Ground Zero rj-13

by F. Paul Wilson

  “Ohhhhh, yeah,” Jack said as memories flooded back. “I’ve seen him walk on water and float in the air, and he can paralyze you with a look.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Weezy looked at him. “No, I can see by your face you’re not. He did it to you, didn’t he.”

  He nodded. “Twice.”

  “So he had you in his power and he released you. That doesn’t make sense, unless he doesn’t know you’re the Heir.”

  “Oh, he knows. The first time, he let me go because he said killing me then would spare me the pain that lay ahead in my life, and he didn’t want to do that.”

  “Pain? Did he mean your father? I heard about that. What a terrible thing to happen to such a nice man.”

  “That was just the tip of the iceberg.”

  “It gets worse?”

  “Much. Someday I’ll tell you about it. The creep feeds on human death, pain, fear, misery, degradation. He had a feast with me.”

  “I wonder if he was here for nine/eleven?” she said. “He would have had a smorgasbord of fear, panic, grief, and misery. You could literally feel the panic in the air.”

  “Tell me about it. I live about four miles uptown from the Trade Center and—” A startling idea flashed to life. “Do you think he could have been behind the attacks?”

  “You mean, could R be bin Aswad? I’ve never seen him. Does he resemble the man in the photos?”

  “Hard to say, what with the graininess and the beard. But Sheikh did say he wanted maximum death and terror, which would be right in line with R’s tastes.”

  “But that’s what every terrorist wants. That’s why they’re called terrorists. And although I can’t tell you exactly why, my gut tells me there was more than just a gourmet feast for R behind those attacks. But I still don’t understand why, when R had you at his mercy, he didn’t eliminate you.”

  “I doubt he’d admit it, but I think he’s afraid to harm me.”

  “Why? You have some hidden powers you haven’t told me about?”

  He barked a laugh. “I wish!”

  Traffic was light. They’d zoomed along the Gowanus and were now segueing onto the Belt Parkway. The monstrous, looming towers of the Verrazano Bridge ruled the landscape ahead.

  “No,” he said. “He’s afraid of Veilleur.”

  “An old man?”

  “Except R doesn’t know he’s an old man. He thinks he’s still young and powerful and immortal, like himself. Back in the fifteenth century, Veilleur—R knows him by another name—tricked him and imprisoned him for centuries. I think he’s wary of another trap. Since his reincarnation he’s seen no sign of Veilleur, but he knows he’s out there. Probably thinks he’s waiting for a misstep, then he’ll pounce. So he’s keeping a low profile. Killing me would tip his hand . . . or maybe he thinks I’m out here as bait. Whatever, he seems to be leaving me alone.”

  Weezy sat silent a moment, then said, “I don’t know how many years Mister Veilleur has left, but it can’t be too many. I mean, he’s old, Jack. What happens when he dies? Will R know?”

  Jack found the prospect unsettling. That was the day he’d assume the Defender role.

  “He might, he might not. Remember, he has no inkling that the Ally released Veilleur. In R’s mind, Veilleur is immortal. So, if he stops sensing his presence, he has more reason to suspect that he’s found a better way to conceal himself than that he’s up and died.”

  “But what if he does sense his death? What happens then?”

  “Then all hell breaks loose, because I’ll be the point man and I haven’t the faintest idea of how to stop him.” He looked her in the eye. “You’d better get to reading, sister, and put that subconscious of yours into high gear. Find us something.”

  14

  “What the—?”

  Hank ripped free of Drexler’s restraining grip on his arm and rushed over to the end of the Orsa. Darryl’s protruding lower legs had stopped kicking. He grabbed the ankles and pulled, but couldn’t budge him.

  He turned to Drexler who was ambling his way as if nothing had happened. “What . . . what . . . ?”

  “Be calm, Mister Thompson. Be calm.”

  “But it’s . . . it’s eating him!”

  He arched his brows. “Appearances can be deceiving.”

