The Tomb

by F. Paul Wilson

  Kusum brightened. “You would come with me? That would be wonderful. I’m sure they would be glad to have you.”

  “Good.” A perfect opportunity to keep an eye on him. Now … to anger him. “But I’ll have to find something to wear.”

  “You will be expected to dress like a proper Indian woman.”

  “In a sari?” She laughed in his face. “You must be joking!”

  “I insist! Or I will not be seen with you!”

  “Fine. Then I’ll bring my own escort: Jack.”

  Kusum’s face darkened with rage. “I forbid it!”

  Kolabati moved closer to him. Now was the moment. She watched his eyes carefully.

  “What will you do to stop it? Send a rakosh after him as you did last night?”

  “A rakosh? After Jack?”

  Kusum’s eyes, his face, the way the cords of his neck tightened—they all registered shock and bafflement. He was the consummate liar when he wished to be, but Kolabati knew she’d caught him off guard, and everything in his reaction screamed the fact that he didn’t know.

  He didn’t know!

  “There was one outside his apartment window last night!”

  “Impossible!” His face still wore a bewildered expression. “I’m the only one who…”

  “Who what?”

  “Who has an egg.”

  Kolabati reeled. “You have it with you?”

  “Of course. Where could it be safer?”

  “In Bengal!”

  Kusum shook his head. He appeared to be regaining some of his composure. “No. I feel better when I know exactly where it is at all times.”

  “You had it with you when you were with the London Embassy too?”

  “Of course.”

  “What if it had been stolen?”

  He smiled. “Who would even know what it was?”

  With an effort, Kolabati mastered her confusion. “I want to see it. Right now.”

  “Certainly.”

  He led her into his bedroom and pulled a small wooden crate from a corner of the closet. He lifted the lid, pushed the excelsior aside, and there it was. Kolabati recognized the egg. She knew every blue mottle on its gray surface, knew the texture of its cool, slippery surface like her own skin. She brushed her fingertips over the shell. Yes, this was it: a female rakosh egg.

  Feeling weak, Kolabati backed away and sat on the bed.

  “Kusum, do you know what this means? Someone has a nest of rakoshi here in New York!”

  “Nonsense! This is the very last rakosh egg. It could be hatched, but without a male to fertilize the female, there could be no nest.”

  “Kusum, I know there was a rakosh there!”

  “Did you see it? Was it male or female?”

  “I didn’t actually see it—”

  “Then how can you say there are rakoshi in New York?”

  “The odor!” Kolabati felt her own anger rise. “Don’t you think I know the odor?”

  Kusum’s face had resolved itself into its usual mask. “You should. But perhaps you have forgotten, just as you have forgotten so many other things about our heritage.”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “The subject is closed as far as I’m concerned.”

  Kolabati rose and faced her brother. “Swear to me, Kusum. Swear that you had nothing to do with that rakosh last night.”

  “On the grave of our mother and father,” he said, looking her squarely in the eyes, “I swear that I did not send a rakosh after our friend Jack. There are people in this world I wish ill, but he is not one of them.”

  Kolabati had to believe him. His tone was sincere, and she knew of no more solemn oath for Kusum than the one he had just spoken.

  And there, intact on its bed of excelsior, sat the egg.

  As Kusum knelt to pack it away, he said, “Besides, if a rakosh were truly after Jack, his life wouldn’t be worth a paisa. I assume he is alive and well?”

  “Yes, he’s well. I protected him.”

  Kusum’s head snapped toward her. Hurt and anger raced across his features. He understood exactly what she meant.

  “Please leave me,” he said in a low voice as he faced away and lowered his head. “You disgust me.”

  Kolabati spun and left the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

  Would she never be free of this man? She was sick of Kusum. Sick of his self-righteousness, his inflexibility, his monomania. No matter how good she felt—and she felt good about Jack—he could always manage to make her feel dirty. They both had plenty to feel guilty about, but Kusum had become obsessed with atoning for past transgressions and cleansing his karma. Not just his own karma, but hers as well. She’d thought leaving India—to Europe first, then to America—would sever their relationship. But no. After years of no contact, he’d arrived on these same shores.

