The Tomb (Repairman Jack)

His father withdrew: the senselessness of the tragedy had thrown him into a sort of emotional catatonia in which he appeared to function normally but felt absolutely nothing.

Jack's response was something else: cold, nerveless, consuming rage. He was faced with a new kind of fix-it job. He knew where it had happened. He knew how. All he had to do was find out who.

He would do nothing else, think of nothing else, until that job was done.

And eventually it was done.

A lifetime ago. Yet as he approached that overpass he felt his throat constrict. He could almost see a cinder block falling...tumbling toward the windshield...crashing through in a blizzard of glass fragments...crushing him. Then he was under and in shadow, and for an instant it was nighttime and snowing, and hanging off the other side of the overpass he saw a limp, battered body dangling from a rope tied to its feet, swinging and spinning crazily. Then it was gone and he was back in the August sun again.

He shivered. He hated New Jersey.

4

Jack got off at Exit 5. He took 541 through Mount Holly and continued south on the two-lane blacktop through towns that were little more than groups of buildings clustered along a stretch of road like a crowd around an accident. The spaces between were all open cultivated field. Fresh produce stands advertising Jersey Beefsteak tomatoes dotted the roadside. He reminded himself to pick up a basketful for Abe on the way back.

He passed through Lumberton, a name that always conjured up ponderous images of morbidly obese people waddling in and out of oversized stores and houses. Next came Fostertown, which should have been populated by a horde of homeless runny-nosed waifs, but wasn't.

Finally, Johnson, NJ, on the edge of the fabled Jersey Pine Barrens.

And then he was turning the corner by what had been Mr. Canelli's house. Canelli had died and the new owner must have been trying to save water, because the lawn had burned to a uniform shade of pale brown. He pulled into the driveway of the three-bedroom ranch in which he, his brother, and his sister had all grown up, turned off the car, and sat a moment wishing he were someplace else.

No sense in delaying the inevitable, so he got out and walked up to the door. Dad pushed it open just as he reached it.

"Jack!" He thrust out his hand. "You had me worried. Thought you'd forgotten."

His father was a tall, thin, balding man tanned a dark brown from daily workouts on the local tennis courts. His beakish nose was pink and peeling from sunburn, and the age spots on his forehead had multiplied and coalesced since the last time Jack had visited. But his grip was firm and his blue eyes bright behind the steel-rimmed glasses as Jack shook hands with him.

"Only a few minutes late."

Dad reached down and picked up his tennis racquet from where it had been leaning against the door molding. "Yeah, but I reserved a court so we could warm up a little before the match." He closed the door behind him. "Let's take your car. You remember where the courts are?"

"Of course."

As he slid into the front seat, Dad glanced around the interior of the Corvair. He touched the dice, either to see if they were fuzzy or if they were real.

"You really drive around in this?"

"Sure. Why?"

"It's..."

"Unsafe at Any Speed?"

"Yeah. That too."

"Best car I ever owned."

Jack pushed the little lever in the far left of the dashboard into reverse and pulled out of the driveway.

For a couple of blocks they made inconsequential small talk about the weather, and how smoothly Jack's decades-old car was running, and the traffic on the Turnpike. Jack tried to keep the conversation on neutral ground. They hadn't had much to say to each other since Jack dropped out of college all those years ago.

"How's business?"

Dad smiled. "Great. You've been buying any of those stocks I told you about?"

"I bought two thousand of Arizona Petrol at one-and-an eighth. It was up to four last time I looked."

"Closed at four-and-a-quarter on Friday. Hold onto it."

"Okay. Just let me know when to dump it."

A lie. Jack couldn't own stock. He needed a Social Security number for that. No broker would open an account for him without it. So he lied to his father about following his stock tips and looked up the NASDAQ listings every so often to see how his imaginary investments were doing.

They were all doing well. Dad had a knack for finding low-priced, out-of-the-way OTC stocks that were undervalued. He'd buy a few thousand shares, watch the price double, triple, or quadruple, then sell off and find another. He’d done so well at it over the years that he quit his accounting job to spend his mornings wheeling and dealing. He was happy. He was living by his wits and seemed to love it, looking more relaxed than Jack could ever remember.

"If I come up with something better, I'll let you know. Then you can parlay your AriPet earnings into even more. By the way, did you buy the stock through a personal account or your IRA?"

"Uh...the IRA."

Another lie. Jack couldn't have an IRA account either. Sometimes he wearied of lying to everybody, especially people he should be able to trust.

"Good! When you don't think you'll be holding them long enough to qualify for capital gains, use the IRA."

He knew what his father was up to. Dad figured that as an appliance repairman Jack would wind up depending on Social Security after he retired, and nobody could live off that. He was trying to help his prodigal son build up a nest egg for his old age.

They pulled into the lot by the two municipal courts. Both were occupied.

"Guess we're out of luck."

Dad waved a slip of paper. "No worry. This says court two is reserved for us between ten and eleven."

While Jack fished in the back seat for his new racquet and the can of balls, his father went over to the couple who now occupied court two. The fellow was grumpily packing up their gear as Jack arrived. The girl—she looked to be about nineteen—glared at him as she sipped from a half-pint container of chocolate milk.

"Guess it's who you know instead of who got here first."

Jack tried a friendly smile. "No. Just who thinks ahead and gets a reservation."

She shrugged. "It's a rich man's sport. Should've known better than to try to take it up."

"Let's not turn this into a class war, shall we?"

"Who? Me?" she said with an innocent smile. "I wouldn't think of it."

With that she poured the rest of her chocolate milk onto the court just behind the baseline.

Jack set his teeth and turned his back on her. What he really wanted to do was see if she could swallow a tennis racquet. He relaxed a little as he began to rally with his father. Jack's tennis game had long since stabilized at a level of mediocrity he felt he could live with.

He was feeling fit today; he liked the balance of the racquet, the way the ball came off the strings, but the knowledge that there was a puddle of souring chocolate milk somewhere behind him on the asphalt rippled his concentration.

"You're taking your eye off the ball!" Dad called from the other end of the court after lack's third wild shot in a row.

I know!

The last thing he needed now was a tennis lesson. He concentrated fully on the next ball, backpedaling, watching it all the way up to his racquet strings. He threw his body into the forehand shot, giving it as much topspin as he could to make it go low over the net and kick when it bounced. Suddenly his right foot was slipping. He went down in a spray of warm chocolate milk.

Across the net, his father returned the ball with a drop shot that rolled dead two feet from the service line. He looked at lack and began to laugh.

It was going to be a very long day.

5

Kolabati paced the apartment, clutching the empty bottle that had once held the rakoshi elixir, waiting for Kusum. Again and again her mind ranged over the sequence of events last night. First, her brother disappeared from the reception; then the rakosh odor at lack's apartment and the eyes he said he’d seen. There had to be a link between Kusum and the rakoshi. And she was determined to find it. But first she had to find Kusum and keep track of him. Where did he go at night?

The morning wore on. By noon, when she had begun to fear he would not show up at all, she heard the sound of his key in the door.

Kusum entered, looking tired and preoccupied. He glanced up and saw her.

"Bati. I thought you'd be with your American lover."

"I've been waiting all morning for you."

"Why? Have you thought of a new way to torment me since last night?"

This wasn't going the way Kolabati wanted. She’d planned a rational discussion with her brother. To this end, she’d dressed in a long-sleeved, high-collared white blouse and baggy white slacks.

"No one has tormented you," she said with a small smile and a placating tone. "At least not intentionally."

He made a guttural sound. "I sincerely doubt that."

"The world is changing. I've learned to change with it. So must you."

"Certain things never change."

He started toward his room. Kolabati had to stop him before he locked himself away in there.

"That is true. I have one of those unchanging things in my hand."

Kusum stopped and looked at her. She held up the bottle, watching his face closely. His expression registered nothing but puzzlement. If he recognized the bottle, he hid it well.

"I'm in no mood for games, Bati."

"I assure you, my brother, this is no game." She removed the top and held the bottle out to him. "Tell me if you recognize the odor."

Kusum took the bottle and held it under his long nose. His eyes widened.

"This cannot be! It's impossible!"

"You can't deny the testament of your senses."

He glared at her. "First you embarrass me, now you try to make a fool of me as well!"

"It was in Jack's apartment last night!"

Kusum held it up to his nose again. Shaking his head, he went to an overstuffed couch nearby and sank into it.

"I don't understand this," he said in a tired voice.

Kolabati seated herself opposite him. "Of course you do."

His head snapped up, his eyes challenging her. "Are you calling me a liar?"

Kolabati looked away. Rakoshi were in New York. Kusum was in New York. She could imagine no circumstances under which these two facts could exist independently of each other. Yet she sensed that now was not the right time to let Kusum know how certain she was of his involvement. He was already on guard. Any more signs of suspicion on her part and he would shut her out completely.

"What am I supposed to think?" she told him. "Are we not Keepers? The only Keepers?"

"But you saw the egg. How can you doubt me?"

She heard a note of pleading in his voice, of a man who wanted very much to be believed. He was so convincing. Kolabati was sorely tempted to take his word.

"Then explain to me what you smell in that bottle."

Kusum shrugged. “A hoax. An elaborate, foul hoax."

"Kusum, they were there! Last night and the night before as well!"

"Listen to me." He rose and stood over her. "Did you ever actually see a rakosh these last two nights?"

"No, but there was the odor. No mistaking that. "

"I don't doubt there was an odor, but an odor can be faked—”

"There was something there!"

"—and so we're left with only your impressions. Nothing tangible.”

"Isn't that bottle in your hand tangible enough?"

Kusum handed it to her. "An interesting imitation. It almost had me fooled, but I'm quite sure it's not genuine. By the way, what happened to the contents?"

"Poured down a sewer."

His expression remained bland. "Too bad. I could have had it analyzed and perhaps we could learn who is perpetrating this hoax. I want to know that before I do another thing."

"Why would someone go to all the trouble?"

His gaze penetrated her. "A political enemy, perhaps. One who has uncovered our secret."

Kolabati felt the clutch of fear at her throat. She shook it off. Absurd! Kusum was behind it all. She was sure of it. But for a moment there he almost had her believing him.

"That isn't possible!"

He pointed to the bottle in her hand. "A few moments ago I would have said the same about that."

Kolabati continued to play along. "What do we do?"

"We find out who is behind this." He started for the door. "And I will begin right now."

"I'll come with you."

He paused. "No. You'd better wait here. I'm expecting an important call on Consulate business. That is why I came home. You must wait here and take the message for me."

"All right. But won't you need me?"

"If I do, I will call you. And do not follow me—you know what happened last time."

Kolabati allowed him to leave. She watched through the peephole in the apartment door until he entered the elevator. As soon as the doors slid closed behind him, she ran into the hall and pressed the button for the second elevator. It opened a moment later and took her down to the lobby in time to see Kusum stroll out the front entrance of the building.

This will be easy, she thought. She should have no problem tailing a tall, slender, one-armed Indian through midtown Manhattan.

Excitement spurred her on. At last she would find where Kusum spent his time. And there, she was quite sure, she would find what should not be. She still did not see how it was possible, but all the evidence pointed to the existence of rakoshi in New York. And despite all his protests to the contrary, Kusum was involved.

Staying half a block behind, she followed him down Fifth Avenue to Central Park South with no trouble. The going became rougher after that. Sunday shoppers were out in force and the sidewalks became congested, Still she managed to keep him in view until he entered Rockefeller Plaza. She’d been here once in the winter when the area had been mobbed with ice skaters and Christmas shoppers wandering about the huge Christmas tree. Today there was a different kind of crowd, but no less dense. A jazz group was playing imitation Coltrane and every few feet men with pushcarts sold fruit, candy, or balloons. Instead of ice skating, people were milling about or taking the sun with their shirts off.

Kusum was nowhere to be seen.

Kolabati frantically pushed her way through the crowd. She circled the dry, sun-drenched ice rink. Kusum was gone. He must have spotted her and ducked into a cab or down a subway entrance.

She stood amid the happy, carefree crowd, biting her lower lip, so frustrated she wanted to cry.

6

Gia picked up the phone on the third ring. A soft, accented voice asked to speak to Mrs. Paton.

"Who shall I say is calling?"

"Kusum Bahkti."

She thought the voice sounded familiar. "Oh, Mr. Bahkti. This is Gia DiLauro. We met last night"

"Miss DiLauro—a pleasure to speak to you again. May I say you looked very beautiful last night."

"Yes, you may. As often as you wish." As he laughed politely, Gia said, "Wait a second and I'll get Nellie."

Gia was in the third floor hall. Nellie was downstairs in the library watching one of those public affairs panels that dominate Sunday television. Shouting down to her seemed more appropriate to a tenement than a Sutton Square townhouse. Especially when an Indian diplomat was on the phone. So Gia hurried down to the first floor.

As she descended the stairs she told herself that Mr. Bahkti was a good lesson on not trusting one's first impressions. She had disliked him immediately, yet he’d turned out to be quite a nice man. She smiled grimly. No one should count on her as much of a judge of character. She’d thought Richard Westphalen charming enough to marry, and look how he’d turned out. And after that there had been Jack. Not an impressive track record.

Nellie took the call from her seat in front of the TV. As the older woman spoke to Mr. Bahkti, Gia turned her attention to the screen where the Secretary of State was being grilled by a panel of reporters.

"Such a nice man," Nellie said as she hung up. She was chewing on something.

"Seems to be. What did he want?"

"He said he wished to order some Black Magic for himself and wanted to know where I got it. The Divine Obsession, wasn't it?"

"Yes." Gia had committed the address to memory. "In London.”

"That's what I told him." Nellie giggled. "He was so cute. He wanted me to taste one and tell him if it was as good as I remembered. So I did. They're lovely! I think I'll have another." She held up the dish. "Do help yourself."

Gia shook her head. "No, thanks. With Vicky allergic to it, I've kept it out of the house for so long I've lost my taste for it."

"That's a shame," Nellie said, holding another between a thumb and forefinger with her pinkie raised and taking a dainty bite out of it. "These are simply lovely."

7

Match point at the Mount Holly Lawn Tennis Club:

Jack was drenched with sweat. He and his father had scraped through the first elimination on a tiebreaker: 6-4, 3-6, 7-6. After a few hours of rest they started the second round. The father-son team they now faced was much younger—the father only slightly older than Jack, and the son no more than twelve. But they could play. Jack and his father won only one game in the first set; but the easy victory must have lulled their opponents into a false sense of security because they made a number of unforced errors in the second set and lost it 4-6.

So with one set apiece it was now 4-5 with Jack behind in his serve: deuce with the advantage to the receiver.

Jack's right shoulder was on fire. He’d been putting everything he had into his serves but the pair facing him across the net had returned every single one. This was it. If he lost this point, the match was over and he and Dad would be out of the tournament. Which would not break Jack's heart. If they won it meant he'd have to return next Sunday. As much as he didn't relish that thought, he wasn't going to throw the match. His father had a right to one hundred percent and that was what he was going to get.

He faced the boy. For three sets now Jack had been trying to find a weakness in the kid's game. The twelve-year old had a topspin forehand, a flat, two-handed backhand, and a blistering serve. Jack's only hope lay in the kid's short legs, which made him relatively slow, but he hit so many winners that Jack had been unable to take advantage of it.

Jack served to the kid's backhand and charged the net, hoping to take a weak return and put it away. The return came back strong, forcing Jack into a weak volley to the father who slammed it up the alley to Jack's left. Without thinking, Jack shifted the racquet to his left hand and lunged. He made the return, but then the kid passed Dad up the other alley.

The boy's father came up to the net and shook Jack's hand.

"Good game. If your Dad had your speed he'd be club champ." He turned to Jack's father. "Look at him, Tom—not even breathing hard. And did you see that last shot of his? That left-handed volley? You trying to slip a ringer in on us?"

His father smiled. "You can tell by his ground strokes he's no ringer. But I never knew he was ambidextrous."

They all shook hands, and as the other pair walked off, Jack's father looked at him.

"I've been watching you all day. You're in good shape."

"I try to stay healthy." His father was a shrewd cookie and Jack was uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

"You move fast. Damn fast. Faster than any appliance repairman I've ever known."

Jack coughed. "What say we have a beer or two. I'm buying.”

