The Tomb

by F. Paul Wilson

  “Pig?” Jack said in his softest voice. “No such luck, friend. This is personal.”

  The moaning stopped. Patch peered through the darkness with his good eye, a worried look on his face. As he placed his good hand against the wall to prop himself up, Jack raised the sap for another blow.

  “No fair, man!” He quickly withdrew the hand and lay down again. “No fair!”

  “Fair?” Jack laughed as nastily as he could. “Were you going to be fair to the old lady you thought you’d trapped here? No rules in this alley, friend. Just you and me. And I’m here to get you.”

  He saw Patch’s eye widen; his tone echoed the fear in his face.

  “Look, man. I don’t know what’s goin’ down here, but you got the wrong guy. I only came in from Michigan last week.”

  “Not interested in last week, friend. Just last night … the old lady you rolled.”

  “Hey, I didn’t roll no old lady! No way!” Patch flinched and whimpered as Jack raised the sap menacingly. “I swear to God, man! I swear!”

  Jack had to admit the guy was good. Very convincing.

  “I’ll help your memory a little: Her car broke down; she wore a heavy necklace that looked like silver and had two yellow stones in the middle; and she used her fingernails on your eye.” As he saw comprehension begin to dawn in Patch’s eye, he felt his anger climbing towards the danger point. “She wasn’t in the hospital yesterday, but she is today. And you put her there. She may kick off any time. And if she does, it’s your fault.”

  “No, wait, man! Listen—”

  He grabbed Patch by the hair at the top of his head and rapped his skull against the brick wall. “You listen! I want the necklace. Where’d you fence it?”

  “Fence it? That piece of shit? I threw it away!”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Remember!” Jack rapped Patch’s head against the wall again for emphasis.

  He kept seeing that frail old lady fading into the hospital bed, barely able to speak because of the beating she’d received at this creep’s hands. A dark place was opening up inside him.

  Careful!

  He needed Patch conscious.

  “Awright! Lemme think!”

  Jack managed a slow, deep breath. Then another.

  “Think. You’ve got thirty seconds.”

  It didn’t take that long.

  “I thought it was silver. But when I got it under a light I saw it wasn’t.”

  “You want me to believe you didn’t even try to get a few bucks for it?”

  “I … I didn’t like it.”

  Jack hesitated, not sure of how to take that.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I didn’t like it, man. Something about it didn’t feel right. I just threw it in some bushes.”

  “No bushes around here.”

  Patch flinched. “Are too! Two blocks down!”

  Jack yanked him to his feet. “Show me.”

  Patch was right. Between West End and Twelfth Avenues, where Fifty-eighth Street slopes down toward the Hudson River, sat a small clump of privet hedge, the kind Jack had spent many a Saturday morning as a kid trimming in front of his parents’ home in Jersey.

  With Patch lying face down on the pavement by his feet, Jack reached into the bushes. A little rummaging around among the gum wrappers, used tissues, decaying leaves, and other less easily identifiable refuse produced the necklace.

  Jack looked at it as it gleamed dully in the glow from a nearby streetlight.

  I’ve done it! Goddamnit, I’ve done it!

  He hefted it in his palm. Heavy. Had to be uncomfortable to wear. Why did Kusum want it back so badly? As he held it in his hand he began to understand what Patch had said to him about it not feeling right. It didn’t feel right. He found it hard to describe the sensation more clearly than that.

  Crazy, he thought. This thing’s nothing more than sculptured iron and a couple of topaz-like stones.

  Yet he could barely resist the primitive urge to hurl the necklace across the street and run the other way.

  “You gonna let me go now?” Patch said, rising to his feet.

  His left hand was a dusky, mottled blue now, swollen to nearly twice its normal size. He cradled it gingerly against his chest.

  Jack held up the necklace. “This is what you beat up an old lady for?” he said in a low voice, feeling the rage pushing toward the surface. “She’s all busted up in a hospital bed now because you wanted to rip this off, and then you threw it away.”

