3

Time on his hands.

Gia had taken Vicky to her weekly art lesson down in the West Village. Too early for Julio’s. Didn’t want to interrupt Weezy’s study of the Compendium. Too soon to hear from Russ. He could go hang with Abe or . . .

The photos of the senior Drexler had parked the Septimus Order in Jack’s mind and it wouldn’t budge. Maybe he could get it to move on if he wandered down to the Lodge and checked what the Kickers were doing. Their presence at a Septimus Lodge meant intimate involvement with the Order. But why? Why was the Order interested in them? Unless it was thinking of involving the Kickers in Opus Omega to speed its conclusion.

Might be a good idea to put in an appearance anyway. He tried to show his face once or twice a week. Hadn’t been there since Monday, so maybe he was due.

So he donned his down-market Kicker clothes, put on the sunglasses and the Mets cap, then hopped a C train downtown. After a couple of switches he emerged from underground and strolled the rest of the way to the Lodge, weaving through the Saturday shoppers like a man with nothing better to do.

When he reached the Lodge he hung around outside, making his cigarettes available. Kewan sidled up and took one. Borrowed Jack’s lighter too.

“So when do we kick some more Dormentalist butt?” he asked as Kewan lit up.

His dark, pocked cheeks puffed as he blew smoke. “Johnny, ain’t you heard? We supposed to leave ’em be.”

“What?” This was news.

“Yeah. Word come down Monday after we got back. We all best friends now. How come you don’t know that? Where you been?”

“Oh, I, um, got a little job doing landscaping in Queens.”

He’d done that when he’d first come to the city so figured it was as good a cover as anything.

“He pay cash?”

Jack nodded. “Every day before we split.”

“Can he use another body?”

Jack shook his head. “Don’t know, but I’ll ask.”

“You do that. ’Cause I’m tired of being busted all the time. And I’m gettin tired of hangin out here.”

“I hear you, man. I—whoa, check this.” A black Bentley was pulling up to the curb. “What do we have here?”

“That Lodge guy again.”

“Lodge guy?”

“One of the peeps that own the place.”

“Oh, someone from the Septimus Order.”

“Yeah, them. I seen him before. Used to stop in every few weeks or so, but he’s been in every day this week.”

“Really.”

“Yeah, but you wouldn’t know that, seein as how you been out makin money an all.”

A guy from the Order making frequent visits. Had to be Hank Thompson—who else would he care to see? Jack could understand sporadic visits just to make sure the Lodge was being well treated. But every day?

Add that to the sudden cessation of hostilities against the Dormentalists and something was up.

Jack turned back to the Bentley in time to see a door open and a man in a white suit glide from the rear. He carried a black cane that Jack knew was wrapped in rhinoceros hide.

“Holy . . .”

“What? Whassup?”

For a single, frozen heartbeat he was fourteen again. He knew this man . . . Mr. Drexler.

No, make that Ernst Drexler II.

He hadn’t changed much. He looked older—wrinkles at the corners of the eyes, maybe a touch of gray around the temples—but the rest of his hair was still black and slicked back, his blue eyes just as piercing as in 1983.

Afraid he’d be recognized, Jack felt an urge to turn away, but fought it. That would only draw attention. And besides—no way Drexler could recognize him. More than a quarter century had passed. Jack wasn’t a kid anymore, and had a beard. But Drexler . . . still wearing that damn white suit and carrying that same cane.

So Jack watched him stride across the sidewalk and ascend the stone steps without a nod or even a sideways glance to acknowledge that anyone else was about.

Same old Drexler. He remembered some of the elitist crap he’d poured into his ear when he was a kid, little knowing it was running out the other side.

First Eddie, then Weezy, now Ernst Drexler. Jack’s past was taking over his present.

Drexler was a honcho in the Order, and the Order was pulling strings in the Dormentalist Church, and the Dormentalists were heavy into Opus Omega. Could Drexler’s presence have anything to do with—?

“Shit!”

Goren’s words flashed back to him.

I can see someone standing in the background . . . as far back as anyone could be and still be visible . . . wasn’t dressed like the others . . . in a much lighter color . . . seemed to be in white.

“Wussup, John Boy? You look like you just seen a ghost.”

“What? Oh, just some stomach cramps. I gotta go inside.”

Kewan grinned. “Oh, yeah. Don’t wanna be messin your Depends.”

Jack hurried up the steps and inside. As always, he was struck by the huge version of the Order’s sigil embossed on the rear wall of the high-ceilinged foyer.

He arrived in time to see Drexler approach the sigil, then hang a right into the hallway. He followed a ways and saw him step into the third doorway down on the right. Jack entered the hall and passed just as Drexler closed the door behind him. He kept going and was about to enter the bathroom when a Kicker stepped out.

His name was Ansari and he acted as security of sorts. Jack had seen him a few times. He’d started out a regular guy but lately he’d developed a strutting, aggressive mien.

“Where you going?” he said, voice thick with challenge as he blocked the doorway.

“Where you just came from.”

“This ain’t public.”

“Well, I ain’t public,” Jack said with plenty of ’tude as he flashed his faux Kicker tattoo.

