“I’ve seen enough,” Eddie said. “She’s become a Nine/Eleven Truther.” He rubbed his eyes. “This is so sad.”

“Could be worse,” Jack said. “She could be a Holocaust denier or converted to one of those Wasabi Muslims.”

“Wahhabi Muslim.”

“Or one of them too.” He shrugged. “Seriously, though, I’ve got to say I’m a little disappointed. I mean, this is Weezy we’re talking about—the gal who was wise to the Secret History of the World as a teen.”

A sad smile from Eddie. “Remember how she used to talk about that? I wish she still did.”

So did Jack—because crazy as she’d sounded then, she’d been right. But he couldn’t tell Eddie that.

“I would have expected better from her.”

Eddie looked at him. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, most people who pay attention to this stuff—I’m not one of them—seem to think the nine/eleven conspiracy theories are just a new rack for the Kennedy assassination doubters and their fellow travelers to hang their hats. The old-school, grassy-knoll true believers are now in the Nine/Eleven Truther movement, trading in The Warren Report for The Nine-Eleven Commission Report. Weezy always saw beyond that political crap, because when you come down to it, the political crap is trivial.”

“Oh, really? And what’s not trivial?”

Jack wished he could tell him about the Conflict, the cosmic shadow war waged out of sight and influencing everything, and about the approaching all-encompassing darkness, less than a year away. But Eddie already thought Jack a little crazy. Or maybe a lot crazy. Either way, he’d never understand.

“I’m just saying that I’d have figured Weezy to be delving into something more esoteric and elusive. The nine/eleven theories sound just like the December-seventh theories. Sure, there’s lots of circumstantial evidence pointing to FDR and his crew and how they deliberately made Pearl Harbor a sitting duck for the Japs, but after almost three quarters of a century no one’s been able to come up with anything definitive. Same with the Kennedy assassination. Almost half a century and nobody’s found the second shooter.”

“He could have been one of the many strange deaths and suicides connected to the investigation.”

Jack shrugged. “Yeah. Could be. I can see where you could maybe cover up an assassination conspiracy by strictly limiting the number of people in the know, but something as massive as what they say went into bringing down those towers—rigging the demolition charges and such . . . too many people had to be involved. The world has changed. There’s no code of honor and silence anymore. Someone would be talking. Someone would be on Oprah, telling the world and looking for a book deal.”

Eddie sighed. “Yeah, I suppose.” He jerked a thumb at the monitor. “Should we take a peek into her computer? Would that be snooping?”

Jack looked at him. “She’s in a coma, she feared she’d go missing, she wants her house burned, and we were followed after leaving her. What do you think?”

Eddie turned back to the keyboard. “Right. Let’s start with her documents.”

Her e-mail required a password, of course, but so did many of her folders. And the ones that didn’t contained documents that were nothing but gibberish.

“At the risk of being called Master of the Obvious,” Eddie said after repeated failures to find anything readable, “it looks like she’s using an encryption program.”

“Surprise, surprise.”

“That’s our Weezy.” He leaned back. “What now? No way we can sift through all—”

Jack heard a noise from the direction of the front room. He grabbed Eddie’s arm and shushed him. He listened and heard it again.

“Someone’s on the front porch.”

16

Darryl noticed right off how the chatter on the Lodge’s front steps died as soon as he showed up.

As usual a bunch of Kickers were hanging out in front smoking—no smoking inside on order from the Septimus folks, so they gathered out here. Some stared, some didn’t look at him.

Did it show on his face how sick he was? All he’d been able to think about on the subway back downtown was his AIDS and what he was going to do with the little time he had left. After all, he had cancer too.

He couldn’t go back to Dearborn. What for? His ex hadn’t wanted anything to do with him when he was healthy—well, other than his alimony and child support checks, and he’d been skipping those—so she sure as hell wouldn’t want nothing to do with him sick and out of work. Same with his ma. Hadn’t spoken to her in years, and she had a new husband who wouldn’t want him around.

He’d stay here. The Kickers were the only family he had. And it was a good family. They took care of each other. They’d help him out if he was sick, but he couldn’t tell them why he was sick. They wouldn’t understand. They’d think he was queer or a junkie. Didn’t want nobody thinking that.

Why now? That was what he wanted to know. Just when he was getting his act together and settling himself in a new life, why’d it all have to get ruined by this? Wasn’t fair.

He walked inside and found the usual half dozen or so Kickers hanging out. They got quiet too. Really noticeable in the echoey marble foyer. His footsteps sounded like he was walking down a long, empty hallway.

He spotted Ansari, the unofficial head of security for the building, and caught his eye.

“Hey.”

Ansari looked away, then looked back. “Hey.”

“What’s going on? Seems kinda weird around here.”

“You look like crap, man.”

That took Darryl by surprise. He knew he looked ailing, but not like crap.

“I love you too.”

Someone behind him snickered. “I bet you do!”

That got a laugh, and Darryl spun to see who’d spoken.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Word came in you’re sick,” Ansari said.

Darryl felt his blood turning to ice as he looked back at him. “Word? Word from who?”

Ansari shrugged. “Got a call.” He pointed to the phone on the slim foyer table against the wall. “Said you got the virus.”

Darryl reeled. Someone had called? Who? Why? Wasn’t that kind of stuff supposed to be private?

“The virus? What virus?”

“You know. AIDS. How long were you going to live here with us and eat with us and not tell us?” His face reddened. “How many of us have you spread it to, you mother—”

“It’s not true!” He’d begun to say he’d just found out, but that would be admitting it. And he couldn’t admit it. “Whoever he was, he was lying!”

Who’d call? Had to be someone who knew the doctor. And that left Drexler, the bastard. Why would he—?

“Wasn’t a he. Was a her.”

Her? Orlando’s assistant?

“Yeah, well, it’s still not true.”

Ansari stared at him a moment, then said, “I might believe you if you didn’t look so bad.”

“Just been off my feed is all.”

“Yeah. And now we know why.”

Darryl had no answer for that. He looked around and found everybody—including a bunch of guys who’d come in from the front steps—staring at him. He saw no pity, no caring in those eyes, only anger and distrust.

He turned and fled upstairs to his room.