The Tomb (Repairman Jack)

"You're surprised?"

"I thought Kusum might have..."

"No. It was almost the other way around."

"I'm so glad you found me!" She clutched him, reassuring herself that he was really here. "Kusum is going to sail back to India tonight. Get me out of here!"

"My pleasure." He turned toward the shattered door and paused. "What happened to that?"

"Kusum kicked it out after I locked him in."

She saw Jack's eyebrows rise. "How many kicks?"

"One, I think." She wasn't sure.

Jack pursed his lips as if to whistle but made no sound. He began to speak but was interrupted by a loud clang from down the hall.

Kolabati went rigid. No! Not Kusum! Not now!

"The door!"

Jack was already out in the hall. She followed in time to see him slam his shoulder full force against the steel door.

Too late. It was locked.

Jack pounded once on the door with his fist, but said nothing.

Kolabati leaned against the door beside him. She wanted to scream with frustration. Almost free—and now locked up again!

"Kusum, let us out!" she cried in Bengali. "Can't you see this is useless?"

No reply. Only taunting silence on the other side. Yet she sensed her brother's presence.

"I thought you wanted to keep us apart!" she said in English, purposely goading him. "Instead you've locked us in here together with a bed and nothing but each other to fill the empty hours."

There followed a lengthy pause, and then an answer—also in English. The deadly precision in Kusum's voice chilled Kolabati.

"You will not be together long. There are crucial matters that require my presence at the Consulate now. The rakoshi will separate the two of you when I return."

He said no more. And although Kolabati had not heard his footsteps retreating across the deck, she was sure he’d left them. She glanced at Jack. Her terror for him was a physical pain. It would be so easy for Kusum to bring a few rakoshi onto the deck, open this door and send them in after Jack.

Jack shook his head. "You've got a real way with words.”

He seemed so calm. "Aren't you frightened?"

"Yeah. Very." He was feeling the walls, rubbing his fingers over the low ceiling.

"What are we going to do?

"Get out of here, I hope."

He strode back to the cabin and began to tear the bed apart. He threw the pillow, mattress and bedclothes on the floor, then pulled at the iron spring frame. It came free with a screech. He worked at the bolts that held the frame together; amid a constant stream of muttered curses he managed to loosen one of them. After that it took him only a moment to twist one of the L-shaped bars off the frame.

"What are you going to do with that?"

"Find a way out."

He jabbed the six-foot iron bar against the cabin ceiling. Paint chips flew in accompaniment to the unmistakable sound of metal against metal. The same with the ceiling and the walls in the hall.

The floor, however, was made of heavily varnished oak planks. He began to work the corner of the bar between two of them.

"We'll go through the floor," he said, grunting with the effort.

Kolabati recoiled at the thought.

"The rakoshi are down there!"

"If I don't meet them now, I'll have to meet them later. I'd rather meet them on my terms than Kusum's." He looked at her. "You going to stand there or are you going to help?"

Kolabati added her weight to the bar. A board splintered and popped up.

11

Jack tore at the floorboards with grim determination. His shirt and hair were soon soaked with perspiration. He removed the shirt and kept working. Breaking through the floor seemed a futile, almost suicidal gesture—like a man trying to escape from a burning plane by jumping into an active volcano. But he had to do something. Anything was better than sitting and waiting for Kusum to return.

The rotten odor of the rakoshi wafted up from below, engulfing him, making him gag. And the larger the hole in the flooring, the stronger the smell. Finally the opening was big enough to admit his shoulders. He stuck his head through for a look. Kolabati knelt beside him, peering over his shoulder.

Dark down there. By the light of a solitary ceiling emergency lamp off to his right he could see a number of large insulated pipes running along just under the steel beams that supported the flooring. Directly below hung a suspended walkway that led to an iron-runged ladder.

He was ready to cheer until he realized he was looking at the upper end of the ladder. It went down from there. Jack did not want to go down. Anywhere but down.

An idea struck him. He lifted his head and turned to Kolabati.

"Does that necklace really work?"

She started and her expression became guarded. "What do you mean, 'work'?"

"What you told me. Does it really make you invisible to the rakoshi?"

"Yes, of course. Why?"

Jack couldn't imagine how such a thing could be, but then he’d never imagined that such a thing as a rakosh could be. He held out his hand.

"Give it to me."

"No!" she said, her hand darting to her throat as she jumped to her feet and stepped back.

"Just for a few minutes. I'll sneak below, find my way up to the deck, unlock the door and let you out."

She shook her head violently. "No, Jack!"

Why was she being so stubborn?

"Come on. You don't know how to pick a lock. I'm the only one who can get us both out of here."

He rose and took a step toward her but she flattened herself against the wall and screamed.

"No! Don't touch it!"

Jack froze, confused by her response. Kolabati's eyes were wide with terror.

"What's wrong with you?"

"I can't take it off," she said in a calmer voice. "No one in the family is ever allowed to take it off."

"Oh, come—"

"I can't Jack!” The terror was crept back into her voice. “Please don't ask me!"

"Okay-okay!" Jack said quickly, raising his hands, palms out, and stepping back. Didn't want any more screaming. Might attract a rakosh.

He walked over to the hole in the floor and stood there thinking. Kolabati's reaction baffled him. And what she’d told him about no one in the family allowed to take the necklace off was untrue—he remembered seeing Kusum without it just last night. But it had been obvious then that Kusum had wanted to be seen by his rakoshi.

Then he remembered something else.

"The necklace will protect two of us, won't it?"

Kolabati's brow furrowed. "What do you—oh, I see. Yes, I think so. At least it did in your apartment."

"Then we'll both go down."

"Jack, it's too dangerous! You can't be sure it will protect you!"

He realized that and tried not to think about it. He had no other options.

"I'll carry you on my back—piggyback. We won't be quite as close as we were in the apartment, but it's my only chance." As she hesitated, Jack played what he hoped was his ace: "Either you come down with me or I go alone with no protection at all. I'm not waiting here for your brother."

Kolabati stepped forward. "You can't go down there alone.”

Without another word, she kicked off her sandals, hiked up her sari, and sat on the floor. She swung her legs into the hole and began to lower herself through.

"Hey!"

"I'll go first. I'm the one with the necklace, remember?"

Jack watched in amazement as her head disappeared below the level of the floor. Was this the same woman who had screamed in abject terror a moment ago? Going first through that hole took a load of courage—with or without a "magic" necklace. Didn't make sense.

But then, nothing seemed to make much sense anymore.

"All right," she said, popping her head back through. "It's clear.”

He followed her into the darkness below. When he felt his feet touch the suspended walkway, he eased himself into a tense crouch.

They were at the top of a high, narrow, tenebrous corridor. Through the slats of the walkway Jack could see the floor a good twenty feet below. Abruptly, he realized where he was: the same corridor he’d followed to the aft cargo hold on his first visit.

Kolabati leaned toward him and whispered. Her breath tickled his ear.

"It's good you're wearing sneakers. We must be quiet. The necklace clouds their vision but does not block their hearing." She glanced around. "Which way do we go?"

Jack pointed to the ladder barely visible against the wall at the end of the walkway. Together they crawled toward it. Kolabati led the way down.

Halfway to the floor she paused and he stopped above her. Together they scanned the floor of the corridor for any shape, any shadow, any movement that might indicate the presence of a rakosh.

All clear. But he found scant relief in that. The rakoshi could not be far away.

As they descended the rest of the way, the rakoshi stench grew ever stronger. Jack felt his palms grow slick with sweat and begin to slip on the iron rungs of the ladder. He’d come through here in a state of ignorance last night, blithely unaware of what waited in the cargo hold at its end. Now he knew, and with every step closer to the floor his heart increased its pounding rhythm.

Kolabati stepped off the ladder and waited for Jack. During his descent he’d been orienting himself as to his position in the ship. He’d determined that the ladder lay against the starboard wall of the corridor, which meant that the cargo hold and the rakoshi were forward to his left. As soon as his feet hit the floor he grabbed her arm and pul1ed her in the opposite direction. Safety lay toward the stern...

Yet a knot of despair began to coil in his chest as he neared the watertight hatch through which he’d entered and exited the corridor. He’d secured that hatch behind him last night. He was sure of it. But perhaps Kusum had used it since. Perhaps he’d left it unlocked. He ran the last dozen feet to the hatch and fairly leaped upon the handle.

It wouldn't budge. Locked!

Damn!

Jack wanted to shout, to pound his fists against the hatch. But that would be suicide. So he pressed his forehead against the cold, unyielding steel and began a slow mental count from one. By the time he reached six he’d calmed himself. He turned to Kolabati and drew her head close to his.

"We've got to go the other way," he whispered.

Her eyes followed his pointing finger, then turned back to him. She nodded.

"The rakoshi are there," he said.

Again she nodded.

12

Kolabati was a pale blur beside him as Jack stood in the dark and strained for another solution. He could not find one. A dim rectangle of light beckoned from the other end of the corridor where it opened into the main hold. They had to go through the hold. He was willing to try almost any other route but that. But it was either back up the ladder to the dead end of the pilot's cabin or straight ahead.

He lifted Kolabati, cradling her in his arms, and began to carry her toward the hold, praying that whatever power her necklace had over the rakoshi would be conducted to him as well.

Halfway down the corridor he realized that his hands were entirely useless this way. He lowered Kolabati back onto her feet and took two of the lighters from his pockets. Then he motioned to her to hop on his back.

She gave him a small, tight, grim smile and did as directed. With an arm hooked behind each of her knees, he carried her piggyback style, leaving his hands free to clutch a lighter in each. They seemed ridiculously inadequate, but he derived an odd sort of comfort from them.

When he reached the end of the corridor he stopped. Ahead and to their right, the hold opened before them. Brighter than the passageway behind them, but not much. Darker than Jack remembered from last night. But Kusum had been on the elevator then with his two gas torches roaring full force.

He noticed other differences. Details were scarce and nebulous in the murky light, but Jack could see that the forty or fifty rakoshi were no longer clustered around the elevator. Instead they'd spread throughout the hold; some crouched in the deepest shadows or slumped against the walls in somber poses; others were in constant motion, walking, turning, stalking.

The air was hazed with humidity and with the stink of them. The glistening black walls rose and disappeared into the darkness above. The high wall lamps gave off meager, dreary light, such as a waning moon might provide on a foggy night. The creatures’ movements were slow and languorous. Like looking in on a huge, candle-lit opium den in a forgotten corner of hell.

A rakosh began to walk toward where they stood at the mouth of the corridor. Though the temperature was much cooler down here than it had been up in the pilot's cabin, Jack felt his body break out from head to toe in a drenching sweat. Kolabati's arms tightened around his neck and her body tensed against his back. The rakosh looked directly at Jack but gave no sign that it saw him or Kolabati. It veered off aimlessly in another direction.

It worked! The necklace worked! The rakosh had looked right at them and hadn't seen either of them!

Directly across from them, in the forward port corner of the hold, Jack saw an opening identical to the one in which they stood. He assumed it led to the forward hold. A steady stream of rakoshi of varying sizes wandered in and out of the passage.

"There's something wrong with these rakoshi," Kolabati whispered over his shoulder and into his ear. "They're so lazy-looking. So lethargic."

You should have seen them last night, Jack wanted to say, remembering how Kusum had whipped them into a frenzy.

"And they're smaller than they should be," she said. "Paler, too."

At seven feet tall and the color of night, the rakoshi were already bigger and darker than Jack wanted them.

An explosion of hissing, scuffling, and scraping snapped his attention to the right. Two rakoshi circled each other, baring their fangs, raking the air with their talons. Others gathered around, joining in the hissing. Looked like a brewing fight.

Suddenly one of Kolabati's arms tightened on his throat in a stranglehold as she pointed across the hold with the other.

"There!" she whispered. "There's a true rakosh!"

Even though he knew he was invisible to the thing, Jack took an involuntary backward step. This one was huge, fully a foot taller and darker than the rest, moving with greater ease, greater determination.

"It's a female," Kolabati said. "That must be the one that hatched from our egg! The mother rakosh! control her and you control the nest!"

She seemed almost as awed and excited as terrified. Jack guessed it was part of her heritage. Hadn't she been raised to be what she called a "Keeper of the Rakoshi"?

Jack looked again at the Mother. He found it hard to call her a female—nothing feminine about her, not even breasts, which probably meant that rakoshi didn’t suckle their young. She looked like a huge bodybuilder whose arms, legs, and torso had been stretched to grotesque lengths. Not an ounce of fat on her; each cord of her musculature could be seen rippling under her inky skin. Her face was the most alien, as if someone had taken a shark's head, shortened the snout, and moved the eyes slightly forward, leaving the fanged slash of a mouth almost unchanged. But the cold, remote gaze of the shark had been replaced by a soft pale glow of pure malevolence.

She even moved like a shark, gracefully, sinuously. The other rakoshi made way for the Mother, parting before her like mackerel before a great white. She headed directly for the two fighters, and when she reached them, pulled them apart and hurled them aside as if they weighed nothing. Her children meekly accepted the rough treatment.

He watched the Mother make a circuit of the chamber and return to the passage leading to the forward hold.

He looked around. How the hell do we get out of here?

Jack looked up toward the ceiling of the hold—actually the underside of the hatch cover, invisible in the dark. Had to get up there, to the deck. How?

He poked his head into the hold and scanned the slick walls for a ladder. None. But there, at the top of the starboard aft corner of the hold—the elevator. If he could bring that down....

But to do that he would have to enter the hold and cross its width.

The thought was paralyzing. To walk among them...

Every minute he delayed getting off this ship increased his danger, yet a primal revulsion held him back. Something within him preferred to crouch here and wait for death rather than venture into the hold.

He fought against it, not with reason but with anger. He was in charge here, not some instinctive loathing.

"Hold on," he whispered.

He stepped out of the corridor and into the hold.

He moved slowly, with the utmost care and caution. Most of the rakoshi were caliginous lumps scattered across the floor. He had to step over some of the sleeping ones and wind his way between the alert ones. Although his sneakered feet made no sound, occasionally a head would lift and look around as they passed. Jack could barely make out the details of their faces and would not know a puzzled rakoshi expression if he saw one, but they had to be confused. They sensed a presence yet their eyes told them nothing was there.

He could sense their pure, naked aggression, their immaculate evil. No pretense about their savagery—it was all on the surface, surrounding them like an aura.

Jack still felt his heart trip and fumble a beat every time one of the creatures turned its yellow eyes his way. His mind still resisted complete acceptance of the fact that he was invisible to them.

The reek of the things thickened as he wound his way across the floor. They must have looked a comical pair, tiptoeing piggyback through the dark. Laughable except for their precarious position: One wrong move and they’d be torn to shreds.

If negotiating a path through the recumbent rakoshi was harrowing, dodging the wandering ones was utterly nerve-wracking. Jack had little or no warning as to when they’d appear. They’d loom out of the shadows and pass within inches, some pausing, some even stopping to look around, sensing humans but not seeing them.

He was three quarters of the way across the hold when a seven-foot shadow suddenly rose from the floor and stepped toward him. Jack had nowhere to go. Dark forms reclined on either side and the space where he stood between them would not allow a rakosh to pass. Instinctively he jerked back—and began to lose his balance. Kolabati must have sensed this for she pressed her weight rigidly against his spine.

In a desperate move to keep from toppling over, Jack lifted his left leg and pivoted on his right foot. He swiveled in a semicircle to wind up facing the way he’d come, straddling a sleeping rakosh. The creature brushed Jack's arm as it shuffled past.

With a sound somewhere between a growl and a hiss, the rakosh whirled with raised talons, baring its fangs. Jack didn't think he’d ever seen anything move so fast. He clenched his jaw, not daring to move or breathe. The creature asleep between and beneath his legs stirred. He prayed it would not awaken. He could feel a scream building within Kolabati; he tightened his grip around her legs—silent encouragement to hold on.

The rakosh facing him rotated its head back and forth quickly, warily at first, then more slowly. Soon it calmed and lowered its talons. Finally it moved off, but not without a long, searching look over its shoulder.

Jack allowed himself to breathe again. He swung back into the path of clear floor between the rakoshi and continued the endless trek toward the starboard wall of the hold. As he neared the aft corner, he spotted an electrical conduit leading upward from a small box on the wall. He headed for that, and smiled to himself when he saw the three buttons on the box.

The shallow well directly under the elevator was clear of rakoshi. Perhaps they’d learned during the time they’d been here that this was not a good place to rest—sleep too deeply and too long and you might be crushed.

Jack didn't hesitate. As soon as he was close enough, he reached out and jabbed the Down button.

A loud clank—almost deafening as it echoed through the gloomy, enclosed hold—followed by a high-pitched hum. The rakoshi were instantly alert and on their feet, their glowing yellow eyes fixed as one on the descending platform.

Movement at the far side of the hold caught Jack's eye: the Mother rakosh was heading their way. All the rakoshi began to shuffle forward to stand in a rough semicircle less than a dozen feet from where Jack stood with Kolabati on his back. He’d backed up as far as he could without actually stepping into the elevator well.

The Mother pushed her way to the front and stood there staring upward. When the descending platform reached the level of ten feet or so from the floor, the rakoshi began a low chant, barely audible above the steadily growing whine of the elevator.

"They're speaking!" Kolabati whispered in his ear. "Rakoshi can't speak!"

With all the other noise around them, Jack felt it safe to turn his head and answer her.

"You should have seen it last night-like a political rally. They were all shouting something like, Kaka-ji! Kaka-ji! It was—"

Kolabati's fingernails dug into his shoulders like claws, her voice rising in pitch and volume that he feared would alert the rakoshi.

"What? What did you say?"

" 'Kaka-ji.' They were saying, 'Kaka-ji.' What's—?"

Kolabati let out a small cry that sounded like a word, but not an English word. And suddenly the chant stopped.

The rakoshi had heard her.

13

Kusum stood at the curb with his arm outstretched. All the taxis on Fifth Avenue seemed to be taken tonight. He tapped his foot impatiently. He wanted to get back to the ship. Night was here.

He still had work to do at the Consulate but, emergency meeting or no, he had found it impossible to stay there a minute longer. He had excused himself amid frowns from the senior diplomats, but he could afford their displeasure now. After tonight he would no longer need the shield of diplomatic immunity. The last Westphalen would be dead and he would be at sea, on his way back to India with his rakoshi to take up where he had left off.

He still had the matter of Jack to contend with, but had already decided how to deal with him. He would allow Jack to swim ashore later tonight after he had put to sea. Killing him would serve no purpose at that point.

He still had not figured out how Jack had found the ship. That question had nagged him for hours, distracting him throughout the meeting at the Consulate. No doubt Kolabati had told him, but he wanted to know for sure.

An empty taxi finally pulled up before him. Kusum swung into the back seat.

"Where to, Mac?"

"West on Fifty-seventh Street. I will tell you when to stop."

"Gotcha."

He was on his way. Soon the Mother and a youngling would be on their way to bring him the last Westphalen.

And then he would be rid of this land. His followers awaited. A new era was about to dawn for India.

14

Jack froze as the creatures began milling about, searching for the source of the cry. Behind him he could feel Kolabati's body bucking gently against him as if she were sobbing soundlessly into the nape of his neck.

What had he said to shock her so? Had to be Kaka-ji.

What did it mean?

The top of the elevator's wooden platform had descended to chest level. With his left arm still hooked around one of Kolabati's knees, Jack freed his right and hauled himself and his burden onto the platform. He struggled to his knees and staggered to the control panel next to one of the propane torches, punching the Up button as soon as he reached it.

With an abrupt lurch and a metallic screech, the elevator reversed direction. The rakoshi once again focused their attention on the elevator. With Kolabati still clinging to him, Jack sagged to his knees at the edge of the platform and stared back at them.

A dozen feet off the floor, he let go of Kolabati's legs. Without a word she released her grip on his neck and slid away toward the rear of the platform. As soon as she broke contact with him, a chorus of enraged growls and hisses broke from the floor. The rakoshi could see him now.

