The Tomb

by F. Paul Wilson

  “Are we staying here Mommy how long are we staying is this going to be my room can I sleep in this bed ooh look how high we are you can see the Umpire State Building over there and there’s Chrysler’s building it’s my favorite ’cause it’s pointy and silvery at the top…”

  And on and on. Gia smiled at the memory of how hard she’d worked coaxing Vicky to say her first words, how she’d agonized over the completely unfounded notion that her daughter might never speak. Now she wondered if she would ever stop.

  Once the windows on both sides of the apartment were open, the air began to flow through, removing the old trapped odors and bringing in new ones.

  “Jack, I’ve got to clean this place up if I’m going to stay here. I hope no one minds.”

  “No one’ll mind,” he said. “Just let me make a couple of calls and I’ll help you.”

  Gia located the vacuum cleaner while he dialed, listened, then dialed again. Either it was busy or he got no answer, because he hung up without saying anything.

  They spent the better part of the afternoon cleaning the apartment. Gia took pleasure in the simple tasks of scouring the sink, cleaning the counters, scrubbing the inside of the refrigerator, washing the kitchen floors, vacuuming the rugs. Concentrating on the minutiae kept her mind off the formless threat she felt hanging over Vicky and herself.

  Jack wouldn’t let her out of the apartment so he took the bedclothes down to the laundry area and washed them. He was a hard worker and not afraid to get his hands dirty. They made a good team. She found she enjoyed being with him, something up until a few days ago she thought she’d never enjoy again.

  The certain knowledge that a gun was hidden somewhere on his body and that he was the sort of man quite willing and able to use it effectively did not cause the revulsion it would have a few days ago. She couldn’t say she approved of the idea, but she found herself taking reluctant comfort from it.

  The sun was leaning into the west over the Manhattan skyline before she declared the apartment habitable. Jack went out and found a Chinese restaurant and brought back egg rolls, hot and sour soup, spareribs, shrimp fried rice, and moo shu pork. In a separate bag he had an Entenmann’s almond ring coffee cake. That didn’t strike Gia as a fitting dessert for a Chinese meal, but she didn’t say anything.

  She watched as he tried to teach Vicky how to use the chopsticks he’d picked up at the restaurant. The rift between those two had apparently healed without a scar. They were buddies again, the trauma of the morning forgotten—at least by Vicky.

  “I have to go out,” he told her as they cleared the dishes.

  “I figured that,” Gia said, hiding her unease. “How long will you be out?”

  She knew they were lost in this apartment complex among other apartment complexes—the proverbial needle in the haystack—but she didn’t want to be alone tonight. Not after what she’d learned this morning about the chocolates and the orange.

  “Don’t know. That’s why I asked Abe to come and stay with you until I get back. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “No. I don’t mind at all.” From what Gia remembered of Abe, he seemed an unlikely protector, but any port in a storm. “Anyway, how could I object? He has more of a right to be here than we do.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that.”

  “Oh?”

  “Abe and his daughter are barely on speaking terms.” Jack turned and faced her, leaning his back against the sink. He glanced over her shoulder to where Vicky sat alone at the table munching on a fortune cookie, then spoke in a low voice, his eyes fixed on her. “You see, Abe’s a criminal. Like me.”

  “Jack—” She didn’t want to get into this now.

  “Not exactly like me. Not a thug.” His emphasis on the word she’d used on him was a barb in her heart. “He just sells illegal weapons. He also sells legal weapons, but he sells them illegally.”

  Portly, voluble Abe Grossman—a gunrunner? It wasn’t possible! But the look in Jack’s eyes said it was.

  “Was it necessary to tell me that?” What was he trying to do?

  “I just want you to know the truth. I also want you to know that Abe is the most peace-loving man I’ve ever met.”

  “Then why does he sell guns?

  “Maybe he’ll explain it to you someday. I found his reasons pretty convincing—more convincing than his daughter did.”

  “She doesn’t approve, I take it.”

  “Barely speaks to him.”