"Your money's no good here. Only members can sign for drinks. So the beer's on me." They began to walk toward the clubhouse. His father was shaking his head. "I've got to say, Jack, you really surprised me today."

Gia's hurt and angry face popped into Jack's mind.

"I'm full of surprises."

8

Kusum could wait no longer. He had watched sunset come and go, hurling orange fire against the myriad empty windows of the Sunday-silent office towers. He had seen darkness creep over the city with agonizing slowness. And now, with the moon rising above the skyscrapers, night finally ruled.

Time for the Mother to take her youngling on the hunt.

Though not yet midnight, Kusum felt it safe to let them go. Sunday night was a relatively quiet time in Manhattan. The stores closed early, the theaters had no evening performances, and most people were home, resting in anticipation of the coming week.

The Paton woman would be taken tonight, of that he was certain. Kolabati had unwittingly cleared the way by taking the bottle of rakoshi elixir from Jack and disposing of its contents. And had not the Paton woman eaten one of the treated chocolates as she spoke to him on the phone this morning?

Tonight he would be one step closer to fulfilling the vow. He would follow the same procedures with the Paton woman as he had with her nephew and her sister. Once she was in his power, he would reveal to her the origin of the Westphalen fortune and allow her a day to reflect on her ancestor's atrocities.

Tomorrow evening her life would be offered to Kali, and she would be given over to the rakoshi.

9

Good gracious, what is that smell?

Nellie had never thought one could be awakened by an odor, but this...

She lifted her head from the pillow and sniffed the air in the darkened room...a carrion odor. Warm air brushed by her. The French doors out to the balcony were ajar. She could have sworn they’d been closed all day, what with the air conditioner going. But that had to be where the odor was coming from. It smelled as if some dog had unearthed a dead animal in the garden directly below the balcony.

Nellie sensed movement by the doors. No doubt the breeze on the curtains. Still...

She pulled herself up, reaching for her glasses. She found them and held them up to her eyes without bothering to fit the end pieces over her ears. Even then she wasn't sure what she saw.

A dark shape was moving toward her as swiftly and as soundlessly as a puff of smoke in the wind. It couldn't be real. A nightmare, a hallucination, an optical illusion—nothing so big and solid looking could move so smoothly and silently.

But no illusion about the odor that became progressively worse with the shadow's approach.

Nellie was suddenly terrified. This was no dream! She opened her mouth to scream but a cold, clammy hand sealed itself over the lower half of her face before a sound could escape.

The hand was huge, it was incredibly foul, and it was not human.

In a violent spasm of terror, she struggled against whatever held her. It was like fighting the tide. Bright colors began to explode before her eyes as she fought for air. Soon the explosions blotted out everything else. And then she saw no more.

10

Vicky lay awake, shivering under the sheet. Not from cold but from the dream she’d just lived through in which Mr. Grape-grabber had kidnapped Ms. Jelliroll and was trying to bake her in a pie.

With her heart pounding in her throat she peered through the darkness at the night table next to the bed. Moonlight filtered through the curtains on the window to her left, enough to reveal Ms. Jelliroll and Mr. Grape-grabber resting peacefully where she’d left them. Nothing to worry about. Just a dream. Anyway, didn't the package say that Mr. Grape-grabber was Ms. Jelliroll's "friendly rival"? And he didn't want Ms. Jelliroll herself for his jams, just her grapes.

Still, Vicky trembled. She rolled over and clung to her mother. This was the part she liked best about staying here at Aunt Nellie's and Aunt Grace's—she got to sleep with Mommy. Back at the apartment she had her own room and had to sleep alone. When she got scared from a dream or during a storm she could always run in and huddle with Mommy, but most of the time she had to keep to her own bed.

She tried to go back to sleep but found it impossible. Visions of the tall, lanky Mr. Grape-grabber putting Ms. Jelliroll into a pot and cooking her along with her grapes kept popping into her head. Finally, she let go of her mother and turned over to face the window.

The moon was out. She wondered if it was full. She liked to look at its face. Slipping out of bed, she went to the window and parted the curtains. The moon was almost to the top of the sky, and nearly full. Its smiling face made everything so bright. Almost like daytime.

With the air conditioner on and the windows closed against the heat, all the outside sounds were blocked out. Everything was so still and quiet out there, like a picture.

She looked down at her playhouse roof, white with moonlight. It looked so small from up here on the third floor.

Something moved in the shadows below. Something tall and dark and angular, manlike yet very unmanlike. It moved across the backyard with a fluid motion, a shadow among the shadows, looking as if it was carrying something. And there seemed to be another of its kind waiting for it by the wall. The second one looked up and seemed to be gazing right at her with glowing yellow eyes. They had hunger in them...hunger for her.

Vicky's blood congealed in her veins. She wanted to leap back into bed with her mother but could not move. All she could do was stand there and scream.

11

Gia awoke on her feet after a moment of complete disorientation with no idea where she was or what she was doing. The room was dark, a child was screaming, and she could hear her own terror-filled voice shouting a garbled version of Vicky's name.

Frantic thoughts raced through her slowly awakening mind.

Where's Vicky...the bed's empty...where's Vicky? She could hear her but couldn't see her. Where in God's name is Vicky?

She stumbled to the switch by the door and turned on the light. The sudden glare blinded Gia for an instant, and then she saw Vicky standing by the window, still screaming. She ran over and lifted the child against her.

''It's all right, Vicky! It's all right!"

The screaming stopped but not the trembling. Gia held her tighter, trying to absorb Vicky's shudders into her own body. Finally the child was calm, only an occasional sob escaping from where she had her face buried between Gia's breasts.

Night horrors. Vicky had had them frequently during her fifth year, but only rarely since. Gia knew how to handle them: Wait until Vicky was fully awake and then talk to her softly and reassuringly.

"Just a dream, honey. That's all. Just a dream."

"No! It wasn't a dream!" Vicky lifted her tear-streaked face. ''It was Mr. Grape-grabber! I saw him!"

"Just a dream, Vicky."

"He was stealing Ms. Jelliroll!"

"No, he wasn't. They're both right behind you." She turned Vicky around and faced her toward the night table. "See?"

"But he was outside by the playhouse! I saw him!"

Gia didn't like the sound of that. No one was supposed to be in the backyard.

"Let's take a look. I'll turn out the light so we can see better.”

Vicky's face twisted in sudden panic. "Don't turn out the lights! Please don't!"

"Okay. I'll leave them on. But there's nothing to worry about. I'm right here."

They both pressed their faces against the glass and cupped their hands around their eyes to shut off the glare from the room light. Gia quickly scanned the yard, praying she wouldn't see anything.

Everything was as they’d left it. Nothing moved. The backyard was empty. Gia sighed with relief and put her arm around Vicky.

"See? Everything's fine. It was a dream. You just thought you saw Mr. Grape-grabber."

"But I did!"

"Dreams can be very real, honey. And you know Mr. Grape-grabber is just a doll. He can only do what you want him to. He can't do a single thing on his own."

Vicky said no more but Gia sensed that she remained unconvinced.

That settles it, she thought. Vicky's been here long enough.

The child needed her friends—real, live, flesh-and-blood friends. With nothing else to occupy her time, she’d been getting too involved with these dolls. Now they were even in her dreams.

"What do you say we go home tomorrow? I think we've stayed here long enough."

"I like it here. And Aunt Nellie will be lonely."

"She'll have Eunice back in the morning. And besides, I have to get back to my work."

"Can't we stay a little longer?"

"We'll see."

Vicky pouted. "'We'll see' Whenever you say 'we'll see' it ends up meaning 'no.' "

"Not always," Gia said with a laugh, knowing that Vicky was right. The child was getting too sharp for her. "But we'll see. Okay?"

Reluctantly: "Okay."

She put Vicky back between the covers. As she went to the door to switch off the light she thought of Nellie in the bedroom below. She could not imagine anyone sleeping through Vicky's screams, yet Nellie had not called up to ask what was wrong. Gia turned on the hall light and leaned over the banister. Nellie's door was open and her bedroom dark. It didn't seem possible she could still be asleep.

Uneasy now, Gia started down the stairs.

"Where're you going, Mommy?" Vicky asked with a frightened voice from the bed.

"Just down to Aunt Nellie's room for a second. I'll be right back."

Poor Vicky, she thought. She really got a scare.

Gia stood at Nellie's door. All was dark and still within. Nothing out of the ordinary except an odor...a faint whiff of putrefaction. Nothing to fear, yet she was afraid. Hesitantly, she tapped on the doorjamb.

"Nellie?"

No answer.

"Nellie, are you all right?"

When only silence answered, she reached inside the door, found the light switch, but hesitated, afraid of what she might find. Nellie wasn't young. What if she’d died in her sleep? She seemed to be in good health, but you never knew. And that odor, faint as it was, made her to think of death. Finally she could wait no longer. She flipped the switch.

The bed was empty. It obviously had been slept in—the pillow was rumpled, the covers pulled down—but no sign of Nellie. Gia stepped around to the far side, walking as if she expected something to rise out of the rug and attack her. No Nellie lying on the floor. Gia turned to the bathroom. It stood open and empty.

Frightened now, she ran downstairs, going from room to room, turning on all the lights in each, calling Nellie's name over and over. She headed back upstairs, checking Grace's empty room on the second floor, and the other guestroom on the third.

Empty. All empty.

Nellie was gone-just like Grace!

Gia stood in the hall, shivering, fighting panic, unsure of what to do. She and Vicky were alone in a house from which people disappeared without a sound or a trace

Vicky!

Gia rushed to their bedroom. The light was still on. Vicky lay curled up under the sheet, sound asleep. Thank God! She sagged against the doorframe, relieved yet still afraid. What to do now? She went out to the phone on the hall table. She had Jack's number and he’d said to call if she needed him. But he was in South Jersey and couldn't be here for hours. Gia wanted somebody here now. She didn't want to stay alone with Vicky in this house for a minute longer than she had to.

With a trembling finger she dialed 911 for the police.

12

"You still renting in the city?"

Jack nodded. "Yep."

His father grimaced and shook his head. "That's like throwing your money away."

Jack had changed into the shirt and slacks he’d brought along, and now they were back at the house after a late, leisurely dinner at a Mount Holly seafood restaurant. They sat in the living room sipping Jack Daniel's in near-total darkness, the only light washing in from the adjoining dining room.

"You're right, Dad. No argument there."

"I know houses are ridiculously expensive these days, and a guy in your position really doesn't need one, but how about a condo? Get hold of something you can build up equity in."

Not a new subject. Dad would go on about the tax benefits of owning your own home while Jack lied and hedged, unable to say that tax deductions were irrelevant to a man who didn't pay them.

"I don't know why you stay in that city, Jack. Not only have you got federal and state taxes, but the goddamn city sticks its hand in your pocket, too."

"My business is there."

His father stood up and took both glasses into the dining room for refills.

When they’d returned to the house after dinner, he hadn't asked Jack what he wanted; he'd simply poured a couple of fingers on the rocks and handed him one. Jack didn't know how many glasses they’d had since the first.

Jack closed his eyes and absorbed the feel of the house. He’d grown up here. He knew every crack in the walls, every squeaky step, every hiding place. This living room had been so big then; now it seemed tiny. He could still remember that man in the next room carrying him around the house on his shoulders when he was five. And when he was older they’d played catch out in the backyard. Jack had been the youngest of the three kids. There’d been something special between his father and him. They used to go everywhere together on weekends, and whenever he had the chance, Dad would float a little propaganda toward him. Not lectures really, but a pitch on getting into a profession when he grew up. He worked on all the kids that way, telling them how much better it was to be your own boss rather than be like him and have to work for somebody else. They’d been close then. Not any more. Now they were like acquaintances...near-friends...almost-relatives.

His father handed him the glass of fresh ice and sour mash, then returned to his seat.

"Why don't you move down here?"

"Dad—"

"Hear me out. I'm doing better than I ever dreamed. I could take you in with me and show you how it's done. You could take some business courses and learn the ropes. And while you're going to school I could manage a portfolio for you to pay your expenses. 'Earn while you learn,' as the saying goes."

Jack was silent. His body felt leaden, his mind sluggish. Too much Jack Daniel's? Or the weight of all those years of lying? He knew Dad's bottom line: He wanted his youngest to finish college and establish himself in some sort of respectable field. Jack's brother was a judge in Philly, his sister a pediatrician in Trenton. What was Jack? In his father's eyes he was a college drop-out with no drive, no goals, no ambition, no wife, no children; someone who was going to drift through life putting very little in and getting very little out, leaving no trace or evidence that he’d even passed through.

In short: a failure.

That hurt. Like most sons, he wanted his father to be proud of him. Dad's disappointment was like a festering sore that tainted their already attenuated relationship, making Jack want to avoid a man he’d always loved and respected.

He was tempted to lay it out for him—put all the lies aside and tell him what his son really did for a living.

Alarmed at the trend of his thoughts, Jack straightened in his chair and got a grip on himself. That was the Jack Daniel's talking. Leveling with his father would accomplish nothing. First off, he wouldn't believe it; and if he did, he wouldn't understand; and if he believed and understood, he'd be horrified...just like Gia.

"You like what you're doing, don't you, Dad?" he said finally.

"Yes. Very much. And you would, too, if—"

"I don't think so."

After all, what was his father making besides money? He was buying and selling, but he wasn't producing anything. Jack didn't mention this—it would only start an argument. The guy was happy, and the only thing that kept him from being completely at peace with himself was his youngest son. If Jack could have helped him there he would have. But he couldn't.

"I like what I'm doing. Can't we leave it at that?"

Dad said nothing.

The phone rang. He went into the kitchen to answer it. A moment later he came out again.

"It's for you. A woman. She sounds upset."

The lethargy that had been slipping over Jack suddenly dropped away. Only Gia had this number. He pushed himself out of the chair and hurried to the phone.

"Nellie's gone, Jack!"

"Where?”

"Gone! Disappeared! Just like Grace! Remember Grace? She was the one you were supposed to find instead of going to diplomatic receptions with your Indian lady friend."

"Calm down will you? Did you call the cops?"

"They're on their way."

"I'll see you after they leave."

"Don't bother. I just wanted you to know what a good job you've done!"

She hung up.

"Something the matter?" his father asked.

"Yeah. A friend's been hurt." Another lie. But what was one more added to the mountain he’d told over the years? "Gotta get back to the city." They shook hands. "Thanks. It's been great. Let's do it again soon."

He had his racquet and was out to his car before Dad could warn him about driving after all those drinks. He was fully alert now. Gia's call had evaporated all effects of the alcohol.

Jack was in a foul mood as he drove up the turnpike. He'd really blown this one. It hadn't even occurred to him that if one sister disappeared, the other might do the same. He wanted to push the car to eighty but didn't dare.

At least the traffic was light. No trucks. The night was clear. The near-full moon hanging over the road was flat on one edge, like a grapefruit someone had dropped and left on the floor too long.

As he passed Exit 6 and approached the spot where his mother had been killed, his thoughts began to flow backward in time. He rarely permitted that. He preferred to keep them focused on the present and the future; the past was dead and gone. But in his present state of mind he allowed himself to remember a snowy winter night almost a month after his mother's death…

13

He’d been watching the fatal overpass every night, sometimes in the open, sometimes in the bushes. The January wind had frosted his face, chapped his lips, numbed his fingers and toes. Still he waited. Cars passed, people passed, time passed, but no one threw anything off.

February came. A few days after the official groundhog had supposedly seen its shadow and returned to its burrow for another six weeks of winter, it snowed. An inch lay on the ground already and at least half a dozen more predicted. Jack stood on the overpass looking at the thinning southbound traffic slushing along beneath him. He was cold, tired, and ready to call it a night.

As he turned to go he saw a figure hesitantly approaching through the snow. Continuing his turning motion, Jack bent, scooped up some wet snow, packed it into a ball, and lobbed it over the cyclone fencing to drop on a car below. After two more snowballs, he glanced again at the figure and saw it was approaching more confidently now. Jack stopped his bombardment and stared at the traffic as if waiting for the newcomer to pass. But he didn't. He stopped next to Jack.

"Whatcha putting in them?"

Jack looked at him. "Putting in what?"

"The snowballs."

"Get lost."

