Ground Zero rj-13

by F. Paul Wilson

  The laughter died and they looked at each other.

  Eddie said, “If someone really was following us, it means they’re looking for this house.” He rolled his eyes. “Listen to me: ‘they.’ That sounds so paranoid.”

  Jack hid his annoyance. He understood Eddie’s reluctance to believe and his difficulty letting go of the long-held conviction that his sister was cuckoo, but enough was enough.

  “Maybe it’s time to stop second-guessing Weezy—and yourself, for that matter—and go with the possibility that she’s got something here that somebody else wants. That way we can focus on discovering what it is.”

  Eddie looked out over the sea of paper with dismay. “But where to begin?”

  Jack looked at the computer and remembered something.

  “How about that flash drive?”

  “Yes!”

  He pulled it out of his pocket and seated himself before her computer. He reached toward the power button, then pulled back.

  “Hey. It’s already on.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Jack said.

  He left his on for days.

  “This is Weezy we’re talking about.”

  “Yeah. But this house is like Fort Knox.”

  Eddie shook his head. “It just doesn’t seem like Weezy. A running computer is a hackable computer.”

  Jack spotted a loose cable beside the box. The big jack identified it as a network cable. He grabbed it and held it up.

  “Not if she’s cut off from all potential hackers.”

  Eddie smiled. “That’s my sis.”

  He plugged the flash drive into a USB port. A few mouse clicks revealed the contents: a single text file. Jack leaned over his shoulder as he opened it.

  It contained URLs separated by blocks of text. They read in silence for a while, then Jack straightened.

  “They don’t make a lot of sense.”

  A little like reading the Compendium of Srem, where the author assumed the reader shared a context. But the Compendium had been written millennia ago. These were probably only days old, if that. They were riddled with mentions of the Trade Towers and al Qaeda and conspiracies. They were giving Jack a bad feeling.

  Eddie shook his head. “Don’t you get the impression she’s trying to say something without really saying it?”

  “Exactly. Let’s try some of these URLs and see where they take us.”

  “They’re not live links,” Eddie said as he plugged in the network cable, “so I’ll have to block and copy.”

  He launched Weezy’s browser—Firefox—and did just that with the first URL.

  Jack winced as a 9/11 Truther blog popped up. He’d been afraid of that.

  “Scroll down to the comments on Monday’s entry,” he said. “See if we spot anything familiar.”

  Sure enough: A familiar chunk appeared as a comment by “Secret Historian,” posted yesterday.

  Secret Historian . . . Jack had to smile.

  Eddie tried three more URLs and found comments identical to excerpts from Weezy’s text file. Each site was a 9/11 Truther blog or conspiracy site, blaming either Clinton-Bush-Cheney if they were on the left, or the New World Order if they were on the right. Nobody was blaming Osama bin Laden except for being a tool of the former or the latter.

  “I’ve seen enough,” Eddie said. “She’s become a Nine/Eleven Truther.” He rubbed his eyes. “This is so sad.”

  “Could be worse,” Jack said. “She could be a Holocaust denier or converted to one of those Wasabi Muslims.”

  “Wahhabi Muslim.”

  “Or one of them too.” He shrugged. “Seriously, though, I’ve got to say I’m a little disappointed. I mean, this is Weezy we’re talking about—the gal who was wise to the Secret History of the World as a teen.”

  A sad smile from Eddie. “Remember how she used to talk about that? I wish she still did.”

  So did Jack—because crazy as she’d sounded then, she’d been right. But he couldn’t tell Eddie that.

  “I would have expected better from her.”

  Eddie looked at him. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, most people who pay attention to this stuff—I’m not one of them—seem to think the nine/eleven conspiracy theories are just a new rack for the Kennedy assassination doubters and their fellow travelers to hang their hats. The old-school, grassy-knoll true believers are now in the Nine/Eleven Truther movement, trading in The Warren Report for The Nine-Eleven Commission Report. Weezy always saw beyond that political crap, because when you come down to it, the political crap is trivial.”

