F. Paul Wilson - Ground Zero

After she finished with the bra she padded over to the wingback chair where she’d left her sundress, a crazy turquoise pattern that did amazing things to her blue eyes. She slipped it over her head and was fully dressed again.

“Well, after being lifted to countless peaks of almost unendurable pleasure that shattered worlds and turned whole universes inside out—”

She laughed. “And turned your prose purple.”

“—and clove the earth beneath you—”

“Clove?”

“Past tense of cleave, right? But anyway, after countless peaks of—”

“I don’t know about countless.”

She stepped closer and slipped into the pair of sandals she’d left by the table.

“You were counting?”

She smiled. “I always count.”

“You do?”

She stood next to him and ran her fingers through his hair. It felt delicious.

“Well, sometimes I lose track.”

He glanced back at the Compendium . “Not like I lose track of these pages.”

“Still shuffling?”

He nodded. “I found something on the Infernals, but before I could dig in . . .” He shrugged.

“I’m glad it wasn’t doing that when we were looking up the Stain.” She caressed his nape, sending tingles down his back. “Still wondering about Tom?”

“Yeah.”

His missing older brother . . . where in the world was he? Jack had a feeling he was gone from this world. Gone for good.

“Me too.” Her fingertips moved to his beard. “I think I’m getting used to this.”

That was good news. She’d hated it at first.

He slipped his hand under her dress and ran his fingers up her silky inner thigh.

“You know . . .”

She stepped away. “It’s late.”

“I could be quick.”

She laughed. “Now there’s an offer.”

“Come on. Or we could just sit and talk. We didn’t get much chance earlier with you in Siestaville.”

Jack still hadn’t told her the truth about the hit and run—that it had been no accident. Maybe tonight . . .

“Wish I could, but I’m trying out Courtney Love as a babysitter and I’m not sure how she’ll work out.”

“Yeah, well, she can’t turn out worse than that Iggy Pop guy.”

“Seriously, I’ve left Vicky with this girl after school a few times and they get along beautifully. This is her first night gig and I don’t want to get on her mother’s bad side by getting her home late.”

He slapped his thighs and rose. “I know when I’m beaten.”

Some other time for the truth.

Yeah, right.

Coward.

7

After finding her a cab on Columbus Avenue, Jack returned and seated himself before his computer instead of the Compendium . He accessed the Web mail from his site. After sifting through the Cialis and penis-enlarger offers, he found an e-mail that had come through the site’s Contact function.

The subject line read: my sister is missing.

A missing person. Swell. The last missing person he’d looked for had been Timmy O’Brien’s teenage niece and that had led him into the worst days of his life.

No thanks.

But he opened it anyway. Just for a look.

Dear Jack —

I left you voice mail, now I’m trying this. My sister disappeared today. She left a note saying not to call the police but to get in touch with you instead. She said “Our Jack can find me.” I have no idea what she means by that but I’m honoring her wish. Please contact me ASAP .

EPC

He’d left a phone number at the bottom of the message.

Jack reread it with a growing sense of déjà vu. The words sounded chillingly familiar. And then he remembered . . .

About a year and a half ago a guy named Lewis Ehler had contacted him about his missing wife. Melanie had told her hubby not to call the cops but to call Jack and only Jack because he was the only one who would “understand.”

That hadn’t ended too well either. In fact, that had started the souring of almost everything in his life.

He checked the date on the message: less than an hour ago. That meant this guy’s sister had been gone less than twenty-four hours. Too soon to call the cops anyway.

Our Jack can find me . . .

He had no idea what that meant either, and didn’t particularly want to find out. Question was: Should he contact the guy and blow him off, or simply ignore him?

His instincts urged the latter course, but the “our Jack” thing would follow him around until he found out a little more.

He logged off and checked his voice mail. He had three accounts and found the guy’s message on the second, saying basically the same thing.

Oh, hell. Nothing better to do . . .

He dialed the number. Voice mail picked up on the fourth.

Swell. Voice-mail tag.

“This is Jack. You left me a message. Now I’m leaving you one: Be on the southwest corner of Columbus Avenue and Eightieth Street at noon tomorrow and we’ll maybe talk about your sister.”

Julio’s wasn’t right for this meet, especially since he wasn’t guaranteeing he’d talk to the guy. If he didn’t like his looks—assuming he could pick him out of the other pedestrians—he’d leave him waiting there.

The guy could go to the cops or find his sister on his own.

TUESDAY

1

“Enough, already,” Abe said. “My ears. Oy.”

“One more.”

Jack loaded another steel ball into the pocket of his slingshot, stretched it back to his chin, aimed, and let fly. The shot smashed into the piece of half-inch plywood twenty feet away with a shower of splinters and a bang that echoed through the cellar like gunfire.

Jack walked up to the board and inspected his marksmanship. He’d placed ten of a dozen balls within the six-inch target circle. The first few had lodged in the wood until struck and punched through by subsequent shots. Much of the wood originally within the crudely drawn circle lay in pieces on the floor.

Jack nodded. His aim was improving all the time. “SBD.”

Abe, dressed in his uniform of half-sleeve white shirt and black pants, came up behind him.

“And that means?”

“Silent But Deadly.”

“I prefer a suppresser on a twenty-two.”

Jack shrugged. “That’s because a slingshot requires physical effort.”

The slingshot appealed to Jack—not simply because it was so retro, it was practical too. He saw it as a long-range sap. He could put someone down from a couple of dozen feet away. Plus it had great potential as a harassment tool.

He collected the shot from the floor and replaced them in their leather pouch. He’d found a ball-bearing company that made big bearings and talked them into selling him some one-inch steel balls.

He said, “After I sweep this up, I’ve got a gift for you upstairs.”

Abe rubbed his pudgy hands together. “Edible?”

“Yep.”

“Sweep shmeep. I’ll take care of it later.”

Jack hid a smile as he folded the sling’s wrist brace. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure already. Let’s go.”

He followed Abe’s rotund, bustling form past neatly stacked rows of every weapon imaginable and up the narrow staircase to the ground floor of the Isher Sports Shop. Once in the store proper Abe ensconced himself in his usual spot, perching atop the high, four-legged stool behind the scarred rear counter.

Jack produced a Krispy Kreme bag he’d hidden on the way in and placed it before Abe.

“Voilà.”

Abe pulled a chocolate donut from the bag and inspected it like a paleontologist with a newfound raptor tooth. Parabellum, his baby-blue parakeet, fluttered down from the ceiling to perch on his shoulder. He cocked his head back and forth, eyeing the donut with naked hunger.