  “Look, man!” Patch said, pointing his good hand at Jack. “You’ve got it wrong—”

  Jack saw the hand gesturing in the air two feet in front of him and the rage suddenly exploded. Without warning, he swung the sap hard against Patch’s right hand. As before, crunch and a howl of pain.

  As Patch sank to his knees, moaning, Jack walked past him back toward West End Avenue.

  “Let’s see you roll an old lady now, tough guy.”

  The darkness within him began to retreat. Without looking back, he started toward the more populated sections of town. The necklace tingled uncomfortably against the inside of his palm.

  He wasn’t far from the hospital. He broke into a run. He wanted to be rid of this thing as soon as possible.

  20

  The end was near.

  Kusum had sent the private duty nurse out into the hall and now stood alone at the head of the bed holding the withered hand in his. Anger had receded, as had frustration and bitterness. Not gone, simply tucked away until they would be needed, leaving a void within him.

  The futility of it all. All those years of life canceled by a moment of viciousness.

  He could not dredge up a shred of hope of seeing the necklace returned before the end. No one could find it in time, not even the highly recommended Repairman Jack. If it was in her karma to die without the necklace, then Kusum would have to accept it. At least he had the satisfaction of knowing he had done everything in his power to retrieve it.

  A knock at the door. The private duty nurse stuck her head in. “Mr. Bahkti?”

  He repressed the urge to scream. It would feel so good to scream at someone.

  “I told you I wished to be alone in here.”

  “I know. But there’s a man out here. He insisted I give you this.” She held out her hand. “Said you were expecting it.”

  Kusum stepped toward the door. He could not imagine …

  Something dangled from her hand. It looked like—it wasn’t possible!

  He snatched the necklace from her fingers.

  It’s true! It’s real! He found it!

  Kusum wanted to sing out his joy, to dance with the startled nurse. Instead, he pushed her out the door and rushed to the bedside. The clasp was broken, so he wrapped the necklace about the throat of the nearly lifeless form there.

  “It’s all right now!” he whispered in their native tongue. “You’re going to be all right!”

  He stepped into the hall and saw the private duty nurse.

  “Where is he?”

  She pointed down the hall. “At the nursing station. He’s not even supposed to be on the floor, but he was very insistent.”

  I’m sure he was. Kusum pointed toward the room. “See to her.”

  Then he hurried down the hall.

  He found Jack dressed in ragged shorts and mismatched shirts—he had seen better dressed stall attendants at the Calcutta bazaar—leaning against the counter at the nursing station, arguing with a burly head nurse who turned to Kusum as he approached.

  “Mr. Bahkti, you are allowed on the floor because of your grandmother’s critical condition. But that doesn’t mean you can have your friends wandering in and out at all hours of the night!”

  Kusum barely looked at her. “We will be but a minute. Go on about your business.”

  He turned to Jack. He looked hot and tired and sweaty. Oh, for two arms to properly embrace this man, even though he probably sm
ells like everyone else in this country of beef eaters. Certainly an extraordinary man. Thank Kali for extraordinary men, no matter what their race or dietary habits.

  “I assume I made it in time?” Jack said.

  “Yes. Just in time. She will be well now.”

  The American’s brow furrowed. “It’s going to patch her up?”

  “No, of course not. But knowing it has been returned will help her up here.” He tapped his forefinger against his temple. “For here is where all healing resides.”

  “Sure,” Jack said, his expression hiding none of his skepticism. “Anything you say.”

  “I suppose you wish the rest of your fee.”

  Jack nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

  He pulled the thick envelope from his tunic and thrust it at Jack. Despite his prior conviction of the impossibility of his ever seeing the stolen necklace again, Kusum had kept the packet with him as a gesture of hope and of faith in the goddess he prayed to.

  “I wish it were more. I don’t know how to thank you enough. Words cannot express how much—”

  “It’s okay,” Jack said quickly. Kusum’s outpouring of gratitude seemed to embarrass him.