  Hank wanted to wipe that arrogant, self-satisfied look off his face. He balled a fist. In fact—

  “Do not presume to try to injure me, Mister Thompson. You will mightily regret it.”

  Yeah, he probably would. Probably get the Kickers ejected from the Lodge. Hank needed this place. A perfect base of operations. He relaxed the fist.

  “That’s one of my men! Get him out!”

  “That is beyond my power—quite beyond anyone’s power.”

  Hank pushed past him and stared through the Orsa’s translucent flank at the still form trapped within. Not a hint of movement, of breathing, of life. He looked like a swimmer frozen midstroke in a cloudy glacier.

  Darryl . . . poor Darryl. Telling him he’d have to pack up and move out had been one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do. Darryl had his faults, but he’d been devoted to the Evolution, and devoted to Hank. Someone Hank could trust. Since his brother Jerry’s death he didn’t have too many people he could trust. Sure as hell not Drexler.

  “He’s dead!” Hank said, still staring. “You killed him!”

  “Not dead, Mister Thompson. Your friend is still alive but has entered a special state.”

  “You promised to cure him.”

  “I never said I would cure him.”

  Hank turned to him. He wanted to break his bird-beak nose.

  “Don’t play word games with me.”

  “Very well, I did promise him a cure and I am delivering on that promise.”

  Hank pointed at Darryl’s still form. “You call that a cure?”

  “He’s not cured yet. It’s a process that takes some time, and has only just begun.”

  “He’s fucking dead, Drexler. The thing smothered him.”

  “On the contrary, he’s quite alive, just not in any way we’re accustomed to seeing. The Orsa has taken over his bodily functions and put them in a suspended state while it works its—dare I say?—magic upon his diseased tissues.”

  “You said all he had to do was sleep with the compound or whatever.”

  Drexler pointed his cane at the streaks of brown dust around Darryl and inches beyond his outstretched hand. “He is.”

  Hank repressed an urge to strangle him. “Don’t push me.”

  Drexler inclined his head. “I apologize if that sounded provocative. While I didn’t entirely lie to him, I did bend the truth.”

  “Where’d you bend it—the part about him being cured?”

  “No. He will be cured. I simply failed to mention what kind of sleep would be required and where it had to take place. You see, in order for the Orsa to cure him, he must sleep within it.”

  Hank couldn’t believe he was standing here listening to this crap—and believing it. No way he would have bought a single word without having seen this . . . thing sitting in front of him. But the Orsa was real. And he’d seen it swallow Darryl.

  “There’s a curious aspect to the process: The afflicted one must enter the Orsa willingly.”

  Hank found himself nodding. Yeah, if that was true, he could see why a little verbal sleight of hand could be needed.

  But a piece was missing . . .

  “So, you did this all for Darryl’s good. Considering how you can’t stand him, that’s very white of you.”

  He wondered if Drexler got the joke, seeing as that was the only color he ever wore.

  Drexler shrugged and gave one of those European it-was-nothing pouts. “One does what one can for his fellow man.”

  “Yeah, right. You set him up.”

  Hank saw it now: Drexler had recognized the rash and sent Darryl to one of the Order’s docs for confirmation. Once AIDS was confirmed, he made sure everyone in the Lodge knew Darry
l had it, which eventually put Hank on the spot about letting him live among the others. Darryl wound up desperate and ready to do anything to keep from being kicked out—even crawling into the butt end of the Orsa.

  Fast work.

  Well, his business card identified him as an “Actuator” . . . a guy who made things happen, got things done. And he’d got this done. Saw an opportunity and seized it.

  Had to admire a guy like that.

  Had to watch out for him too.

  “How long does this cure take?”

  For the first time, Drexler looked unsure. “Not long.”

  “ ‘Not long’? What does that mean? An hour? Half a day? A day? What?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? You know everything else, how come you don’t know that?”

  Drexler gave him a weak smile. “Because there has never been an Orsa before. There will never be another.”

