The Tomb

  “Then explain to me what you smell in that bottle.”

  Kusum shrugged. “A hoax. An elaborate, foul hoax.”

  “Kusum, they were there! Last night and the night before as well!”

  “Listen to me.” He rose and stood over her. “Did you ever actually see a rakosh these last two nights?”

  “No, but there was the odor. No mistaking that.”

  “I don’t doubt there was an odor, but an odor can be faked—”

  “There was something there!”

  “—and so we’re left with only your impressions. Nothing tangible.”

  “Isn’t that bottle in your hand tangible enough?”

  Kusum handed it to her. “An interesting imitation. It almost had me fooled, but I’m quite sure it’s not genuine. By the way, what happened to the contents?”

  “Poured down a sewer.”

  His expression remained bland. “Too bad. I could have had it analyzed and perhaps we could learn who is perpetrating this hoax. I want to know that before I do another thing.”

  “Why would someone go to all the trouble?”

  His gaze penetrated her. “A political enemy, perhaps. One who has uncovered our secret.”

  Kolabati felt the clutch of fear at her throat. She shook it off. Absurd! Kusum was behind it all. She was sure of it. But for a moment there he almost had her believing him.

  “That isn’t possible!”

  He pointed to the bottle in her hand. “A few moments ago I would have said the same about that.”

  Kolabati continued to play along. “What do we do?”

  “We find out who is behind this.” He started for the door. “And I will begin right now.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  He paused. “No. You’d better wait here. I’m expecting an important call on Consulate business. That is why I came home. You must wait here and take the message for me.”

  “All right. But won’t you need me?”

  “If I do, I will call you. And do not follow me—you know what happened last time.”

  Kolabati allowed him to leave. She watched through the peephole in the apartment door until he entered the elevator. As soon as the doors slid closed behind him, she ran into the hall and pressed the button for the second elevator. It opened a moment later and took her down to the lobby in time to see Kusum stroll out the front entrance of the building.

  This will be easy, she thought. She should have no problem trailing a tall, slender, one-armed Indian through midtown Manhattan.

  Excitement spurred her on. At last she would find where Kusum spent his time. And there, she was quite sure, she would find what should not be. She still did not see how it was possible, but all the evidence pointed to the existence of rakoshi in New York. And despite all his protests to the contrary, Kusum was involved.

  Staying half a block behind, she followed him down Fifth Avenue to Central Park South with no trouble. The going became rougher after that. Sunday shoppers were out in force and the sidewalks became congested. Still she managed to keep him in view until he entered Rockefeller Plaza. She’d been here once in the winter when the area had been mobbed with ice skaters and Christmas shoppers wandering about the huge Christmas tree. Today there was a different kind of crowd, but no less dense. A jazz group was playing imitation Coltrane and every few feet men with pushcarts sold fruit, candy, or balloons. Instead of ice skating, people were milling about or taking in the sun with their shirts off.

  Kusum was nowhere to be seen.

  Kolabati frantically pushed her way through the crowd. She circled the dry, sun-drenched ice rink. Kusum was gone. He must have spotted her and ducked into a cab or down a subway entrance.

  She stood amid the happy, carefree crowd, biting her lower lip, so frustrated she wanted to cry.

  6

  Gia picked up the phone on the third ring. A soft, accented voice asked to speak to Mrs. Paton.

  “Who shall I say is calling?”

  “Kusum Bahkti.”

  She thought the voice sounded familiar. “Oh, Mr. Bahkti. This is Gia DiLauro. We met last night.”

  “Miss DiLauro—a pleasure to speak to you again. May I say you looked very beautiful last night.”

  “Yes, you may. As often as you wish.” As he laughed politely, Gia said, “Wait a second and I’ll get Nellie.”

  Gia was in the third floor hall. Nellie was downstairs in the library watching one of those public affairs panels that dominate Sunday television. Shouting down to her seemed more appropriate to a tenement than a Sutton Square townhouse. Especially when an Indian diplomat was on the phone. So Gia hurried down to the first floor.