  Kusum, too, was taken aback by the intensity of the emotions within him. He had given up hope. He had asked this man, a stranger, to perform an impossible task, and it had been done! He detested emotional displays, but his customary control over his feelings had slipped since the nurse placed the necklace in his hand.

  “Where did you find it?”

  “I found the guy who stole it and convinced him to take me to it.”

  Kusum felt his fist clench and the muscles at the back of his neck bunch involuntarily. “Did you kill him as I asked?”

  Jack shook his head. “Nope. Told you I wouldn’t. But he won’t be punching out old ladies for some time. Don’t worry. He’s been paid back in kind. I fixed it.”

  Kusum nodded silently, hiding the storm of hatred raging across his mind. Mere pain was not enough—not nearly enough. The man responsible here must pay with his life.

  “Very well, Mr. Jack. My family and I owe you a debt of gratitude. If there is ever anything you need that is in my power to secure for you, any goal that is in my power to achieve, you have merely to ask. All efforts within the realm of human possibility”—he could not repress a smile here—“and perhaps even beyond, will be expended on your behalf.”

  “Thank you,” Jack said with a smile and a slight bow. “I hope that won’t be necessary. I think I’ll be heading home now.”

  “Yes. You look tired.”

  But as Kusum studied him, he sensed more than mere physical fatigue. There was an inner pain that hadn’t been present this morning … a spiritual exhaustion. Was something fragmenting this man? He hoped not. That would be tragic. He wished he could ask, but did not feel he had the right.

  “Rest well.”

  He watched until the American had been swallowed by the elevator, then he returned to the room. The private duty nurse met him at the door.

  “She seems to be rallying, Mr. Bahkti! Respirations are deeper, and her blood pressure’s up!”

  “Excellent!” Nearly twenty-four hours of constant tension began to unravel within him. She would live. He was sure of it now. “Have you a safety pin?”

  The nurse looked at him quizzically but went to her purse on the windowsill and produced one. Kusum used it as a clasp for the necklace, then turned to the nurse.

  “This necklace is not to be removed for any reason whatsoever. Is that clear?”

  The nurse nodded timidly. “Yes, sir. Quite clear.”

  “I will be elsewhere in the hospital for a while,” he said, starting for the door. “If you should need me, have me paged.”

  Kusum took the elevator down to the first floor and followed signs to the emergency room. He had learned that this was the only hospital serving the midtown West Side. Jack had hinted that he had injured the mugger’s hands. If he should seek medical care, it would be here.

  He took a seat in the crowded waiting area of the emergency department. People of all sizes and colors brushed against him on their way in and out of the examining rooms, back and forth to the receptionist counter. He found the odors and the company distasteful, but intended to wait a few hours here. He was vaguely aware of the attention he drew but was used to it. A one-armed man dressing as he did in the company of Westerners soon became immune to curious stares. He ignored them. They were not worthy of his concern.

  Less than half an hour later an injured man entered and grabbed Kusum’s attention. His left eye was patched and both his hands were swollen to twice their normal size.

  No doubt. This was the one! Kusum barely restrained himself from leaping up and attacking the man. He seethed as he sat and watched a secretary in the reception booth begin to help him fill out the standard questionaire his useless hands could not.

  A man who broke people with his hands had had his hands broken. Kusum relished the poetry of it.

  He walked over and stood next to the man. As he leaned against the counter, looking as if he wished to ask the secretary a question, he glanced down at the form. Daniels, Ronald, 359 W. 53rd St.

  Kusum stared at Ronald Daniels, who was too intent on hurrying the completion of the form to notice him. Between answers to the secretary’s questions, he whined about the pain in his hands. When asked about the circumstances of the injury, he said a jack had slipped while he had been changing a tire and his car had fallen on him.

  Smiling, Kusum went back to his seat and waited. He saw Daniels led into an examining room, saw him wheeled out to x-ray in a chair, and then back to the examining room. After a long wait, Daniels was wheeled out again, this time with casts from the middle of his fingers up to his elbows. Kusum listened to him whining about the pain.