The guy laughed. "Hey, it's all right. Help yourself." He held out a handful of walnut-sized rocks.

Jack sneered. "If I wanted to throw rocks, I could sure as hell do better'n those."

"This is just for starters."

The newcomer, who said his name was Ed, laid his stones atop the guardrail and together they formed new snowballs with rocky cores. Then Ed showed him a spot where the fencing could be stretched out over the road to allow room for a more direct shot...a space big enough to slip a cinder block through. Jack managed to hit the tops of trucks with his rock-centered snowballs or miss completely. But Ed landed a good share of his dead center on oncoming windshields.

Jack watched his face as he threw. Not much was visible under the knitted cap pulled down to pale eyebrows, or above the navy peacoat collar turned up around his fuzzy cheeks, but a wild light flared in Ed's eyes as he threw his snowballs. And he smiled as he saw them smash against the windshields. He was getting a real thrill out of this.

That didn't mean Ed was the one who’d dropped that cinder block. He could be just another one of a million petty terrorists who got their jollies destroying or disfiguring something that belonged to someone else. But what he was doing was potentially deadly. The impact of one of his special snowballs—even if it didn't shatter the windshield—could cause a driver to swerve or slam on his brakes. And that could be lethal on the slippery asphalt.

Either that had never crossed Ed's mind, or it was what had brought him out tonight.

Could be him.

Jack fought to think clearly. Had to find out. Had to be absolutely sure.

Jack made a disgusted noise. "Fucking waste of time. I don't think we cracked even one." He turned to go. "See ya."

"Hey!" Ed said, grabbing his arm. "I said we're just getting started."

"This is diddley-shit."

"Follow me. I'm a pro at this."

Ed led him down the road to where a 280-Z was parked. He opened the trunk and pointed to an icy cinder block wedged up against the spare tire.

"You call that diddley-shit?"

It took all of Jack's will to keep from leaping on Ed and tearing out his throat with his teeth. Had to be sure. Jack’s plan left no room for error. No going back later and apologizing for making a mistake.

"I call that big trouble," Jack managed to say. "You'll get the heat down on you somethin' awful."

"Naw! I dropped one these bombs last month. You shoulda seen it—perfect shot! Right in somebody's lap!"

Jack felt himself begin to shake. "Hurt bad?"

Ed shrugged. "Who knows? I didn't hang around to find out." He barked a laugh. "I just wish I coulda been there to see the look on their faces when that thing came through the windshield. Blam! Can you see it?"

"Yeah," Jack said. "I can see it."

As Ed leaned over to grab the block, Jack slammed the trunk lid down on his head. Ed yelled and tried to straighten up but Jack slammed him again. And again. He kept on slamming it until Ed stopped moving. Then he ran to the bushes where twenty feet of heavy-duty rope had lain hidden for the past month.

*

"Wake up!"

Jack had tied Ed's hands behind his back. He’d cut a large opening in the cyclone wire. He now held him seated on the top rung of the guardrail over the south side of the overpass. A rope ran from Ed's ankles to the base of one of the guard rail supports. Ed's legs dangled over the southbound lanes.

Jack rubbed snow in Ed's face.

"Wake up!"

Ed sputtered and shook his head. His eyes opened. He looked dully at Jack, then around him. He looked down and stiffened. Panic flashed in his eyes.

"Hey! What—?”

"You're dead, Ed. Ed is dead. It rhymes, Ed. That's 'cause it's meant to be."

Jack was barely in control. He would look back in later years and know what he was doing was crazy. A car could have come down the road and along the overpass at any time, or someone in the northbound lanes could have looked up and spotted them through the heavy snow. But good sense had fled along with mercy, compassion, and forgiveness.

This man had to die.

Jack had decided that after talking to the State Police after his mother's funeral. It had been clear then that even if they learned the name of whoever had dropped the cinder block, without an eyewitness to the incident or a full confession freely given in the presence of the defendant's attorney, he'd walk.

Jack refused to accept that. The killer had to die—not just any way, but Jack's way. He had to know he was going to die. And why.

Jack's voice sounded flat in his ears, and as cold as the snow drifting out of the featureless night sky.

"You know whose lap your 'bomb' landed in last month, Ed? My mother's. You know what? She's dead. A lady who never hurt anyone in her whole life was riding along minding her own business and you killed her. Now she's dead and you're alive. What's wrong with that picture, Ed?"

He took bleak satisfaction from the growing horror in Ed's face.

"Hey, look! It wasn't me! Wasn't me, I swear!"

"Too late, Ed. You already told me it was."

Ed let out a scream as he slid off the guardrail, but Jack held him by the back of his coat until his tied feet found purchase on the ledge.

"Please don't do this! I'm sorry! It was an accident! I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt! I'll do anything to make it up! Anything!"

"Anything? Good. Don't move."

Together they stood over the right southbound lane, Jack inside the guardrail, Ed outside. Both watched the traffic roar out from beneath the overpass and flee down the turnpike. With his hand gripping the collar of Ed's peacoat to steady him, Jack glanced over his shoulder at the oncoming traffic.

With the continuing snowfall, the traffic had slowed and thinned. The left lane had built up an accumulation of slush and no one was using it, but plenty of cars and trucks remained in the middle and right lanes, most doing forty-five or fifty. Jack saw the headlights and clearance lights of a tractor-semitrailer approaching down the right lane. As it neared the overpass he gave a gentle shove.

Ed toppled forward slowly, gracefully, his bleat of terror rising briefly above the noise of the traffic echoing from below. Jack had measured the rope carefully. Ed fell feet first until the rope ran out of slack, then his body snapped downward. Ed's head and upper torso swung over the cab of the oncoming truck and smashed against the leading edge of the trailer with a solid thunk! His body bounced and dragged limply along the length of the trailer top, then swung into the air, a piñata spinning and swaying crazily its string.

The truck kept going, its driver probably blaming the noise on a clump of wet snow that had shaken loose from the overpass. Another truck came rolling down the lane but Jack didn't wait for the second impact.

He walked to Ed's car and removed the cinder block from the trunk. He threw it into a field as he walked the mile farther down the road to his own car.

No connection to his mother's death, no connection to him.

Over.

Done.

He went home and put himself to bed, secure in the belief that starting tomorrow he could pick up his life again where he’d left off.

He was wrong.

He slept into the afternoon of the following day. When he awoke, the enormity of what he’d done descended with the weight of the earth itself. He’d killed. More than killed: he’d executed another man.

He was tempted to cop an insanity plea, say it hadn't been him up there on the overpass but a monster wearing his skin. Someone else had been in control.

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 with out 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 crosstown. 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? After shave?"

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

Jack's face tightened. "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 half-hearted 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. She 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.

A link existed between what had happened last night at his apartment and Nellie's disappearance tonight, but Jack was damned if he knew what it was. He’d been disappointed when he could not find any of the herbal liquid he’d found in Grace's room last week. He couldn't say how, but he was sure the odor, the eyes, the liquid, and the disappearances of the two old women were connected.

Idly, he picked up a piece of chocolate from the candy dish beside his chair. He wasn't hungry, but he wouldn't mind something sweet right now. Trouble with these things was you never knew what was inside. He could use the old thumb-puncture-on-the-bottom trick, but that didn't seem right on a missing person's candy. He dropped it back in the bowl and returned to his musings.

Jack reached down and checked the position of the little Semmerling where he’d squeezed it and its ankle holster between the seat cushion and armrest of the recliner. It was still handy. He closed his eyes and thought of eyes...yellow eyes...

And then it struck him—the thought that had eluded him last night. Those eyes...yellow with dark pupils...why they’d seemed vaguely familiar to him: They resembled the pair of black-centered topazes on the necklaces worn by Kolabati and Kusum and the one he’d retrieved for their grandmother!

He should have seen it before! Those two yellow stones had been staring at him for days, just as the eyes had stared at him last night.

His spirits rose slightly. He didn't know what the resemblance meant, but now he had a link between the Bahktis and the eyes, and perhaps the disappearance of Grace and Nellie. It might well turn out to be pure coincidence, but at least he had a path to follow.

Jack knew what he'd be doing in the morning.

Chapter Eight

Monday

1

Gia watched Jack and Vicky playing with their breakfasts. Vicky had been up at dawn and delighted to find Jack asleep in the library. Before long she had her mother up and making breakfast for them.

As soon as they were all seated Vicky had begun a chant: "We want Moony! We want Moony!" So Jack had dutifully borrowed Gia's lipstick and a felt-tipped pen and drawn a face, Señor Wences-style, on his left hand. The hand then became a very rude, boisterous entity known as Moony. Jack was presently screeching in a falsetto voice as Vicky stuffed Cheerios into Moony's mouth. She was laughing so hard she could barely breathe. Vicky had such a good laugh, an unselfconscious belly laugh from the very heart of her being. Gia loved to hear it and was in turn laughing at Vicky.

When was the last time she and Vicky had laughed at breakfast?

"Okay. That's enough for now," Jack said at last. "Moony's got to rest and I've got to eat." He went to the sink to wash Moony away.

"Isn't Jack funny, mom?" Vicky said, her eyes bright. "Isn't he the funniest?"

As Gia replied, Jack turned around at the sink and mouthed her words in perfect synchronization: "He's a riot, Vicky."

Gia threw her napkin at him. "Sit down and eat."

She watched Jack finish off the eggs she’d fried for him. There was happiness at this table, even after Vicky's nightmare and Nellie's disappearance—Vicky hadn't been told yet. Gia had a warm, contented feeling inside. Last night had been so good. She didn't understand what had come over her, but was glad she’d given in to it. She didn't know what it meant...maybe a new beginning...maybe nothing. If only she could go on feeling this way. If only...

"Jack," she said slowly, not knowing how she was going to phrase this, "have you ever thought of switching jobs?"

"All the time. And I will—or at least get out of this one."

A small spark of hope ignited in her. "When?"

"Don't know," he said with a shrug. "I know I can't do it forever, but..." He shrugged again, obviously uncomfortable with the subject.

"But what?"

"It's what I do. I know it’s a cliché, but I don't know how to say it any better than that. It's what I do and I do it pretty well. So I want to keep on doing it."

"You like it."

"Yeah," he said, concentrating on the last of his eggs. "I like it."

The growing spark winked out as the old resentment returned with an icy blast. For want of something to do with her hands, Gia got up and began clearing the table. Why bother? she thought. The man's a hopeless case.

And so, breakfast ended on a tense note.

Afterward, Jack caught her alone in the hallway.

"I think you ought to get out of here and back to your own place."

Gia would have liked nothing better. "I can't. What about Nellie? I don't want her to come back to an empty house."

"Eunice will be here."

"I don't know that and neither do you. With Nellie and Grace gone, she's officially unemployed. She may not want to stay here alone, and I can't say I'd blame her."

Jack scratched his head. "I guess you're right. But I don't like the idea of you and Vicks here alone, either."

"We can take care of ourselves," she said, refusing to acknowledge his concern. "You do your part and we'll do ours.”

Jack's mouth tightened. "Fine. Just fine. What was last night, then? Just a roll in the hay?"

"Maybe. It could have meant something, but I guess nothing's changed, not you, not me. You're the same Jack I left, and I still can't accept what you do. And you are what you do."

He walked out.

Why do I keep doing this? she thought. She shook her head as she remembered Jack’s words. Maybe it’s what I do.

The house suddenly seemed enormous and ominous. She hoped Eunice would show up soon.

2

A day in the life of Kusum Bahkti...

Jack had buried the hurt of his most recent parting with Gia and attacked the task of learning all he could about how Kusum spent his days. It had come down to a choice between tailing Kusum or Kolabati, but Kolabati was just a visitor from Washington, so Kusum won.

Jack’s first stop after leaving Sutton Square had been his apartment where he’d called Kusum's number. Kolabati had answered and they'd had a brief conversation during which he learned that Kusum could probably be found either at the consulate or the UN. Jack had also managed to wrangle the apartment address out of her. He might need that later. He called the Indian Consulate and learned that Mr. Bahkti was expected to be at the UN all day.

And so he stood in line in the General Assembly Building of the United Nations and waited for the tour to start. The morning sun stung the sunburned nose and forearms he’d acquired yesterday on the tennis courts in Jersey. He knew nothing about the UN. Most people he knew in Manhattan had never been here unless it was to show a visiting friend or relative.

He wore dark glasses, a dark blue Izod buttoned up to the neck, an "I ? NY" button pinned to his breast pocket, light blue Bermudas, knee-high black socks and sandals. He’d slung a Kodak disposable camera and a pair of binoculars around his neck. Figured his best bet was to look like a tourist.

The tombstonelike Secretariat Building was off limits to the public. An iron fence surrounded it and guards checked IDs at all the gates. In the General Assembly Building there were airport-style metal detectors. Jack had reluctantly resigned himself to being an unarmed tourist for the day.

The tour began. As they moved through the halls the guide gave them a brief history and a glowing description of the accomplishments and the future goals of the United Nations. Jack only half listened. He kept remembering a remark he’d once heard that if all the diplomats were kicked out, the UN could be turned into the finest bordello in the world and do just as much, if not more, for international harmony.

The tour served to give him an idea of how the building was laid out, the locations of the public areas and restricted areas. Jack decided his best bet was to sit in the public gallery of the General Assembly, in session all day due to some new international crisis somewhere. Soon after seating himself, Jack learned that the Indians were directly involved in the matter under discussion: escalating hostile incidents along the Sino-Indian border. India was charging China with aggression.

He suffered through endless discussions that he was sure he’d heard a thousand times. Every dinky little country, most unknown to him, had to have its say and usually it said the same thing as the dinky little country before it. Jack finally turned off his headphones. But he kept his binoculars trained on the area around the Indian delegation's table. So far he’d seen no sign of Kusum.

He was just about to nod off when Kusum finally appeared. He walked in with a dignified, businesslike stride and handed a sheaf of papers to the chief delegate, then seated himself in one of the chairs to the rear.

Jack watched through the glasses as Kusum exchanged a few words with the other diplomat seated near him, but for the most part kept to himself. He seemed aloof, preoccupied, almost as if he were under some sort of strain, fidgeting in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his legs, tapping his toes, glancing repeatedly at the clock; the picture of a man with something on his mind, a man who wanted to be somewhere else.

Jack sensed he’d be leaving soon.

He left Kusum sitting in the General Assembly and went out to the UN Plaza. A brief reconnaissance revealed the location of the diplomats' private parking lot in front of the Secretariat. Jack fixed the image of the Indian flag in his mind, then found a shady spot across the street that afforded a clear view of the exit ramp.

3

It took most of the afternoon. Jack's eyes burned after hours of being trained on the diplomat lot. If he hadn't happened to glance across the Plaza toward the General Assembly Building at a quarter to four, he might have spent half the night waiting for Kusum. For there he was, looking like a mirage as he walked through the shimmering heat rising from the sun-baked concrete. For some reason, perhaps because he was leaving before the session was through, Kusum had bypassed an official car and was walking to the curb. He hailed a cab and got in.

Fearful he might lose him, Jack ran to the street and flagged down a cab of his own.

"I hate to say this," he said to the driver as he jumped into the rear seat, "but follow that cab."

The driver didn't even look back. "Which one?"

"It's just pulling away over there—the one with the Times ad on the back."

"Got it."

As they moved into the uptown flow of traffic on First Avenue, Jack leaned back and studied the driver's ID photo, taped to the other side of the plastic partition that separated him from the passenger area. It showed a beefy black face sitting on a bull neck. Arnold Green was the name under it. A hand-lettered sign saying “Green’s Machine” was taped to the dashboard.

"You get many 'Follow-that-cab' fares?" Jack asked.

"Almost never."

"You didn't act surprised."

"As long as you're paying, I'll follow. Drive you around and around the block till the gas runs out if you want. Just as long as the meter's running."

Kusum's cab turned west on Sixty-sixth, one of the few streets that broke the "evens-run-east" rule of Manhattan. Green's Machine followed. Together they crawled west to Fifth Avenue. Kusum's apartment was in the upper Sixties on Fifth. Probably going home.

