F. Paul Wilson - Ground Zero

He couldn’t allow that to happen, yet had no idea how to stop it.

But Weezy . . . maybe that unique brain of hers could help. Maybe if she added the contents of the Compendium to everything else in her head, she could come up with a solution, or at least point him toward one.

A long, long shot, but not trying was not an option.

7

“Nu?” Abe said as his surprisingly dexterous pudgy fingers examined Jack’s Glock 19 with practiced expertise. “A cleaning it needs, but otherwise looks all right to me.”

“It’s seen dead people.”

“Seen?”

“Okay. It made them dead.”

“All by itself?”

“It had help.”

“From you?”

Jack shrugged. “Yeah.”

“How many dead people has it seen?”

“Five.”

Abe rolled his eyes. “Oy. All at once? Such a thing would be in the papers. It’s not.”

“Two yesterday afternoon at Mount Sinai. Three more in Jackson Heights early this morning.”

Abe’s raised eyebrows caused furrows in his extended forehead. “Five in twelve hours?”

“Oh, and like you’ve never had a cranky day?”

“Cranky like you, I don’t get. No one gets.” He turned his free hand palm up and wiggled his fingers. “Spill. Details.”

Jack gave him a capsule version of Weezy’s troubles.

Abe shook his head. “With old friends like her, who needs enemies?”

“I hear that. But she’s good people.” He pointed to the Glock. “Anyway, that baby there can tie me to five corpses, so I need a replacement.”

“All right. Lock the—”

“Done.” He’d locked the front door on the way in. “Turned the OPEN sign too.”

“Then let’s go.”

He led Jack down to the basement.

“Hey,” Jack said, indicating the dead neon loops over the stairs. When lit they quoted a sign from The Weapon Shops of Isher . “What happened to the sign? It worked Monday.”

“Dead. And considering the times, I’d be meshugge to have it repaired.”

The Right to Buy Weapons Is the Right to Be Free . . . no, that would raise a host of warning flags in these political climes.

In the basement, Abe removed a box from a neatly stocked shelf and produced a new Glock 19. He swapped Jack’s old loaded magazine for the empty new one, and handed it over. Jack racked the slide to chamber a round.

“Nu, I thought you liked—”

“An empty chamber? Yeah, but with the way things are going these past few days, an extra millisecond could be the difference between . . . you know.”

“You want I should set up a test fire?”

“Nah. I’ll be fine. Hell, it’s a Glock.”

He’d owned at least a dozen over the years. Hadn’t failed him yet.

8

Jack strolled east toward Central Park. The plan was to meet Weezy there around one. He’d considered Julio’s but decided against it. Easier to spot a tail if they stayed out in the open. The Compendium rested in the backpack slung over his shoulder. If Weezy wanted, he’d lend it to her for as long as necessary. He couldn’t imagine her turning him down.

He realized he had time for a brew, so he stopped into Julio’s before heading for the park.

To his delight he found Glaeken—no, make that Mr. Veilleur—sitting at his table, a half-empty pint of Guinness before him. He looked eighty-something, maybe ninety, with blue eyes, white hair, wrinkled olive skin stretched over high cheekbones. Slightly stooped, but still a big man.

Jack held up two fingers as he passed the crowded bar—Julio spotted him and nodded. He knew what that meant.

“Mister V,” Jack said, stopping beside him.

“I was hoping you’d stop by,” the old guy said, remaining seated but extending a big, scarred hand. “I came looking for you yesterday, but when I peeked through the window I saw you were with an Oculus, so I moved on.”

Yesterday? he thought as they shook hands. Was that all? So much had happened since then, it seemed like a week.

“Figured that. She sensed you and went rushing out.”

He nodded. “She no doubt saw me, but she wasn’t looking for an old man. She’s had an Alarm, I presume?”

“Yeah. Something about a . . .” He concentrated on the pronunciation, determined to get it right. “. . . a Fhinntmanchca .”

Veilleur frowned. “I haven’t heard that word in thousands of years.”

Julio brought Jack’s Yuengling and pointed to the dwindling Guinness pint. Veilleur shook his head.

As Julio left, Jack took his seat and sipped his lager.

“Diana had no idea what it meant.”

“No reason she should. It’s a legend from the First Age . . . a sort of Unholy Grail sought after by the Adversary’s forces back then.”

“Grail?”

“Figuratively speaking. It was supposedly a superweapon, imbued with the Otherness, that could destroy any living thing it came in contact with.”

“You mean like John Agar in Hand of Death? ”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. What I am talking about is loosing something very destructive upon this world. But I’ve always believed it a myth, the equivalent of searching for the Philosopher’s stone.”

“Then why is it in Diana’s Alarm?”

Veilleur leaned back and took a contemplative quaff of his stout.

“That’s the disturbing part. An Alarm is often open to interpretation, but if she heard the word Fhinntmanchca , then we have to assume that it might not be a myth, that the Adversary has learned how to create such a thing—and perhaps already succeeded.”

“What’s the danger?”

“Tradition says it will start the Change. The word means ‘Maker of the Way.’ It would allow the Otherness in so it can change this plane into a place more hospitable—for its own.”

Jack shook his head. “Then why do people work for it?”

“They think they’ll be rewarded, and kept safe. Perhaps they will be, but I doubt it.”

“What about Ra—the Adversary?”

“He’s different. He’s the One. If the Otherness wins and begins the Change, he’ll adapt to a compatible form. But his fellow travelers may not be so lucky.” He sighed. “This is not good. I’m meeting shortly with the Lady. Perhaps she’ll know something. Do you wish to join us?”

“The Lady? Sure. Haven’t seen her since just after the Staten Island mess.”

For the past couple of years women of all ages and shapes and sizes and nationalities had been stepping in and out of his life. They all knew more about him than they had any right to, and each was unfailingly accompanied by a dog. He’d assumed there were many of them, but Veilleur had told him a while back there was only one. He’d avoided telling Jack who or what she was. Maybe if he could sit down with her she’d tell him.

Veilleur pulled a pen from his pocket and wrote on a napkin.

“Here’s my address. Between Sixty-third and Sixty-fourth. Meet me there at one.”

One? Hell, he had to meet Weezy—

An idea hit like a ten-gauge pumpkin ball.

“Can I bring a friend?”

Veilleur frowned. “I don’t think that would be wise.”

“She’s already aware of the Secret History and she’s got a brain like no one else’s. I think she could be a big help.”

“Why haven’t you mentioned her before?”

“She was a childhood friend I haven’t given a thought to in years, and suddenly she’s popped back into my life.”

“Childhood friend . . .” he said, stroking his beard. “That wouldn’t be Louise Connell, would it?”

Jack stared at him in shock. “How could you . . . ?”

“Yes, I believe Miss Connell will make an interesting addition.” He drained his stout and rose. “Can she be there at one o’clock?”