Ground Zero rj-13

by F. Paul Wilson

  “Ask.”

  “Will you go to Los Angeles for me?”

  Uh-oh.

  “Why?”

  “I need you to talk to someone out there.”

  “We have phones for that. Give me his number.”

  “He won’t want to talk about this on the phone, maybe not even in person. I’m pretty sure I could convince him if we were face-to-face, but I need to study the Compendium. So I was wondering if you could go for me.”

  “Is it that important?”

  “Very. Kevin and I . . .” Her voice choked off. “Poor Kevin.”

  After a moment she took a breath and continued. “Kevin and I have been looking for this man for a year now. Kevin finally tracked him down in L.A. We really need to talk to him.”

  “Why?”

  “After nine/eleven—”

  Jack fought an eye roll. He’d heard enough about that day lately to last a lifetime.

  “Everything seems to keep coming back to that.”

  “Yes, it does. Odd, don’t you think?”

  “I think we should be more worried about R and what he might be up to.”

  “I’ve told you I have this feeling that somehow some way, they might be connected. And this man—his name’s Ernest Goren—may be able to provide a missing link.” She pointed to a sign announcing the presence of the Thomas A. Edison Service Area two miles ahead. “There’s our stop.”

  The plan was to meet Eddie there. Weezy would transfer to his car and go home with him.

  Jack nodded and kept to his lane. “I see it.”

  “Shouldn’t you be getting over to the right?”

  That was Jack’s natural inclination too, but he resisted it.

  “Let me do the driving, okay?”

  “But—”

  “Please? Tell me about this Goren.”

  “He was a member of one of the crews sent into the bowels of the Trade Center to look for remains of victims. No one expected survivors. Their job was to bag up any human remains and bring them to the surface for identification.”

  “Nice.”

  “Somebody had to do it. He was with a crew of four and—Jack, you’re going to miss the rest stop.”

  The entrance to the service area lay just ahead. At the last possible second, Jack jumped lanes and angled onto the ramp. He slowed after he was off the highway, watching in the rearview to see if anyone else made a similar move.

  Nope.

  “Never thought you’d turn out to be a backseat driver.”

  “I’ve been told I have control issues.”

  “Says who?”

  “Most of my therapists through the years.”

  “Imagine that. Okay, back to Goren.”

  “Where was I?”

  “He was down in the wreckage looking for body parts.”

  “Right. He was teamed with three others: Alfieri, Lukach, and Ratner. They’d worked together before. They all knew each other pretty well. They were deep down in the well of the Trade Center, along its eastern edge, when Lukach radioed back that they thought they heard voices down there. Well, that got everyone on the surface pretty excited.”

  “I don’t remember hearing about that.”

  Abe had been obsessed with the attacks and in their aftermath had read his stack of daily newspapers even more closely than usual. He’d given Jack a distillation of every new development as it happened.

  “Because moments later tragedy struck. A cave-in crushed Alfieri, Lukach, and Ratner.”

  “That I heard about.”

  Their funerals had been media events, with the tabloids screaming how al Qaeda had claimed three more American lives.

  “What you most likely didn’t hear about were reports from two workers elsewhere in the wreckage who said they thought they heard an explosion just about the time of the cave-in.”

  No, he hadn’t—or at least Abe had never mentioned it.

  He glanced at her. “Cover-up?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe just incompetence on the part of the investigators. They looked into it and supposedly found no evidence of an explosion.”

  “And found no source for the voices, I take it.”

  “Right. That was chalked up to an acoustic trick that allowed them to hear the voices of other workers elsewhere in the wreckage.”

  “And you don’t buy that?”

  Of course she wouldn’t. Weezy always seemed to have an alternate explanation for everything that happened. But she surprised him.

  “Again, I don’t know. What I do know is that Ernest Goren survived the cave-in unscathed. Physically, at least.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He came out of the wreckage a mental basket case. He’d had a complete breakdown. When they asked him what happened down there, he just spewed word salad. His condition was chalked up to shock at seeing his friends get crushed.”

  “But you’ve got a better explanation.”

  Now the conspiracy.

  “It’s possible he was faking to cover up something, but I think it was real. I think he saw something down there that blew his circuits.”

  “That only happens in Lovecraft stories and B movies.”

  “He was fifty-two years old at the time with a wife, a married daughter, and a grandson. His only known quirk was a belief in flying saucers, and not just the usual theories. He thought they came from inside the Earth. He was a member of SESOUP and—”

  Jack shook his head. “Ah, yes. The Society for the Exposure of Secret Organizations and Unacknowledged Phenomena.”

  She leaned forward to look at him. “You know them?”

  “Well. Too well, in fact. I attended their convention at the Clinton Hotel last year.”

  And it damn near killed me.

  “You did? Are you into that stuff?”

  “No. I was working—a missing-person problem.”

  “Then you might have met him. Because he was there too.”

  “I met a lot of people.”

  He remembered a guy showing him a photo of the North Pole taken from space, and pointing out a shadow he claimed was the opening where the saucers entered and exited the center of the Earth. That might have been him.