Ansari stepped aside.

Jack went into a stall and leaned against the door, wondering what to do. He’d had no plan other than showing his face to keep it familiar and finding out what the Kicker hoi polloi were up to. Sure as hell hadn’t expected to see Ernst Drexler here.

After a few minutes he flushed the toilet and was pushing on the door to the hallway when he heard voices. He eased the door open half an inch for a peek and saw Hank Thompson standing outside Drexler’s door.

“He’s moved,” Thompson said. His voice sounded strange . . . strained.

“How far?”

Jack assumed the accented voice was Drexler’s. A long, long time since he’d heard it, and the accent was lighter, but it had to be him.

“Past the halfway mark. And he’s changed some more. Lots more.”

“Interesting. Let’s go.”

A few seconds later, Drexler, cane in hand, stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him. The pair walked off.

Well, that was an enlightening conversation. Who were they talking about?

As they walked away, Jack slipped from the bathroom and followed. They crossed the rear of the foyer and headed down a stairway that Jack knew led to the basement.

He did a quick scan as he entered the foyer. Ansari was talking to someone, looking the other way, so Jack scooted past behind him and took the steps down. The doorway at the bottom was closed. He hesitated, baffled as to what he might find on the other side.

Past the halfway mark . . .

So? Some guy halfway through a PowerPoint presentation? A brunch with the eggs Benedict half gone?

Yeah right.

He pressed his ear against the door and heard nothing. He decided to risk an entry by pretending to be looking for someone. Not Thompson. Someone just a little bit down the food chain.

Knocking as he turned the knob, he said, “Darryl?”

The room was empty except for a couple of folding tables and maybe a dozen chairs. He looked around and spotted another door. When he reached it he listened. More silence. He shrugged and decided to try the same approach as before.

“Dar—?”

The knob wouldn’t turn. Locked. Jack checked the jamb and saw a quarter inch of exposed latch bolt. He fished out the notched credit card he kept in his wallet and stared at it a moment, thinking risky thoughts. One thing to barge into a room pretending to be clueless. Quite another to pop the latch beforehand.

He decided to knock first.

“Hey, anybody in there?”

After two tries and no answer, he worked the corner of the card into the space. He hooked it into the receptacle in the striker plate and twisted, pushing back the spring latch. The door popped open.

“Darryl?” he said as he palmed the card and stepped inside.

A smaller room, and empty as expected. But a closet door stood open, and in the floor of that closet, an open trapdoor.

Jack peeked over the edge and saw a circular stairway leading down. He listened and thought he heard voices but they were too faint to understand.

The idea of sneaking down rose but he tossed it. The wrought iron on the circular stair left nowhere to hide. Better to get out of here unseen while he could.

Locking the door behind him, he returned to the main basement room and was almost to the exit when Ansari appeared.

“You again. What’re you doin down here?”

“Looking for Darryl.”

He sneered. “Darryl ain’t here. He’s gone.”

“When’s he due back?”

“He ain’t, leastways not if any of us got something to say about it.”

Here was something unexpected.

“Hey, I ain’t been around since that Dormie thing on Monday”—nice to be able to mention that—“so I got no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You ain’t heard? For a minute there I thought you might be one of his butt buddies.”

“What the—?”

“Guy’s queer. Got the virus—AIDS. He’s outta here. The boss gave him the boot Wednesday. Ain’t seen him since.” His eyes narrowed. “What you want with him?”

“Just checking in.”

Ansari shoved Jack. He probably thought it was a surprise move, but Jack had seen him tense for it. He let it happen and bounced off the wall behind him.

“You are one of his butt buddies, ain’t you!”

So what if I am? Jack felt like saying, but held back. He also held back from putting Ansari face-first on the floor—despite his presenting about half a dozen openings—because he didn’t want an enemy in this place. Well, not another in addition to Thompson, who’d probably try to kill him if he recognized him.

“Hey-hey!” he said, raising open-palm hands and backing away with a cowed expression. “Dude, I just seen him around a lot, is all. Everyone knows Darryl.”

“Yeah, well, not any more they don’t. Better forget about him. Now get your ass upstairs where it belongs.”

“You got it,” Jack said and ducked out the door. “You got it.”

He hurried up the steps to the foyer, no doubt leaving Ansari feeling pretty tough. Good. If Jack had to go up against him in the future, the guy would be overconfident. Nobody fell harder and faster than an overconfident bully.

The news about Darryl answered a few questions, especially why he’d been looking under the weather lately. Poor guy. Not a bad sort for a Kicker, and Jack had got the impression he was smarter than he looked. He’d wondered what he was doing at Mount Sinai Tuesday. Now he knew.

But bigger questions had replaced it.

Most immediately: What was Ernst Drexler doing here every day this week? The answer lay at the bottom of those winding steps. Some sort of lower level down there. Good bet it wasn’t a wine cellar.

But more important: Was Drexler the man Goren had seen at Ground Zero? If so, it left little doubt that the Order had had something to do with the 9/11 attacks.

Jack balled his fists as he walked past the Order’s sigil. His teenage impression of Drexler had been that he was strange and potentially dangerous. He’d never imagined him a monster.