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

by F. Paul Wilson

  6

  Apartment 1203 was hot and stuffy. The stale smell of cigarette smoke had become one with the upholstery, rugs, and wallpaper. Dust bunnies under the front room coffee table were visible from the door.

  So this was the hide-out: Abe’s daughter’s place.

  Gia had met Abe briefly once. He hadn’t looked too neat —had little bits of food all over him, in fact. Like father, like daughter, apparently.

  Jack went to the big air conditioner in the window. “Could use some of this.”

  “Just open the windows,” Gia told him. “Let’s get a change of air in here. “

  Vicky was prancing around, swinging her grape carry case, delighted to be in a new place. Non-stop chatter:

  “Are we staying here Mommy how long are we staying is this going to be my room can I sleep in this bed? ooh look how high we are you can see the Umpire State Building over there and there’s Chrysler’s building it’s my favorite ’cause it’s pointy and silvery at the top… “

  And on and on. Gia smiled at the memory of how hard she had worked coaxing Vicky to say her first words, how she had agonized over the completely unfounded notion that her daughter might never speak. Now she wondered if she would ever stop.

  Once the windows on both sides of the apartment were open, the wind began to flow through, removing all the old trapped odors and bringing in new ones.

  “Jack, I’ve got to clean this place up if I’m going to stay here. I hope no one minds.”

  “No one’ll mind,” he said. “Just let me make a couple of calls and I’ll help you.”

  Gia located the vacuum cleaner while he dialed and listened, then dialed again. Either it was busy or he got no answer, because he hung up without saying anything.

  They spent the better part of the afternoon cleaning the apartment. Gia took pleasure in the simple tasks of scouring the sink, cleaning the counters, scrubbing the inside of the refrigerator, washing the kitchen floors, vacuuming the rugs. Concentrating on the minutiae kept her mind off the formless threat she felt hanging over Vicky and herself.

  Jack wouldn’t let her out of the apartment, so he took the bedclothes down to the laundry area and washed them. He was a hard worker and not afraid to get his hands dirty. They made a good team. She found she enjoyed being with him, something up until a few days ago she thought she’d never enjoy again. The certain knowledge that there was a gun hidden somewhere on his body and that he was the sort of man quite willing and able to use it effectively did not cause the revulsion it would have a few days ago. She couldn’t say she approved of the idea, but she found herself taking reluctant comfort in it.

  It wasn’t until the sun was leaning into the west toward the Manhattan skyline that she finally declared the apartment habitable. Jack went out and found a Chinese restaurant and brought back egg rolls, hot and sour soup, spare ribs, shrimp fried rice, and mushu pork. In a separate bag he had an Entenmann’s almond ring coffee cake. That didn’t strike Gia as a fitting dessert for a Chinese meal, but she didn’t say anything.

  She watched as he tried to teach Vicky how to use the chopsticks he had picked up at the restaurant. The riff between those two had apparently healed without a scar. They were buddies again, the trauma of the morning forgotten—at least by Vicky.

  “I have to go out,” he told her as they cleared the dishes.

  “I figured that,” Gia said, hiding her unease. She knew they were lost in this apartment complex among other apartment complexes—the proverbial needle in the haystack—but she didn’t want to be alone tonight, not after what she had learned this morning about the chocolates and the orange. “How long will you be?”

  “Don’t know. That’s why I asked Abe to come and stay with you until I get back. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “No. I don’t mind at all.” From what she remembered of Abe, he seemed an unlikely protector, but any port in a storm would do. “Anyway, how could I object? He has more of a right to be here than we do.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Jack said.

  “Oh?”

  “Abe and his daughter are barely on speaking terms.” Jack turned and faced her, leaning his back against the sink. He glanced over her shoulder to where Vicky sat alone at the table munching on a fortune cookie, then spoke in a low voice, his eyes fixed on her. “You see, Abe’s a criminal. Like me.”

