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.”

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.

She greeted him with a friendly kiss and a hug, and they talked about old times for a while. Then Jack asked her about Mrs. Bahkti.

“Fading fast,” Marta said. “She’s gotten visibly worse since I came on. She’ll probably last out this shift, but I’ll be surprised if she’s here tomorrow. You know her?”

“I’ll be doing some work for her grandson.” As with most people Jack knew socially—and there weren’t many—Marta was under the impression that he was a “security consultant.” He saw Kusum come out into the hall. “There he is now. See you later.”

Jack led Kusum to a window at the end of the hall, where they were out of earshot of patients and hospital personnel.

“All right,” he told him. “I’ll give it a try. But I make no promises other than to do my best.” Jack had decided he wanted to catch up with this creep.

Kusum exhaled and muttered what sounded like a small prayer. “No more can be asked of any man. But if you cannot find the necklace by tomorrow morning, it will be too late. After that, the necklace will be of secondary importance. But I still want you to keep looking for the assailant. And when you find him, I want you to kill him.”

Jack tightened inside but smiled and shook his head. This guy thought he was some sort of hit man.

“I don’t do that.”

Kusum’s eyes said he didn’t believe him.

“Very well. Instead, you will bring him to me and I will—”

“I will work for you until tomorrow morning,” Jack said. “I’ll give you my best shot till then. After that, you’re on your own.”

Anger flitted across Kusum’s face. Not used to having someone say no to you, are you? Jack thought.

“When will you start?”

“Tonight.”

Kusum reached inside his tunic and brought out a thick envelope. “Here is half of the payment. I will wait here with the other half should you return with the necklace tonight.”

Feeling more than a twinge of guilt at taking so much money on such a hopeless venture, Jack nevertheless folded the envelope and stuffed it into his left rear pocket.

“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, topaz-like 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 smelted 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.”

“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 had agreed to help a stranger when Gia’s aunt needed him. Same old story—Jack the sucker.