The Tomb

by F. Paul Wilson

  It wouldn’t wash. It hadn’t been someone else. It had been him. Jack. No one else. And he hadn’t been in a fog or a fugue or consumed by a red haze of rage. He remembered every detail, every word, every move with crystal clarity.

  No guilt. No remorse. That was the truly frightening part: The realization that if he could go back and relive those moments he wouldn’t change a thing.

  He knew that afternoon as he sat hunched on the edge of the bed that his life would never be the same. The young man in the mirror today was not the same one he’d seen there yesterday. Everything looked subtly different. The angles and curves of his surroundings hadn’t changed; faces and architecture and geography all stayed topographically the same. But someone had shifted the lighting. Shadows lurked where once there had been light.

  Jack returned to Rutgers but college no longer seemed to make any sense. He could sit and laugh and drink with his friends, but he no longer felt a part of them. He was one step removed. He could still see and hear them, but could no longer touch them, as if a glass wall had risen between him and everyone he thought he knew.

  He searched for a way to make some sense of it all. He went through the existentialist canon, devouring Camus and Sartre and Kierkegaard. Camus seemed to know the questions Jack was asking, but he gave no answers.

  Jack started flunking courses. He drifted away from his friends. Finally he saw no point in continuing the charade. He took all his savings and disappeared without telling anyone, including his family—especially his family—where he was going. He moved to New York where he took odd jobs to survive, and made contacts, started getting fix-it work with a gradually escalating level of danger and violence. He learned how to pick locks and pick the right gun and ammo for any given situation, how to break into a house and break an arm. He’d been there ever since.

  Everyone, including his father, blamed the change on the death of his mother. In a very roundabout way, they were right.

  14

  The overpass receded in his rearview mirror, and with it the memory of that night.

  Jack wiped his sweaty palms against his slacks. He wondered where he’d be and what he’d be doing now if Ed had dropped that cinder block a half second earlier or later, bouncing it harmlessly off the hood or roof of his folks’ car. Half a second would have meant the difference between life and death for his mother—and for Ed. Jack would have finished school, had a regular job by now, with regular hours, and maybe even a wife and kids. Stability, identity, security.

  And he’d be able to drive under that overpass without reliving two deaths.

  Jack came through the Lincoln Tunnel and headed directly cross town. He drove past Sutton Square and saw a blue-and-white unit parked outside Nellie’s townhouse. After making a U-turn under the bridge, he drove back down to the mid-Fifties and parked near a hydrant on Sutton Place South. He waited and watched. Before too long he saw the blue-and-white pull out and head uptown. He cruised around until he found a working pay phone and used it to call Nellie’s.

  “Hello?” Gia’s voice was tense, expectant.

  “It’s Jack, Gia. Everything okay?”

  “No.” She seemed to relax. Now she just sounded tired.

  “Police gone?”

  “Just left.”

  “I’m coming over—that is, if you don’t mind.”

  Jack expected an argument and some abuse; instead, Gia said, “No, I don’t mind.”

  “Be there in a minute.”

  He got back into the car, pulled the Semmerling from under the seat and strapped it to his ankle. Gia hadn’t given him an argument. She must be terrified.

  15

  Gia had never thought she’d be glad to see Jack again. But when she opened the door and found him standing there, it required all her reserve to keep from leaping into his arms.

  The police had been no help. In fact, the two officers who finally showed up in response to her call had acted as if she was wasting their time. They’d given the house a cursory once-over inside and out, seen no sign of forced entry, hung around asking a few questions, then they’d gone, leaving her alone with Vicky in this big empty house.

  Jack stepped into the foyer. For a moment it seemed he would lift his arms and hold them out to her. Instead, he turned and closed the door behind him. He looked tired.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’m fine.”

  “Vicky, too?”

  “She’s asleep.” Gia felt as ill at ease as Jack looked.

  “What happened?”

  She told him about Vicky’s nightmare and her subsequent search of the house for Nellie.

  “The police find anything?”