  She had to face it: She would never escape him. For they were bound by more than blood—the necklaces they wore linked them with a bond that went beyond time, beyond reason, even beyond karma.

  But there had to be a way out for her, a way to free herself from Kusum’s endless attempts to dominate her.

  Kolabati went to the window and looked out across the green expanse of Central Park. Jack was over there on the other side. Perhaps he was the answer. Perhaps he could free her.

  She reached for the phone.

  6

  “Even the moon’s frightened of me—frightened to death! The whole world’s frightened to death!”

  Jack was well into part three of the James Whale Festival—Claude Rains was getting ready to start his reign of terror as The Invisible Man.

  The phone rang. Jack picked up before his machine began its routine.

  “Where are you?” said Kolabati’s voice.

  “Home.”

  “But this is not the number on your phone.”

  “So you peeked, did you?”

  “I knew I’d want to call you.”

  It was good to hear her say that.

  “I had the number changed and never bothered to change the label.” He’d purposely left the old label in place.

  “I have a favor to ask you.”

  “Anything.” Almost anything.

  “The UK Mission is holding a reception tonight. Will you accompany me?”

  Jack mulled that for a few seconds. His first impulse was to refuse. He hated parties. He hated gatherings. And a gathering of UN types, the most useless people in the world … a grim prospect.

  “I don’t know…”

  “Please? As a personal favor? Otherwise I shall have to go with Kusum.”

  A choice then between seeing Kolabati and not seeing her … not a tough call.

  “Okay.”

  Besides, it would be fun to see Burkes’s face when he showed up at the reception. He might even rent a tux for the occasion. They set a time and a meeting place—for some reason, Kolabati didn’t want to be picked up at Kusum’s apartment—and then a question occurred to Jack.

  “By the way, what’s durba grass used for?”

  He heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. “Where did you find durba grass?”

  “I didn’t find any. As far as I know, it only grows in India. I just want to know if it’s used for anything.”

  “It has many uses in traditional Indian folk medicine.” She was speaking very carefully. “But where did you even hear about it?”

  “Came up in conversation this morning.” Why was she so concerned?

  “Stay away from it, Jack. Whatever it is you’ve found, stay away from it. At least until you see me tonight.”

  She hung up. Jack stared uneasily at his big TV screen on which an empty pair of trousers was silently chasing a terrified woman down an English country lane. Something strange about Kolabati’s voice at the end there. Almost sounded as if she were afraid for him.

  7

  “Stunning!” said the saleswoman.

  Vicky looked up from her book. “You look
pretty, Mommy.”

  “Smashing!” Nellie said. “Absolutely smashing!”

  She’d brought Gia to La Chanson. Nellie had always liked this particular boutique because it didn’t look like a dress shop. From the outside, with its canopied entrance, it looked more like a chic little restaurant. But the small display windows on either side of the door left little doubt as to what was sold within.

  She watched Gia standing before a mirror, examining herself in a black crepe strapless cocktail dress. Nellie liked it best of the four Gia had tried on. Gia was making no bones, however, about what she thought of the idea of Nellie buying her a dress. But it had been part of the deal, and Nellie had insisted that Gia hold up her end.

  Such a stubborn girl. Nellie had seen her examining all four dresses for a price tag, obviously intending to buy the cheapest one. But she hadn’t found one.

  Nellie smiled to herself. Keep looking, dearie. They don’t come with price tags here.

  It was only money, after all. And what was money?

  Nellie sighed, remembering what her father had told her about money when she was a girl. Those who don’t have enough of it are only aware of what it can buy them. When you finally have enough of it you become aware—acutely aware—of all the things it can’t buy … the really important things … like youth, health, love, peace of mind.

  She felt her lips quiver and tightened them into a firm line. All the Westphalen fortune could not bring her dear John back to life, nor bring Grace back from wherever she was.

