As Luther reached for the phone the detective said, "Do you own a nine-millimeter pistol, Mr. Brady?"

My pistol? What do they want with…?

"Yes, I do. Licensed and legally registered, I'll have you know."

"We do know. A Beretta 92. That's one of the reasons we're here."

"I don't under—" And then it hit him. "Oh, no! Was Jensen shot?"

The other detective, Holusha, frowned. "Jensen? Who's Jensen?"

"My chief of security… he died this morning… an accident. I thought you were here about—"

Young said, "Where is your pistol, Mr. Brady?"

"Right here in the desk." Luther reached toward the drawer. "Here, I'll show—"

Holusha's voice snapped like a whip. "Please don't touch the weapon, Mr. Brady."

Luther snatched his hand back. "It's in the second drawer."

"Step away from the desk, please."

As Luther complied, Young signaled one of the younger men. "Romano." He pointed to the drawer. "Gun's in there."

Luther felt as if reality were slipping away. Here in his building, his temple, his word was law. But now his office, his home, his sanctum, had been invaded. He was no longer in control. These storm troopers had taken over.

And no one was saying why. He felt as if he'd fallen into a Kafka story.

It had to be a mistake. Did they think he'd shot somebody? Who? Not that it mattered. He'd never even aimed that pistol at a human being, let alone shot one.

This mix-up would be straightened out, and then someone at the District Attorney's office would pay. Oh, how they'd pay.

"What…?" He swallowed. "What am I supposed to have done?"

Holusha pulled an index card from the breast pocket of his shirt.

"How well do you know Richard Cordova?"

"Cordova?"

Luther ran the name through his brain as he watched the man called Romano lift the Beretta from the drawer. He held it suspended from a wire he'd hooked through the trigger guard.

Cordova … he was drawing a blank. But how could anyone be expected to think under these circumstances?

"I don't believe I've ever heard of him. It's quite impossible for me to remember the name of every Church member. We have so—"

"We don't think he was a Dormentalist."

Was?

"What happened to him?"

"He was murdered late last night or early this morning. He was pistol-whipped, then shot three times with a nine millimeter. When was the last time you fired your pistol, Mr. Brady?"

Luther relaxed a little. Here was where he'd turn the tables.

"Four, maybe five months ago, and that was on a shooting range at a paper target, not at a human being."

Romano sniffed the muzzle and shook his head as he looked up at Young.

"Beg to differ. This was fired recently. Very recently." He lifted the pistol farther, twisting it this way and that as he inspected it. He stiffened. "My-my-my. If I'm not mistaken, we've got blood and maybe a little tissue in the rear sight notch."

Luther watched in uncomprehending horror as Romano dropped the Beretta into a clear plastic evidence bag. This couldn't be happening! First Jensen, now—

"Wait! This is a terrible mistake. I don't know this Cordova person! I've never even heard of him!"

Holusha smirked. "Well, he's heard of you."

"I… I don't understand."

"You probably thought you'd cleaned out his house pretty good, but you missed a few."

"A few what?"

Holusha only shook his head in reply. Luther looked to Young for an answer but all questions dissolved when he saw the detective's hard look.

"We'll need you to come up to the Four-Seven for questioning, Mr. Brady."

Luther's stomach plummeted. "Am I under arrest?"

"No, but we need some answers about your pistol and your whereabouts last night."

That was a relief. The thought of being led through the temple in handcuffs was unbearable.

"I want my lawyer along."

"Fine. Call him and have him meet us there."

He hadn't done anything wrong, but he wanted Barry along to keep everything on the up and up.

They had to be mistaken about his pistol… had to be.

That reddish-brown stain he'd spotted in the rear sight couldn't be blood. But if not, what was it?

11

"What should I call you?" Jack said. "I mean, since your name isn't Roselli?"

The old woman looked up at him from the seat of a Far Eastern fan-backed armchair. Her gnarled hands rested on her silver-handled cane. Her face was still round and puffy, her sinophilic apartment as crowded as ever with screens, statues, and inlaid tables. She wore a red turtleneck and blue slacks this time.

She cocked her head. "What makes you think it's not?"

Jack had run the gauntlet of Esteban the doorman and Benno the Rottweiler—who'd subjected him to an uncomfortably thorough inspection of his crotch—and demurred the offers of tea and shortbread cookies. Now, finally, he stood before the old lady who'd told him she was Maria Roselli.

"Because I found Johnny Roselli and he says his mother's been dead four years. You look pretty alive to me, Mrs…?"

"Why don't you just call me Herta."

"Is that your name?"

A small smile. "It's as good as any."

Swell. "Okay… Herta. I can go with that. But—"

She lifted one of her thin, gnarled hands from atop her silver-headed cane in a stop motion. "Just let me say that Johnny was both right and wrong when he told you his mother was dead. That may be true of his birth mother, but not of me. For I am his mother too, just as I am yours."

Jack felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He wasn't going to have to argue with her. She'd just—in so many words—admitted who she was.

He sank into a chair opposite her.

"So there it is: You're one of them."

A small smile stretched the tight skin of her moon face. "And who would 'them' be?"

"The ladies with the dogs. The ladies who know too damn much. You're the fourth."

The first had been the Russian lady with the malamute in June. The next had been younger, wearing a sari and leading a German shepherd. And the last had been Anya with Oyv, her fearless chihuahua. They'd all claimed to be his mother.

He had no idea who these women were, or how many more of them existed, but somehow they represented a mysterious third force in the eternal tug of war between the Otherness and the Ally.

"Yes, I suppose I am."

"On our first meeting you told me you didn't know Anya Mundy. But obviously you do. How many other lies have you told me?"

Under different circumstances he might have been angry, but now he was too tired.

"I did not lie. You said, 'Do you know an older woman named Anya?' I did know such a person, but she is gone. You should have asked me, 'Did you ever know an older woman named Anya?' Then I would have given you a different answer."

Annoyed, Jack leaned forward. "Okay, let's bypass the wordplay and cut to the chase: You manipulated me into getting involved with the Dor-mentalism. Why?"

Herta reached out and stroked Benno's head. The dog closed its eyes and craned its neck against her hand.

"Because it must be destroyed. Or barring that, it must be damaged, crippled, driven to its knees."

This lady didn't mince words.

"Because it's connected to the Otherness?"

She nodded. "It was inspired by the Otherness, and has become its tool."

"How does a cosmic force inspire a cult?"

"Through a man whose drug-addled mind was open to influence when the Adversary was conceived—or I should say, reconceived."

The Adversary… also known as the One… who moved about under even more identities and names than Jack… the Otherness's agent provocateur in this world… whose True Name Jack had learned only a few months ago…

Rasalom.

And Jack was pretty sure he could name the owner of that drug-addled mind.