"It's me, Abe."
"Who else should it be at this hour?"
"Did you get everything?"
"Just got in the door. No, I didn't get everything. Got the timed incendiary bombs—a crate of twelve—but couldn't get hold of any incendiary bullets before tomorrow noon. Is that soon enough?"
"No," Jack said, bitterly disappointed. He had to move now.
"I got something you might use as a substitute, though."
“What?"
"Come down and see."
"Be there in a few minutes."
Jack hung up and gingerly peeled the torn, blood-soaked shirt from his back. The pain had subsided to a dull, aching throb. He blinked when he saw the liverish clots clinging to the fabric. He'd lost more blood than he’d thought.
He got a towel from the bathroom and gently held it against the wound. It stung, but the pain was bearable. When he checked the towel half a minute later, he found blood on it, but very little of it fresh.
Jack knew he should shower and clean out the wound but was afraid he'd start it bleeding again. He resisted the temptation to examine his back in the bathroom mirror—it might hurt worse if he knew how bad it looked. Instead, he wrapped all his remaining gauze around his upper chest and over his left shoulder.
He went back to the bedroom for a fresh shirt and for something else: He knelt next to the bed, gently unclasped Kolabati's necklace and removed it. She stirred, moaned softly, then was quiet. Jack tiptoed out of the room and closed the door behind him.
In the living room he clasped the iron necklace around his throat. It gave off an unpleasant, tingling sensation that spread along his skin from head to toe. He didn't relish wearing it, nor borrowing it from Kolabati without her knowledge. But she’d refused to remove it in the ship, and if he was going back there he wanted every edge he could get.
He slipped into the fresh shirt as he dialed the number of Abe's daughter's apartment. He was going to be out of touch with Gia for a while and knew his mind would rest easier after confirming that everything was cool in Queens.
After half a dozen rings, Gia picked up.
"Hello?" Her voice was tentative.
Jack paused for an instant at the sound of her voice. After what he’d been through in the past few hours, he wanted nothing more than to call it quits for the night, hop over to Queens, and spend the rest of the time until morning with his arms around Gia. He’d nothing more tonight—just holding her.
"Sorry to wake you. I'm going out for a few hours and wanted to make sure everything is okay."
"Everything's, fine."
"Vicky?"
"I just left her side to answer the phone. She's fine. And I'm just reading this note from Abe explaining that he had to go out and not to worry. What's going on?"
"Crazy stuff."
"That's not an answer. I need answers, Jack. This whole thing scares me."
"I know. All I can say right now is it has to do with the Westphalens." He didn't want to say more.
"But why is Vicky...oh."
"Right. She's a Westphalen. Someday when we have lots of time, I'll explain it to you."
"When will it all end?"
"Tonight, if things go right."
"Dangerous?”
"Naw. Routine stuff." He didn't want to add to her worries.
“Jack..." She paused and he thought he detected a quaver in her voice. "Be careful, Jack."
She would never know how much those words meant to him.
"Always careful. I like my body in one piece. See you later.”
He didn't hang up. Instead he depressed the plunger for a few seconds, then released it. After checking for the dial tone, he stuffed the receiver under the seat cushion of his chair. It would start howling in a few minutes, but no one would hear that...and no one could call and wake Kolabati. With luck, he could take care of Kusum, get back here and replace the necklace without her ever knowing he’d taken it. And with considerably more luck, she might not ever know for sure that he had anything to do with the fiery explosion that took her brother and his rakoshi to a watery grave.
He picked up his variable frequency beeper and hurried down to the street, intending to head immediately for the Isher Sports Shop. But as he passed the alley, he paused. He had no time to spare, yet he could not resist viewing the remains of the Mother rakosh.
A jolt of panic shot through him when he saw no corpse in the alley. Then he came upon the smoldering pile of ashes. The fire had completely consumed the Mother, leaving only her fangs and talons. He picked up a few of each—still hot—and shoved them in his pocket. Someday he might want to prove to himself that he’d really faced something called a rakosh.
