F. Paul Wilson - Ground Zero

“I thought you said this had never been done before.”

“Yes, I did say that, but there are writings on the subject. Have no fear: Our friend is being cured.”

As Hank turned away and resumed staring at the Orsa and the man trapped within, he wondered how much of that was bullshit.

“Our friend? Don’t pretend you ever liked him. You made it pretty clear he got on your nerves.”

Drexler stopped at Hank’s side. “That is true, I suppose. But now I harbor only good feelings about him.”

“Yeah? And what do you think Darryl’s feeling?”

“I have no idea. Since he appears unconscious, I would assume he feels nothing.”

Hank continued to stare at Darryl’s still form. He hoped that was the case. He felt somehow responsible for the guy being in there. If he came out cured of AIDS, then good. He could be annoying at times, and had got himself infected in a really stupid way, but he didn’t deserve AIDS.

He recalled a strange remark Drexler had made yesterday while they’d been staring at the dots and lines. He glanced at him.

“Yesterday you mentioned a word I’d never heard before— fin -something—in connection with Darryl. What were you talking about?”

Drexler looked suddenly uncomfortable. “Nothing. Forget I mentioned it.”

That wouldn’t be hard, since he barely remembered it, but Drexler’s discomfort piqued his interest. He had a feeling the man never would have mentioned it if not for a snootful of absinthe.

“No can do. You said it about one of my Kickers, so I need to know what it means.”

“It’s nothing. Just an ancient word for the healing process our friend is going through.”

“Bullshit. You said it was some sort of contingency plan.”

Drexler looked even more uncomfortable. “I said nothing of the sort. I must have said the Order has contingency plans to aid the One, and you misinterpreted.”

He was lying. Hank resisted the urge to take a poke at him, knock him down, dirty up his white suit, maybe work him over with his own fancy cane. Instead he replayed that scene from yesterday . . . they were standing closer to the Orsa, checking out the dots and lines . . . talking about Opus Omega . . . and Drexler had mentioned . . .

“Fhinntmanchca,” Hank said as it came back to him. “That was what you said.”

Drexler looked pale now. “Excuse me. I’ve used up today’s allotment of idle chatter.”

He turned and strode away.

Fhinntmanchca , Hank thought. He needed to find out what that meant, but hadn’t a clue as to where to look. He’d try to Google it, but he didn’t even know how to spell it.

He stared at the Orsa. What did it mean? It had something to do with Darryl. But what?

He had an uncomfortable feeling he’d be finding out soon enough.

5

It called itself the Andaz West Hollywood now, but in the old days it had been the infamous Riot Hyatt.

Jack had programmed the hotel’s address into his rental car’s GPS, but when he pulled into the rear parking lot an hour later, he realized he hadn’t needed it—except for the final hundred yards on Sunset Boulevard, he’d stayed on the same street, La Cienega, all the way from the airport.

The room was nothing much—a view of the traffic on Sunset, the House of Blues across the street, and the towers of downtown rising through the smog in the basin. But the hotel was special. He’d chosen the Riot Hyatt for its place in rock history, figuring as long as he had to make this trip, he might as well make it interesting.

Little Richard used to live here. Timmy O’Brien, one of Julio’s regulars, had told him he’d been out here on a business trip during his heyday in advertising and had seen him getting into a limo in the parking lot. Timmy had had the presence of mind to call out, “Hey, how’s it going, Mister Penniman?” which so pleased Little Richard he rewarded him with a pearly grin, a handshake, a pre-signed photo, and a couple of Seventh Day Adventist brochures. Timmy kept the photo, dumped the brochures.

The Hyatt gained the “riot” from all the rowdy rock bands that used to stay here when they passed through on tour. The Who and the Stones—those impetuous boys—threw TVs out windows. A member of Led Zep supposedly drove a motorcycle along one of the hallways.

Staying here had seemed like a cool idea last night when he’d been looking for a hotel, but now that he was here . . .

Meh.

So what? Big deal. Who cared?

He’d noticed that reaction more and more lately. Vicky and Gia aside, nothing outside the Conflict seemed to excite or interest him much. Maybe because he no longer felt that his life was his own, that he was being manipulated by forces beyond his control.

Wasn’t that the way a paranoid schiz would think?

But he wasn’t crazy, he wasn’t imagining all this. He’d seen and experienced things with no conventional rationale, understandable only as manifestations of the Conflict.

He wasn’t a free, independent individual, he was a backup plan. He’d been in the crosshairs since his conception—yesterday’s revelation of the Lady’s presence in his hometown as Mrs. Clevenger clinched that.

So who cared about the antics of a bunch of drugged-up, self-indulgent cases of arrested development, whose major accomplishment was turning up the volume to eleven?

Jack stared out the window at the art deco façade of the Argyle Hotel across the street. Cool looking place. Should have booked there.

He shook his head. This wasn’t like him. He used to enjoy life, used to put on his own personal film festivals built around a theme or an actor or director. When was the last time he’d done that?

On the subject of films, Kevin had gleaned from e-mails that Goren managed a film revival theater at night and worked at a hardware store during the day. The question was which revival house and which hardware store? The hardware made sense, given his construction background, but the revival house seemed out of left field. Unless he was a closet film buff.

What bothered Jack was that he had any job at all. If he was on the run and in hiding, the last thing he’d want to do was collect a check under his own Social Security number. He’d want another name, and that meant a new identity. Not easily come by in the post–9/11 world, but not impossible. You needed certain contacts, though . . . something a guy who’d spent the first half century of his life in construction was unlikely to have.

Unless he’d found someone who’d pay him off the books. Two someones: a hardware someone and a film revival someone. The film revival route seemed the way to go. Yes, this was L.A., but he figured that even here, hardware stores had to far outnumber film revival houses.

But where to start?

Well, this was a hotel and hotels hired guys to know stuff or be able to look up stuff.

The concierge was a short Hispanic guy who reminded Jack a little of Julio, but only a little. Julio was Puerto Rican, this guy had a lot of Olmec in the family woodpile. His name tag said HECTOR.

Right off the bat Hector knew of three revival theaters in greater L.A., and the computer spat out three more. Jack took the list and checked out the addresses. He had no idea where any of these places were, but his car’s GPS would find them.

But not yet. Goren’s e-mails had mentioned the theater as a night job. The sun was still high, leaving Jack hours to kill. And besides, he had to make a stop before looking for anybody. He showed Hector an address on Hollywood Boulevard.

“That’s in the Hollywood and Highland Center,” he said without having to look it up. “A big mall next to the Chinese.”

“Chinatown?”

His smile was indulgent. “No, sir. Grauman’s Chinese Theater.”