They surged forward like a Stygian wave, slashing the air with their talons. Jack watched them in mute fascination, stunned by the intensity of their fury.

Suddenly three of them lunged into the air, long arms stretched to the limit, talons extended. Jack's first impulse was to laugh at the futility of the attempt—the platform was easily fifteen feet from the floor now. But as the rakoshi hurtled up at him, he realized to his horror that they weren't going to fall short. He rolled back and sprang to his feet as their talons caught the edge of the platform.

The rakosh in the middle fell short of the other two. Its yellow talons had hooked onto the very edge of the platform; the ends of the wooden planks cracked and splintered under its weight. As jagged pieces broke loose, it dropped back to the floor.

The other two had a better grip and were pulling themselves up onto the platform. Jack leaped to his left where the rakosh was raising its face above the level of the platform. He saw gnashing fangs, a snouted, earless head. Loathing surged through him as he aimed a flying kick at its face. The impact of the blow vibrated up his leg. Yet the creature didn't even flinch. Like kicking a brick wall.

Then he remembered the lighters in his hands. He thumbed the flame regulator on each to maximum and hit the buttons. As two thin wavering pencils of flame shot up, he shoved both lighters at the rakosh's face, aiming for the eyes. It hissed in rage and jerked its head back. The sudden movement shifted its center of gravity. Talons raked inch-deep gouges in the wood but to no avail. It was over-balanced. Like the first rakosh, its weight caused the wood to crack and give way. It toppled back to the shadows below.

Jack swung toward the last rakosh and saw that it had pulled its body waist high to the platform, just then lifting a knee over the edge. He leaped toward it with his lighters outstretched. Without warning, the rakosh leaned forward and slashed at him with extended talons that brushed Jack's right hand. He’d underestimated the creature's reach and its agility. Pain lanced up his arm from his palm as the lighter went flying and Jack fell back out of reach.

The rakosh had slipped back after its attempt at Jack, almost losing its grip. It had to use both hands to keep itself from falling off, but it held on and began to pull itself up again.

Jack's mind raced. The rakosh would be up on the platform in a second or two. The elevator had been rising continuously but would never make it to the top in time. He could rush back to where a dazed Kolabati crouched by the propane tank and take her in his arms. The necklace would hide him from the rakosh, but the elevator platform was too small to keep it from finding them—sooner or later it would bump into them and that would be the end.

He was trapped.

Desperate, he ranged the platform looking for a weapon. His gaze came to rest on the propane torches Kusum had used for his ceremony with the rakoshi. He remembered how the flames had roared six feet into the air. Here was a fire to reckon with.

The rakosh had both knees up on the platform now.

"Turn on the gas!" he shouted to Kolabati.

She looked at him blank eyed. She seemed to be in a state of shock.

"The gas!" He flung his second lighter at her, striking her in the shoulder. "Turn it on!"

Kolabati shook herself and reached slowly for the handle atop the tank.

“Come on!”

He turned to the torch—a hollow metal cylinder, six inches across, supported by four slender metal legs. As he wrapped an arm around it and tilted it toward the oncoming rakosh, he heard the propane rushing through the gas port at the lower end of the cylinder, filling it. He smelled the gas seeping into the air around him.

The rakosh had reared up to its full height and was leaping toward him, seven feet of bared fangs, outstretched arms, and fully extended talons. Jack almost quailed at the sight. His third lighter was slippery with blood from the gash on his palm, but he found the touchhole at the base of the torch, flicked the lighter, and jammed it in.

The gas exploded with a near deafening roar, shooting a devastating column of flame directly into the face of the oncoming rakosh.

The creature reeled back, its arms outflung, its head ablaze. It spun, lurched crazily to the edge of the platform, and fell off.

"Yes!" Jack shouted, raising his fists in the air, exultant and amazed at his victory. "Yes!"

Down below he saw the Mother rakosh, darker, taller than her young, staring upward, her cold yellow eyes never leaving him as he rose farther and farther from the floor. The intensity of the hatred in those eyes made him turn away.

He coughed as smoke began to fill the air around him. He looked down and saw the wood of the platform blackening and catching fire where the flame of the fallen torch seared it. He leaped to the propane tank and shut off the flow. Kolabati crouched next to it, her expression still dazed.

The elevator came to an automatic halt at the top of its run. The hold hatch cover sat six feet above them. Jack guided Kolabati to the ladder. It led up to a small trapdoor in the cover. He went up first, half expecting it to be locked. Why not? Every other escape route was blocked. Why should this one be any different?

He pushed, wincing with pain as his bloody right palm slipped on the wood. But the door moved up, letting in a puff of fresh air. Momentarily weak with relief, Jack rested his head on his arm.

Made it!

Then he threw open the trapdoor and thrust his head through.

Dark. The sun had set, stars were out, the moon was rising. The humid air and the normal stink of Manhattan's waterfront were like ambrosia after being with the rakoshi.

He scanned the deck. Nothing moved. The gangway was up. No sign that Kusum had returned.

Jack turned and looked down at Kolabati. "It's clear. Let's get off this tub."

He pulled himself up onto the deck and turned to help her out, but she remained standing on the elevator platform.

"Kolabati!" She jumped, looked at him, then started up the ladder.

When they were both on deck, he led her by the hand to the gangway.

"Kusum operates it electronically," she told him.

He searched the top of the gangway until he found the motor, then followed the wires back to a small control box. On its under surface he found a button.

"This should do it."

He pressed: A click, a hum, and the gangway began a slow descent. Too slow. An overwhelming sense of urgency possessed him. He wanted off this ship.

He didn't wait for the gangway to reach the dock. As soon as it passed the three-quarter mark in its descent he was on the treads, heading down, pulling Kolabati behind him. They jumped the last three feet and began to run. Some of his urgency must have transferred to her—she was running right beside him.

They stayed away from Fifty-seventh Street on the chance that they might run into Kusum coming back to the docks. Instead they ran up Fifty-eighth. Three taxis passed them by despite Jack's shouts. Perhaps the cabbies didn't want to get involved with two haggard-looking people—a shirtless man with a bloody right hand and a woman in a rumpled sari—looking as if they were running for their lives. Jack couldn't say he blamed them. But he wanted to get off the street. He felt vulnerable out here.

A fourth taxi stopped and Jack leaped in, dragging Kolabati after him. He gave the address of his apartment. The driver wrinkled his nose at the stench that clung to him and floored his gas pedal. He seemed to want to be rid of this fare as soon as possible.

During the ride Kolabati sat in a corner of the back seat and stared out the window. Jack had a thousand questions he wanted to ask her but restrained himself. She wouldn't answer him in the presence of the cab driver and he wasn't sure he wanted her to. But as soon as they were in the apartment...

15

The gangway was down.

Kusum froze on the dock when he saw it. It was no illusion. Moonlight glinted icy blue from its aluminum steps and railings.

How? He could not imagine—

He broke into a run, taking the steps two at a time and sprinting across the deck to the door to the pilot's quarters. The lock was still in place. He pulled on it—still intact and locked.

He leaned against the door and waited for his pounding heart to slow. For a moment he had thought someone had come aboard and released Jack and Kolabati.

He tapped on the steel door with the key to the lock.

"Bati? Come to the door. I wish to speak to you."

Silence.

"Bati?"

Kusum pressed an ear to the metal. He sensed more than silence on the other side. An indefinable feeling of emptiness there. Alarmed, he jammed the key into the padlock

—and hesitated.

He was dealing with Repairman Jack here and was wary of underestimating him. Jack was probably armed and unquestionably dangerous. He might well be waiting in there with a drawn pistol ready to blast a hole in whoever opened the door.

But it felt empty.

Kusum decided to trust his senses. He twisted the key, removed the padlock, and pulled the door open.

The hallway was empty. He glanced into the pilot's cabin—empty! But how—?

And then he saw the hole in the floor. For an instant he thought a rakosh had broken through to the compartment, then he saw part of the iron bed frame on the floor and understood.

The audacity of that man! He had escaped into the heart of the rakoshi quarters—and had taken Kolabati with him! He smiled to himself. They were probably still down there somewhere, cowering on a catwalk. Bati's necklace would protect her. But Jack might well have fallen victim to a rakosh by now.

Then he remembered the lowered gangplank. Cursing in his native tongue, he hurried from the pilot's quarters to the hatch over the main hold. He lifted the entry port and peered below.

The rakoshi were agitated. Through the murky light he could see their dark forms mixing and moving about chaotically on the floor of the hold. The elevator platform sat half a dozen feet below him. Immediately he noticed the torch on its side, the scorched wood. He leaped through the trap door to the elevator and started it down.

Something lay on the floor of the hold. When he had descended halfway to the floor, he saw that it was a dead rakosh. Rage suffused Kusum. Dead! Its head—what was left of it—was a mass of charred flesh!

With a trembling hand, Kusum reversed the elevator.

That man! That thrice-cursed American! How had he done it? If only the rakoshi could speak! Not only had Jack escaped with Kolabati, he had killed a rakosh in the process. Kusum felt as if he had lost a part of himself.

As soon as the elevator reached the top, he scrambled onto the deck and rushed back to the pilot's quarters. Something he had seen on the floor there...

Yes! Here it was, near the hole in the floor, a shirt—the shirt Jack had been wearing when Kusum had last seen him. He picked it up. It was still damp with sweat.

He had planned to let Jack live, but all that was changed now. Kusum had known Jack was resourceful, but had never dreamed him capable of escaping through the midst of a nest of rakoshi. The man had gone too far tonight. And he was too dangerous to be allowed to roam free with what he knew.

Jack would have to die.

He could not deny a trace of regret in the decision, yet Kusum was sure Jack had good karma and would shortly be reincarnated into a life of quality.

A slow smile stretched Kusum' s thin lips as he hefted the sweaty shirt in his hand. The Mother rakosh would do it, and Kusum already had a plan for her. The irony of it was delicious.

16

"I have to wash up," Jack said, indicating his injured hand as they entered his apartment. "Come into the bathroom with me."

Kolabati looked at him blankly. "What?"

"Follow me."

Wordlessly, she complied. As he began to wash the dirt and clotted blood from the gash, he watched her in the mirror over the sink. The merciless light of the bathroom made her face pale and haggard. His own looked ghoulish.

"Why would Kusum want to send his rakoshi after a little girl?"

She seemed to come out of her fugue. Her eyes cleared. "A little girl?"

"Seven years old."

Her hand covered her mouth. "Is she a Westphalen?" she said between her fingers.

Jack stood numb and cold in the epiphany.

That's it! My God, that's the link! Nellie, Grace, and Vicky—all Westphalens!

"Yes." He turned to face her. "The last Westphalen in America, I believe. But why the Westphalens?"

Kolabati leaned against the sink and stared at the wall. She spoke slowly, carefully, as if measuring every word.

"A century and a half ago, Captain Sir Albert Westphalen pillaged a temple in the hills of northern Bengal—the temple I told you about last night. He murdered the high priest and priestess along with all their acolytes, and burned the temple to the ground. The jewels he stole became the basis of the Westphalen fortune.

"Before she died, the priestess laid a curse upon Westphalen, saying that his line would end in blood and pain at the hands of the rakoshi. The captain thought he’d killed everyone in .the temple but he was wrong. A child escaped the fire. The eldest son was mortally wounded, but before he died he made his younger brother vow to see that their mother's curse was carried out. A single female rakosh egg—you saw the shell in Kusum's apartment—was found in the caves beneath the ruins of the temple. That egg and the vow of vengeance have been handed down from generation to generation. It became a family ceremony. No one took it seriously—until Kusum."

Jack stared at Kolabati in disbelief. She was telling him that Grace and Nellie's deaths and Vicky's danger were all the result of a family curse begun in India over a century ago. She was not looking at him. Was she telling the truth? Why not? It was far less fantastic than much of what had happened to him today.

"You've got to save that little girl," Kolabati said, finally looking up and meeting his eyes.

"I already have." He dried his hand and began rubbing some Neosporin ointment into the wound. "Neither your brother nor his monsters will find her tonight. And by tomorrow he'll be gone."

"What makes you think that?"

"You told me so an hour ago."

She shook her head, very slowly, very definitely. "Oh, no. He may leave without me, but he will never leave without that little Westphalen girl. And..." she paused.. . "you've earned his undying enmity by freeing me from his ship."

" 'Undying enmity' is a bit much, isn't it?"

"Not where Kusum is concerned."

"What is it with your brother'?" Jack placed a couple of four-by-four gauze pads in his palm and began to wrap it with tape. "I mean, didn't any of the previous generations try to kill off the Westphalens'?"

Kolabati shook her head. .

"What made Kusum decide to take it all so seriously?"

"Kusum has problems—"

"You're telling me!"

"You don't understand. When he was twenty he took a vow of Brahmacharya—a vow of lifelong chastity. He held to that vow and remained a steadfast Brahmachari for many years." Her gaze wavered and wandered back to the wall. "But then he broke that vow. To this day he's never forgiven himself. I told you the other night about his growing following of Hindu purists in India. Kusum doesn't feel he has a right to be their leader until he has purified his karma. Everything he has done here in New York has been to atone for desecrating his vow of Brahmacharya."

Suddenly furious, Jack hurled the roll of adhesive tape against the wall.

"That's it? Kusum has killed Nellie and Grace and who knows how many winos, all because he got laid? Give me a break!"

"It's true!"

"There's got to be more to it than that!"

Kolabati still wasn't looking at him. "You've got to understand Kusum—"

"No, I don't! All I have to understand is that he's trying to kill a little girl I happen to love very much. Kusum's got a problem all right: me!"

"He's trying to cleanse his karma."

"Don't tell me about karma. I heard enough about karma from your brother last night. He's a mad dog!"

Kolabati turned on him, her eyes flashing. "Don't say that! "

"Can you honestly deny it?"

"No! But don't say that about him! Only I can say it!"

Jack could understand that. He nodded. "Okay. I'll just think it."

She started to turn to leave the bathroom but Jack gently pulled her back. He wanted very badly to get to the phone and check on Vicky, but he needed the answer to one more question.

"What happened to you in the hold? What did I say back there to shock you so?"

Kolabati's shoulders slumped, her head tilted to the side. Silent sobs caused small quakes at first but soon grew strong enough to wrack her whole body. She closed her eyes and began to cry.

Jack had never imagined the possibility of Kolabati reduced to tears. She’d always seemed so self-possessed, so worldly. Yet here she was standing before him and crying like a child. Her anguish touched him. He took her in his arms.

"Tell me about it."

She cried for a while longer, then she began to talk, keeping her face buried against his shoulder as she spoke.

"Remember how I said these rakoshi were smaller and paler than they should be? And how shocked I was that they could speak?"

Jack nodded against her hair. "Yes."

"Now I understand why. Kusum lied to me again! And again I believed him. But this is so much worse than a lie. I never thought even Kusum would go that far!"

"What are you talking about?"

"Kusum lied about finding a male egg!" A hysterical edge was creeping onto her voice. Jack pushed her to arm's length. Her face was tortured. He wanted to shake her but didn't.

"Talk sense!"

"Kaka-ji is Bengali for 'father'!"

"So?"

Kolabati only stared at him.

"Oh, jeez!"

17

They sat in the front room. Jack’s mind still reeled from the idea of Kusum impregnating the Mother rakosh. Visions of the act half formed in his brain and then quickly faded to merciful black.

"How could your brother have fathered those rakoshi? Kaka-ji has to be a title of respect or something like that."

Kolabati shook her head slowly, sadly. She appeared emotionally and physically drained. "No. It's true. The changes in the younglings are evidence enough."

"But how?"

"Probably when she was very young and docile. He needed only one brood from her. From there on the rakoshi would mate with each other and bring the nest to full size."

"I can't believe it. Why would he even try?"

"Kusum. .." her voice faltered, "Kusum sometimes thinks Kali speaks to him in dreams. He may believe she told him to mate with the female. Hindu folklore is full of tales of raksasha—mythical creatures inspired by the very real rakoshi—dark tales of them mating with humans."

"Tales! I'm not talking about tales! This is real life. I don't know much about biology but I know cross-species fertilization doesn’t work!"

"But the rakoshi aren't a different species, Jack. As I told you last night, legend has it that the ancient evil gods—the Old Ones—created the rakoshi as obscene parodies of humanity. They took a man and a woman and reshaped them in their image—into rakoshi. That means that somewhere far, far up the line there's a common ancestor between human and rakosh." She gripped Jack's arms. "You've got to stop him, Jack!"

"I could have stopped him last night," he said, remembering how he’d sighted down the barrel of the Glock at the space between Kusum's eyes. "Could have killed him."

"It's not necessary to kill him to stop him."

"I don't see any other way."

"There is: his necklace. Take it from him and he will lose his hold on the rakoshi.”

Jack smiled ruefully. "Sort of like the mice deciding to bell the cat, isn't it?"

"No. You can do it. You are his equal...in more ways than you know."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Why didn't you shoot Kusum when you had the chance?”

"Worried about you I guess, and...I don't know...couldn't pull the trigger." Jack had wondered about the answer to that question, too.

Kolabati came close and leaned against his chest. "That's because Kusum's like you and you're like him."

Resentment flared like a torch. "That's crazy!"

"Not really," she said, her smile seductive. "You're carved from the same stone. Kusum is you—gone mad."

Jack didn't want to hear that. The idea repulsed him...frightened him. He changed the subject.

"If he comes tonight, will he be alone or will he bring some rakoshi?"

"It depends," she said, moving closer. "If he wants to take me with him, he'll have to come in person, because a rakosh will never find me. If he wants only to even the score with you for stealing me away from under his nose, he'll send the Mother rakosh."

Jack swallowed, his throat going dry at the memory of her.

"Swell."

She kissed him "But that won't be for a while. I'm going to shower. Why don't you come in with me? We both need one."

"You go ahead," he said, gently releasing himself from her. He did not meet her gaze. "Someone has to stay on guard. I'll shower after you."

She studied him a moment with her dark eyes, then turned and walked toward the bathroom. Jack watched until the door closed behind her, then let out a long sigh. He felt no desire for her tonight. Was it because of Sunday night with Gia? It had been different when Gia was rejecting him. But now...

He was going to have to cool it with Kolabati. No more rolls in her Kama Sutra hay. But he had to tread softly here. He had enough trouble without adding the wrath of a scorned Indian woman.

He went to the secretary and removed the silenced Glock with the pre-frag hollowpoints; he also took out a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson .38 Chief Special and loaded it. Then he sat down to wait for Kolabati.

18

Kolabati blotted herself dry, wrapped the towel around her, and came out into the hall. She found Jack sitting on the bed—just where she wanted him. Desire surged at the sight of him.

She needed a man right now, someone to lie beside her, to help her lose herself in sensation and wash away all thought. And of all the men she knew, she needed Jack the most. He’d pulled her from Kusum's clutches, something no man she’d ever known could have done. She wanted Jack very much right now.

She dropped the towel and fell onto the bed beside him.

"Come," she said, caressing his inner thigh. "Lie down with me. We'll find a way to forget what we've been through tonight."

"We can't forget," he said, pulling away. "Not if he's coming after us."

"We have time, I'm sure." She wanted him so. "Come."

Jack held his hand out to her. She thought it was an invitation to pull him down and she reached up. But his hand was not empty.

"Take it," he said, placing something cold and heavy in her palm.

"A gun?" The sight of it jolted her. She’d never held one before...so heavy. The dark blue of its finish glinted in the subdued light of the bedroom. "What for? This won't stop a rakosh.”

"Maybe not. I've yet to be convinced of that. But I'm not giving it to you for protection against rakoshi."

Kolabati pulled her eyes away from the weapon in her hand to look at him.

"Then what...?" His grim expression provided a chilling answer to her question. "Oh, Jack. I don't know if I could."

