F. Paul Wilson - Ground Zero

However . . .

The day might come when he would have need of the child. If the Fhinntmanchca achieved his purpose, the point would be moot. In that case he could foresee no use for her or her offspring, except perhaps as a brief amusement. But should the Fhinntmanchca fail . . .

Better to hold the child in reserve, and make sure it and its reluctant incubator remained in good health. To that end—

The door to the outer room—his office—squeaked as it opened. He rose and waited until he heard one of his desk drawers slide, then stepped into the office. The girl had her hand in the drawer.

“Perhaps I can help you find what you are looking for.”

Her startled reaction was almost comical. She stared in openmouthed shock as she flushed crimson.

“Mister Osala, I . . . I was just . . .”

“Just snooping?”

She took a breath, gathered herself, and faced him with a defiant expression.

“Yes, I suppose I was.”

Well, well, well. Perhaps he’d underestimated her mettle.

“Is that how you repay my hospitality?”

“Hospitality? How about total imprisonment?”

He shook his head. “We will not have this conversation again.”

“Okay, then. How about I’d like to know more about the guy who’s got me locked up in his house?”

“I’ve told you—”

“Yeah, I know what you’ve told me, but how do I know it’s true?”

She was trying his patience now.

“Because I say it is.”

“Really? And what about this other ID in your drawer here? And the way you’ve been changing your looks. Who’s the real you?”

She could never know that. Wouldn’t be capable of understanding if she were told. As for that other identity and his change in appearance . . .

A man he thought he had destroyed was slowly rising from the ashes. His resilience was remarkable. He needed another crushing blow to complete his destruction. He had researched the man’s circumstances and determined the perfect point of attack. He would insert himself into the hated one’s life and obliterate it from within.

Of course, the success of the Fhinntmanchca would render his preparations a waste of time. But making plans to annihilate an enemy was almost as enjoyable as the act itself, so he proceeded anyway.

Just as he would proceed with assuring the safe birth of this Tainted child.

“The real me?” he said. “The real me is looking out for you and your baby. To that end, I have scheduled an appointment for you with an obstetrician later this week. He will examine you and—”

“Obstetrician? What for? I don’t want to deliver it! I want it out!”

“That is not an option right now.”

Her voice rose. “It’s now or never! I’ll be too far along!”

Reached out and brushed his fingertips across her forehead.

“Silence.”

She quieted and stood there, staring at him.

“You vex me as you are,” he told her. “So you will change. You want this child. You will do anything to assure its well-being. And you are happy here. You do not wish for anything beyond these walls. Now, return to your room for a nap.”

She turned and walked from the room.

Perhaps he should have put an influence into her earlier—it would have prevented her little excursion back in May—but he had enjoyed the subtle, savory susurrance of her uncertainty and frustration, floating through the duplex like background music. And he’d been unsure of the effect on the new fetus. But the fetus was more mature now and . . .

And the Fhinntmanchca , the Maker of the Way, was imminent. If the fetus was damaged by the influence, what matter?

Only the Fhinntmanchca mattered.

16

The bright orange, twenty-five-story wireframe mushroom of Coney Island’s iconic Parachute Jump dominated the skyline as they approached Harris’s apartment building.

“How does he rate a senior-citizen apartment? Probably subsidized too.”

“His mother lived there. After she died he took it over. It’s still in her name.”

As they approached the building, Jack noticed two men sitting in a car with a good view of the entrance. Might be waiting for a friend . . . or waiting for Weezy. Were that the case, it meant they knew where Harris lived.

“Do you really need to see Harris again?”

She nodded. “I need that disk with the Sheikh video. I want to listen again and make sure I’ve got an accurate translation.”

He pulled into the curb a hundred yards or so past the entrance.

“Wait here. I’ll go get it.”

“I’d better go with you,” Weezy said, reaching for her door handle. “He might not—”

Jack gripped her arm. “I think someone’s watching the place. Good chance they know what you look like now. Better if I go alone.”

She looked worried. “But they’ve seen you too.”

He didn’t want to remind her that pretty much everyone who’d seen him with her was dead—except that self-styled Good Samaritan from the hospital. And Jack didn’t believe for a nanosecond that Bob Garvey was his real name.

“Let me worry about that.”

She stepped out of the car. “No, I’m coming.”

“Weez—”

“We’re wasting time.” She pulled out her—or rather, Jack’s—cell phone as she began walking toward the building. “I’ll call him and let him know we’re here.”

Jack fell in beside her as she punched the buttons. He didn’t like this, but short of locking her in the trunk . . .

After listening for a bit she thumbed the END button and looked at him.

“No answer. Maybe he’s out.”

This was looking worse and worse.

“Or maybe he can’t answer. Go back to the car and—”

“No.”

The finality in her tone told him arguing was futile. He looked back at his car. The Crown Vic had a roomy trunk . . .

Nah.

He checked under his T-shirt to make sure the Glock was nice and loose in its SOB holster, then adjusted his baseball cap as low as it would go over his forehead.

Outside the glass doors he kept his face turned away from the security camera as she pressed Harris’s bell on the intercom. No answer. By luck, a stooped old lady in a babushka came out. He grabbed the door and held it for her, then they slipped inside.

No one about when they reached the eighth floor so they went straight to Harris’s door. Jack positioned himself beside the doorframe with Weezy behind him—just in case a slug plowed through. The hallway walls were reinforced concrete, so no worry there.

He knocked. Again, no answer.

He tried the knob and froze when it turned.

Not good. Not good at all.

He rotated it back to neutral and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Is your pal the type to leave his door unlocked?”

“No way.” Her hand shot to her mouth. “Ohmygod.”

“Go back downstairs.” When she shook her head, he pointed down the hall. “At least move away.”

She backed up about ten paces.

Three possibilities here:

Harris went out but left his door unlocked . . . low probability—approaching zero.

Harris home but incapacitated or dead, and his attacker gone . . . possible.

Harris home, incapacitated or dead, and his attacker waiting inside to nab or kill Weezy when she walks through the unlocked door . . . also possible.

Best to play to the worst-case scenario.

Keeping far to the side of the doorframe, he turned the knob and pushed.

Instead of gunfire, a ball of flame exploded into the hallway, propelling the shattered remnants of the door ahead of it and knocking Jack to the floor. He quickly rolled to his feet and ducked away, checking to see if anything on him was burning. No, but the hair on his arms was singed.