  Nellie glanced to her right on the sofa to where Victoria sat next to her, reading a collection of Mutts funnies. The child had been unusually quiet, almost withdrawn since the arrival of the chocolates this morning. She hoped she hadn’t been too badly hurt. Nellie put her arm around her and squeezed. Victoria rewarded her with a smile.

  Dear, dear, Victoria. How did Richard ever father you?

  The thought of her nephew brought a bitter taste into her mouth. Richard Westphalen was living proof of what a curse wealth can be. Look what inheriting control of his father’s share of the fortune at such a young age had done to him. He might have been a different person—a decent person—if her brother Teddy had lived longer.

  Money! Sometimes she almost wished—

  The saleswoman was speaking to Gia: “Did you see anything else you’d like to try on?”

  Gia laughed. “About a hundred, but this is perfect.” She turned to Nellie. “What do you think?”

  Nellie studied her, delighted with the choice. The dress was perfect. The lines were simple, the black crepe accented her blond hair and clung everywhere it was supposed to.

  “You’ll be the toast of the diplomats.”

  “That’s a classic, my dear,” the saleswoman said.

  And it was. If Gia kept to her current perfect size six, she could probably wear this dress ten years from now and still look good. Which would probably suit Gia just fine. To Nellie’s mind, Gia’s taste in clothing left a lot to be desired. She wished Gia would dress more fashionably. She had a good figure—enough bust and the long waist and long legs designers dream about. She should have designer clothes.

  “Yes,” Gia said to the mirror. “This is the one.”

  The dress needed no alterations, so it was boxed up and Gia walked out with it under her arm. She hailed a cab for them on Third Avenue.

  “I want to ask you something,” Gia said sotto voce as they rode back to Sutton Square. “It’s been bothering me for two days now. It’s about the … inheritance you’re leaving Vicky; you mentioned something about it Thursday.”

  Nellie was startled for a moment. Had she spoken of the terms of her will? Yes … yes, she had. Her mind was so foggy lately.

  “What bothers you?” It wasn’t at all like Gia to bring up the subject of money.

  Gia smiled sheepishly. “Don’t laugh, but you mentioned a curse that went along with the Westphalen fortune.”

  “Oh, dearie,” Nellie said, relieved that was all that concerned her, “that’s just talk!”

  “You mean you made it up?”

  “Not I. It was just something Sir Albert was heard to mutter when he was in his dotage and in his cups.”

  “Sir Albert?”

  “My great-great grandfather. He was the one who actually started the fortune. It’s an interesting story. Back in the middle of the nineteenth century the family was in dire financial straits of some sort—I never knew the exact nature and I guess it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that shortly after his return from India, Sir Albert found an old diagram of the cellar of Westphalen Hall which led him to a huge cache of jewels hidden there since the Norman invasion. Westphalen Hall was saved. Most of the jewels were converted to cash, which was carefully invested, and the fortune has grown steadily since then.”

  “But what about the curse?”

  “Oh, pay no attention to that! I shouldn’t even have mentioned it! Something about the Westphalen line ending ‘in blood and pain,’ about ‘dark things’ that would come for us. But don’t worry, my dear. So far we’ve all lived long lives and died of natural causes.”

  Gia’s face relaxed. “That’s good to know.”

  “Don’t give it another thought.”

  But Nellie found her own thoughts dwelling on it.

  The Westphalen curse … she and Grace and Teddy used to joke about it. But if some of the stories were to be believed, Sir Albert had died a frightened old man, mortally afraid of the dark. It was said he spent his last years surrounded by guard dogs, and always kept a fire going in his room, even on the hottest nights.

  Nellie shivered. It had been easy to make jokes back then when they were young and there were three of them. But Teddy was long dead of leukemia; at least he hadn’t gone “in blood and pain.” More like fading away. And Grace was who knew where. Had some “dark thing” come for her? Could there possibly be something to—

  Rubbish! How can I let myself be frightened by the rantings of a crazy old man who’s been dead for a century?