  “Oh, really? And what’s not trivial?”

  Jack wished he could tell him about the Conflict, the cosmic shadow war waged out of sight and influencing everything, and about the approaching all-encompassing darkness, less than a year away. But Eddie already thought Jack a little crazy. Or maybe a lot crazy. Either way, he’d never understand.

  “I’m just saying that I’d have figured Weezy to be delving into something more esoteric and elusive. The nine/eleven theories sound just like the December-seventh theories. Sure, there’s lots of circumstantial evidence pointing to FDR and his crew and how they deliberately made Pearl Harbor a sitting duck for the Japs, but after almost three quarters of a century no one’s been able to come up with anything definitive. Same with the Kennedy assassination. Almost half a century and nobody’s found the second shooter.”

  “He could have been one of the many strange deaths and suicides connected to the investigation.”

  Jack shrugged. “Yeah. Could be. I can see where you could maybe cover up an assassination conspiracy by strictly limiting the number of people in the know, but something as massive as what they say went into bringing down those towers—rigging the demolition charges and such . . . too many people had to be involved. The world has changed. There’s no code of honor and silence anymore. Someone would be talking. Someone would be on Oprah, telling the world and looking for a book deal.”

  Eddie sighed. “Yeah, I suppose.” He jerked a thumb at the monitor. “Should we take a peek into her computer? Would that be snooping?”

  Jack looked at him. “She’s in a coma, she feared she’d go missing, she wants her house burned, and we were followed after leaving her. What do you think?”

  Eddie turned back to the keyboard. “Right. Let’s start with her documents.”

  Her e-mail required a password, of course, but so did many of her folders. And the ones that didn’t contained documents that were nothing but gibberish.

  “At the risk of being called Master of the Obvious,” Eddie said after repeated failures to find anything readable, “it looks like she’s using an encryption program.”

  “Surprise, surprise.”

  “That’s our Weezy.” He leaned back. “What now? No way we can sift through all—”

  Jack heard a noise from the direction of the front room. He grabbed Eddie’s arm and shushed him. He listened and heard it again.

  “Someone’s on the front porch.”

  16

  Darryl noticed right off how the chatter on the Lodge’s front steps died as soon as he showed up.

  As usual a bunch of Kickers were hanging out in front smoking—no smoking inside on order from the Septimus folks, so they gathered out here. Some stared, some didn’t look at him.

  Did it show on his face how sick he was? All he’d been able to think about on the subway back downtown was his AIDS and what he was going to do with the little time he had left. After all, he had cancer too.

  He couldn’t go back to Dearborn. What for? His ex hadn’t wanted anything to do with him when he was healthy—well, other than his alimony and child support checks, and he’d been skipping those—so she sure as hell wouldn’t want nothing to do with him sick and out of work. Same with his ma. Hadn’t spoken to her in years, and she had a new husband who wouldn’t want him around.

  He’d stay here. The Kickers were the only family he had. And it was a good famil
y. They took care of each other. They’d help him out if he was sick, but he couldn’t tell them why he was sick. They wouldn’t understand. They’d think he was queer or a junkie. Didn’t want nobody thinking that.

  Why now? That was what he wanted to know. Just when he was getting his act together and settling himself in a new life, why’d it all have to get ruined by this? Wasn’t fair.

  He walked inside and found the usual half dozen or so Kickers hanging out. They got quiet too. Really noticeable in the echoey marble foyer. His footsteps sounded like he was walking down a long, empty hallway.

  He spotted Ansari, the unofficial head of security for the building, and caught his eye.

  “Hey.”

  Ansari looked away, then looked back. “Hey.”

  “What’s going on? Seems kinda weird around here.”

  “You look like crap, man.”

  That took Darryl by surprise. He knew he looked ailing, but not like crap.

  “I love you too.”

  Someone behind him snickered. “I bet you do!”