  A question leaped to mind.

  “How do you know so much about him?”

  “Kevin got hold of the records of the police investigation after Goren’s disappearance.”

  “Disappearance. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  He found a spot in an open area of the parking lot and watched the cars that entered after them. He’d seen no sign of a tail from Brooklyn but didn’t want to take any chances.

  “His doctors seemed convinced he’d had some sort of break with reality. They kept him for almost a week, medicated him, and sent him home. One day, not too long after, his house burned down. His wife died in the fire but no one could find a trace of him. He hasn’t been seen since.”

  “He torched his house?”

  “That’s what the police think. And that’s the way it looks. Torched his house, burning his wife alive. Then he emptied his bank account—”

  Jack held up a hand. “After the fire?”

  “First thing the next morning.”

  “That tells me he hadn’t planned the fire, otherwise he’d have drawn it out first.”

  “Not if he wasn’t in his right mind. Cleaned out his account and took off for parts unknown.”

  “But you found him in L.A.”

  “And Kevin did. Goren keeps in touch with his daughter via e-mail. Kevin—”

  “Whoa. Didn’t you just say he burned her mother alive? Wouldn’t she be just a little ticked?”

  “You’d think so. Kevin uploaded a keystroke logger into her computer through her home Wi-Fi network.”

  Jack didn’t know much about computers, but he could suss out what that did.

  “So he could see whatever she typed?”

  “Right. He used it to get Alice’s e-mail username and password. After that he coul
d log into her account from anywhere in the world and see what she was sending and receiving. She and her dad are pretty friendly. So either he managed to convince her it wasn’t his fault—crazy, you know—or she was in on it for some reason. We don’t know. How he smoothed it over is lost in the past. But Kevin tracked him to L.A. through some of the comments he made in the mails.”

  “And you want me to fly out there and talk to him.”

  “Please?”

  Jack rubbed his eyes. “Brother.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re afraid to fly.”

  The flying didn’t bother him—he’d done it only once. A cakewalk. He’d had bumpier bus rides. But getting through security was a hairy process for a guy who didn’t exist.

  Under normal circumstances, all he should need were his John Tyleski driver’s license and credit card. That would be enough for ninety-nine percent of the zillion flights going in and out of airports every day.

  But the what-ifs bothered him. He’d stayed alive and well and free by paying attention to the what-ifs.

  Like what if there’s an incident on a plane and airport security or Homeland Security starts backgrounding the passenger list?

  John Tyleski has an excellent credit history—never once late paying his MasterCard bill—and an unblemished driving record. But his address is a mailbox. He doesn’t seem to live anywhere, and he’s never filed a tax form of any kind—ever. In fact, there’s no record of his existence until a few years ago.

  John Tyleski would become a person of interest—big time.

  “No, flying’s cool. I just . . .”

  Just what? He had nothing else going on at the moment. Gia and Vicky would be fine without him for a few days. And if Weezy thought it was that important, he shouldn’t blow her off. She’d been proven right too often to be dismissed.

  He’d have to bite the bullet—and hope it didn’t go off in his mouth.

  “Okay. I’ll go. How do I find him?”

  “We don’t have his home address—”

  “Then how—?”

  “—but we have a pretty good idea of where he works.”

  Eddie had said he’d be driving a black Toyota Camry. One was pulling into the lot now.

  “There’s Eddie,” Jack said as he recognized the man behind the wheel.

  He lowered his window and stuck his arm out. The Camry turned his way.

  Weezy shifted in her seat to face him, her expression earnest. “Can you leave tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow? Is it that urgent?”

  “His daughter’s going out to visit him tomorrow—Continental flight 1159. Goren is going to meet her at LAX. I thought maybe you could get on the same plane. I mean, that’s what I’d do if I were going.”

  Not a bad plan.

  “Okay. I’ll make a reservation when I get home. But I’ll need more info.”

  “I’ll meet you at the airport before your flight. Kevin e-mailed me all the details, including a photo of the daughter. I’ll decrypt everything and go over it with you then.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks, Jack.”

  She gave him a quick hug, then she was out of the car and bustling toward the Camry. When she was inside they both waved and took off.

  Jack watched them go, keeping an eye out for anyone who might be following. He’d taken note of the cars that had pulled into the service area during the first five minutes after they’d arrived. He’d watched them do their business and pull away. None had stayed. No one pulled out and followed Eddie.

  Jack sat and thought about L.A., and how he knew no one out there and even less about the place. But Abe would. Abe could set him up with some iron while he was out there.

  And who knew? Maybe he’d be discovered and start a new career as a movie star.

  Or not.

  19

  “Mister Thompson,” Drexler said, “I believe we have achieved the required state.”

  Hank looked at him from between his heavy lids. The only illumination was the faint ice-blue glow from the Orsa lying a half dozen feet away. They’d each downed three stiff absinthes—Hank chugging and Drexler sipping—and he was definitely feeling it. Drexler looked fine, however.

  “Required for what?”

  “To see what I wish you to see.” He rose and motioned to Hank. “Come. We must be closer.”

