura and flipped out the blade. After a quick glance around—still no one coming—he began chipping at the concrete. It took only a few short quick jabs to loosen a dime-sized flake. As it dropped to the bed Jack touched the newly exposed gray surface.
It gave—just a little. It was soft, firm, definitely not concrete. This was flesh. This was someone's hand.
His intestines wound themselves into a Gordian knot as he chipped away more of the thin concrete overlaying the knuckles, revealing more gray flesh. The thumb, the index—this was a left hand—then the middle finger, then the ring, then…
The pinkie was a stub… a bloody stub.
Jack dropped his other knee to the bed and sagged.
"Oh, shit," he whispered. "Oh, goddamn."
Unlike Jamie's, this one had been recently amputated. And Jamie's shorty had been on her right—
Christ!
Jack crawled over the column and checked the opposite side. There he found a symbol that looked out of place. All the others had been molded into the surface, this one bulged. He began chipping away…
… another hand… and this one with a short pinkie as well… an old amputation.
Jamie Grant… they'd killed her, drowned her in concrete last night… and Christ, he'd stood outside and watched the whole thing. That little leak he'd noticed along the seam… had that been Jamie trying to break out? Had she worked her fingers to the edge before her air ran out?
Jack felt a pressure build in his chest. He pounded his fist against the pillar's cold rough surface below the hand.
He'd failed her.
If only he'd known. Maybe he could have saved her… or at least tried. Maybe…
The sound of a car engine outside stopped the growing string of maybes and pulled Jack to his feet. He looked around at one of the windows and spotted a car pulling up. He jumped down from the truck bed and hid himself behind an array of metal drums stacked against the wall.
The frustration at being unable to locate Jamie was gone, overwhelmed by a black rage that pounded against the inside of his skull. He hoped, prayed this was Brady or Jensen—or, better yet, both. He could hear his molars grinding. He wanted to hurt someone connected to the Dormentalist Church. And the higher up, the harder the hurt. Give him the right guy and he might not be able to stop once he got started. Might hurt them to death. Which wasn't so bad. Certain people had it coming.
As he peeked between a pair of drums he saw two men push open the big doors at the opposite end. It wasn't Brady or Jensen, or any of the other four he'd seen up on the catwalk last night.
Shit.
These two didn't look like Dormentalists of any stripe. In fact, Jack thought he recognized the one on the right, the guy wearing the cowboy hat.
Then he remembered. The cowboy was the big-gutted driver of the sand hauler that had damn near killed his father down in Florida. He hadn't been behind the wheel when that happened; his job had been to drive a load of Otherness-tainted sand from the Everglades nexus point to this plant… sand that Jack was sure had been used to make the concrete that entombed Jamie.
Jack reached back and removed the Glock from his SOB holster.
Only two of them. He could take them, even if they were armed. But were they the only ones here? Could be a couple more outside.