But the cab ahead turned downtown on Fifth. Kusum emerged at the corner of Sixty-fourth and began to walk east. Jack followed in his cab. He saw Kusum enter a doorway next to a brass plaque that read: New India House. He checked the address of the Indian Consulate he’d jotted down that morning. It matched. He’d expected something looking like a Hindu temple. Instead, he saw an ordinary building of white stone and iron-barred windows with a large Indian flag—orange, white, and green stripes with a wheel-like mandala in the center—hanging over double oak doors.

"Pull over," he told the cabby. "We're going to wait awhile.”

Arnold pulled his machine into a loading zone across the street from the building. "How long?"

"As long as it takes."

"Could run into money."

"That's okay. I'll pay you every fifteen minutes so the meter doesn't get too far ahead. How's that sound?"

Arnold stuck a huge brown hand through the slot in the plastic partition. "How about the first installment?"

Jack gave him a twenty.

He turned off the engine and slouched down in the seat. "You from around here?" he asked without turning around.

"Sort of."

"You look like you're from Cleveland."

"I'm in disguise."

"You a detective?"

That seemed like a reasonable explanation for following cabs around Manhattan, so Jack said, "Sort of."

"You on an expense account?"

"Sort of."

"Well, sort of let me know when you sort of want to get moving again."

Jack laughed and got himself comfortable. His only worry was that there might be a back way out of the building.

People began drifting out of the consulate at 5:00. Kusum wasn't among them. Jack waited another hour and still no sign of Kusum. By 6:30, Arnold was sound asleep in the front seat and Jack feared Kusum had somehow slipped out of the building unseen. He decided to give it another half hour. If Kusum didn't show by then, Jack would either go inside or find a phone and call the Consulate.

It was nearly 7:00 when two Indians in business suits stepped through the door and onto the sidewalk. Jack nudged Arnold.

"Start your engine. We may be rolling soon."

Arnold grunted and reached for the ignition. Green’s Machine grumbled to life.

Another pair of Indians came out. Neither was Kusum. Jack was edgy. Still plenty of light, no chance for Kusum to slip past him, yet he had a feeling that Kusum could be a pretty slippery character if he wanted to be.

Come out, come out, wherever you are.

He watched the two Indians walk up toward Fifth Avenue…walking west. With a flash of dismay, Jack realized that he was parked on a one-way street going east. If Kusum followed the same path as these last two, Jack would have to leave this cab and find another on Fifth Avenue. And the next cabby might not be as easygoing as Arnold Green.

"We've got to get onto Fifth," he told Arnold.

"Okay."

Arnold put his cab in forward and started to pull out into the crosstown traffic.

"No, wait! It'll take too long to go around the block. I'll miss him."

Arnold gave him a baleful stare through the partition. "You're not telling me to go the wrong way on a one-way street, are you?"

"Of course not," Jack said. Something in the cabby’s voice told him to play along. "That would be against the law."

Arnold smiled. "Just wanted to make sure you wasn't telling."

Without warning he threw the Green Machine into reverse and floored it. The tires screeched, terrified pedestrians leaped for the curb, cars corning out of the Central Park traverse swerved and honked angrily. Jack hung onto the passenger straps as the car lunged the hundred feet or so back to the corner, skidded to a halt across the mouth of the street, then nosed along the curb on Fifth Avenue.

"This okay?" Arnold said.

Jack peered through the rear window. He had a clear view of the doorway in question.

"It'll do. Thanks."

"Welcome."

And suddenly Kusum appeared, pushing through the door and striding up toward Fifth. He crossed Sixty-fourth and walked Jack's way. Jack pressed himself into a corner of the seat. Kusum came closer. With a start Jack realized that Kusum was angling across the sidewalk directly toward the Green’s Machine.

Jack slapped his hand against the partition. "Take off! He thinks you're looking for a fare!"

The cab slipped away from the curb just as Kusum was reaching for the door handle. Jack peeked through the rear window. Kusum didn't seem the least bit disturbed. He merely held his hand up for another cab. He seemed far more intent on getting where he was going than on what was going on around him.

Without being told to, Arnold slowed to a half a block down and waited until Kusum got in his cab. When it rolled by, he pulled into traffic behind it.

"On the road again, Momma," he said to no one in particular.

Jack leaned forward and fixed on Kusum's cab. He was almost afraid to blink for fear of losing it. Kusum's apartment was only a few blocks uptown from the Indian Consulate—walking distance. But he was taking a cab downtown. This could be what Jack had been waiting for.

They chased it down to Fifty-seventh where it turned right and headed west along what used to be known as Art Gallery Row.

They followed Kusum farther and farther west, past the theme restaurants, toward the Hudson River docks. With a start, Jack realized this was the area where Kusum's grandmother had been mugged. The cab went as far west as it could and stopped at Twelfth Avenue and Fifty-seventh. Kusum got out and began to walk uptown.

Jack had Arnold pull in to the curb. He stuck his head out the window and squinted against the glare of the sinking sun as Kusum crossed Twelfth Avenue and disappeared into the shadows under the West Side Highway.

"Be back in a second," he told Arnold.

He walked to the corner and saw Kusum hurry along the crumbling waterside pavement to a rotting pier where a rustbucket freighter was moored. As Jack watched, a gangplank lowered itself as if by magic. Kusum climbed aboard and disappeared from view. The gangplank hoisted itself back to the raised position after he was gone.

A ship. What the hell could Kusum be doing on a floating heap like that?

It had been a long, boring day, but now things were getting interesting.

Jack went back to Green’s Machine.

"Looks like this is it," he said to Arnold. He glanced at the meter, calculated what he still owed of the total, added twenty percent for good will, and handed it through the window. "Thanks. You've been a big help."

"This ain't such a good neighborhood during the day," Arnold said, glancing around. "And after dark it really gets rough, especially for someone dressed like you."

"I'll be okay," he said, grateful for the concern of a man he’d known for only a few hours. He slapped the roof of the car. "Thanks again."

Jack watched the cab until it disappeared into the traffic, then he studied his surroundings: a vacant lot on the corner across the street, and an old, boarded-up brick warehouse next to him.

He felt exposed standing here in an outfit that shouted "Mug me" to anyone so inclined. And since he hadn't dared to bring a weapon to the UN, he was unarmed. Officially, unarmed. He could permanently disable a man with a ballpoint pen and knew half a dozen ways to kill with a key ring, but didn't like to work that close unless he had to. He would have been much more comfortable knowing the Semmerling was strapped against his leg.

He had to hide. His best bet would be under the West Side Highway. He jogged over and perched himself high up in the notch of one of the supports. It offered a clear view of the pier and the ship. Best of all, it would keep him out of sight of any troublemakers.

Dusk came and went. The streetlights came on as night slipped over the city. He was away from the streets, but he saw the traffic to the west and south of him thin out to a rare car cruising by. Still plenty of rumbling overhead on the West Side Highway as the cars slowed for the ramp down to street level just two blocks from where he crouched. The ship remained silent. Nothing moved on its decks, no lights showed from the superstructure. It had all the appearances of a deserted wreck.

What was Kusum doing in there?

Finally, when full darkness settled in at nine o'clock, Jack could wait no longer. In the dark he was pretty sure he could reach the deck and do some hunting around without being seen.

He jumped down from his perch and crossed over to the shadows by the pier. The moon was rising in the east—big and low and ruddy now, slightly rounder than last night. He wanted to get aboard and off again before it reached full brightness and started lighting up the waterfront.

At the water's edge Jack crouched against a huge piling under the looming shadow of the freighter and listened. All quiet but for the lapping of the water under the pier. A sour smell—a mixture of sea salt, mildew, rotting wood, creosote, and garbage—permeated the air. Movement to the left caught his eye: a lone wharf rat scurried along the bulkhead in search of dinner. Nothing else moved.

He jumped as something splashed near the hull. An automatic bilge pump was spewing a stream of water out a small port near the waterline of the hull.

He was edgy and couldn't say why. He’d done sneak searches under more precarious conditions than these. And with less apprehension. Yet the nearer he got to the boat, the less he felt like boarding her. Something within him warned him away. Through the years he’d come to recognize a certain instinct for danger; listening to it had kept him alive. Right now that instinct was ringing a frantic alarm.

Jack shrugged off the feeling of impending disaster as he took the binoculars and camera from around his neck and laid them at the base of the piling. A rope, better than two inches thick, ran up to the bow of the ship. Rough on his hands but easy to climb.

He leaned forward, got a firm two-handed grip, then swung out over the water. As he hung from the rope, he raised his legs until his ankles locked around it. Now began the climb: Hanging from a branch like an orangutan with his face to the sky and his back to the water, he pulled himself up hand over hand while his heels caught the finger-thick coils of the rope and pushed from behind.

The angle of ascent steepened and the climb got progressively tougher as he neared the gunwale. The tiny fibers of the rope were coarse and stiff. His palms were burning; each handful of rope felt like a handful of thistles, especially painful where he’d started a few blisters playing tennis yesterday. It was a pleasure to grab the smooth, cool steel of the gunwale and pull himself up to eye level with its upper edge. He hung there and scanned the deck. Still no sign of life.

He pulled himself over the gunwale, then ran in a crouch to the anchor windlass.

His skin prickled in warning—danger here. But where? He peered over the windlass. No sign that he’d been seen, no sign of anyone else aboard. Still the feeling persisted, a nagging sensation, almost as if he were being watched.

Again he shrugged it off. He had to reach the deckhouse. Well over a hundred feet of open deck lay between him and the aft superstructure. And aft was where he wanted to go. He couldn't imagine much going on in the cargo holds.

Jack set himself, then sprinted around the forward cargo hatch to the kingpost and crane assembly that stood between the two holds. He waited. Still no sign that he’d been seen...or that there was anyone here to see him. Another sprint took him to the forward wall of the deckhouse.

He slid along the wall to the port side where he found some steps. He took them up to the bridge. The wheelhouse was locked, but through the side window he could see a wide array of sophisticated controls.

Maybe this tub was more seaworthy than it looked.

He crossed in front of the bridge and began checking all the doors. On the second deck on the starboard side he found one open. The hallway within was dark but for a single, dim emergency bulb glowing at the far end. One by one he checked the three cabins on this deck. They looked fairly comfortable—probably for the ship's officers. Only one looked like it had been recently occupied. The bed was rumpled and a book written in an exotic-looking language lay open on a table. That at least confirmed Kusum's recent presence.

Next he checked the crew's quarters below. Deserted. The galley showed no signs of recent use.

What next? The emptiness, the silence, the stale, musty air were all chafing Jack's nerves. He wanted to get back to dry land and fresh air. But he could leave until he’d found Kusum.

He descended to the deck below and found a door marked Engine Room. He was reaching for the handle when he heard it...

A sound...barely audible...like a baritone chorus chanting in a distant valley. It came from somewhere behind him.

Jack turned and moved silently to the other end of the short corridor where he found a watertight hatch. A central wheel retracted the lugs at its edges. Hoping it still had some oil in its works, Jack grasped the wheel and turned it counterclockwise, half expecting a loud screech to echo throughout the ship and give him away. But he heard only a soft scrape and a faint squeak. When the wheel had turned as far as it would go, he gently swung the door open.

The odor struck him an almost physical blow, rocking him back on his heels. The same stink of putrescence that had invaded his apartment, only now a hundred, a thousand times stronger, gripping him, jamming itself against his face like a graverobber's glove.

Jack gagged and fought the urge to turn and run. This was it. This was the source, the very heart of the stench. Here he would learn whether the eyes he’d seen outside his window Saturday night were real or imagined. He couldn't let an odor, no matter how nauseating, turn him back now.

He forced himself to step through the hatch and into a dark, narrow corridor. The dank air clung to him. The corridor walls stretched into the blackness above him. And with each step the odor grew stronger. He could taste it in the air, almost touch it. Faint light flickered maybe twenty feet ahead. Jack fought his way toward it, passing small, room-sized storage areas on either side. They seemed empty—he hoped they were.

The chant he’d dimly heard before had ceased, but he heard rustling noises ahead, and as he neared the light, the sound of a voice speaking in a foreign language.

Hindi, I'll bet.

He slowed his advance as he neared the end of the corridor. The light was brighter in a larger, open area ahead. He’d been traveling forward from the stern. By rough calculation he figured he should be almost to the main cargo hold.

The corridor opened along the port wall of the hold; across the floor in the forward wall lay another opening, no doubt a similar passage leading to the forward hold. Jack reached the end and cautiously peeked around the corner. What he saw stopped his breath. Shock swept through him front to back, like a storm front.

The high, black iron walls of the hold rose and disappeared into the darkness above. Wild shadows cavorted on them. Glistening beads of moisture clung to their oily surfaces, catching and holding the light from the two roaring gas torches set upon an elevated platform at the far end. The wall over there was a different color, a bloody red, with the huge form of a many-armed goddess painted in black upon it. And between the two torches stood Kusum, naked but for some sort of long cloth twisted and wrapped around his torso. Even his necklace was off. His left shoulder was horribly scarred where he’d lost his arm; his right arm was raised as he shouted in his native tongue to the crowd assembled before him.

But it wasn't Kusum who seized and held Jack's attention in a stranglehold, who made the muscles of his jaw bunch with the effort to hold back a cry of horror, who made his hands grip the slimy walls so fiercely.

It was his audience. Four or five dozen of them, cobalt skinned, six or seven feet tall, all huddled in a semicircular crowd before Kusum. Each had a head, a body, two arms and two legs—but they weren't human. Weren't even close to human. Their proportions, the way they moved, everything about them was wrong, all wrong…a bestial savagery combined with a reptilian sort of grace. Reptiles, but something more, humanoid but something less...an unholy mongrelization of the two with a third strain that could not, even in the wildest nightmare delirium, be associated with anything of this earth. Jack caught flashes of fangs in the wide, lipless mouths beneath their blunt, sharklike snouts, the glint of talons at the end of their three-digit hands, and the yellow glow of their eyes as they stared at Kusum's ranting, gesticulating figure.

Beneath the shock and revulsion that numbed his mind and froze his body, Jack felt a fierce, instinctive hatred of these things. A subrational reaction, like the loathing a mongoose must feel toward a cobra. Instantaneous enmity. Something in the most remote and primitive corner of his humanity recognized these creatures and knew there could be no truce, no coexistence with them.

Yet this inexplicable reaction was overwhelmed by horrid fascination with what he saw.

And then Kusum raised his arm and shouted something. Perhaps it was the light, but he looked older to Jack. The creatures responded by starting the same chant he’d faintly heard moments ago. Only now he could make out the sounds. Gruff, grumbling voices, chaotic at first, then with growing unity, began repeating the same word over and over:

"Kaka-jiiiiiii! Kaka-jiiiiiii! Kaka-jiiiiiii! Kaka-jiiiiiii!"

Then they were raising their taloned hands in the air, and clutched in each was a bloody piece of bloody flesh that glistened in the wavering light.

Jack didn't know how he knew, but he was certain he was looking at all that remained of Nellie Paton.

That did it. His mind refused to accept any more. Terror was a foreign sensation to Jack, unfamiliar, almost unrecognizable. All he knew was that he had to get away before his sanity completely deserted him. He turned and ran back down the corridor, careless of the noise he made, not that much could be heard over the din in the hold. He closed the hatch behind him, spun the wheel to lock it, then ran up the steps to the deck, dashed along its moonlit length to the prow where he straddled the gunwale, grabbed the mooring rope and slid down to the dock, burning the skin from his palms.

He grabbed his binoculars and camera and fled toward the street. He knew where he was going: To the only other person besides Kusum who could explain what he’d just seen.

4

Kolabati reached the intercom on the second buzz. Her first thought was that it might be Kusum, then she realized he'd have no need of the intercom. She’d neither seen nor heard from him since losing him in Rockefeller Plaza yesterday. She hadn't moved from the apartment all day in the hope of catching him as he stopped by to change his clothes. But he’d never appeared.

"Mrs. Bahkti?" It was the doorman's voice.

"Yes?" She didn't bother to correct him about the "Mrs."

"Sorry to bother you, but there's a man down here says he has to see you." His voice sank to a confidential tone. "He doesn't look right, but he's really been bugging me."

"What's his name?"

"Jack. That's all he'll tell me."

A rush of warmth spread over her skin. But would it be wise to allow him to come up? If Kusum returned and found the two of them together in his apartment...

Yet she sensed that Jack would not show up without calling first unless it was something important.