"You don't have to worry about it now. It may never come to that. On the other hand it may come down to a choice between being dragged off to that ship again or shooting your brother. It's a decision you'll have to make at the time."

She looked back at the gun, hating it and yet fascinated by it—much the same as she’d felt when Kusum had given her that first look into the ship's hold last night.

"But I've never..."

"It's double-action: You've got to cock it before you can fire." He showed her how. "You've got five shots."

He began to undress and Kolabati put the gun aside as she watched him, thinking he was about to join her on the bed. Instead he went to the bureau. When he turned to face her again he had fresh underwear in one hand and in the other a long-barreled pistol that dwarfed hers.

"I'm taking a shower," he said. "Stay alert and use that"—he gestured to her pistol on the nightstand—"if you have to. Don't start thinking of ways to get your brother's necklace. Shoot first, then worry about the necklace."

He stepped out into the hall and soon she heard the shower running.

Kolabati laid back and pulled the sheet over her. She moved her legs, spreading and closing them, enjoying the touch of the sheets on her skin. She needed Jack very much tonight. But he seemed so distant, immune to her nakedness.

Another woman. Kolabati had sensed her presence in Jack the very first night they met. Was it the attractive blonde she’d seen him talking to at the UK reception? It had not concerned her then because the influence had been so weak. Now it was strong.

No matter. She knew how to have her way with a man, knew ways to make him forget the other women in his life. She’d make Jack want her and only her. She had to, for Jack was important to her. She wanted him beside her always.

Always...

She fingered her necklace.

She thought of Kusum and looked at the pistol on the nightstand. Could she shoot her brother if he came in now?

Yes. Most definitely, yes. Twenty-four hours ago her answer would have been different. Now...the loathing crawled up from her stomach to her throat...

Kaka-ji!...the rakoshi called her brother Kaka-ji!

Yes, she could pull the trigger. Knowing the level of depravity to which he’d sunk, knowing that his sanity was irredeemable. She could almost look on killing Kusum as an act of compassion, done to save him from any further acts of self-degradation. More than anything she wanted his necklace. Possessing it would end his threat to her forever, and allow her to clasp it about the throat of the only man worthy to spend the rest of his days with her—Jack.

She closed her eyes and nestled her head deeper into the pillow.

Tired…she’d had only a few minutes of fitful slumber on that wafer-thin mattress in the pilot's cabin last night. She'd close her eyes for just a few minutes…just until Jack came out of the shower. Then she would make him hers again.

He'd soon forget the other woman.

19

Jack lathered himself vigorously in the shower, scrubbing his skin to cleanse it of the stink of the hold. His Glock was wrapped in a towel on a shelf within easy reach. His eyes repeatedly wandered to the outline of the door, hazily visible through the light blue translucency of the shower curtain. His mind's eye kept replaying a variation on the shower scene from Psycho. Only here it wasn't Norman Bates in drag coming in and slashing away with a knife—it was the Mother rakosh using the built-in knives of her taloned hands.

He rinsed quickly and stepped out to towel off.

Everything was okay in Queens. A call to Gia while Kolabati was in the shower had confirmed that Vicky was safe and asleep. Now he could get on with business here.

Back in the bedroom he found Kolabati sound asleep. He grabbed some fresh clothes and studied her sleeping face as he dressed. She looked different in repose. The sensuousness was gone, replaced by a touching innocence.

Jack pulled the sheet up over her shoulder. He liked her. She was lively, she was fun, she was exotic. Her sexual skills and appetite were unparalleled in his experience. And she seemed to find things in him she truly admired. They had the basis for a long relationship. But...

The eternal but.

...despite the intimacies they’d shared, he knew he was not for her. She would want more of him than he was willing to give. And he knew he would never feel for her what he felt for Gia.

Closing the bedroom door behind him, Jack went into the front room and prepared to wait for Kusum. He pulled on a T-shirt and slacks, white socks and tennis shoes—he wanted to be ready to move at an instant's notice. He put an extra handful of hollow-point bullets in his right front pocket and, on impulse, stuck the remaining lighter in the left. He set his wing-backed chair by the front window and faced the door. He pulled the matching hassock up and seated himself with the Glock in his lap.

He hated waiting for an opponent to make the next move. It left him on the defensive, and the defensive side had no initiative.

But why play defensively? That was just what Kusum expected him to do. Why let crazy Kusum call the shots? Vicky was safe. Why not take the war to Kusum?

He snatched up the phone and dialed. Abe answered with a croak on the first ring.

"It's me—Jack. Did I wake you?"

"No, of course not. I sit up next to the phone every night waiting for you to call. Should tonight be any different?" Jack didn't know whether he was joking or not. At times it was hard to tell with Abe.

"Everything okay on your end?"

"Would I be sitting here so calmly talking to you if it wasn't?”

"Vicky's all right?"

"Of course. Can I go back to sleep on this wonderfully comfortable couch now?"

"You're on the couch? There's another bedroom."

"About the other bedroom I know. I just thought I should maybe sleep here between the door and our two lady friends.”

Jack felt a burst of warmth for his old friend. "I really do owe you for this, Abe."

"I know. So start paying me back by hanging up."

"Unfortunately, I'm not finished asking favors yet. I got a big one coming up.”

“Nu? What’s this latest toiveh I should do you?”

"I need some equipment: incendiary bombs with timers and incendiary bullets along with an AR to shoot them."

The Yiddishkeit disappeared; Abe was abruptly a businessman. "Those I don't have in stock, but I can get them. You need them when?"

"Tonight.”

"Seriously—when?”

"Tonight. An hour ago."

Abe whistled. "Oy, that's going to be tough. Important?"

"Very."

"I'll have to call in some markers on this. Especially at this hour."

"Make it worth their while," Jack told him. "The sky's the limit.”

"Okay. But I'll have to leave and make the pickups myself. These boys don't deal with anybody they don't know."

Jack didn't like the idea of leaving Gia and Vicky without a guard. But since there was no way for Kusum to find them, a guard was superfluous.

"Okay. You've got your truck, right?"

"Right."

"Then make your calls, make the pickups, and I'll meet you at the store. Call me when you get there."

Jack hung up and settled back in his chair. Comfortably dark here in the front room with only a little indirect light spilling from the kitchen area. He felt his muscles loosen up and relax into the familiar depressions of the chair. He was tired. The last few days had been wearing. When was the last time he’d had a good night's sleep? Saturday? Here it was Wednesday morning.

He jumped at the sudden jangle of the phone and picked it up before it finished the first ring.

"Hello?"

A few heartbeats of silence on the other end of the line, and then a click.

Puzzled and uneasy, Jack hung up. A wrong number? Or Kusum checking up on his whereabouts?

He listened for stirrings from the bedroom where he’d left Kolabati, but none came. The ring had been too brief to wake her.

He made his body relax again. He found himself anticipating with a certain relish what was to come. Mr. Kusum Bahkti was in for a little surprise tonight. Yes sir, Jack was going to make things hot for him and his rakoshi. Crazy Kusum would regret the day he tried to hurt Vicky Westphalen.

Because Vicky had a friend. And that friend was mad. Madder'n hell.

Jack's eyelids slipped closed. He fought to open them but then gave up. Abe would call when everything was ready. Abe would come through. Abe could get anything, even at this hour. Jack had time for a few winks.

The last thing he remembered before sleep claimed him was the hate-filled eyes of the Mother rakosh as she watched him from the floor of the hold after he’d seared the face of one of her children.

Jack shuddered and slipped into sleep.

20

Kusum swung the rented yellow van into Sutton Square and pulled all the way to the end. Bullwhip in hand, he got out and stood by the door, scanning the street. All was quiet, but who could say for how long? He wouldn't have much time here in this insular neighborhood. His van would draw immediate attention should some insomniac glance out a window and spot it.

Normally this would have been the Mother's job, but she could not be in two places at once. He had given her the sweaty shirt Jack had left on the ship so that she could identify her target by scent, and had dropped her off outside Jack's apartment building only a few moments ago.

He smiled. Oh, if only he could be there to see Jack's expression when the Mother confronted him. He would not recognize her at first—Kusum had seen to that—but he was certain Jack's heart would stop when he saw the surprise Kusum had prepared for him. And if shock didn't stop his heart, the Mother would. A fitting and honorable end to a man who had become too much of a liability to be allowed to live.

Kusum drew his thoughts back to Sutton Square. The last Westphalen lay asleep within meters of where he stood. He removed his necklace and placed it on the front seat of the van, then walked back to the rear doors. A young rakosh, nearly full-grown, leaped out. Kusum brandished the whip but did not crack it—the noise would be too loud.

This rakosh was the Mother's first born, the toughest and most experienced of all the younglings, its lower lip deformed by scars from one of many battles with its siblings. It had hunted with her in London and here in New York. Kusum probably could have let it loose from the ship and trusted it to find the Scent and bring back the child on its own, but he didn't want to take any chances. No mishaps tonight.

The rakosh looked at Kusum, then looked past him, across the river. Kusum gestured with his whip toward the house where the Westphalen child was staying.

"There!" he said in Bengali. "There!"

With seeming reluctance the creature moved in the direction of the house. Kusum saw it enter the alley on the west side, no doubt to climb the shadowed wall and pluck the child from its bed. He was about to step back to the front of the van and retrieve his necklace when he heard a clatter from the side of the house. Alarmed, he ran to the alley, cursing under his breath all the way. These younglings were so damned clumsy! The only one he could really depend upon was the Mother.

He found the rakosh pawing through a garbage can. It had a dark vinyl bag torn open and was pulling something out. Fury surged through Kusum. He should have known he couldn't trust a youngling! Here it was rummaging in garbage when it should be following the Scent up the wall. He unfurled his whip, ready to strike...

The young rakosh held something out to him: half of an orange.

Kusum snatched it up and held it under his nose. It was one of those he had injected with the elixir and hidden in the playhouse last night. The rakosh came up with another half.

Kusum pressed both together. They fit perfectly. The orange had been sliced open but had not been eaten. He looked at the rakosh and it was now holding a handful of chocolates.

Enraged, Kusum hurled the orange halves against the wall. Jack! It could be no one else! Curse that man!

He strode around to the rear of the townhouse and up to the back door. The rakosh followed him part way and then stood and stared across the East River.

"Here!" Kusum said impatiently, indicating the door.

He stepped back as the rakosh came up the steps and slammed one of its massive three-fingered hands against the door. With a loud crack of splintering wood, it flew open. Kusum stepped through with the rakosh close behind. He wasn't worried about awakening anyone in the house. If Jack had discovered the treated orange, he surely had spirited everyone away.

Kusum stood in the dark kitchen, the young rakosh a looming shadow beside him. Yes...the house was empty. No need to search it.

A thought struck him with the force of a blow.

No!

Uncontrollable tremors shook his body. Not anger that Jack had been one step ahead of him all day, but fear. Fear so deep and penetrating that it almost overwhelmed him. He rushed to the front door and ran out to the street.

Jack had hidden the last Westphalen from him—and at this very moment Jack's life was being torn from him by the Mother rakosh! The only man who could tell him where to find the child was being silenced forever! How would Kusum find her in a city of eight million? He would never fulfill the vow! All because of Jack!

May you be reincarnated as a jackal!

He opened the rear door of the van for the rakosh but it would not enter. It persisted in staring across the East River. It would take a few steps toward the river and then come back, repeating the process over and over.

"In!" Kusum said.

He was in a black mood and had no patience for any quirks in this rakosh. But despite his urgings, the creature would not obey. The youngling was normally so eager to please, yet now it acted as if it had the Scent and wanted to be off on the hunt.

And then it occurred to him—he had doctored two oranges, and they had found only one. Had the Westphalen child consumed the first before the second was found out?

Possible. His spirits lifted perceptively. Quite possible.

And what could be more natural than to remove the child entirely from the island of Manhattan? What was that borough across the river—Queens? It didn't matter how many people lived there; if the child had consumed even a tiny amount of the elixir, the rakosh would find her.

Perhaps all was not lost.

Kusum gestured toward the river with his coiled bullwhip. The young rakosh leaped to the top of the waist-high retaining wall at the end of the street and dropped to the sunken brick plaza a dozen feet below it. From there it took two steps and a flying leap over the wrought iron railing to the East River running silently below.

Kusum stood and watched it sail into the darkness, his despair dissipating with each passing second. This rakosh was an experienced hunter and seemed to know where it was going. Perhaps there was still hope of sailing tonight.

After the sound of a splash far below, he turned and climbed into the cab of the van. Yes—his mind was set. He would operate under the assumption that the youngling would bring back the Westphalen girl. He would prepare the ship for sea. Perhaps he would even cast off and sail downriver to New York Bay. He had no fear of losing the Mother and the youngling that had just leaped into the river. Rakoshi had an uncanny homing instinct that led them to their nest no matter where it was.

How fortunate he had dosed two oranges instead of one. As he refastened the necklace at his throat, he realized that the hand of Kali was evident here.

All doubt and despair melted away in a sudden blast of triumph. The Goddess was at his side, guiding him. He could not fail!

Repairman Jack was not to have the last laugh after all.

21

Jack awakened with a start. He experienced an instant of disorientation before he realized he was not in his bed but in a chair in the front room. His hand automatically went to the Glock in his lap.

He listened. Something had awakened him. What? The faint light seeping in from the kitchen area was enough to confirm that the front room was empty.

He rose and checked the TV room, then looked in on Kolabati. Still asleep. All quiet on the western front.

A noise made him whirl. From out in the hall—the creak of a board. Jack pressed his ear against the door. Silence. A hint of an odor was present at the edges of the door. Not the necrotic stink of a rakosh, but a sickly sweet smell like an old lady's gardenia perfume.

Heart thumping, Jack unlocked the door and pulled it open in a single motion, then jumped back and took his firing stance: legs spread, the pistol in both hands, left supporting right, both arms fully extended.

The light in the hall was meager at best but brighter than where Jack stood. It would silhouette anyone attempting to enter the apartment. Nothing moved. All he saw was the banister and balusters that ran along the stairwell. Jack held his position as the gardenia odor wafted into the room like a cloud from an overgrown hothouse—syrupy, flowery, with an underlying hint of decay.

Keeping his arms locked straight out in a triangle with the Glock at the apex, he moved to the door, weaving back and forth to give himself angled views of the hallway to the left and right. All clear so far.

He leaped into the hall and spun in the air, landing with his back against the banister, arms down, pistol held before his crotch, ready to be raised right or left as his head snapped back and forth.

Hall to the right and left: clear.

An instant later he was moving again, spinning to his right, pressing his back against the wall next to his door, eyes darting right, to the staircase up to the fourth floor: clear.

The landing to his left going down: cl—

Wait. Someone there, sitting on the shadowed landing. His pistol snapped up, steady in his hands as he took a better look—a woman, barely visible, in a long dress, long sloppy hair, floppy hat, slumped posture, looking depressed. The hat and the hair obscured her face.

Jack's pulse started to slow but he kept the Glock trained on her. What the hell was she doing here? And what had she done-spilled a bottle of perfume all over herself?

"Something wrong, lady?" he said.

She moved, shifting her body and turning to look at him. The movement made Jack realize that this was one hell of a big lady. And then it was all clear.

Kusum's touch: Jack had disguised himself as an old woman when he’d worked for Kusum, and now...he didn't even have to see the malevolent yellow eyes glowering at him from under the hat and wig to know that he’d spoken to the Mother rakosh.

"Ho-ly shit!"

In a single, swift, fluid motion accompanied by a hiss of rage and the tearing of the fabric of her dress, the Mother rakosh reared up to her full height and flowed toward him, fangs glinting, talons extended, triumph gleaming in her eyes.

Jack's tongue stuck to the roof of his suddenly dry mouth, but he stood his ground. With a methodical coolness that amazed even him, he aimed the first round at the upper left corner of the Mother's chest. The silenced Glock jumped in his hands, rubbing against his wounded palm, making a muted phut! when he pulled the trigger. The .40 caliber slug jolted her—Jack could imagine the lead projectile breaking open, releasing its hidden birdshot, sending it tearing in all directions through her lungs—but her momentum carried her forward. He wasn't sure where her heart would be so he placed three more rounds at the corners of an imaginary square in relation to the first, now oozing a stream of very dark blood...

The Mother stiffened and lurched as each slug cut into her, finally coming to a staggering halt a few feet in front of him. Jack watched her in shock. The very fact that she was still standing was testimony to an amazing vitality—she should have gone down with the first shot. But Jack was confident: She was dead on her feet. He knew the stopping power of those .40 caliber pre-frag hollowpoints. The hydrostatic shock and vascular collapse caused by just one properly placed round would stop just about anything. The Mother rakosh had taken four.

Jack wanted to put an end to this. He took careful aim and pumped another round dead center into the Mother's chest.

She spread her arms and lurched back against the newel post at the head of the stairs, cracking it with her weight. The hat and wig slipped from her head but she didn't topple over. Instead, she made a half turn and slumped over the banister. Jack waited for her final collapse.

And waited.

The Mother did not collapse. She took a few deep gasps, then straightened and faced him, her eyes as bright as ever. Jack stood rooted to the floor, watching her. Impossible! She was dead! Dead five times over! He’d seen the holes in her chest, the black blood! Her lungs should be jelly!

With a loud, drawn-out hiss, she lunged toward him. By pure reflex rather than conscious effort, Jack dodged away. Where to go? He didn't want to get trapped in his apartment, and the way down to the street was blocked. The roof was his only option..

He was already on the stairs taking them two at a time when he made the decision. His pistol was no good. Kolabati's words came back to him.

…fire and iron...fire and iron...

Without slowing or breaking stride, he dropped the Glock on the steps, glancing behind him as he did. The Mother rakosh was a flight below, gliding up the stairs after him, the remains of her dress hanging in tatters from her neck and arms. The contrast of her smooth, utterly silent ascent to his pounding climb was almost as unnerving as the murderous look in her eyes.

Jack increased his effort to the limit and managed to widen the gap between himself and the Mother. But only briefly. Instead of weakening, the Mother seemed to gain strength and speed with the exertion. By the time Jack reached the final steps up to the roof, she’d closed to within half a flight.

Jack didn't bother with the latch on the roof door. It had never worked well anyway and fumbling with it would only lose him precious seconds. He rammed it with his shoulder, burst through, and hit the roof on the run.

The Manhattan skyline soared around him. From its star-filled height the setting moon etched the details of the roof like a high-contrast black and white photo—pale white light on upper surfaces, inky shadows below. Vents, chimneys, aerials, storage sheds, the garden, the flagpole, the emergency generator—a familiar obstacle course. Perhaps that familiarity could be worked to his advantage. He knew he could not outrun the Mother.

Perhaps—just perhaps—he could outmaneuver her.

Jack had decided on his course of action during his first few running strides across the roof. He dodged around two of the chimneys, ran diagonally across an open area to the edge, and then turned to wait, making sure he was easily visible from the door. He didn't want the Mother to lose too much of her momentum looking for him.

A second later she appeared. She spotted him immediately and charged in his direction, a moon-limned shadow readying for the kill. Neil the anarchist's flagpole blocked her path. She took a passing sidearm swipe at it and shattered the shaft so that it swung crazily in the air and toppled to the roof. She came to the generator next—and leaped over it.

And now was nothing between Jack and the Mother rakosh. She lowered into a crouch and hurtled toward him. Sweating, trembling, Jack kept his eyes on the taloned hands aiming for his throat. He was sure there were worse ways to die, but at this moment he could not think of one. His thoughts were fixed on what he had to do to survive this encounter—and the knowledge that what he planned might prove just as fatal as standing here and waiting for those talons to reach him.

He’d pressed the backs of his knees against the upper edge of the low, foot-wide parapet that ran along the rim of the roof. As soon as the Mother had appeared he’d knelt atop the parapet. And now as she charged, he straightened up with his knees balanced on the outermost edge of the parapet, his feet poised over the empty alley five stories below, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. The rough concrete dug into his kneecaps but he ignored the pain. Had to concentrate completely on what he was about to do.

