The Tomb (Repairman Jack)

by Wilson, F. Paul

  Kolabati pulled her eyes away from the weapon in her hand to look at him.

  "Then what...?" His grim expression provided a chilling answer to her question. "Oh, Jack. I don't know if I could."

  "You don't have to worry about it now. It may never come to that. On the other hand it may come down to a choice between being dragged off to that ship again or shooting your brother. It's a decision you'll have to make at the time."

  She looked back at the gun, hating it and yet fascinated by it—much the same as she’d felt when Kusum had given her that first look into the ship's hold last night.

  "But I've never..."

  "It's double-action: You've got to cock it before you can fire." He showed her how. "You've got five shots."

  He began to undress and Kolabati put the gun aside as she watched him, thinking he was about to join her on the bed. Instead he went to the bureau. When he turned to face her again he had fresh underwear in one hand and in the other a long-barreled pistol that dwarfed hers.

  "I'm taking a shower," he said. "Stay alert and use that"—he gestured to her pistol on the nightstand—"if you have to. Don't start thinking of ways to get your brother's necklace. Shoot first, then worry about the necklace."

  He stepped out into the hall and soon she heard the shower running.

  Kolabati laid back and pulled the sheet over her. She moved her legs, spreading and closing them, enjoying the touch of the sheets on her skin. She needed Jack very much tonight. But he seemed so distant, immune to her nakedness.

  Another woman. Kolabati had sensed her presence in Jack the very first night they met. Was it the attractive blonde she’d seen him talking to at the UK reception? It had not concerned her then because the influence had been so weak. Now it was strong.

  No matter. She knew how to have her way with a man, knew ways to make him forget the other women in his life. She’d make Jack want her and only her. She had to, for Jack was important to her. She wanted him beside her always.

  Always...

  She fingered her necklace.

  She thought of Kusum and looked at the pistol on the nightstand. Could she shoot her brother if he came in now?

  Yes. Most definitely, yes. Twenty-four hours ago her answer would have been different. Now...the loathing crawled up from her stomach to her throat...

  Kaka-ji!...the rakoshi called her brother Kaka-ji!

  Yes, she could pull the trigger. Knowing the level of depravity to which he’d sunk, knowing that his sanity was irredeemable. She could almost look on killing Kusum as an act of compassion, done to save him from any further acts of self-degradation. More than anything she wanted his necklace. Possessing it would end his threat to her forever, and allow her to clasp it about the throat of the only man worthy to spend the rest of his days with her—Jack.

  She closed her eyes and nestled her head deeper into the pillow.

  Tired…she’d had only a few minutes of fitful slumber on that wafer-thin mattress in the pilot's cabin last night. She'd close her eyes for just a few minutes…just until Jack came out of the shower. Then she would make him hers again.

  He'd soon forget the other woman.

  19

  Jack lathered himself vigorously in the shower, scrubbing his skin to cleanse it of the stink of the hold. His Glock was wrapped in a towel on a shelf within easy reach. His eyes repeatedly wandered to the outline of the door, hazily visible through the light blue translucency of the shower curtain. His mind's eye kept replaying a variation on the shower scene from Psycho. Only here it wasn't Norman Bates in drag coming in and slashing away with a knife—it was the Mother rakosh using the built-in knives of her taloned hands.

  He rinsed quickly and stepped out to towel off.

  Everything was okay in Queens. A call to Gia while Kolabati was in the shower had confirmed that Vicky was safe and asleep. Now he could get on with business here.

  Back in the bedroom he found Kolabati sound asleep. He grabbed some fresh clothes and studied her sleeping face as he dressed. She looked different in repose. The sensuousness was gone, replaced by a touching innocence.

  Jack pulled the sheet up over her shoulder. He liked her. She was lively, she was fun, she was exotic. Her sexual skills and appetite were unparalleled in his experience. And she seemed to find things in him she truly admired. They had the basis for a long relationship. But...

  The eternal but.