  “Good for her.”

  “Didn’t stop her from letting him pay the tuition for her bachelor and graduate degrees, though.”

  A knock on the door and a voice in the hall: “It’s me—Abe. Open up already.”

  Jack let him in. He looked the same as the last time Gia had seen him: An overweight man dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt, black tie, and black pants. The only difference was the nature of the food stains up and down his front.

  “Hello,” he said, shaking Gia’s hand. She liked a man to shake her hand. “Nice to see you again.”

  He also shook Vicky’s hand, which elicited a big smile from her.

  “Just in time for dessert, Abe,” Jack said. He brought out the Entenmann’s cake.

  Abe’s eyes widened. “Almond coffee ring! You shouldn’t have!” He made a show of searching the tabletop. “And the rest of you are having what?”

  Gia laughed politely, not knowing how seriously to take the remark, then watched with wonder as Abe consumed three-quarters of the cake, all the while talking eloquently and persuasively of the imminent collapse of Western civilization.

  Although he’d failed to persuade Vicky to call him “Uncle Abe,” by the time dessert was over he had Gia half convinced she should flee New York and build an underground shelter in the foothills of the Rockies.

  Finally, Jack stood and stretched. “Gotta go. And if you don’t hear from me, don’t worry.”

  Gia followed him to the door. She didn’t want to see him go, but couldn’t bring herself to tell him so. A persistent knot of hostility within her always veered her away from the subject of Gia and Jack.

  “I don’t know if I can be with him too much longer,” she whispered to Jack. “He’s so depressing!”

  Jack smiled. “You ain’t heard nuthin’ yet. Wait till the network news comes on and he gives you his analysis of what every story really means.” He put his hand on her shoulder and drew her close. “Don’t let him bother you. He means well.”

  Before she knew what was happening he leaned forward and kissed her on the lips.

  “Bye.”

  And he was out the door.

  Gia turned back to the apartment and found Abe squatting before the television. A special report about the Chinese border dispute with India was on.

  “Did you hear that?” Abe was saying. “Did you hear? Do you know what this means?”

  Resignedly, Gia joined him before the set.

  “No. What does it mean?”

  7

  Finding a cab took some doing, but Jack finally nabbed a gypsy to take him back into Manhattan. He still had a few hours of light left; he wanted to make the most of them. The worst of the rush hour was over and he was heading the opposite way of the flow, so he made good time getting back into the city.

  The cab dropped him off between Sixty-seventh and Sixty-eighth on Fifth, one block south of Kusum’s apartment building. He crossed to the park side and walked uptown, inspecting the building as he passed. He found what he wanted: A delivery alley along the left side secured by a wrought iron gate with pointed rails curved over and down toward the street. Next step was to see if anybody was home.

  He crossed over and stepped up to the doorman who wore a pseudomilitary cap and sported a handlebar mustache.

  “Would you ring the Bahkti apartment, please?”

  “Surely,” the doorman said. “Whom shall I say is calling?”

  “Jack. Just Jack.”

  The doorman buzzed on the intercom and waited. And wai
ted.

  Finally he said, “I do not believe Mr. Bahkti is in. Shall I leave a message?”

  No answer did not necessarily mean no one was home.

  “Sure. Tell him Jack was here and that he’ll be back.”

  Jack sauntered away, not sure of what his little message would accomplish. Perhaps it would rattle Kusum, although he doubted it. Probably take a hell of a lot to rattle a guy with a nest of rakoshi.

  He walked to the end of the building. Now came the touchy part: getting over the gate unseen. He took a deep breath. Without looking back, he jumped and grabbed two of the curved iron bars near their tops. Bracing himself against the sidewall, he levered himself over the spikes and dropped onto the other side. Those daily workouts paid off now and then. He stepped back and waited but no one seemed to have noticed him. He exhaled. So far, so good. He ran around to the rear of the building.