"Send him up."

She waited impatiently until she heard the elevator open, then went to the door. When she saw Jack's black knee socks, sandals, and shorts, she broke into a laugh. No wonder the doorman wouldn't let him up.

Then she saw his face.

"Jack! What's wrong?"

He stepped through the door and closed it behind him. His face was pale beneath a red patina of sunburn, his lips drawn into a tight line, his eyes wild.

"I followed Kusum today..."

He paused, as if waiting for her to react. She knew from his expression that he must have found what she’d suspected all along, but she had to hear it from his lips. Hiding the dread of what she knew Jack would say, she set her face into an impassive mask.

"And?"

"You really don't know, do you?"

"Know what, Jack?" She watched him run a hand through his hair and noticed that his palms were dirty and bloody. "What happened to your hands?"

He didn't answer. Instead he walked past her and stepped down into the living room. He sat on the couch. Without looking at her, he began to speak in a dull monotone.

"I followed Kusum from the UN to this boat on the West Side—a big boat, a freighter. I saw him in one of the cargo holds leading some sort of ceremony with these"...his face twisted with the memory..."these things. They were holding up pieces of raw flesh. I think it was human flesh. And I think I know whose."

Strength flowed out of Kolabati like water down a drain. She leaned against the foyer wall to steady herself.

It was true! Rakoshi in America! And Kusum behind them—resurrecting old dead rites that should have been left dead. But how? The egg was in the other room!

"I thought you might know something about it," Jack was saying. "After all, Kusum is your brother and I figured—"

She barely heard him.

The egg...

She pushed herself away from the wall and started toward Kusum's bedroom.

"What's the matter?" Jack said, finally looking up at her. "Where are you going?"

Kolabati didn't reply. She had to see the egg again. How could there be rakoshi without using the egg…the last surviving egg? And that alone would not be enough to produce a nest—a male rakosh was needed.

It simply couldn't be!

She opened the closet in Kusum's room and pulled out the square crate. It was so light. Was the egg gone? She pulled the top up. No...still there, still intact. But she remembered that egg weighing at least ten pounds...

She reached into the box, placed a hand on each side, and lifted it. It almost leaped into the air. It weighed next to nothing! And on its underside her fingers felt a jagged edge.

Kolabati turned the egg over. A ragged opening gaped at her. Bright smears showed where cracks on the underside had been repaired with glue.

The room reeled and spun about her.

The rakosh egg was empty! It had hatched long ago!

5

Jack heard Kolabati cry out in the other room. Not a cry of fear or pain—more like a wail of despair. He found her kneeling on the floor of the bedroom, rocking back and forth, cradling a mottled, football-sized object in her arms. Tears streamed down her face.

"What happened?"

"It's empty!" she said through a sob.

"What was in it?" Jack had seen an ostrich egg once, but that had been white; this was about the same size but its shell was swirled with gray.

"A female rakosh."

Rakosh.

He didn't need any further explanation to know what had hatched from that egg: It had dark skin, a lean body with long arms and legs, a fanged mouth, taloned hands, and bright yellow eyes.

Moved by her anguish, he knelt opposite her. Gently he pulled the empty egg from her grasp and took her two hands in his.

"Tell me about it."

"I can't."

"You must."

"You wouldn't believe..."

"I've already seen them. I believe. Now I've got to understand. What are they?"

"They are rakoshi.'"

"I gathered that. But the name means nothing."

"They are ancient creatures, from the dim past, long before the Vedic scriptures. Descriptions by the primitive people who glimpsed them or survived them gave rise to the myth of the raksasha, the demons used for ages to spice up stories told at night to frighten children or to make them behave. Every child in India has heard, 'The raksasha will get you!' Only a select few through the ages have known that they are more than mere superstition."

"And you and Kusum are two of those select few, I take it.”

"We are the only ones left. We come from a long line of high priests and priestesses. We are the last of the Keepers of the Rakoshi. Through the ages the members of our family have been charged with their care—to breed them, control them, and use them according to the laws set down in the old days. And until the middle of the last century we discharged that duty faithfully."

She paused, seemingly lost in thought. Jack impatiently urged her on.

"What happened then?"

"British soldiers sacked the temple of Kali where our ancestors worshipped. They killed everyone they could find, looted what they could, poured burning oil into the rakoshi cave, and set the temple afire. Only one child of the priest and priestess survived." She glanced at the empty shell. "And only one intact rakosh egg was found in the fire-blasted caves. A female egg. Without a male egg, it meant the end of the rakoshi. They were extinct."

Jack touched the shell gingerly. So this was where those horrors came from. Hard to believe. He lifted it and held it so the light from the lamp shown through the hole into the interior. Whatever had been in here was long gone.

"I can tell you for sure, Kolabati: They aren't extinct. I saw a good fifty of them in that ship tonight."

Fifty...he tried to blank out the memory. Poor Nellie.

"Kusum must have found a male egg. He hatched them both and started a nest."

Kolabati baffled him. Could it be true that she hadn't known until now? He hoped so. He hated to think she could fool him so completely.

"That's all well and good, but I still don't know what they are. What do they do?"

"They're demons—"

"Demons, shmemons! Demons are supernatural! Nothing supernatural about those things. They were flesh and blood!"

"No flesh like you have ever seen before, Jack. And their blood is almost black."

"Black, red—blood is blood."

"No, Jack!" She rose on her knees and gripped his shoulders with painful intensity. "You must never underestimate them! Never! They appear slow-witted but they’re cunning. And they are almost impossible to kill.”

"The British did a good job, it seems."

Her face twisted. "Only by sheer luck! They chanced upon the only thing that will kill a rakosh—fire! Iron weakens them, fire destroys them."

"Fire and iron..." Jack suddenly understood the two jets of flame Kusum had stood between, and the reason for housing the monsters in a steel-hulled ship. Fire and iron: the two age-old protections against night and the dangers it held. "But where did they come from?"

"They have always been."

Jack stood up and pulled her to her feet. Gently. She seemed so fragile right now.

"I can't believe that. They're built like humans, but I can't see that we ever had a common ancestor. They're too—" he remembered the instinctive animosity that had surged to life within him as he’d watched them—"different.”

"Tradition has it that before the Vedic gods, and even before the pre-Vedic gods, there were other gods, the Old Ones, who hated mankind and wanted to usurp our place on earth. To do this they created blasphemous parodies of humans embodying the opposite of everything good in humans, and called them rakoshi. They are us, stripped of love and decency and everything good we are capable of. They are hate, lust, greed, and violence incarnate. The Old Ones made them far stronger than humans, and planted in them an insatiable hunger for human flesh. The plan was to have rakoshi take humankind's place on earth."

"Do you believe that?" It amazed him to hear Kolabati talking like a child who believed in fairy tales.

She shrugged. "I think so. At least it will do for me until a better explanation comes along. But as the story goes, it turned out that humans were smarter than the rakoshi and learned how to control them. Eventually, all rakoshi were banished to the Realm of Death."

"Not all."

"No, not all. My ancestors penned the last nest in a series of caves in northern Bengal and built their temple above. They learned ways to bend the rakoshi to their will and they passed on those ways, generation after generation. When our parents died, our grandmother passed on the egg and the necklaces to Kusum and me."

"I knew the necklaces came in somewhere."

Kolabati's voice was sharp as her hand flew to her throat. "What do you know of the necklace?"

"I know those two stones up front there look an awful lot like rakoshi eyes. I figured it was some sort of membership badge.”

"It's more than that," she said in a calmer voice. "For want of a better term, I'll say it's magic."

As Jack walked back to the living room, he laughed softly.

"You find this amusing?" Kolabati said from behind him.

"No." He dropped into a chair and laughed again, briefly. The laughter disturbed him—he seemed to have no control over it. "It's just that I've been listening to what you've been telling me and accepting every word without question. That's what's funny—I believe you. As a kid I saw some weird stuff in the Barrens, but this! It's the most ridiculous, fantastic, far-fetched, implausible, impossible story I've ever heard, and I believe every word of it!"

"You should. It's true.”

"Even the part about the magic necklace?" Jack held up his hand as she opened her mouth to elaborate. "Never mind. I've swallowed too much already. I might choke on a magic necklace."

"It's true!"

"I'm far more interested in your part in all this. You must have known."

She sat down opposite him. "Friday night in your room I knew there was a rakosh outside the window. Saturday night, too."

Jack had figured that out by now. But he had other questions: "Why me?"

"It came to your apartment because you tasted the durba grass elixir that draws a hunting rakosh to a particular victim."

Grace's so-called laxative…a rakosh must have carried her off between Monday night and Tuesday morning. And Nellie last night. But Nellie—those pieces of flesh held on high in the flickering light...he swallowed the bile that surged into his throat—Nellie was dead. Jack was alive.

"Then how come I'm still around?"

"My necklace protected you."

"Back to that again? All right—tell me."

She lifted the front of the necklace as she spoke, holding it on either side of the pair of eyelike gems. "This has been handed down through my family for ages. The secret of making it is long gone. It has...powers. It is made of a special iron, which traditionally has power over rakoshi, and renders its wearer invisible to a rakosh."

"Come on, Kolabati—" This was too much to believe.

"It's true! The only reason you are able to sit here and doubt is because I covered you with my body on both occasions when the rakosh came in to find you! I made you disappear! As far as a rakosh was concerned, your apartment was empty: If I hadn't, you would be dead like the others!"

The others...Grace and Nellie. Two harmless old ladies.

"But why the others? Why—?"

"To feed the nest! Rakoshi must have human flesh on a regular basis. In a city like this it must have been easy to feed a nest of fifty. You have your own caste of untouchables here—winos, derelicts, runaways, homeless people no one would miss or bother to look for even if their absence was noticed."

That explained all those missing homeless the newspapers had been blabbering about.

Jack jumped to his feet. "I'm not talking about them! I'm talking about two well-to-do ladies who have been made victims of these things!"

"You must be mistaken."

"I'm not."

"Then it must have been an accident. A missing-persons search is the last thing Kusum would want. He would pick faceless people. Perhaps those women came into the possession of some of the elixir by mistake."

"Possible." Jack was far from satisfied, but it was possible. He wandered around the room.

"Who were they?"

"Two sisters: Nellie Paton last night and Grace Westphalen last week."

Jack thought he heard a sharp intake of breath, but when he turned to Kolabati her face was composed.

"I see," was all she said.

"He's got to be stopped."

"I know." Kolabati clasped her hands in front of her. "But you can't call the police."

The thought hadn't entered Jack's mind. Police weren't on his list of possible solutions for anything. But he didn't tell Kolabati that. He wanted to know her reasons for avoiding them. Was she protecting her brother?

"Why not? Why not get the cops and the harbor patrol and have them raid that freighter, arrest Kusum, and wipe out the rakoshi?"

"Because that won't accomplish a thing! They can't arrest Kusum because of diplomatic immunity. And they'll go in after the rakoshi not knowing what they're up against. The result will be a lot of dead men. Kusum will go free, and instead of being killed, the rakoshi will scatter around the city to prey on whomever they can find."

She was right. She’d obviously given the matter some thought. Perhaps she’d even considered blowing the whistle on Kusum herself. Hell of a responsibility to carry alone. Maybe he could lighten the load.

"Leave him to me."

Kolabati rose from her chair and came to stand before Jack. She put her arms around his waist and laid the side of her head against his shoulder.

"No. Let me speak to him. He'll listen to me. I can stop him."

I doubt that very much, Jack thought. He's crazy, and nothing short of death is going to stop him.

But he said: "You think so?"

"We understand each other. We've been through so much together. Now that I know for sure he has a nest of rakoshi, he'll have to listen to me. He'll have to destroy them."

"I'll wait with you."

She jerked back and stared at him, terror in her eyes. "No! He mustn't find you here! He'll be so angry he'll never listen to me!"

"I don't—"

"I'm serious, Jack! I don't know what he might do if he found you here with me and knew you’d seen the rakoshi. He must never know that. Please. Leave now and let me face him alone."

Jack didn't like it. His instincts were against it. Yet the more he thought about it, the more reasonable it sounded. If Kolabati could convince her brother to eradicate his nest of rakoshi, the touchiest part of the problem would be solved. If she couldn't—and he doubted very much that she could—at least she might be able to keep Kusum off balance long enough for Jack to find an opening and make his move. Nellie Paton had been a spirited little lady. The man who killed her was not going to walk away.

"All right," he said. "But you be careful. You never know—he might turn on you."

She smiled and touched his face. "You're worried about me. I need to know that. But don't worry. Kusum won't turn on me. We're too close."

As he left the apartment, Jack wondered if he was doing the right thing. Could Kolabati handle her brother? Could anyone?

He took the elevator down to the lobby and walked out to the street.

The park stood dark and silent across Fifth Avenue. Jack knew that after tonight he would never feel the same about the dark again. Yet horse-drawn hansom cabs still carried lovers through the trees, taxis, cars and trucks still rushed past on the street, late workers, partygoers, prowling singles walked by, all unaware that a group of monsters was devouring human flesh in a ship tied to a West Side dock.

Already the horrors he’d witnessed tonight were taking on an air of unreality. Was what he’d seen real?

Of course it was. It just didn't seem so standing here amid the staid normalcy of Fifth Avenue in the upper Sixties. Maybe that was good. Maybe that seeming unreality would let him sleep at night until he took care of Kusum and his monsters.

He caught a cab and told the driver to go around the park instead of through it.

6

Kolabati watched through the peephole until Jack stepped into the elevator and the doors closed behind him. Then she slumped against the door.

Had she told him too much? What had she said? She couldn't remember what she might have blurted out in the aftermath of the shock of finding that hole in the rakosh egg. Probably nothing too damaging—she had such long experience at keeping secrets from people that it was now an integral part of her nature. Still, she wished she could be sure.

Kolabati straightened up and pushed those concerns aside. What was done was done. Kusum would be coming back tonight. After what Jack had told her, she was sure of that.

It was all so clear now. That name: Westphalen. It explained everything. Everything except where Kusum had found the male egg. And what he intended to do next.

Westphalen...she thought Kusum would have forgotten that name by now. But then, why think that? Kusum forgot nothing, not a favor, certainly not a slight. He would never forget the name Westphalen. Nor the timeworn vow attached to it.

Kolabati ran her hands up and down her arms. Captain Sir Albert Westphalen had committed a hideous crime and deserved an equally hideous death. But not his descendants. Innocent people should not be given into the hands of the rakoshi for a crime committed before they were born.

But she could not worry about them now. She had to decide how to handle Kusum. To protect Jack she would have to know more. She tried to remember the name of the woman Jack said had disappeared last night...Paton, wasn't it? Nellie Paton. And she needed a way to put Kusum on the defensive.

She went into the bedroom and brought the empty egg back to the tiny foyer. There she dropped the shell just inside the door. It shattered into a thousand pieces.

Tense and anxious, she found herself a chair and tried to get comfortable.

7

Kusum stood outside his apartment door a moment to compose himself. Kolabati was certainly waiting within with questions as to his whereabouts last night. He had his answers ready. What he had to do now was mask the elation that must be beaming from his face. He had disposed of the next to the last Westphalen—one more and he would be released from the vow. Tomorrow he would set the wheels in motion to secure the last of Albert Westphalen's line. Then he would set sail for India.

He keyed the lock and opened the door. Kolabati sat facing him from a living room chair, her arms and legs crossed, her face impassive. As he smiled and stepped forward, something crunched under his foot. He looked down and saw the shattered rakosh egg. A thousand thoughts hurtled through his shocked mind, but the one that leaped to the forefront was: How much does she know?

"So," he said as he closed the door behind him. "You know."

"Yes, brother. I know."

"How—?"

"That's what I want to know," she snapped.

She was being so oblique! She knew the egg had hatched. What else did she know? Not wanting to give anything away, he decided to proceed on the assumption that she knew only of the empty egg and nothing more.

"I didn't want to tell you about the egg," he said finally. "I was too ashamed. After all, it was in my care when it broke, and—"

"Kusum!" Kolabati leaped to her feet, her face livid. "Don't lie to me! I know about the ship and I know about the Westphalen women!"

Kusum felt as if he had been struck by lightning. She knew everything!

"How...?" was all he could manage.

"I followed you yesterday."

