Ground Zero rj-13

by F. Paul Wilson

  He hurried up the steps to the foyer, no doubt leaving Ansari feeling pretty tough. Good. If Jack had to go up against him in the future, the guy would be overconfident. Nobody fell harder and faster than an overconfident bully.

  The news about Darryl answered a few questions, especially why he’d been looking under the weather lately. Poor guy. Not a bad sort for a Kicker, and Jack had got the impression he was smarter than he looked. He’d wondered what he was doing at Mount Sinai Tuesday. Now he knew.

  But bigger questions had replaced it.

  Most immediately: What was Ernst Drexler doing here every day this week? The answer lay at the bottom of those winding steps. Some sort of lower level down there. Good bet it wasn’t a wine cellar.

  But more important: Was Drexler the man Goren had seen at Ground Zero? If so, it left little doubt that the Order had had something to do with the 9/11 attacks.

  Jack balled his fists as he walked past the Order’s sigil. His teenage impression of Drexler had been that he was strange and potentially dangerous. He’d never imagined him a monster.

  4

  “Look at him, will you.” Hank felt his gut clench as he leaned close to the Orsa and stared at Darryl. “I don’t believe it.”

  When his daddy had visited him during his growing years, he’d filled his head with tales of Other Gods wanting to come in from the outside, and how he was part of a special bloodline, and how his daddy could see things with his ruined left eye that people with two good eyes had no clue about.

  Hank had listened and he’d believed all that weird shit because his daddy so obviously believed it. But all those years they’d been words, just words. He’d never seen anything to back them up.

  Until now.

  Darryl was barely visible.

  “It’s like he isn’t there.”

  “But he is,” Drexler said beside him. “He is very much there.”

  Yesterday it had been just his skin. Today it was his whole body, through and through.

  From a distance he looked like a shirt, jeans, a pair of shoes, and a clump of hair suspended in a block of Lucite—something some asshole in a museum would call “art.” But when you got closer you could start to make out details.

  Yesterday just his skin had gone transparent. Now Hank could see right through him. He wasn’t invisible. Still a faint outline of the scalp—easier because the hair was the same as ever—around an even fainter outline of the skull beneath, and a vague tracing of the irregular contours on the surface of the brain within.

  “I think we might be nearing the end of the process.” “

  “ ‘Might be’? You’re supposed to know.”

  “Well, none of this is on a strict timetable. It matters how sick he was. Maybe he had more illnesses than we knew, or even he knew. The Orsa is going to cure everything wrong with him.”

  Seemed to Hank like Drexler was trying to sound more certain of this than he really was.

  “Yeah, well, he keeps sliding, though. He’s past the halfway point now. Will it spit him out when he’s cured?”

  “Yes.”

  Hank wheeled on him. “You don’t have a fucking clue, do you?”

  “Of course I have. It’s all been written down over the centuries, the millennia.”

  “But you said it’s never been done before.”

  Drexler gave him a stony look. “He will be cured when he emerges from the Orsa.”

  “Yeah? But what else will he be? The invisible man? I think he might rather be dead.”

  “Then that will be his choice, won’t it.”

  Again that urge to strangle Drexler. The guy must have sensed it because Hank noticed his knuckles whiten as he tightened his grip on the cane.

  He forced himself to turn away.

  “When do you think this will be over?”

  “At the rate he’s moving, tomorrow or the next day.”

  He stared at Darryl. You poor bastard. You went in a human being. What’ll you be when you come out?

  A Fhinntmanchca?

  What the hell was a Fhinntmanchca?

  5

  “You’re serious about this?” Eddie said as he positioned her on the treadmill.

  Weezy nodded. “Deadly serious.”

  She’d made up her mind to get in shape—lose weight, gain tone. The first inkling had come as she’d watched Eddie eat high-protein, low-carb meals. It had solidified today when he’d told her he was going down to the basement to work out. She’d followed him downstairs and found a treadmill and one of those Bowflex mini gyms she’d seen on TV.

