Kolabati was not here. There was a closet in the second bedroom half-filled with women's clothes; he recognized a dress as the one Kolabati had worn in Peacock Alley; another was the one she had worn to the Consulate reception. She wouldn't have gone back to Washington without her clothes.
She was still in New York.
He went to the window and looked out over the park. The orange sun was still bright enough to hurt his eyes. He stood there and stared west for a long time. He had desperately hoped to find Kolabati here. It had been against all logic, but he had had to see for himself so he could cross this apartment off his short list of possibilities.
He turned and picked up the phone and dialed the number of the Indian Embassy. No, Mr. Bahkti was still at the U.N., but was expected back shortly.
That did it. There were no more excuses left to him. He had to go to the only other place Kolabati could be.
Dread rolled back and forth in his stomach like a leaden weight.
That ship. That godawful floating piece of hell. He had to go back there.
8
"I'm thirsty, Mommy."
"It's the Chinese food. It always makes you thirsty. Have another drink of water."
"I don't want water. I'm tired of water. Can't I have some juice?"
"I'm sorry, honey, but I didn't get a chance to do any shopping. The only thing to drink around here is some wine and you can't have that. I'll get you some juice in the morning. I promise."
"Oh, okay."
Vicky slumped in her chair and folded her arms over her chest. She wanted juice instead of water and she wanted to watch something else besides these dumb news shows. First the six o'clock news, then something called the network news, and Mr. Grossman—he wasn't her uncle; why did he want her to call him Uncle Abe?—talking, talking, talking. She'd much rather be watching The Brady Bunch. She had seen them all at least twice, some three or four times. She liked the show. Nothing bad ever happened. Not like the news.
Her tongue felt dry. If only she had some juice…
She remembered the orange—the one she had saved from her playhouse this morning. That would taste so delicious now.
Without a word she got up from her chair and slipped into the bedroom she and Mommy would be sharing tonight. Her Ms. Jelliroll Carry Case was on the floor of the closet. Kneeling in the dim light of the room, she opened it and pulled the orange out. It felt so cool in her hand. Just the smell made her mouth water. This was going to taste so good.
She bent over by the screened window and dug her thumb into the thick skin until it broke through, then she began peeling. Juice squirted all over her hands as she tore a section loose and bit into it. Juice, sweet and tangy, gushed onto her tongue. Delicious! She pushed the rest of the section into her mouth and was tearing another free when she noticed something funny about the taste. It wasn't a bad taste, but it wasn't a good taste either. She took a bite of the second section. It tasted the same.
Suddenly she was frightened. What if the orange was rotten? Maybe that's why Jack wouldn't let her have any this morning. What if it made her sick?
Panicked, Vicky bent and shoved the rest of the orange under the bed—she'd sneak it into the garbage later when she had a chance. Then she strolled as casually as she could out of the room and over to the bathroom, where she washed the juice off her hands and drank a Dixie Cup full of water.
She hoped she didn't get a stomach ache. Mommy would be awfully mad if she found out about sneaking the orange. But more than anything, Vicky prayed she didn't throw up. Throwing up was the worst thing in the world.
Vicky returned to the living room, averting her face so no one could see it. She felt guilty. One look at her and Mommy would know something was wrong. The weather lady was saying that tomorrow was going to be hot and dry and sunny again, and Mr. Grossman started talking about drought and people fighting over water. She sat down and hoped they'd let her watch The Partridge Family after this.
9
The dark bow of the freighter loomed over Jack, engulfing him in its shadow as he stood on the dock. The sun was sinking over New Jersey, but there was still plenty of light. Traffic rushed by above and behind him. He was oblivious to everything but the ship before him and the clatter of his heart against his ribs.
He had to go in. There was no way around it. For an instant, he actually considered calling the police, but rejected the idea immediately. As Kolabati had said, Kusum was legally untouchable. And even if Jack managed to convince the police that such things as rakoshi existed, all they were likely to do was get themselves killed and loose the rakoshi upon the city. Probably get Kolabati killed, too.
No, the police didn't belong here, for practical reasons and for reasons of principle: This was his problem and he would solve it by himself. Repairman Jack always worked alone.
He had put Gia and Vicky out of harm's way. Now he had to find Kolabati and see her to safety before he made a final move against her brother.
As he followed the wharf around to the starboard side of the ship, he pulled on a pair of heavy work gloves he had bought on his way over from Fifth Avenue. There were also three brand new Cricket butane lighters—three for $1.47 at the department store—scattered through his pockets. He didn't know what good they would do, but Kolabati had been emphatic about fire and iron being the only weapons against rakoshi. If he needed fire, at least he would have a little of it available.
There was too much light to climb up the same rope he had last time—it was in plain view of the traffic on the West Side Highway. He would have to enter by way of a stern line this time. He looked longingly at the raised gangplank. If he had had the time he could have stopped at his apartment and picked up the variable frequency beeper he used for getting into garages with remote control door openers. He was sure the gangplank operated on a similar principle.
He found a heavy stern line and tested its tautness. He saw the name across the stern but couldn't read the lettering. The setting sun was warm against his skin. Everything seemed so normal and mundane out here. But in that ship…
He stilled the dread within and forced himself up the rope monkey-style as he had last night. As he pulled himself over the gunwale and onto the deck at the rear of the superstructure, he realized that the darkness of last night had hidden a multitude of sins. The boat was filthy. Rust grew where paint had thinned or peeled away; everything was either nicked or dented or both. And overlaying all was a thick coat of grease, grime, soot, and salt.
The rakoshi are below, Jack told himself as he entered the superstructure and began his search of the cabins. They're sealed in the cargo areas. I won't run into one up here. I won't.
He kept repeating it over and over, like a litany. It allowed him to concentrate on his search instead of constantly looking over his shoulder.
He started at the bridge and worked his way downward. He found no sign of Kolabati in any of the officers' cabins. He was going through the crew's quarters on the main deck level when he heard a sound. He stopped. A voice—a woman's voice—calling a name from somewhere inside the wall. Hope began to grow in him as he followed that wall around to the main deck where he found a padlocked iron door.
The voice was coming from behind the door. Jack allowed himself a self-congratulatory grin. The voice was Kolabati's. He had found her.
He examined the door. The shackle of a laminated steel padlock had been passed through the swivel eye of a heavy slotted hasp welded firmly to the steel of the door. Simple but very effective.
Jack dug out his pick kit and went to work on the lock.
10
Kolabati had started calling Kusum's name when she heard the footsteps on the deck above her cabin; she stopped when she heard him rattle the lock on the outer door. She wasn't hungry or thirsty, she just wanted to see another human face—even Kusum's. The isolation of the pilot's cabin was getting to her.