The Complete Adversary Cycle: The Keep, the Tomb, the Touch, Reborn, Reprisal, Nightworld (Adversary Cycle/Repairman Jack)

by F. Paul Wilson

  But there was no fooling the Mother. She had caught the Scent and wanted to follow it. Although he had planned to continue training the brighter ones as crew for the ship—in the six months since their arrival in New York they had learned to handle the ropes and follow commands in the engine room— the hunt took priority. Kusum spun the wheel that retracted the lugs, then stood behind the hatch as it swung open. The Mother stepped out, an eight-foot humanoid shadow, lithe and massive in the dimness. One of the younglings, a foot shorter but almost as massive, followed on her heels. And then another. Without warning she spun and hissed and raked her talons through the air a bare inch from the second youngling’s eyes. It retreated into the hold. Kusum closed the hatch and spun the wheel. Kusum felt the Mother’s faintly glowing yellow eyes pass over him without seeing him as she turned and swiftly, silently led her adolescent offspring up the steps and into the night.

  This was as it should be. The rakoshi had to be taught how to follow the Scent, how to find the intended victim and return with it to the nest so that all might share. The Mother taught them one by one. This was as it always had been. This was as it would be.

  The Scent must be coming from the chocolates. He could think of no other explanation. The thought sent a thrill through him. Tonight would bring him one step closer to completing the vow. Then he could return to India.

  On his way back to the upper deck, Kusum once again looked along the length of his ship, but this time his gaze lifted above and beyond to the vista spread out before him. Night was a splendid cosmetician for this city at the edge of this rich, vulgar, noisome, fulsome land. It hid the seaminess of the dock area, the filth collecting under the crumbling West Side Highway, the garbage swirling in the Hudson, the blank-faced warehouses and the human refuse that crept in and out and around them. The upper levels of Manhattan rose above all that, ignoring it, displaying a magnificent array of lights like sequins on black velvet.

  It never failed to make him pause and watch. It was so unlike his India. Mother India could well use the riches in this land. Her people would put them to good use. They would certainly appreciate them more than these pitiful Americans who were so rich in material things and so poor in spirit, so lacking in inner resources. Their chrome, their dazzle, their dim-witted pursuit of “fun” and “experience” and “self.” Only a culture such as theirs could construct such an architectural marvel as this city and refer to it as a large piece of fruit. They didn’t deserve this land. They were like a horde of children given free run of the bazaar in Calcutta.

  The thought of Calcutta made him ache to go home. Tonight, and then one more.

  One final death after tonight’s and he would be released from his vow. Kusum returned to his cabin to read his Gita.

  7

  “I believe I’ve been Kama Sutra ed.”

  “I don’t think that’s a verb.”

  “It just became one.”

  Jack lay on his back, feeling divorced from his body. He was numb from his hair down. Every fiber of nerve and muscle was being taxed just to support his vital functions.

  “I think I’m going to die.”

  Kolabati stirred beside him, nude but for her iron necklace. “You did. But I resuscitated you.”

  “Is that what you call it in India?”

  They had arrived at his apartment after an uneventful walk from Beefsteak Charlie’s. Kolabati’s eyes had widened and she staggered a bit as she entered Jack’s apartment. It was a common reaction. Some said it was the bric-a-brac and movie posters on the walls, others said it was the Victorian furniture with all the gingerbread carving and the wavy grain of the golden oak that did it.

  “Your decor,” she said, leaning against him. “It’s so… interesting.”

  “I collect things— things. As for the furniture, hideous is what most people call it, and they’re right. All that carving and such is out of style. But I like furniture that looks like human beings touched it at one time or another during its construction, even human beings of dubious taste.”

  Jack became acutely aware of the pressure of Kolabati’s body against his flank. Her scent was unlike any perfume. He could not even be sure it was perfume. More like scented oil. She looked up at him and he wanted her. And in her eyes he could see she wanted him.