  She needed to do this. She’d let herself go too long. Time to take control. As much as she itched to push further through the Compendium, this was important too. She could spare thirty minutes for herself.

  “Okay,” he said once her feet were positioned to either side of the belt. “We’ll start off slow and easy. As you get in better condition and more comfortable on the machine, we’ll begin upping the speed and the incline.”

  “What about that?” she said with a nod toward the mini gym. “I could use some weight training too, I imagine. My muscles must be like Jell-O.”

  “Weight training is very important. Do fifteen minutes low and slow here, and then I’ll walk you through a few exercises over there.”

  He turned a knob and the belt began moving. Gripping the hand bars, Weezy stepped on and began walking.

  “Too slow. Speed her up. This is like I’m eighty years old. I need to work up a sweat if I’m going to lose weight.”

  He gave her a puzzled look. “Why this sudden interest in getting in shape? I’ve been after you for years.”

  She shrugged. “Guess I’m finally listening.”

  A sly smile. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Jack, would it.”

  She felt herself redden. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not getting any younger and I’ve let myself go long enough. Nothing more.”

  His smile held. “If you say so.”

  “I do say so.”

  Was it Jack? She found herself thinking about him a lot—mostly cringing at the memory of coming on to him the other night. What had she been thinking? Obviously she hadn’t been thinking. And that wasn’t like her.

  “Hello?” Eddie said, waving a hand before her face. “Earth to Weezy.”

  She shook herself. “Sorry.”

  “Increase the speed by turning the knob clockwise, but do it slowly.”

  She nodded. “Got it.”

  As Eddie stepped over to the mini gym and began setting the resistance bars, Weezy notched the belt speed up to somewhere near a brisk walk. Once she was comfortable, she glanced over at her brother. As a kid she’d always thought of him as a fat, lazy dork, but he’d changed. He’d shaped up physically and mentally. He had his life in hand and had made something of himself.

  What had she done?

  Well, she’d had a good marriage—at least she’d thought so, until Steve brought it to a screeching halt. But beyond that, what? Last week she might have answered, Nothing . . . that she’d spent her life chasing phantoms. But in the past few days she’d been given proof that they weren’t phantoms.

  Vindication. She hadn’t wasted her time. But since Steve’s death she’d been living from only the neck up and letting the rest go to seed. Time to change that, get back to her old self.

  Things were moving so fast. Jack’s call a little while ago about Mr. Drexler with the Kickers, and the possibility that he’d been the man in white Goren had seen at Ground Zero . . . it all had a crazy, surreal logic to it. If she could learn more, maybe the crazy and surreal would go away, leaving only the logic.

  But she needed a break from that book. She was getting logy and sluggish from complete lack of physical activity. This was exactly what she needed to keep her sharp.

  Maybe she could bounce some ideas off Eddie as they worked out. She saw him seated on the bench, back to her, stretching his arms this way and that. Then he pulled off his T-shirt.

&n
bsp; When Weezy saw his back her knees locked and she stumbled. She fell, landing on the belt and rolling off the treadmill onto the basement floor.

  Eddie was at her side in seconds.

  “Jesus, Weez! Are you all right?”

  She nodded, unable to speak—not because of the considerable pain, but because of what she’d seen on his back.

  Finally she found her voice.

  “I’m fine,” she managed, struggling to her feet.

  But she wasn’t fine, not fine at all, anything but.

  “Maybe you should stay down,” he said, “until we’re sure nothing’s broken.”

  “Nothing’s broken.”

  Except maybe my heart.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah. Sure. I’m gonna go upstairs and get an ice pack.”

  “Let me get my shirt and I’ll help you.”

  He turned away and she saw his back again and felt her gorge rise.

  “No-no,” she said, moving toward the stairs as quickly as she could while hiding the pain that screamed through her twisted hip. “You stay here. I’ll just put some ice on it and I’ll be fine. Just fine.”

