The dashboard clock in the Crown Vic read a little after eleven P.M. as Jack exited the Garden State Parkway and began to wind his way along rural back roads in northern Ocean County. The twisting pavement led him along hilly curves until the road crested. He knew what was coming up on his left: an opening through the trees with a concrete skirt abutting the road's asphalt. The skirt seemed to end at a cliff, but Jack knew better. He turned onto it and descended a steep concrete driveway into a former sandpit, a huge excavation maybe seventy or eighty feet deep, with a hodgepodge of buildings backed up against the near wall.
All the buildings were dark. He passed a small fleet of cement-mixer trucks and haulers of various shapes and sizes, all lined up and facing front like grunts awaiting inspection. No moving van in sight.
He pulled up to the office door of the biggest, tallest building. A sign above it showed a stylized black sun that looked like a sunflower, and the words Wm. Blagden & Sons, Inc.
Yep. They still ran the place.
He got out and banged on the door, shouting, "Anybody there?" a couple of times.
If anyone answered, he'd ask for directions.
No one did. He flashed his penlight on the lock. A Schlage. Good.
He parked the Vic behind the mixers. Its black color blended nicely into the shadows. He pulled out his Schlage bump key set and returned to the door. Found one that fit the lock, tapped it with the butt of his Glock, and he was in. The place hadn't been alarmed on his last trip and didn't appear to be now. After all, what was there to steal? Sand? Loose cement mix?
Jack flashed his light around the office. Pretty bare bones: a couple of desks, chairs, computer monitors, filing cabinets. His plan was to find a work order for the date Osala was moved and maybe a delivery address to go along with it. A picture window looked out onto the big building's wide, open floor. Jack aimed his flash through and the beam picked up ...
A truck.
He stepped out onto the floor and played his beam over it as he approached. A box truck with the Blagden logo on the side. Jack froze as the light picked up something else beyond it. Something big and long and metallic.
Forcing himself back into motion, he passed the truck and stopped before a large metal tube, maybe twenty feet long and five in diameter, its flanks embossed with odd symbols. Jack knew it well. A year and a half ago he'd come here looking for someone. He'd peeped through the window as this cylinder - standing upright then - had been filled with concrete, unaware that the person he'd come to find was bound inside, and had drowned in the wet mix while Jack watched.
A wave of sadness rippled through him as he returned to the truck. He grabbed the handles on the rear door and heaved. As it rolled up, he flashed his light into the truck's bay, revealing stacks of gleaming furniture protected by thick mover's pads.
He stepped back and checked the license plate. It matched the numbers Mack had given him.
So ... weeks after loading, Osala's - Rasalom's - furniture still hadn't been delivered.
He hopped into the truck's cab - it stank of cigarettes - and hunted for papers. None on the seat. In the glove compartment he found maps, matches, and a work order that matched Mack's copy, but no delivery address. Instead, someone had scrawled Hold until further notice across the bottom.
Jack had a feeling the "further notice" might never come. But even if they eventually unloaded all this at Rasalom's new digs, when would that be? More weeks? Months? Jack had no way of knowing. And no way to know about the move if and when it happened.
He couldn't set up a stakeout. Not while Rasalom was skulking about, planning who knew what.
He returned to the rear of the truck and climbed in. Rasalom's stuff ... maybe it would give some clue to the guy.
He began inspecting things, then throwing them out - pushing them off the edge of the bed to crash on the concrete floor. Chairs got an immediate heave-ho. Dressers and bureaus first had their drawers pulled out and inspected - all empty - then were dumped.
Empty, empty, empty.
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
When he'd finished, he eased himself down amid the splintered remains of the furniture and found himself facing the cylinder. A rush of anger burned away his frustration.
The Dormentalists had been behind the ritual murder in that tube. The higher-ups behind it had paid, but others hadn't. William Blagden was a Dormentalist and had been involved, yet life was still business as usual for him. Maybe Jack should do something about that.
He knew his next step.
He retrieved the matchbook from the glove compartment and then popped the truck's hood. Took him a moment to find the fuel line, took only a second to cut it. The sharp smell of gasoline spread as it spilled onto the floor. He waited for a good-size puddle to form, then struck a match, lit the book, and tossed it.
The gas went up with a woomp! and Jack headed for the door. Outside, he started his car and waited until the truck's gas tank exploded, blowing out a number of windows. He watched a little longer, to be sure the building was catching. When he was, he put the Vic in gear and drove away.
Not at all what he'd come for, but at least the trip hadn't been a total waste.