The Tomb (Repairman Jack)

'Don't you harm him, Kusum!'

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

She heard the steel door clang shut.

'Kusum?'

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

No...not alone.

The rakoshi were below.

9

“SAHNKchewedday! SAHNKchewedday!”

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

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

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

Those things!

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

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

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

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

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

'Who is it?'

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

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

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

'What can I do for you?'

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

10

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

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

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

'Have a seat.'

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

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

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

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