The Complete Adversary Cycle: The Keep, the Tomb, the Touch, Reborn, Reprisal, Nightworld (Adversary Cycle/Repairman Jack)

by F. Paul Wilson

  The boy lifted his gaze from Hunter and saw Westphalen. With a high-pitched cry, he raised his sword and charged forward. Westphalen had no time to reach for his pistol, no choice but to defend himself with the oil-soaked sabre he still clutched in his hand.

  There was no cunning, no strategy, no skill to the boy’s swordplay, only a ceaseless, driving barrage of slashing strokes, high and low, powered by blind, mindless rage. Westphalen gave way, as much from the ferocity of the attack as from the maniacal look on the boy’s tear-streaked face: His eyes were twin slits of fury; spittle flecked his lips and dribbled onto his chin as he grunted with each thrust of his blade. Westphalen saw Malleson standing off to the side with his rifle raised.

  “For God’s sake, shoot him!”

  “Waiting for a clear shot!”

  Westphalen backpedaled faster, increasing the distance between himself and the boy. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Malleson fired.

  And missed!

  But the boom of the rifle shot startled the boy. He dropped his guard and looked around. Westphalen struck then, a fierce, downward cut aimed at the neck. The boy saw it coming and tried to dodge, but too late. Westphalen felt the blade slice through flesh and bone, saw the boy go down in a spray of crimson. That was enough. He jerked his sabre free and turned away in the same motion. He felt sick. He found he much preferred to let others do the actual killing.

  Malleson had dropped his rifle and was scooping handfuls of gems into his pockets. He looked up at his commanding officer. “It’s all right, isn’t it, sir?” He gestured toward the priest and his wife. “I mean, they won’t be needing ’em.”

  Westphalen knew he’d have to be very careful now. He and Malleson were the only survivors, accomplices in what would surely be described as mass murder should the facts ever come to light. If neither of them spoke a word of what had happened here today, if they were both extremely careful as to how they turned the jewels into cash over the next few years, if neither got drunk enough for guilt or boastfulness to cause the story to spill out, they could both live out their lives as rich, free men. Westphalen was quite sure he could trust himself; he was equally sure that trusting Malleson would be a catastrophic mistake.

  He put on what he hoped was a sly grin. “Don’t waste your time with pockets,” he told the soldier. “Get a couple of saddlebags.”

  Malleson laughed and jumped up. “Right, sir!”

  He ran out the entry arch. Westphalen waited uneasily. He was alone in the temple—at least he prayed he was. He hoped all those things, those monsters were dead. They had to be. Nothing could have survived that conflagration in the pit. He glanced over to the dead bodies of the priest and priestess, remembering her curse. Empty words of a crazed heathen woman. Nothing more. But those things in the pit…

  Malleson finally returned with two sets of saddlebags. Westphalen helped him fill the four large pouches, then each stood up with a pair slung over a shoulder.

  “Looks like we’re rich, sir,” Malleson said with a smile that faded when he saw the pistol Westphalen was pointing at his middle.

  Westphalen didn’t let him begin to plead. It would only delay matters without changing the outcome. He simply couldn’t let the future of his name and his line depend on the discretion of a commoner who would doubtless get himself sotted at the first opportunity upon his return to Bharangpur. He aimed at where he assumed Malleson’s heart would be, and fired. The soldier reeled back with outflung arms and fell flat on his back. He gasped once or twice as a red flower blossomed on the fabric of his tunic, then lay still.

  Holstering his pistol, Westphalen went over and gingerly removed the saddlebags from Malleson’s shoulder, then looked around him. All remained still. Foul, oily smoke still poured from the pit; a shaft of sunlight breaking through a vent in the vaulted ceiling pierced the spreading cloud. The remaining lamps flickered on their pedestals. He went to the two nearest oil urns, sliced open their tops, and kicked them over. Their contents spread over the floor and washed up against the nearest wall. He then took one of the remaining lamps and threw it into the center of the puddle. Flame spread quickly to the wall where the wood began to catch.