  “Nothing. ‘No sign of foul play,’ as they so quaintly put it. I believe they think Nellie’s gone off to meet Grace somewhere on some kind of senile lark!”

  “Is that possible?”

  Gia’s immediate reaction was anger that Jack could even consider such a thing, then realized that to someone who didn’t know Nellie and Grace the way she did, it might seem as good an explanation as any.

  “No. Utterly impossible.”

  “Okay. I’ll take your word for it. How about the alarm system?”

  “The first floor was set. As you know, they had the upper levels disconnected.”

  “So it’s the same as with Grace: The Lady Vanishes.”

  “I don’t think this is the time for cute movie references, Jack.”

  He nodded. “You’re right. Sorry. Let’s take a look at her room.”

  As Gia led him up to the second floor, she realized that for the first time since she’d seen Nellie’s empty bed, she was beginning to relax. Jack exuded competence. He had an air about him that made her feel things were finally under control here, that nothing was going to happen without his say-so.

  He wandered through Nellie’s bedroom in a seemingly nonchalant manner, but she noticed that his eyes constantly darted about, and that he never touched anything with his fingertips—with the side or back of a hand, with the flat edge of a fingernail or knuckle, but never in any way that might conceivably leave a print. All of which served as an uncomfortable reminder of Jack’s state of mind and his relationship with the law.

  He nudged the French doors open with a foot. Warm humid air swam into the room.

  “Did the cops unlock this?”

  Gia shook her head. “No. It wasn’t even latched, just closed over.”

  Jack stepped out onto the tiny balcony and looked over the railing.

  “Just like Grace’s,” he said. “Did they check below?”

  “They were out there with flashlights—said there was no sign that a ladder or the like had been used.”

  “Just like Grace.” He came in and elbowed the doors closed. “Doesn’t make sense. And the oddest part is that you wouldn’t have found out she was gone until sometime tomorrow if it hadn’t been for Vicky’s nightmare.” He looked at her. “You’re sure it was a nightmare? Is it possible she heard something that woke her up and scared her and you only thought it was a nightmare?”

  “Oh, it was a nightmare, all right. She thought Mr. Grape-grabber was stealing Ms. Jelliroll.” Gia’s insides gave a small lurch as she remembered Vicky’s scream—“She even thought she saw him in the backyard.”

  Jack stiffened. “She saw someone?”

  “Not someone. Mr. Grape-grabber. Her doll.”

  “Go through it all step-by-step, from the time you awoke until you called the police.”

  “I went through it all for those two cops.”

  “Do it again for me. Please. It may be important.”

  Gia told him of awakening to Vicky’s screams, of looking out the window and seeing nothing, of going down to Nellie’s room …

  “One thing I didn’t mention to the police was the smell in the room.”

  “Perfume? Aftershave?”

  “No. A rotten smell.” Recalling the odor made her uneasy. “Putrid.”

  Jack’s face tig
htened. “Like a dead animal?”

  “Yes. Exactly. How did you know?”

  “Lucky guess.” He now seemed tense. He went into Nellie’s bathroom and checked all the bottles. He didn’t seem to find what he was looking for. “Did you catch that odor anywhere else in the house?”

  “No. What’s so important about an odor?”

  He turned to her. “I’m not sure. But remember what I told you this morning?”

  “You mean about not drinking anything strange like Grace’s laxative?”

  “Right. Did Nellie buy anything like that? Or did anything like it come to the house?”

  Gia thought for a moment. “No … the only thing we’ve received lately is a box of chocolates from my ex-husband.”

  “For you?”

  “Hardly! For Nellie. They’re her favorite. Seem to be a pretty popular brand. Nellie mentioned them to your Indian lady’s brother last night.” Was that just last night? It seemed so long ago. “He called today to find out where he could order some.”

  Jack’s eyebrows rose. “Kusum?”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “Just that he doesn’t strike me as a chocolate fan. More like a brown-rice-and-water type.”

  Gia knew what he meant. Kusum had ascetic written all over him.

