The Tomb

by F. Paul Wilson

  The necklace was the clincher, though. Had Jack the slightest doubt about her identity, the silvery iron necklace with the two yellow stones laid it immediately to rest.

  She extended her hand from where she was seated on the couch. “It’s good to see you, Jack.”

  Her voice was rich and dark, like her; and her smile, so white and even, was breathtaking. She leaned forward, her breasts swelling against the thin fabric of her dress as it shaped itself around the minute nipple-bulge centered on each. She did not seem to have the slightest doubt as to who he was.

  “Ms. Bahkti,” he said, taking her hand. Her nails, like her lips, were a deep red, her dusky skin soft and smooth as polished ivory. His mind seemed to go blank. He really should say something more. “I see you haven’t lost your necklace.”

  That sounded good, didn’t it?

  “Oh, no. Mine stays right where it is!” She released his hand and patted the cushion next to her. “Come. Sit. We’ve much to talk about.”

  Close up, her eyes were wise and knowing, as if she’d absorbed all the wonders of her race and its timeless culture.

  The maître d’hôtel did not call a waiter but stood by quietly as Jack took his place beside Kolabati. It was possible that he was a very patient man, but Jack noticed that his eyes never left Kolabati.

  “May I get m’sieur something to drink?” he said when Jack was settled.

  Jack looked at Kolabati’s glass. “What’s that?”

  “Kir.”

  He wanted a beer, but this was the Waldorf. “I’ll have one of those.”

  She laughed. “Don’t be silly! I’ll bet you prefer beer.”

  “Well, yes. But only two kinds.”

  “Which are?”

  “Foreign and domestic.”

  She laughed again. “Do foreign.”

  “Okay. Corona—no lime.”

  What he really wanted was a Rolling Rock.

  “Very good.” The maître d’hôtel finally went away.

  “How’d you know I like beer?” The confidence with which she’d said it made him uneasy.

  “A lucky guess. I was sure you wouldn’t like kir.” She studied him. “So … you’re the man who retrieved the necklace. It was a seemingly impossible task, yet you did it. I owe you a debt of undying gratitude.”

  “It was only a necklace.”

  “A very important necklace.”

  “Maybe, but it’s not as if I saved her life or anything.”

  “Perhaps you did. Perhaps return of the necklace gave her the strength and the hope to go on living. It was very important to her. Our whole family wears them—every one of us. We’re never without them.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  Full of eccentricities, these Bahktis.

  The Corona arrived, delivered by the maître d’hôtel himself, who poured the first glassful, lingered a moment, then wandered off with obvious reluctance.

  “You realize, don’t you,” Kolabati said as Jack quaffed a few ounces, “that you have made two lifelong friends in the past twenty-four hours: my brother and myself.”

  “What about your grandmother?”

  “Her, too, of course. Do not take our gratitude lightly, Jack. Not mine. And especially not my brother’s—Kusum never forgets a favor or a slight.”

  “Just what does your brother do at the UN?”

  Jack hated small talk. He really wanted to know all about Kolabati, but didn’t want to appear too interested.

  “I’m not sure. A minor post.” She must have noticed Jack’s puzzled frown. “Yes, I know—he doesn’t seem to be a man who’d be satisfied with any sort of minor post. Believe me, he isn’t. Back home his name is known in every province.”

  “Why?”

  “He is the leader of a new Hindu fundamentalist movement. He and many others believe that India and Hinduism have become too westernized. He wants to return to the old ways. He’s been picking up a surprising number of followers over the years and developing considerable political clout.”

  “Sounds like the Christian Right over here. What is he—the Oral Roberts of India?”

  Kolabati’s expression became grim. “Perhaps more. His singleness of purpose can be frightening at times. Some feared his rapid rise to power, which was why everyone was shocked last year when he suddenly requested diplomatic assignment at the London Embassy. It was granted immediately—no doubt the government was delighted to have him out of the country. Recently he was transferred here to the UN—again at his request. I’m sure his followers and adversaries back home are mystified, but I know my brother. I’ll bet he’s getting enough international experience under his belt so he can go home and become a credible candidate for a major political office. But enough of Kusum…”

  Jack felt Kolabati’s hand against his chest, pushing him back against the cushions.

  “Get comfortable now,” she said, her dark eyes boring into him, “and tell me all about yourself. I want to know everything, especially how you came to be Repairman Jack.”

  Jack took another swallow of beer and forced himself to pause. He had a sudden urge to tell her everything, to open up his whole past to her. It frightened him. He never opened up to anyone except Abe. Why Kolabati? Perhaps it was because she already knew something about him; perhaps because she was so effusive in her gratitude for achieving the “impossible” and returning her grandmother’s necklace.

  Telling all was out of the question, but pieces of the truth wouldn’t hurt. The question was: what to tell, what to edit?

  “It just sort of happened.”

  “There had to be a first time. Start there. Tell me about it.”

  He settled into the cushions, adjusting his position until the lump of the holstered Glock sat comfortably in the small of his back, and began telling her about Mr. Canelli, his first fix-it customer.

