The Tomb

by F. Paul Wilson

  She heard the door open behind her and knew it was Mommy.

  That was okay. She’d stopped crying now. She was all right now. But when she turned and saw that sad, pitying look on Mommy’s face, it all came out again and she burst into tears. Mommy squeezed into the little rocker and sat her on her knee and held her tight until the sobs went away. This time for good.

  3

  “Why doesn’t Daddy love us anymore?”

  The question startled Gia. Vicky had asked her countless times why Daddy didn’t live with them any more. But this was the first time she’d mentioned love.

  Answer a question with another question: “Why do you say that?”

  But Vicky was not to be sidetracked.

  “He doesn’t love us, does he, Mommy.” It was not a question.

  No. He doesn’t. I don’t think he ever did.

  That was the truth. Richard had never been a father. As far as he was concerned, Vicky had been an accident, a terrible inconvenience to him. He’d never shown affection to her, had never been a presence in their home when they had lived together. He might as well have phoned in his paternal duties.

  Gia sighed and hugged Vicky tighter. What an awful time that had been … the worst years of her life. Gia had been brought up a strict Catholic, and although the days had become one long siege of Gia and Vicky alone against the world, and the nights—those nights when her husband bothered to come home—had been a battlefield, she’d never considered divorce. Not until the night when Richard, in a particularly vicious mood, had told her why he’d married her. She was as good as anyone else for rutting when he was randy, he’d said, but the real reason was taxes.

  Immediately after the death of his father, Richard had gone to work transferring his assets out of Britain and into either American or international holdings, all the while looking for an American to marry. He’d found such an American in Gia, fresh in from the Midwest looking to sell her commercial art talents to Madison Avenue. The urbane Richard Westphalen, with his refined British manners and accent, had swept her off her feet. They were married; he became an American citizen. There were other ways he could have acquired citizenship, but they were lengthy and this was more in keeping with his character. The earnings of his portion of the Westphalen fortune would from then on be taxed at the much lower US rate rather than the British government’s ninety plus percent. After that, he quickly lost interest in her.

  “We might have had some fun for a while,” he said, “but you had to go and become a mother.”

  Those words had seared themselves onto her brain. She started divorce proceedings the following day, ignoring her lawyer’s increasingly strident pleas for a whopping property settlement.

  Perhaps she should have listened. Later she often would wonder about that. But at the time all she wanted was out. She wanted nothing that came from his precious family fortune. She allowed her lawyer to ask for child support only because she knew she would need it until she revived her art career.

  Was Richard contrite? Did the smallest mote of guilt come to rest on the featureless, diamond-hard surface of his conscience? No. Did he do anything to secure a future for the child he’d fathered? No. In fact, he instructed his lawyer to fight for minimal child support.

  “No, Vicky,” Gia said, “I don’t think he does.”

  Gia expected tears, but Vicky fooled her by smiling up at her.

  “Jack loves us.”

  Not this again.

  “I know he does, honey, but—”

  “Then why can’t he be my daddy?”

  “Because…” How was she going to say this? “Because sometimes love just isn’t enough. There have to be other things. You have to trust each other, have the same values—”

  “What are values?”

  “Ohhh … you have to believe in the same things, want to live the same way.”

  “I like Jack.”

  “I know you do, honey. But that doesn’t mean Jack is the right man to be your new father.”

  Vicky’s blind devotion to Jack undermined Gia’s confidence in the child’s character judgment. She was usually pretty astute.

  She lifted Vicky off her lap and rose to a hands-on-knees crouch. The heat in the playhouse was suffocating.

  “Let’s go inside and get some lemonade.”

  “Not right now,” Vicky said. “I want to play with Ms. Jelliroll. She’s got to hide before Mr. Grape-grabber finds her.”

  “Okay. But come in soon. It’s getting too hot.”

  Vicky didn’t answer. She was already lost in a fantasy with her dolls.

  Gia stood outside the playhouse and wondered if Vicky might be spending too much time alone here. She had no children around here to play with, just her mother, an elderly aunt, and her books and dolls. Gia wanted to get Vicky back home and into a normal routine as soon as possible.

  “Miss Gia?” Eunice called from the back door. “Mrs. Paton says lunch will be early today because of your trip to the dress shop.”

  Gia bit down on the middle knuckle of her right index finger, a gesture of frustration she’d picked up from her grandmother many years ago.

  The dress shop … the reception tonight … two places she most definitely did not want to go, but would have to because she’d promised.

  She had to get out of here.

  4

  Joey Diaz placed the little bottle of green liquid on the table between them.

  “Where’d you get hold of this stuff, Jack?”

  Jack was buying Joey a late lunch at a midtown Burger King. They had a corner booth, each was munching on a Whopper. Joey, a Filipino with a bad case of postadolescent acne, was a contact Jack treasured. He worked in the city Health Department lab. In the past, Jack had used him mostly for information and for suggestions on how to bring down the wrath of the Health Department upon the heads of certain targets of his fix-it work. Yesterday was the first time he’d asked Joey to run an analysis for him.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  Jack had been finding it hard to concentrate on Joey or the food. His mind had been on Kolabati and how she’d made him feel last night. From there it flowed to the odor that had crept into the apartment and her bizarre reaction to it. His thoughts kept drifting away from Joey, and so it was easy to appear laid-back about the analysis. He’d been playing everything low-key for Joey. No big thing—just see if there’s anything really useful in it.

