F. Paul Wilson - Ground Zero

Okay, Jack had multiple locks on his door too. Nothing wrong with that.

“What’s with all the window bars?”

“When you think you might go ‘missing,’ it’s only logical to take precautions, right?”

“True that. Nothing to do with the fact that she appears to be the only Caucasian on the block?”

Eddie gave him a sharp look and his tone took on an acid edge. “You should know better than that.”

“That’s just it—I don’t. I don’t know a thing about the adult Weezy.”

“Yeah, I suppose you don’t. But trust me on this: The grown-up Weezy is very much like the Weezy you knew before they started . . . medicating her. She doesn’t notice race—or at least that’s not the way she categorizes people. She has her own unique criteria.”

“As in the parts they play in the Secret History of the World?”

“Bingo.” He turned the key on her last deadbolt and looked at Jack. “Get ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“You’ll see.”

He pushed the door open and an unusual odor wafted from the dark interior. It threw Jack for a second until he recognized it. Old paper—it smelled like an antiquarian bookstore.

Eddie stepped inside and flipped a light switch. Jack followed but froze on the threshold.

“What the—?”

Eddie’s comment about Weezy having a lot of worldly possessions suddenly made sense.

The walls of the front room were lined—as in spackled—with books, but the shoulder-high piles of newspapers dominated the front room. Row upon row of stacks with narrow passages between forming the equivalent of an English hedgerow maze.

“Amazing, isn’t it,” Eddie said, navigating a lane toward the rear.

Jack closed the door and followed.

“Well, it’s not on the scale of the Collyer brothers—”

“Who?”

“Two recluse brothers who were found dead in their Fifth Avenue brown-stone with a hundred tons of junk, much of it old newspapers.”

“No junk here, as you will note.” Eddie sounded a little defensive. “And everything neatly stacked.”

Jack had noticed that. The tabloids were stacked together, as were the full-size papers. They weren’t tied into bundles. He wondered if they were in any special order. He stopped and checked out a few. A 1968 Post lay atop a 1975 Daily News . In the next stack a 1993 Times atop—

“Wow. Check this out—a Journal-American from nineteen sixty-two. Where’d she get these?”

“God only knows.”

“Looks like they’re all New York papers.”

“They might be. I wouldn’t know.”

The maze extended into the next room. Yes, she had a dining set, but the table was piled high with papers and more stacked beneath. The same with each of the four chairs. Her china cabinet was stuffed with books.

“It’s the same upstairs—the extra rooms, the hallway, even her bedroom.”

Jack glanced at the living room ceiling and thought it appeared to belly downward.

“She hasn’t filled the basement, but that’s not to say she couldn’t. It’s damp down there and she’s afraid the moisture will mildew the papers.”

“Well, she could get the walls and floor treated—”

“And let workers in? You must be joking.”

“Sorry. What was I thinking?”

“I’ve begged her not to store anything in the kitchen and apparently she’s listened. The thought of an open flame and all these papers . . .” He gave a visible shudder.

“ ‘Burn my house,’ ” Jack said, looking around at the astounding amount of paper. “As easily done as said.”

“Not that she does any cooking anyway.” Eddie stepped into the kitchen. “She lives on takeout and microwaveables.”

The kitchen looked more like an office—scanner and printer on the counter next to the microwave, computer on the kitchen table. Jack checked out the refrigerator: Lean Cuisine entrées in the freezer on top; milk, cheese, condiments below.

No beer. Damn. Could have used a beer.

He lifted the shade and peeked out the kitchen window into the wildly overgrown backyard. A well-weathered six-foot stockade fence ran along the perimeter.

“Doesn’t she ever cut her grass?”

“Not in back,” Eddie said. “I asked her once and she said she never went out there, so why bother?”

No sign of a bunny hutch—a long shot anyway—so Jack dropped the shade and looked back into the dining room at the piles of papers.

“Why would she want to burn all this? Must have spent half her life collecting it.”

“Only the last three years or so, actually. Started some time after Steve died.”

Jack shook his head. He’d assumed it was a longtime obsession. How had Weezy amassed this collection in only three years?

“Did she ever give you a reason?”

“She refused to say. As I told you, she said I could be in danger if I knew. She was pretty serious about it.”

“Ah. So then it’s a good bet that her perceived threat is linked to the newspapers.”

“That was the impression I got.”

Jack grabbed a copy from the nearest pile and handed it to Eddie.

“Okay, then. We’d better get started. I hope you’re an Evelyn Wood graduate.”

Eddie gave him a baffled look. “Huh?”

“Speed reading. We’ve got to go through every one of these to see why she’s been saving them.”

Bafflement turned to shocked disbelief. “Have you lost your mind?”

Jack held his gaze for a heartbeat or two, then said, “Psych!”

Eddie looked ceilingward and burst out laughing. “Oh, man, does that take me back!”

It took Jack back too. They had put each other on so many times growing up, always ending with Psych!

The laughter died and they looked at each other.

Eddie said, “If someone really was following us, it means they’re looking for this house.” He rolled his eyes. “Listen to me: ‘they.’ That sounds so paranoid.”

Jack hid his annoyance. He understood Eddie’s reluctance to believe and his difficulty letting go of the long-held conviction that his sister was cuckoo, but enough was enough.

“Maybe it’s time to stop second-guessing Weezy—and yourself, for that matter—and go with the possibility that she’s got something here that somebody else wants. That way we can focus on discovering what it is.”

Eddie looked out over the sea of paper with dismay. “But where to begin?”

Jack looked at the computer and remembered something.

“How about that flash drive?”

“Yes!”

He pulled it out of his pocket and seated himself before her computer. He reached toward the power button, then pulled back.

“Hey. It’s already on.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Jack said.

He left his on for days.

“This is Weezy we’re talking about.”

“Yeah. But this house is like Fort Knox.”

Eddie shook his head. “It just doesn’t seem like Weezy. A running computer is a hackable computer.”

Jack spotted a loose cable beside the box. The big jack identified it as a network cable. He grabbed it and held it up.

“Not if she’s cut off from all potential hackers.”

Eddie smiled. “That’s my sis.”

He plugged the flash drive into a USB port. A few mouse clicks revealed the contents: a single text file. Jack leaned over his shoulder as he opened it.

It contained URLs separated by blocks of text. They read in silence for a while, then Jack straightened.

“They don’t make a lot of sense.”

A little like reading the Compendium of Srem , where the author assumed the reader shared a context. But the Compendium had been written millennia ago. These were probably only days old, if that. They were riddled with mentions of the Trade Towers and al Qaeda and conspiracies. They were giving Jack a bad feeling.