  “Jack—” She didn’t want to get into this now.

  “Not exactly like me. Not a thug.” His emphasis on the word she had used on him was a barb in her heart. “He just sells illegal weapons. He also sells legal weapons, but he sells them illegally.”

  Portly, voluble Abe Grossman—a gunrunner? It wasn’t possible! But the look in Jack’s eyes said it was.

  “Was it necessary to tell me that?” What was he trying to do?

  “I just want you to know the truth. I also want you to know that Abe is the most peace-loving man I’ve ever met.”

  “Then why does he sell guns?”

  “Maybe he’ll explain it to you some day. I found his reasons pretty convincing—more convincing than his daughter did.”

  “She doesn’t approve, I take it.”

  “Barely speaks to him.”

  “Good for her.”

  “Didn’t stop her from letting him pay the tuition for her bachelor and graduate degrees, though.”

  There was a knock on the door. A voice in the hall said, “It’s me—Abe.”

  Jack let him in. He looked the same as he had the last time Gia had seen him: an overweight man dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt, black tie, and black pants. The only difference was the nature of the food stains up and down his front.

  “Hello,” he said, shaking Gia’s hand. She liked a man to shake her hand. “Nice to see you again.” He also shook Vicky’s hand, which elicited a big smile from her.

  “Just in time for dessert, Abe,” Jack said. He brought out the Entenmann’s cake.

  Abe’s eyes widened. “Almond coffee ring! You shouldn’t have!” He made a show of searching the tabletop. “What are the rest of you having?”

  Gia laughed politely, not knowing how seriously to take the remark, then watched with wonder as Abe consumed three-quarters of the cake, all the while talking eloquently and persuasively of the imminent collapse of western civilization. Although he had failed to persuade Vicky to call him “Uncle Abe” by the time dessert was over, he had Gia half-convinced she should flee New York and build an underground shelter in the foothills of the Rockies.

  Finally, Jack stood up and stretched. “I have to go out for a little bit. Shouldn’t be long. Abe will stay here until I get back. And if you don’t hear from me, don’t worry.”

  Gia followed him to the door. She didn’t want to see him go, but couldn’t bring herself to tell him so. A persistent knot of hostility within her always veered her away from the subject of Gia and Jack.

  “I don’t know if I can be with him too much longer,” she whispered to Jack. “He’s so depressing!”

  Jack smiled. “You ain’t heard nuthin’ yet. Wait till the network news comes on and he gives you his analysis of what every story really means.” He put his hand on her shoulder and drew her close. “Don’t let him bother you. He means well.”

  Before she knew what was happening, he leaned forward and kissed her on the lips.

  “Bye!” And he was out the door.

  Gia turned back to the apartment: There was Abe squatting before the television. There was a Special Report about the Chinese border dispute with India.

  “Did you hear that?” Abe was saying. “Did you hear? Do you know what this means?”

  Resignedly, Gia joined him before the set. “No. What does it mean?”

  7

  Finding a cab took some doing, but Jack finally nabbed a gypsy to take him back into Manhattan. He still had a few hours of light left; he wanted to make the most of them. The worst of the rush hour was over and he was heading the opposite way of much of the flow, so he made
good time getting back into the city.

  The cab dropped him off between Sixty-seventh and Sixty-eighth on Fifth Avenue, one block south of Kusum’s apartment building. He crossed to the park side of Fifth and walked uptown, inspecting the building as he passed. He found what he wanted: a delivery alley along the left side secured by a wrought iron gate with pointed rails curved over and down toward the street. Next step was to see if anybody was home.

  He crossed over and stepped up to the doorman, who wore a pseudomilitary cap and sported a handlebar moustache.

  “Would you ring the Bahkti apartment, please?”

  “Surely,” the doorman said. “Who shall I say is calling?”

  “Jack. Just Jack.”

