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

by F. Paul Wilson

  “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-patinaed, 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. Feelgood 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. There are 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 non-smoking 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 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. He said, “Indian? You mean American Indian, don’t you?” knowing even as he spoke that Joey had not meant that at all.

  “Of course not! American Indian grass 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 U.K. Mission and through there to the diplomatic community that centered around the U.N. 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.”

  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 had spent much of the morning tracking down and talking to a few more of his street contacts, but there had been no leads. No one had heard a thing. There had to be other avenues, but he couldn’t think of any at the moment. Other thoughts pushed their way to the front.

  Kolabati again. His mind was full of her. Why? As he tried to analyze it, he came to see that the sexual spell she had 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 had laid himself bare for her, and she had 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 when there was 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. Goodbye 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 answerphone. 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 had even chosen her attire f
or 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. And 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 that had been gathering within her since she had 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 everyday.”

  “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 U.K. Mission at eight.”

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

  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 had 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 withyou?”

  “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 up 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 rakoshi 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 there was no more solemn oath for Kusum than the one he had just spoken.

  And there, intact on its bed of excelsior, was 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-righteo
usness, 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 had thought leaving India—to Europe first, then to America—would sever their relationship. But no. After years of no contact, he had 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 of the Park. 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 Raines was getting ready to start his reign of terror as The Invisible Man.

  The phone rang. Jack turned down the sound and picked it up before his answerphone 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.” Actually, he purposely had left the old label in place.

  “I have a favor to ask you,” she said.

  “Anything.” Almost anything.