F. Paul Wilson - Ground Zero

“Surprisingly, it was a woman.”

“What is her name?”

“We, um, don’t know yet. But she won’t be bothering us anymore. That I can guarantee.”

“Nothing is guaranteed.”

“Yes, sir.”

In apparent deep thought, the One wandered the office. Ernst observed him as he waited for him to speak. His appearance had undergone subtle changes lately. His frame seemed smaller, his skin tones just a shade darker, his features softer, the brown of his hair deeper. All incremental, nothing dramatic, but right now he could pass for Hispanic. Ernst wondered why. Some reason beyond vanity. The One was anything but vain.

Although he did seem to enjoy good suits. He wore dark blue silk today, with a white shirt and a maroon tie. He tended to look like a businessman.

Ernst preferred the opposite. As a young man he had begun wearing white, three-piece suits, no matter what the season, and had continued the practice into his sixties. He did not feel his age, knew he did not look it, and was glad of that. He confessed to a modicum of vanity.

Finally the One turned to him.

“The Orsa is awake.”

The news startled Ernst.

“It is? I had no idea. I was going to check on it later when—”

“I sensed it awaken a few hours ago. We must waste no time. The Fhinntmanchca process must begin as soon as possible.”

“Yes, of course. This is wonderful.”

“It won’t be truly ‘wonderful’ until the Fhinntmanchca successfully completes its task.”

“Of course. The Order—”

“I am not leaving it up to the Order. The High Council consists of seven egos who will have to agree on how to proceed. I want no delay. The Septimus Order deserves untold credit for its efforts so far.” He jabbed a finger at Ernst. “But I am putting you in charge. You personally, Ernst Drexler.”

“I exist to serve.”

As Ernst bowed his head, he fought to keep his knees from buckling. He had assumed that, as actuator for the High Council, he would do most of the work, but would share responsibility with the council. But now the One was laying responsibility for the successful creation of the Fhinntmanchca —something that had never been done before—entirely on his shoulders. Should he fail . . .

He did not want to think about that.

He hesitated, then cleared his throat. “Existing lore is vague on the precise purpose of the Fhinntmanchca . If I may be so bold to ask—”

“You may. Should you succeed in your task, you shall have your answer. Should you fail, it will not matter to you.”

Ernst swallowed. He did not like the sound of that.

The One stepped to the window and looked out. “One of these Taints should provide suitable raw material.”

Ernst moved to his side and saw the usual group of Kickers clustered outside the Lodge’s front entrance.

Taints . . . the archaic term for people like the Kickers. And they should indeed provide ample raw material. After all, the Ancient Fraternal Septimus Order had loaned Hank Thompson and his followers the use of this Lower East Side Lodge. He was surrounded by Kickers.

The question was: Which one fit the requirements?

He looked around.

The One was gone.

5

His sister didn’t answer his knocks, so he tried his keys. He heard the latch snap back as he twisted it in the last of the three locks on her door, but he didn’t push it open right away. He was afraid of what he might find.

She called every day at six P.M. sharp. But not today. He didn’t always answer the six P.M. call. She didn’t expect him to. All he had to do was recognize her number on the caller ID and he’d know she was okay. Any other call he’d answer, but the sixer was just her way of checking in.

No call today.

His older sister—older by less than two years—was a loony bird but a punctual one. Her looniness had a compulsive component. She wouldn’t skip the call. Something was wrong.

Earlier he’d been overcome by an uneasy feeling. He hadn’t had a clue as to why, but he’d felt as if something awful were about to happen. Then he’d glanced at his watch and seen that it read 6:07.

She was late. And she was never late.

So he’d called her home and heard only her voice-mail message. He’d called her cell and heard the same.

Something was most definitely wrong.

So here he was, outside her door, fearing what he’d find on the other side. Not violence. The door showed no sign of damage or tampering. Not that he expected to find any—ever. His sister’s fears that someone might come after her for what she knew were as unfounded as her wild conspiracy theories.

His concern was more for her health. She didn’t take care of herself.

Strange how time had changed them. As kids she’d been the slim, picky eater and he’d wolf down anything that didn’t wolf him down first. Now he carefully watched what he ate while she lived on takeout.

She wasn’t forty yet, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have a heart attack. Or a ruptured aneurysm. She could be lying on the floor in a coma. Or worse.

Taking a breath, he turned the knob and pushed against the door.

It opened.

He didn’t know if that was a good sign or not. She had a steel bar she kept across it when she was home. No bar meant she might not be in.

He entered, calling her name.

No answer.

He wove among the piles of junk—what she called “research”—and walked through every room, searching. He hadn’t been here in a long time. The place hadn’t changed much except that the junk piles had grown.

Nothing. An empty house.

Where could she be? She’d been off her meds for years. Was she finally off the deep end and wandering the city in some sort of fugue state? The possibility terrified him. Anything could happen to her.

He headed back to the door but stopped short when he saw the paper taped to the inner surface. He’d missed it on his way in.

If I’m missing

Don’t call the police

They can’t help

Get in touch with Jack

Please honor me on this

Our Jack can find me

Then she’d written a phone number and the URL of a Web site called repairmanjack.com.

Jack? Our Jack?

Who the hell was she talking about?

6

If the damn book weren’t so valuable, Jack would have tossed it out the window months ago. But the Compendium of Srem was one of a kind and priceless.

And frustrating. Because all its pages were out of order. He’d been searching for references to the Lilitongue of Gefreda and had come across another of the so-called “Infernals”—an odd-shaped contraption called “the Cleaner.” He reached for a bookmark but by the time he turned back, the page had changed.

He slammed the cover shut and shoved it across the round top of the oak table, then rose and stalked around his apartment. Not much stalking room with all the old furniture, so he sat back down and opened the book again.

“I can’t believe I fell asleep.”

He turned to take in the slim blonde standing in the doorway to the bedroom. She wore beige panties and was fastening her bra behind her. He loved her sleek thighs and the swell of her hips.

He added a swagger to his tone. “Well, Miss Gia, I guess I must’ve worn you out.”

“I guess you did. But still . . .”

Sex had been especially hot tonight, and Gia had dozed off afterward, something she rarely did. She was almost back to normal after the hit and run. Her fine motor skills had returned and she was doing commercial art—mostly book covers—full-time and eking out some time for her own paintings. She’d even let Jack see some of her new stuff.