  “Nothing wrong, exactly.” Joey had a bad habit of talking with his mouth full. Most people would swallow, then talk before the next bite; Joey preferred to sip his Coke between swallows, take another big bite, then talk. As he leaned forward, Jack leaned back. “But it ain’t gonna help you shit.”

  “Not a laxative? What will it help me do? Sleep?”

  He shook his head and filled his mouth with fries. “Not a chance.”

  Jack drummed his fingers on the grease-patinated, wood-grained Formica. Damn. It had occurred to him that the tonic might be some sort of sedative used to put Grace into a deep sleep so she wouldn’t make a fuss when her abductors—if in fact she had been abducted—came by and snatched her. So much for that possibility.

  He waited for Joey to go on, hoping he would finish his Whopper first. No such luck.

  “I don’t think it does anything,” he said around his last mouthful. “It’s just a crazy conglomeration of odd stuff. None of it makes sense.”

  “In other words, somebody just threw a lot of junk together to sell for whatever ails you. Some sort of Dr. Feel-good tonic.”

  Joey shrugged. “Maybe. But if that’s the case, they could have done it a lot cheaper. Personally, I think it was put together by someone who believed in the mixture. It’s got crude flavorings and a twelve percent alcohol vehicle. Nothing special—I had them pegged in no time. But there was this strange alkaloid that I had the damnedest—”

  “What’s an alkaloid? Sounds like poison.”

  “Some of them are, like strychnine; others you take
every day, like caffeine. They’re almost always derived from plants. This one came from a doozy. Wasn’t even in the computer. Took me most of the morning to track it down.” He shook his head. “What a way to spend a Saturday morning.”

  Jack smiled to himself. Joey was going to ask a little extra for this job. That was okay. If it kept him happy, it was worth it.

  “So where’s it from?” he asked, watching with relief as Joey washed down the last of his lunch.

  “It’s from a kind of grass.”

  “Dope?”

  “Naw. A nonsmoking kind called durba grass. And this particular alkaloid isn’t exactly a naturally occurring thing. It was cooked in some way to add an extra amine group. That’s what took me so long.”

  “So it’s not a laxative, not a sedative, not a poison. What is it?”

  “Beats the hell out of me.”

  “This is not exactly a big help to me, Joey.”

  “What can I say?” Joey ran a hand through his lanky black hair, scratched at a pimple on his chin. “You wanted to know what was in it. I told you: some crude flavorings, an alcohol vehicle, and an alkaloid from an Indian grass.”

  Jack felt something twist inside him. Memories of last night exploded around him.

  “Indian? You mean American Indian, don’t you?” knowing even as he spoke that Joey had not meant that at all.

  “Of course not. That would be North American grass. No, this stuff is from India, the subcontinent. A tough compound to track down. Never would have figured it out if the department computer hadn’t referred me to the right textbook.”

  India. How strange. After spending a number of delirious hours last night with Kolabati, to learn that the bottle of liquid found in a missing woman’s room was probably compounded by an Indian. Strange indeed.

  Or perhaps not so strange. Grace and Nellie had close ties to the UK Mission and through there to the diplomatic community that centered around the UN. Perhaps someone from the Indian Consulate had given Grace the bottle—perhaps Kusum himself. After all, wasn’t India once a British colony?

  “Afraid it’s really an innocent little mixture, Jack. If you’re looking to sic the Health Department on whoever’s peddling it as a laxative, I think you’d be better off going to the Department of Consumer Affairs.”

  And Jack had been hoping the little bottle would yield a dazzling clue that would lead him directly to Aunt Grace, making him a hero in Gia’s eyes.

  So much for hunches.

  He asked Joey what he thought his unofficial analysis was worth, paid the hundred and fifty, and headed back to his apartment with the little bottle in the front pocket of his jeans.

  As he rode the bus uptown, he tried to figure what he should do next on the Grace Westphalen thing. He’d spent much of the morning tracking down and talking to a few more of his street contacts, but no leads. No one had heard a thing. He couldn’t think of any new avenues at the moment.

  Other thoughts pushed their way to the fore.

  Kolabati again. She filled his mind. Why? As he tried to analyze it, he came to see that the sexual spell she’d cast on him last night was only a small part of it. More important was the realization that she knew who he was, knew how he made a living, and somehow was able to accept it.

  No … accept wasn’t the right word. It almost seemed as if she looked on his lifestyle as a perfectly natural way of living. One that she wouldn’t mind for herself.

  Jack knew he was on the rebound from Gia, knew he was vulnerable, especially to someone who appeared to be as open minded as Kolabati. Almost against his will, he’d laid himself bare for her, and she’d found him … “honorable.”

  She wasn’t afraid of him.

  He had to call her.

  But first he had to call Gia. He owed her some sort of progress report, even with no progress. He dialed the Paton number as soon as he reached his apartment.