  4

  Summer was drawing to a close. He was seventeen, still living in Johnson, New Jersey, a small, semirural town in Burlington County. His father was working as a CPA then, and his mother was still alive. His sister Kate was in the New Jersey State College of Medicine and his brother Tom had just earned his law degree from Seton Hall.

  On the corner down the street from his house lived Mr. Vito Canelli, a retired widower. From the time the ground thawed until it froze again, he worked in his yard. Especially on his lawn. He seeded and fertilized every couple of weeks, watered it daily. Mr. Canelli had the greenest lawn in the county. It was usually flawless. The only times it wasn’t was when someone cut the corner turning right off 541 onto Jack’s street. The first few times were probably accidents, but then some of the more vandalism-prone kids in the area started making a habit of it. Driving across “the old wop’s” lawn became a Friday and Saturday night ritual. Finally, old Mr. Canelli put up a three-foot white picket fence and that seemed to put an end to it. Or so he thought.

  It was early. Jack was walking up to the highway towing the family Toro behind him. For the past few summers he’d made his money doing gardening chores and cutting grass around town. He liked the work and liked even better the fact that he could adjust his hours almost any way he wished.

  When he came into view of Mr. Canelli’s yard he stopped and gaped.

  The picket fence was down—smashed and scattered all over the lawn in countless white splinters. The small flowering ornamental trees that blossomed in varied colors each spring—dwarf crabapples, dogwoods—had been broken off a foot above the ground. Yews and junipers were flattened and ground into the dirt. The plaster pink flamingos that everybody laughed about were shattered and crushed to powder. And the lawn … not just tire tracks across it—long, wide gouges up to six inches deep. Whoever had done it hadn’t been satisfied with simply driving across the lawn and flattening some grass; they’d skidded and slewed their car or cars around until the turf had been ripped to pieces.

  As Jack approached for a closer look, he saw a figure standing at the corner of the house looking out
at the ruins. It was Mr. Canelli. His shoulders were slumped and quaking. Sunlight glistened off the tears on his cheeks. Jack knew little about Mr. Canelli. He was a quiet man who bothered no one. He had no wife, no children or grandchildren around. All he had was his yard: his hobby, his work of art, the focus of what was left of his life. Jack knew from his own small-time landscaping jobs around town how much sweat was invested in a yard like that. No man should have to see that kind of effort wantonly destroyed. No man that age should be reduced to standing in his own yard and crying.

  Mr. Canelli’s helplessness unleashed something inside Jack. He’d lost his temper before, but the rage he felt within him at that moment bordered on insanity. His jaw was clamped so tightly his teeth ached; his entire body trembled as his muscles bunched into knots. He had a good idea of who’d done it and could confirm his suspicions with little difficulty. He had to fight off a wild urge to find them and run the Toro over their faces a few times.

  Reason won out. No sense landing himself in jail while they got to play the roles of unfortunate victims.

  Jack needed another way. And then, as he stood there, it leaped full-blown into his head. For years he’d done fix-its around town, but never anything formal. This would be different.

  He walked over to Mr. Canelli and said, “I can fix it for you.”

  The old man blotted his face with a handkerchief and glared at him. “Fix it. Why? So you and your friends can destroy it again?”

  “I’ll fix it so it never happens again.”

  Mr. Canelli looked at him a long time without speaking, then said, “Come inside. You tell me how you do this.”

  Jack didn’t give him all the details, just a list of the materials he would need. He added fifty dollars for labor. Mr. Canelli agreed but said he’d hold the fifty until he saw results. They shook hands and had a small glass of homemade red wine to seal the deal.

  Jack began the following day. He brought in three dozen small spreading yews and planted them three and a half feet apart along the perimeter of the corner lot while Mr. Canelli started restorative work on his lawn.

  They talked while they worked. Jack learned that the damage had been done by a smallish, low-riding, light-colored car and a dark van. Mr. Canelli hadn’t been able to get the license plate numbers. He’d called the police, but the vandals were long gone by the time one of the local cops came by. The police had been called before, but the incidents were so random and, until now, of such little consequence, that they hadn’t taken the complaints too seriously.

  The next step was to secure three dozen four-foot lengths of six-inch pipe and hide them in Mr. Canelli’s garage. They used a posthole digger to open a three-foot hole directly behind each yew. Late one night, Jack and Mr. Canelli mixed up a couple of bags of cement in the garage and filled each of the four-foot iron pipes. Three days later, again under cover of darkness, the cement-filled pipes were inserted into the holes behind the yews and the dirt packed tight around them. Each bush now had twelve to fifteen inches of makeshift lolly column hidden within its branches.

  The white picket fence was rebuilt around the yard and Mr. Canelli continued to work at getting his lawn back into shape. The only thing left for Jack to do was sit back and wait.

  It took a while. August ended. Labor Day passed, school began again. By the third week of September, Mr. Canelli had the yard graded again. The new grass had sprouted and was filling in nicely.

  And that, apparently, was what they’d been waiting for.

  The sounds of sirens awoke Jack at 1:30 on a Sunday morning. Red lights were flashing up at the corner by Mr. Canelli’s house. Jack pulled on his jeans and ran to the scene.