  As she descended the stairs she told herself that Mr. Bahkti was a good lesson on not trusting one’s first impressions. She had disliked him immediately, yet he’d turned out to be quite a nice man. She smiled grimly. No one should count on her as much of a judge of character. She’d thought Richard Westphalen charming enough to marry, and look how he’d turned out. And after that there had been Jack. Not an impressive track record.

  Nellie took the call from her seat in front of the TV. As the older woman spoke to Mr. Bahkti, Gia turned her attention to the screen where the Secretary of State was being grilled by a panel of reporters.

  “Such a nice man,” Nellie said as she hung up. She was chewing on something.

  “Seems to be. What did he want?”

  “He said he wished to order some Black Magic for himself and wanted to know where I got it. The Divine Obsession, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Gia had committed the address to memory. “In London.”

  “That’s what I told him.” Nellie giggled. “He was so cute. He wanted me to taste one and tell him if it was as good as I remembered. So I did. They’re lovely! I think I’ll have another.” She held up the dish. “Do help yourself.”

  Gia shook her head. “No, thanks. With Vicky allergic to it, I’ve kept it out of the house for so long I’ve lost my taste for it.”

  “That’s a shame,” Nellie said, holding another between a thumb and forefinger with her pinkie raised and taking a dainty bite out of it. “These are simply lovely.”

  7

  Match point at the Mount Holly Lawn Tennis Club:

  Jack was drenched with sweat. He and his father had scraped through the first elimination on a tiebreaker: 6–4, 3–6, 7–6. After a few hours of rest they started the second round. The father-son team they now faced was much younger—the father only slightly older than Jack, and the son no more than twelve. But they could play. Jack and his father won only one game in the first set; but the easy victory must have lulled their opponents into a false sense of security because they made a number of unforced errors in the second set and lost it 4–6.

  So with one set apiece it was now 4–5 with Jack behind in his serve: deuce with the advantage to the receiver.

  Jack’s right shoulder was on fire. He’d been putting everything he had into his serves but the pair facing him across the net had returned every single one. This was it. If he lost this point, the match was over and he and Dad would be out of the tournament. Which would not break Jack’s heart. If they won it meant he’d have to return next Sunday. As much as he didn’t relish that thought, he wasn’t going to throw the match. His father had a right to one hundred percent and that was what he was going to get.

  He faced the boy. For three sets now Jack had been trying to find a weakness in the kid’s game. The twelve-year-old had a topspin forehand, a flat, two-handed backhand, and a blistering serve. Jack’s only hope lay in the kid’s short legs, which made him relatively slow, but he hit so many winners that Jack had been unable to take advantage of it.

  Jack served to the kid’s backhand and charged the net, hoping to take a weak return and put it away. The return came back strong, forcing Jack into a weak volley to the father who slammed it up the alley to Jack’s left. Without thinking, Jack shifted the racquet to his left hand and lunged. He made the return, but then th
e kid passed Dad up the other alley.

  The boy’s father came up to the net and shook Jack’s hand.

  “Good game. If your Dad had your speed he’d be club champ.” He turned to Jack’s father. “Look at him, Tom—not even breathing hard. And did you see that last shot of his? That left-handed volley? You trying to slip a ringer in on us?”

  His father smiled. “You can tell by his ground strokes he’s no ringer. But I never knew he was ambidextrous.”

  They all shook hands, and as the other pair walked off, Jack’s father looked at him.

  “I’ve been watching you all day. You’re in good shape.”

  “I try to stay healthy.” His father was a shrewd cookie and Jack was uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

  “You move fast. Damn fast. Faster than any appliance repairman I’ve ever known.”

  Jack coughed. “What say we have a beer or two. I’m buying.”

  “Your money’s no good here. Only members can sign for drinks. So the beer’s on me.” They began to walk toward the clubhouse. His father was shaking his head. “I’ve got to say, Jack, you really surprised me today.”

  Gia’s hurt and angry face popped into Jack’s mind.

  “I’m full of surprises.”