  “Any word on Grace?” he said after Gia was called to the other end.

  “No.” Her voice didn’t seem nearly as cool as it had yesterday. Or was that just his imagination? “I hope you’ve got some good news. We could use it around here.”

  “Well…” Jack grimaced. He really wished he had something encouraging to tell her. He was almost tempted to make up something, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. “You know that stuff we thought was a laxative? It isn’t.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “Nothing. A dead end.”

  There was a pause on the other end, then, “Where do you go from here?”

  “I wait.”

  “Nellie’s already doing that. She doesn’t need any help waiting.”

  Her sarcasm stung.

  “Look, Gia, I’m not a detective—”

  “I’m well aware of that.”

  “—and I never promised to do a Sherlock Holmes number on this. If there’s a ransom note or something like that in the mail, I may be able to help. I’ve got people on the street keeping their ears open, but until something breaks…”

  The silence on the other end of the line was nerve-wracking.

  “Sorry, Gia. That’s all I can tell you now.”

  “I’ll tell Nellie. Good-bye, Jack.”

  After a moment of deep breathing to calm himself, he dialed Kusum’s number. A now-familiar female voice answered.

  “Kolabati?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Jack.”

  A gasp. “Jack! I can’t talk now. Kusum’s coming. I’ll call you later!” She took his phone number and then hung up.

  Jack sat and looked at the wall in bewilderment. Idly, he pressed the replay button on his answering machine. His father’s voice came out of the speaker.

  “Just want to remind you about the tennis match tomorrow. Don’t forget to get here by ten. The tournament starts at noon.”

  This had all the makings of a very bad weekend.

  5

  With trembling fingers, Kolabati pulled the jack clip from the back of the phone. Another minute or two from now and Jack’s call would have ruined everything. She wanted no interruptions when she confronted Kusum. It was taking all her courage, but she intended to face her brother and wring the truth from him. She would need time to position him for her assault … time and concentration. He was a master dissembler and she would have to be as circumspect and as devious as he if she was going to trap him into the truth.

  She’d even chosen her attire for maximum effect. Although she played neither well nor often, she found tennis clothes comfortable. She was dressed in a white sleeveless shirt and shorts set by Boast. She wore her necklace, of course, exposed through the fully open collar of her shirt. Much of her skin was exposed: another weapon against Kusum.

  At the sound of the elevator door opening down the hall, the tension gathering since she’d seen him step from the taxi on the street below balled itself into a tight, hard knot in the pit of her stomach.

  Oh, Kusum. Why does it have to be like this? Why can’t you let it go?

  As the key turned in the lock, she forced herself into an icy calm.

  He opened the door, saw her, and smiled.

  “Bati!” He came over as if to put his arm around her shoulders, then seemed to think better of it. Instead, he ran a finger along her cheek. Kolabati willed herself not to shrink from his touch. He spoke in Bengali. “You’re looking better every day.”

  “Where were you all night, Kusum?”

  He stiffened. “I was out. Praying. I have learned to pray again. Why do you ask?”

  “I was worried. After what happened—”

  “Do not fear for me on that account,” he said with a tight smile. “Pity instead the one who tries to steal my necklace.”

  “Still I worry.”

  “Do not.” He was becoming visibly annoyed now. “As I told you when you first arrived, I have a place I go to read my Gita in peace. I see no reason to change my routines simply because you are here.”

  “I wouldn’t expect such a thing.
I have my life to lead, you have yours.” She brushed past him and moved toward the door. “I think I’ll go for a walk.”

  “Like that?” His eyes were racing up and down her minimally clad body. “With your legs completely exposed and your blouse unbuttoned?”

  “This is America.”

  “But you are not an American! You are a woman of India! A Brahmin! I forbid it!”

  Good—he was getting angry.

  “You can’t forbid, Kusum,” she said with a smile. “You no longer tell me what to wear, what to eat, how to think. I am free of you. I’ll make my own decisions today, just as I did last night.”

  “Last night? What did you do last night?”

  “I had dinner with Jack.”

  She watched him closely for his reaction. He seemed confused for an instant, and that wasn’t what she expected.

  “Jack who?” Then his eyes widened. “You don’t mean—?”

  “Yes. Repairman Jack. I owe him something, don’t you think?”

  “An American—!”

  “Worried about my karma? Well, dear brother, my karma is already polluted, as is yours—especially yours—for reasons we both know too well.” She averted her thoughts from that. “And besides,” she said, tugging on her necklace, “what does karma mean to one who wears this?”

  “A karma can be cleansed,” Kusum said in a subdued tone. “I am trying to cleanse mine.”

  The sincerity of his words struck her and she grieved for him. Yes, he did want to remake his life; she could see that. But by what means was he going about it? Kusum had never shied away from extremes.

  It suddenly occurred to Kolabati that this might be the moment to catch him off guard, but it passed. Besides, better to have him angry. She needed to know where he would be tonight. She did not intend to let him out of her sight.

  “What are your plans for tonight, brother? More prayer?”

  “Of course. But not until late. I must attend a reception hosted by the UK Mission at eight.”

  “That sounds interesting. Would they mind if I came along?”