Ground Zero rj-13

by F. Paul Wilson

  Ernst nodded approval. Szeto was resourceful. And to give him his due, he had planned his moves well. His one mistake had been assuming that his men would be the only ones equipped for deadly force. He had erred in that assumption. Ernst was sure he would not err so again.

  “A good idea. That will give us extra eyes. I’ll have McCabe contact the Dormentalists. As a measure of our new détente, we’ll have them disseminate her picture as well.”

  “And the Kickers?”

  Ernst nodded. “Oh, yes. The Kickers most certainly. They’re everywhere. But we will need to offer them a reward as an incentive. They’re devoted to Thompson but cash will ensure more active participation on their part.”

  “Our people have located her credit accounts. If Louise Myers uses her MasterCard or AmEx, we will know it.”

  “And after you locate her, what then?”

  “We take her and whoever is with her. Then we begin erasing all trace of them from planet.”

  Once again Ernst nodded approval.

  The Order had nurtured the various 9/11 conspiracy theories, sometimes going so far as to plant false evidence or start blogs and Web sites of its own to direct suspicions or start theories of its own creation, the more outrageous, the better. The doubters were looking for the truth and the Order wanted to keep them looking in every direction but the right one, to deflect blame and suspicion from itself. Everything had been working perfectly until this “Secret Historian” had begun asking the wrong questions. Even her username had set off alarms. She obviously didn’t know the truth, but she was pointing in dangerous directions. She had to be stopped.

  Or did she?

  Ernst was hoping the Fhinntmanchca would make her irrelevant. But it was a nebulous hope. He didn’t know if they could succeed in creating one. He had followed all the ancient lore to the letter, but he was treading terra incognita.

  So far the lore had been on the mark. The Orsa had come to life, and then it had awakened. And then it had swallowed Darryl.

  But could the Fhinntmanchca—if they succeeded in creating it—accomplish what the One wanted? If so, then chasing down this woman was an exercise in futility. She would not matter. But no one knew how long it would take to create the Fhinntmanchca. And once created, no one, not even the One, could guarantee its success.

  And so the search for Louise Myers had to be pressed. She had to be stopped from further interfering in matters she should leave alone—matters everyone should leave alone.

  8

  Weezy’s eyes burned. She closed them as she leaned back to rub her throbbing temples. After leaving Jack at the airport she’d returned here and had been poring over the text ever since. Usually she could read till all hours with no problem, but this Compendium . . .

  Maybe it was the book’s autotranslating feature. She couldn’t imagine how it worked, but perhaps the process of changing all the print to the reader’s native language had an effect on the eyes and brain. That, plus the density of new information on each page . . . Jack said he’d been told that the author was a woman named Srem . . . this must have been her life’s work.

  whatever, Weezy needed a break. The fraction of the text she’d absorbed was a mind-numbing jumble of facts that read like fancies . . .

  A group of devices called the Seven Infernals . . . she’d come across two of them so far and they were wonderful and terrible in what they could do. Where in the text she’d find the other five—or if she’d find the other five—she had no idea.

  A word called The Answer—Jack had been right about Srem’s love of capitals—would not translate, but instead remained an indecipherable tangle of squiggles that she suspected might not make sense even in the Old Tongue. Supposedly when uttered it gave the best answer to whatever question was asked. She had no idea how that could be.

  And repeated references to “the Seven.” But the Seven what? Sometimes it sounded like a group, sometimes a single entity. Srem tossed off the references as if everyone should know. And most likely everyone did know about the Seven back in those days, but Weezy hadn’t a clue.

  And what was it with the number seven? It kept popping up everywhere. Either Srem had a fetish for it or was simply reflecting the times. Seemed like seven was on everyone’s mind back in the First Age.

  But so far, not a single mention of Fhinntmanchca.

  “You look beat,” Eddie said as he walked into the spare bedroom she’d commandeered. “Time to call it a night.” He carried a glass of water and a small plastic bottle. She’d complained of a headache and he’d gone to find her something for it. “Hold out your hand.”

  He shook a couple of Advil into her palm.

  “Two more,” she said.

  “You’re only supposed to take two.”

  “This is an eight-hundred-milligram headache.”

  He shook out two more and handed her the glass of water. She washed them down and finished the rest of the water.

  “You’re a good brother, Eddie. The best. Thanks for putting me up and putting up with me.”

  He smiled. “That’s what family is for.”

  Although they qualified as “Irish twins”—barely a year separating their births—they’d never been close growing up. Maybe because they were so opposite. She sometimes wondered if Eddie’s childhood apathy and couch potato lifestyle had been a reaction to her restless energy and intellectual curiosity. When it came to a choice between schoolwork and Atari, the games always won out. Her straight A’s hadn’t helped matters, she guessed, especially when he was bringing in B’s and C’s.

  She supposed her emotional lability put an extra burden on their relationship—on the whole family. When her mood swings finally backed her folks into consulting a child psychiatrist, Eddie had been anything but sympathetic. She became “my crazy sister” until their folks issued a gag order: No one in town was to know about her visits to Dr. Hamilton.