  8

  Kusum could wait no longer. He had watched sunset come and go, hurling orange fire against the myriad empty windows of the Sunday-silent office towers. He had seen darkness creep over the city with agonizing slowness. And now, with the moon rising above the skyscrapers, night finally ruled.

  Time for the Mother to take her youngling on the hunt.

  Though not yet midnight, Kusum felt it safe to let them go. Sunday night was a relatively quiet time in Manhattan. The stores closed early, the theaters had no evening performances, and most people were home, resting in anticipation of the coming week.

  The Paton woman would be taken tonight, of that he was certain. Kolabati had unwittingly cleared the way by taking the bottle of rakoshi elixir from Jack and disposing of its contents. And had not the Paton woman eaten one of the treated chocolates as she spoke to him on the phone this morning?

  Tonight he would be one step closer to fulfilling the vow. He would follow the same procedures with the Paton woman as he had with her nephew and her sister. Once she was in his power, he would reveal to her the origin of the Westphalen fortune and allow her a day to reflect on her ancestor’s atrocities.

  Tomorrow evening her life would be offered to Kali, and she would be given over to the rakoshi.

  9

  Good gracious, what is that smell?

  Nellie had never thought one could be awakened by an odor, but this …

  She lifted her head from the pillow and sniffed the air in the darkened room … a carrion odor. Warm air brushed by her. The French doors out to the balcony were ajar. She could have sworn they’d been closed all day, what with the air conditioner going. But that had to be where the odor was coming from. It smelled as if some dog had unearthed a dead animal in the garden directly below the balcony.

  Nellie sensed movement by the doors. No doubt the breeze on the curtains. Still …

  She pulled herself up, reaching for her glasses. She found them and held them up to her eyes without bothering to fit the end pieces over her ears. Even then she wasn’t sure what she saw.

  A dark shape was moving toward her as swiftly and as soundlessly as a puff of smoke in the wind. It couldn’t be real. A nightmare, a hallucination, an optical illusion—nothing so big and solid looking could move so smoothly and silently.

  But no illusion about the odor that became progressively worse with the shadow’s approach.

  Nellie was suddenly terrified. This was no dream! She opened her mouth to scream but a cold, clammy hand sealed itself over the lower half of her face before a sound could escape.

  The hand was huge, it was incredibly foul, and it was not human.

  In a violent spasm of terror, she struggled against whatever held her. It was like fighting the tide. Bright colors began to explode before her eyes as she fought for air. Soon the explosions blotted out everything else. And then she saw no more.

  10

  Vicky lay awake, shivering under the sheet. Not from cold but from the dream she’d just lived through in which Mr. Grape-grabber had kidnapped Ms. Jelliroll and was trying to bake her in a pie.

  With her heart pounding in her throat she peered through the darkness at the night table next to the bed. Moonlight filtered through the curtains on the window to her left, enough to reveal Ms. Jelliroll and Mr. Grape-grabber resting peacefully where she’d left them. Nothing to worry about. Just a dream. Anyway, didn’t the package say that Mr. Grape-grabber was Ms. Jelliroll’s “friendly rival”? And he didn’t want Ms. Jelliroll herself for his jams, just her grapes.

  Still, Vicky trembled. She rolled over and clung to her mother. This was the part she liked best about staying here at Aunt Nellie’s and Aunt Grace’s—she got to sleep with Mommy. Back at the apartment she had her own room and had to sleep alone. When she got scared from a dream or during a storm she could always run in and huddle with Mommy, but most of the time she had to keep to her own bed.

  She tried to go back to sleep but found it impossible. Visions of the tall, lanky Mr. Grape-grabber putting Ms. Jelliroll into a pot and cooking her along with her grapes kept popping into her head. Finally, she let go of her mother and turned over to face the window.

  The moon was out. She wondered if it was full. She liked to look at its face. Slipping out of bed, she went to the window and parted the curtains. The moon was almost to the top of the sky, and nearly full. Its smiling face made everything so bright. Almost like daytime.

  With the air conditioner on and the windows closed against the heat, all the outside sounds were blocked out. Everything was so still and quiet out there, like a picture.

  She looked down at her playhouse roof, white with moonlight. It looked so small from up here on the third floor.