  Two first-aid rigs were pulling away as he approached the top of the block. Straight ahead a black van lay on its side by the curb. The smell of gasoline filled the air. In the wash of light from a street lamp overhead, he saw that the undercarriage was damaged beyond repair: The left front lower control arm was torn loose; the floor pan was ripped open exposing a bent drive shaft; the differential was knocked out of line, and the gas tank was leaking. A fire truck stood by, readying to hose down the area.

  He walked on toward the front of Mr. Canelli’s house where a yellow Camaro had stopped nose-on to the yard. The windshield was spiderwebbed with cracks and steam seeped around the edges of the sprung hood. A quick glance under the hood revealed a ruptured radiator, bent front axle, and cracked engine block.

  Mr. Canelli stood on his front steps. He waved Jack over and stuck a fifty-dollar bill into his hand.

  Jack stood beside him and watched until both vehicles were towed away, until the street had been hosed down, until the fire truck and police cars were gone. He was bursting inside. He felt he could leap off the steps and fly around the yard if he wished. He could not remember ever feeling so good. Nothing smokable, ingestible, or injectable would ever give him a high like this.

  He was hooked.

  5

  One hour, three Coronas, and two kirs later, it dawned upon Jack that he’d told much more than he’d intended. He’d gone on from Mr. Canelli to describe some of his more interesting fix-it jobs. Kolabati seemed to enjoy them all, especially the ones where he’d taken special pains to make the punishment fit the crime.

  A combination of factors had loosened his tongue. First of all was a feeling of privacy. He and Kolabati seemed to have the far end of this wing of Peacock Alley to themselves. The dozens of ongoing conversations in the wing blended into a susurrous undertone that wound around them, masking their words and making them indistinguishable from the rest.

  But most of all … Kolabati … so interested, so intent upon what he had to say that he kept talking, saying anything to keep that fascinated look in her eyes. He talked to her as he’d talked to no one else he could remember—except perhaps Abe, who’d learned about him over a period of years and had seen much of it happen. Kolabati was getting a big helping in one sitting.

  Throughout his narrative, Jack watched for her reaction, fearing she might turn away like Gia had. But Kolabati was obviously not like Gia. Her eyes fairly glowed with enthusiasm and … admiration.

  The time came, however, to shut up. He’d said enough. They sat for a quiet moment, toying with their empty glasses. Jack was about to ask her if she wanted a refill when she turned to him.

  “You don’t pay taxes, do you.”

  The statement startled him. Uneasy, he wondered how she knew.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I sense you are a self-made outcast. Am I right?”

  “‘Self-made outcast.’ I like that.”

  “Liking it is not the same as answering the question.”

  “I consider myself a sort of sovereign state. I don’t recognize other governments within my borders.”

  “But you’ve exiled yourself from more than the government. You live and work completely outside society. Why?”

  “I’m not an intellectual. I can’t give you a carefully reasoned manifesto. It’s just the way I want to live.”

  Her eyes bored into him. “I don’t accept that. Something cut you off. What was it?”

  This woman was uncanny. It seemed she could look into his mind and read all his secrets. Yes—an incident had caused him to withdraw from the rest of “civilized” society. But he couldn’t tell her about it. He felt at ease with Kolabati, but wasn’t about to confess to murder.

  “I’d rather not say.”

  She studied him. “Are your parents alive?”

  Jack felt his insides tighten. “Only my father.”

  “I see. Did your mother die of natural causes?”

  She can read minds! That’s the only explanation!

  “No. And I don’t want to say any more.”

  “Very well. But however you came to be what you are, I’m sure it was by honorable means.”

  Her confidence in him simultaneously warmed and discomfited him. He wanted to change the subject.

  “Hungry?”

&
nbsp; “Famished!”

  “Any place in particular you’d like to go? Know some Indian restaurants—”

  Her eyebrows arched. “If I were Chinese, would you offer me egg rolls? Am I dressed in a sari?”

  No. That clinging white dress looked like it came straight from a designer’s shop in Paris.

  “French, then?”

  “I lived in France a while. Please: I live in America now. I want American food. I want shrimp.”

  “I know a great seafood place up on West Eighty-sixth. I go there all the time. Mainly because when it comes to food I tend to be impressed more by quantity than by quality.”

  “Good. Then you know the way?”

  “I do,” Jack said, rising and presenting his arm. “Then let’s go.”

  She slipped into her shoes and was up and close beside him in a single liquid motion. Jack threw some bills on the table and started to walk away.

  “No receipt?” Kolabati asked with a sly smile. “I’m sure you can make tonight deductible.”

  “I use the short form.”

  She laughed. A delightful sound.

  On their way toward the front of Peacock Alley, Jack was very much aware of the warm pressure of Kolabati’s hand on the inside of his arm and around his biceps, just as he was aware of the veiled attention they drew from all sides as they passed.

  From Peacock Alley in the Waldorf on Park Avenue to Finn’s on the West Side—culture shock. But Kolabati moved from one stratum to the other as easily as she moved from garnish to garnish at the crowded salad bar where the attention she attracted was much more openly admiring than at the Waldorf. She seemed infinitely adaptable, and Jack found that fascinating. In fact, he found everything about her fascinating.