  “You’re sure?”

  She didn’t—couldn’t look at him.

  “Positive.”

  Once upstairs she yanked a plastic trash bag from a box and limped to her bedroom. She threw all the clothes she’d just bought into the bag, then grabbed the Compendium, scooped up Eddie’s car keys, and headed out the door. All the while the silver dollar–size scar—the brand on his back—kept flashing across her vision.

  6

  Jack found her just where her frantic call had said she’d be—hiding in the rear of the Book Corner in Penn Station. Her eyes were red, her face blotchy. Looked like she’d been crying.

  “Thank God!” she said when she saw him. She fell against him, clutching and clinging like a drowning sailor.

  “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  Her call had been mostly incoherent, something like, Come get me, please come get me, I’m at Penn Station, please, please, please!

  He’d rushed downtown.

  “It’s Eddie,” she gasped and began to sob.

  Aw, shit. Had something happened? Had they found him?

  “He’s not hurt, is he?”

  “I almost wish he were. This is worse. Eddie belongs to the Order!”

  Jack stood stunned, cold—no, frozen, barely able to breathe. Eddie a member of the Ancient Fraternal Septimus Order . . .

  “No way. It can’t—”

  “It’s true! I saw the brand on his back! Just like we saw on Mister Sumter’s when we were kids, remember? Well, Eddie’s got one too! He’s a member!”

  “Don’t you think he would have said something?”

  She shook her head. “First off, we’re not all that close. He’s helped me out with certain professional matters, and making me hard to find, but we don’t sit down for regular heart-to-hearts. Besides, you know as well as I how secretive the Order is.”

  “Not so secretive that he didn’t keep his shirt on.”

  “I don’t think it even occurred to him. I think he must always work out shirtless and he took it off without thinking.”

  “How did he explain it?”

  “He didn’t. I didn’t give him a chance. I panicked and ran. Parked his car at Newark Airport, then called him and left a message where it was. I withdrew as much as I could from an ATM and took a train here.” She gripped the front of Jack’s shirt. “Do you think he’s been keeping tabs on me for the Order?”

  Jack considered that, then shook his head.

  “No. Whoever’s been out to get you lately didn’t know who you were or where you lived. If it is the Order after you—and I’m pretty damn sure it is—I doubt very much they have any inkling that Eddie’s your brother. You’re a Myers, he’s a Connell. And does he know you suspect the Order?”

  She shook her head. “It’s never come up. He doesn’t seem to want to talk about anything related to what we’re after—doesn’t seem to want to know about it. It’s all too strange for him. But Jack, I can’t go back there. I can’t live with a member of the Order, even if he’s my brother. Not after what we know and what we suspect.”

  “Eddie wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “But what if they connect me to him?”

  Maybe she had a point.

  “All right, I’ll rent you a hotel—”

  “No hotel—please! I won’t feel safe there. The two of us are up to our necks in this and we need to work on it together if we’re to find any answers.” She looked up at him, eyes pleading. “Let me stay with you. Please? I know that’s probably like asking you to jab a sharp stick in your eye, but you’ll hardly know I’m there. I won’t be in the way. I’ll sleep on the floor. I’ll—”

  He held up his hands. “Whoa. Stop. Enough. Sheesh.”

  Jabbing a sharp stick in his eye . . . yeah, that pretty much nailed it.

  “I don’t do roommates, Weez.”

  Well, except maybe for Gia, but only Gia, and she’d never stayed more than one night, so that didn’t count.

  “But I need to feel safe, Jack. I can’t go full focus if I’m always looking over my shoulder. You make me feel safe. Please? If not for anything else, for old times’ sake, then?”

  Jack hated to hear her beg, but it was “old times’ sake” that was holding him back. He didn’t want to find her in his bed again.