24
Gia cradled the phone and thought about what Jack had said about all this being over tonight.
She fervently hoped so. If only Jack weren't so evasive about everything. What was he hiding? Something he was afraid to tell her? God, she hated this. She wanted to be home in her own little apartment in her own bed with Vicky down the hall in hers.
Gia started back toward the bedroom and then stopped. She was wide awake. No use trying to go back to sleep just yet. She pulled the bedroom door closed, then searched through the kitchen for something to drink. The MSG in Chinese food always left her thirsty. When she came across the box of tea bags she grabbed them. With the kettle on, she spun the television dial looking for something to watch. Nothing but old movies...
The kettle started to boil. Gia made a cup of tea and sugared it, filled a tall glass with ice, and poured the tea over the ice. There: iced tea. Needed some lemon, but this would do.
As she approached the couch with her drink she caught a rotten odor. Just a whiff and it was gone. Something oddly familiar about it. If she could catch it again, she was sure she could identify it. She waited but it didn't return.
Gia turned her attention to the television. Citizen Kane was on. She hadn't seen that one in ages. It made her think of Jack...how he'd go on and on about Welles's use of light and shadow throughout the film. He could be a real pain when you just wanted to sit and watch a movie.
She sat and sipped her tea.
25
Vicky shot up to a sitting position in bed.
"Mommy?" she called softly.
She trembled with fear. She was alone. And there was an awful, pukey smell. She glanced at the window. Something they’re...outside the window. The screen had been pulled out. That's what had awakened her.
A hand—or something that looked like a hand but really wasn't—slipped over the windowsill. Then another. The dark shadow of' a head rose into view and two glowing yellow eyes trapped her and pinned her where she sat in mute horror. The thing crawled over the ledge and flowed into the room like a snake.
Vicky opened her mouth to scream out her horror but something moist and hard and stinking jammed against her face, cutting off her voice. A hand, but like no hand she’d ever imagined. Only be three fingers—three huge fingers—and the taste of the palm against her lips brought what was left of her Chinese dinner boiling to the back of her throat.
As she fought to get free, she caught a fleeting close-up glimpse of what held her—the smooth, blunt-snouted face, the fangs showing above the scarred lower lip, the glowing yellow eyes…every fear of what's in the closet or what's in that shadowed corner, every bad dream, every night horror rolled into one.
She had to get away! Tears of fear and revulsion streamed down her face. After an instant of paralyzed panic she kicked and twisted convulsively, clawed with her fingernails—nothing she did seemed to matter in the slightest. She was lifted like a toy and carried to the window—
—and out! They were twelve floors up! Mommy! They were going to fall!
But they didn't fall. Using its free hand and its clawed feet, the monster crawled down the wall like a spider. Then it was running along the ground, through parks, down alleys, across streets. The grip across her mouth loosened but Vicky was clutched so tightly against
the monster's flank that she couldn't scream—could barely breathe.
"Please don't hurt me!" she whispered into the night. "Please don't hurt me!"
Vicky didn't know where they were or what direction they were traveling. Her mind could barely function through the haze of terror that enveloped it. But soon she heard the lapping sound of water, smelled the river. The monster leaped, they seemed to fly for an instant, and then water closed over them. She couldn't swim!
Vicky screamed as they plunged beneath the waves and gulped a mouthful of foul, brackish water. She broke the surface choking and retching. Her throat was locked—air all around her but she couldn't breathe! Finally, when she thought she was going to die, her windpipe opened and air rushed into her lungs.
She opened her eyes. The monster had slung her onto its back and was now cutting through the water. She clung to the slick, slimy skin of its shoulders. Her pink nightie was plastered to her goose-fleshed skin, her hair hung in her eyes. Cold, wet, and miserable with terror, she wanted to jump off and get away from the monster, but knew she'd go down under that water and never come back up.
Why was this happening to her? She'd been good. Why did this monster want her?