  There he found a double door wide enough for furniture deliveries. He ignored this—they were almost invariably alarmed. The narrow little door at the bottom of a short stairwell was more interesting. He pulled the leather-cased lock picking kit out of his pocket as he descended the steps. The door was solid, faced with sheet metal, no windows. The lock was a Yale, most likely an intergrip rim model. While he worked the slim black rake back and forth in the keyhole, his eyes kept watch along the rear of the building. He didn’t have to look at what he was doing—locks were picked by feel.

  And then it came—the click of the tumblers within the cylinder. A certain quiet satisfaction in that sound, but Jack didn’t take time to savor it. A quick twist of the tension rod and the bolt snapped back. He pulled the door open and waited for an alarm bell. None came. A quick inspection showed that the door wasn’t wired for a silent alarm either. He slipped inside and locked it after him.

  He stood in the dark of the basement. While he waited for his eyes to adjust, he created a mental picture of the layout of the lobby one floor above. If his memory was accurate, the elevators should be straight ahead and slightly to the left. He moved forward and found them right where he’d figured. The elevator came down in response to the button and he rode it straight up to the ninth floor.

  Jack stepped immediately to the 9B door and withdrew the thin, flexible plastic ruler from his pocket. Tension tightened the muscles at the back of his neck. This was the riskiest part. Anyone seeing him now would call the police. Had to work fast. The door was double-locked: a Yale dead bolt and a Kwikset with a keyhole in the handle. He’d cut a right-triangular notch half an inch into the edge of the ruler about an inch from the end. Jack slipped the ruler in between the door and the jamb and ran it up and down past the Yale. It moved smoothly—the dead bolt had been left open. He ran the ruler down to the Kwikset, caught the notch on the latch bolt, wiggled and pulled on the ruler … and the door swung inward.

  The entire operation took ten seconds. Jack jumped inside and eased the door closed behind him. The setting sun poured orange light through the living room windows. All was quiet. The apartment had an empty feel to it.

  He looked down and saw the smashed egg. Thrown in anger or dropped during a struggle? He moved quickly, silently through the living room to the bedrooms, searching the closets, under the beds, behind the chairs, into the kitchen and the utility room.

  No Kolabati. A closet in the second bedroom was half-filled with women’s clothes; he recognized a dress as the one she’d worn in Peacock Alley; another to the Consulate reception. She wouldn’t have gone back to Washington without her clothes. Kolabati was still in New York.

  He stepped to the window and looked out over the park. The orange sun was still bright enough to hurt his eyes. He stood and stared west for a long time. He’d hoped to find Kolabati here. It had been against all logic, but he’d had to see for himself so he could cross this apartment off his short list of possibilities.

  He turned and picked up the phone and dialed the number of the Indian Embassy. No, Mr. Bahkti was still at the UN, but was expected back shortly.

  That did it. No more excuses. He had to go to the only other place Kolabati could be.

  Dread rolled back and forth in his stomach like a leaden weight.

  That ship. That godawful floating piece of hell. He had to go back there.

  8

  “I’m thirsty, Mommy.”

  “It’s the Chinese food. It always makes you thirsty. Have another drink of water.”

  “I don’t want water. I’m tired of water. Can’t I have some juice?”

  “I’m sorry, honey, but I didn’t get a chance to do any shopping. The only thing to drink around here is some wine and you can’t have that. I’ll get you some juice in the morning. I promise.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  Vicky slumped in her chair and folded her arms over her chest. She wanted juice instead of water and she wanted to watch something else besides these dumb news shows. First the six o’clock news, then something called the network news, and Mr. Grossman—he wasn’t her uncle; why did he want her to call him Uncle Abe?—talking, talking, talking.

  Her tongue felt dry. If only she had some juice …

  She remembered the orange—the one she’d saved from her playhouse this morning. That would taste so delicious now.

  Without a word she got up from her chair and slipped into the bedroom she and Mommy would be sharing tonight. Her Ms. Jelliroll Carry Case was on the floor of the closet. Kneeling in the dim light of the room, she opened it and pulled out the orange. It felt so cool in her hand. Just the smell made her mouth water. This was going to taste so good.