  Hank wanted to stay put. He had a strange notion that Drexler was luring him close to the Orsa, and when he reached a certain point a glowing tentacle would whip out and snag him. He’d wind up trapped inside the thing like Darryl.

  Drexler was standing by the Orsa, motioning to him with his cane. “Come. What are you waiting for?”

  Well, he couldn’t tell Drexler about the tentacle, and getting up and moving about might not be a bad thing.

  He pushed himself out of his chair and stepped toward the Orsa. He noticed an odd, floaty feeling as he moved; not exactly light-headed; more like light-footed.

  As Hank stopped at his side, Drexler made a flourish with his cane toward the Orsa.

  “Observe.”

  At first Hank had no idea what he was supposed to see. And how was he supposed to look at anything else but Darryl? The poor guy’s expression looked strained. His eyes were closed—thankfully—but his mouth was wide open, as if frozen in mid-scream.

  “He looks dead.”

  “I assure you, he is not,” Drexler said.

  “He’s not breathing.”

  “The Orsa is breathing for him. Now please disregard him and concentrate on the surface of the Orsa.”

  Hank ripped his gaze from Darryl and studied the Orsa’s hide—could he call it a hide? What did—?

  And then he spotted the little red and white dots scattered across the dimpled surface. They almost seemed to glow. He stepped closer. They were glowing, with a faint, pulsating light. And now that he was near he could make out hair-thin red lines arcing out from the red dots in an intricate, crisscrossing pattern. It looked like someone had played connect the dots with an ultra fine–tipped pen.

  “When did these show up? They weren’t here earlier.”

  “Tradition has it that the Nexus Grid appears when the Orsa wakes, but an observer requires what might be described as an altered state of consciousness to perceive them.”

  “You mean, drunk?”

  “No. Alcohol alone will not do it. The special blend and balance of ingredients in what we’ve been drinking induces the necessary changes in perception.”

  Hank squinted at the dots and lines. He noticed now that the white dots outnumbered the red by a good deal.

  “Okay. I’m altered. I see them. So what? What am I seeing?”

  “Opus Omega . . . which was supposed to lead to the end of history.”

  “You mentioned that before. I still don’t know what you mean.”

  Drexler glanced at him. “Your father told you about the Others, beings waiting outside and wanting to come in and remake the world.”

  Hank nodded. Daddy had talked about that a lot. And how those who helped open the door for them would be rewarded.

  “Yeah. That was why he put together the Plan to make the baby—the Key to the Future. But now . . .”

  “The baby is thriving inside his mother, who is being well taken care of.”

  Hank smiled. “Then the Plan is still a go.”

  “You must realize there are many plans, all geared toward achieving the same end.”

  “Bringing the Others in?”

  “Technically, there are no ‘Others,’ only one. It has no name, but we call it the Otherness. And yes, that is the goal: Allow the Otherness mastery over our corner of reality.”

  “And when that happens, we’ll be in the catbird seat, right?”

  “Not ‘we.’ The catbird seat, as you call it, is reserved for the One, a man who has been the Otherness’s instrument on Earth for . . . well, for longer than you would probably believe. We serve through him, a
nd we shall receive our rewards through him.”

  “That’s not the way my daddy explained it. He never mentioned anybody called the One.”

  “That is because your ‘daddy’ had an agenda of his own that ran contrary to the wishes of the One. He was going to use the child, your so-called Key to the Future, against the One. And that is why your ‘daddy’ is no longer among the living.”

  “This the guy we talked about earlier? The one who took Dawn and the baby? The one who says ‘jump’ and your High Council says ‘how high?’ ”

  Drexler nodded. “Precisely.”

  Hank could believe it. Something more than human about that guy—or maybe less than human. He’d admitted killing Daddy, and said how much he’d enjoyed watching his lingering death. Hank felt his insides twist in a mix of fear and anger.

  “So it’s best to be on his good side.”

  “The One will require loyal assistants after the Change. Those who have helped bring him to power will be rewarded.”

  Well, that made sense, but something else didn’t.

  “Why’s he want Dawn’s baby? If it was supposed to be used against him—”

  “The One does nothing without a reason. Perhaps he sees a possibility where it might be of use to him. He knows all of the Secret History. It is futile to second-guess him. I advise you to expend your mental resources in more fruitful pursuits.”

  “Will do.”

  Drexler pointed to the Orsa with his black cane, bringing the tip to within an inch of a red dot.

  “This and its other red brethren indicate nexus points. A veil of sorts separates our reality from the Otherness. There exist across the planet small areas where the veil is very thin. Under certain, fleeting conditions, some of the Otherness can leak through, but that is not our concern here. What I want you to notice is the network of lines running between the nexus points. Every nexus point is linked to the others by one of these fine lines of force.”

  “Okay. But what about the white ones? They’re connected too.”

  “The white spots are placed wherever three or more lines intersect. Each white indicates the location of a buried pillar.”

  Hank stepped back for a broader look. There were hundreds, maybe a thousand white dots.

  “You mean someone buried a pillar in every one of those spots? But that’s . . . that must have taken—”