Maybe it was a good monster, like in that book she had, Where the Wild Things Are. It hadn't hurt her. Maybe it was taking her someplace to show her something.
She looked around and recognized the Manhattan skyline off to her right, but something sat between them and Manhattan. Dimly she remembered the island—Roosevelt Island—in the river at the end of Aunt Nellie's and Grace's street.
Were they going to swim around it and go back to Manhattan? Was the monster going to take her back to Aunt Nellie's?
No. They passed the end of the island, but the monster didn't turn toward Manhattan. It kept swimming in the same direction down river. Vicky shivered and began to cry.
26
Gia's chin dropped forward onto her chest and she awoke with a start. Only half an hour into the movie and already she was nodding off. She wasn't nearly as wide awake as she’d thought. She flicked it off and went back to the bedroom.
Fear stabbed her like a knife in the ribs as she opened the door. A rotten odor filled the room. Now she recognized it—the same stench as in Nellie's room the night she disappeared.
Her gaze shot to the bed and her heart stopped when she saw no familiar little lump of curled-up child under the covers.
"Vicky?" Her voice cracked as she said the name and turned on the light. She has to be here!
Without waiting for an answer, Gia rushed to the bed and pulled down the covers.
"Vicky?" Her voice was almost a whimper. She's here—she has to be!
She ran to the closet and fell to her knees, checking the floor with her hands. She found only Vicky's Ms. Jelliroll Carry Case. Next she crawled over to the bed and looked under it. No Vicky there either.
But she spotted something else—a small dark lump. Gia reached in and grabbed it. She thought she’d be sick when she recognized the feel of a recently peeled and partially eaten orange.
Jack's words flooded back to her: Do you want Vicky to end up like Grace and Nellie? Gone without a trace? He’d said there was something in the orange—but he’d thrown it away! So how had Vicky got hold of this one?...
Unless there’d been more than one orange in the play house!
This is a nightmare! This isn't really happening!
Gia ran through the rest of the apartment, opening every door, every closet, every cabinet. Vicky was gone!
She hurried back to the bedroom and went to the window. The screen was missing. She hadn't noticed that before. Fighting back a scream as visions of a child's body smashed against the pavement flashed before her eyes, she held her breath and looked down. The parking lot, directly below, well lit by mercury vapor lamps. And no sign of Vicky.
Gia didn't know whether to be relieved or not. All she knew right now was that her child was missing and she needed help. She ran for the phone, ready to dial 911, then stopped. The police would certainly be more concerned about a missing child than about two old ladies who’d disappeared, but would they accomplish anything more? Gia doubted it.
She knew only one number to call that would do her any good.
Jack will know what to do. Jack will help.
She forced her shaking index finger to punch in the numbers and got a busy signal. She hung up and dialed again. Still busy. She didn't have time to wait! She dialed the operator and told her it was an emergency and she had to break in on the line. She was put on hold for half a minute that seemed like an hour, then the operator came back on, telling her that the line wasn't busy—the phone had been left off the hook.
Frantic, Gia slammed down the receiver. What was she going to do? What was wrong at Jack's? Had he left the phone off the hook or had it been knocked off?
She ran back to the bedroom and jammed her legs into a pair of jeans and pulled on a blouse without removing her pajamas. She had to find Jack. If he wasn't at his apartment, maybe he was at Abe's store—she was pretty sure she remembered where that was. She prayed she could remember. Her thoughts were so jumbled. All she could think of was Vicky.
Vicky, Vicky, where are you?
But how to get to Jack's...that was the problem. Finding a cab would be virtually impossible at this hour.
The Honda keys she’d seen earlier! Where had they been? She’d been cleaning in the kitchen...
She ran over to the flatware drawer and pulled it open. Yes! She snatched them up and ran out into the hall. She checked the apartment number on the door: 1203. Now if only the car was here.
The elevator took her straight down to the first floor and she hurried out into the parking lot. On the way in this afternoon she’d seen numbers on the asphalt by each parking space.