  Kolabati stepped away and began to remove her dress.

  In the past, Jack had always felt himself in control during lovemaking. It had not been a conscious thing, but he had always set the pace and moved into the positions. Not tonight. With Kolabati it was different. It was all very subtle, but before long they were each cast in their roles. She was by far the hungrier of the two of them, the more insistent. And although younger, she seemed to be the more experienced. She became the director, he became an actor in her play.

  And it was quite a play. Passion and laughter. She was skilled, yet there was nothing mechanical about her. She reveled in sensations, giggled, even laughed at times. She was a delight. She knew where to touch him, how to touch him in ways he had never known, lifting him to heights of sensation he had never dreamed possible. And though he knew he had brought her to thrashing peaks of pleasure numerous times, she was insatiable.

  He watched her now as the light from the tiny leaded glass lamp in the corner of the bedroom cast a soft chiaroscuro effect over the rich color of her skin. Her breasts were perfect, their nipples the darkest brown he had ever seen. With her eyes still closed, she smiled and stretched, a slow, languorous movement that brought her dark and downy pubic mons against his thigh. Her hand crept across his chest, then trailed down over his abdomen toward his groin. He felt his abdominal muscles tighten.

  “That’s not fair to do to a dying man.”

  “Where there’s life, there’s hope.”

  “Is this your way of thanking me for finding the necklace?” He hoped not. He had already been paid for the necklace.

  She opened her eyes. “Yes… and no. You are a unique man in this world, Repairman Jack. I’ve traveled a lot, met many people. You stand out from all of them. Once my brother was like you, but he has changed. You are alone.”

  “Not at the moment.”

  She shook her head. “All men of honor are alone.”

  Honor. This was the second time she had spoken of honor this evening. Once at Peacock Alley, and now here in his bed. Strange for a woman to think in terms of honor. That was supposed to be men’s territory, although nowadays the word rarely passed the lips of members of either sex. But when it did, it was most apt to be spoken by a man. Sexist, perhaps, but he could think of no exceptions to refute it.

  “Can a man who lies, cheats, steals, and sometimes does violence to other people be a man of honor?”

  Kolabati looked into his eyes. “He can if he lies to liars, cheats cheaters, steals from thieves, and limits his violence to those who are violent.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  An honorable man. He liked the sound of that. He liked the meaning that went with it. As Repairman Jack he had taken an honorable course without consciously setting out to do so. Autonomy had been his driving motive—to reduce to the barest minimum all external restraints upon his life. But honor… honor was an internal restraint. He hadn’t recognized the role it had played all along in guiding him.

  Kolabati’s hand started moving again and thoughts of honor sank in the waves of pleasure washing over him. It was good to be aroused again.

  He had led a monkish life since Gia had left him. Not that he had consciously avoided sex—he had simply stopped thinking about it. A number of weeks had gone by before he even realized what had happened to him. He had read that that was a sign of depression. Maybe. Whatever the cause, tonight made up for any period of abstention, no matter how long.

  Her hand was gently working at him now, drawing responses from what he had thought was an empty well. He was rolling toward her when he caught the first whiff of the odor.

  What the hell is that?


  It smelled like a pigeon had got into the air conditioner and laid a rotten egg. Or died.

  Kolabati stiffened beside him. He didn’t know whether she had smelled it, too, or whether something had frightened her. He thought he heard her say something that sounded like “Rakosh!” in a tense whisper. She rolled on top of him and clung like a drowning sailor to a floating spar.

  An aura of nameless fear enveloped Jack. Something was terribly wrong, but he could not say what. He listened for a foreign sound, but all that came to him were the low hums, each in a different key, of the air conditioners in each of the three rooms. He reached for the .38 S&W Chief Special he always kept under the mattress, but Kolabati hugged him tighter.

  “Don’t move,” she whispered in a voice he could barely hear. “Just lie here under me and don’t say a word.”