The Mother became a black juggernaut, gaining momentum at an astonishing rate as she crossed the final thirty feet separating them. Jack did not move. It strained his will to the limits to kneel there and wait as certain death rushed toward him. Tension gathered in his throat until he thought he would choke. All his instincts screamed for flight. But he had to hold his place until the right instant. Making his move too soon would be as deadly as not moving at all.

And so he waited until the outstretched talons were within five feet of him—then leaned back and allowed his knees to slip off the edge of the parapet. As he fell toward the floor of the alley, he grabbed the edge of the parapet, hoping he hadn’t dropped too soon, praying his grip would hold. .

As the front of his body slammed against the brick sidewall, Jack sensed furious motion above him. The Mother rakosh's claws had sunk into empty air instead of his flesh. The momentum she’d built up was carrying her over the edge and into the beginning of a long fall to the ground. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a huge shadow sail over and behind him, saw frantically windmilling arms and legs. Then came a blow to the rear of his left shoulder and a searing, tearing sensation across his back that made him cry out.

The blow jerked Jack's left hand free of the roof edge, leaving him hanging by his right. Gasping with pain and clawing desperately for a new grip on the parapet, he couldn’t resist a quick look down to see the plummeting form of the Mother rakosh impact with the floor of the alley. He found exquisite satisfaction in the faint, dull thud that rose from below. He didn't care how tough she was, that fall broke her neck and most of the rest of the bones in her body.

Fighting the agony that stabbed through his left shoulder blade every time he raised his arm, Jack inched his left hand back up to the top of the parapet, then slowly, painfully, pulled himself back up to the roof.

He lay stretched out atop the parapet, breathing hard, waiting for the fire on his back to go out. In her wild flailings to save herself from falling, one of the Mother's talons—whether on a hand or a foot, Jack couldn't say—must have caught his back. His shirt felt warm and sticky against his back. He gently reached around and touched his rib cage. Wet. He held his hand up before his face—it glistened darkly in the moonlight.

Wearily, he raised himself to a sitting position with his legs straddling the parapet. He took one last look down into the alley, wondering if he could see the Mother. All was dark. He went to swing his outer leg over onto the roof and stopped—

Something moved down there. A darker blot rustled within the shadows of the alley.

He held his breath. Someone heard the thump of the Mother's fall and come to investigate, right? Hoped so. Hoped that was all it was.

More movement...along the wall...moving upward...and a scraping sound, like claws on brick...

Something climbing the wall toward him. Didn't need a flashlight to know what it was.

The Mother was returning.

22

Groaning with disbelief and dismay—not possible…but it was happening!—he swung his legs onto the roof and staggered away from the edge. What was he going to do? No use running-despite the lead he had, the Mother would surely catch up with him.

Fire and iron....fire and iron...

The words burned across his brain as he raced around the roof in search of some sort of weapon. No iron up here. Everything was aluminum, tin, plastic, wood. If only he could find a crowbar or even a piece of rusted iron railing—something, anything to swing at her head as she poked it up over the edge.

Nothing. The only thing that even remotely resembled a weapon was the broken remnant of the flagpole. It wasn't iron and it wasn't fire...but with its sharp, splintered lower end, it might serve as a twelve-foot spear.

He lifted it by its top end—by the ball at the tip—and hefted it. It wobbled like a vaulting pole and the oscillations caused waves of pain in his back.

Heavy, crude, unwieldy…but it was all he had.

Jack put it down and loped over to the edge of the roof. The Mother was no more than a dozen feet below and climbing fast.

Not fair! he thought as he ran back to where the pole lay. He’d as good as killed her twice in ten minutes, yet here he was hurt and bleeding and she was climbing a brick wall as if nothing had happened.

He picked up the pole by the balled end and levered it to a horizontal position. Groaning with the pain, he pointed the splintered end toward the spot where he expected the Mother to appear and began to run. His left arm began to lose strength as he ran. As the point sank toward the roof surface he clenched his teeth and forced it upward.

Have to keep it up...go for the throat...

Again, he knew timing would be critical: if the Mother gained the roof too soon, she’d dodge him; too late and he’d miss her.

He saw one three-fingered hand slip over the edge of the parapet, then another. He adjusted his direction to the area above and between those hands.

"Come on!" he screamed at her as he increased his speed. "Keep coming!"

His voice sounded hysterical but he couldn't let that bother him now. Had to keep that goddamned point up and ram it right through her—

Her head appeared and then she was pulling herself up onto the parapet. Too fast! She was too fast! He couldn't control the wavering point, couldn't lift it high enough! He was going to miss his target!

With a cry of rage and desperation, Jack put every pound of his body and every remaining ounce of strength left to him behind a final thrust against the balled end of the pole. Despite all his effort, the point never reached the level of the Mother's throat. Instead, it rammed into her chest with a force that nearly dislocated Jack's right shoulder. But Jack didn't let up—with his eyes squeezed shut he followed through with barely a break in his stride, keeping all his weight behind the makeshift spear. A moment of resistance to the spear's path, followed by a sensation of breaking free, then it was yanked out of his hands and he fell to his knees.

When he looked up, his eyes were level with the top of the parapet. His heart nearly stopped when he saw the Mother still there—

No...wait....she was on the other side of the parapet. But that couldn't be. She'd have to be standing in mid-air. When Jack forced himself to his feet, he understood.

The miniature flagpole had pierced the Mother rakosh through the center of her chest. The sharpened end of the pole had exited through her back and come to rest on the parapet of the neighboring building across the alley; the balled end lay directly in front of Jack.

He had her. Finally, he had her.

But the Mother wasn't dead. She twisted on her skewer and hissed and slashed her talons at Jack in futile rage as he stood and panted a mere six feet from her. She couldn’t reach him.

After his relief and awe faded, Jack's first impulse was to push his end of the pole off the edge and let her fall to the ground again, but he checked himself. He had the Mother rakosh where he wanted her—neutralized. He could leave her there until he found a way to deal with her. Meanwhile, she was no danger to him or anyone else.

And then she began to move toward him.

Jack took a quick, faltering step back and almost fell.

Still coming for him! His jaw dropped as he watched her reach forward with both hands and grip the pole that skewered her, then pull herself forward, pushing the pole through her chest to bring herself closer and closer to Jack.

How could he fight a creature that didn't feel pain? That wouldn't die?

He began swearing, cursing incoherently. He ran around the roof picking up pebbles, bits of litter, an aluminum can, hurling them at her. Why the hell not? About as effective as anything else he’d done to her. When he came to the emergency generator, he picked up one of the two-gallon metal cans of diesel oil and went to hurl that at her—

—and stopped.

Oil. Fire!

He finally had a weapon—if it wasn’t too late.

The Mother had pulled herself almost to within reach of the roof edge. He twisted at the metal cap but it wouldn't budge—rusted shut. In desperation he slammed the edge of the cap twice against the generator and tried again. Pain shot through the earlier wound in his palm, but he kept up the pressure. Finally it came loose and he was up and scrambling across the roof, unscrewing the cap as he moved, thanking the faulty power grip for the last blackout. Without it, he and the other tenants wouldn't have chipped in for an emergency generator.

Oil sloshed over his bandaged hand as the cap came off. Jack didn't hesitate. He leaped onto the parapet and splashed the oil over the slowly advancing rakosh. She hissed furiously and slashed at him but Jack remained just out of reach. By the time the can was empty, the air around them reeked of diesel fuel. The Mother pulled herself closer and Jack had to drop back to the roof to avoid her talons.

He wiped his hands on his shirt and reached into his pocket for the lighter. After an instant of panic when he thought his pocket was empty, his fingers closed on it. He held it up and thumbed the little lever, praying the oil on his hand hadn't got to the flint. It sparked, the flame shot up—and Jack smiled. For the first time since the Mother had shaken off the damage of five hollowpoint rounds in the chest, Jack thought he might survive the night.

He thrust the lighter forward but the Mother saw the flame and ripped the air with her talons. He felt the breeze as they passed within inches of his face. She wouldn’t let him near her. He couldn't toss the lighter at her and expect an explosion of flame. Diesel fuel needed more than that to start it.

Then he noticed that the pole was slick with the oil. He crouched next to the parapet and reached up to the ball at its end. The Mother's talons raked by, millimeters away from his hair, but he steeled himself to hold his position as he played the flame of the lighter against the oil on the ball. For an agonizing moment, nothing happened.

And then it caught. He watched raptly as a smoky-yellow flame—one of the loveliest sights he’d ever seen—grew and spread across the ball. From there it crept along the upper surface of the pole, straight toward the Mother. She tried to back away but was caught. The flames leaped onto her chest and fanned out over her torso. Within seconds she was completely engulfed.

Weak with relief, Jack watched with horrid fascination as the Mother's movements became spasmodic, wild, frenzied. He lost sight of her amid the flames and black smoke that poured skyward from her burning body. He heard sobbing—was it her? No... his own voice. Reaction to the pain and the terror and the exertion was setting in. Was it over? Was it finally over?

He steadied himself and watched her burn. He could find no pity for her…the most murderous engine of destruction ever imagined. A killing machine that would go on—

A low moan rose from within the conflagration. He thought he heard something that sounded like "Spa fon!"

And then she was still. As her flaming body slumped forward, the pole cracked and broke. The Mother rakosh spun to the floor of the alley trailing smoke and flame like the loser in an aerial dogfight. And this time when she hit the ground she stayed there. Jack watched for a long time. The flames lit the beach scene painted on the alley's opposite wall, giving it a sunset look.

The Mother rakosh continued to burn. And she didn't move. He watched until he was sure she would never move again.

23

Jack locked his apartment door and sank to the floor behind it, reveling in the air-conditioned cool. He’d stumbled down from the roof in a daze, but had remembered to pick up his Glock on the way. Weak…every cell in his body cried out in pain and fatigue. Needed rest, and probably needed a doctor for his gashed back. But no time for any of that. Had to finish off Kusum tonight.

He pulled himself to his feet and went to the bedroom. Kolabati was still asleep. Next stop, the phone. He didn't know if Abe had called while he was up on the roof. He doubted it; the prolonged ringing would have awakened Kolabati. He dialed the number of the shop.

After three rings, a cautious, "Yes?"

"It's me, Abe."

"Who else should it be at this hour?"

"Did you get everything?"

"Just got in the door. No, I didn't get everything. Got the timed incendiary bombs—a crate of twelve—but couldn't get hold of any incendiary bullets before tomorrow noon. Is that soon enough?"

"No," Jack said, bitterly disappointed. He had to move now.

"I got something you might use as a substitute, though."

“What?"

"Come down and see."

"Be there in a few minutes."

Jack hung up and gingerly peeled the torn, blood-soaked shirt from his back. The pain had subsided to a dull, aching throb. He blinked when he saw the liverish clots clinging to the fabric. He'd lost more blood than he’d thought.

He got a towel from the bathroom and gently held it against the wound. It stung, but the pain was bearable. When he checked the towel half a minute later, he found blood on it, but very little of it fresh.

Jack knew he should shower and clean out the wound but was afraid he'd start it bleeding again. He resisted the temptation to examine his back in the bathroom mirror—it might hurt worse if he knew how bad it looked. Instead, he wrapped all his remaining gauze around his upper chest and over his left shoulder.

He went back to the bedroom for a fresh shirt and for something else: He knelt next to the bed, gently unclasped Kolabati's necklace and removed it. She stirred, moaned softly, then was quiet. Jack tiptoed out of the room and closed the door behind him.

In the living room he clasped the iron necklace around his throat. It gave off an unpleasant, tingling sensation that spread along his skin from head to toe. He didn't relish wearing it, nor borrowing it from Kolabati without her knowledge. But she’d refused to remove it in the ship, and if he was going back there he wanted every edge he could get.

He slipped into the fresh shirt as he dialed the number of Abe's daughter's apartment. He was going to be out of touch with Gia for a while and knew his mind would rest easier after confirming that everything was cool in Queens.

After half a dozen rings, Gia picked up.

"Hello?" Her voice was tentative.

Jack paused for an instant at the sound of her voice. After what he’d been through in the past few hours, he wanted nothing more than to call it quits for the night, hop over to Queens, and spend the rest of the time until morning with his arms around Gia. He’d nothing more tonight—just holding her.

"Sorry to wake you. I'm going out for a few hours and wanted to make sure everything is okay."

"Everything's, fine."

"Vicky?"

"I just left her side to answer the phone. She's fine. And I'm just reading this note from Abe explaining that he had to go out and not to worry. What's going on?"

"Crazy stuff."

"That's not an answer. I need answers, Jack. This whole thing scares me."

"I know. All I can say right now is it has to do with the Westphalens." He didn't want to say more.

"But why is Vicky...oh."

"Right. She's a Westphalen. Someday when we have lots of time, I'll explain it to you."

"When will it all end?"

"Tonight, if things go right."

"Dangerous?”

"Naw. Routine stuff." He didn't want to add to her worries.

“Jack..." She paused and he thought he detected a quaver in her voice. "Be careful, Jack."

She would never know how much those words meant to him.

"Always careful. I like my body in one piece. See you later.”

He didn't hang up. Instead he depressed the plunger for a few seconds, then released it. After checking for the dial tone, he stuffed the receiver under the seat cushion of his chair. It would start howling in a few minutes, but no one would hear that...and no one could call and wake Kolabati. With luck, he could take care of Kusum, get back here and replace the necklace without her ever knowing he’d taken it. And with considerably more luck, she might not ever know for sure that he had anything to do with the fiery explosion that took her brother and his rakoshi to a watery grave.

He picked up his variable frequency beeper and hurried down to the street, intending to head immediately for the Isher Sports Shop. But as he passed the alley, he paused. He had no time to spare, yet he could not resist viewing the remains of the Mother rakosh.

A jolt of panic shot through him when he saw no corpse in the alley. Then he came upon the smoldering pile of ashes. The fire had completely consumed the Mother, leaving only her fangs and talons. He picked up a few of each—still hot—and shoved them in his pocket. Someday he might want to prove to himself that he’d really faced something called a rakosh.

24

Gia cradled the phone and thought about what Jack had said about all this being over tonight.

She fervently hoped so. If only Jack weren't so evasive about everything. What was he hiding? Something he was afraid to tell her? God, she hated this. She wanted to be home in her own little apartment in her own bed with Vicky down the hall in hers.

Gia started back toward the bedroom and then stopped. She was wide awake. No use trying to go back to sleep just yet. She pulled the bedroom door closed, then searched through the kitchen for something to drink. The MSG in Chinese food always left her thirsty. When she came across the box of tea bags she grabbed them. With the kettle on, she spun the television dial looking for something to watch. Nothing but old movies...

The kettle started to boil. Gia made a cup of tea and sugared it, filled a tall glass with ice, and poured the tea over the ice. There: iced tea. Needed some lemon, but this would do.

As she approached the couch with her drink she caught a rotten odor. Just a whiff and it was gone. Something oddly familiar about it. If she could catch it again, she was sure she could identify it. She waited but it didn't return.

Gia turned her attention to the television. Citizen Kane was on. She hadn't seen that one in ages. It made her think of Jack...how he'd go on and on about Welles's use of light and shadow throughout the film. He could be a real pain when you just wanted to sit and watch a movie.

She sat and sipped her tea.

25

Vicky shot up to a sitting position in bed.

"Mommy?" she called softly.

She trembled with fear. She was alone. And there was an awful, pukey smell. She glanced at the window. Something they’re...outside the window. The screen had been pulled out. That's what had awakened her.

A hand—or something that looked like a hand but really wasn't—slipped over the windowsill. Then another. The dark shadow of' a head rose into view and two glowing yellow eyes trapped her and pinned her where she sat in mute horror. The thing crawled over the ledge and flowed into the room like a snake.

Vicky opened her mouth to scream out her horror but something moist and hard and stinking jammed against her face, cutting off her voice. A hand, but like no hand she’d ever imagined. Only be three fingers—three huge fingers—and the taste of the palm against her lips brought what was left of her Chinese dinner boiling to the back of her throat.

As she fought to get free, she caught a fleeting close-up glimpse of what held her—the smooth, blunt-snouted face, the fangs showing above the scarred lower lip, the glowing yellow eyes…every fear of what's in the closet or what's in that shadowed corner, every bad dream, every night horror rolled into one.

She had to get away! Tears of fear and revulsion streamed down her face. After an instant of paralyzed panic she kicked and twisted convulsively, clawed with her fingernails—nothing she did seemed to matter in the slightest. She was lifted like a toy and carried to the window—

—and out! They were twelve floors up! Mommy! They were going to fall!

But they didn't fall. Using its free hand and its clawed feet, the monster crawled down the wall like a spider. Then it was running along the ground, through parks, down alleys, across streets. The grip across her mouth loosened but Vicky was clutched so tightly against the monster's flank that she couldn't scream—could barely breathe.

"Please don't hurt me!" she whispered into the night. "Please don't hurt me!"

Vicky didn't know where they were or what direction they were traveling. Her mind could barely function through the haze of terror that enveloped it. But soon she heard the lapping sound of water, smelled the river. The monster leaped, they seemed to fly for an instant, and then water closed over them. She couldn't swim!

Vicky screamed as they plunged beneath the waves and gulped a mouthful of foul, brackish water. She broke the surface choking and retching. Her throat was locked—air all around her but she couldn't breathe! Finally, when she thought she was going to die, her windpipe opened and air rushed into her lungs.

She opened her eyes. The monster had slung her onto its back and was now cutting through the water. She clung to the slick, slimy skin of its shoulders. Her pink nightie was plastered to her goose-fleshed skin, her hair hung in her eyes. Cold, wet, and miserable with terror, she wanted to jump off and get away from the monster, but knew she'd go down under that water and never come back up.

Why was this happening to her? She'd been good. Why did this monster want her?

Maybe it was a good monster, like in that book she had, Where the Wild Things Are. It hadn't hurt her. Maybe it was taking her someplace to show her something.

She looked around and recognized the Manhattan skyline off to her right, but something sat between them and Manhattan. Dimly she remembered the island—Roosevelt Island—in the river at the end of Aunt Nellie's and Grace's street.

Were they going to swim around it and go back to Manhattan? Was the monster going to take her back to Aunt Nellie's?

No. They passed the end of the island, but the monster didn't turn toward Manhattan. It kept swimming in the same direction down river. Vicky shivered and began to cry.

26

Gia's chin dropped forward onto her chest and she awoke with a start. Only half an hour into the movie and already she was nodding off. She wasn't nearly as wide awake as she’d thought. She flicked it off and went back to the bedroom.

Fear stabbed her like a knife in the ribs as she opened the door. A rotten odor filled the room. Now she recognized it—the same stench as in Nellie's room the night she disappeared.

Her gaze shot to the bed and her heart stopped when she saw no familiar little lump of curled-up child under the covers.

"Vicky?" Her voice cracked as she said the name and turned on the light. She has to be here!

Without waiting for an answer, Gia rushed to the bed and pulled down the covers.

"Vicky?" Her voice was almost a whimper. She's here—she has to be!

She ran to the closet and fell to her knees, checking the floor with her hands. She found only Vicky's Ms. Jelliroll Carry Case. Next she crawled over to the bed and looked under it. No Vicky there either.

But she spotted something else—a small dark lump. Gia reached in and grabbed it. She thought she’d be sick when she recognized the feel of a recently peeled and partially eaten orange.

Jack's words flooded back to her: Do you want Vicky to end up like Grace and Nellie? Gone without a trace? He’d said there was something in the orange—but he’d thrown it away! So how had Vicky got hold of this one?...

Unless there’d been more than one orange in the play house!

This is a nightmare! This isn't really happening!

Gia ran through the rest of the apartment, opening every door, every closet, every cabinet. Vicky was gone!

