F. Paul Wilson: The Tomb

"Yes, much to the shame of your city."

"No one ever gets mugged on the streets of Bombay or Calcutta?"

Kusum shrugged and brushed again at the fly. "What takes place between members of the lower castes is of no importance. In my homeland even the most desperate street hoodlum would think many times before daring to lay a finger on one of my grandmother's caste."

Something in this remark seemed to annoy Jack. "Ain't democracy wonderful," the American said with a sour expression.

Kusum frowned, concealing his desperation. This was not going to work. There seemed to be instinctive antagonism between him and this Repairman Jack.

"I believe I have made a mistake. Mr. Burkes recommended you very highly, but I do not think you are capable of handling this particular task. Your attitude is most disrespectful—"

"What can you expect from a guy who grew up watching Bugs Bunny cartoons?"

"—and you do not appear to have the physical resources to accomplish what I have in mind."

Jack smiled, as if used to this reaction. His elbows were on the table, his hands folded in front of him. Without the slightest hint of warning, his right hand blurred across the table towards Kusum's face. Kusum steeled himself for the blow and prepared to lash out with his feet.

The blow never landed. Jack's hand passed within a millimeter of Kusum's face and snatched the fly out of the air in front of his nose. Jack went to a nearby door and released the insect into the fetid air of a back alley.

Fast, Kusum thought. Extremely fast. And what was even more important: He didn't kill the fly. Perhaps this was the man after all.

3

Jack returned to his seat and studied the Indian. To his credit, Kusum hadn't flinched. Either his reflexes were extremely slow, or he had something akin to copper wire for nerves. Jack figured Kusum's reflexes to be pretty good.

Score one for each of us, he thought. He wondered how Kusum had lost that arm.

"The point is probably moot," Jack said. "Finding a particular mugger in this city is like poking at a hornets' nest to find the one that bit you. If she saw enough of him to identify a mug shot, she should go to the police and—"

"No police!" Kusum said quickly.

Those were the very two words Jack was waiting to hear. If the police were involved, Jack would not be.

"They may well be successful eventually," Kusum went on, "but they take much too long. This is a matter of the utmost urgency. My grandmother is dying. That is why I've gone outside official channels."

"I don't understand this whole thing."

"Her necklace was stolen. It's a priceless heirloom. She must have it back."

"But you said she's dying—"

"Before she dies! She must have it back before she dies!"

"Impossible. I can't…" U.N. diplomat or not, the guy was obviously a nut. No use trying to explain how hard it would be just to find the mugger. After that, to learn the name of his fence, find that fence, and then hope that he hadn't already removed whatever precious stones were in the necklace and melted down the settings, was simply beyond the wildest possibility. "It can't be done."

"You must do it! The man must be found. She scratched him across the eyes. There must be a way he can be traced!"

"That's police work."

"The police will take too long! It must be returned tonight!"

"I can't."

"You must !"

"The chances against finding that necklace are—"

"Try! Please !"

Kusum's voice cracked on that last word, as if he had dragged it kicking and screaming from an unused part of his soul. Jack sensed how much it cost the Indian to say it. Here was an inordinately proud man begging him for help. He was moved.

"All right. I'll do this: Let me talk to your grandmother. Let me see what I've got to work with."

"That will not be necessary."

"Of course it will be necessary. She's the only one who knows what he looks like." Was he trying to keep him away from his grandmother?

Kusum looked uncomfortable. "She's quite distraught. Incoherent. She raves. I do not wish to expose her to a stranger."

Jack said nothing. He merely stared at Kusum and waited. Finally the Indian relented.

"I shall take you there immediately."

Jack allowed Kusum to lead him out the front door. As he left, he waved to Julio, who was setting up his infamous " FREE LUNCH: $2.50" sign.

They caught a taxi immediately on Columbus Avenue and headed downtown.

"About my fee," Jack said once they had settled into the back of the cab.

A small, superior smile curled Kusum's thin lips.

"Money? Are you not a defender of the downtrodden, a crusader for justice?"

"Justice doesn't pay the bills. My landlord prefers cash. So do I."

"Ah! A Capitalist!"

If that was supposed to rile Jack, it did not.

"If you don't mind, I prefer to be called a Capitalist Swine or, at the very least, a Capitalist Running-dog. Plain old Capitalist has so little color. I hope Burkes didn't let you think I do this out of the goodness of my heart."

"No. He mentioned your fee for the U.K. Mission. A rather steep one. And in cash."

"I don't take checks or charges, and I don't take physical danger lightly, especially when I could be on the receiving end."

"Then here is my offer… Jack: Just for trying, I will pay you in advance half of what the British paid you last year. If you return the necklace to my grandmother before she dies, I will pay you the other half."

This was going to be hard to turn down. The job for the U.K. Mission had involved terrorist threats. It had been complex, time-consuming, and very dicey at times. Normally he would have asked Kusum for only a fraction of that amount. But Kusum seemed quite willing and able to pay the full fee. And if Jack managed to bring that necklace back, it would be a bonafide miracle and he would deserve every penny of it.

"Sounds fair to me," he said without missing a beat. " If I take the job."

4

Jack followed Kusum through the halls of St. Clare's until they came to a private room where a private-duty nurse hovered near the bed. The room was dark—curtains pulled, only a small lamp in a far corner throwing dim light across the bed. The lady in the bed was very old. White hair framed a dark face that was a mass of wrinkles; gnarled hands clutched at the sheet across her chest. Fear filled her eyes. Her ragged breathing and the hum of the blower by the window were the only sounds in the room.

Jack stood at the foot of the bed and felt the familiar tingle of rage spreading through his chest and limbs. With all he had seen, all he had done, he had yet to learn how to keep from taking something like this personally. An old woman, helpless, beaten up. It made him want to break something.

"Ask her what he looked like."

Kusum rattled off something in Indian from beside the head of the bed. The woman replied in kind, slowly, painfully, in a hoarse, rasping voice.

"She says he looked like you, but younger," Kusum said, "and with lighter hair."

"Short or long?"

Another exchange, then: "Short. Very short."

So: It was a young white, either a GI on leave or someone still into the punk look.

"Anything else?"

As the woman replied, she raked the air with clawed fingers.

"His eyes," Kusum said. "She scratched him across his left eye before she was knocked unconscious."

Good for you, Granny.

Jack smiled reassuringly at the old lady, then turned to Kusum. "I'll see you out in the hall." He didn't want to talk in front of the private nurse.

As he stood outside the door, Jack glanced at the nurses' station and thought he saw a familiar face. He walked over for a closer look at the junoesque blonde—every man's fantasy nurse—writing on a chart. Yes—it was Marta. They had had a thing a few years back, in the days before Gia.