Please let it be here! she said to God, to fate, to whatever was in charge of human events.
Is anybody in charge? asked a small voice in the back of her mind.
She followed the numbers from the 800s up to the 1100s, and there up ahead, crouched like a laboratory mouse waiting timidly for the next injection, sat a white Honda Civic.
Please be 1203! Please!
It had to be.
It was.
Almost giddy with relief, she unlocked the door and slid into the driver's seat. The standard shift on the floor gave her a moment's pause, but she’d driven her father's old Ford pickup enough miles during her teens back Iowa. She hoped it was something you never forgot, like riding a bike.
She didn't know Queens but knew the general direction she wanted to go. She worked her way toward the East River until she saw a to manhattan sign and followed the arrow. When the Queensboro Bridge loomed into view, she slammed the gas pedal to the floor. She’d been driving tentatively until now, reining her emotions, clutching the wheel with white-knuckled intensity, wary of missing a crucial turn. But with her destination in sight, she began to cry.
27
Abe's dark blue panel truck was parked outside the Isher Sports Shop. The iron gate had been rolled back. At Jack's knock, the door opened. Abe's white shirt was wrinkled and his jowls were stubbly. For the first time in Jack's memory, he wasn't wearing his black tie.
"What?" he said, scrutinizing Jack. "You run into trouble since you left me at the apartment?"
"What makes you ask?"
"Bandage on your hand and you're walking funny."
"Had a lengthy and strenuous argument with a very disagreeable lady."
He rotated his left shoulder gingerly; it was nowhere near as stiff and painful as it had been back at the apartment.
"Lady?”
"It's stretching the definition, but yeah—lady."
Abe led Jack toward the rear of the darkened store. The lights were on in the basement, as was the neon sign. Abe hefted a wooden crate two feet long and a foot wide and deep. The top had already been pried open and he lifted it off.
"Here are the bombs. Twelve of them, magnesium co
mpound, all with twenty-four-hour timers."
Jack nodded. "Fine. But I really needed the incendiary bullets. Otherwise I may never get a chance to set these."
Abe shook his head. "I don't know what you think you're going up against, but here's the best I could do."
He pulled a cloth off a card table to reveal a circular, donut-shaped metal tank with a second tank, canteen-sized, set in its middle; both were attached by a short hose to what looked like a two-handed ray gun.
Jack was baffled. "What the hell—?"
"It's an old No.5 Mk-l flamethrower, affectionately known as the Lifebuoy. I don't know if it'll suit your purposes. I mean, it hasn't got much range and—"
"It's great!" Jack said. He grabbed Abe's hand and pumped it. "Abe, you're beautiful! It's perfect!"
Elated, Jack ran his hands over the tanks. Why hadn't the thought of it? Especially after all the times he’d seen Them?
"How does it work?"
"This is a World War II model—the best I could do on such short notice. It's got CO2 at 2000 pounds per square inch in the little spherical tank, and eighteen liters of napalm in the big lifebuoy-shaped one—hence the name. A discharge tube with igniters at the end and an adjustable nozzle. Range is up to ninety feet. You open the tanks, point the tube, pull the trigger in the rear grip, and foom!"
"Any helpful hints?"
"Yeah. Always check your nozzle adjustment before your first discharge. It's like a firehose and will tend to rise during a prolonged tight stream. Otherwise, think of it as spitting: Don't do it into the wind or where you live."
"Sounds easy enough. Help me get into the harness."
The tanks were heavier than Jack would have wished, but did not cause the anticipated burst of pain from the left side of his back; only a dull ache. As Jack adjusted the straps to a comfortable fit, Abe looked at his neck questioningly.
"Since when the jewelry, Jack?"
"Since tonight...for good luck."
"Strange looking thing. Iron, isn't it? And those stones...almost look like—"
"Two eyes? I know."
“And the inscription looks like Sanskrit. Is it?"
The Tomb (Repairman Jack) Page 37