  That got a laugh, and Darryl spun to see who’d spoken.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Word came in you’re sick,” Ansari said.

  Darryl felt his blood turning to ice as he looked back at him. “Word? Word from who?”

  Ansari shrugged. “Got a call.” He pointed to the phone on the slim foyer table against the wall. “Said you got the virus.”

  Darryl reeled. Someone had called? Who? Why? Wasn’t that kind of stuff supposed to be private?

  “The virus? What virus?”

  “You know. AIDS. How long were you going to live here with us and eat with us and not tell us?” His face reddened. “How many of us have you spread it to, you mother—”

  “It’s not true!” He’d begun to say he’d just found out, but that would be admitting it. And he couldn’t admit it. “Whoever he was, he was lying!”

  Who’d call? Had to be someone who knew the doctor. And that left Drexler, the bastard. Why would he—?

  “Wasn’t a he. Was a her.”

  Her? Orlando’s assistant?

  “Yeah, well, it’s still not true.”

  Ansari stared at him a moment, then said, “I might believe you if you didn’t look so bad.”

  “Just been off my feed is all.”

  “Yeah. And now we know why.”

  Darryl had no answer for that. He looked around and found everybody—including a bunch of guys who’d come in from the front steps—staring at him. He saw no pity, no caring in those eyes, only anger and distrust.

  He turned and fled upstairs to his room.

  17

  Jack pointed to the steel door leading out of the rear of the kitchen and whispered, “I’ll sneak out the back and—”

  “Sorry,” Eddie said, shaking his head. “Different keys for those, and I don’t have copies.”

  Jack considered his options. Not many. With all the windows barred, his only choice was the front door.

  He motioned Eddie to stay put, then eased through the stacks to the front room. Without moving it, he peeked around a window shade and caught sight of a skinny guy in a T-shirt and baggy jeans tiptoeing past, moving toward the front door. He wore a backpack but his hands were empty.

  Quickly, Jack stepped to the door, yanked it open, grabbed the guy by his shirt, and pulled him inside.

  “Hey!”

  “Hey, yourself,” Jack said as he slammed the door and pushed him back against it. He gave him a quick pat down as he said, “You’re trespassing.”

  The guy blinked and cringed. “N-no, I’m not! I’m visiting! Just ask Louise! And who are you?” He looked over Jack’s shoulder. “And where is she?”

  “She’s in the—” Eddie began.

  But Jack cut him off. “Not here right now.”

  With a sob the guy closed his eyes and sagged.

  “She said you’d find us if we weren’t careful. Please don’t hurt me.”

  Jack wasn’t sure what to do. Hadn’t expected anyone to show up at the house, and now that he had this guy up close and personal, he couldn’t buy that he was connected to blondie on the train. And no matter what, he sure as hell hadn’t been expecting this reaction.

  “Who do you think we are?”

  He opened his eyes. “You’re them.”

  “No, we’re us. What ‘them’ are you thinking of?”

  “You’re the ones responsible.”

  Jack could feel his annoyance rising. “For what?”

  “You know.”

  Jack yanked him forward by the front of his shirt, then slammed him back.

  “Cut the crap! Who do you think we are?”

  The guy winced, then looked past Jack at Eddie. Eddie’s face must have given something away.

  “Hey, wait. You’re not them, are you. Then who—?”

  “I’m Louise’s brother,” Eddie said.

  Swell.

  Jack released the guy, but he kept staring at Eddie.

  “You don’t look like her.”

  “Doesn’t change the fact. Who are you and why are you sneaking around her house?”

  “I’m . . . Ted—”

  Jack flipped him around and held him face-first against the door while he removed his wallet.

  “Hey!”

  “Shut up.”

  “Jack,” Eddie said, “is this really—?”

  “If his name is Ted, I’ll eat his wallet.”

  Jack pulled out some credit cards and a driver’s license. They all read Kevin Harris. Jack handed them to Eddie and released the guy.

