Another pat on the arm. "Well, then, we've nothing to worry about. They need motive and, considering that you've never heard of the man, you have none. They need opportunity, and a man who's never been to the Bronx could not have committed a crime here."
"But they took my pistol…"
Barry frowned. "That bothers me a little too. Was it out of your possession at any time during the past twenty-four hours?"
"I haven't been carrying it around, if that's what you mean. It's been in my desk."
"Which is in your office, and we both know what a fortress that is."
Yes, a fortress to which only he and Jensen—
Jensen! He could have taken the pistol. Luther couldn't imagine why, but—
No. He remembered seeing a report this morning from the Paladin office tracing Jensen's whereabouts last night. Nothing about going to the twenty-second floor. In fact, no one had entered the top floor last night—neither by elevator nor the stairway.
So it couldn't have been Jensen. But could his death be in some way connected…?
"The pistol will vindicate you," Barry was saying. "That's probably why they've kept us waiting: ballistics tests. They'll compare slugs from your gun to the ones in the murdered man. When they get no match, they'll have to apologize. And that's when I'll go to work. They'll regret they ever heard your name."
"But that's the big question: Where did they get my name? There must be thousands and thousands of nine-millimeter pistols registered in this city, and who knows how many unregistered. But detectives from the Bronx show up on my doorstep. Why?"
Barry frowned again and shrugged.
Luther pressed on. "What worries me more is that one of the cops said my gun had been fired recently. And that there was blood and tissue in the rear sight. And I looked as he was bagging it and… and I thought I could see a brown stain there."
Barry's frown deepened. He appeared to be about to speak but stopped when the door next to the mirror opened.
Detectives Young and Holusha entered. Holusha carried a manila folder. He dropped it on the table as he and Young took seats opposite Luther. Young's expression was neutral, but Holusha's sent a spasm through Luther's bowels. He looked like a chubby cat contemplating a trapped mouse.
"I'll cut to the chase," Young said. "The ballistics people say the slugs that killed Cordova came from your pistol."
"Yeah," Holusha added. "Got a perfect match on the grooves, and guess what—you missed one of your brass. We found it in the darkroom. Tests show your firing pin fired that round."
A spasm again ran through Luther's gut. "That's impossible!"
Young ignored him and picked up without missing a beat. "The lab found blood on the rear sight that matches the blood type of the victim. DNA results are weeks away, but…" He left the rest to the imagination.
This couldn't be! It wasn't possible! This had to be a nightmare and he'd awaken any minute now.
"He's being framed!" Barry cried. "Can't you see that?"
"Two sets of fingerprints were lifted from your pistol," Young said, his gaze never shifting from Luther's face. "Yours, Mr. Brady—which we have from your gun permit application—and the victim's." His eyes narrowed. "Anything you want to tell us, Mr. Brady?"
"He has nothing to tell you except that he's being framed!" Barry said, slamming his palm on the table. "The pistol was stolen from his office, used to murder a man he's never heard of, and then returned! It's the only explanation!"
"A man he's never heard of?" Holusha said through a tight smile. "You're sure of that?"
"Damn right, he's sure of that! You may have a weapon, detectives, but you do not have a motive!"
"No?" Holusha opened the folder and arranged three photos in plastic sleeves before him. Then he slid them across the table. "I'd say these were motive, wouldn't you? Mucho motive."
Luther's blood turned to ice when he saw them.
13
"Glaeken…" Jack rolled the unfamiliar name over his tongue. "Strange name."
"It is ancient. He goes by another name these days." Don't we all, Jack thought.
"Well, then, why don't you tell Glaeken what's going on?"
"He knows."
"He knows!" Jack leaned forward. "Then why isn't he out there kicking Adversarial butt?"
Herta sighed. "He would if he could, but Glaeken no longer has the powers he once did. He was relieved of his immortality in 1941 after the Adversary was killed, and has aged since."
"But that was over sixty years ago. He must be…"
"Old. Still quite a vital man, but he could never stand up to the Adversary in his present condition. That is why you have been… involved."
Involved, Jack thought. Nice way to put it. Dragged kicking and screaming into something I want no part of is more like it.
Slow nausea curdled his stomach as he began to realize there might be no way out for him. The Ally's torch was going to be passed his way, no doubt sooner than later if Glaeken was as old as Herta said.
Then he thought of something else…
"The Adversary is hiding from a frail old man… that means he doesn't know." He barked a laugh—first laugh in a couple of days. It felt good. "Oh, that's rich!"
"This is not a laughing matter. As long as the Adversary remains unaware of Glaeken's circumstances, he will be cautious in his doings. He will work through surrogates to prepare the way for the Otherness. But should he learn the truth…"
"The gloves will come off."
"As far as Glaeken is concerned, yes. He hates Glaeken. And he should, for Glaeken has killed him more than once. The Adversary will hunt him down and destroy him."
"And when he's finished with Glaeken, what happens to me?"
"You'll take his place. But don't worry about that now. It hasn't happened yet. It may never happen."
"But—"
She waved a hand in the air. "There is no point in worrying about events and situations over which you have no control."
No control… that's the part I worry about.
"Can I ask an obvious question: Why doesn't the Ally just step in and squash the Adversary and these Otherness ass-kissers like the bugs they are?"
"First off, you must remember—and this is always a blow to the human ego—that we are not that important. We are a mere crumb of crust on the edge of the pie they are vying for. Secondly… I don't know this for sure, but from what I've observed I sense a certain game play in the conflict. I
sense that how one side increases its share of the pie is almost as important as the securing of the extra piece itself."
"Swell."
"That's just my sense of it. I could be wrong. But I can assure you that the Ally is active here in a limited way, and that's good, I suppose."
"You suppose?"
"Well, it counterbalances the Otherness, but I'd prefer that this world, this reality, had been left out of the conflict altogether." She raised a fist toward the picture window. "Take your fight somewhere else and leave us alone!"
"Amen to that."
"The Ally's presence, though minimal, will prevent the Adversary from becoming too bold even should he learn the truth about Glaeken."
"Which brings us back to Brady and Dormentalism and buried pillars. What's the story there?"
"The Compendium laid out the requirements of the Opus Omega: Find each site as laid out on the map, and there bury a thirteen-foot column of stone quarried from a site proximal to a nexus point. Luther Brady improvised a method of substituting concrete that included some sand or earth from within or around a nexus point. But special rock or sand isn't all that is necessary. Each column requires one more indispensable ingredient: a living human being—at least living when the column is sealed. Dormentalist "martyrs"—missionaries who go missing while spreading the Dormentalist gospel in Third World countries—aren't missing at all. They're buried in cylindrical tombs all over the globe."