  Jack opened his mouth to speak but she covered his lips with her own. The pressure of her bare breasts against his chest, her hips on his, the tingle of her necklace as it dangled from her neck against his throat, the caresses of her hands—all worked toward blotting out the odor.

  Yet there was a desperation about her that prevented Jack from completely releasing himself to the sensations. His eyes kept opening and straying to the window, to the door, to the hall that led past the tv room to the darkened front room, then back to the window. There was no good reason for it, but a small part of him expected someone or something—a person, an animal—to come through the door. He knew it was impossible—the front door was locked, the windows were three stories up. Crazy. Yet the feeling persisted.

  And persisted.

  He did not know how long he lay there, tense and tight under Kolabati, itching for the comfortable feel of a pistol grip in his palm. It felt like half the night.

  Nothing happened. Eventually, the odor began to fade. And with it the sensation of the presence of another. Jack felt himself begin to relax and, finally, begin to respond to Kolabati.

  But Kolabati suddenly had different ideas. She jumped up from the bed and padded into the front room for her clothes.

  Jack followed and watched her slip into her underwear with brisk, almost frantic movements.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I have to get home.”

  “Back to D.C.?” His heart sank. Not yet. She intrigued him so.

  “No. To my brother’s. I’m staying with him.”

  “I don’t understand. Is it something I—”

  Kolabati leaned over and kissed him. “Nothing you did. Something he did.”

  “What’s the hurry?”

  “I must speak to him immediately.”

  She let the dress fall over her head and slipped her shoes on. She turned to go but the apartment door stopped her.

  “How does this work?”

  Jack turned the central knob that retracted the four bars, then pulled it open for her.

  “Wait till I get some clothes on and I’ll find you a cab.”

  “I haven’t time to wait. And I can wave my arm in the air as well as anyone.”

  “You’ll be back?” The answer was very important to him at the moment. He didn’t know why. He hardly knew her.

  “Yes, if I can be.” Her eyes were troubled. For an instant he thought he detected a hint of fear in them. “I hope so. I really do.”

  She kissed him again, then was out the door and on her way down the stairs.

  Jack closed the door, locked it, and leaned against it. If he weren’t so exhausted from lack of sleep and from the strenuous demands Kolabati had made upon him tonight, he would have tried to make some sense out of the evening’s events.

  He headed for bed. This time to sleep.

  But chase it as he might, sleep eluded him. The memory of the odor, Kolabati’s bizarre behavior… he couldn’t explain them. But it wasn’t what had happened tonight that bothered him so much as the gnawing, uneasy feeling that something awful had almost happened.

  8

  Kusum started out of his sleep, instantly alert. A sound had awakened him. His Gita slipped off his lap and onto the floor as he sprang to his feet and stepped to the cabin door. It was most likely the Mother and the young one returning, but it wouldn’t hurt to be sure. One never knew what kind of scum might be lurking about the docks. He didn’t care who came aboard in his absence—it would have to be a fairly determined thief or vandal because Kusum always kept the gangway raised. A silent beeper was needed to bring it down. But an industrious lower-caste type who climbed one of the ropes and sneaked aboard would find little of value in the superstructure. And should he venture below-decks to the cargo hold… that would mean one less untouchable prowling the streets.

  But when Kusum was aboard—and he expected to be spending more time here than he wished now that Kolabati was in town—he liked to be careful. He didn’t want any unpleasant surprises.

  Kolabati’s arrival had been a surprise. He had thought her safely away in Washington. She had already caused him an enormous amount of trouble this week and would undoubtedly cause him more. She knew him too well. He would have to avoid her whenever possible. And she must never learn of this ship or of its cargo.

  He heard the sound again and saw two dark forms of unmistakable configuration lope along the deck. They should have been burdened with their prey, but they were not. Alarmed, Kusum ran down to the deck. He checked to make sure he was wearing his necklace, then stood in a corner and watched the rakoshi as they passed.

