Ground Zero rj-13

by F. Paul Wilson

“Beer? Never.” He took a sip and said, “Al Qaeda, the Dormentalists, the Septimus Order . . . you’ve got some heavy hitters there. You sure you want to be a ‘person of interest’ to them?”

  “I don’t want to be a person of interest to anyone, but it might not even be them. Maybe we’ll get an idea when they identify that blond man.”

  “You said you saw him in an Internet café?”

  She nodded. “I rotate my sites but maybe they had some staked out. I mean, I’ve used that place before. But I noticed he got a call and then began looking around. They must have traced my IP address after I logged on. He followed me out of the café and I began to run . . .” She touched her scalp. “And that’s all I remember until I woke up today.” She shook her head. “So weird not to remember something.”

  “Sometimes forgetting is good.”

  Her expression turned bleak. “Sometimes I wish I could.”

  Without warning she stepped closer, put her arms around him, and pulled herself against him, pressing her face against his shoulder. She was trembling.

  “I get so scared at times,” she said, her voice muffled.

  After a few heartbeats, Jack put his beer down and returned the embrace. How could he not? She was Weezy. Not the angular body he remembered from their youth, but this was nice . . . better. They’d kissed a few times growing up, but never anything beyond that, never anything serious. It might have gone further if not for her mood swings, and the medications her doctors tried. They drifted apart, drifted close, then apart again. But always, always remained friends.

  “Right now, I think you’ve got good cause to be.”

  “But it’s not just this. It’s my brain. It catalogs everything. But that’s not where the trouble lies. It’s my subconscious. It’s got all that information at its disposal—there aren’t many brains that can store and retrieve like mine—and as it filters through the jumble, it starts making correlations, spotting patterns, forming possible explanations for what it sees. Sometimes it tells me, sometimes it doesn’t. Most times it’s not important—curious at best—but sometimes it’s . . . terrifying.”

  “H. P. Lovecraft once said something about how we’d go mad if we knew the real truth.”

  “You mean, ‘The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents’?”

  “Is that a quote?”

  She nodded against him. “Uh-huh.”

  “Exact, I suppose.” He had no doubt.

  Another nod. “He also said, ‘The piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the light into the peace and safety of a new dark age.’ My problem is that my brain can correlate all its contents, and it’s flashing me glimpses of that terrifying reality, and I wish it weren’t.”

  “Even as a kid you seemed to have an intuition about this stuff.”

  “I knew there was a Secret History—I didn’t know the whole story, or even a fraction of it, but I sensed that much of what people considered true was really an elaborate fiction.”

  “And what’s your subconscious say about nine/eleven?”

  “That everybody’s wrong. And by everybody, I mean the government, I mean the nine/eleven conspiracy theorists, even al Qaeda—bin Laden himself doesn’t know the whole truth. Probably thinks he does, but he’s been used just like so many others through history.”

  “And you do know the truth?” he said, thinking, Please don’t say yes.

  “No, I don’t. And neither, I think, does my subconscious. But it knows something is very wrong with the stories out there. It’s a perfect example of the Secret History. Bin Laden says—and believes, I’m sure—that he attacked the World Trade Towers to strike a blow for Islam and because of the U.S.’s meddling in the Middle East. That will go down as accepted history. But the Secret History could very well be that a group, some secret society or cabal—through inspiration, insinuation, manipulation, and whatever other means—used him to bring down those towers for an entirely different reason.”

  Jack couldn’t buy it.

  “Why on Earth—?”

  “I don’t know. But when I noticed bin Aswad being erased from the photographic record, my subconscious clicked into high gear and didn’t like what it saw. It needed more info, so I began gathering it.”

  “The papers and magazines . . .”

  “Yes. They can’t be changed. They may not be true, they may be packed with errors, but those errors and untruths are the same as the day the ink hit their paper. The Secret History is there, hidden behind that ink. If only someone would write it down and give me a copy, I could figure it out. But I don’t think it’s ever been written down. I think it’s passed from generation to generation through oral tradition.”

  Jack flashed on a certain weird and wonderful book.

  “What about the Compendium of Srem?”

  She pushed away and stared at him. “The Compendium? How does a skeptic like you even hear of that?”

  He was tempted to tell her he had the world’s only copy sitting back in his apartment, but she’d drive him nuts to see it. He’d have to tell her eventually, maybe even tomorrow, but better to spring it on her.

  “Someone told me a tale about Torquemada—”

  “And how he tried to destroy it but couldn’t, so he buried it and built a monastery over it. I’ve heard that one. Well, if the Compendium was ever under that monastery—if the book ever even existed—it’s not there now. Lots of people have searched for it and come up empty-handed.”

  “You never know.”

  She smiled. “Right. Probably shelved in the restricted section of Miskatonic U—right next to the Necronomicon.”

  Jack grabbed his beer and finished it. “Gotsta go.”

  “Oh, no.” Her smiled vanished. “You can’t. It’s been so many years and we’ve just reconnected and there’s so much to talk about and . . . and I don’t want to be alone here tonight.”

  “You mean, stay the night?”

  “Sure. I’ve got a spare bedroom.”

  “Not filled with papers?”