  Their strongest connection had been Jack, who had the smarts to keep up with her, the patience to go along with her, and who loved video games almost as much as Eddie. They were often three musketeers, but more often than not it was just Jack and Weezy.

  But Eddie had changed during college. He got his act together—physically and academically—and was now successful and financially comfortable.

  But was he happy? She wondered about that. He didn’t seem to have anyone in his life. He had this big, three-story townhouse condo all to himself. She didn’t care if he was straight or gay, he should have someone. She remembered her years with Steve as some of the best of her life. Bad enough he’d left her, but the way he’d left her . . .

  His smile faded. “I won’t pretend to understand what you’re into, Weez, but I wish to God you’d drop it.”

  She looked up at him. “I wish I could. I wish I could simply up and walk away, but I can’t.”

  “Your friend Kevin is dead—murdered.”

  Weezy watched him step to the nearest window and peer out at the twilight.

  Was he worried he’d be next? Had she put him in jeopardy?

  “Maybe I should find a hotel—”

  He whirled toward her. “No way. You’re safe here and so you’re going to stay here. It’s just that . . .” He looked away, then back at her. “Six men dead since Tuesday, five killed by Jack, you say.” He shook his head. “Even as I’m saying those words, I can’t believe them. Jack . . . of all people . . . you’re sure—?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What happened to him? How’d he become a killer?”

  Weezy tensed. “Don’t call him that. He didn’t want to. It was them or us, so he did what he had to.”

  “But why was he carrying a gun in the first place?”

  “I’m glad he was. I have no doubt I’d have ended up like Kevin if he hadn’t been.”

  “But we’re talking about Jack, the guy who used to ride his BMX over to our house to play Asteroids, who used to hang out in your room and complain about your music.”

  Weezy warm
ed at the memory of those days. Lost innocence . . .

  “Yeah.”

  “Which, by the way, was truly awful.”

  She put on a shocked face. “Bauhaus and the Cure?”

  “Awful. Give me Def Leppard any day.” He waved a hand. “But anyway, this is the guy who picked up cash cutting lawns and working at USED. God knows how he earns his living now. What changed him?”

  “I’ll bet it was his mother’s murder.”

  Eddie stared at her. “Murder? No one was out to get her. She just happened to be in the wrong place at the worst time.”

  No one was out to get her . . .

  Weezy wondered.

  She hadn’t told Eddie about the meeting at Mr. Veilleur’s, but the revelation of the Lady, and her appearing there as Mrs. Clevenger, made Weezy suspect that Jack’s mother’s presence in the wrong place at the worst time might not have been accidental.

  “Still . . . she died horribly.”

  Eddie made a face. “And what? He became Batman?”

  She had to smile. “I’m picturing Jack in tights and a cape . . .”

  Not bad.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Batman fights crime. I can’t see Jack into that. In fact, I’m pretty sure some of his best friends are on the wrong side of the law. But Jack’s not the issue now.” She turned and tapped the Compendium. “This is.”

  His tone oozed doubt: “Ah, the magic book that anyone can read, no matter what language they speak.”

  She’d given him only the vaguest description of the book’s origin without mentioning the First Age. Didn’t want to open that can of worms. She’d told him it might contain information on the 9/11 attacks.

  “Yeah. But so far, no good. I’m looking for information on something called ‘Opus Omega.’ It’s—”

  “That’s Latin. If your book translates itself into English—and I don’t believe for a moment that it does—why do you expect to find Latin words?”

  Good question, one that hadn’t occurred to Weezy. But she’d found “Opus Omega” mentioned in passing in the Compendium a number of times already, so how . . . ?

  “Maybe because it’s been in and out—mostly out—of circulation since ancient times, and the scholars who wrote about it most likely used the language of most Western scholars since before the Common Era: Latin. Maybe some of those Latin phrases have become the preferred terms for certain references in the book. So that’s how the book translates them.”

  “You really believe that?”

  She shrugged. “Works for me.”

  He moved up beside her. “Mind if I take a look?”

  “Be my guest.”

  She rolled her chair back and watched as he flipped through the pages. Abruptly he stopped and stared, slack-jawed.

  “Th-that illustration,” he said, pointing. “It’s moving!”

  Weezy rose and moved in beside him. Sure enough, a drawing of a globe that looked like the Earth spun in empty space. It had a 3-D look to it. The outlines of the continents confirmed that it was indeed Earth, but its surface was peppered by dots and crisscrossed by lines. It reminded her of an airline flight map.

  And then she realized she’d seen that pattern before: on the Lady’s back.

  She leaned closer, trying to see where the dots fell and the lines crossed but the globe was spinning too fast. She put her hand on it to try to stop it but felt only a flat page without the slightest sense of movement.

  “Look at the header,” Eddie said.

  She did. Opus Omega sat above the animation.

  But that was the only text. She turned the page and found the reverse side blank. The facing page began in mid-sentence about something unrelated.

  Eddie put his hand over hers and turned the page back to the animation.

  “How is this possible?” he said in a hushed voice.

  “I don’t know, Eddie, but there it is. And it refers to Opus Omega—in Latin. Part of what I’m looking for.”

