3

Jack didn't feel completely naked walking through town without at least one weapon hidden somewhere on his person, merely stripped to his underwear. At the stroke of noon he arrived at The Light offices, just west of Times Square. A peek through the glass doors of the front entrance made him glad he wasn't carrying. Jamie Grant hadn't been kidding: An armed guard and a metal detector waited just inside.

After confirming that John Robertson was expected, the guard passed him through the detector without a hitch. He was told to wait until someone from editorial came to escort him up.

Soon a heavyset woman with short, curly ginger hair and a puffy face showed up and extended her hand. Jack immediately recognized the voice.

"Robertson? Jamie Grant."

As they shook hands, Jack checked her out: Early forties, about five-five, a large chest and bulky torso but thin arms and legs. She wore a loose white blouse over dark brown slacks. Small gold earrings, thin gold necklace, no rings. Her eyes were bloodshot and she smelled like an ashtray. Other than that she was a dream girl.

"Thanks for meeting me." He handed her one of the Robertson cards, then jerked a thumb at the metal detector. "I'd thought you might be kidding. Why the high security?"

"It's new. We've got an ongoing threat situation here. The Light pisses off a lot of people, so we're always getting one kind of threat or another. But nothing like what's come in since my Dormentalism article." She flashed a nicotine-stained smile. "I now hold the death-threat record. Hallelujah." She turned and motioned him to follow. "Let's retire to my boudoir."

She led him to a messy little third-floor office that looked like it had been trashed by burglars on PCP. Books, magazines, newspapers, printouts everywhere. As she lifted an elastic-bound pile of papers off a chair, Jack noticed that her right pinkie was only a stub—the last two bones were missing.

She dropped the papers on the floor. "Have a seat."

Grant plopped into the chair behind her littered desk and lit a cigarette. Jack noticed how the skin on her right index and middle fingers was the color of rotten lemon rind, but then his gaze drifted again to the pinkie stub. On the way in he'd seen one of those This Is a No Smoking Building signs but didn't bother to mention it now. He couldn't imagine her caring.

"So," she said, leaning back and blowing a long stream into the air, "you say you're on the trail of a missing Dementedist."

Without using names, Jack went over everything Maria Roselli had told him about Johnny.

Her smile was wry as she shook her head. "And you think you're going to find sonny boy by joining the church? Forget it—unless of course you're willing to spend lots of years and lots of bucks."

"How so?"

"You'll enter as an RC, the lowest of the low, and you'll have to climb pretty far up the FL before you can get close enough to the TO to sneak a peek at any membership files."

Jack twisted a finger into his right ear. "I thought we were speaking English here."

Grant laughed. "Dormentalese. They use initials for everything. I'll translate: You'll enter as a Reveille Candidate, and you'll have to climb a good way up the Fusion Ladder before you can get close enough to the Temple Overseer."

Jack realized he had more to learn than he'd thought.

"And the 'lots of bucks'?"

"This is what you've got to realize about the Dementedist situation: The church is set up to squeeze every last dollar from its members. They promise self-realization, maximization of potential—the goals of a million self-help books—but they go beyond that. At the end of their rainbow is a supernatural pot of gold. But there's one major catch: You can't do it alone. You need to become a member of the Church, you need Dementedist guides to help you along the ten rungs of the ladder to 'Full Fusion.'"

"That would be FF, I assume?"

"Keerect. The Fusion Ladder—that's the steps it takes to fuse your xel-ton with its Hokano counterpart—started out with five rungs, then it went to seven, now it's ten. The instruction sessions, the books, the tapes, and all the other paraphernalia for each new rung cost more than the last. The FAs—that's Fusion Aspirants—are promised increasing powers as they advance along the FL. And then there's the big carrot of Full Fusion where you're promised to be transformed into some sort of demigod."

"Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound?"

"Pretty much. But Dementedism differs from most religions in one important respect: Yeah, it offers everlasting happiness, but it has no good and evil, no good god versus bad god, no Jesus and Satan, no yin and yang. You've been separated from your Hokano xelton, so you can't expect perfection. If you've failed in the past, it's not your fault. All you need do is weather the long process of fusing the two halves of your xelton and your problems will be over. You'll go from homo sap to homo superior."

"'Not your fault.' I can see how that would go over big."

"Yeah, the everyone-is-a-victim Zeitgeist has swelled their ranks. But it can cost you about a quarter mil before you're through. To reach the High Council you've got to achieve the tenth level of fusion… hardly anyone gets past the eighth unless they're very rich, very determined, and more than a little crazy. Members get so wrapped up in the FL situation they take out second and third mortgages on their homes to finance the climb. The ones who don't have any assets either go out and recruit new members or mortgage themselves to the church as volunteers."

"What does that do for them?"

"Helps them pay the fees for their current FL rung. But they receive discounts instead of cash. They also get discounts for every new member they bring in."

"Sounds like a Ponzi scheme, or multilevel marketing."

Jamie nodded. "Amway as religion. Headhunters and staff workers paid in a currency not subject to withholding, Social Security, or Medicare deductions."

"Nice."

"But there's a more sinister side to it. Not only does this serfdom situation keep you in almost constant contact with other Dementedists—thereby reducing exposure to conflicting opinions—but the church works the volunteers till they drop, knowing full well that exhaustion makes people more susceptible to suggestion."

"They sound like swell folks. Is that why you're after them?"

Jack saw Grant stiffen. He sensed a door slamming closed.

"Is this conversation about Dementedism or me?"

"Demen—Dormentalism, of course, but I was just—"

"Just nothing! None of this is about me! And I swear, if they sent you here on a fishing expedition—"

Whoa, Jack thought. I do believe I've touched a nerve.

He held up his hands. "Hey, hey, easy. I'm not after you and I'm not after Dormentalism. I just want to find sonny boy."

She seemed to relax, but just a little. Jack realized she was stretched tight. Scared.

"Sorry for sounding paranoid, but you don't know what it's been like since that article came out. Phone calls—I had to change my home number—threats, lawsuits, people following me, every type of harassment you can imagine."

"You're not paranoid if they're really after you."

"Oh, they are. When I applied for membership I gave a phony name and address. Didn't take long before they found out. They designated me UP—that's Unwelcome Person—and kicked me out. But with that article I graduated to what's known as a Wall Addict—"

"That would be a WA?"

"Right. But I'm not just a WA, I'm also IS—In Season. That's an 'enemy of the Church' and fair game for all their smear tactics. They use character assassination to try to discredit you privately and professionally, and they're ruthless. And now I hear that some person or persons unknown have been prying into my personal situation—financials, past relationships, hell, even the movies I rent. That's why you see so few investigative pieces on De-mentedism. Reporters and editors are afraid of the shit storms that follow."