  Something moved in the shadows below. Something tall and dark and angular, manlike yet very unmanlike. It moved across the backyard with a fluid motion, a shadow among the shadows, looking as if it was carrying something. And there seemed to be another of its kind waiting for it by the wall. The second one looked up and seemed to be gazing right at her with glowing yellow eyes. They had hunger in them … hunger for her.

  Vicky’s blood congealed in her veins. She wanted to leap back into bed with her mother but could not move. All she could do was stand there and scream.

  11

  Gia awoke on her feet after a moment of complete disorientation with no idea where she was or what she was doing. The room was dark, a child was screaming, and she could hear her own terror-filled voice shouting a garbled version of Vicky’s name.

  Frantic thoughts raced through her slowly awakening mind.

  Where’s Vicky … the bed’s empty … where’s Vicky? She could hear her but couldn’t see her. Where in God’s name is Vicky?

  She stumbled to the switch by the door and turned on the light. The sudden glare blinded Gia for an instant, and then she saw Vicky standing by the window, still screaming. She ran over and lifted the child against her.

  “It’s all right, Vicky! It’s all right!”

  The screaming stopped but not the trembling. Gia held her tighter, trying to absorb Vicky’s shudders into her own body. Finally the child was calm, only an occasional sob escaping from where she had her face buried between Gia’s breasts.

  Night horrors. Vicky had had them frequently during her fifth year, but only rarely since. Gia knew how to handle them: Wait until Vicky was fully awake and then talk to her softly and reassuringly.

  “Just a dream, honey. That’s all. Just a dream.”

  “No! It wasn’t a dream!” Vicky lifted her tear-streaked face. “It was Mr. Grape-grabber! I saw him!”

  “Just a dream, Vicky.”

  “He was stealing Ms. Jelliroll!”

  “No, he wasn’t. They’re both
right behind you.” She turned Vicky around and faced her toward the night table. “See?”

  “But he was outside by the playhouse! I saw him!”

  Gia didn’t like the sound of that. No one was supposed to be in the backyard.

  “Let’s take a look. I’ll turn out the light so we can see better.”

  Vicky’s face twisted in sudden panic. “Don’t turn out the lights! Please don’t!”

  “Okay. I’ll leave them on. But there’s nothing to worry about. I’m right here.”

  They both pressed their faces against the glass and cupped their hands around their eyes to shut off the glare from the room light. Gia quickly scanned the yard, praying she wouldn’t see anything.

  Everything was as they’d left it. Nothing moved. The backyard was empty. Gia sighed with relief and put her arm around Vicky.

  “See? Everything’s fine. It was a dream. You just thought you saw Mr. Grape-grabber.”

  “But I did!”

  “Dreams can be very real, honey. And you know Mr. Grape-grabber is just a doll. He can only do what you want him to. He can’t do a single thing on his own.”

  Vicky said no more but Gia sensed that she remained unconvinced.

  That settles it, she thought. Vicky’s been here long enough.

  The child needed her friends—real, live, flesh-and-blood friends. With nothing else to occupy her time, she’d been getting too involved with these dolls. Now they were even in her dreams.

  “What do you say we go home tomorrow? I think we’ve stayed here long enough.”

  “I like it here. And Aunt Nellie will be lonely.”

  “She’ll have Eunice back in the morning. And besides, I have to get back to my work.”

  “Can’t we stay a little longer?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Vicky pouted. “‘We’ll see.’ Whenever you say ‘we’ll see’ it ends up meaning ‘no.’”

  “Not always,” Gia said with a laugh, knowing that Vicky was right. The child was getting too sharp for her. “But we’ll see. Okay?”

  Reluctantly: “Okay.”

  She put Vicky back between the covers. As she went to the door to switch off the light she thought of Nellie in the bedroom below. She could not imagine anyone sleeping through Vicky’s screams, yet Nellie had not called up to ask what was wrong. Gia turned on the hall light and leaned over the banister. Nellie’s door was open and her bedroom dark. It didn’t seem possible she could still be asleep.