She hurried back to the bedroom and went to the window. The screen was missing. She hadn't noticed that before. Fighting back a scream as visions of a child's body smashed against the pavement flashed before her eyes, she held her breath and looked down. The parking lot, directly below, well lit by mercury vapor lamps. And no sign of Vicky.

Gia didn't know whether to be relieved or not. All she knew right now was that her child was missing and she needed help. She ran for the phone, ready to dial 911, then stopped. The police would certainly be more concerned about a missing child than about two old ladies who’d disappeared, but would they accomplish anything more? Gia doubted it.

She knew only one number to call that would do her any good.

Jack will know what to do. Jack will help.

She forced her shaking index finger to punch in the numbers and got a busy signal. She hung up and dialed again. Still busy. She didn't have time to wait! She dialed the operator and told her it was an emergency and she had to break in on the line. She was put on hold for half a minute that seemed like an hour, then the operator came back on, telling her that the line wasn't busy—the phone had been left off the hook.

Frantic, Gia slammed down the receiver. What was she going to do? What was wrong at Jack's? Had he left the phone off the hook or had it been knocked off?

She ran back to the bedroom and jammed her legs into a pair of jeans and pulled on a blouse without removing her pajamas. She had to find Jack. If he wasn't at his apartment, maybe he was at Abe's store—she was pretty sure she remembered where that was. She prayed she could remember. Her thoughts were so jumbled. All she could think of was Vicky.

Vicky, Vicky, where are you?

But how to get to Jack's...that was the problem. Finding a cab would be virtually impossible at this hour.

The Honda keys she’d seen earlier! Where had they been? She’d been cleaning in the kitchen...

She ran over to the flatware drawer and pulled it open. Yes! She snatched them up and ran out into the hall. She checked the apartment number on the door: 1203. Now if only the car was here.

The elevator took her straight down to the first floor and she hurried out into the parking lot. On the way in this afternoon she’d seen numbers on the asphalt by each parking space.

Please let it be here! she said to God, to fate, to whatever was in charge of human events.

Is anybody in charge? asked a small voice in the back of her mind.

She followed the numbers from the 800s up to the 1100s, and there up ahead, crouched like a laboratory mouse waiting timidly for the next injection, sat a white Honda Civic.

Please be 1203! Please!

It had to be.

It was.

Almost giddy with relief, she unlocked the door and slid into the driver's seat. The standard shift on the floor gave her a moment's pause, but she’d driven her father's old Ford pickup enough miles during her teens back Iowa. She hoped it was something you never forgot, like riding a bike.

She didn't know Queens but knew the general direction she wanted to go. She worked her way toward the East River until she saw a to manhattan sign and followed the arrow. When the Queensboro Bridge loomed into view, she slammed the gas pedal to the floor. She’d been driving tentatively until now, reining her emotions, clutching the wheel with white-knuckled intensity, wary of missing a crucial turn. But with her destination in sight, she began to cry.

27

Abe's dark blue panel truck was parked outside the Isher Sports Shop. The iron gate had been rolled back. At Jack's knock, the door opened. Abe's white shirt was wrinkled and his jowls were stubbly. For the first time in Jack's memory, he wasn't wearing his black tie.

"What?" he said, scrutinizing Jack. "You run into trouble since you left me at the apartment?"

"What makes you ask?"

"Bandage on your hand and you're walking funny."

"Had a lengthy and strenuous argument with a very disagreeable lady."

He rotated his left shoulder gingerly; it was nowhere near as stiff and painful as it had been back at the apartment.

"Lady?”

"It's stretching the definition, but yeah—lady."

Abe led Jack toward the rear of the darkened store. The lights were on in the basement, as was the neon sign. Abe hefted a wooden crate two feet long and a foot wide and deep. The top had already been pried open and he lifted it off.

"Here are the bombs. Twelve of them, magnesium compound, all with twenty-four-hour timers."

Jack nodded. "Fine. But I really needed the incendiary bullets. Otherwise I may never get a chance to set these."

Abe shook his head. "I don't know what you think you're going up against, but here's the best I could do."

He pulled a cloth off a card table to reveal a circular, donut-shaped metal tank with a second tank, canteen-sized, set in its middle; both were attached by a short hose to what looked like a two-handed ray gun.

Jack was baffled. "What the hell—?"

"It's an old No.5 Mk-l flamethrower, affectionately known as the Lifebuoy. I don't know if it'll suit your purposes. I mean, it hasn't got much range and—"

"It's great!" Jack said. He grabbed Abe's hand and pumped it. "Abe, you're beautiful! It's perfect!"

Elated, Jack ran his hands over the tanks. Why hadn't the thought of it? Especially after all the times he’d seen Them?

"How does it work?"

"This is a World War II model—the best I could do on such short notice. It's got CO₂ at 2000 pounds per square inch in the little spherical tank, and eighteen liters of napalm in the big lifebuoy-shaped one—hence the name. A discharge tube with igniters at the end and an adjustable nozzle. Range is up to ninety feet. You open the tanks, point the tube, pull the trigger in the rear grip, and foom!"

"Any helpful hints?"

"Yeah. Always check your nozzle adjustment before your first discharge. It's like a firehose and will tend to rise during a prolonged tight stream. Otherwise, think of it as spitting: Don't do it into the wind or where you live."

"Sounds easy enough. Help me get into the harness."

The tanks were heavier than Jack would have wished, but did not cause the anticipated burst of pain from the left side of his back; only a dull ache. As Jack adjusted the straps to a comfortable fit, Abe looked at his neck questioningly.

"Since when the jewelry, Jack?"

"Since tonight...for good luck."

"Strange looking thing. Iron, isn't it? And those stones...almost look like—"

"Two eyes? I know."

“And the inscription looks like Sanskrit. Is it?"

Jack shrugged, uncomfortable. He didn't like the necklace and knew nothing about its origins.

"Could be. I don't know. A friend...lent it to me for the night. Do you know what the inscriptions say?"

Abe shook his head. "I've seen Sanskrit before, but if my life depended on it I couldn't translate a single word." He looked closer. "Come to think of it, that's not really Sanskrit. Where was it made?"

"India."

"Really? Then it's probably Vedic, one of the ProtoAryan languages that was a precursor of Sanskrit." Abe tossed off the information in a casual tone, then turned away and busied himself with gently tapping the nails halfway back into the corners of the crate of incendiary bombs.

Jack didn't know if he was being put-on or not, but he didn't want to rob Abe of his moment. "How the hell do you know all that?"

"You think I majored in guns in college? I have a BA from Columbia in Anthropology with a minor in languages."

"And this is inscribed in Vedic, huh? Is that supposed to mean something?"

"It means it's old, Jack...O-L-D."

Jack fingered the iron links around his neck. "I figured that."

Abe finished tapping down the crate top, then turned to Jack.

"You know I never ask, Jack, but this time I've got to: What are you up to? You could raze a couple of city blocks with what you've got here."

Jack didn't know what to say. How could he tell anyone, even his best friend, about the rakoshi and how the necklace he was wearing made him invisible to them?

"Why don't you drive me down to the docks and maybe you'll see,"

"It's a deal,"

Abe groaned under the weight of the case of incendiary bombs while Jack, still in harness with the flamethrower, maneuvered his way up the steps to the ground floor, After Abe had deposited the crate in the rear of the panel truck, he motioned Jack out to the street. Jack darted out from the doorway and through the rear doors of the truck. Abe pulled the iron gate closed in front of his shop and hopped into the driver's seat.

"Where to?"

"Take West End down to Fifty-seventh and turn right. Find a dark spot under the highway, and we'll go on foot from there."

As Abe put the truck into gear, Jack considered his options. Since climbing a rope with a flamethrower on his back and a crate of bombs under his arm was out of the question, he’d have to go up the gangplank—his variable frequency beeper would bring it down. Events could go two ways after that: If he was able to get aboard undiscovered, he could set his bombs and run; if discovered, he’d have to bring the flamethrower into service and play it by ear. If he found any chance to do it safely, he’d let Abe get a look at a rakosh. Seeing would be believing—any other means of explaining what dwelled in Kusum's ship would be futile.

Either way, he would see to it that no rakoshi were left alive in New York by sunrise. And if Kusum cared to interfere, Jack was quite willing to help his atman on its way to its next incarnation.

The truck stopped.

"We're here," Abe said. "What now?"

Jack gingerly lowered himself to the street through the rear door and walked up beside Abe's window. He pointed to the darkness north of Pier 97.

"Wait here while I go aboard. I shouldn't be long."

Abe glanced through the window, then back at him, a puzzled expression on his round face.

"Aboard what?"

"There's a ship there. You just can't see it from here."

Abe shook his head. "I don't see anything but water."

Jack squinted into the dark. It was there, wasn't it? With a mixture of amazement, bafflement, and relief growing within him, he sprinted down to the edge of the dock—the empty dock.

"It's gone!" he shouted as he ran back to the truck. "It's gone!"

He realized he must have looked like a crazy man, jumping up and down and laughing with a flamethrower strapped to his back, but Jack didn't care.

He’d won. He’d defeated the Mother rakosh and Kusum had sailed back to India without Vicky and without Kolabati. Triumph soared through him.

Bon voyage, Kusum.

28

Gia ran up the steps of the five-story brownstone and stepped into the vestibule inside the front door. She pulled on the handle of the inner door just in case the latch hadn't caught. The door wouldn't move. Out of habit she reached into her purse for the keys and then remembered she’d sent them back to Jack months ago.

She went to the callboard and pressed the button next to 3, the one with the hand-printed slip of paper that said Pinocchio Productions. When the door did not buzz open in response, she rang again, and kept on ringing, holding the button in until her thumb ached. Still no responding buzzer.

Gia went back out to the sidewalk and looked up to the front windows of Jack's apartment. They were dark, although there seemed to be a light on in the kitchen. Suddenly she saw movement at the window, a shadow looking down at her. Jack!

She ran back up to ring the 3 button again, but the buzzer started to sound as soon as she stepped into the vestibule. She pushed through the inner door and ran up the stairs.

As she approached the third floor, she found a long brown wig and a flowery, broad-brimmed hat on the stairs. A sickeningly sweet perfume hung in the air. The newel post on the landing was cracked almost in two. Torn pieces of dress fabric were strewn all about the hall, and splotches of thick black fluid spotted the floor outside Jack's apartment.

What happened here?

Something about the splotches made her skin crawl. She stepped around them carefully, not wanting to touch one, even with her shoe. Controlling her unease, she knocked on Jack's door.

The door opened immediately, startling her. Whoever was there must have been waiting for her knock. But the door swung inward only three inches and stopped. She could see the vague shape of a head looking out at her, but the dim light from the hall was at the wrong angle to reveal the face.

"Jack?" Gia said. She was plainly frightened now. Everything was wrong here.

"He's not here," said a hoarse, cracked, whispery voice.

"Where is he?"

"I don't know. Will you look for him?"

"Yes...yes." The question was unexpected. "I need him right away."

"Find Jack! Find him and bring him back! Bring him back!"

The door slammed closed as Gia stumbled away, propelled by the sense of desperate urgency that had filled that voice.

What was going on? Why was there some strange shadowy person in Jack's apartment instead of Jack?

Gia had no time for mysteries—Vicky was missing and Jack could find her. Gia held onto that thought. It helped her hold onto her sanity. Even so, the sense of nightmare unreality gripped her again. The walls wavered around her as she played along with the bad dream...

...down the stairs, through the doors, down to the street to where the Honda sits double parked, start it up, drive to where you think—hope—Abe's shop is...tears on your face...

Oh, Vicky, how am I ever going to find you? I'll die without you!

...drive past darkened brownstones and storefronts until a dark blue panel truck pulls into the curb to the left just ahead and Jack gets out of the passenger side...

Jack!

Suddenly back in the real world. Gia slammed on the brakes. Even as the Honda was skidding to a stalled stop, she was out of the door and running to him, crying his name.

"Jack!"

He turned and Gia saw his face go white at the sight of her. He ran forward.

"Oh, no! Where's Vicky?"

He knew! Her expression, her very presence here must have told him. Gia could hold back the fear and grief no longer. She began sobbing as she collapsed into his arms.

"She's gone!"

"God! When? How long?"

She thought he was going to cry. His arms tightened around her until her ribs threatened to break.

"An hour...no more than an hour and a half."

"But how?"

"I don't know! All I found was an orange under her bed, like the one—"

"No!" Jack's anguished shout was a physical pain in her ear, then he spun away from her, walking a step or two in one direction, then in another, his arms swinging at the air like a windup toy out of control. "He got Vicky! He's got Vicky!"

"It's all my fault, Jack. If I'd stayed with her instead of watching that stupid movie, Vicky would be all right now."

Jack suddenly stopped moving. His arms lay quiet against his sides.

"No," he said in a voice that chilled her with its flat, iron tone. "You couldn't have changed the outcome. You'd only be dead." He turned to Abe. "I'll need to borrow your truck, Abe, and I'll also need an inflatable raft with oars. And the highest power field glasses you can find. Got them?"

"Right in the shop." He also was looking at Jack strangely.

"Would you put them in the back of the truck as quick as you can?"

"Sure."

Gia stared at Jack as Abe bustled away toward the front of his store. His abrupt change from near hysteria to this cold dispassionate creature before her was almost as terrifying as Vicky's disappearance.

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to get her back. And then I'm going to see to it that she is never bothered again."

Gia stepped back. For as Jack spoke, he’d turned toward her and looked past her, looked downtown as if seeing through all the buildings between him and whoever was in his thoughts. She let out a small cry when she saw his expression.

She was looking at murder…as if Death itself had taken human form. That look on Jack's face—she turned away. She couldn't bear it. More rage and fury than any man was meant to hold were concentrated in his eyes. She could almost imagine someone's heart stopping just from looking into those eyes.

Abe slammed the rear doors of his truck and handed Jack a black leather case. "Here are the binocs. The raft's loaded."

The look in Jack's eyes receded.

Thank God! She never wanted to see that look again.

He slung the binoculars around his neck. "You two wait here while—"

“I'm going with you!" Gia said. She wasn't staying behind while he went to find Vicky.

"And what?" Abe said. "I should stay behind while you two run off with my truck?"

Jack didn't even bother to argue. "Get in, then. But I'm driving.”

And drive he did—like a madman: east to Central Park West, down to Broadway, and then along Broadway for a steeplechase ride downtown. Gia was squeezed between Jack and Abe, one hand braced against the dashboard in case they had to stop short, the other against the roof of the truck's cab to keep from bumping her head as they pitched and rolled over the hillocks and potholes in the pavement—New York City streets were no smoother than the rutted dirt roads she used to drive in Iowa.

"Where are we going?" she cried.

"To meet a ship."

"Jack, I'm so frightened. Don't play games with me. What's this have to do with Vicky?"

Jack looked at her hesitantly, then past her to Abe.

"You'll both think I’m crazy. I don't need that now."

"Try me," she said.

She had to know. What could be crazier than what had already happened tonight?

"All right. But just listen without interrupting me, okay?" He glanced at her and she nodded. His hesitancy was unnerving. He took a deep breath. "Here goes..."

29

Vicky is dead.

As Jack drove and told Abe and Gia his story, that inescapable fact stabbed at his mind. But he kept his eyes fixed on the road and held himself away from the agony of grief that threatened to overwhelm him at any moment.

Grief and rage. They mixed and swirled within him. He wanted to pull over to the curb and bury his face in his arms and weep like a baby. He wanted to ram his fist through the windshield again and again.

Vicky! He was never going to see her again, never do the orange-mouth gag, never paint up his hand like Moony for her, never

Stop it!

He had to stay in control, had to look strong. For Gia's sake. If anyone else had told him that Vicky was missing, he might have gone berserk. But he’d remained calm for Gia. He couldn't let her guess what he knew. She wouldn't believe him anyway. Who would? He'd have to break it to her slowly...in stages...tell her about what he’d seen, what he’d learned during the past week.

Jack drove relentlessly through the near-empty streets, slowing but never stopping for red lights. Two A.M. on a Wednesday morning and still traffic about, but not enough to matter. He was headed downtown...all the way downtown.

His instincts insisted that Kusum would not leave without the Mother rakosh. He wouldn’t want to wait too far from Manhattan. To sail on, even at bottom speed, would mean outdistancing the Mother and leaving her behind. According to Kolabati, the Mother was the key to controlling the nest. So Kusum would wait. But he didn't know that the Mother wasn't coming.

Jack was coming instead.

He spoke as calmly as he could as he raced through Times Square, past Union Square and the Flatiron Building, past City Hall, past Trinity Church, ever southward, all the while telling them about an Indian man named Kusum—the one Gia had met at the UK reception—whose ancestors were murdered by a Westphalen well over a century ago. This Kusum had come to New York with a ship full of seven-and eight-foot creatures called rakoshi that he sent out to capture the last members of the Westphalen family.

Dead silence in the cab of the panel truck when he finished his story. He glanced over to Gia and Abe. Both were staring at him, their expressions alarmed, eyes wary.

"I don't blame you," he said. "That's just the way I'd look at somebody who told me what I just told you. But I've been in that ship. I've seen. I'm stuck with it."

Still they said nothing.

And I didn't even tell them about the necklace.

"It's true, damn it!" He pulled the Mother's scorched fangs and talons from his pocket and pressed them into Gia's hand. "Here's all that's left of one."

Gia passed them over to Abe without even looking at them. "Why shouldn't I believe you? Vicky was taken through a window twelve stories up!" She clutched at Jack's arm. "But what does he want with them?"

Jack swallowed spasmodically, unable to speak for a moment. Vicky's dead! How could he possibly tell her that?

"I-I don't know," he said finally, his vast experience as a liar standing him in good stead. "But I'm going to find out.”

And then they ran out of island left—they’d reached Battery Park, the southern tip of Manhattan. Jack sped along the west side of the park and screeched to the right around a curve at its end. Without slowing, he plowed through a cyclone gate and hurtled across the sand toward the water.

"My truck!" Abe yelled.

"Sorry! I'll get it fixed for you."

Gia let out a yelp as Jack swerved to a stop in the sand. He leaped out and ran to the bulkhead.

Upper New York Bay spread out before him. A gentle breeze fanned his face. Due south, directly ahead, lay the trees and buildings of Governors Island. To the left, across the mouth of the East River, sat Brooklyn. And far off to the right toward New Jersey, on her own island, stood Lady Liberty with her blazing torch held high. The bay was deserted—no pleasure boats, no Staten Island ferries, no Circle Line cruisers. Nothing but a dark wasteland of water. Jack fumbled the binoculars out of the case slung around his neck and scanned the bay.

He's out there—he's got to be!

Yet the surface of the bay was lifeless—no movement, no sound but the lapping of the water against the bulkhead. His. hands began to tremble as he raked the glasses back and forth over the water.

He's here! He can't get away!

And then he found a ship—directly between him and Governors Island. On previous passes he’d confused its running lights with the lights on the buildings behind it. But this time he caught the glint of the setting moon off its aft superstructure. An adjustment of the glasses brought the long deck into focus. When he saw the single kingpost and its four cranes amidships, he was sure he had her.

"That's it!"

He handed the glasses to Gia. She took them with a bewildered look on her face.

He ran to the back of the truck and dragged out the raft. Abe helped him unbox it and activate the CO₂ cartridges. As the flat oval of yellow rubber began to inflate and take shape, Jack slipped into the harness of the flamethrower. His back bothered him hardly at all. He carried the box of incendiary bombs to the bulkhead and checked to make sure he had his variable frequency beeper. He noticed Gia watching him intently.

"Are you okay, Jack?"

In her eyes he thought he detected a hint of the warm feelings she once had for him, but he saw doubt there, too.

Here it comes: She means, Are you all right in the head?

"No, I'm not okay. I won't be okay until I'm through with what I've got to do out there on that ship."

"Are you sure about this? Is Vicky really out there?"

Yes. She's out there. But she's dead. Eaten by—Jack fought the urge to burst out crying.