  The youngling came first, prodded along by the Mother behind it. Both appeared agitated. If only they could talk! He had been able to teach the younglings a few words, but that was mere mimicry, not speech. He had never felt so much the need to communicate with the rakoshi as he did tonight. Yet he knew that was impossible. They were not stupid; they could learn simple tasks and follow simple commands—had he not been training them to act as crew for the ship?—but their minds did not operate on a level that permitted intelligent communication.

  What had happened tonight? The Mother had never failed him before. When she caught the Scent, she invariably brought back the targeted victim. Tonight she had failed. Why?

  Could there have been a mistake? Perhaps the chocolates hadn’t arrived. But how then had the Mother caught the Scent? No one but Kusum controlled the source of the Scent. None of it made sense.

  He padded down the steps that led below-decks. The two rakoshi were waiting there, the Mother subdued by the knowledge that she had failed, the youngling restless, pacing about. Kusum slipped past them. The Mother raised her head, dimly aware of his presence, but the youngling only hissed and continued its pacing, oblivious to him. Kusum spun the wheel on the hatch and pulled it open. The youngling tried to retreat. It didn’t like being on the iron ship and rebelled at returning to the hold. Kusum watched patiently. They all did this after their first run through the city. They wanted to be out in the air, away from the iron hold that weakened them, out among the crowds where they could pick and choose among the fattened human cattle.

  The Mother would have none of it. She gave the youngling a brutal shove that sent it stumbling into the arms of its siblings waiting inside. Then she followed.

  Kusum slammed the hatch closed, secured it, then pounded his fist against it. Would he never be done with this? He had thought he would be closer to fulfilling the vow tonight. Something had gone wrong. It worried him almost as much as it angered him. Had a new variable been added, or were the rakoshi to blame?

  Why was there no victim?

  One thing was certain, however: There would have to be punishment. That was the way it always had been. That was the way it would be tonight.

  9

  Oh, Kusum! What have you done?

  Kolabati’s insides writhed in terror as she sat huddled in the rear of the cab. The ride was mercifully brief—directly across Central Park to a stately building of white stone on Fifth Avenue.

  The night doorman didn’t know Kolabati, so he stopped her. He was old, his face a mass of wrinkles. K
olabati detested old people. She found the thought of growing old disgusting. The doorman questioned her until she showed him her key and her Maryland driver’s license, confirming her last name to be the same as Kusum’s. She hurried through the marble lobby, past the modern low-backed couch and chairs and the uninspired abstract paintings on the walls, to the elevator. It stood open, waiting. She pressed “9,” the top floor, and stood impatiently until the door closed and the car started up.

  Kolabati slumped against the rear wall and closed her eyes.

  That odor! She had thought her heart would stop when she recognized it in Jack’s apartment tonight. She thought she had left it behind forever in India.

  A rakosh!

  One had been outside Jack’s apartment less than an hour ago. Her mind balked at the thought, yet there was no doubt in her mind. As sure as the night was dark, as sure as the number of her years—a rakosh! The knowledge nauseated her, made her weak inside and out. And the most terrifying part of it all: The only man who could be responsible—the only man in the world—was her brother.

  But why Jack’s apartment?

  And how? By the Black Goddess, how?

  The elevator glided to a smooth halt, the doors slid open, and Kolabati headed directly for the door numbered 9B. She hesitated before inserting the key. This was not going to be easy. She loved Kusum, but there was no denying that he intimidated her. Not physically—for he would never raise his hand against her—but morally. It hadn’t always been so, but lately his righteousness had become impenetrable.

  But not this time, she told herself. This time he’s wrong.

  She turned the key and went in.

  The apartment was dark and silent. She flipped the light switch, revealing a huge, low-ceilinged living room decorated by a hired professional. She had guessed that the first time she had walked in. There was no trace of Kusum in the decor. He hadn’t bothered to personalize it, which meant he didn’t intend to stay here very long.