  She went over by the screened window and dug her thumb into the thick skin until it broke through, then she began peeling. Juice squirted all over her hands as she tore a section loose and bit into it.

  Delicious!

  She pushed the rest of the section into her mouth and was tearing another free when she noticed something funny about the taste. It wasn’t a bad taste, but it wasn’t a good taste either. She took a bite of the second section. It tasted the same.

  Suddenly she was frightened. What if the orange was rotten? Maybe that’s why Jack wouldn’t let her have any this morning. What if it made her sick?

  Panicked, Vicky bent and shoved the rest of the orange under the bed—she’d sneak it into the garbage later when she had a chance. Then she strolled out of the room and over to the bathroom where she washed the juice off her hands and drank a Dixie Cup full of water.

  She hoped she didn’t get a stomachache. Mommy would be awfully mad if she found out about sneaking the orange. But more than anything Vicky prayed she didn’t throw up. Throwing up was the worst thing in the world.

  Vicky returned to the living room, hoping no one would see her face. She felt guilty. One look at her and Mommy would know something was wrong.

  The weather lady was saying that tomorrow was going to be hot and dry and sunny again, and Mr. Grossman started talking about drought and people fighting over water.

  She sat on the floor and hoped they’d let her watch something she liked after this.

  9

  The dark bow of the freighter loomed over Jack, engulfing him in its shadow as he stood on the dock. The sun sinking over New Jersey still cast plenty of light. He barely heard the traffic rushing by above and behind him. His attention was lasered on the ship before him.

  His heart clattered against his ribs. He had to go in. No way around it. For an instant, he actually considered calling the police, but rejected the idea immediately. As Kolabati had said, Kusum was legally untouchable. And even if Jack managed to convince the cops that such things as rakoshi existed, all they were likely to do was get themselves killed and loose the creatures on the city. Probably get Kolabati killed too.

  No, the police didn’t belong here, for practical reasons and reasons of principle: This was his problem and he would solve it.

  As he followed the wharf around to the starboard side of the ship, he pulled on a pair of heavy work gloves he’d bought on his walk ove
r from Fifth Avenue. Three brand-new butane cigarette lighters were scattered through his pockets. He didn’t know what good they’d do but Kolabati had been emphatic about fire and iron being the only weapons against rakoshi. If he needed fire, at least he’d have some available.

  Too much light to climb up the same rope he had last time—it was in plain view of the traffic on the West Side Highway. He’d have to enter by way of a stern line this time. He looked longingly at the raised gangplank. If he’d had the time he could have stopped at his apartment and picked up the variable frequency beeper he used for getting into garages with remote control door openers. He was sure the gangplank operated on a similar principle.

  He found a heavy stern line and tested its tautness. He saw the name across the stern but couldn’t read the lettering. The setting sun was warm against his skin. Everything seemed so normal and mundane out here. But in that ship …

  He stilled the dread within and forced himself up the rope monkey style like last night. As he pulled himself over the gunwale and onto the deck at the rear of the superstructure, he realized that the darkness of last night had hidden a multitude of sins. The boat was filthy. Rust grew where paint had thinned or peeled away; everything was either nicked or dented or both. And overlaying all was a thick coat of grease, grime, soot, and salt.

  The rakoshi are below, Jack reminded himself as he entered the superstructure and began his search of the cabins. They’re sealed in the cargo areas. I won’t run into one up here. I won’t.

  He kept repeating it over and over, like a litany. It allowed him to concentrate on his search instead of constantly looking over his shoulder.

  He started with the bridge and worked his way downward. He found no sign of Kolabati in any of the officers’ cabins. He was going through the crew’s quarters on the main deck level when he heard a sound.

  He stopped. A voice—a woman’s voice—calling a name from somewhere inside the wall. Hope began to grow as he followed that wall around to the main deck where he found a padlocked iron door.

  The voice coming from behind the door was Kolabati’s. Jack allowed himself a self-congratulatory grin. He’d found her.