  ...despite the intimacies they’d shared, he knew he was not for her. She would want more of him than he was willing to give. And he knew he would never feel for her what he felt for Gia.

  Closing the bedroom door behind him, Jack went into the front room and prepared to wait for Kusum. He pulled on a T-shirt and slacks, white socks and tennis shoes—he wanted to be ready to move at an instant's notice. He put an extra handful of hollow-point bullets in his right front pocket and, on impulse, stuck the remaining lighter in the left. He set his wing-backed chair by the front window and faced the door. He pulled the matching hassock up and seated himself with the Glock in his lap.

  He hated waiting for an opponent to make the next move. It left him on the defensive, and the defensive side had no initiative.

  But why play defensively? That was just what Kusum expected him to do. Why let crazy Kusum call the shots? Vicky was safe. Why not take the war to Kusum?

  He snatched up the phone and dialed. Abe answered with a croak on the first ring.

  "It's me—Jack. Did I wake you?"

  "No, of course not. I sit up next to the phone every night waiting for you to call. Should tonight be any different?" Jack didn't know whether he was joking or not. At times it was hard to tell with Abe.

  "Everything okay on your end?"

  "Would I be sitting here so calmly talking to you if it wasn't?”

  "Vicky's all right?"

  "Of course. Can I go back to sleep on this wonderfully comfortable couch now?"

  "You're on the couch? There's another bedroom."

  "About the other bedroom I know. I just thought I should maybe sleep here between the door and our two lady friends.”

  Jack felt a burst of warmth for his old friend. "I really do owe you for this, Abe."

  "I know. So start paying me back by hanging up."

  "Unfortunately, I'm not finished asking favors yet. I got a big one coming up.”

  “Nu? What’s this latest toiveh I should do you?”

  "I need some equipment: incendiary bombs with timers and incendiary bullets along with an AR to shoot them."

  The Yiddishkeit disappeared; Abe was abruptly a businessman. "Those I don't have in stock, but I can get them. You need them when?"

  "Tonight.”

  "Seriously—when?”

  "Tonight. An hour ago."

  Abe whistled. "Oy, that's going to be tough. Important?"

  "Very."

  "I'll have to call in some markers on this. Especially at this hour."

  "Make it worth their while," Jack told him. "The sky's the limit.”

  "Okay. But I'll have to leave and make the pickups myself. These boys don't deal with anybody they don't know."

  Jack didn't like the idea of leaving Gia and Vicky without a guard. But since there was no way for Kusum to find them, a guard was superfluous.

  "Okay. You've got your truck, right?"

  "Right."

  "Then make your calls, make the pickups, and I'll meet you at the store. Call me when you get there."

  Jack hung up and settled back in his chair. Comfortably dark here in the front room with only a little indirect light spilling from the kitchen area. He felt his muscles loosen up and relax into the familiar depressions of the chair. He was tired. The last few days had been wearing. When was the last time he’d had a good night's sleep? Saturday? Here it was Wednesday morning.

  He jumped at the sudden jangle of the phone and picked it up before it finished the first ring.

  "Hello?"

  A few heartbeats of silence on the other end of the line, a
nd then a click.

  Puzzled and uneasy, Jack hung up. A wrong number? Or Kusum checking up on his whereabouts?

  He listened for stirrings from the bedroom where he’d left Kolabati, but none came. The ring had been too brief to wake her.

  He made his body relax again. He found himself anticipating with a certain relish what was to come. Mr. Kusum Bahkti was in for a little surprise tonight. Yes sir, Jack was going to make things hot for him and his rakoshi. Crazy Kusum would regret the day he tried to hurt Vicky Westphalen.

  Because Vicky had a friend. And that friend was mad. Madder'n hell.

  Jack's eyelids slipped closed. He fought to open them but then gave up. Abe would call when everything was ready. Abe would come through. Abe could get anything, even at this hour. Jack had time for a few winks.

  The last thing he remembered before sleep claimed him was the hate-filled eyes of the Mother rakosh as she watched him from the floor of the hold after he’d seared the face of one of her children.