"Positive."

"Then let's call the Coast Guard or—"

"No!" He couldn't allow that. This was his fight and he was going to do it his way. Like lightning looking for a ground, the rage, the grief, the hatred balled up inside him had to find a target. If he didn't settle this personally with Kusum, it would destroy him. "Don't call anyone. Kusum has diplomatic immunity. Nobody who plays by the rules can get to him. Just leave this to me!"

Gia shrank from him and he realized he was shouting. Abe stood by the truck with the oars in his hands, staring at him. He must sound crazy. He was close to the edge...so close to the edge...had to hold on just a little longer...

He pulled the now-inflated boat to the edge and pushed it over the bulkhead into the water. He sat on the edge and held the boat in position with his feet while he lowered the crate of incendiary bombs onto it. Abe brought the oars. Jack settled himself into the boat and looked up at his best friend and the woman he loved.

"I want to come with you!" Gia said.

Jack shook his head. Impossible.

"She's my daughter—I have the right!"

He pushed away from the bulkhead. Leaving the land was like cutting a bond with Gia and Abe. He felt very alone at that moment.

"See you soon," was all he could say.

He began to row out into the bay, keeping his eyes fixed on Gia, only occasionally glancing over his shoulder to make sure he stayed on course toward the black hull of Kusum's ship. The thought that he might be going to his death occurred to him, but he let it pass. He would not admit the possibility of defeat until he’d done what he had to do. He’d set the bombs first, leaving enough time to find Kusum and settle up.

He did not want Kusum to die in the blind, indiscriminate, anonymous fury of an incendiary explosion. Kusum must know the agent of his death...and why.

And then what would Jack do? How could he go back to Gia and say those words: Vicky is dead. How? Almost better to be demolished with the boat.

The pace of his oars increased as he let the rage mushroom out, smothering his grief, his concern for Gia, consuming him, taking him over. The universe constricted, focused down to this small patch of water, where the only inhabitants were Kusum, his rakoshi, and Jack.

30

"I'm so scared!" Gia said as she watched Jack and his rubber boat melt into the darkness. She felt cold despite the warmth of the night.

"So am I," Abe said, throwing a heavy arm over her trembling shoulders.

"Can this be true? I mean, Vicky is missing and I'm standing here watching Jack row out to a boat to take her back from an Indian madman and a bunch of monsters from Indian folk tales." Her words began to break around sobs that she could not control. "My God, Abe! This can't really be happening!"

Abe tightened his arm around her, but she took scant comfort from the gesture.

"It is, kid. It is. But as to what's in that ship, who can say? And that's what's got me shook. Either Jack has gone stark raving meshugge—and comforting it's not to think of a man that lethal being meshugge—or he's mentally sound and there actually are such things as the monsters he described. I don't know which frightens me more."

Gia said nothing. She was too occupied with the fear that clawed ferociously at the walls of her brain; fear that she would never see Vicky again. She fought it, knowing if she let it through and truly faced the possibility that Vicky might be gone forever, she would die.

"But this I'll tell you," Abe went on. "If your daughter is out there, and if it's humanly possibly to bring her back, Jack will do it. Perhaps he's the only man alive who can."

If that was supposed to comfort Gia, it failed.

31

Vicky sat alone in the dark, shivering in her torn, wet nightie. It was cold in here. The floor felt slimy against her bare feet and the air stank so bad it made her want to throw up. She was utterly miserable. She’d never liked to be alone in the dark, but this time alone was better than with one of those monsters.

She’d just about cried herself out. She had no more tears left. Hope had grown when the monster climbed the ship's anchor chain, carrying her with it. It hadn't hurt her yet—maybe it just wanted to show her the boat.

Once on the deck, the monster did something strange: It took her to the back of the boat and held her up in the air in front of a bunch of windows high above her. She had a feeling somebody was looking down at her from behind the windows but she couldn't see anyone. The monster held her up for a long time, then tucked her under its arm and carried her through a door and down flights of metal steps.

As they moved deeper and deeper into the ship, the hope that had sprouted began to wither and die, replaced by despair that slowly turned to horror as the rotten smell of the monster filled the air. But it wasn't coming from this monster. It came from beyond the open metal door they were heading for. Vicky began to kick and scream and fight to get free as they moved closer, for she heard rustling and scraping and grunting sounds coming from the darkness beyond that door. The monster didn't seem to notice her struggles. It stepped through the opening and the stench enveloped her.

The door clanged behind them and locked. Someone or something must have been standing in the shadows behind it as they’d passed. And then the monsters were all around her, huge dark forms pressing close, reaching for her, baring their teeth, hissing. Vicky's screams faded away, dying in her throat as an explosion of terror stole her voice. They were going to eat her—she could tell!

But the one who carried her wouldn't let the others touch her. It snapped and clawed at them until they finally backed away, but not before her nightie had been torn and her skin scratched in a couple of places. She was carried a ways down a short corridor and then dropped in a small room without any furniture. The door had closed and she’d been left alone in the dark, huddling and shivering in the farthest corner.

"I want to go home!" she moaned.

She sensed movement outside the door, and the things out there seemed to go away. At least she couldn't hear them fighting and hissing and scraping against the door anymore. After a while she heard another sound, like a chant, but she couldn't make out the words. And then more movement out in the corridor.

The door opened. Whimpering with helpless terror, Vicky tried to press herself farther into the unyielding angles of the corner. There was a click and light suddenly tilled the room, blazing from the ceiling, blinding her. She hadn't even looked for a light switch. As her eyes adjusted to the glare, she made out a form standing in the doorway. Not a monster—smaller and lighter than a monster. Then her vision cleared.

It was a man! He had a beard and was dressed funny—and she noticed that he only had one arm—but he was a man, not a monster! And he was smiling!

Crying with joy, Vicky jumped up and ran to him.

She was saved!

32

The child rushed up to him and grabbed his wrist with both of her little hands. She looked up into his eyes.

"You're gonna save me, aren't you, mister? We gotta get out of here! It's full of monsters!"

Self-loathing engulfed Kusum was filled as he looked down at her. This child, this tiny innocent with her salty-wet stringy hair and torn nightdress, her wide blue eyes, her eager hopeful face looking to him for rescue—how could he feed her to the rakoshi?

It was too much to ask.

Must she die, too, Goddess?

No answer came, for none was necessary. Kusum knew the answer—it was engraved on his soul. The vow would remain unfulfilled as long as a single Westphalen lived. Once the child was gone, he would be one step closer to purifying his karma.

But she's just a child!

Perhaps he should wait. The Mother was not back yet and it was important that she be a part of the ceremony. It disturbed him that she hadn't returned. The only explanation was that she'd had difficulty locating Jack. Kusum could wait for her...

No—he had already delayed well over an hour. The rakoshi were assembled and waiting. The ceremony must begin.

Just a child!

Stilling the voice that cried out inside him, Kusum straightened up and smiled once again at the little girl.

"Come with me," he said, lifting her in his arm and carrying her out into the corridor.

He would see that she died quickly and painlessly. He could do that much.

33

Jack let his raft butt softly against the hull of the ship as he ran through the various frequencies on his beeper. Finally he heard a click and a hum above. The gangway began to lower toward him. Jack maneuvered the raft under it, and as soon as it finished its descent, reached up and placed the crate of bombs on the bottom step. With a thin nylon cord between his teeth, he climbed up after it, then tied the raft to the gangway.

He stood and watched the gunwale directly above him, his flamethrower held at ready. If Kusum had seen the gangway go down, he'd be on his way over to investigate. But no one appeared.

Good. So far, surprise was on his side. He carried the crate to the top of the gangway and crouched there to survey the deck: deserted.

To his left the entire aft superstructure was dark except for the running lights. Kusum could be standing unseen in the shadows behind the blank windows of the bridge at this very moment. Jack would be exposing himself to discovery by crossing the deck, but it was a risk he had to take. The aft compartments were the most critical areas of the ship. The engines were there, as were the fuel tanks. He wanted to be sure those areas were set for destruction before he moved into the more dangerous cargo holds—where the rakoshi lived.

He hesitated. This was idiocy. This was comic book stuff. What if the rakoshi caught him before he set the bombs? That would let Kusum off free with his boat and his monsters. The sane thing to do was what Gia had said back on shore: Call in the Coast Guard. Or the Harbor Patrol.

But Jack simply could not bring himself to do that. This was between Kusum and him. He could not allow outsiders into the fray. Gia wouldn't understand it; neither would Abe. He could think of only one other person who would comprehend why it had to be this way. And that, for Jack, was the most frightening part of this whole thing.

Only Kusum Bahkti, the man he’d come to destroy, would understand.

Now or never, he told himself as he clipped four bombs to his belt. He stepped onto the deck and sprinted along the starboard gunwale until he reached the superstructure. He’d been along this route on his first trip aboard the ship. He knew the way and headed directly below.

The engine room was hot and noisy, the big twin diesels idling. Their basso hum vibrated the fillings in his teeth. Jack set the timers on the bombs for 3:45 a.m.—that would give him a little over an hour to do his job and get away. He was familiar with the timers and had confidence in them, yet as he armed each one, he found himself holding his breath and turning his face away. A ridiculous gesture—if the bomb went off in his hands, the heat and force of the blast would incinerate him before he knew it. Yet he continued to turn his head.

He placed the first two at the base of each engine, attached two more to the fuel tanks. When those four went, the entire stern of the freighter would be a memory.

He stopped by the hatch that had taken him into the corridor that led to the rakoshi. That was where Vicky had died.

A heaviness settled in his chest. He still couldn’t believe she was gone.

He pressed his ear against the metal and thought he heard the Kaka-ji chant. Visions of what he’d seen Monday night—those monsters holding up pieces of torn flesh—swept through his mind, leaving barely controllable fury in their wake. He barely restrained himself from starting up his flamethrower and running into the hold, dowsing anything that moved with napalm.

But no...he might not last a minute doing that. No room for emotion here. Had to lock away his feelings and be cool...cold. He had to follow his plan. Had to do this right. Had to make sure not a single rakosh—or its master—escaped alive.

He headed back up toward fresh air and returned to the gangplank. Sure now that Kusum was in the main hold, doing whatever he did with the rakoshi, Jack hefted the somewhat lighter bomb crate onto his shoulder and made no attempt to hide as he strode toward the bow. When he reached the hatch over the forward hold, he lifted the entry port and peered below.

The odor rose and rammed into his nostrils, but he controlled his gag reflex and looked below.

This hold was identical to the other in size and design except that the elevator platform waiting a half-dozen feet below him was in the forward rather than the aft corner. He could hear noises like a litany drifting from the aft hold.

In the dim light he saw that the floor of this hold was littered with debris, but saw no rakoshi down there, neither walking about nor lying on the floor.

He had the forward hold entirely to himself.

Jack lowered himself through the opening. A tight squeeze with the flamethrower on his back, and for one awful moment he thought he was trapped in the opening, unable to move up or down, helplessly wedged in place until Kusum found him or the bombs went off. But he pulled free, slipped through, and hauled his bomb crate after him.

Once again he checked the floor of the hold. Finding no sign of rakoshi lurking about, he started the elevator down.

A descent into hell. The noise from the other hold grew steadily louder. He could sense an excitement, a hunger in the guttural noises the rakoshi were making. Whatever ceremony was going on must be reaching its climax. After that they'd probably start returning to this hold. Jack wanted to have his bombs set and be on his way before then. But just in case they came in while he was still here…

He reached back and opened the valves on his tanks. He heard a brief, faint hiss as the carbon dioxide propelled the napalm into the line, then all was silent. He attached three bombs to his belt and waited.

When the platform stopped, Jack stepped off and looked around. The floor here was a mess. Like a garbage dump. He’d have no problem finding hiding places for the rest of his bombs among the debris. He wanted to create enough of an inferno in here to spread to the aft hold, trapping the rakoshi between the forward and stern explosions.

He stifled a cough. The odor here was worse than anything he’d encountered before, even in the other hold. He tried mouth breathing, but the stench laid on his tongue. What made it so bad here?

He looked down before taking his first step and saw that the floor was cluttered with the broken remains of countless rakoshi eggs. Among the shell fragments were bones and hair and shreds of clothing. He felt his foot against what he thought was an unhatched egg; he rolled it over with the tip of his sneaker and found himself staring into the empty eye sockets of a human skull.

Repulsed, he looked around…and found he was not alone.

Everywhere he looked he saw immature rakoshi in a variety of sizes…most of them curled on the floor, asleep. One near him was awake and active—leisurely teething on a human rib. He hadn't noticed them on the way down because they were so small..

...Kusum's grandchildren...

They seemed to be as unaware of him now as their parents in the other hold had been last night.

Stepping carefully, he made his way toward the opposite corner. There he set and armed a bomb and shoved it beneath a pile of bones and shell fragments. Moving as swiftly and as carefully as possible, he picked his way toward the middle of the stern wall. Halfway there he heard a squeal and felt a sudden, knifing, tearing pain in his left calf. He spun and looked down, reflexively reaching toward the pain. Something was biting him—it had attached itself to his leg like a leech. He pulled at it but succeeded only in making the pain worse. Gritting his teeth, he tore it loose amid a blaze of pain: a walnut-size piece of his leg had come away with it.

He had a squirming, writhing, fifteen-inch rakosh by the waist. Must have kicked it or accidentally stepped on it in passing and it had lashed out with its teeth. His pants leg was torn and soaked with blood from where the thing had bitten him. He held it at arm's length while it kicked and clawed with its tiny talons, its little yellow eyes blazing fury at him It held a piece of bloody flesh—Jack's flesh—in its mouth. Before his eyes, the miniature horror stuffed the piece down its throat, then shrieked and snapped at his fingers.

He hurled the squealing creature across the room. It landed in the debris on the floor among the other sleeping members of its kind.

But they weren't sleeping now. The baby rakosh's screeching had awakened others in the vicinity. Like a wave spreading from a stone dropped in a still pool, the creatures began to rustle about him, the stirrings of one disturbing those around it, and so on.

Within minutes Jack found himself facing a sea of immature rakoshi. They couldn't see him, but the little one's alarm had alerted them to the presence of an intruder...an edible intruder.

The rakoshi milled about, searching. They moved toward where they’d heard the sound—toward Jack. Maybe a hundred of them, converging in his direction. Sooner or later they’d stumble upon him.

The second bomb was in his hand. He quickly armed it and slid it across the floor toward the wall of the hold, hoping the noise would distract them and give him time to get the flamethrower's discharge tube into position.

Didn't work. One of the smaller rakoshi blundered against his leg and squealed its discovery before biting into him. The rest took up the cry and surged toward him like a foul wave. They leaped at him, their razor-sharp teeth sinking into his thighs, his back, his flanks and arms, ripping, tearing at his flesh. He stumbled backward, losing his balance, and as he began to go down beneath the furious onslaught he saw a full-grown rakosh, probably alerted by the cries of the young, enter the hold through the starboard passage and race toward him.

He was falling.

Once down he'd be ripped to pieces in seconds. Fighting panic, he twisted and pulled the discharge tube from under his arm. As he landed on his knees he pointed it away from him, found the rear grip, and pulled the trigger.

The world seemed to explode as a sheet of yellow flame fanned out from him. He twisted left, then right, spraying flaming napalm in a circle. Suddenly he was alone in that circle. He released the trigger.

He’d forgotten to check the nozzle adjustment. Instead of a stream of flame, he’d released a wide spray. No matter—it had been disturbingly effective. The rakoshi attacking him had either fled screaming or been immolated; those out of range howled and scattered in all directions. The adult had caught the spray over the entire front of its body. A living mass of flame, it lunged away and fled back into the connecting passage, the little ones running before it.

Groaning with the pain from countless lacerations, ignoring the blood that seeped from them, Jack struggled to his feet. He had no choice but to follow. The alarm had been raised.

Ready or not, it was time to face Kusum.

34

Kusum quelled his frustration. The Ceremony of Offering was not going well. It was taking twice as long as usual. He needed the Mother here to lead her younglings.

Where was she?

The Westphalen child stood quietly, her upper arm trapped in the grip of his right hand, her big, frightened, questioning eyes staring up at him. He could not meet her gaze—she looked to him for succor and he had nothing to offer but death. She didn't know what was going on between him and the rakoshi, did not comprehend the meaning of the ceremony in which the one about to die was offered up in the name of Kali on behalf of the beloved Ajit and Rupobati.

Tonight’s ceremony was especially important. The last of its kind—forever. The Westphalen line would be extinct after tonight. Ajit and Rupobati would finally be avenged.

As the ceremony finally approached its climax, Kusum sensed a disturbance in the forward hold—the nursery—off to his right. A female rakosh turn and moved down the passage. Good. He hadn't wanted to interrupt the nearly stagnant flow of the ceremony at this point to send one of them to investigate.

He tightened his grip on the child's arm as he raised his voice for the final invocation. Almost over...almost over at last...

Suddenly the eyes of the rakoshi were no longer on him. They began to hiss and roar as their attention shifted to his right. Kusum glanced over and watched in shock as a screaming horde of immature rakoshi poured into the hold from the nursery, followed by a fully grown rakosh, its body completely aflame. It tumbled in and collapsed on the floor near the elevator platform.

And behind it, striding down the dark passage like the avatar of a vengeful god, came Jack.

Kusum felt his world constrict around him, closing in on his throat, choking off his air.

Jack...here...alive! Impossible!

That could only mean that the Mother was dead! But how? How could a single puny human defeat the Mother? And how had Jack found him here? What sort of a man was this?

Or was he a man at all? He seemed more like an irresistible preternatural force the gods had sent to test him.

The child began struggling in his grasp, screaming, "Jack! Jack!"

35

Jack froze in disbelief at the sound of that familiar little voice crying his name. And then he saw her.

"Vicky!"

She was alive! Still alive!

Jack felt tears pushing at his eyes. For a second he could see only Vicky. Then he saw that Kusum held her by the arm. As Jack moved forward, Kusum pulled the squirming child in front of him as a shield.

"Stay calm, Vicks! I'll get you home soon."

And he would. He swore to the god he’d long ago ceased to believe in that he would see Vicky to safety. If she’d stayed alive this long, he would take her the rest of the way. If he couldn't fix this, then all his years as Repairman Jack had been for nothing.

No customer here—this was for himself.

Jack glanced into the hold. The crowded rakoshi were oblivious to him; their only concern was the burning rakosh on the floor and their master on the platform. Jack returned his attention to Vicky. As he stepped out of the passage, he failed to notice a rakosh pressed against the wall to his right until he brushed by him. The creature hissed and flailed wildly with its talons. Jack ducked and fired the flamethrower in a wide are, catching the outflung arm of the attacking rakosh and moving the stream out into the crowd.

Chaos. The rakoshi panicked, clawing at each other to escape the jet of fire and avoid those aflame from it.

Jack heard Kusum's voice shouting, "Stop it! Stop it or I'll wring her neck!"

He looked up and saw Kusum with his hand around Vicky's throat. Vicky's face reddened and her eyes widened as he lifted her half a foot off the ground to demonstrate.

Jack released the trigger of the flamethrower. He now had a wide area of floor clear to him. Only one rakosh—one with a scarred and distorted lower lip—stayed near the platform. Black smoke rose from the prone forms of a dozen or so burning rakoshi. The air was getting thick.

"Treat her well," Jack said in a tight voice as he backed against the wall. "She's all that's keeping you alive right now."

"What is she to you?"

"I want her safe."

"She is not of your flesh. She is just another member of a society that would exterminate you if it knew you existed, that rejects what you value most. And even this little one here will want you locked away once she is grown. We should not be at war, you and I. We are brothers, voluntary outcasts from the worlds in which we live. We are—"

"Cut the bullshit!" Jack said. "She's mine. I want her!"

Kusum glowered at him. "How did you escape the Mother?"

"Killed her. Matter of fact, got a couple of her teeth in my pocket. Want them?"