  The doorman buzzed on the intercom and waited. And waited. Finally he said, “I do not believe Mr. Bahkti is in. Shall I leave a message? “

  No answer did not necessarily mean no was was home.

  “Sure. Tell him Jack was here and that he’ll be back.”

  Jack sauntered away, not sure of what his little message would accomplish. Perhaps it would rattle Kusum, although he doubted it. It would probably take a hell of a lot to rattle a guy with a nest of rakoshi.

  He walked to the end of the building. Now came the touchy part: getting over the gate unseen. He took a deep breath. Without looking back, he leaped up and grabbed two of the curved iron bars near their tops. Bracing himself against the side wall, he levered himself over the spikes and jumped down to the other side. Those daily workouts paid off now and then. He stepped back and waited, but no one seemed to have noticed him. He exhaled. So far, so good. He ran around to the rear of the building.

  There he found a double door wide enough for furniture deliveries. He ignored this—they were almost invariably wired with alarms. The narrow little door at the bottom of a short stairwell was more interesting. He pulled the leather-cased lock-picking kit out of his pocket as he descended the steps. The door was solid, faced with sheet metal, no windows. The lock was a Yale, most likely an inter-grip rim model. While his hands worked two of the slim black picks into the keyhole, his eyes kept watch along the rear of the building. He didn’t have to look at what he was doing—locks were picked by feel.

  And then it came—the click of the tumblers within the cylinder. There was a certain grim satisfaction in that sound, but Jack didn’t take time to savor it. A quick twist and the bolt snapped back. He pulled the door open and waited for an alarm bell. None came. A quick inspection showed that the door wasn’t wired for a silent alarm either. He slipped inside and locked it after him.

  It was dark in the basement. As he waited for his eyes to adjust, he ran over a mental picture of the layout of the lobby one floor above. If his memory was accurate, the elevators should be straight ahead and slightly to the left. He moved forward and found them right where he had figured. The elevator came down in response to the button and he took it straight up to the ninth floor.

  There were four doors facing on the small vestibule outside the elevator. Jack went immediately to 9B and withdrew the thin, flexible plastic ruler from his pocket. Tension tightened the muscles at the back of his neck. This was the riskiest part. Anyone seeing him now would call the police immediately. He had to work fast. The door was double locked: a Yale dead-bolt and a Quikset with a keyhole in the knob. He had cut a right-triangular notch half an inch into the edge of the ruler about an inch from the end. Jack slipped the ruler in between the door and the jamb and ran it up and down past the Yale. It moved smoothly—the deadbolt had been left open. He ran the ruler down to the Quikset, caught the notch on the latch bolt, wiggled and pulled on the ruler… and the door swung inward.

  The entire operation had taken ten seconds. Jack jumped inside and quietly closed the door behind him. The room was bright within—the setting sun was pouring orange light through the living room windows. All was quiet. The apartment had an empty feel to it.

  He looked down and saw the smashed egg. Thrown in anger or dropped during a struggle? He moved quickly, silently, through the living room to the bedrooms, searching the closets, under the beds, behind the chairs, into the kitchen and the utility room.

  Kolabati was not here. There was a closet in the second bedroom half-filled with women’s clothes; he recognized a dress as the one Kolabati had worn in Peacock Alley; another was the one she had worn to the Consulate reception. She wouldn’t have gone back to Washington without her clothes.

  She was still in New York.

  He went to the window and looked out over the park. The orange sun was still bright enough to hurt his eyes. He stood there and stared west for a long time. He had desperately hoped to find Kolabati here. It had been against all logic, but he had had to see for himself so he could cross this apartment off his short list of possibilities.

  He turned and picked up the phone and dialed the number of the Indian Embassy. No, Mr. Bahkti was still at the U.N., but was expected back shortly.

  That did it. There were no more excuses left to him. He had to go to the only other place Kolabati could be.

  Dread rolled back and forth in his stomach like a leaden weight.

  That ship. That godawful floating piece of hell. He had to go back there.