  Jack shuddered and slipped into sleep.

  20

  Kusum swung the rented yellow van into Sutton Square and pulled all the way to the end. Bullwhip in hand, he got out and stood by the door, scanning the street. All was quiet, but who could say for how long? He wouldn't have much time here in this insular neighborhood. His van would draw immediate attention should some insomniac glance out a window and spot it.

  Normally this would have been the Mother's job, but she could not be in two places at once. He had given her the sweaty shirt Jack had left on the ship so that she could identify her target by scent, and had dropped her off outside Jack's apartment building only a few moments ago.

  He smiled. Oh, if only he could be there to see Jack's expression when the Mother confronted him. He would not recognize her at first—Kusum had seen to that—but he was certain Jack's heart would stop when he saw the surprise Kusum had prepared for him. And if shock didn't stop his heart, the Mother would. A fitting and honorable end to a man who had become too much of a liability to be allowed to live.

  Kusum drew his thoughts back to Sutton Square. The last Westphalen lay asleep within meters of where he stood. He removed his necklace and placed it on the front seat of the van, then walked back to the rear doors. A young rakosh, nearly full-grown, leaped out. Kusum brandished the whip but did not crack it—the noise would be too loud.

  This rakosh was the Mother's first born, the toughest and most experienced of all the younglings, its lower lip deformed by scars from one of many battles with its siblings. It had hunted with her in London and here in New York. Kusum probably could have let it loose from the ship and trusted it to find the Scent and bring back the child on its own, but he didn't want to take any chances. No mishaps tonight.

  The rakosh looked at Kusum, then looked past him, across the river. Kusum gestured with his whip toward the house where the Westphalen child was staying.

  "There!" he said in Bengali. "There!"

  With seeming reluctance the creature moved in the direction of the house. Kusum saw it enter the alley on the west side, no doubt to climb the shadowed wall and pluck the child from its bed. He was about to step back to the front of the van and retrieve his necklace when he heard a clatter from the side of the house. Alarmed, he ran to the alley, cursing under his breath all the way. These younglings were so damned clumsy! The only one he could really depend upon was the Mother.

  He found the rakosh pawing through a garbage can. It had a dark vinyl bag torn open and was pulling something out. Fury surged through Kusum. He should have known he couldn't trust a youngling! Here it was rummaging in garbage when it should be following the Scent up the wall. He unfurled his whip, ready to strike...

  The young rakosh held something out to him: half of an orange.

  Kusum snatched it up and held it under his nose. It was one of those he had injected with the elixir and hidden in the playhouse last night. The rakosh came up with another half.

  Kusum pressed both together. They fit perfectly. The orange had been sliced open but had not been eaten. He looked at the rakosh and it was now holding a handful of chocolates.

  Enraged, Kusum hurled the orange halves against the wall. Jack! It could be no one else! Curse that man!

  He strode around to the rear of the townhouse and up to the back door. The rakosh followed him part way and then stood and stared across the East River.

  "Here!" Kusum said impatiently, indicating the door.

  He stepped back as the rakosh came up the steps and slammed one of its massive three-fingered hands against the door. With a loud crack of splintering wood, it flew open. Kusum stepped through with the rakosh close behind. He wasn't worried about awakening anyone in the house. If Jack had discovered the treated orange, he surely had spirited everyone away.

  Kusum stood in the dark kitchen, the young rakosh a looming shadow beside him. Yes...the house was empty. No need to search it.

  A thought struck him with the force of a blow.

  No!

  Uncontrollable tremors shook his body. Not anger that Jack had been one step ahead of him all day, but fear. Fear so deep and penetrating that it almost overwhelmed him. He rushed to the front door and ran out to the street.

  Jack had hidden the last Westphalen from him—and at this very moment Jack's life was being torn from him by the Mother rakosh! The only man who could tell him where to find the child was being silenced forever! How would Kusum find her in a city of eight million? He would never fulfill the vow! All because of Jack!