  Still … Grace was gone and no one could explain that. Not yet.

  As they neared Sutton Square, Nellie felt anticipation mounting within her. There had been news of Grace while she was out—she was sure of it! She hadn’t budged from the house since Tuesday for fear of missing word from Grace. But wasn’t staying in the house like watching a pot? It wouldn’t boil until you turned your back on it. Leaving the house was the same thing: Grace had probably called as soon as they left Sutton Square.

  Nellie hurried up to the front door and rang the bell while Gia paid the driver. Her fists clenched of their own volition as she waited impatiently for the door to open.

  Grace is back! I know it! I just know it!

  But the hope shriveled and died when the door swung in and she saw Eunice’s grim face.

  “Any word?”

  The question was unnecessary. The sad, slow shake of Eunice’s head told Nellie what she already knew. Suddenly she felt exhausted, as if all her energy had been drained off.

  She turned to Gia as she came in the door with Victoria. “I can’t go tonight.”

  “You must,” Gia said, throwing an arm around her shoulders. “What happened to that British stiff upper lip and all that attitude? What would Sir Albert think if you just sat around and moped all night?”

  Nellie appreciated what Gia was trying to do, but she truly did not give a damn about what Sir Albert might have thought.

  “And what am I going to do with this dress?” Gia went on.

  “The dress is yours,” Nellie said morosely. She didn’t have the will to put on a facade.

  “Not if we don’t go tonight, it isn’t. I’ll take it back to La Chanson right now unless you promise me we’re going.”

  “That’s not fair. I can’t go. Can’t you see that?”

  “No, I can’t see that at all. What would Grace think? You know she’d want you to go.”

  Would she? Nellie thought about that. Knowing Grace, yes, s
he would want her to go. Grace was always one for keeping up appearances. No matter how bad you felt, you kept up your social obligations. And you never, never made a spectacle of your feelings.

  “Do it for Grace,” Gia said.

  Nellie managed a little smile. “Very well, we shall go, although I can’t guarantee how stiff my upper lip shall be.”

  “You’ll do fine.”

  Gia gave her one last hug, then released her. Victoria was calling from the kitchen, asking her mother to cut an orange for her. Gia hurried off, leaving Nellie alone in the foyer.

  How will I do this? It has always been Grace and Nellie, Nellie and Grace, the two as one, always together. How will I do it without her?

  Feeling very old, Nellie started up the stairs to her room.

  8

  Nellie had neglected to tell her who the reception was for, and Gia never did find out. She got the impression it was to welcome a new high-ranking official to the Mission.

  The affair, while hardly exciting, was not nearly as deadly dull as Gia had expected. The Harley House, where it was being held, was convenient to the UN and a short drive from Sutton Square. Even Nellie seemed to enjoy herself after a while. Only the first fifteen minutes or so were rough on the old woman, for immediately upon her arrival she was surrounded by a score of people asking after Grace and expressing their concern. All were members of that unofficial club of wealthy British citizens living in New York, “the colony within the Colonies.”

  Buoyed by the sympathy and encouragement of her fellow Brits, Nellie perked up, drank some champagne, and actually began to smile. Gia gave herself a pat on the back for refusing to allow her to cancel out tonight. This was her good deed for the day. The year.

  Not such a bad crowd after all, Gia decided after an hour or so. The numerous nationalities, all well dressed, friendly, and polite, offered a smorgasbord of accents. The new dress fit her beautifully and she felt very feminine. She was aware of the admiring glances she drew from more than a few of the guests, and she enjoyed that.

  She was nearly finished with her third fluted glass of champagne—she knew nothing about champagne but this was delicious—when Nellie grabbed her by the arm and pulled her toward two men standing off to the side. Gia recognized the shorter of the pair as Edward Burkes, security chief at the Mission. The taller man was dark, dressed all in white. When he turned she noticed with a start that he had no left arm.