Kusum's face darkened. "Impossible! She—" His voice broke off as he stared at Jack. "That necklace!"

"Your sister's."

"You've killed her, then," he said in a suddenly hushed voice.

"No. She's fine."

"She would never surrender it willingly!"

"She's asleep—doesn't know that I borrowed it for a while."

Kusum barked out a laugh. "So! My whore of a sister will finally reap the rewards of her karma! And how fitting that you should be the instrument of her reckoning!"

Thinking Kusum was distracted, Jack took a step forward: The Indian immediately tightened his grip on Vicky's throat. Through the tangle of her wet stringy hair, Jack saw her eyes wince shut in pain.

"No closer!"

The rakoshi stirred and edged nearer the platform at the sound of Kusum's raised voice.

Jack stepped back. "Sooner or later you're going to lose, Kusum. Give her up now."

"Why should I lose? I have but to point out your location to the rakoshi and tell them that there stands the slayer of the Mother. The necklace would not protect you then. And though your flamethrower might kill dozens of them, in their frenzy for revenge they would tear you to pieces."

Jack pointed to the bomb slung from his belt. "But what would you do about these?"

Kusum's brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

"Fire bombs I've planted them all over the ship. All timed to go off at 3:45." He looked at his watch. "It's 3:00 now. Only forty-five minutes to go. How will you ever find them in time?"

"The child will die, too."

Jack saw Vicky's already terrified face blanch as she listened to them. She had to hear—no way to shield her from the truth.

"Better that way than what you've got planned for her."

Kusum shrugged. "My rakoshi and I will merely swim ashore. Perhaps the child's mother waits there. They ought to find her tasty."

Jack masked his horror at the vision of Gia facing a horde of rakoshi emerging from the bay.

"That won't save your ship. And it will leave your rakoshi without a home and out of your control."

"So," Kusum said after a pause. "A stalemate."

"Right. But if you’ll let the kid go, I'll show you where the bombs are. Then I'll take her home while you take off for India."

He didn't want to let Kusum go—he had a score to settle with the Indian—but it was a price he was willing to pay for Vicky’s life.

Kusum shook his head. "She's a Westphalen...the last surviving Westphalen...and I cannot—"

"You're wrong!" Jack cried, grasping at a thread of hope. "She's not the last. Her father is in England! He's..."

Kusum shook his head again. "I took care of him last year during my stay at the Consulate in London."

Jack saw Vicky stiffen as her eyes widened.

"My Daddy!"

"Hush, child," Kusum said in an incongruously gentle tone. "He was not worthy of a single tear." Then he raised his voice. "So it's still a stalemate, Repairman Jack. But perhaps there is a way we can settle this honorably."

"Honorably?" Jack felt his rage swell. "How much honor can I expect from a fallen..." —What was the word Kolabati had used? —"...a fallen Brachmachari?"

Kusum’s face darkened. "She told you of that? Did she also tell you who it was who seduced me into breaking my vow of chastity? Did she say who it was I bedded during those years when I polluted my karma to an almost irredeemable level? No—of course she wouldn't. It was Kolabati herself—my own sister!"

Jack was stunned. "You're lying!"

"Would that I were." He got a faraway look in his eyes. "It seemed so right at the time. After nearly a century of living, my sister seemed to be the only person on earth worth knowing...certainly the only one left with whom I had anything in common."

"You're crazier than I thought you were."

Kusum smiled sadly. "Ah! Something else my dear sister neglected to mention. She probably told you our parents were killed in 1948 in a train wreck during the chaos following the end of British colonial rule. It's a good story—we cooked it up together. But it's a lie. I was born in 1846. Yes, I said 1846. Bati was born in 1850. Our parents, whose names adorn the stern of this ship, were killed by Sir Albert Westphalen and his men when they raided the temple of Kali in the hills of northwestern Bengal in 1857. I nearly killed Westphalen then myself, but he was bigger and stronger than the puny twelve-year-old boy I was, and nearly severed my left arm from my body. Only the necklace saved me."

Jack's mouth went dry. The man spoke his madness so casually, so matter-of-factly, with the utter conviction of truth. No doubt because he believed it true.

"The necklace?" Jack said.

He had to keep him talking. Perhaps he would find an opening, a chance to get Vicky free of his grasp. But he had to keep the rakoshi in mind, too—they kept drawing closer by imperceptible degrees.

"It does more than hide one from rakoshi. It heals...and preserves. It slows aging. It does not make one invulnerable—Westphalen's men put bullets through my parents' hearts while they were wearing their necklaces and left them just as dead as they would have been without them. But the necklace I wear, the one I removed from my father's corpse after I vowed to avenge him, helped mend my wound. I lost my arm, true, but without the aid of the necklace I would have died. Look at your own wounds. You've been injured before, I am sure. Do they hurt as much as you would expect? Do they bleed as much as they should?"

Warily, Jack glanced down at his arms and legs. They were bloody and they hurt—but nowhere near as much as they should have. Then he remembered how his back and left shoulder had started feeling better soon after he’d put on the necklace. He hadn't made the connection until now.

"You now wear one of the two existing necklaces of the Keepers of the Rakoshi. While you wear it, it heals you and slows your aging to a crawl. But take it off, and all those years come tumbling back upon you."

Jack leaped upon an inconsistency. "You said 'two existing necklaces.' What about your grandmother's? The one I returned?"

Kusum laughed. "Haven't you guessed yet? There is no grandmother! That was Kolabati herself! She was the assault victim! She had been following me to learn where I went at night and—How do you Americans so eloquently put it?— 'got rolled.' That old woman you saw in the hospital was Kolabati, dying of old age without her necklace. Once I replaced it about her neck, she quickly returned to the same state of youth when the necklace was stolen from her." He laughed again. "Even as we speak, she grows older and uglier and more feeble by the minute!"

Jack's mind whirled. He tried to ignore what he’d been told. Couldn't be true. Kusum was simply trying to distract him, confuse him, and he couldn't allow that. Had to concentrate on Vicky and on getting her to safety. She was looking at him with those big blue eyes of hers, begging him to get her out of here.

"You're only wasting time, Kusum. Those bombs go off in thirty minutes."

"True," the Indian said. "And I too grow older with every minute."

Jack noticed Kusum's bare throat. He did look considerably older than Jack remembered him.

"Your necklace..."

"I take it off when I address them." He gestured to the rakoshi. "Otherwise they wouldn't be able to see their master.”

"You mean 'father,' don't you? Kolabati told me what Kaka-ji means."

Kusum's gaze faltered, and for an instant Jack thought this might be his chance. But then it leveled at him again.

"What one had once thought unspeakable becomes a duty when the Goddess commands."

"Give me the child!" Jack shouted.

This going nowhere. And time was passing on those bomb timers…he could almost hear them ticking.

"You'll have to earn her, Repairman Jack. A trial by combat...hand-to-hand combat. I shall prove to you that a rapidly-aging, one-armed Bengali is more than a match for a two-armed American."

Jack stared at him in mute disbelief.

"I'm quite serious," Kusum continued. "You've defiled my sister, invaded my ship, killed my rakoshi. I demand satisfaction. No weapons—man to man. With the child as prize.”

Trial by combat. Insane! This man was living in the dark ages. How could Jack face Kusum and risk losing the contest—he remembered what one of the Indian's kicks had done to the door in the pilot's quarters—when Vicky's life rode on the outcome? And yet how could he refuse? At least Vicky had a chance if he accepted Kusum's challenge. Jack saw no hope for her if he refused.

"You're no match for me, Kusum. It wouldn't be fair. And besides, we don't have time."

"The fairness is my concern. And do not worry about the time—it will be a brief contest. Do you accept?"

Jack studied him. Kusum was very confident—sure, no doubt, that Jack was ignorant of the fact that he fought savate-style. He probably figured a kick to the solar plexus, a kick to the face, and it would be over. Jack could take advantage of that overconfidence.

"Let me get this straight: If I win, Vicky and I can leave unmolested. And if I lose...?"

"If you lose, you agree to disarm all the bombs you have set and leave the child with me."

Insane...yet as much as he loathed to admit it, the idea held a certain perverse appeal. Jack could not still the thrill of anticipation that leaped through him. He wanted to get his hands on this man, wanted to hurt him, damage him. A bullet, a flamethrower, even a knife—all much too impersonal to repay Kusum for the horrors he’d put Vicky through.

"All right," he said in as close to a normal voice as he could manage. "But how do I know you won't sic your pets on me if I win—or as soon as I take this off?" He pointed to the flamethrower tanks on his back.

Kusum frowned. "That would be dishonorable. You insult me by even suggesting it. But to ease your suspicions, we will fight on this platform after it has been raised beyond the reach of the rakoshi."

Jack could think of no more objections. He lowered the discharge tube and stepped toward the platform.

Kusum smiled the smile of a cat that has just seen a mouse walk into its dinner dish.

"Vicky stays on the platform with us, right?" Jack said, loosening the straps on his harness.

"Of course. And to show my good will, I will even let her hold necklace during the contest." He shifted his grip from Vicky's throat to her arm. "It's there on the floor, child. Pick it up."

Hesitantly, Vicky stretched out and picked up the necklace. She held it as if it were a snake.

"I don't want this!" she wailed.

"Just hold onto it, Vicks," Jack told her. "It'll protect you."

Kusum started to pull her back toward him. As he switched his grip from her arm to her throat, Vicky moved. Without warning she cried out and lunged away from him. Kusum snatched for her but she had fear and desperation as allies. Five frantic steps, a flying leap, and she crashed against Jack's chest, clutching at him, screaming:

"Don't let him get me, Jack! Don't let him! Don't let him!"

Got her!

Jack's vision blurred and his voice became lost in the surge of emotion that filled him as he held Vicky's trembling little body against him. He couldn't think—so he reacted. In a single move he raised the discharge tube with his right hand and swung his left arm behind Vicky’s back to grasp the forward grip, holding her to him while he steadied the tube. He pointed it at Kusum.

"Give her back!" Kusum shouted, rushing to the edge of the platform. His sudden movement and raised voice caused the rakoshi to shift, murmur, and edge forward. "She's mine!"

"No way," Jack said softly, finding his voice again as he squeezed Vicky closer. "You're safe, Vicks."

He had her now and no one was taking her away. No one.

He began to back toward the forward hold.

"Stay where you are!" Kusum roared. Spittle flecked his lips—he was so enraged he was actually beginning to foam at the mouth. "One more step and I'll tell them where you are. As I said before, they'll tear you to pieces. Now—come up here and face me as we agreed."

Jack shook his head. "I had nothing to lose then. Now I've got Vicky." Agreement or not, no way was he letting her go. "The fight's off."

"Have you no honor? You agreed!"

"I lied," Jack said, and pulled the trigger.

The stream of napalm hit Kusum squarely in the chest, spreading over him, engulfing him in flame. He released a long, high, hoarse scream and reached his arm out toward Jack and Vicky as his fiery body went rigid. Twisting, writhing convulsively, his features masked in flame, he stumbled forward off the platform, still reaching for them, his obsession with ending the Westphalen line driving him even in the midst of his death agony.

Jack held Vicky's face into his shoulder so she wouldn’t see, and was about to loose another blast when Kusum veered off to the side, spinning and whirling in a flaming dance, finally falling dead in front of his rakoshi horde, burning...burning...

The rakoshi went mad.

36

If Jack had looked upon the hold as a suburb of hell before, it became one of the inner circles upon the death of the Kaka-ji. The rakoshi exploded into frenzied movement, leaping into the air, clawing, tearing at each other. Unable to find Jack and Vicky, they turned on each other. It was as if all of hell's demons had decided to riot. All except one—

The rakosh with the scarred lip remained aloof from the carnage; it stared in their direction as if sensing their presence there, even though it could not see them.

As the struggles of the creatures brought groups of them near, Jack began backing down the passageway to the forward hold. A trio of rakoshi, locked in combat, black blood gushing from their wounds, blundered into the passage. Jack sprayed them with the flamethrower, sending them reeling away, then turned and ran.

Before entering the forward hold, he directed a tight stream of flaming napalm ahead of him—first high to drive away any rakoshi lurking outside the end of the passage, then low along the floor to clear the small ones from his path. Putting his head down he charged through the hold along the flaming strip, feeling like a jet cruising along an illuminated runway. At its end he leaped up on the platform and stabbed the Up button.

As the elevator began to rise, Jack tried to put Vicky down on the planking but she wouldn't let go. Her hands were locked onto the fabric of his shirt in a death grip. He was weak and exhausted, but he’d carry her the rest of the way if that was what she needed.

With his free hand he reached into the crate and armed and set the rest of the bombs for 3:45—less than twenty minutes away.

Rakoshi began to pour into the forward hold through both the port and starboard entries. When they saw the platform rising, they charged it.

"They're coming for me, Jack!" Vicky screamed. "Don't let them get me!"

"Everything's okay, Vicks," he said as soothingly as he could.

He sent out a fiery stream that caught a dozen of the creatures in the front rank, then he kept the rest of them at bay with well-placed bursts of flame.

When the elevator platform was finally out of range of a rakosh's leap, Jack allowed himself to relax. He dropped to his knees and waited for the platform to reach the top.

Suddenly a rakosh broke free from the crowd and hurtled forward. Startled, Jack rose and pointed the discharge tube in its direction.

"That's the one that brought me here!" Vicky cried.

Jack recognized the rakosh: Scar-lip, making a last ditch effort to get at Vicky.

Jack's finger tightened on the trigger, then he saw that the creature was going to fall short. Its talons narrowly missed the platform but must have caught onto the undercarriage, for the elevator lurched and screeched on its tracks, then continued to rise.

Jack didn't know if the rakosh was clinging to the undercarriage or whether it had fallen off into the elevator well below. Wasn't about to peer over the edge to find out—might lose his face if the rakosh was hanging there.

He carried Vicky to the rear corner of the platform and waited there with the discharge tube trained on the edge of the platform. If the rakosh showed its face he'd burn its head off.

But it didn't appear. And when the elevator stopped at the top of its track, Jack pulled Vicky's hands free to allow her to go up the ladder ahead of him. As they separated, something fell out of the folds of her damp nightgown.

Kusum's necklace.

"Here, Vicks," he said, reaching to clasp it around her neck. "Wear this. It'll—"

"No!" she cried in a shrill voice, pushing his hands away. "I don't like it."

"Please, Vicks. Look—I'm wearing one."

“No!”

She started up the ladder. Jack stuffed the necklace into his pocket and watched her go, continually glancing toward the edge of the platform. The poor kid was frightened of everything now—almost as frightened of the necklace as the rakoshi. He wondered if she'd ever get over this.

Jack waited until Vicky had climbed through the little entry hatch, then he followed, keeping his eyes on the edge of the platform until he reached the top of the ladder. Quickly, almost frantically, he squeezed through into the salty night air.

Vicky grabbed his hand. "Where do we go now, Jack? I can't swim!"

"You don't have to, Vicks," he whispered. Why am I whispering? "I brought us a boat."

He led her by the hand along the starboard gunwale to the gangway. When she saw the rubber raft below, she needed no further guidance—she let go of his hand and hurried down the steps.

Jack glanced back over the deck and froze. He’d caught a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye—a shadow had moved near the kingpost standing between the two holds. Or had it? His nerves were frayed to the breaking point. He was ready to see a rakosh in every shadow.

He followed Vicky down the steps. When he reached bottom he turned and sprayed the top half of the gangway with flame, then arched the stream over the gunwale onto the deck. He kept the flame flowing, swinging it back and forth until the discharge tube coughed and jerked in his hands. The flame sputtered and died. Only carbon dioxide hissed through the tube. No more napalm.

He loosened the harness, a job he’d begun in the aft hold, and shrugged off the tanks and their appendages, dropping them on the last step of the burning gangway. Better to let it go up with the ship than be found floating in the bay. Then he untied the nylon hawser and pushed off.

Made it!

A wonderful feeling—he and Vicky were alive and off the freighter. Only moments ago he’d been ready to give up hope.

But they weren't safe yet. They had to be far from the ship, preferably on shore, when those bombs went off.

Jack grabbed the oars and began to row, watching the freighter recede into the dark. Manhattan waited behind him, drawing nearer with every stroke. Gia and Abe wouldn’t be visible for a while yet. Vicky crouched in the stern of the raft, her head swiveling between the freighter and land. He couldn’t wait to reunite her with Gia.

Jack rowed harder. The effort caused him pain, but surprisingly little. He should have been in agony from the deep wound behind his left shoulder, from the innumerable lacerations all over his body, and from the pockets where the teeth of the savage little rakoshi had torn away the skin. He felt weak from fatigue and blood loss, but he should have lost more—he should have been in near shock. The necklace truly seemed to have healing powers.

But could it really keep you young? And let you grow old if it were removed? That could be why Kolabati had refused to lend it to him when they were trapped in the pilot's cabin. Could Kolabati be slowly turning into an old hag back in his apartment right now? He remembered how Ron Daniels, the mugger, had sworn he hadn't rolled an old lady the night before. Perhaps that explained much of Kolabati's passion for him: It wasn't her grandmother's necklace he’d returned—it was her own.

He took a hand off an oar to reach up and touch the necklace. It might not be a bad thing to keep around. You never knew when you might—

A splash over by the freighter.

"What was that?" Jack asked Vicky. "Did you see anything?”

He could see her shake her head in the darkness. "Maybe it was a fish."

"Maybe."

Jack didn't know of any fish in Upper New York Bay big enough to make a splash like that. Maybe the flamethrower had fallen off the gangway. That would explain the splash nicely. But try as he might, Jack could not entirely buy that.

A cold clump of dread sprang up between his shoulders and began to spread.

He rowed even harder.

37

Gia couldn't keep her hands still. They seemed to move of their own accord, clasping together and unclasping, clenching and unclenching, running over her face, hugging her, climbing in and out of her pockets. She was certain she’d go stark raving mad if something didn't happen soon. Jack had been gone forever. How long did they expect her to stand around and do nothing while Vicky was missing?

He pacing had worn a path in the sand along the bulkhead; now she simply stood and stared out at the freighter. It had been a shadow all along, but a few moments ago it began to burn—at least part of it. A line of flame had zigzagged along the hull from the deck level almost down to the water. Abe had said it looked like Jack's flamethrower at work, but he didn't know what he was up to. Through the binoculars it looked like a burning gangway and the best he could guess was that Jack was, in effect, burning a bridge behind him.

And so she waited, more anxious that ever, waiting to see if Jack was bringing back her Vicky.

Then suddenly she saw it—a spot of yellow on the surface, the rhythmic glint of oars moving in and out of the water.

"Jack!" she called, knowing her voice probably wouldn't carry the distance but unable to contain herself any longer. "Did you find her?"

And then it came, that dear squeaky little voice she so loved:

"Mommy! Mommy!"

Joy and relief exploded within her. She burst into tears and stepped to the edge of the bulkhead, ready to leap in. But Abe grabbed her.

"You'll only slow them up," he said, pulling her back. "He's got her, and he'll get here faster if you stay where you are."

Gia could barely control herself. Hearing Vicky's voice was not enough. She had to hold her little girl and touch her and hug her before she could truly believe she had her back. But Abe was right—she had to wait where she was.

Movement of Abe's arm across his face drew her attention away from the water for an instant. Was he wiping at tears? Gia threw an arm around his waist and hugged him.

"Just the wind," he said, sniffing. "My eyes have always been sensitive to it."

Gia nodded and returned her attention to the water: smooth as glass, not the slightest breeze, allowing the raft to make good speed.

Hurry, Jack...I want my Vicky!

In moments the raft was close enough for her to see Vicky crouched on the far side of Jack, smiling, waving over his shoulder as he rowed. And then the raft nosed against the bulkhead and Jack was handing Vicky up to her.