  Hank stared at him in shock. “You mean this has never been done before?”

  Drexler shook his head. “Never.”

  15

  The man who was more than a man, who was known as the One to members of the Septimus Order, and as Mr. Osala or “the Master” to members of this household, sat in his bedroom and waited.

  Ever-faithful Gilda had informed him of yesterday’s trespass, telling him she’d caught the girl opening one of his desk drawers. From the sound of it, he doubted she’d seen anything of importance. And even if she had, she wouldn’t understand. He had instructed Gilda to leave the door ajar today. Knowing the girl as he did, he was sure she would find a second look impossible to resist.

  He wondered what he should do with her. She was a burden. She complained constantly of her confinement here. He would have let her end her life that night but for the uniqueness of the child she carried, so deeply redolent of the Taint. Foolish, pathetic Jonah Stevens had thought he could use that child against him. It might have worked, but would have been a very long shot. For that reason alone he should eliminate the girl and her child.

  However . . .

  The day might come when he would have need of the child. If the Fhinntmanchca achieved his purpose, the point would be moot. In that case he could foresee no use for her or her offspring, except perhaps as a brief amusement. But should the Fhinntmanchca fail . . .

  Better to hold the child in reserve, and make sure it and its reluctant incubator remained in good health. To that end—

  The door to the outer room—his office—squeaked as it opened. He rose and waited until he heard one of his desk drawers slide, then stepped into the office. The girl had her hand in the drawer.

  “Perhaps I can help you find what you are looking for.”

  Her startled reaction was almost comical. She stared in openmouthed shock as she flushed crimson.

  “Mister Osala, I . . . I was just . . .”

  “Just snooping?”

  She took a breath, gathered herself, and faced him with a defiant expression.

  “Yes, I suppose I was.”

  Well, well, well. Perhaps he’d underestimated her mettle.

  “Is that how you repay my hospitality?”

  “Hospitality? How about total imprisonment?”

  He shook his head. “We will not have this conversation again.”

  “Okay, then. How about I’d like to know more about the guy who’s got me locked up in his house?”

  “I’ve told you—”

  “Yeah, I know what you’ve told me, but how do I know it’s true?”

  She was trying his patience now.

  “Because I say it is.”

  “Really? And what about this other ID in your drawer here? And the way you’ve been changing your looks. Who’s the real you?”

  She could never know that. Wouldn’t be capable of understanding if she were told. As for that other identity and his change in appearance . . .

  A man he thought he had destroyed was slowly rising from the ashes. His resilience was remarkable. He needed another crushing blow to complete his destruction. He had researched the man’s circumstances and determined the perfect point of attack. He would insert himself into the hated one’s life and obliterate it from within.

  Of course, the success of the Fhinntmanchca would render his preparations a waste of time. But making plans to annihilate an enemy was almost as enjoyable as the act itself, so he proceeded anyway.

  Just as he would proceed with assuring the safe birth of this Tainted child.

  “The real me?” he said. “The real me is looking out for you and your baby. To that end, I have scheduled an appointment for you with an obstetrician later this week. He will examine you and—”

  “Obstetrician? What for? I don’t want to deliver it! I want it out!”

  “That is not an option right now.”

  Her voice rose. “It’s now or never! I’ll be too far along!”

  Reached out and brushed his fingertips across her forehead.

  “Silence.”

  She quieted and stood there, staring at him.

  “You vex me as you are,” he told her. “So you will change. You want this child. You will do anything to assure its well-being. And you are happy here. You do not wish for anything beyond these walls. Now, return to your room for a nap.”

  She turned and walked from the room.

  Perhaps he should have put an influence into her earlier—it would have prevented her little excursion back in May—but he had enjoyed the subtle, savory susurrance of her uncertainty and frustration, floating through the duplex like background music. And he’d been unsure of the effect on the new fetus. But the fetus was more mature now and . . .

  And the Fhinntmanchca, the Maker of the Way, was imminent. If the fetus was damaged by the influence, what matter?

