4
"My name is Jensen." The big black man said as he loomed over Jack. Jack detected a vaguely African accent filtering through the subway rumble of his voice. "What's yours?"
The two TPs had brought Jack to the third floor, which seemed to house the temple's security forces, and seated him in a chair in a small, windowless room. They made him wait ten minutes or so, probably looking to up his anxiety level. Jack accommodated them by fidgeting and twisting his hands together, doing his best to look like a house cat in a dog pound.
Finally this huge black guy who made Michael Clark Duncan look svelte—hell, he looked like he'd had Michael Clark Duncan for breakfast—swung through the door like a wrecking ball and stopped two feet in front of Jack. None of his bulk looked like flab. The overhead fluorescents gleamed off the bare scalp of a head the size of an official NBA basketball. His black uniform could have doubled as a comforter on a king-sized bed.
Pretty intimidating, Jack thought. If you're into that sort of thing.
He started to stutter a reply. "I-I-I'm—"
"Don't tell me you're 'Jack Farrell,' because we ran a routine check on you and learned there is no Jack Farrell at the address you gave. As a matter of fact, there isn't even a house at that address."
"A-all right," Jack said. "My real name—"
"I don't care what you're real name is. I just want to know your game. What are you up to? You work for that rag, The Light, is that it?"
"No, I've never even heard of whatever it is you're talking about. I'm—"
"Then why are you coming to us under false pretenses? We don't allow lies in Dormentalist temples—only truth."
"But I've a good explanation about why—"
"I don't want to hear it. As of this moment you are officially designated UP and banned from this and all other Dormentalist temples."
Jensen turned and walked back to the door.
"It's not fair!" Jack cried but Jensen didn't acknowledge him.
As soon as he was gone, the two guards who'd brought Jack here led him back down to the Male RC Changing Room, watched him change, then escorted him out the door to the sidewalk. All without a word.
Jack stood in the late-morning sun, looking dejected, then turned and began walking uptown. Pulled out his wallet and checked the slot where he'd stowed the Jason Amurri ID. The hair he'd tucked around the top of the card was gone.
Perfect.
He hadn't gone three blocks when he spotted the tail. But he wasn't going to try to lose him. He wanted to be followed.
Let the games begin.