“Kaka-jiiiiii! Kaka-jiiiiii! Kaka-jiiiiii! Kaka-jiiiiii!”
Then they were raising their taloned hands in the air, and clutched in each was a bloody piece of flesh that glistened redly in the wavering light.
Jack didn’t know how he knew, but he was certain he was looking at all that remained of Nellie Paton.
It was all he could take. His mind refused to accept any more. Terror was a foreign sensation to Jack, unfamiliar, almost unrecognizable. All he knew was that he had to get away before his sanity completely deserted him. He turned and ran back down the corridor, careless of the noise he made; not that much could be heard over the din in the hold. He closed the hatch behind him, spun the wheel to lock it, then ran up the steps to the deck, dashed along its moonlit length to the prow, where he straddled the gunwale, grabbed the mooring rope, and slid down to the dock, burning the skin from his palms.
He grabbed his binoculars and camera and fled toward the street. He knew where he was going: To the only other person besides Kusum who could explain what he had just seen.
4
Kolabati reached the intercom on the second buzz. Her first thought was that it might be Kusum; then she realized he would have no need of the intercom, which operated only from the lobby. She had neither seen nor heard from her brother since losing him in Rockefeller Plaza yesterday, and had not moved from the apartment all day in the hope of catching him as he stopped by to change his clothes. But he had never appeared. “Mrs. Bahkti?” It was the doorman’s voice. “Yes?” She didn’t bother to correct him about the “Mrs.”
“Sorry to bother you, but there’s a guy down here says he has to see you.” His voice sank to a confidential tone. “He doesn’t look right, but he’s really been bugging me.”
“What’s his name?”
“Jack. That’s all he’ll tell me.”
A rush of warmth spread over her skin at the mention of his name. But would it be wise to allow him to come up? If Kusum returned and found the two of them together in his apartment…
Yet she sensed that Jack would not show up without calling first unless it was something important.
“Send him up.”
She waited impatiently until she heard the elevator open, then she went to the door. When she saw Jack’s black knee socks, sandals, and shorts, she broke into a laugh. No wonder the doorman wouldn’t let him up!
Then she saw his face.
“Jack! What’s wrong?”
He stepped through the door and closed it behind him. His face was pale beneath a red patina of sunburn, his lips drawn into a tight line, his eyes wild.
“I followed Kusum today…”
He paused, as if waiting for her to react. She knew from his expression that he must have found what she had suspected all along, but she had to hear it from his lips. Hiding the dread of what she knew Jack would say, she set her face into an impassive mask and held it that way.
“And?”
“You really don’t know, do you?”
“Know what, Jack?” She watched him run a hand through his hair and noticed that his palms were dirty and bloody. “What happened to your hands?”
He didn’t answer. Instead he walked past her and stepped down into the living room. He sat on the couch. Without looking at her, he began to speak in a dull monotone.
“I followed Kusum from the U.N. to this boat on the West Side—a big boat, a freighter. I saw him in one of the cargo holds leading some sort of ceremony with these”—his face twisted with the memory—”these things. They were holding up pieces of raw flesh. I think it was human flesh. And I think I know whose.”
Strength flowed out of Kolabati like water down a drain. She leaned against the foyer wall to steady herself. It was true! Rakoshi in America! And Kusum behind them—resurrecting the old dead rites that should have been left dead. But how? The egg was in the other room!
“I thought you might know something about it,” Jack was saying. “After all, Kusum is your brother and I figured—”
She barely heard him.
The egg…
She pushed herself away from the wall and started toward Kusum’s bedroom.
“What’s the matter?” Jack said, finally looking up at her. “Where are you going?”
Kolabati didn’t answer him. She had to see the egg again. How could there be rakoshi without using the egg? It was the last surviving egg. And that alone was not enough to produce a nest—a male rakosh was needed.
It simply couldn’t be!
She opened the closet in Kusum’s room and pulled the square crate out into the room. It was so light. Was the egg gone? She pulled the top up. No… the egg was still there, still intact. But the box had been so light. She remembered that egg weighing at least ten pounds…
She reached into the box, placed a hand on each side of the egg, and lifted it. It almost leaped into the air. It weighed next to nothing! And on its underside her fingers felt a jagged edge.
Kolabati turned the egg over. A ragged opening gaped at her. Bright smears showed where cracks on the underside had been repaired with glue.
The room reeled and spun about her.
The rakosh egg was empty! It had hatched long ago!
5
Jack heard Kolabati cry out in the other room. Not a cry of fear or pain—more like a wail of despair. He found her kneeling on the floor of the bedroom, rocking back and forth, cradling a mottled, football-sized object in her arms. Tears were streaming down her face.
“What happened?”
“It’s empty!” she said through a sob.
“What was in it?” Jack had seen an ostrich egg once. That had been white; this was about the same size but its shell was swirled with gray.
“A female rakosh.”
Rakosh. This was the second time Jack had heard her say that word. The first had been Friday night when the rotten odor had seeped into his apartment. He didn’t need any further explanation to know what had hatched from that egg: It had dark skin, a lean body with long arms and legs, a fanged mouth, taloned hands, and bright yellow eyes.
Moved by her anguish, he knelt opposite Kolabati. Gently he pulled the empty egg from her grasp and he took her two hands in his.
“Tell me about it.”
“I can’t.”
“You must.”
“You wouldn’t believe…”
“I’ve already seen them. I believe. Now I’ve got to understand. What are they?”
“They are rakoshi.”
“I gathered that. But the name means nothing.”
“They are demons. They people the folk tales of Bengal. They’re used to spice up stories told at night to frighten children or to make them behave—’The rakoshi will get you!’ Only a select few through the ages have known that they are more than mere superstition.”
“And you and Kusum are two of those select few, I take it.”
“We are the only ones left. We come from a long line of high priests and priestesses. We are the last of the Keepers of the Rakoshi. Through the ages the members of our family have been charged with the care of the rakoshi—to breed them, control them, and use them according to the laws set down in the old days. And until the middle of the last century we discharged that duty faithfully.”
She paused, seemingly lost in thought. Jack impatiently urged her on.
“What happened then?”
“British soldiers sacked the temple of Kali where our ancestors worshipped. They killed everyone they could find, looted what they could, poured burning oil into the rakoshi cave, and set the temple afire. Only one child of the priest and priestess survived.” She glanced at the empty shell. “And only one intact rakosh egg was found in the fire-blasted caves. A female egg. Without a male egg, it meant the end of the rakoshi. They were instinct.”