  “Okay, Kevin Harris, what’s up?”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

  He looked at Eddie. “Are you really her brother?”

  Jack shoved him back against the door. “God damn it!”

  “All right, all right! I . . . I’m a friend of hers. We’ve been working together.”

  “On what?”

  “It’s private—proprietary.”

  Jack took a stab. “You mean the nine/eleven thing? She told us all about it.”

  Harris’s eyes widened. “No! She wouldn’t! She’d never—”

  “Oh, but she did,” Eddie said, getting on board—finally. “I’m her brother. She trusts me.”

  “I don’t believe you. Why would she endanger her brother and not me?”

  Good question, Jack thought.

  “From the looks of you,” he said, “I think she feels we can handle the risk a little better.”

  Harris didn’t look happy to hear that, but made no objection. Just stood there chewing his upper lip.

  Jack watched him, trying to get a feel for him. He looked like a nerd, but that could be an act. If so, he was the Edward Norton of his organization. He’d been genuinely frightened when Jack pulled him inside.

  “Open your backpack,” Jack said.

  “Why?”

  Jack gave him his coldest stare. “Look, either you do it or I do it, but it winds up open.”

  With a sullen expression Harris shrugged out of it and unzipped the large compartment. He pulled out a thick, oversize paperback—a dog-eared copy of The 9/11 Commission Report. What a shock. Jack flipped through it and saw either yellow highlighter or underlining or margin notes on almost every page.

  Good chance he was for real. And if so, telling him about Weezy’s accident might loosen his tongue. If he was connected to the tail, he’d already know about it, so no harm done.

  The rest of the backpack held half a bottle of Poland Spring water, a couple of peanut chocolate chip Soyjoy bars—“fortified with optimism”—along with paper clips, an array of pens and highlighters, and a thick manila folder. Jack pulled it out and was starting to open it when Harris snatched it away.

  “Hey, that’s private!”

  “Between you and Wee—I mean Louise?”

  “Damn right. And if she told you all about it, like you
said, then what’s in here won’t be news to you.”

  The guy had a little fire in him.

  Jack decided to let it ride and give Harris an apparent victory. He could take the folder any time he wanted.

  “Actually, she didn’t tell us everything.”

  Harris pumped a fist. “Knew it!”

  Watching him closely, Jack said, “That’s because she was run down by a car before we could get the whole story.”

  He turned a sickly white and sagged back against the door. “Oh, no! They did get her!”

  No way Harris was faking that. He hadn’t known.

  “She’s not . . . tell me she’s not . . .”

  Another point for Harris—that would be the first thing a real friend would want to know.

  “She’s alive but in a coma,” Eddie said.

  Harris’s eyes narrowed. “How do I know that?”

  Well . . . probably time to get back to the hospital anyway.

  “Time for show-and-tell. We’ll take you to her.”

  18

  “It’s her,” Harris said, standing at Weezy’s bedside and staring down at her. “It’s really her.”

  His devastated expression convinced Jack that he was the real deal. The question now would be: Would he believe Jack and Eddie were the real deal?

  The guy had already turned out to be a royal pain in the ass . . .

  First, back at the house, he’d started questioning the accident and if there’d really been one. Jack had shown him the police report but that hadn’t convinced him because it was all about a Jane Doe.

  Harris had wanted to take the subway—more public. Jack hadn’t—too public. Before getting into the cab Harris had demanded some ID from Eddie and had questioned why he and “Louise” had different names. Eddie had patiently explained that she hadn’t changed back to her maiden name since her husband’s death.

  Harris had reluctantly accepted that as a possibility. Then he’d asked Jack for ID.

  Like, yeah, he was going to see something. In his dreams.

  Jack had pushed Harris into the cab and he was a twitchfest the whole trip, asking the driver over and over if he was really a cabby and if he was really taking them to Mount Sinai Hospital.

  But now . . . seeing was believing.