  As they walked back into the hall, Jack said, “What’s this Mr. Grape-grabber look like?”

  “Like a purple Snidely Whiplash. I’ll get it for you.”

  She led Jack up to the third floor and left him outside in the hall while she tiptoed over to the night table and picked up the doll.

  “Mommy?”

  Gia started at the unexpected sound. Vicky had a habit of doing that. Late at night, when she should be sound asleep, she would let her mother walk in and bend over to kiss her good night; at the last moment she would open her eyes and say, “Hi.” It was spooky sometimes.

  “Yes, honey?”

  “I heard you talking downstairs. Is Jack here?”

  Gia hesitated, but could see no way to get out of telling her.

  “Yes. But I want you to lie there and go back to—”

  Too late. Vicky was out of bed and running for the hall.

  “Jack-Jack-Jack!”

  He had her up in his arms and she was hugging him by the time Gia reached the hall.

  “Hiya, Vicks.”

  “Oh, Jack, I’m so glad you’re here! I was so scared before.”

  “So I heard. Your mommy said you had a bad dream.”

  As Vicky launched into her account of Mr. Grape-grabber’s plots against Ms. Jelliroll, Gia marveled again at the rapport between Jack and her daughter. They were like old friends. At a time like this she sorely wished Jack were a different sort of man. Vicky so needed a father. But not one whose work required guns and knives.

  Jack held his hand out to Gia for the doll. Mr. Grape-grabber was made of plastic; a lean, wiry fellow with long arms and legs, entirely purple but for his face and a black top hat. Jack studied the doll.

  “He does sort of look like Snidely Whiplash. Put a crow on his shoulder and he’d be Will Eisner’s Mr. Carrion.” He held the doll up to Vicky. “Is this the guy you thought you saw outside?”

  “Yes,” Vicky said, nodding. “Only he wasn’t wearing his hat.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  “I couldn’t see. All I could see was his eyes. They were yellow.”

  Jack started violently, almost dropping Vicky. Gia instinctively reached out a hand to catch her daughter in case she fell.

  “Jack, what’s the matter?”

  He smiled—weakly, she thought.

  “Nothing. Just a spasm in my arm from playing tennis. Gone now.” He looked at Vicky. “But about those eyes—it must have been a cat you saw. Mr. Grape-grabber doesn’t have yellow eyes.”

  Vicky nodded vigorously. “He did tonight. So did the other one.”

  Gia was watching Jack and could swear a sick look passed over his face. It worried her because it was not an expression she ever expected to see there.

  “Other one?” he said.

  “Uh-huh. Mr. Grape-grabber must have brought along a helper.”

  Jack was silent a moment, then he hefted Vicky in his arms and carried her back into the bedroom.

  “Time for sleep, Vicks. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Vicky made some halfhearted protests as he left the bedroom, then rolled over and lay quiet as soon as Gia tucked her in.

  Jack was nowhere in sight when Gia returned to the hall. She found him downstairs in the walnut-paneled library, working on the alarm box with a tiny screwdriver.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Reconnecting the upper floors. This should have been done right after Grace disappeared. There! Now no one gets in or out without raising Cain.”

  Gia could tell he was hiding something from her.

  “What do you know?”

  “Nothing.” He continued to study the insides of the box. “Nothing that makes any sense, anyway.”

  That wasn’t what Gia wanted to hear. She wanted someone—anyone—to make some sense out of what had happened here this past week. Something Vicky said had disturbed Jack.

  “Maybe it will make sense to me.”

  “I doubt it.”

  Gia flared into anger. “I’ll be the judge of that! Vicky and I have been here most of the week and we’ll probably have to stay here a few more days in case there’s any word from Nellie. If you’ve got any information about what’s going on here, I want to hear it!”

  Jack looked at her for the first time since she’d entered the room.

  “Okay. Here it is: There’s been a rotten smell that has come and gone in my apartment for the last two nights. And last night I saw two sets of yellow eyes looking in the window of my TV room.”

  “But Jack … you’re on the third floor!”