  Another stroll over to the reception booth and Kusum learned that Mr. Daniels was being admitted overnight for observation. Kusum hid his annoyance. That would complicate matters. He had been hoping to catch up with him outside and deal with him personally. But he knew another way to settle his score with Ronald Daniels.

  He returned to the private room and received a very favorable update from the amazed nurse.

  “She’s doing wonderfully—even spoke to me a moment ago! Such spirit!”

  “Thank you for your help, Miss Wiles,” Kusum said. “I don’t think we’ll be requiring your services any longer.”

  “But—”

  “Have no fear: You shall be paid for the entire eight-hour shift.” He went to the windowsill, took her purse and handed it to her. “You’ve done a wonderful job. Thank you.”

  Ignoring her confused protests, he guided her out the door and into the hall. As soon as he was sure she would not be returning out of some misguided sense of duty, he went to the bedside phone and dialed hospital information.

  “I’d like to know the room number of a patient,” he said when the operator picked up. “His name is Ronald Daniels. He was just admitted through the emergency room.”

  There was a pause, then: “Ronald Daniels is in 547C, North Wing.”

  Kusum hung up and leaned back in the chair. How to go about this? He had seen where the doctors’ lounge was located. Perhaps he could find a scrub suit there that would enable him to move more freely about the hospital.

  As he considered his options, he pulled a tiny glass vial from his pocket and removed the stopper. He sniffed the familiar herbal odor of the green liquid within, then resealed it.

  Mr. Ronald Daniels was in pain. He had suffered for his transgression. But not enough. No, not nearly enough.

  21

  “Help me!”

  Ron jerked awake. He’d just been drifting off into sleep.

  Goddamn that old bastard!

  Every time he started to fall asleep, the old fart yelled.

  Just my luck to get stuck in a ward with three geezers. He elbowed the call button. Where was that fucking nurse? He needed a shot.

 
The pain was a living thing, grinding Ron’s hands in its teeth and gnawing his arms all the way up to the shoulders. All he wanted to do was sleep, but the pain kept him awake. The pain and the oldest of his three ancient roommates, the one over by the window, the one the nurses called Tommy. Every so often, in between his foghorn snores, he’d let out a yell that would rattle the windows.

  Ron hit the call button again with his elbow. Because both his arms were resting in slings suspended from an overhead bar, the nurses had fastened the button to one of the side rails. He’d asked them over and over for another pain shot, but they kept giving him the same old shit: “Sorry, Mr. Daniels, but the doctor left orders for a shot every four hours and no more. You’ll have to wait.”

  Mr. Daniels … he could almost smile at that. His real name was Ronald Daniel Symes. Ron to his friends. He’d given the receptionist a phony name, a phony address, and told them his Blue Cross/Blue Shield card was at home in his wallet. And when they’d wanted to send him home, he’d told them how he lived alone and had no one to feed him or even help him open his apartment door.

  They’d bought the whole package. So now he had a place to stay, three meals a day, air conditioning, and when it was all over, he’d skip out and they could take their bill and shove it.

  Everything would be great if it wasn’t for the pain.

  “Help me!”

  The pain and Tommy.

  He hit the button again. Four hours had to be up. He needed that shot.

  The door to the room swung open and someone came in. Not a nurse. It was a guy. But he was dressed in white. Maybe a male nurse. Shit! He didn’t need no faggot trying to give him a bed bath in the middle of the night.

  But the guy only leaned over the bed and held out one of those tiny plastic medicine cups. Half an inch of colored liquid swirled in the bottom.

  “What’s this?”

  “For the pain.” The guy was dark and had some sort of accent.

  “I want a shot, clown!”

  “Not time yet for a shot. This will hold you until then.”

  “It better!”

  Ron let him tip the cup up to his lips. Funny tasting stuff. As he swallowed it, he noticed the guy’s left arm was missing. He pulled his head away.