  “We can move them. Please?”

  He understood her fright, and felt obliged to ease it, but still . . .

  “I guess I should ask,” she said, peering at him as he hesitated. “Are you married?”

  “Not officially.”

  “Then what?”

  “Functionally.”

  “Monogamous?”

  He nodded. “Very.”

  She frowned. “Odd. From what I gathered about you, I figured you’d be more the lone-wolf type.”

  “Used to be. Spent a lot of years that way after leaving home. It was a blast at first.”

  “I imagine so. I sense you became a bad boy, and all the bad girls love a bad boy.”

  He experienced a brief torrent of memories, a flash flood of faces.

  “Yeah, they do. But then you find a good woman, and she makes you want to become a good man, or at least a better one. And so you try to be.”

  She was staring at him. “What’s her name?”

  “Gia.”

  “You say it like a prayer.”

  “I don’t pray. But if I ever did, she’d be an answer.”

  Silence lingered briefly, then, “To feel that way about someone . . . to have someone feel that way about you . . . Steve and I had a bond like that. At least I thought we did. I miss it. You’re both lucky. I’d like to meet her someday.”

  “No reason why you shouldn’t.”

  “So you’ll stay the night?”

  Another spasm of hesitation, then . . . why not?

  This was Weezy asking. How could he say no?

  “Okay, but I’ll have to make some calls.”

  WEDNESDAY

  1

  A door swung open down the hall. Jack opened his eyes in the dark and listened.

  Earlier he’d
walked down to Roosevelt for some Chinese takeout. He called Gia along the way and told her he’d be out all night. That was enough for her. Most times she preferred not to know what he was into, and that tended to work out well for both of them—she worried less, and he wasn’t distracted by concern that she was worried. He didn’t want to get into the details on the phone; he’d tell her tomorrow.

  He and Weezy had talked late into the night about old times, and he revealed some of the schemes he’d worked as a teen in addition to Carson Toliver’s locker, culminating with saving Mr. Canelli’s lawn.

  “That was you?” she’d said, wide-eyed. “I never guessed.”

  “Good. No one was supposed to.”

  His first official fix. Up till then they’d all been personal. Mr. Canelli was the first ever to hire him.

  The talk faded and they called it a night. After making sure all the locks were engaged, Jack moved the newspapers off the double bed in the spare bedroom and helped Weezy make it up for him. They hugged good night and went to their separate beds.

  Jack lay under the sheet, facing the window, fully dressed except for his work boots. The stolen Tokarev lay on the nightstand, his Glock was a hard lump beneath his pillow. Overkill, perhaps, since whoever was after Weezy didn’t know where she lived. The first floor was secure—steel doors, iron grilles on the windows—and the second accessible only via ladder, but he wasn’t taking any chances. Overkill had its charms.

  He heard bare feet on the floorboards, heading for the bathroom, no doubt. But they stopped outside his door. After a few heartbeats he heard it swing open. A weight settled on the mattress behind him and a warm body pressed against his back.

  “Weez?”

  “You’ve got all your clothes on?”

  “Weez, what are you doing?”

  “I need to snuggle,” she whispered. He could feel her breath on the back of his neck. “Is it okay if we snuggle? I’ve gotten used to sleeping alone, but after today . . . I think I need to snuggle. Do you mind?”

  How could he refuse her? Anyway, it was just Weezy.

  “No. Snuggle away.”

  “Thanks.”

  She spooned against him and snaked an arm around his chest, pulling herself closer.

  She sighed. “This is nice. I needed this.”

  Jack agreed it was nice, and if it gave her some comfort, even better. He was just drifting off into slumber when he felt her hand begin to move against his chest in a gentle circular motion. He waited for her to stop but she didn’t. Then she began sliding her palm down along his abdomen.

  He grabbed her wrist.

  “Weezy, what are you doing?”

  “Just feeling a little needy.”

  “With me? This is Jack, remember?”

  “I know. And maybe that’s why. I mean, Jack . . . after all the years we spent together, all the growing up we did together, don’t you think we owe each other one time? Just once? That once probably would be ancient history by now if all those meds they tried on me hadn’t messed up my already messed-up head, but I’m clearheaded now and we’re here together in the same bed . . .”

  “Yeah, but I’m taken.”

  “We predate her.”

  “Weez . . .”

  “It’s because I got fat, isn’t it.”

  How to let her down easy? No way this was going to happen, but he didn’t want to stomp on her feelings.

  “Cool the fat talk. You’re not. And if I was in a different situation, I might think it was a great idea. But with things as they are, we’ll both regret it. Besides, you’re vulnerable right now—”

  “Of course I’m vulnerable. I’ve been scared every day and every night. Then my worst fear is realized—someone kidnaps me. Or tries to. But a figure from the past, my tried-and-true friend Jack rides in with six-guns blazing and rescues me. And after we spend some time together I realize I want him—I want him reeeeeal bad.”

  “I thought you said I was scary and not the Jack you knew.”

  “I was upset then, but as we talked later I realized the Jack I knew as a kid would do anything, whatever it took, to help a friend. And that’s what you did this afternoon.”

  “Okay, but not to sound like a broken record, Weez, I’m taken.”