  8

  “I’m thirsty, Mommy.”

  “It’s the Chinese food. It always makes you thirsty. Have another drink of water.”

  “I don’t want water. I’m tired of water. Can’t I have some juice?”

  “I’m sorry, honey, but I didn’t get a chance to do any shopping. The only thing to drink around here is some wine and you can’t have that. I’ll get you some juice in the morning. I promise.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  Vicky slumped in her chair and folded her arms over her chest. She wanted juice instead of water and she wanted to watch something else besides these dumb news shows. First the six o’clock news, then something called the network news, and Mr. Grossman—he wasn’t her uncle; why did he want her to call him Uncle Abe?—talking, talking, talking. She’d much rather be watching The Brady Bunch. She had seen them all at least twice, some three or four times. She liked the show. Nothing bad ever happened. Not like the news.

  Her tongue felt dry. If only she had some juice…

  She remembered the orange—the one she had saved from her playhouse this morning. That would taste so delicious now.

  Without a word she got up from her chair and slipped into the bedroom she and Mommy would be sharing tonight. Her Ms. Jelliroll Carry Case was on the floor of the closet. Kneeling in the dim light of the room, she opened it and pulled the orange out. It felt so cool in her hand. Just the smell made her mouth water. This was going to taste so good.

  She bent over by the screened window and dug her thumb into the thick skin until it broke through, then she began peeling. Juice squirted all over her hands as she tore a section loose and bit into it. Juice, sweet and tangy, gushed onto her tongue. Delicious! She pushed the rest of the section into her mouth and was tearing another free when she noticed something funny about the taste. It wasn’t a bad taste, but it wasn’t a good taste either. She took a bite of the second section. It tasted the same.

  Suddenly she was frightened. What if the orange was rotten? Maybe that’s why Jack wouldn’t let her have any this morning. What if it made her sick?

  Panicked, Vicky bent and shoved the rest of the orange under the bed—she’d sneak it into the garbage later when she had a chance. Then she strolled as casually as she could out of the room and over to the bathroom, where she washed the juice off her hands and drank a Dixie Cup full of water.

  She hoped she didn’t get a stomach ache. Mommy would be awfully mad if she found out about sneaking the orange. But more than anything, Vicky prayed she didn’t throw up. Throwing up was the worst thing in the world.

  Vicky returned to the living room, averting her face so no one could see it. She felt guilty. One look at her and Mommy would know something was wrong. The weather lady was saying that tomorrow was g
oing to be hot and dry and sunny again, and Mr. Grossman started talking about drought and people fighting over water. She sat down and hoped they’d let her watch The Partridge Family after this.

  9

  The dark bow of the freighter loomed over Jack, engulfing him in its shadow as he stood on the dock. The sun was sinking over New Jersey, but there was still plenty of light. Traffic rushed by above and behind him. He was oblivious to everything but the ship before him and the clatter of his heart against his ribs.

  He had to go in. There was no way around it. For an instant, he actually considered calling the police, but rejected the idea immediately. As Kolabati had said, Kusum was legally untouchable. And even if Jack managed to convince the police that such things as rakoshi existed, all they were likely to do was get themselves killed and loose the rakoshi upon the city. Probably get Kolabati killed, too.

  No, the police didn’t belong here, for practical reasons and for reasons of principle: This was his problem and he would solve it by himself. Repairman Jack always worked alone.

  He had put Gia and Vicky out of harm’s way. Now he had to find Kolabati and see her to safety before he made a final move against her brother.

  As he followed the wharf around to the starboard side of the ship, he pulled on a pair of heavy work gloves he had bought on his way over from Fifth Avenue. There were also three brand new Cricket butane lighters—three for $1.47 at the department store—scattered through his pockets. He didn’t know what good they would do, but Kolabati had been emphatic about fire and iron being the only weapons against rakoshi. If he needed fire, at least he would have a little of it available.