  He was turning to leave when a movement over by the dais caught his eye, frightening him and causing him to drop one of the saddlebags as he clawed for his pistol again.

  It was the boy. He had somehow managed to crawl up the dais to where the priest lay. He was reaching for the necklace around the man’s throat. As Westphalen watched, the fingers of the right hand closed around the two yellow stones. Then he lay still. The whole of the boy’s upper back was soaked a deep crimson. He had left a trail of red from where he had fallen to where he now lay. Westphalen returned his pistol to his holster and picked up the fallen saddlebag. There was no one and nothing left in the temple to do him any harm. He remembered that the woman had mentioned “children,” but he could not see any remaining children as a threat, especially with the way the fire was eating up the ebony. Soon the temple would be a smoldering memory.

  He strode from the smoke-filled interior into the morning sunlight, already planning where he would bury the saddlebags and plotting the story he would tell of how they had become lost in the hills and were ambushed by a superior force of Sepoy rebels. And how he alone escaped.

  After that, he would have to find a way to maneuver himself into a trip back to England as soon as possible. Once home, it would not be too long before he would just happen to find a large cache of uncut gems behind some stonework in the basement level of Westphalen Hall.

  Already he was blotting the memory of the events of the morning from his mind. It would do no good to dwell on them. Better to let the curse, the demons, and the dead float away with the black smoke rising from the burning temple that was now a pyre and a tomb for that nameless sect. He had done what he had to do and that was that. He felt good as he rode away from the temple. He did not look back. Not once.

  chapter seven

  manhattan

  sunday, august 5, 198-

  1

  Tennis!

  Jack rolled out of bed with a groan. He’d almost forgotten. He had been lying there dreaming of a big brunch at the Perkins Pancakes down on Seventh Avenue when he remembered the father-son tennis match he’d promised to play in today.

  And he had no racquet. He’d lent it to someone in April and couldn’t remember who. Only one thing to do: Call Abe and tell him it was an emergency.

  Abe said he would meet him at the store right away. Jack showered, shaved, pulled on white tennis shorts, a dark blue jersey, sneakers, and socks, and hurried down to the street. The morning sky had lost the humid haze it had carried for most of the week. Looked like it was going to be a nice day.

  As he neared the Isher Sports Shop he saw Abe waddling up from the other direction. Abe looked him up and down as they met before the folding iron grille that protected the store during off-hours.

  “You’re going to tell me you want a can of tennis balls, are you?”

  Jack shook his head and said, “Naw. I wouldn’t get you up early on a Sunday morning for tennis balls.”

  “Glad to hear it.” He unlocked the grille and pushed it back far enough to expose the door. “Did you see the business section of the Times this morning? All that talk about the economy picking up? Don’t believe it. We’re on the Titanic and the iceberg’s straight ahead.”

  “It’s too nice a day for an economic holocaust, Abe.”

  “All right,” he said, unlocking the door and pushing it open. “Go ahead, close your eyes to it. But it’s coming and the weather has nothing to do with it.”

  After disarming the alarm system, Abe headed for the back of the store. Jack didn’t follow. He went directly to the tennis racquets and stood before a display of the oversized Prince models. After a moment’s consideration, he rejected them. Jack figured he’d need all the help he could get today, but he still had his pride. He’d play with a normal size racquet. He picked
out a Wilson Triumph—the one with little weights on each side of the head that were supposed to enlarge the sweet spot. The grip felt good in his hand, and it was already strung.

  He was about to call out that he’d take this one when he noticed Abe glaring at him from the end of the aisle.

  “For this you took me away from my breakfast? A tennis racquet?”

  “And balls, too. I’ll need some balls.”

  “Balls you’ve got! Too much balls to do such a thing to me! You said it was an emergency!”

  Jack had been expecting this reaction. Sunday was the only morning Abe allowed himself the forbidden foods: lox and bagels. The first was verboten because of his blood pressure, the second because of his weight.