"You followed me?" He was sure he had eluded her. She had to be bluffing. "Didn't you learn your lesson last time?”

"Forget the last time. I followed you to your ship last night. "

"Impossible! "

"So you thought. But I watched and waited all last night. I saw the rakoshi leave. I saw them return with their captive. And I learned from Jack today that Nellie Paton, a Westphalen, disappeared last night. That was all I needed to know." She glared at him. "No more lies, Kusum. It's my turn to ask, 'how?' "

Stunned, Kusum stepped down into the living room and sank into a chair. He would have to bring her into it now...tell her everything. Almost everything. There was one part he could never tell—he could barely think about that himself. But he could tell her the rest. Maybe she could see his side.

He began his tale.

8

Kolabati scrutinized her brother closely as he spoke, watching for lies. His voice was clear and cool, his expression calm with just a hint of guilt, like a husband confessing a minor dalliance with another woman.

"I felt adrift after you left India. It was as if I had lost my other arm. Despite all my followers clustered around me, I spent much time alone—too much time, you might say. I began to review my life and all I had done and not done with it. Despite my growing influence, I felt unworthy of the trust so many were placing in me. What had I truly accomplished except to filthy my karma to the level of the lowest caste? I confess that for a time I wallowed in self-pity. Finally I decided to journey back to Bharangpur, to the hills there, to the temple ruins that are now the tomb of our parents and heritage."

He paused and looked directly at her. "The foundation is still there, you know. The ashes of the rest are gone, washed into the sand or blown away, but the stone foundation remains, and the rakoshi caves beneath are intact. The hills are still uninhabited. Despite all the crowding at home, people still avoid those hills. I stayed there for days in an effort to renew myself. I prayed, I fasted, I wandered the caves...yet nothing happened. I felt as empty and as worthless as before. And then I found it!"

Kolabati saw a light begin to glow in her brother's eyes, growing steadily, as if someone were stoking a fire within his brain.

"A male egg, intact, just beneath the surface of the sand in a tiny alcove in the caves! At first I did not know what to make of it, or what to do with it. Then it struck me: I was being given a second chance. There before me lay the means to accomplish all that I should have with my life, the means to cleanse my karma and make it worthy of one of our caste. I saw it then as my destiny. I was to start a nest of rakoshi and use them to fulfill the vow."

A male egg. Kusum continued to talk about how he manipulated the Foreign Service and managed to have himself assigned to the London embassy. Kolabati barely heard him. A male egg...she remembered hunting through the ruins of the Temple and the caves beneath as a child, searching everywhere. In their youth they both had felt it their duty to start a new nest and they had desperately wanted a male egg.

"After I established myself at the embassy," Kusum was saying, "I searched for Captain Westphalen's descendants. I learned that only four of his bloodline remained. They were not a prolific family and a number of them were killed off in the World Wars. To my dismay, I learned that only one, Richard Westphalen, was still in Britain. The other three were in America. But that did not deter me. I hatched the eggs, mated them, and started the nest. I have since disposed of three of the four Westphalens. There is only one left. "

Kolabati was relieved to hear that only one remained—perhaps she could prevail upon Kusum to give it up.

"Aren't three lives enough? Innocent lives, Kusum?"

"The vow, Bati," he said as if intoning the name of a deity. "The vrata. They carry the blood of that murderer, defiler, and thief in their veins. And that blood must be wiped from the face of the earth."

"I can't let you, Kusum. It's wrong."

"It's right!" He leapt to his feet. "There has never been anything so right!"

"No!"

"Yes!" He came toward her, his eyes bright. "You should see them, Bati! So beautiful! So willing! Please come with me and look at them! You'll know then that it is the will of Kali!"

A refusal rose immediately to Kolabati's lips, yet did not pass them. The thought of seeing a nest of rakoshi here in America at once repulsed and fascinated her. Kusum must have sensed her uncertainty, for he pressed on:

"They are our birthright! Our heritage! To turn away from them is to turn your back on your past!"

Kolabati wavered. After all, she did wear the necklace. And she was one of the last two remaining Keepers. In a way she owed it to herself and her family to at least go and see them.

"All right," she said slowly. "I'll come see them with you. But only once."

"Wonderful!" Kusum seemed elated. "It will be like going back in time. You'll see!"

"But that won't change my mind about killing innocent people. You must promise me that will stop."

"We'll discuss it," Kusum said, leading her toward the door. "And I want to tell you about my other plans for the rakoshi—plans that do not involve what you call 'innocent' lives."

"What?" She didn't like the sound of that.

"I'll tell you after you've seen them."

Kusum was silent during the cab ride to the docks while Kolabati tried her best to appear as if she knew exactly where they were going. After the cab dropped them off, they walked through the dark until they were standing before a small freighter. Kusum led her around to the starboard side.

"If it were daylight you could see the name across the stem: Ajit-Rupobati—in Vedic!"

She heard a click from where his hand rested in his jacket pocket. With a whir and a hum, the gangplank began to lower toward them. Dread and anticipation grew as she climbed. The moon was high and bright, illuminating the surface of the deck with a pale light made all the starker by the depths of the shadows it cast.

He stopped at the aft end of the second hatch and knelt by a belowdecks entry port.

"They're in the hold below," he said as he pulled up the hatch.

Rakoshi-stench poured out of the opening. Kolabati turned her head away. How could Kusum stand it? He didn't seem to notice the odor as he slid his feet into the port.

"Come," he said.

She followed. A short ladder led down to a square platform nestled into a corner, high over the empty hold. Kusum hit a switch and the platform began to descend with a jerk. Startled, Kolabati grabbed Kusum's arm.

"Where are we going?"

"Down just a little way." He pointed below with his bearded chin. "Look."

Kolabati squinted into the shadows, futilely at first. Then she saw their eyes. A garbled murmur arose from below. Kolabati realized that until this instant, despite all the evidence, all that Jack had told her, she’d not truly believed there could be rakoshi in New York. Yet here they were.

She shouldn't have been afraid—she was a Keeper—yet she was terrified. The closer the platform sank toward the floor of the hold, the greater her fear. Her mouth grew dry as her heart pounded against the wall of her chest.

"Stop it, Kusum!"

"Don't worry. They can't see us."

Kolabati knew that, but it gave her no comfort.

"Stop it now! Take me back up!"

Kusum hit another button. The descent stopped. He looked at her strangely, then started the platform upward. Kolabati sagged against him, relieved to be moving away from the rakoshi but knowing she had deeply disappointed her brother.

It couldn't be helped. She’d changed. She was no longer the recently-orphaned little girl who had looked up to her older brother as the nearest thing to a god on earth, who had planned with him to find a way to bring back the rakoshi and through them restore the ruined temple to its former glory. That little girl was gone forever. She’d ventured into the world and found that life could be good outside India. She wanted to stay there.

Not so Kusum. His heart and his mind had never left those blackened ruins in the hills outside Bharangpur. There was no life for him outside India. And even in his homeland his rigid Hindu fundamentalism made him something of a stranger. He worshipped India's past. That was where he wished to live, not in the land India was striving to become.

With the belowdecks port shut and sealed behind them, Kolabati relaxed, reveling in the outside air. Whoever would have thought muggy New York City air could smell so sweet?

Kusum led her to a steel door in the forward wall of the superstructure. He opened the padlock that secured it. Inside was a short hallway and a single furnished cabin.

Kolabati sat on the cot while Kusum stood and looked at her. She kept her head down, unable to meet his eyes. Neither had said a word since leaving the hold. Kusum's air of disapproval rankled her, made her feel like an errant child, yet she could not fight it. He had a right to feel the way he did.

"I brought you here hoping to share the rest of my plans with you," he said at last. "I see now that was a mistake. You have lost all touch with your heritage. You would become like the millions of soulless others in this place."

"Tell me your plans, Kusum," she said, feeling his hurt. "I want to hear them."

"You'll hear. But will you listen?" He answered his own question without waiting for her. "I don't think so. I was going to tell you how the rakoshi could be used to aid me back home. They could help eliminate those who are determined to change India into something she was never intended to be, who are bent on leading our people away from the true concerns of life in a mad drive to make India another America.”

"Your political ambitions."

"Not ambitions! A mission!"

Kolabati had seen that feverish light shining in her brother's eyes before. It frightened her almost as much as the rakoshi. But she kept her voice calm.

"You want to use the rakoshi for political ends."

"I do not! But the only way to bring India back onto the True Path is through political power. It came to me that I have not been allowed to start this nest of rakoshi for the mere purpose of fulfilling a vow. There is a grander scheme here, and I am part of it."

With a sinking feeling, Kolabati realized where all this was leading. A single word said it all:

"Hindutvu."

"Yes—Hindutvu! A reunified India under Hindu rule. We will undo what the British did in 1947 when they made the Punjab into Pakistan and vivisected Bengal. If only I had had the rakoshi then—Lord Mountbatten would never have left India alive! But he was out of my reach, so I had to settle for the life of his collaborator, the revered Hindu traitor who legitimized the partition of our India by persuading the people to accept it without violence."

Kolabati was aghast. "Gandhi? It couldn't have been you—!"

"Poor Bati." He smiled maliciously at the shock that must have shown on her face. "I'm truly disappointed that you never guessed. Did you actually think I would sit idly by after the part he played in the partition?"

"But Savarkar was behind—-!"

"Yes. Savarkar was behind Godse and Apte, the actual assassins. He was tried and executed for his part. But who do you think was behind Savarkar?"

No! It couldn't be true! Not her brother—the man behind what some called The Crime of the Century!

But he was still talking. She forced herself to listen:

"...the return of East Bengal—it belongs with West Bengal. Bengal shall be whole again!"

"But East Bengal is Bangladesh now. You can't possibly think—"

"I'll find a way. I have the time. I have the rakoshi. I'll find a way, believe me."

The room spun about Kolabati. Kusum, her brother, her surrogate parent for all these years, the steady, rational cornerstone of her life, was slipping further and further from the real world, indulging himself in the revenge and power fantasies of a maladjusted adolescent.

Kusum was mad. The realization sickened her. Kolabati had fought against the admission all night but the truth could no longer be denied. She had to get away from him.

"If anyone can find a way, I'm sure you will," she told him, rising and turning toward the door. "And I'll be glad to help in any way I can. But I'm tired now and I'd like to go back to the—"

Kusum stepped in front of the door, blocking her way.

"No, my sister. You will stay here until we sail away together."

"Sail?" Panic clutched at her throat. She had to get off this ship! "I don't want to sail anywhere!"

"I realize that. And that's why I had this room, the pilot's cabin, sealed off." She detected no malice in his voice or his expression. He was more like an understanding parent talking to a child. "I'm bringing you back to India with me."

"No!"

"It's for your own good. During the voyage back home I'm sure you'll see the error of the life you've chosen to lead. We have a chance to do something for India, an unprecedented chance to cleanse our karmas. I do this for you as much as for myself." He looked at her knowingly. "For your karma is as polluted as mine."

"You have no right!"

"I've more than a right. I've a duty."

He darted out of the room and shut the door behind him. Kolabati lunged forward but heard the lock click before she reached the handle. She pounded on its sturdy oak panels.

"Kusum, let me out! Please let me out!"

"When we're at sea," he said from the far side of the door.

She heard him walk down the hall to the steel hatch that led to the deck and felt a sense of doom settle over her. Her life was no longer her own. Trapped on this ship...weeks at sea with a madman, even if it was her brother. She had to get out of here!

"Jack will be looking for me!" she said on impulse, regretting it immediately. She hadn't wanted to involve Jack in this.

"Why would he be looking for you?" Kusum said slowly, his voice faint.

"Because..." She couldn't let him know that Jack had found the ship and knew about the rakoshi. "Because we've been together every day. Tomorrow he'll want to know where I am."

"I see." A lengthy pause, then, "I believe I will have to talk to Jack."

"Don't you harm him, Kusum!"

The thought of Jack falling victim to Kusum's wrath was more than she could bear. Jack was certainly capable of taking care of himself, but she was sure he had never run up against someone like Kusum...or a rakosh.

She heard the steel door clang shut.

"Kusum?"

No reply. Kusum had left her alone on the ship.

No...not alone.

The rakoshi were below.

9

“SAHNKchewedday! SAHNKchewedday!”

Jack had run out of James Whale films so he’d put on the 1939 version of The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Charles Laughton, playing the part of the ignorant, deformed Parisian, had just saved Maureen O'Hara and was shouting from the walls of the church in an upper class British accent. Ridiculous. But Jack loved the film and had watched it nearly a hundred times. It was like an old friend, and he needed an old friend here with him now. The apartment seemed especially empty tonight.

So with the six-foot projection TV providing a sort of visual musak, he sat and pondered his next move, Gia and Vicky were all right for the time being, so he didn't have to worry about them. He’d called the Sutton Square house as soon as he’d arrived home. It had been late and the phone obviously had awakened Gia. She’d grouchily told him that no word had been received from either Grace or Nellie and assured him that everyone was fine and had been sleeping peacefully until his call.

On that note, he’d let her go back to sleep. He wished he could do the same. But tired as he was, sleep was impossible.

Those things!

He could not drive the images out of his mind. Nor the possibility that if Kusum learned that he’d been on the ship and had seen what it held, he might send them after him.

With that thought, he rose and went to the old oak secretary. From behind the false panel in its lower section he removed his Glock .40. He loaded it with Magsafe Defenders, pre-fragmented hollowpoints that release a spray of birdshot upon entry, causing massive internal carnage. Devastating if he scored a hit, but safe for his neighbors if he missed. Because of the way they broke up on impact, he didn’t have to worry about hitting someone on the far side of a wall.

Kolabati had said the rakoshi were unstoppable except for fire. He'd like to see how they’d hold up after a couple of these in the chest shredded their lungs into rakoshi slaw. But the features that made the rounds so lethal on impact with a body made them relatively safe to use indoors—a miss lost all its killing power once it hit a wall or even a window.

As an extra precaution, Jack added a silencer—Kusum and the rakoshi were his problem. He didn't want to draw any of his neighbors into it if he could avoid it. Some of them would surely be hurt or killed.

He was just settling down in front of the TV again when he heard a knock on the door. Startled and puzzled, Jack flipped off the DVD and padded to the door, gun in hand. Another knock just as he reached it. He couldn’t imagine a rakosh knocking, but he was very uneasy about this night caller.

"Who is it?"

"Kusum Bahkti," said a voice on the other side.

Kusum! Muscles tightened across Jack's chest. Nellie's killer had come calling. Holding himself in check, he unlocked the door.

Kusum stood there alone. He appeared perfectly relaxed and unapologetic despite the hour. Jack felt his finger tighten on the trigger of the pistol he held behind his right leg. A bullet in Kusum's brain right now would solve a number of problems, but might be difficult to explain. Jack kept his pistol hidden. Be civil.

"What can I do for you?"

"I wish to discuss the matter of my sister."

10

Kusum watched Jack's face. His eyes had widened slightly at the mention of "my sister." Yes…something between these two. The thought filled. Kusum with pain. Kolabati was not for Jack, or any casteless westerner. She deserved a prince.

Jack stepped back and let the door swing open wider, keeping his right shoulder pressed against the edge of the door. Was he hiding a weapon?

As Kusum stepped into the room he was stuck by the claustrophobic clutter. Clashing colors, clashing styles, bric-a-brac and memorabilia filling every wall and niche and corner. He found it at once offensive and entertaining. He felt that if he could sift through everything in this room he might come to know to the man who lived here.

"Have a seat."

Kusum hadn't seen Jack move, yet now the door was closed and Jack was sitting in an overstuffed armchair, his hands clasped behind his head. He could kick him in the throat now and end it all. One kick and Kolabati would no longer be tempted. Quick, easier than using a rakosh. But Jack appeared to be on guard, ready to move. Kusum warned himself that he should not underestimate this man. He seated himself on a short sofa across from him.

"You live frugally," he said, continuing to inspect the room around him. "With the level of income I assume you to have, I would have expected to be more richly appointed."

"I'm content the way I live," Jack said. "Besides, conspicuous consumption is contrary to my best interests."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. But at least you have resisted the temptation to join the big car, yacht, and country club set. A lifestyle too many of your fellow countrymen would find irresistible." He sighed. "A lifestyle too many of my own countrymen find irresistible as well, much to India's detriment."

