Ground Zero

“That was just the tip of the iceberg.”

“It gets worse?”

“Much. Someday I’ll tell you about it. The creep feeds on human death, pain, fear, misery, degradation. He had a feast with me.”

“I wonder if he was here for nine/eleven?” she said. “He would have had a smorgasbord of fear, panic, grief, and misery. You could literally feel the panic in the air.”

“Tell me about it. I live about four miles uptown from the Trade Center and—” A startling idea flashed to life. “Do you think he could have been behind the attacks?”

“You mean, could R be bin Aswad? I’ve never seen him. Does he resemble the man in the photos?”

“Hard to say, what with the graininess and the beard. But Sheikh did say he wanted maximum death and terror, which would be right in line with R’s tastes.”

“But that’s what every terrorist wants. That’s why they’re called terrorists. And although I can’t tell you exactly why, my gut tells me there was more than just a gourmet feast for R behind those attacks. But I still don’t understand why, when R had you at his mercy, he didn’t eliminate you.”

“I doubt he’d admit it, but I think he’s afraid to harm me.”

“Why? You have some hidden powers you haven’t told me about?”

He barked a laugh. “I wish!”

Traffic was light. They’d zoomed along the Gowanus and were now segueing onto the Belt Parkway. The monstrous, looming towers of the Verrazano Bridge ruled the landscape ahead.

“No,” he said. “He’s afraid of Veilleur.”

“An old man?”

“Except R doesn’t know he’s an old man. He thinks he’s still young and powerful and immortal, like himself. Back in the fifteenth century, Veilleur—R knows him by another name—tricked him and imprisoned him for centuries. I think he’s wary of another trap. Since his reincarnation he’s seen no sign of Veilleur, but he knows he’s out there. Probably thinks he’s waiting for a misstep, then he’ll pounce. So he’s keeping a low profile. Killing me would tip his hand . . . or maybe he thinks I’m out here as bait. Whatever, he seems to be leaving me alone.”

Weezy sat silent a moment, then said, “I don’t know how many years Mister Veilleur has left, but it can’t be too many. I mean, he’s old, Jack. What happens when he dies? Will R know?”

Jack found the prospect unsettling. That was the day he’d assume the Defender role.

“He might, he might not. Remember, he has no inkling that the Ally released Veilleur. In R’s mind, Veilleur is immortal. So, if he stops sensing his presence, he has more reason to suspect that he’s found a better way to conceal himself than that he’s up and died.”

“But what if he does sense his death? What happens then?”

“Then all hell breaks loose, because I’ll be the point man and I haven’t the faintest idea of how to stop him.” He looked her in the eye. “You’d better get to reading, sister, and put that subconscious of yours into high gear. Find us something.”

14

“What the—?”

Hank ripped free of Drexler’s restraining grip on his arm and rushed over to the end of the Orsa. Darryl’s protruding lower legs had stopped kicking. He grabbed the ankles and pulled, but couldn’t budge him.

He turned to Drexler who was ambling his way as if nothing had happened. “What . . . what . . . ?”

“Be calm, Mister Thompson. Be calm.”

“But it’s . . . it’s eating him!”

He arched his brows. “Appearances can be deceiving.”

Hank wanted to wipe that arrogant, self-satisfied look off his face. He balled a fist. In fact—

“Do not presume to try to injure me, Mister Thompson. You will mightily regret it.”

Yeah, he probably would. Probably get the Kickers ejected from the Lodge. Hank needed this place. A perfect base of operations. He relaxed the fist.

“That’s one of my men! Get him out!”

“That is beyond my power—quite beyond anyone’s power.”

Hank pushed past him and stared through the Orsa’s translucent flank at the still form trapped within. Not a hint of movement, of breathing, of life. He looked like a swimmer frozen midstroke in a cloudy glacier.

Darryl . . . poor Darryl. Telling him he’d have to pack up and move out had been one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do. Darryl had his faults, but he’d been devoted to the Evolution, and devoted to Hank. Someone Hank could trust. Since his brother Jerry’s death he didn’t have too many people he could trust. Sure as hell not Drexler.

“He’s dead!” Hank said, still staring. “You killed him!”

“Not dead, Mister Thompson. Your friend is still alive but has entered a special state.”

“You promised to cure him.”

“I never said I would cure him.”

Hank turned to him. He wanted to break his bird-beak nose.

“Don’t play word games with me.”

“Very well, I did promise him a cure and I am delivering on that promise.”

Hank pointed at Darryl’s still form. “You call that a cure?”

“He’s not cured yet. It’s a process that takes some time, and has only just begun.”

“He’s fucking dead, Drexler. The thing smothered him.”

“On the contrary, he’s quite alive, just not in any way we’re accustomed to seeing. The Orsa has taken over his bodily functions and put them in a suspended state while it works its—dare I say?—magic upon his diseased tissues.”

“You said all he had to do was sleep with the compound or whatever.”

Drexler pointed his cane at the streaks of brown dust around Darryl and inches beyond his outstretched hand. “He is.”

Hank repressed an urge to strangle him. “Don’t push me.”

Drexler inclined his head. “I apologize if that sounded provocative. While I didn’t entirely lie to him, I did bend the truth.”

“Where’d you bend it—the part about him being cured?”

“No. He will be cured. I simply failed to mention what kind of sleep would be required and where it had to take place. You see, in order for the Orsa to cure him, he must sleep within it.”

Hank couldn’t believe he was standing here listening to this crap—and believing it. No way he would have bought a single word without having seen this . . . thing sitting in front of him. But the Orsa was real. And he’d seen it swallow Darryl.

“There’s a curious aspect to the process: The afflicted one must enter the Orsa willingly.”

Hank found himself nodding. Yeah, if that was true, he could see why a little verbal sleight of hand could be needed.

But a piece was missing . . .

“So, you did this all for Darryl’s good. Considering how you can’t stand him, that’s very white of you.”

He wondered if Drexler got the joke, seeing as that was the only color he ever wore.

Drexler shrugged and gave one of those European it-was-nothing pouts. “One does what one can for his fellow man.”

“Yeah, right. You set him up.”

Hank saw it now: Drexler had recognized the rash and sent Darryl to one of the Order’s docs for confirmation. Once AIDS was confirmed, he made sure everyone in the Lodge knew Darryl had it, which eventually put Hank on the spot about letting him live among the others. Darryl wound up desperate and ready to do anything to keep from being kicked out—even crawling into the butt end of the Orsa.

Fast work.

Well, his business card identified him as an “Actuator” . . . a guy who made things happen, got things done. And he’d got this done. Saw an opportunity and seized it.

Had to admire a guy like that.

Had to watch out for him too.

“How long does this cure take?”

For the first time, Drexler looked unsure. “Not long.”

“ ‘Not long’? What does that mean? An hour? Half a day? A day? What?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? You know everything else, how come you don’t know that?”

Drexler gave him a weak smile. “Because there has never been an Orsa before. There will never be another.”