  May you be reincarnated as a jackal!

  He opened the rear door of the van for the rakosh but it would not enter. It persisted in staring across the East River. It would take a few steps toward the river and then come back, repeating the process over and over.

  "In!" Kusum said.

  He was in a black mood and had no patience for any quirks in this rakosh. But despite his urgings, the creature would not obey. The youngling was normally so eager to please, yet now it acted as if it had the Scent and wanted to be off on the hunt.

  And then it occurred to him—he had doctored two oranges, and they had found only one. Had the Westphalen child consumed the first before the second was found out?

  Possible. His spirits lifted perceptively. Quite possible.

  And what could be more natural than to remove the child entirely from the island of Manhattan? What was that borough across the river—Queens? It didn't matter how many people lived there; if the child had consumed even a tiny amount of the elixir, the rakosh would find her.

  Perhaps all was not lost.

  Kusum gestured toward the river with his coiled bullwhip. The young rakosh leaped to the top of the waist-high retaining wall at the end of the street and dropped to the sunken brick plaza a dozen feet below it. From there it took two steps and a flying leap over the wrought iron railing to the East River running silently below.

  Kusum stood and watched it sail into the darkness, his despair dissipating with each passing second. This rakosh was an experienced hunter and seemed to know where it was going. Perhaps there was still hope of sailing tonight.

  After the sound of a splash far below, he turned and climbed into the cab of the van. Yes—his mind was set. He would operate under the assumption that the youngling would bring back the Westphalen girl. He would prepare the ship for sea. Perhaps he would even cast off and sail downriver to New York Bay. He had no fear of losing the Mother and the youngling that had just leaped into the river. Rakoshi had an uncanny homing instinct that led them to their nest no matter where it was.

  How fortunate he had dosed two oranges instead of one. As he refastened the necklace at his throat, he realized that the hand of Kali was evident here.

  All doubt and despair melted away in a sudden blast of triumph. The Goddess was at his side, guiding him. He could not fail!

  Repairman Jack was not to have the last laugh after all.

  21

  Jack awakened with a start. He experienced an i
nstant of disorientation before he realized he was not in his bed but in a chair in the front room. His hand automatically went to the Glock in his lap.

  He listened. Something had awakened him. What? The faint light seeping in from the kitchen area was enough to confirm that the front room was empty.

  He rose and checked the TV room, then looked in on Kolabati. Still asleep. All quiet on the western front.

  A noise made him whirl. From out in the hall—the creak of a board. Jack pressed his ear against the door. Silence. A hint of an odor was present at the edges of the door. Not the necrotic stink of a rakosh, but a sickly sweet smell like an old lady's gardenia perfume.

  Heart thumping, Jack unlocked the door and pulled it open in a single motion, then jumped back and took his firing stance: legs spread, the pistol in both hands, left supporting right, both arms fully extended.

  The light in the hall was meager at best but brighter than where Jack stood. It would silhouette anyone attempting to enter the apartment. Nothing moved. All he saw was the banister and balusters that ran along the stairwell. Jack held his position as the gardenia odor wafted into the room like a cloud from an overgrown hothouse—syrupy, flowery, with an underlying hint of decay.

  Keeping his arms locked straight out in a triangle with the Glock at the apex, he moved to the door, weaving back and forth to give himself angled views of the hallway to the left and right. All clear so far.

  He leaped into the hall and spun in the air, landing with his back against the banister, arms down, pistol held before his crotch, ready to be raised right or left as his head snapped back and forth.

  Hall to the right and left: clear.

  An instant later he was moving again, spinning to his right, pressing his back against the wall next to his door, eyes darting right, to the staircase up to the fourth floor: clear.

  The landing to his left going down: cl—

  Wait. Someone there, sitting on the shadowed landing. His pistol snapped up, steady in his hands as he took a better look—a woman, barely visible, in a long dress, long sloppy hair, floppy hat, slumped posture, looking depressed. The hat and the hair obscured her face.