F. Paul Wilson - Ground Zero

But Eddie had changed during college. He got his act together—physically and academically—and was now successful and financially comfortable.

But was he happy? She wondered about that. He didn’t seem to have anyone in his life. He had this big, three-story townhouse condo all to himself. She didn’t care if he was straight or gay, he should have someone. She remembered her years with Steve as some of the best of her life. Bad enough he’d left her, but the way he’d left her . . .

His smile faded. “I won’t pretend to understand what you’re into, Weez, but I wish to God you’d drop it.”

She looked up at him. “I wish I could. I wish I could simply up and walk away, but I can’t.”

“Your friend Kevin is dead—murdered.”

Weezy watched him step to the nearest window and peer out at the twilight.

Was he worried he’d be next? Had she put him in jeopardy?

“Maybe I should find a hotel—”

He whirled toward her. “No way. You’re safe here and so you’re going to stay here. It’s just that . . .” He looked away, then back at her. “Six men dead since Tuesday, five killed by Jack, you say.” He shook his head. “Even as I’m saying those words, I can’t believe them. Jack . . . of all people . . . you’re sure—?”

“Absolutely.”

“What happened to him? How’d he become a killer?”

Weezy tensed. “Don’t call him that. He didn’t want to. It was them or us, so he did what he had to.”

“But why was he carrying a gun in the first place?”

“I’m glad he was. I have no doubt I’d have ended up like Kevin if he hadn’t been.”

“But we’re talking about Jack , the guy who used to ride his BMX over to our house to play Asteroids , who used to hang out in your room and complain about your music.”

Weezy warmed at the memory of those days. Lost innocence . . .

“Yeah.”

“Which, by the way, was truly awful.”

She put on a shocked face. “Bauhaus and the Cure?”

“Awful. Give me Def Leppard any day.” He waved a hand. “But anyway, this is the guy who picked up cash cutting lawns and working at USED. God knows how he earns his living now. What changed him?”

“I’ll bet it was his mother’s murder.”

Eddie stared at her. “Murder? No one was out to get her. She just happened to be in the wrong place at the worst time.”

No one was out to get her . . .

Weezy wondered.

She hadn’t told Eddie about the meeting at Mr. Veilleur’s, but the revelation of the Lady, and her appearing there as Mrs. Clevenger, made Weezy suspect that Jack’s mother’s presence in the wrong place at the worst time might not have been accidental.

“Still . . . she died horribly.”

Eddie made a face. “And what? He became Batman?”

She had to smile. “I’m picturing Jack in tights and a cape . . .”

Not bad.

“You know what I mean.”

“Batman fights crime. I can’t see Jack into that. In fact, I’m pretty sure some of his best friends are on the wrong side of the law. But Jack’s not the issue now.” She turned and tapped the Compendium . “This is.”

His tone oozed doubt: “Ah, the magic book that anyone can read, no matter what language they speak.”

She’d given him only the vaguest description of the book’s origin without mentioning the First Age. Didn’t want to open that can of worms. She’d told him it might contain information on the 9/11 attacks.

“Yeah. But so far, no good. I’m looking for information on something called ‘Opus Omega.’ It’s—”

“That’s Latin. If your book translates itself into English—and I don’t believe for a moment that it does—why do you expect to find Latin words?”

Good question, one that hadn’t occurred to Weezy. But she’d found “Opus Omega” mentioned in passing in the Compendium a number of times already, so how . . . ?

“Maybe because it’s been in and out—mostly out—of circulation since ancient times, and the scholars who wrote about it most likely used the language of most Western scholars since before the Common Era: Latin. Maybe some of those Latin phrases have become the preferred terms for certain references in the book. So that’s how the book translates them.”

“You really believe that?”

She shrugged. “Works for me.”

He moved up beside her. “Mind if I take a look?”

“Be my guest.”

She rolled her chair back and watched as he flipped through the pages. Abruptly he stopped and stared, slack-jawed.

“Th-that illustration,” he said, pointing. “It’s moving!”

Weezy rose and moved in beside him. Sure enough, a drawing of a globe that looked like the Earth spun in empty space. It had a 3-D look to it. The outlines of the continents confirmed that it was indeed Earth, but its surface was peppered by dots and crisscrossed by lines. It reminded her of an airline flight map.

And then she realized she’d seen that pattern before: on the Lady’s back.

She leaned closer, trying to see where the dots fell and the lines crossed but the globe was spinning too fast. She put her hand on it to try to stop it but felt only a flat page without the slightest sense of movement.

“Look at the header,” Eddie said.

She did. Opus Omega sat above the animation.

But that was the only text. She turned the page and found the reverse side blank. The facing page began in mid-sentence about something unrelated.

Eddie put his hand over hers and turned the page back to the animation.

“How is this possible?” he said in a hushed voice.

“I don’t know, Eddie, but there it is. And it refers to Opus Omega—in Latin. Part of what I’m looking for.”

But a spinning globe was useless. She needed the equivalent of a Mercator projection map. Did they have such a thing in Srem’s time?

Eddie continued to stare at the animation. When he spoke he sounded like a motorboat.

“But-but-but how do they do that?” He looked at her. “It really is magical, isn’t it.”

She nodded.

He said, “But if it’s as old as you say, how could they know the Earth was round? And how could they know—I mean, the continents on that globe are accurate. How can that be?”

“Because it’s very old, Eddie. It’s from a time when we knew, from the time before we lost all that knowledge.”

Eddie was nodding. He was becoming a believer.

9

Jack stood outside the Vintage Theatre on Melrose and hoped this was it. He didn’t know where to turn if it wasn’t.

He’d been to The Silent Movie Theatre on Fairfax and three others around town, finally ending up at the Aero in Santa Monica. None of the theaters could hold a candle to the Egyptian. The Aero had a few deco touches but seemed like a typical neighborhood theater. And like the others, its night manager was young and knew of no gray-haired fellow employee in his sixties.

He did however know of one other theater playing vintage films—a three-hundred-seater on Melrose called—of all things—the Vintage. But he wasn’t sure it was still operating.

Jack had found Melrose and followed it until he spotted the lit-up Vintage marquee in a seedy area of down-market shops and specialty boutiques. At least it was open.

A sign announced GARY COOPER WEEK! and tonight they were offering a double bill of Beau Geste and High Noon.

The closer he got, the more it looked like the sort of place that might not be opposed to paying off the books. Cracks laced the heavily smudged glass of the empty ticket booth. He had to rap on the glass three times before a pierced-up teenage girl with black hair and white makeup appeared and sold him a ticket. She tore it in half and told him he could go in.