  She must have read his mind. “Hey, if you’re worried about a replay of the other night, that was just momentary insanity. You made it clear you’re in a relationship, and even if you weren’t—never happen again.” She sighed and looked up at him with big, dark, frightened eyes. “But I need to feel safe again, Jack. I really do.”

  His turn to sigh. “Okay. But just for a while. Until we get this thing straightened out.”

  She hugged him. “Thank-you-thank-you-thank-you!”

  He hoped this wasn’t a mistake.

  And somehow he’d have to find a way to break it to Gia that another woman was moving in with him.

  7

  Weezy turned from Jack’s front room window where she’d been staring down at the street three floors below. He’d assured her they hadn’t been followed from Penn Station but she worried.

  Now she stared at the front room itself—again. Not a good place for a claustrophobe. She couldn’t get over how cluttered it was with . . . stuff. The furniture was fine old golden oak Victorian, but most people would consider everything else junk. A Shmoo clock? A Daddy Warbucks lamp? Membership certificates of organizations led by long defunct and mostly forgotten pulp-fiction heroes?

  But then, even as a kid, Jack had always seemed to be just a little bit off the beat, just a little out of step. Not an Asperger’s sort of thing, more like the title of the Stan Getz song, “Desifinado”: out of tune. Most people never noticed back then. On the surface he’d been a normal, BMX-riding, Atari-playing kid. But Weezy had noticed, because she’d been out of tune too, even more so. That was why they’d been such fast friends. Working at old Mr. Rosen’s junk shop had only exacerbated Jack’s retro tendencies, introducing him to a gallimaufry of artifacts from other eras, ones he’d found more interesting, more simpatico than his own.

  The room was Jack, Jack was the room. Off-kilter, out of step, a fortress of solitude from the goings-on outside. She felt safe here. The quadruple bolt system on his door—top, bottom, and both sides—didn’t hurt, but Jack himself was the main reason. A massive firewall.

  She certainly needed one. Because out there her brother had joined the Septimus Order.

  The phone Jack had given her the other day began to ring. Again. She ignored it.

  Jack picked it up and looked at its screen.

  “Eddie again.”

  “Don’t answer.”

  Jack hit the talk button and thrust it into her hand.

  “He’s probably worried sick. You need to talk to him at least once.”


  Weezy hesitated, then reluctantly put the phone to her ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Weezy, thank God! Where are you? What happened? I came upstairs and you were—”

  “You belong to the Order, Eddie. Why?”

  “What?”

  “Why did you join the Order?”

  “Because they asked me.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I know you think there’s something sinister about them, but they’re just like any fraternal order. No different from the Masons or the Elks.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “Of course I do—”

  “They branded you, Eddie!”

  “Just a ritual. They numbed it up beforehand. And really, Weez, the contacts, the networking I’ve had access to, it’s been great for business.”

  “Good-bye, Eddie. I’m alive and well and that’s all I’m telling you.”

  She cut the call.

  “Eddie, of all people,” she said. “He was always scared of the Lodge. Remember the Lodge?”

  Jack nodded from where he sat and sipped a beer. He’d offered her one but she’d accepted a bottle of seltzer instead.

  “How can I forget. I used to cut its grass.”

  She could picture the two-story stucco cube sitting on the rise on the Old Town side of Quaker Lake. On the surface, Johnson, New Jersey, seemed the last place the Ancient Fraternal Septimus Order would set one of its Lodges. But when you learned how old the town really was, and how closely the Order was associated with the Pine Barrens, it made perfect sense.

  People in town used to refer to the Septimus Order as “the Lodge” back then—still did, most likely—because to them that building by the lake was all they knew of the Order. They’d had no idea how ancient it was and how long its reach.

  “I just can’t imagine Eddie joining.”

  “You don’t join the Order,” Jack said, rising and heading for his tiny kitchen. “The Order joins you. You have to be asked.”

  “Why would they ask Eddie? And why would he join?”

  “Maybe he was flattered,” he called from the kitchen.

  “He said it was good for business, for networking.”