Jack shrugged. "What's this got to do with Kolabati."

"Nothing, Jack," Kusum said.

He studied the American: a self-contained man, a rarity in this land. He does not need the adulation of his fellows to give him self-worth. He finds it within. I admire that. Kusum realized he was giving himself reasons why he should not make Jack a meal for the rakoshi.

"How'd you get my address?"

"Kolabati gave it to me." In a sense this was true. He’d found Jack's address on a slip of paper on her bureau the other day.

"Then let's get to the subject of Kolabati, shall we?"

He detected an undercurrent of hostility running through Jack. Perhaps he resented being disturbed at his hour. No...Kusum sensed it was more than that. Had Kolabati told him something she shouldn't have? That idea disturbed him. He would have to be wary of what he said.

"Certainly. I had a long talk with my sister tonight and have convinced her that you are not right for her."

"Interesting," Jack said. A little smile played about his lips. What did he know? "What arguments did you use?"

"Traditional ones. As you may or may not know, Kolabati and I are of the Brahmin caste. Do you know what that means?"

“No,”

"It is the highest caste. It is not fitting for her to consort with someone of a lower caste."

"That's a little old-fashioned, isn't it?"

“Nothing that is of such vital concern to one's karma can be considered 'old-fashioned.' "

"I don't worry about karma," Jack said.

Kusum allowed himself to smile. What ignorant children these Americans were.

"Your believing or not believing in karma has no effect on its existence, nor on its consequences to you. Just as a refusal to believe in the ocean would not prevent you from drowning.”

"And you say that because of your arguments about caste and karma, Kolabati was convinced that I am not good enough for her?"

"I did not wish to state it so bluntly. May I just say that I prevailed upon her not to see or even speak to you ever again." He felt a warm glow begin within him. "She belongs to India. India belongs to her. She is eternal, like India. In many ways, she is India."

"Yeah," Jack said as he reached out with his left hand and placed the phone in his lap. "She's a good kid."

Cradling the receiver between his jaw and his left shoulder, he dialed with his left hand. His right hand rested quietly on his thigh. Why wasn't he using it?

"Let's call her and see what she says."

"Oh, she's not there," Kusum said quickly. "She has packed her things and started back to Washington."

Jack held the phone against his ear for a long time. Long enough for at least twenty rings. Finally, he replaced the receiver in its cradle with his left hand—

—and suddenly a pistol appeared in his right, the bore of its silencer pointing directly between Kusum's eyes.

"Where is she?" Jack's voice was a whisper.

And in the eyes sighting down the barrel Kusum saw his own death. The man holding the gun was quite willing and even anxious to pull the trigger.

Kusum's heart hammered in his throat. Not now! I can't die now! I've too much still to do!

11

Jack saw the fear spring onto Kusum's face.

Good! Let the bastard squirm. Give him a tiny taste of what Grace and Nellie must have felt before they died.

It was all Jack could do to keep from pulling the trigger. Practical considerations held him back. Not that anyone would hear the silenced shot; and the possibility that anyone knew Kusum had come here was remote. But disposing of bodies was always a problem.

And he still had Kolabati to worry about. What had happened to her? Kusum seemed to care too much for his sister to harm her, but any man who could lead a ceremony like the one Jack had seen tonight on that hellship was capable of anything.

"Where is she?" he repeated.

"Out of harm's way, I assure you," Kusum said in measured tones. "And out of yours." A muscle throbbed in his cheek, as if someone were tapping insistently against the inside of his face.

"Where?"

"Safe...as long as I am well and able to return to her."

Jack didn't know how much of that to believe, and yet he dared not take it too lightly.

Kusum stood.

Jack kept the pistol trained on his face. "Stay where you are!”

"I have to go now."

Kusum turned his back and walked to the door. Jack had to admit the bastard had nerve.

He paused and faced Jack. "But I want to tell you one more thing: I spared your life tonight.”

Incredulous, Jack rose to his feet. "What?"

He was tempted to mention the rakoshi but remembered Kolabati's plea to say nothing of them. Apparently she hadn't told Kusum that Jack had been on the boat tonight.

"I believe I spoke clearly. You are alive now only because of the service you performed for my family. I now consider that debt paid.”

"There was no debt. It was fee for service. You paid the price, I rendered the service. We've always been even."

"That is not the way I choose to see it. However, I am informing you now that all debts are canceled. And do not follow me. Someone might suffer for that."

"Where is she?" Jack said, leveling the pistol. "If you don't tell me, I'm going to shoot you in the right knee. If you still won't talk, I'll shoot you in the left knee."

Jack was quite ready to do what he said but Kusum made no move to escape. He continued facing him calmly.

"You may begin," he told Jack. "I have suffered pain before."

Jack glanced at Kusum's empty left sleeve, then looked into his eyes and saw the unbreakable will of a fanatic. Kusum would die before uttering a word.

After an interminable silence, Kusum smiled thinly, stepped into the hall, and closed the door behind him. Containing the urge to hurl the pistol against the door, Jack went over and locked it, but not before giving it a good kick.

Was Kolabati really in some kind of danger, or had Kusum been bluffing? He had a feeling he’d been outplayed, but still did not see how he could have risked calling the bluff.

The question was: Where was Kolabati? He would try to trace her. Maybe she really was on her way back to Washington. He wished he could be sure.

Jack kicked the door again. Harder.

Chapter Nine

Tuesday

"For I am become death, destroyer of worlds."

Bhagavad Gita

1

With a mixture of anger, annoyance, and concern, Jack slammed the phone back into its cradle. For the tenth time this morning he’d called Kusum's apartment and listened to an endless series of rings. He’d alternated those calls with others to Washington, DC information. He’d found no listing for Kolabati in the District or in northern Virginia, but a call to Maryland information had turned up a number for a K. Bahkti in Chevy Chase.

No answer there all morning, either. Only a four-hour drive from here to the capital. She’d had plenty of time to make it—if she really had left New York. Jack didn't accept that. Kolabati had struck him as far too independent to knuckle under to her brother.

Visions of Kolabati bound and gagged in a closet somewhere plagued him. She was probably more comfortable than that, but he was sure she was Kusum's prisoner. It was because of her relationship with Jack that her brother had taken action against her. He felt responsible.

Kolabati...his feelings were confused at this point. He cared for her, but he couldn't say he loved her. She seemed, rather, to be a kindred spirit, one who understood him and accepted—even admired—him for what he was. Augment that with an intense physical attraction and the result was a unique bond that was exhilarating at times. But it wasn't love.

He had to help her. So why had he spent most of the morning on the phone? Why hadn't he gone over to the apartment and tried to find her?

Because he had to get over to Sutton Square. Something within had been nudging him in that direction all morning. He wouldn't fight it. He’d learned through experience to obey those nudgings. It wasn't prescience. Jack didn't buy ESP or telepathy. The nudgings meant his subconscious mind had made correlations not yet apparent to his conscious mind and was trying to let him know.

Somewhere in his subconscious, two and two and two had added up to Sutton Place. He should go there today. This morning. Now.

He pulled on some clothes and slipped the Semmerling into its ankle holster. Knowing he probably would need it later in the day, he stuffed his housebreaking kit—a set of lock picks and a thin plastic ruler—into a back pocket and headed for the door.

It felt good to be doing something at last.

2

"Kusum?"

Kolabati heard a rattling down the hall. She pressed an ear against the upper panel of her cabin door. The noise had come from the door that led to the deck. The clank of a lock. It had to be Kusum.

She prayed he’d come to release her.

An endless night, quiet except for faint rustlings from within the depths of the ship. Kolabati knew she was safe, that she was sealed off from the rakoshi; and even if one or more did break free of the cargo areas, the necklace about her throat would protect her from detection. Yet her sleep had been fitful at best. She thought about the awful madness that had completely overtaken her brother; she worried about Jack and what Kusum might do to him.

Even if her mind had been at peace, sleep would have been difficult. The air had grown thick through the night. With the poor ventilation in the cabin and the rising of the sun, the temperature had risen steadily. It was now like a sauna. She was thirsty. The water that dribbled from the tap in the tiny head attached to her cabin was brackish and musty-smelling.

She twisted the handle on the cabin door as she’d done a thousand times since Kusum had locked her in here. It turned but would not open no matter how hard she pulled on it. A close inspection had revealed that Kusum had merely reversed the handle and locking apparatus—the door that was supposed to have locked from the inside now locked from the outside.

The steel door at the end of the hall clanged. Kolabati stepped back as her cabin door swung open. Kusum stood there with a flat box and a large brown paper sack cradled in his arm. His eyes held genuine compassion as he looked at her.

"What have you done to Jack?" she blurted as she saw the look on his face.

Kusum’s face darkened. "Is that your first concern? Does it matter that he was ready to kill me?"

"I want you both alive!" she said, meaning it.

Kusum seemed somewhat mollified. "We are that—both of us. And Jack will stay that way as long as he does not interfere with me."

Kolabati felt weak with relief. Now that she knew Jack had not been harmed, she felt free to concentrate on her own plight. She took a step toward her brother.

"Please let me out of here, Kusum." She hated to beg but dreaded the thought of spending another night locked in this cabin.

"I know you had an uncomfortable night, and I'm sorry for that. But it won't be long now. Tonight your door shall be unlocked."

"Tonight? Why not now?"

He smiled. "Because we have not yet sailed."

Her heart sank. "We're sailing tonight?"

"The tide turns after midnight. I've made arrangements for apprehending the last Westphalen. As soon as she is in my hands, we will sail."

"Another old woman?"

Kolabati saw a queasy look flicker across her brother's face.

"Age has no bearing. She is the last of the Westphalen line. That is all that matters."

Kusum set the bag on the foldout table and began unpacking it. He pulled out two small jars of fruit juice, a square Tupperware container filled with some sort of salad, eating utensils, and paper cups. At the bottom of the bag was a small selection of newspapers and magazines, all in Hindi. He opened the container and released the scent of curried vegetables and rice into the room.

"I've brought you something to eat."

Despite the cloud of depression and futility that enveloped her, Kolabati felt her mouth filling with saliva. But she willed her hunger and thirst to be still and glanced toward the open cabin door. If she got a few steps lead on Kusum she could perhaps lock him in here and escape.

"I'm famished," she said, approaching the table on an angle that would put her between Kusum and the door. "It smells delicious. Who made it?"

"I bought it for you at a little Indian restaurant on Fifth Avenue in the Twenties. A Bengali couple run it. Good people."

"I'm sure they are."

Her heart began to pound as she edged closer to the door. What if she failed to get away? Would he hurt her? She glanced to her left. The door was only two steps away. She could make it but she was afraid to try.

It had to be now!

She leaped for the doorway. a tiny cry of terror escaping her as she grabbed the handle and pulled the door closed behind her. Kusum was at the door the instant it slammed shut. Kolabati fumbled with the catch and shouted with joy when it clicked into the locked position.

"Bati, I command you to open this door immediately!" Kusum shouted, his voice thick with anger.

She ran for the outer door. She knew she wouldn't feel truly free until she’d put a layer of steel between herself and her brother. A crash behind her made Kolabati glance over her shoulder. The wooden door exploded outward. She saw Kusum' s foot flash through as the door dissolved into a shower of splintered wood. Kusum stepped into the hall and started after her.

Terror spurred her on. Sunlight, fresh air, and freedom beckoned from beyond the steel hatch. Kolabati darted through and pushed it shut, but before she could lock it, Kusum threw his weight against the other side, sending her flying onto her back.

Without a word, he stepped out onto the deck and pulled her to her feet. With a viselike grip that bruised her wrist, he dragged her back to her cabin. Once there, he spun her around and gripped the front of her blouse.

His eyes nearly bulged with rage. "Don't ever try that again! It was idiotic! Even if you managed to lock me up, you would have no way to reach the dock—unless you know how to slide down a rope."

She felt herself jerked forward, heard the fabric of her blouse rip as buttons flew in all directions.

"Kusum!"

He was like a mad beast, his breathing harsh, his eyes wild.

"And take—"

He reached into the open front of her blouse, grabbed her bra between the cups, and tore the center piece, exposing her breasts...

"—off—"

...then pushed her down on the bed and yanked brutally at the waistband of her skirt, bursting the seams and pulling it from her...

"—these—”

...then tore her panties off...

"—obscene—”

...then tore away the remnants of her blouse and bra.

"—rags!"

He threw down the ruined clothes and ground them into the floor with his heel.

Kolabati lay frozen in panic until he finally calmed himself. As his breathing and complexion returned to normal, he stared at her as she huddled naked before him, an arm across her breasts, a and over the pubic area between her tightly-clenched thighs.

Kusum had seen her unclothed countless times before; she had often paraded nude before him to see his reaction. But at this moment she felt exposed and degraded, and tried to hide herself.

His sudden smile was sardonic. "Modesty doesn't become you, dear sister." He reached for the flat box he’d brought with him and tossed it to her. "Cover yourself."

Afraid to move, yet more afraid of disobeying him, Kolabati drew the box across her lap and awkwardly pulled it open. It contained a light blue sari with gold stitching. Fighting back tears of humiliation and impotent rage, she slipped the tight upper blouse over her head, then wrapped the silk fabric around herself in the traditional manner. She fought the hopelessness that threatened to engulf her. There had to be a way out.

"Let me go!" she said when she felt she could trust her voice. "You have no right to keep me here!"

“There will be no further discussion as to what I have a right to do. I am doing what I must do. Just as I must see my vow through to its fulfillment. Then I can go home and stand before those who believe in me, who are willing to lay down their lives to follow me in bringing Mother India back to the True Path. I will not deserve their trust, nor be worthy of leading them to Hindutvu, until I can stand before them with a purified karma."

"But that's your life!" she screamed. "Your karma!"

Kusum's shook his head slowly, sadly. "Our karmas are entwined, Bati. Inextricably. And what I must do, you must do." He stepped through the ruined door and looked back at her. "Meanwhile, I am due at an emergency session of the Security Council. I shall return with your dinner this evening.”

He turned, stepped through the remains of the shattered door, and was gone. Kolabati didn't bother calling his name or looking after him. The outer door to the deck closed with a loud clang.

More than fear, more than misery at being incarcerated on this ship, she felt a great sadness for her brother and the mad obsession that drove him. She went to the table and tried to eat but could not even bring herself to taste the food.

Finally the tears came. She buried her face in her hands and wept.

3

For the first time since Gia had known him, Jack looked his age. Dark rings under hung his eyes, a haunted look hovered within them. His hair needed combing and he’d been careless shaving.

"I didn't expect you," she said as he stepped into the foyer.

It annoyed her that he could just show up like this without warning. On the other hand, she was glad to have him around. It had been a long, fearful night. And a lonely one. She began to wonder if she would ever straighten out her feelings for Jack.

Eunice closed the door and looked questioningly at Gia. "I'm about to fix lunch, Mum. Shall I set an extra place?"

The maid's voice was lifeless. Gia knew she missed her mistresses. Eunice had kept busy, talking incessantly of Grace and Nellie's imminent return. But even she seemed to be running out of hope.

Gia turned to Jack. "Staying for lunch?"

He shrugged. "Sure."

As Eunice bustled off, Gia said, "Shouldn't you be out looking for Nellie?"

"I wanted to be here."

"You won't find her here."

"I don't think I'll ever find her. I don't think anyone will."

The note of finality in his voice shocked Gia. "W–what do you know?"

"Just a feeling," he said, averting his eyes as if embarrassed to admit acting on feelings. "Just as I've had this other feeling all morning that I should be here today."

"That's all you're going on—feelings?"

"Humor me, Gia," he said with an edge on his voice she’d never heard before. "All right? Humor me."

Gia was about to press him for a more specific answer when Vicky came running in. Vicky missed Grace and Nellie, but Gia had kept her daughter's spirits up by telling her that Nellie had gone to find Grace. Jack picked her up and swung her to his hip, but his responses to her chatter consisted mainly of noncommittal grunts. Gia could not remember ever seeing him so preoccupied. He seemed worried, almost unsure of himself. That upset her the most. Jack was always a rock of self-assurance. Something was terribly wrong here and he wasn't telling her about it.

