F. Paul Wilson - The Tomb

Jack wouldn't let her out of the apartment, so he took the bedclothes down to the laundry area and washed them. He was a hard worker and not afraid to get his hands dirty. They made a good team. She found she enjoyed being with him, something up until a few days ago she thought she'd never enjoy again. The certain knowledge that there was a gun hidden somewhere on his body and that he was the sort of man quite willing and able to use it effectively did not cause the revulsion it would have a few days ago. She couldn't say she approved of the idea, but she found herself taking reluctant comfort in it.

It wasn't until the sun was leaning into the west toward the Manhattan skyline that she finally declared the apartment habitable. Jack went out and found a Chinese restaurant and brought back egg rolls, hot and sour soup, spare ribs, shrimp fried rice, and mushu pork. In a separate bag he had an Entenmann's almond ring coffee cake. That didn't strike Gia as a fitting dessert for a Chinese meal, but she didn't say anything.

She watched as he tried to teach Vicky how to use the chopsticks he had picked up at the restaurant. The riff between those two had apparently healed without a scar. They were buddies again, the trauma of the morning forgotten—at least by Vicky.

"I have to go out," he told her as they cleared the dishes.

"I figured that," Gia said, hiding her unease. She knew they were lost in this apartment complex among other apartment complexes—the proverbial needle in the haystack—but she didn't want to be alone tonight, not after what she had learned this morning about the chocolates and the orange. "How long will you be?"

"Don't know. That's why I asked Abe to come and stay with you until I get back. Hope you don't mind."

"No. I don't mind at all." From what she remembered of Abe, he seemed an unlikely protector, but any port in a storm would do. "Anyway, how could I object? He has more of a right to be here than we do."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that," Jack said.

"Oh?"

"Abe and his daughter are barely on speaking terms." Jack turned and faced her, leaning his back against the sink. He glanced over her shoulder to where Vicky sat alone at the table munching on a fortune cookie, then spoke in a low voice, his eyes fixed on her. "You see, Abe's a criminal. Like me."

"Jack—" She didn't want to get into this now.

"Not exactly like me. Not a thug ." His emphasis on the word she had used on him was a barb in her heart. "He just sells illegal weapons. He also sells legal weapons, but he sells them illegally."

Portly, voluble Abe Grossman—a gunrunner? It wasn't possible! But the look in Jack's eyes said it was.

"Was it necessary to tell me that?" What was he trying to do?

"I just want you to know the truth. I also want you to know that Abe is the most peace-loving man I've ever met."

"Then why does he sell guns?"

"Maybe he'll explain it to you some day. I found his reasons pretty convincing—more convincing than his daughter did."

"She doesn't approve, I take it."

"Barely speaks to him."

"Good for her."

"Didn't stop her from letting him pay the tuition for her bachelor and graduate degrees, though."

There was a knock on the door. A voice in the hall said, "It's me—Abe."

Jack let him in. He looked the same as he had the last time Gia had seen him: an overweight man dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt, black tie, and black pants. The only difference was the nature of the food stains up and down his front.

"Hello," he said, shaking Gia's hand. She liked a man to shake her hand. "Nice to see you again." He also shook Vicky's hand, which elicited a big smile from her.

"Just in time for dessert, Abe," Jack said. He brought out the Entenmann's cake.

Abe's eyes widened. "Almond coffee ring! You shouldn't have!" He made a show of searching the tabletop. "What are the rest of you having?"

Gia laughed politely, not knowing how seriously to take the remark, then watched with wonder as Abe consumed three-quarters of the cake, all the while talking eloquently and persuasively of the imminent collapse of western civilization. Although he had failed to persuade Vicky to call him "Uncle Abe" by the time dessert was over, he had Gia half-convinced she should flee New York and build an underground shelter in the foothills of the Rockies.

Finally, Jack stood up and stretched. "I have to go out for a little bit. Shouldn't be long. Abe will stay here until I get back. And if you don't hear from me, don't worry."

Gia followed him to the door. She didn't want to see him go, but couldn't bring herself to tell him so. A persistent knot of hostility within her always veered her away from the subject of Gia and Jack.

"I don't know if I can be with him too much longer," she whispered to Jack. "He's so depressing !"

Jack smiled. "You ain't heard nuthin' yet. Wait till the network news comes on and he gives you his analysis of what every story really means." He put his hand on her shoulder and drew her close. "Don't let him bother you. He means well."

Before she knew what was happening, he leaned forward and kissed her on the lips.

"Bye!" And he was out the door.

Gia turned back to the apartment: There was Abe squatting before the television. There was a Special Report about the Chinese border dispute with India.

"Did you hear that?" Abe was saying. "Did you hear? Do you know what this means?"

Resignedly, Gia joined him before the set. "No. What does it mean?"

7

Finding a cab took some doing, but Jack finally nabbed a gypsy to take him back into Manhattan. He still had a few hours of light left; he wanted to make the most of them. The worst of the rush hour was over and he was heading the opposite way of much of the flow, so he made good time getting back into the city.

The cab dropped him off between Sixty-seventh and Sixty-eighth on Fifth Avenue, one block south of Kusum's apartment building. He crossed to the park side of Fifth and walked uptown, inspecting the building as he passed. He found what he wanted: a delivery alley along the left side secured by a wrought iron gate with pointed rails curved over and down toward the street. Next step was to see if anybody was home.

He crossed over and stepped up to the doorman, who wore a pseudomilitary cap and sported a handlebar moustache.

"Would you ring the Bahkti apartment, please?"

"Surely," the doorman said. "Who shall I say is calling?"

"Jack. Just Jack."

The doorman buzzed on the intercom and waited. And waited. Finally he said, "I do not believe Mr. Bahkti is in. Shall I leave a message? "

No answer did not necessarily mean no was was home.

"Sure. Tell him Jack was here and that he'll be back."

Jack sauntered away, not sure of what his little message would accomplish. Perhaps it would rattle Kusum, although he doubted it. It would probably take a hell of a lot to rattle a guy with a nest of rakoshi.

He walked to the end of the building. Now came the touchy part: getting over the gate unseen. He took a deep breath. Without looking back, he leaped up and grabbed two of the curved iron bars near their tops. Bracing himself against the side wall, he levered himself over the spikes and jumped down to the other side. Those daily workouts paid off now and then. He stepped back and waited, but no one seemed to have noticed him. He exhaled. So far, so good. He ran around to the rear of the building.

There he found a double door wide enough for furniture deliveries. He ignored this—they were almost invariably wired with alarms. The narrow little door at the bottom of a short stairwell was more interesting. He pulled the leather-cased lock-picking kit out of his pocket as he descended the steps. The door was solid, faced with sheet metal, no windows. The lock was a Yale, most likely an inter-grip rim model. While his hands worked two of the slim black picks into the keyhole, his eyes kept watch along the rear of the building. He didn't have to look at what he was doing—locks were picked by feel.