  Only the Fhinntmanchca mattered.

  16

  The bright orange, twenty-five-story wireframe mushroom of Coney Island’s iconic Parachute Jump dominated the skyline as they approached Harris’s apartment building.

  “How does he rate a senior-citizen apartment? Probably subsidized too.”

  “His mother lived there. After she died he took it over. It’s still in her name.”

  As they approached the building, Jack noticed two men sitting in a car with a good view of the entrance. Might be waiting for a friend . . . or waiting for Weezy. Were that the case, it meant they knew where Harris lived.

  “Do you really need to see Harris again?”

  She nodded. “I need that disk with the Sheikh video. I want to listen again and make sure I’ve got an accurate translation.”

  He pulled into the curb a hundred yards or so past the entrance.

  “Wait here. I’ll go get it.”

  “I’d better go with you,” Weezy said, reaching for her door handle. “He might not—”

  Jack gripped her arm. “I think someone’s watching the place. Good chance they know what you look like now. Better if I go alone.”

  She looked worried. “But they’ve seen you too.”

  He didn’t want to remind her that pretty much everyone who’d seen him with her was dead—except that self-styled Good Samaritan from the hospital. And Jack didn’t believe for a nanosecond that Bob Garvey was his real name.

  “Let me worry about that.”

  She stepped out of the car. “No, I’m coming.”

  “Weez—”

  “We’re wasting time.” She pulled out her—or rather, Jack’s—cell phone as she began walking toward the building. “I’ll call him and let him know we’re here.”

  Jack fell in beside her as she punched the buttons. He didn’t like this, but short of locking her in the trunk . . .

  After listening for a bit she thumbed the END button and looked at him.

  “No answer. Maybe he’s out.”

  This was looking worse and worse.

  “Or maybe he can’t answer. Go back to the car and—”

  “No.”

  The finality in her
tone told him arguing was futile. He looked back at his car. The Crown Vic had a roomy trunk . . .

  Nah.

  He checked under his T-shirt to make sure the Glock was nice and loose in its SOB holster, then adjusted his baseball cap as low as it would go over his forehead.

  Outside the glass doors he kept his face turned away from the security camera as she pressed Harris’s bell on the intercom. No answer. By luck, a stooped old lady in a babushka came out. He grabbed the door and held it for her, then they slipped inside.

  No one about when they reached the eighth floor so they went straight to Harris’s door. Jack positioned himself beside the doorframe with Weezy behind him—just in case a slug plowed through. The hallway walls were reinforced concrete, so no worry there.

  He knocked. Again, no answer.

  He tried the knob and froze when it turned.

  Not good. Not good at all.

  He rotated it back to neutral and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Is your pal the type to leave his door unlocked?”

  “No way.” Her hand shot to her mouth. “Ohmygod.”

  “Go back downstairs.” When she shook her head, he pointed down the hall. “At least move away.”

  She backed up about ten paces.

  Three possibilities here:

  Harris went out but left his door unlocked . . . low probability—approaching zero.

  Harris home but incapacitated or dead, and his attacker gone . . . possible.

  Harris home, incapacitated or dead, and his attacker waiting inside to nab or kill Weezy when she walks through the unlocked door . . . also possible.

  Best to play to the worst-case scenario.

  Keeping far to the side of the doorframe, he turned the knob and pushed.

  Instead of gunfire, a ball of flame exploded into the hallway, propelling the shattered remnants of the door ahead of it and knocking Jack to the floor. He quickly rolled to his feet and ducked away, checking to see if anything on him was burning. No, but the hair on his arms was singed.

  Make that four possibilities: Harris home, incapacitated or dead, and the door rigged to explode.

  Down the hall, a chalky-faced Weezy crouched and leaned against the wall. Her lips were moving but Jack couldn’t hear over the whine in his ears. He didn’t have to. He knew she’d be repeating “Ohmygod” over and over.