The Tomb (Repairman Jack)

'I will pay you ten thousand extra if you kill him,' Kusum added.

Jack laughed to keep the mood light but shook his head again. 'Uh-uh. But one more thing: Don't you think it would help if I knew what the necklace looked like?'

'Of course!' Kusum opened the collar of his tunic to reveal a heavy chain perhaps fifteen inches long. Its links were crescent-shaped, each embossed with strange-looking script. Centered side-by-side on the necklace were two elliptical, bright yellow, topazlike stones with black centers.

Jack held his hand out but Kusum shook his head.

'Every member of my family wears a necklace like this—it is never removed. And so it is very important that my grandmother's be returned to her.'

Jack studied the necklace. It disturbed him. He could not say why, but deep in his bowels and along the middle of his back a primitive sensation raised warning. The two stones looked like eyes. The metal was silvery, but not silver.

'What's it made of?'

'Iron.'

Jack looked closer. Yes, there was a hint of rust along the edges of a couple of the links.

'Who'd want an iron necklace?'

'A fool who thought it was silver.'

Jack nodded. For the first time since talking to Kusum this morning, he felt there might be a slim—very slim— chance of recovering the necklace. A piece of silver jewelry would be fenced by now and either hidden away or melted down into a neat little ingot. But an heirloom like this, with no intrinsic value...

'Here is a picture,' Kusum said, handing over a Polaroid of the necklace. 'I have a few friends searching the pawnshops of your city looking for it.'

'How long has she got?' he asked.

Kusum slowly closed his collar. His expression was grim. 'Twelve hours, the doctors say. Perhaps fifteen.'

Great. Maybe I can find Judge Crater by then too.

'Where can I reach you?'

'Here. You will look for it, won't you?'

Kusum's dark brown eyes bored into his. He seemed to be staring at the rear wall of Jack's brain.

'I said I would.'

'And I believe you. Bring the necklace to me as soon as you find it.'

'Sure. As soon as I find it.'

Sure. He walked away wondering why he’d agreed to help a stranger when Gia's aunt needed him.

Same old story—Jack the sucker.

Damn!

5

Once back in the darkened hospital room, Kusum returned immediately to the bedside and pulled up a chair. He grasped the withered hand that lay atop the covers and studied it. The skin was cool, dry, papery; there seemed to be no tissue other than bone beneath. And no strength at all.

A great sadness filled him.

Kusum looked up and saw the plea in her eyes. And the fear. He did his best to hide his own fear.

'Kusum,' she said in Bengali, her voice painfully weak. 'I am dying.'

He knew that. And it was tearing him up inside.

'The American will get it back for you,' he said softly. 'I've been told he's very good.'

Burkes had said he was 'incredibly good.' Kusum hated all Britishers on principle, but had to admit Burkes was no fool. But did it matter what Burkes had said? It was an impossible task. Jack had been honest enough to say so. But Kusum had to try something! Even with the foreknowledge of certain failure, he had to try.

He balled his only hand into a fist. Why did this have to happen? And now, of all times? How he despised this country and its empty people! But this Jack seemed different. He was not a mass of jumbled fragments like his fellow Americans. Kusum had sensed a oneness within him. Repairman Jack did not come cheaply, but the money meant nothing. The knowledge that someone was out there searching gave him solace.

He patted the limp hand. 'He'll get it back for you.'

She seemed not to have heard.

'I am dying.'

6

The money was a nagging pressure against his left buttock as Jack walked the half block west to Tenth Avenue and turned downtown. His hand kept straying back to the pocket; he repeatedly hooked a thumb in and out of it to make sure the envelope was still there. The problem now was what to do with the money. It was times like this that almost made him wish he had a bank account. But the bank folks insisted on a Social Security number from anyone who opened an account.

He sighed to himself. That was one of the major drawbacks of living between the lines. If you didn't have an SSN, you were barred from countless things. You couldn't hold a regular job, couldn't buy or sell stock, couldn't take out a loan, couldn't own a home, couldn't even complete a Blue Shield form. The list went on and on.