"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."
"Not all of them are Dormentalists," Jack said, feeling a heaviness settle on him.
Herta nodded. "Yes, I know. Your friend, the reporter. I'm sorry."
Friend… we didn't know each other long enough to be close friends. But still…
"That is what Dormentalism is all about," she said. "Luther Brady turned a silly, hedonistic cult into a money-making machine to finance Opus Omega. Brady knows that fusion is a hoax. No powers are achieved at the top of the Dormentalist ladder. But the exercises practiced along the long slow road to the upper rungs do have a purpose: They identify people susceptible to Otherness influence. The aspirants may believe the nonsense about getting in touch with their inner xelton, but what they're really doing is more finely attuning themselves to the Otherness. Luther Brady reveals Opus Omega to the select few who reach the top of the ladder, telling them it will bring about the Grand Fusion—never mentioning the Otherness. He then appoints these sick folk as his Continental and Regional Overseers to further the Opus."
"Let's just say he completes this Opus Omega. What then?"
"When pillars are buried in all the designated sites, the Otherness will become ascendant. The Adversary will then come into his own and the world will begin to change."
The world changing into a place hospitable to those creatures he'd fought down in Florida… he didn't want to picture that.
"Okay, then. At Brady's current rate of pillar planting, when do you think he'll be done?"
"In about a year. Perhaps less."
Jack closed his eyes. A year… his child would be here by then. Neither the baby nor Gia nor Vicky would have a future if Brady succeeded.
And then the solution struck him. So obvious…
"We'll dig them up! I'll put an excavating crew together and we'll yank them out faster than Brady can bury them. We'll make his…" Herta was shaking her head. "No? Why not?"
"Once they are inserted into the ground, the damage is done. It's too late. Digging them up will accomplish nothing."
Damn. He'd thought he was onto something.
"That's why you want the Dormentalist Church, as you said, destroyed… damaged, crippled, driven to its knees."
She nodded.
Jack rubbed his jaw. "Destroying it… that's a tall order. It's everywhere, in just about every country. But crippling it… that might be possible. Let's say Brady gets kicked out of the driver's seat. What will that do?"
"It won't stop Opus Omega—his High Council will carry on without him—but it will slow it down. And that will buy us some time."
"For what?"
She shrugged. "Time for the Ally to realize the extent of the threat to its interests here. Time for the Adversary to make a mistake—he's not infallible, you know. He's made mistakes before. And he's eager, so eager for his promised moment. After millennia of struggle, his time is almost within reach, and he's impatient. That may work to our advantage."
"I think we may just get that extra time."
Her eyes brightened. "You do? How? Why?"
"If things go the way I've planned, Mr. Luther Brady should be doing a perp walk sooner rather than later."
"A perp…?"
"Just keep watching your TV." Jack stood and noticed Anya's skin flap still folded in his hand. He held it up. "What do I do with this?"
"It was meant for you to keep. Don't you want it?"
"It's not exactly something I care to frame and hang over my bed. Why don't you take it. You know, as a reminder of Anya."
Herta rose and began unbuttoning her blouse. "I need no reminder."
"What—?" Jack said, startled and embarrassed. "What are you doing? Wait a second here."
Her twisted fingers moved more nimbly than perhaps they should have, considering her swollen knuckles.
She glanced up at him. "A second or two is all this will take."
As she undid the bottom button she turned away toward the picture window and let the back of her blouse drop to her waist.
Jack gasped. "Holy—!"
"There is nothing holy about this, I assure you."
He stared at her damaged skin, at the array of cigarette burn-sized scars and the lines crisscrossing between them. Except for one fresh wound, slowly oozing red to the left of her spine, her back was an exact copy of Anya's.
"What's going on here?"
"It is a map of my pain," she said over her shoulder.
"That's just what Anya said. She called it a map of the Adversary's efforts to destroy her. Why?"
"Because he cannot win if I am still alive."
As crazy as that sounded, Jack took it at face value.
"But who are you?"
"Your mother."
Jack fought an urge to scream and kept his voice low. "Not that again. Look—"
"No. You look. Look more closely at my back."
"If you mean that fresh wound, I see it." Realization clubbed him. "The pillar out in Pennsylvania! You mean, every time Brady and his gang buries one of those pillars—"
"I feel it. I bleed."
Jack sat again. "I don't understand."
"You do not need to. But look closely and tell me if you see any other difference."
Jack stared and noticed something else Anya hadn't had: a deep depression in the small of her back, big enough for, say, two of Jack's fingers. He reached toward it, then snatched his hand back.