The three of them trailed into the kitchen where Eunice was preparing lunch. Jack slumped into a chair at the kitchen table and stared morosely into space. Vicky apparently noticed that he wasn't responding to her in his usual manner so she went out to the backyard to her playhouse. Gia sat watching him, dying to know what he was thinking but unable to ask with Eunice there.

Vicky came running in from the back with an orange in her hand. Gia idly wondered where she’d got it. She thought they’d run out of oranges.

"Do the orange mouth! Do the orange mouth!"

Jack straightened up and put on a smile that wouldn't have fooled a blind man.

"Okay, Vicks. The orange mouth. Just for you."

He glanced at Gia and made a sawing motion with his hand. Gia got up and found him a knife. When she returned to the table, he was shaking his hand as if it were wet.

"What's the matter?"

"This thing's leaking. Must be a real juicy one." He sliced the orange in half. Before quartering it, he rubbed the back of his hand along his cheek. Suddenly he was on his feet, his chair tipping over behind him. His face was putty white as he held his fingers under his nose and sniffed.

"No!" he cried as Vicky reached for one of the orange halves. He grabbed her hand and roughly pushed it away. "Don't touch it!"

"Jack! What's wrong with you?"

Gia was furious at him for treating Vicky that way. And poor Vicky stood there staring at him with her lower lip trembling.

But Jack seemed oblivious to both of them. He held the orange halves up to his nose, inspecting them, sniffing at them like a dog. His face grew steadily paler.

"Oh, God!" he, said, looking as if he was about to be sick. "Oh, my God!"

As he stepped around the table, Gia pulled Vicky out of his way and clutched her against her. His eyes were wild. Three long strides took him to the kitchen garbage can. He threw the orange in it, then pulled out the Hefty bag, twirled it, and twisted the attached tie around the neck. He dropped the bag on the floor and came back to kneel before Vicky. He gently laid his hands on her shoulders.

"Where'd you get that orange, Vicky?"

Gia noted the "Vicky" immediately. Jack never called her by that name. She was always "Vicks" to him.

"In...in my playhouse."

Jack jumped up and began pacing around the kitchen, frantically running the fingers of both hands through his hair. Finally he seemed to come to a decision.

"All right—we're getting out of here."

Gia was on her feet. "What are you—?"

"Out! All of us! And no one eat anything! Not a thing! That goes for you, too, Eunice!"

Eunice puffed herself up. "I beg your pardon?"

Jack got behind her and firmly guided her toward the door. He was not rough with her, but there was no hint of playfulness about him. He came over to Gia and pulled Vicky away from her.

"Get your toys together. You and your mommy are going on a little trip."

Jack's sense of urgency was contagious. Without a backward glance at her mother, Vicky ran outside.

Gia’s anger flared. "Jack, you can't do this! You can't come in here and start acting like a fire marshal. You've no right!"

"Listen to me!" he said in a low voice as he grasped her left biceps in a grip that bordered on pain. "Do you want Vicky to end up like Grace and Nellie? Gone without a trace?”

Gia tried to speak but no words came out. She felt as if her heart had stopped. Vicky gone? NO—!

"I didn't think so," Jack continued. "If we're here tonight, that might happen."

Gia still couldn't speak. The horror of the thought was a hand clutching at her throat.

"Go!" he said, pushing her toward the front of the house. "Pack up and we'll get out of here."

Gia stumbled away from him, propelled not so much but his words, but by what she’d seen in his eyes...something she’d never seen or ever expected to see: fear.

Jack afraid—it was almost inconceivable. Yet he was; she was sure of it. And if Jack was afraid, what should she be?

Terrified, she ran upstairs to pack her things.

4

Alone in the kitchen, Jack sniffed his fingers again. At first he’d thought he was hallucinating, but then he’d found the needle puncture in the orange skin. No doubt about it—rakoshi elixir. Even now he wanted to retch. Someone—someone? Kusum!—had left a doctored orange for Vicky.

Kusum wanted Vicky for his monsters.

The worst part was realizing that Grace and Nellie had not been random victims. The two old women had been intended targets. And Vicky was next.

Why? In God's name, why? Was it this house? Did Kusum have a Manson thing going where he wanted to kill everyone who lived here? Grace and Nellie already gone, but why Vicky next? Why not Eunice or Gia? It didn't make sense. Or maybe it did and his brain was too rattled right now to see the pattern.

Vicky came up the back steps and hurried through the kitchen carrying something that looked like a big plastic grape. She walked by with her chin out and her nose in the air, without even once glancing Jack's way.

She's mad at me.

To her mind she had ample reason to be upset with him. After all, he’d frightened her and everyone else in the house. But that could not be helped. He could not remember a shock like the one that had blasted through him when he recognized the odor on his hands.

Fear trickled down his chest wall and into his abdomen.

Not my Vicky. Never my Vicky!

He walked over to the sink and looked out the window as he washed the smell off his hands. The house around him, the playhouse out there, the yard, the whole neighborhood had become tainted, sinister.

But where to go? He couldn't let Gia and Vicky return to their own apartment. If Kusum knew of Vicky's passion for oranges, surely he knew her address. And Jack's place was definitely out. On impulse he called Isher Sports.

"Abe? I need help."

"Nu? I should be surprised?"

"This is serious, Abe. It's Gia and her little girl. I've got to find them a safe place to stay. Somewhere not connected with me."

The banter was suddenly gone from Abe's voice. "Hotel no good?"

"As a last resort it'll do, but I'd feel better in a private place.”

"My daughter's apartment is empty until the end of the month. She's on sabbatical in Europe for the summer."

"Where is it?"

"Queens. On the border of Astoria and Long Island City.”

Jack glanced out the kitchen window to the jumble of buildings directly across the East River. For the first time since cutting the orange open, he felt he had a chance of controlling the situation. The sick dread that weighed so relentlessly upon him lifted a little.

"Perfect! Where's the key?"

"In my pocket."

"I'll be right over to get it."

"I'll be here."

Eunice came in as he hung up. "You really have no right to send us all on our way," she said sternly. "But if I must go, at least let me clean up the kitchen."

"I'll clean it up," Jack said, blocking her way as she reached for the sponge in the sink. She turned and picked up the Hefty bag that contained the tainted orange. Jack gently pulled it from her grasp. "I'll take care of that, too."

"Promise?" she said, eyeing him with unconcealed suspicion. "I wouldn't want the two ladies of the house coming back and finding a mess."

"They won't find a mess here," Jack told her, feeling sorry for this loyal little woman who had no idea that her employers were dead. "I promise you."

Gia came down the stairs as Jack ushered Eunice out the front door. She seemed to have composed herself since he’d chased her upstairs.

"I want to know what all this means," she said after Eunice was gone. "Vicky's upstairs. You tell me what's going on here before she comes down."

Jack searched for something to say. He could not tell her the truth—she'd lose all confidence in his sanity. She might even call the nut patrol to take him down to pillow city in Bellevue. He began to improvise, mixing truth and fiction, hoping he made sense.

"I think Grace and Nellie were abducted."

"That's ridiculous!" Gia said, but her voice did not carry much conviction.

"I wish it were."

"But there was no sign of a break in or a struggle—"

"I don't know how it was done, but I'm sure the liquid I found in Grace's bathroom is a link." He paused for effect. "Some of it was in that orange Vicky brought in to me."

Gia's hand clutched his arm. "The one you threw away?"

Jack nodded. "And I bet if we had the time we could find something of Nellie's that's laced with the stuff, something she ate."

"I can't think of anything..." Her voice trailed off, then rose again. "What about the chocolates?" Gia grabbed his arm and dragged him to the parlor. "They're in here. They came last week."

Jack went to the candy bowl on the table beside the recliner where they’d spent Sunday night. He took a chocolate off the top and inspected it. No sign of a needle hole or tampering. He broke it open and held it up to his nose...and there it was: the odor. Rakoshi elixir. He held it out to Gia.

"Here. Take a whiff. I don't know if you remember what Grace's laxative smelled like, but it's the same stuff." He led her to the kitchen where he opened the garbage bag and took out Vicky's orange. "Compare."

Gia sniffed them both, then looked up at him, fear growing in her eyes. "What is it?"

"I don't know," he lied

He took the candy and orange from her and threw both into the bag. Then he brought the dish from the parlor and dumped the rest of the chocolates.

"But it's got to do something!" Gia said, persistent as always.

So that Gia couldn't see his eyes as he spoke, Jack made a show of concentrating on twisting the tie around the neck of the bag as tightly as he could.

"Maybe it has some sedative properties that keeps people quiet while they're being carried off."

Gia stared at him, a mystified look on her face. "This is crazy! Who would want to—?"

"That's my next question: Where'd she get the candy?"

"From England." Gia's face blanched. "Oh, no! From Richard!"

"Your ex?"

"He sent them from London."

Jack’s mind churned furiously as he took the garbage bag outside and dumped it in a can in the narrow alley alongside the house.

Richard Westphalen? Where the hell did he fit in? But hadn't Kusum mentioned that he’d been in London last year? And now Gia says her ex-husband sent these chocolates from London. It all fits, but it made no sense. What possible link to Kusum? Certainly not financial. Kusum hadn't struck Jack as a man to whom money meant much.

This was making less and less sense every minute.

"Could your ex be behind this?" he asked as he returned to the kitchen. "Could he be thinking he's going to inherit something if Grace and Nellie disappear?"

"I wouldn't put much past Richard," Gia said, "but I can't see him getting involved in a serious crime. Besides, I happen to know that he's not going to inherit a thing from Nellie.”

"But does he know that?"

"I don't know." She glanced around and appeared to shiver. "Let's get out of here, shall we?"

"Soon as you're ready."

Gia went upstairs to find Vicky. Before long, mother and daughter stood in the foyer, Vicky with a little suitcase in one hand and her plastic grape carrying case in the other.

"What's in there?" Jack asked, pointing to the grape.

Vicky held it out of his reach behind her back. "Just my Ms. Jelliroll doll."

"I should have known." At least she's talking to me.

"Can we go now?" Gia said.

She’d been transformed from a reluctant evictee to someone anxious to be as far away from this house as possible. He was glad for that.

Jack took the large suitcase and led the two of them up to Sutton Place. He hailed a cab and gave the address of Isher Sports.

"I want to get home," Gia said. She sat in the middle, Vicky on her left and Jack on her right. "That's in your neighborhood.”

"You can't go home." As she opened her mouth to protest he added: "You can't go to my place, either.”

"Then where?”

"I've found a place in Queens."

"Queens? I don't want to—"

"No one'll find you in a million years. Just hang out there for a couple of days until I see if I can put a stop to this."

Gia put an arm around Vicky and hugged her close. "I feel like a criminal."

Jack wanted to hug both of them and tell them they'd be all right, that he'd see to it that nothing ever hurt them. But after his outburst this morning, he wasn't sure how they'd react.

The cab pulled up in front of Abe's store. Jack ran in and found him at his usual station, perusing his customary array of newspapers. Mustard brightened his black tie, poppy seeds peppered his ample shirtfront.

"The key's on the counter and so's the address," he said, glancing over his reading glasses without moving from his seat. "This won't be messy, I hope. Already my relationship with Sarah is barely civil."

Jack pocketed the key but kept the address in hand.

"If I know Gia, she'll leave the place spotless."

"If I know my daughter, Gia will have her work cut out for her." He stared at Jack. "I suppose you have some running around to do tonight?"

Jack nodded. "A lot."

"And I suppose you want I should come over and babysit the two ladies while you're out of the apartment? Don't even ask," he said, holding up a hand, "I'll do it."

"I owe you one, Abe," Jack said.

"I'll add it to the list," he replied with a deprecating wave of his hand.

"Do that."

Back in the cab, Jack gave the driver the address of Abe's daughter's apartment.

"Take the Midtown Tunnel," he said.

"The bridge is better for where you're going," the cabby said.

"Take the tunnel," Jack told him. "And go through the park."

"It's quicker around."

"The park. Enter at Seventy-second and head downtown."

The cabby shrugged. "You're paying for it."

They drove over to Central Park West, then turned into the park. Jack stayed twisted around in his seat the whole way, watching through the back window for any car or cab that followed them. He’d insisted on taking the route through the park because it was narrow and winding, curving through the trees and beneath the overpasses. Anyone tailing would want to stay close for fear of losing them.

No one following—Jack was sure of that by the time they reached Columbus Circle, but he kept his eyes fixed out the rear window until they reached the Queens Midtown Tunnel.

As they slid into that tiled fluorescent gullet, Jack faced front and allowed himself to unwind. The East River was above them, Manhattan was rapidly falling behind. Soon he'd have Gia and Vicky lost in the mammoth beehive of apartments called Queens. He was putting the whole island of Manhattan between Kusum and his intended victims. Kusum would never find them. With that worry behind him, Jack would be free to concentrate his efforts on finding a way to deal with the crazy Indian.

Right now, however, he had to mend his relationship with Vicky. She sat on the far side of her mother with her big plastic grape sitting in her lap. He began by leaning around Gia and making the kind of faces mothers always tell their children not to make because you never know when your face'll get stuck that way.

Vicky tried to ignore him but soon was laughing and crossing her eyes and making faces, too.

"Stop that, Vicky!" Gia said. "Your face could get stuck that way!"

5

Vicky was glad Jack was acting like his old self. He’d frightened her this morning with his yelling and grabbing her orange and throwing it away. That had been mean. He’d never done anything like that before. It had frightened her, but worse, he’d hurt her feelings. She’d got over being scared right away, but her feelings had remained hurt until now. Jack was making her laugh. He just must have been grouchy this morning.

Vicky shifted her Ms. Jelliroll Carry Case on her lap. It had room in it for the doll and extra things like doll clothes.

Vicky had something extra in there now. Something special. She hadn't told Jack or Mommy that she’d found two oranges in the playhouse. Jack had thrown the first away. But the second was in her carry case, safely hidden beneath the doll clothes. She was saving that for later and not telling anybody. That was only right. It was her orange. She’d found it, and she wasn't going to let anybody throw it away.

6

Apartment 1203 was hot and stuffy. The stale smell of cigarette smoke had become one with the upholstery, rugs, and wallpaper. Gia spotted dust bunnies under the front room coffee table from the door.

So this was the hideout: Abe's daughter's place.

Gia had met Abe briefly once. He hadn't looked too neat—had little bits of food all over him, in fact. Like father, like daughter, apparently.

Jack went to the big air conditioner in the window. "Could use some of this."

"Just open the windows," Gia told him. "Let's get a change of air in here."

Vicky was prancing around, swinging her strawberry carry case, delighted to be in a new place. Nonstop chatter:

"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 tolls, hot-and-sour soup, spareribs, shrimp fried rice, and mooshu pork. In a separate bag he had an Entenmann's almond ring coffeecake. 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 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 waited.

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 inter-grip 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 with drew 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 deadbolt and a Quikset 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 deadbolt had been left open. He ran the ruler down to the Quikset, 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 over 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 his 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.

He examined the door. The shackle of a laminated steel padlock had been passed through the swivel eye of a heavy slotted hasp welded firmly to the steel of the door. Simple but very effective.

Jack dug out his pick kit and went to work.

10

Kolabati had started calling Kusum's name when she heard the footsteps on the deck above her cabin; she stopped when she heard him rattle the lock on the outer door. She wasn't hungry or thirsty, she simply wanted to see another human face—even Kusum's. The isolation of the pilot's cabin was getting to her.

She’d spent all day racking her brain for a way to appeal to her brother. But pleas would be of no avail. How could you plead with a man who thought he was salvaging your karma? How could you convince that man to alter a course of action he was pursuing for what he was certain was your own good?

She’d even gone so far as to look for something she might conceivably use for a weapon but had discarded the notion. Even with one arm, Kusum was too quick, too strong, too agile for her. He’d proved that beyond a doubt this morning. And in his unbalanced state of mind, a physical assault might drive him over the edge.

And still she worried for Jack. Kusum had said he was unharmed, but how could she be sure after all the lies he’d already told her?

She heard the outer door open—Kusum seemed to have been fumbling with it—and footsteps approaching her cabin. A man stepped through the splinters of the door. He stood there smiling, staring at her sari.

"Where'd you get the funny dress?"

"Jack!" She leaped into his arms, her joy bursting within her. "You're alive!"