  “It is an emergency. I’m supposed to be playing with my father in a couple of hours.”

  Abe’s eyebrows rose and wrinkled his forehead all the way up to where his hairline had once been.

  “Your father? First Gia, now your father. What is this— National Masochism Week?”

  “I like my dad.”

  “Then why are you in such a black mood every time you return from one of these jaunts into Jersey?”

  “Because he’s a good guy who happens to be a pain in the ass.”

  They both knew that wasn’t the whole story but by tacit agreement neither said any more. Jack paid for the racquet and a couple of cans of Penn balls. “I’ll bring you back some tomatoes,” he said as the grille was locked across the storefront again.

  Abe brightened. “That’s right! Beefsteaks are in season. Get me some.”

  Next stop was Julio’s, where Jack picked up Ralph, the car Julio kept for him. It was a ’63 Corvair, white with a black convertible top and a rebuilt engine. An unremarkable, everyday kind of car. Not at all Julio’s style, but Julio hadn’t paid for it. Jack had seen it in the window of a “classic” car store; he had given Julio the cash to go make the best deal he could and have it registered in his name. Legally it was Julio’s car, but Jack paid the insurance and the garage fee and reserved pre-emptive right of use for the rare occasions when he needed it.

  Today was such an occasion. Julio had it gassed up and waiting for him. He had also decorated it a bit since the last time Jack had taken it out: There was a “Hi!” hand waving from the left rear window, fuzzy dice hanging from the mirror, and in the rear window a little dog whose head wobbled and whose eyes blinked red in unison with the tail lights.

  “You expect me to ride around with those?” Jack said, giving Julio what he hoped was a withering stare.

  Julio did his elaborate shrug. “What can I say, Jack? It’s in the blood.”

  Jack didn’t have time to remove the cultural paraphernalia, so he took the car as it was. Armed with the finest New York State driver’s license money could buy—in the name of Jack Howard—he slipped the Semmerling and its holster into the special compartment under the front seat and began a leisurely drive crosstown.

  Sunday morning is a unique time in midtown Manhattan. The streets are deserted. No buses, no cabs, no trucks being unloaded, no Con Ed crews tearing up the streets, and only a rare pedestrian or two here and there. Quiet. It would all change as noon approached, but at the moment Jack found it almost spooky.

  He followed Fifty-eighth Street all the way to its eastern end and pulled in to the curb before 8 Sutton Square.

  2

  Gia answered the doorbell. It was Eunice’s day off and Nellie was still asleep, so the job was left to her. She wrapped her robe more tightly around her and walked slowly and carefully from the kitchen to the front of the house. The inside of her head felt too big for her skull; her tongue was thick, her stomach slightly turned. Champagne… Why should something that made you feel so good at night leave you feeling so awful the next day?

  A look through the peephole showed Jack standing there in white shorts and a dark blue shirt.

  “Tennis anyone?” he said with a lopsided grin as she opened the door.

  He looked good. Gia had always liked a lean, wiry build on a man. She liked the linear cords of muscle in his forearms, and the curly hair on his legs. Why did he look so healthy when she felt so sick?

  “Well? Can I come in?”

  Gia realized she had been staring at him. She had seen him three times in the past four days. She was getting used to having him around again. That wasn’t good. But there would be no defense against it until Grace was found—one way or another.

  “Sure.” When the door was closed behind him, she said, “Who’re you playing? Your Indian lady?” She regretted that immediately, remembering his crack last night about jealousy. She wasn’t jealous… just curious.

  “No. My father.”

  “Oh.” Gia knew from the past how painful it was for Jack to spend time with his father.

  “But the reason I’m here…” He paused uncertainly and rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m not sure how to say this, but here goes: Don’t drink anything strange.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “No tonics or laxatives or anything new you find around the house.”

  Gia was not in the mood for games. “I may have had a little too much champagne last night, but I don’t go around swigging from bottles.”

  “I’m serious, Gia.”