  “They were there.”

  Gia felt something twist inside her. She sat down on the settee and shivered.

  “God! That gives me the creeps!”

  “It had to be cats.”

  Gia looked at him and knew that he didn’t believe that. She pulled her robe more tightly about her. She wished she hadn’t demanded to know what he was thinking, and wished even more that he hadn’t told her.

  “Right,” she said, playing along with the game. “Cats. Had to be.”

  Jack stretched and yawned—like a big cat—as he moved toward the center of the room. “It’s late and I’m tired. Think it’d be all right if I spent the night?”

  Gia bottled a sudden gush of relief to keep it from showing on her face.

  “I suppose so.”

  “Good.” He settled into Nellie’s recliner and pushed it all the way back. “I’ll just bed down here while you go up with Vicky.”

  He turned on the reading lamp next to the chair and reached for a magazine from the pile next to the dish full of the Black Magic chocolates. Gia felt a lump swell in her throat at the thought of Nellie’s childlike glee at receiving that box of candy.

  “Need a blanket?”

  “No. I’m fine. I’ll just read for a little while. Good night.”

  Gia rose and walked toward the door.

  “Good night.”

  Leaving Jack in a pool of light in the center of the darkened room, she hurried up to Vicky’s side and snuggled against her, hunting sleep. But despite the quiet and the knowledge that Jack was on guard downstairs, sleep never came.

  Jack … he’d come when needed and had single-handedly accomplished what the New York Police Department had been unable to do: made her feel safe tonight. Without him she would have spent the remaining hours till daylight in a shuddering panic.

  She fought a growing urge to be with him, but found herself losing. Vicky breathed slowly and rhythmically at her side. She was safe. They all were safe now that the alarm system was working again.

  Gia slipped out of bed and stole downstairs, taking a lightweight summer blanket with her. S
he hesitated at the door to the library. What if he rejected her? She’d been so cold to him … what if he…?

  Only one way to find out.

  She stepped inside the door and found Jack looking at her. He must have heard her come down.

  “Sure you don’t need a blanket?” she asked.

  His expression was serious. “I could use someone to share it with me.”

  Her mouth dry, Gia went to the chair and stretched herself alongside Jack; he spread the blanket over both of them. Neither spoke. There was nothing to say, at least for her. All she could do was lie beside him and contain the hunger within her.

  After an eternity, Jack lifted her chin and kissed her. It must have taken as much courage to do that as it had taken her to come down to him. Gia let herself respond, releasing all her pent-up need. She pulled at his clothes, he lifted her nightgown, and then nothing separated them. She clung to him as if to keep him from being torn away from her. This was it, this was what she needed, this was what had been missing from her life.

  God help her, this was the man she wanted.

  16

  Jack lay back in the recliner and tried unsuccessfully to sleep. Gia had taken him completely by surprise tonight. They’d made love twice—furiously the first time, more leisurely the second—and now he was alone, more satisfied and content than he could ever remember. For all her knowledge and inventiveness and seemingly inexhaustible passion, Kolabati hadn’t left him feeling like this. This was special. He’d always known that he and Gia belonged together. Tonight proved it. There had to be a way for them to get back together and stay that way.

  After a long time of drowsy, sated snuggling, Gia had gone back upstairs, saying she didn’t want Vicky to find them both down here in the morning. She’d been warm, loving, passionate … everything she hadn’t been the past few months. It baffled him, but he wasn’t fighting it. He must have done something right. Whatever it was, he wanted to keep doing it.

  The change in Gia wasn’t all that was keeping him awake, though. The events of the night had sent a confusion of facts, theories, guesses, impressions, and fears whirling through his mind.

  Vicky’s description of the yellow eyes … until then he’d almost been able to convince himself that the eyes outside his window had been some sort of illusion. But first had come Gia’s casual mention of the putrid smell in Nellie’s room—the same odor that had invaded his apartment? Then the mention of the eyes. The two phenomena together on two different nights in two different locations could not be mere coincidence.