  But a spinning globe was useless. She needed the equivalent of a Mercator projection map. Did they have such a thing in Srem’s time?

  Eddie continued to stare at the animation. When he spoke he sounded like a motorboat.

  “But-but-but how do they do that?” He looked at her. “It really is magical, isn’t it.”

  She nodded.

  He said, “But if it’s as old as you say, how could they know the Earth was round? And how could they know—I mean, the continents on that globe are accurate. How can that be?”

  “Because it’s very old, Eddie. It’s from a time when we knew, from the time before we lost all that knowledge.”

  Eddie was nodding. He was becoming a believer.

  9

  Jack stood outside the Vintage Theatre on Melrose and hoped this was it. He didn’t know where to turn if it wasn’t.

  He’d been to The Silent Movie Theatre on Fairfax and three others around town, finally ending up at the Aero in Santa Monica. None of the theaters could hold a candle to the Egyptian. The Aero had a few deco touches but seemed like a typical neighborhood theater. And like the others, its night manager was young and knew of no gray-haired fellow employee in his sixties.

  He did however know of one other theater playing vintage films—a three-hundred-seater on Melrose called—of all things—the Vintage. But he wasn’t sure it was still operating.

  Jack had found Melrose and followed it until he spotted the lit-up Vintage marquee in a seedy area of down-market shops and specialty boutiques. At least it was open.

  A sign announced GARY COOPER WEEK! and tonight they were offering a double bill of Beau Geste and High Noon.

  The closer he got, the more it looked like the sort of place that might not be opposed to paying off the books. Cracks laced the heavily smudged glass of the empty ticket booth. He had to rap on the glass three times before a pierced-up teenage girl with black hair and white makeup appeared and sold him a ticket. She tore it in half and told him he could go in.

  Inside, the industrial carpeting was worn and the art deco moldings needed refurbishing. To look like he was here to watch a movie, he bought a large popcorn. Soft and chewy—stale. Probably left over from last night, or even the night before.

  He asked the gothoid teenage boy behind the counter—were he and the ticket girl a couple?—if he could speak to the manager.

  The kid turned and called, “Ernie! Someone to see you!”

  Ernie—yes. A good start.

  A few seconds later Ernest Goren stepped into the doorway. He’d kept his first name, but probably had changed the second. His eyes narrowed as he frowned at Jack.

  “Can I help you?”

  Jack walked over and extended his hand. “John Tyleski.”

  Goren gave a quick shake but didn’t offer his name.

  Knowing his interest in UFOs, Jack had his next line all set.

  “I was wondering if you have any plans to show Earth vs. the Flying Saucers. You know . . .” He cupped his hands around his mouth and lowered his voice, imitating the alien announcer. “ ‘People of Earth’ . . .”

  Goren’s mouth twisted. “That’s not bad. But you missed it by three weeks.”

  “Really? Damn! I’ve wanted to see that on a big screen for ages.”

  “We ran a UFO festival—double features every night Monday through Thursday.”

  Okay, the ice was broken. Now to get on his good side, gain a little trust. Jack didn’t have to feign interest.

  “You’re killing me. What did you show?”

  Goren ducked back into his office. Jack stepped up to the doorway but didn’t enter. A tiny space. He was surprised to see Alice Laverty sitting in a chair opposite the desk.

  “Hello,” he said.

  Jack looked for a sign of recognition—after all they’d been on the same plane for almost six hours—but she simply nodded and gave him a polite smile. Well, why should she remember him? Except for one trip to the restroom, he’d stayed in his seat the whole time
.

  Looked like Goren hadn’t been able to arrange coverage for tonight, but that hadn’t stopped him from spending time with his daughter. Good for him.

  Goren pulled a couple of sheets from his desktop and handed one to Jack.

  “Take a look.”

  Vintage Theatre UFO Festival

  MONDAY

  Earth vs. the Flying Saucers

  Devil Girl from Mars

  TUESDAY

  Close Encounters

  Plan 9 from Outer Space

  WEDNESDAY

  This Island Earth

  Invasion of the Saucer Men

  THURSDAY

  The Thing from Another World

  Invaders from Mars

  “Cool,” Jack said. “Except for Thursday, you’ve paired a goody with a turkey.”

  “One man’s turkey is another man’s steak.” He handed Jack another sheet. “If you’d have liked that, you’ll love next week’s festival—five days.”

  Vintage Theatre INVASION Festival

  SUNDAY

  Robot Monster

  Killers from Space

  MONDAY

  Invasion of the Body Snatchers

  It Conquered the World

  TUESDAY

  Night of the Blood Beast

  The Brain from Planet Arous

  WEDNESDAY

  I Married a Monster from Outer Space

  Teenagers from Outer Space

  THURSDAY

  Invisible Invaders

  The Cape Canaveral Monsters

  “Wow. I’m so there. And in chronological order too.”

  Goren was staring at him. “You seem to know your stuff.”

  “Who picks these?”

  “I do.”

  Jack folded his hands in supplication. “Can I be you when I grow up?”

  “I don’t think this theater will last till then. But let’s see if you can figure this: These ten films have something else in common besides invasion from space. Know what it is?”