Gia clasped Vicky against her. She was real! Yes, it was Vicky, truly Vicky! Euphoric with relief, she spun her around and around, kissing her, squeezing, promising never to let her go ever again.

"I can't breathe, Mommy!"

Gia loosened her grip a fraction, but could not let go. Not yet.

Vicky started blabbering in her ear. "A monster stole me from the bedroom, Mom! It jumped in the river with me and..."

Vicky's words faded away. A monster...then Jack wasn't crazy. She looked over to where he stood on the bulkhead next to Abe, smiling at her and Vicky when he wasn't glancing over his shoulder at the water. He looked awful—torn clothes, blood all over him. But he looked proud, too.

"I'll never forget this, Jack," she said, her heart ready to burst with gratitude.

"I didn't do it just for you." He glanced back at the water again. What was he looking for? "You're not the only one who loves her, you know."

"I know."

He seemed ill at ease. He glanced at his watch.

"Let's get out here, okay? I don't want to be caught standing around when that ship goes up. I want to be in the truck and ready to roll."

"Goes up?" Gia didn't understand.

"Kabloom! I placed a dozen incendiary bombs throughout the ship—set to go in about five minutes. Take Vicks up to the truck and we'll be right there."

He and Abe started pulling the raft out of the water.

Gia was opening the door to the panel truck when she heard a loud splash and shouting behind her. She glanced up over the hood and froze in horror at the sight of a dark, dripping, glistening form rising out of the bay. It leaped up on the bulkhead, knocking into Jack and sending him sprawling headfirst into the sand—it was as if it hadn't even known Jack was there.

She heard Abe shout "Good Lord!" as he lifted the raft and shoved it at the creature, but a single swipe of its talons ripped it open. The raft deflated with a whoosh, leaving Abe holding forty pounds of yellow vinyl.

One of those rakoshi Jack had told them about. It had to be—there could be no other explanation.

Vicky screamed and buried her face in Gia's neck. "That's the monster that took me, Mommy! Don't let it get me!"

The thing moved toward Abe, towering over him. Abe hurled what was left of the raft at it and backed away. Seemingly from nowhere, a pistol appeared in his hand and he began firing, the noise from the pistol sounding more like pops than shots. Abe fired six times at point blank range, backpedaling all the time. He might as well have been firing blanks for all the notice the thing took of the bullets.

Gia gasped as she saw Abe's foot catch on the edge of the bulkhead. He flung out his arms, waving them for balance, looking like an overfed goose trying to fly, and then he fell into the water, disappearing from sight.

The rakosh lost interest in him and turned toward Gia and Vicky. Its eyes focused on them and it rushed forward.

"It's coming for me again, Mommy!"

Behind the rakosh, Gia had an instant's view of Jack rolling over and pushing himself to his knees. He was shaking his head and looking around as if unsure of where he was. Then she pushed Vicky into the cab of the truck and climbed in after her. She crawled over to the driver's seat and started the engine, but the rakosh reached them before she could put it into gear.

Gia's screams joined Vicky's as it drove its talons through the metal of the hood and pulled itself up in front of the windshield. In pure desperation she threw the truck into reverse and floored the accelerator. Amid plumes of flying sand, the truck lurched backward, nearly dislodging the rakosh...

...but not quite.

It regained its balance and smashed one of its hands through the windshield, reaching for Vicky through the cascade of bright fragments. Gia lunged to her right to cover Vicky's body with her own. The truck stalled and lurched to a stop. She waited for the talons to tear into her back, but the pain never came. Instead she heard a sound, a cry that was human and yet unlike any sound she’d ever heard or wanted to hear from a human throat.

She looked up. The rakosh was still on the hood of the truck, but no longer reaching for Vicky. It had withdrawn its hand from the cab and was now trying to dislodge the apparition that clung to its back.

Oh, God—Jack! And it was from his wide-open mouth that that sound originated.

She caught a glimpse of his face above and behind the rakosh's head—so distorted by maniacal fury she barely recognized him. She could see the cords standing out in his neck as he reached around the rakosh and clawed at its eyes. The creature twisted back and forth but couldn’t dislodge him. Finally it reached back and tore him free, blindly slashing at his chest as it hurled him out of its field of vision.

"Jack!" Gia cried, feeling his pain, realizing that in a few heartbeats she would know it herself. She had no hope of stopping this thing.

But maybe she could outrun it. She twisted the door handle and crawled out, pulling Vicky after her. The rakosh saw her and climbed onto the roof of the truck. With Vicky clinging to her Gia began to run, her shoes slipping, dragging, filling with sand. She glanced over her shoulder as she kicked them off and saw the rakosh crouch to leap at her.

And then night turned to day.

The flash preceded the thunder of the explosion. It silhouetted the poised rakosh in white light that blotted out the stars. Then came the blast. The rakosh turned and Gia knew she’d been given a chance. She ran on.

38

The pain was three glowing, red-hot irons laid across his chest.

Jack had rolled onto his side and was pushing himself up to a sitting position on the sand when the first explosion came. He saw the rakosh turn toward the flash from the ship, saw Gia start to run.

The stern of the freighter had dissolved into a ball of orange flame as the fuel tanks exploded, quickly followed by a white-hot flash from the forward section— all the remaining incendiary bombs going off at once. Smoke, fire, and debris hurtled skyward from the cracked and listing hull of what had once been the Ajit-Rupobati. Jack knew nothing could survive that inferno.

The rakoshi were gone, extinct but for one. And that one threatened two of the beings Jack valued most in this world. He’d gone berserk when he’d seen it reaching through the windshield of the truck for Vicky. It must have been following a command given to it earlier tonight to bring in the one who had drunk the elixir. Vicky was that one—the rakoshi elixir that had been in the orange was still in her system and this rakosh was taking its mission very seriously. Despite the death of its Kaka-ji, despite the absence of the Mother, it intended to return Vicky to the freighter.

Splashing noises to his left...down by the bulkhead Jack saw Abe pulling himself out of the water and onto the sand. Abe's face was white as he stared up at the rakosh atop the truck. He was seeing something that had no right to exist and he looked dazed. He’d be no help.

No way Gia could outrun the rakosh, especially with Vicky in her arms. Jack had to do something—but what? Never before had he felt so helpless, so impotent. He’d always been able to make a difference, but not now. He was spent. He knew of no way to stop that thing. In a moment it would turn and run after Gia...and he could do nothing about it.

He rose to his knees and groaned with the pain of his latest wounds. Three deep lacerations ran diagonally across his chest and upper abdomen from where the rakosh had slashed him with its talons. The torn front of his shirt was soaked with blood. With a desperate surge of effort, he gained his feet, ready to place himself between Gia and the rakosh. He knew he couldn't stop it, but maybe he could slow it down..

The rakosh leaped off the truck...but not after Gia and Vicky, and not toward Abe. It ran to the bulkhead and stood staring out at the flaming wreckage of its nest. Shards of metal and flaming wood began to pepper the surface of the bay as they returned from the sky, hissing and steaming as they splashed into the water.

As Jack watched, it threw back its head and let loose an unearthly howl, so lost and mournful that Jack almost felt sorry for it. Its family, its world had gone up with the freighter. All points of reference, all that was meaningful in its life—gone.

It howled once more, then dove into the water. Powerful strokes propelled it out into the bay, directly toward the pool of flaming oil. Like a loyal Indian wife throwing herself on her husband's funeral pyre, it headed toward Kusum's sunken iron tomb.

Gia had turned and was hurrying toward him with Vicky in her arms. Abe, too, wet and dripping, was walking his way.

"My grandmother used to try to scare me with stories of dybbuks," Abe said breathlessly. "Now I've seen one,"

"Are the monsters gone?" Vicky kept saying, her head continually rotating back and forth as she stared into the long shadows thrown by the tire on the bay. "Are the monsters really gone?"

"Is it over?" Gia asked.

"I think so. I hope so."

He’d been facing away from her. He turned as he answered and she gasped when she saw his front.

"Jack! Your chest!"

He pulled the shreds of his shirt closed over his ripped flesh. The bleeding had stopped and the pain was receding...due to the necklace, he guessed.

"It's all right. Scratches. Look a lot worse than they are." He heard sirens begin to wail. "If we don't pack this stuff up and get out of here soon, we're going to have to answer a lot of questions."

Together, he and Abe dragged the deflated raft to the truck and threw it into the back, then they framed Gia and Vicky in the front seat. But this time Abe took the wheel. He knocked out the remains of the shattered windshield with the flat of his palm and started the engine. The sand was packed around the rear wheels but Abe skillfully rocked it out and drove through the gate Jack had rammed open earlier.

"A miracle if we make it uptown without getting pulled over for this windshield."

"Blame it on vandals," Jack told him. He turned to Vicky who lay curled up against her mother, and ran his forefinger along her arm. "You're safe now, Vicks."

"Yes, she is," Gia said with a small smile as she laid her cheek against the top of Vicky's head. "Thank you, Jack."

Jack saw that the child was sleeping.

Gia slipped her free hand into his. Jack looked into her eyes and saw no fear there. It was a look he’d longed to see. The sight of Vicky sleeping peacefully made all the pain and horror worthwhile; the look in Gia's eyes was a bonus.

She leaned her head back and closed those eyes. "Is it really over?"

"For you, it is. For me...one loose end left."

"The woman," Gia said. It wasn't a question.

Jack nodded, thinking about Kolabati sitting in his apartment, and about what might be happening to her. He reached across Gia to get Abe's attention.

"Drop me off at my place first, will you, Abe? Then take Gia home."

"You can't take care of those wounds by yourself!" she said. "You need a doctor."

"Doctors ask too many questions. And the one I usually use is out of town."

"Then come home with me. Let me clean you up."

"It's a deal. I'll be over as soon as I finish at my place."

Gia's eyes narrowed. "What's so important that you have to see her so soon?"

"I've got some personal property of hers" —he tapped the necklace around his throat—"that has to be returned."

"Can't it wait?"

"Afraid not. I borrowed it without telling her, and I've been told she really needs it."

Gia said nothing.

"I'll be over as soon as I can."

By way of reply, Gia turned her face into the wind coming through the glassless front of the truck and stared stonily ahead.

Jack sighed. How could he explain to her that "the woman" might be aging years by the hour, might be a drooling senile wreck by now? How could he convince Gia when he couldn't quite convince himself?

The rest of the trip passed in silence as Abe wended his way uptown. They saw a few police cars, but none were close enough to notice the missing windshield.

"Thanks for everything, Abe," Jack said as the truck pulled up in front of the brownstone.

"Want me to wait?"

"This may take a while. Thanks again. I'll settle up with you in the morning."

"I'll have the bill ready."

Jack kissed the sleeping Vicky on the head and slid out of the seat. He was stiff and sore.

"Are you coming over?" Gia asked, finally looking at him.

"As soon as I can," he said, glad the invitation was still open. "If you still want me to."

"I want you to."

"Then I'll be there. Within an hour. I promise."

"You'll be okay?"

He was grateful for her worried look.

"Sure."

He slammed the door and watched them drive off. Then he began the long climb to the third floor. When he reached his door, key in hand, he hesitated.

A chill crept over. him: What waited on the other side?

Nothing, he hoped. An empty front room and a young Kolabati asleep in his bed. He’d deposit both necklaces on the nightstand where she’d find them in the morning, then he’d leave for Gia's place.

That would be the easy way. Kolabati would know her brother was dead without his actually having to tell her. Hopefully, she’d be gone when he got back.

Let's make this easy, he thought. Let something be easy tonight.

He opened the door and stepped into the dark front room. The only illumination leaked down the hall from his bedroom. All he could hear was breathing—rapid, ragged, rattly…from the couch. He stepped toward it.

"Kolabati?"

A gasp, a cough, a groan, then someone rose from the couch. Framed in the light from the hall was a wizened, spindly figure with high thin shoulders and kyphotic spine. It stepped toward him. Jack sensed rather than saw an outstretched hand..

"Give it to me!" The voice was little more than a faint rasp, a snake sliding through dry straw. "Give it back to me!"

But the cadence and pronunciation were unmistakable—Kolabati.

Jack tried to speak and found his throat locked. With shaking hands he reached around to the back of his neck and removed the necklace. He then pulled Kusum' s from his pocket.

"Returning it with interest," he managed to say as he dropped both necklaces into the extended palm, avoiding contact with the skin.

Kolabati either did not realize or did not care that she now possessed both necklaces. She made a slow, tottering turn and hobbled off toward the bedroom. For an instant she was caught in the light from the hall. Jack turned away at the sight of her shrunken body, her stooped shoulders and arthritic joints. Kolabati was an ancient hag. She turned the corner and Jack was alone in the room.

A great lethargy seeped over him. He went over to the chair by the front window that looked out onto the street and sat down.

It's over. Finally over.

Kusum gone, the rakoshi gone, Vicky home safe. And in his bedroom Kolabati was turning young again. He fought an insistent urge to sneak down the hall and see out what was happening...to watch her grow young. Maybe then he could believe in magic.

Magic...after all he’d seen, all he’d been through, he still found it difficult to believe in magic. Magic didn't make sense. Magic didn't follow the rules. Magic...

What was the use? He couldn't explain the necklaces or the rakoshi. Call them unknowns. Leave it at that.

But still—to watch it happening...

He went to stand up and found he couldn't. He was too weak. He slumped back and closed his eyes.

Sleepy...

A sound behind him startled him. He opened his eyes and realized that he must have dozed off. The hazy skim-milk light of predawn filled the sky. He must have been out for at least an hour. Someone was approaching from the rear. Jack tried to turn to see who it was but found he could only move his head. His shoulders felt glued to the wing back of the chair...so weak...

"Jack'?" Kolabati's voice—the Kolabati he knew. The young Kolabati. "Jack, are you all right'?"

"Fine," he said. Even his voice was weak.

She came around the chair and looked down at him. Her necklace was back on around her neck. She hadn't returned all the way to the thirty-year old he’d known, but she was close. He put her age at somewhere around forty-five now.

"No, you're not! There's blood all over the chair and the floor! "

"I'll be okay."

"Here." She produced the second necklace—Kusum's. "Let me put this on you."

"No." He didn't want anything to do with Kusum's necklace. Or hers.

"Don't be an idiot! It will strengthen you until you can get to a hospital. All your wounds started bleeding again as soon as you took it off."

She reached to place it around his neck but he twisted his head to block her.

"Don't want it!"

"You're going to die without it, Jack!"

"I'll be fine. I'll heal up—without magic. So please go. Just go."

Her eyes looked sad. "You mean that?"

He nodded.

"We could each have our own necklace. We could have long lives, the two of us. We wouldn't be immortal, but we could live on and on. No sickness, little pain—"

You're a cold one, Kolabati.

Not a thought for her brother—Is he dead? How did he die?

Jack could not help but remember how she’d told him to get hold of Kusum's necklace and bring it back, saying that without it he would lose control of the rakoshi. That had been the truth in a way—Kusum would no longer have control of the rakoshi because he’d die without it. When Jack compared that to Kusum's frantic efforts to find her necklace after she’d been mugged, Kolabati came up short. She didn’t know a debt when she incurred one. She spoke of honor but had none. Mad as he’d been, Kusum was ten times the human being she was.

But he couldn't explain all this to her now. He didn't have the strength. And she probably wouldn't understand anyway.

"Please go."

She snatched the necklace away and held it up. "Very well! I thought you were a man worthy of this, a man willing to stretch his life to the limit and live it to the ful1est, but I see I was wrong! So sit there in your pool of blood and fade away if that's what you wish! I have no use for your kind! I never have! I wash my hands of you!"

She tucked the extra necklace into a fold in her sari and strode by him. He heard the apartment door slam and knew he was alone..

Jack tried to straighten himself in the chair. The attempt flashed pain through every inch of his body; the minor effort left his heart pounding and his breath rasping.

Am I dying?

That thought would have brought on a panic response at any other time, but at the moment his brain seemed as unresponsive as his body. Why hadn't he accepted Kolabati's help, even for a short while? Some sort of grand gesture? What was he trying to prove, sitting here and oozing blood, ruining the carpet as well as the chair? He wasn't thinking clearly.

Cold in here—a clammy cold that sank to the bones. He ignored it and thought about the night. He’d done good work tonight...probably saved the entire subcontinent of India from a nightmare. Not that he cared much about India. Gia and Vicky were the ones that mattered. He had—

The phone rang.

No possibility of his answering it.

Who was it—Gia? Maybe. Maybe she was wondering where he was. He hoped so. Maybe she'd come looking for him. Maybe she'd even get here in time. Again, he hoped so. He didn't want to die. He wanted to spend a lot of time with Gia and Vicky. And he wanted to remember tonight. He’d made a difference tonight. He’d been the deciding factor. He could be proud of that. Even Dad would be proud...if only he could tell him.

He closed his eyes—too much effort to keep them open—and waited.

THE SECRET HISTORY OF THE WORLD

The preponderance of my work deals with a history of the world that remains undiscovered, unexplored, and unknown to most of humanity. Some of this secret history has been revealed in the Adversary Cycle, some in the Repairman Jack novels, and bits and pieces in other, seemingly unconnected works. Taken together, even these millions of words barely scratch the surface of what has been going on behind the scenes, hidden from the workaday world. I've listed them below in chronological order. (NB: "Year Zero" is the end of civilization as we know it; "Year Zero Minus One" is the year preceding it, etc.)

The Past:

"Demonsong" (prehistory)

"Aryans and Absinthe" (1923-1924)**

Black Wind (1926-1945)

The Keep (1941)

Reborn (February-March 1968)

"Dat Tay Vao" (March 1968)***

Jack: Secret Histories (1983)

Jack: Secret Circles (1983)

Jack: Secret Vengeance (1983)

“Faces” (1989)*

Year Zero Minus Three:

Sibs (February)

The Tomb (summer)

"The Barrens" (ends in September)*

"A Day in the Life" (October)*

"The Long Way Home"

Legacies (December)

Year Zero Minus Two:

"Interlude at Duane’s" (April)**

Conspiracies (April) (includes "Home Repairs")

All The Rage (May) (includes "The Last Rakosh")

Hosts (June)

The Haunted Air (August)

Gateways (September)

Crisscross (November)

Infernal (December)

Year Zero Minus One:

Harbingers (January)

Bloodline (April)

By the Sword (May)

Ground Zero (July)

The Touch (ends in August)

"Tenants"*

The Peabody-Ozymandias Traveling Circus & Oddity Emporium

Year Zero:

"Pelts"*

Reprisal (ends in February)

Fatal Error (February) (includes "The Wringer")

The Dark at the End (March)

Nightworld (May)

Reprisal will be back in print by the end of 2011. I’m planning a total of fifteen Repairman Jack novels (not counting the young adult titles), ending the Secret History with the publication of a heavily revised Nightworld.

* available in The Barrens and Others

** available in Aftershock and Others

*** available in the 2009 reissue of The Touch

also by F. Paul Wilson

Repairman Jack

The Tomb

Legacies

Conspiracies

All the Rage

Hosts

The Haunted Air

Gateways

Crisscross

Infernal

Harbingers

Bloodline

By the Sword

Ground Zero

Fatal Error

The Dark at the End

Young Adult

Jack: Secret Histories

Jack: Secret Circles

Jack: Secret Vengeance

The Adversary Cycle

The Keep

The Tomb

The Touch

Reborn

Reprisal

Nightworld

The LaNague Federation Series

Healer

Wheels Within Wheels

An Enemy of The State

Dydeetown World

The Tery

Other Novels

Black Wind

Sibs

The Select

Virgin

Implant

Deep As the Marrow

Mirage (with Matthew J. Costello)

Nightkill (with Steven Spruill)

Masque (with Matthew J. Costello)

The Christmas Thingy

Sims

The Fifth Harmonic

Midnight Mass

Short Fiction

Soft & Others

The Barrens & Others

Aftershocks & Others

The Peabody-Ozymandias Traveling Circus & Oddity Emproium

Editor

Freak Show