  She could see that, and it made her uneasy. His gaze was steady and concerned.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I. But there was something bad about that laxative of Grace’s. Just stay away from anything like it. If you find any more of it, lock it away and save it for me.”

  “Do you think it has anything to do—?”

  “I don’t know. But I want to play it safe.”

  Gia could sense a certain amount of evasiveness in Jack. He wasn’t telling her everything. Her unease mounted.

  “What do you know?”

  “That’s just it—I don’t know anything. Just a gut feeling. So play it safe and stay away from anything strange.” He gave her a slip of paper with a telephone number on it. It had a 609 area code. “Here’s my father’s number. Call me there if you need me or there’s any word from Grace.” He glanced up the stairs and toward the rear of the house. “Where’s Vicks?”

  “Still in bed. She had a hard time falling asleep last night, according to Eunice.” Gia opened the front door. “Have a good game.”

  Jack’s expression turned sour. “Sure.”

  She watched him drive back to the corner and turn downtown on Sutton Place. She wondered what was going on in his mind; why the odd warning against drinking “anything strange.” Something about Grace’s laxative bothered him but he hadn’t said what. Just to be sure, Gia went up to the second floor and checked through all the bottles on Grace’s vanity and in her bathroom closet. Everything had a brand name. There was nothing like the unlabeled bottle Jack had found on Thursday.

  She took two Tylenol Extra Strength capsules and a long hot shower. The combination worked to ease her headache. By the time she had dried off and dressed in plaid shorts and a blouse, Vicky was up and looking for breakfast.

  “What do you feel like eating?” she asked as they passed the parlor on their way to the kitchen. She looked cute in her pink nighty and her fuzzy pink Dearfoams.

  “Chocolate!”

  “Vicky!”

  “But it looks so good!” She pointed to where Eunice had set out a candy dish full of the Black Magic pieces from England before going out for the day.

  “You know what it does to you.”

  “But it would be delicious!”

  “All right,” Gia said. “Have a piece. If you think a couple of bites and a couple of minutes is worth a whole day of swelling up and itching and feeling sick, go ahead and take one.”

  Vicky looked up at her, and then at the chocolates. Gia held her breath, praying Vicky would make the right choice. If she chose the chocolate, Gia would have to stop her, but there was a chance she would use her head and refuse. Gia wanted to know which it
would be. Those chocolates would be sitting there for days, a constant temptation to sneak one behind her mother’s back. But if Vicky could overcome the temptation now, Gia was sure she would be able to resist for the rest of their stay.

  “I think I’ll have an orange, Mom.”

  Gia swept her up into her arms and swung her around.

  “I’m so proud of you, Vicky! That was a very grown-up decision.”

  “Well, what I’d really like is a chocolate-covered orange.”

  Laughing, she led Vicky by the hand to the kitchen, feeling pretty good about her daughter and about herself as a mother.

  3

  Jack had the Lincoln Tunnel pretty much to himself. He passed the stripe which marked the border of New York and New Jersey, remembering how his brother and sister and he used to cheer whenever they crossed the line after spending a day in The City with their parents. It had always been a thrill then to be back in good ol’ New Jersey. Those days were gone with the two-way toll collections. Now they charged you a double toll to get to Manhattan and let you leave for nothing. And he didn’t cheer as he crossed the line.

  He cruised out of the tunnel mouth, squinting into the sudden glare of the morning sun. The ramp made a nearly circular turn up to and through Union City, then down to the meadowlands and the N.J. Turnpike. Jack collected his ticket from the “Cars Only” machine, set his cruise control for fifty miles per hour and settled into the right-hand lane for the trip. He was running a little late, but the last thing he wanted was to be stopped by a state cop.

  The olfactory adventure began as the Turnpike wound its ways through the swampy lowlands, past the Port of Newark and all the surrounding refineries and chemical plants. Smoke poured from stacks and torch-like flames roared from ten-story discharge towers. The odors he encountered on the strip between Exits 16 and 12 were varied and uniformly noxious. Even on a Sunday morning.