  “I’m not talking an affair here. I’m talking one time for ‘Auld Lang Syne,’ a moment, a lightning flash, and then we’ll have fulfilled a mutual destiny and it will be over. We’ll never speak of it again and she never has to know.”

  “But I’ll know.”

  Weezy wriggled her wrist free of his grasp and pulled her arm back. But she stayed spooned against him. She didn’t move and neither did Jack.

  Had he hurt her?

  She sobbed.

  Damn, he had. He turned toward her.

  “You’re taking this all wrong, Weez. I—”

  “No, you are. I’m glad you turned me down.”

  What? She’d always been unpredictable but . . .

  “I’m not following.”

  “It means you haven’t changed. The whole world is going to hell and nobody knows what’s up or what’s down, but here you are in the middle of it all, just as steady and true as you were when you were a kid.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that . . .”

  “I do. And I’m just so damn happy there’s still someone I can count on in this world.” She pulled the sheet off and started to get up. Jack saw she was wearing a long, oversized T-shirt. “I’m sorry I put you on the spot like this. I’ll—”

  He placed his hand against her back.

  “Stay.”

  She froze. “What?”

  “You said you needed to snuggle, so let’s snuggle. Just . . . snuggle.”

  After an instant’s hesitation, she lay back down and rested her head on his shoulder.

  “That’s all I really wanted to do anyway. I was just kidding about the other stuff.”

  “Just testing me, huh?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Jack doubted that, but with Weezy, you could never be one hundred percent sure. That was what made her Weezy.

  “All right, now,” she said, settling against him. “Quit your incessant chatter and let me get some sleep.”

  Jack smiled and stared at the ceiling until her breathing settled into a rhythmic pattern, then he closed his eyes.

  2

  The sound of shattering glass tore him from sleep. Then another smash.

  Downstairs.

  Jack grabbed the Glock from under the pillow and leaped for the door. Dropping to his knees he kept his head low as he peeked into the hallway. Then more glass shattered followed by a pair of whoomps! as yellow light lit the stairwell at the end of the hall.

  Firebombs.

  “Jack?”

  She was sitting up in bed staring at him. Flickering light through the doorway lit her terrified features as he found his boots and began pulling them on.

  “Your greatest fear is coming true. They’re burning down your house and everything in it.”

  Including us.

  “Ohmygod! What do we do!”

  “We get the hell out and call the FD.”

  She darted from the bed, screaming, “My papers! My papers!”

  “They’re goners. We can’t save them.”

  Leaving his boots untied, he followed her into the hall where smoke was pouring up the stairwell. He saw her disappear into her bedroom.

  “Weez, we’ve got to get out!”

  “I’m not going out in just a shirt and panties!”

  He entered the room to find her pulling on sweatpants. He stepped to the barred window that overlooked the front yard and saw two men standing by a white van across the street, watching the flames. The van looked just like the one he’d ditched earlier.

  Could it be . . . ?

  “Shit!”

  “What?”

  He turned and saw her slipping into a pair of Crocs.

  “Guys out front—either to make sure you don’t get out, or grab
you if you do.”

  “Oh, God!” Her voice quavered. “What do we do?”

  Jack stepped back into the hall. The stairway was a mass of climbing flame.

  “A window—out back.”

  The two bedrooms were lined up along the south side of the house, the stairway and bathroom along the north. None of those windows were barred. Jack led Weezy to the other end of the hallway and checked out the backyard. A guy stood near the bushes along the rear fence.

  Both doors covered, but no matter. The doors were downstairs and downstairs was not an option.

  He pulled Weezy into his bedroom. After stuffing his phone and his wallet into various pockets, he stripped the sheet from the bed. He tied knots at both corners along the long axis, then opened the window. He kicked out the screen and motioned Weezy onto the sill.

  “What?” She held back. “I can’t.”

  Grabbing her upper arm he shoved her toward the opening.

  “We haven’t got time for ‘can’t.’ Sit on the sill—everything outside but your butt. Now!”

  She complied—shakily—and he steadied her until she was positioned outside the window. He handed her one of the knotted ends of the sheet and looped some of the rest around his hips.

  “Grab it above the knot with both hands and hold on for dear life. I’m going to lower you.”

  “I can’t do this!”

  “I disagree.”

  He gave her a shove and she tumbled off the sill with a high-pitched yelp. But she held on, legs kicking the air, as he eased the sheet over the edge. Suddenly her weight released. He looked out the window and saw her sprawled on the ground—she’d let go a little sooner than she had to, but she waved up at him, indicating she was okay.

  Jack climbed out and crouched, facing the window with his feet on the sill. He slammed the inside sash down onto the sheet, leaving the knot inside. He looked toward the front and then the back as he prepared to rappel down the wall. Spotted a man with a gun come around the rear corner. Must have heard Weezy’s yelp. When he saw her he raised his weapon. His attention was fully on Weezy and he seemed unaware of Jack. And the way he was taking his time, he must have been sure she was unarmed.

  But Jack wasn’t. Freeing a hand he pulled his Glock and fired two quick shots. The second scored, dropping the guy to his knees as he grabbed his shoulder.