"No. They tapered off as he started to change."

"Change how?"

"Over the past few months he's grown increasingly remote and strange. He started insisting that I call him 'Oroont.' Can you imagine? He's been

Johnny Roselli all his life and now he'll answer only to Oroont. Two weeks ago he didn't call at all, so last Sunday I began calling him. I've left at least a dozen messages but he doesn't call back. I have a key to Johnny's apartment, so on Wednesday I sent Esteban to have a look—you know, in case Johnny was sick or, God forbid, dead. But he found it empty—no furniture, nothing. He'd moved out and hadn't even told me. I know it's got something to do with the Dormentalists."

"How do you know he didn't just quit them and head for California or Mexico or Machu Picchu?"

Maria shook her head. "He was too involved, too much of a true believer." She nodded to the teacups. "They've steeped enough. Bring them into the living room, if you would."

With a cup and saucer in each hand, Jack followed Benno who was following Maria. As she settled into her straight-backed chair, Jack set the cups on the intricately inlaid top of a bow-legged oriental coffee table.

"He's still there," she said.

"Where?"

"At their New York temple—on Lexington Avenue. I know it, I can feel it." One of her gnarled hands wriggled into a pocket and came up with a photo. She handed it to him. "Here. That's him."

Jack saw a slim, very intense-looking dark-haired man. The dark eyes and slightly bulbous nose were identical to Maria's. He looked to be about Jack's age.

"I was only nineteen when I gave birth to him. Perhaps we were too close as he was growing up. Perhaps I coddled him too much. But after George died he was all I had. We were inseparable until he went away to college. That nearly broke my heart. But I knew he'd have to leave the nest and find his own life. I just never thought I'd lose him to some crackpot cult!"" She all but spat the last word.

"So, no wife and kids, I gather."

She shook her head. "No. He always said he was holding out for the right woman. I guess he never found her."

Or maybe he was just a tad too close to Momma?

Maria stared at him over the rim of her teacup. "But I want him found, Mr… I never did get your last name."

"Just Jack'll do fine." He sighed. How to tell her? "I don't know, Maria. It seems like you could get more bang for your buck with someone else."

"Who? Tell me. You can't, can you. All you have to do is work your way into that Dormentalist temple and find Johnny. How hard can it be? It's one building."

"Yeah, but it's a worldwide organization. He might not be there. He could have been assigned to the Zambia chapter or whatever."

"No. He's in New York, I tell you."

Jack sipped his bitter green tea and wondered how she could be so sure.

"Why don't we start with calling the New York temple and asking if he's still there?"

"I've already tried that. They tell me they release no information about church members—wouldn't even confirm or deny that Johnny was a member. I need someone to go inside and find him." She leveled her dark eyes at Jack. "I will pay you twenty-five thousand dollars in advance to do that."

Jack blinked. Twenty-five large…

"That… that's a lot more than I usually charge, Maria. You don't have to—"

"The money means nothing. It's a week's interest from my treasury notes. I'll double it, triple it—"

Jack held up a hand. "No-no. That's okay."

"You'll have expenses, and perhaps you can use whatever is left over to offset the fee for someone who can't afford you. I don't care about the money, just find… my… son!'"'

She underscored the last three words by rapping the tip of her cane against the floor. Benno, who'd been stretched out next to her, jumped up from his nap and looked around, ready to attack.

"Okay." Jack responded to her pained expression, to the need calling through her eyes. "Let's say I do work my way into this temple, and let's just say I find your son. What then?"

"Tell him to call his mother. And then tell me you've found him and how he is."

"And that's it? That's all?"

She nodded. "That is all. I simply want to know if he's alive and well. If he doesn't want to call me, it will break my heart, but at least I will be able to sleep at night."

Jack finished his tea in a gulp. "Well, that's a relief."

"Why? What else did you think I'd want you to do?"

"Abduct him for deprogramming."

She chewed her upper lip. "And what if I did?"

"No deal. If he's not being held against his will, I won't yank him out. I believe in everyone's inalienable right to be stupid."

"What if he is being coerced?"

"Then I'll do what I can to yank him. If I can't, I'll do my damnedest to provide you with enough probable cause to get officialdom involved."

"Fair enough." She extended her right hand. "Then we have a deal?"

Jack gently gripped her twisted fingers. "We do."

"Excellent. Look in the top drawer of that bureau over there. You will find an envelope and a newspaper article. Take both. They're yours."

Jack did as she asked. He opened the white legal-size envelope and thumbed through the bills—all Grover Clevelands.

"What if I can't deliver?"

"Either way, keep the money. I know you'll try your best."

He looked at the sheets of newspaper. A multipage, two-week-old article on Dormentalism from The Light by someone named Jamie Grant.

The Light … of all the papers in New York, why'd it have to be The Light? He'd had a bad experience with one of the paper's reporters a few months ago. Memories from June flooded back and swirled around him… his sister, Kate… and that kid reporter… what was his name? Sandy Palmer. Right. The kid had given him a few gut-clenching moments.

"Make sure you read that," Maria said. "It will serve as a good primer on Dormentalism."

Jack checked out the title: "Dormentalism or Dementedism?" He smiled. Whoever Jamie Grant was, Jack liked him already.

He tucked the envelope into a front hip pocket but held on to the article.

"I'll get to work on this right away."

"Wonderful." Her smile faded. "You won't fail me, will you?"

"Not if I can help it. All I can guarantee is that I'll give it my best shot."

Maria Roselli sighed. "I suppose that's all one can ask for. What will be your first step?"

Jack held up the newspaper. "First I'm going to have to learn about this Dormentalism stuff. Then I guess I'll become a convert."

3

Back on the street, Jack was tempted to make a quick run to Gia's—she lived less than ten blocks uptown from Maria Roselli's—but his visit had taken longer than expected and he was running late for a meeting with another customer.

In the old days, long before he was born, a person could have hopped the El on Second Avenue. Or Third. Today he settled for a crosstown bus at Forty-ninth Street. He'd take the 27 over to the West Side and catch a subway up to Julio's.

He dipped his Metrocard and found a seat on the half-full bus. As he unfolded the Dormentalism article he glanced up and noticed one of the ads above the opposite seats. He looked closer. Damned if it wasn't for the Dor-mentalist Church. He stood for a closer look.