The Tomb by F. Paul Wilson (English) Paperback Book

Description: The Tomb by F. Paul Wilson "This revised edition was previously published in 2004 as Rakoshi by Borderlands Press."--T.p. verso. FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Publisher Description The masterful supernatural thriller where Repairman Jacks story begins Much to the chagrin of his girlfriend, Gia, Repairman Jack doesnt deal with appliances. He fixes situations--situations that too often land him in deadly danger. His latest fix is finding a stolen necklace which, unknown to him, is more than a simple piece of jewelry. Some might say its cursed, others might call it blessed. The quest leads Jack to a rusty freighter on Manhattans West Side docks. What he finds in its hold threatens his sanity and the city around him. But worst of all, it threatens Gias daughter Vicky, the last surviving member of a bloodline marked for extinction. Author Biography F. Paul Wilson is the New York Times bestselling author of horror, adventure, medical thrillers, science fiction, and virtually everything in between. His books include the Repairman Jack novels, including Ground Zero and Fatal Error; the Adversary cycle, including The Keep; and a young adult series featuring the teenage Jack. Wilson has won the Prometheus Award, the Bram Stoker Award, the Inkpot Award from the San Diego ComiCon, and the Lifetime Achievement Award of the Horror Writers of America, among other honors. He lives in Wall, New Jersey. Review "The Tomb is one of the best all-out adventure stories Ive read in years." --Stephen King (President of the Repairman Jack fan club) "Hugely entertaining." --Dean Koontz "Jack is righteous!" --Andrew Vachss Review Quote " The Tomb is one of the best all-out adventure stories Ive read in years." -Stephen King (President of the Repairman Jack fan club) "Hugely entertaining." -Dean Koontz "Jack is righteous!" -Andrew Vachss Excerpt from Book ONE Manhattan Thursday 1 Repairman Jack awoke with light in his eyes, white noise in his ears, and an ache in his back. Hed fallen asleep on the couch in the spare bedroom where he kept his DVD player and projection TV. He turned his head toward the set. A nervous tweed pattern buzzed around on the six-foot screen while the air conditioner in the right half of the double window beside it worked full blast to keep the room at seventy. He got to his feet with a groan and shut off the TV. The hiss of white noise stopped. He leaned over and touched his toes, then straightened and rotated his lower spine. His back was killing him. That couch was made for sitting, not sleeping. He stepped to the player and ejected the disc. Hed fallen asleep during the closing credits of the 1931 Frankenstein , part one of Repairman Jacks unofficial James Whale Festival. Poor Henry Frankenstein, he thought, slipping the disc into its box. Despite all evidence to the contrary, despite what everyone around him thought, Henry had been sure he was sane. Jack located the proper slot in the rack on the wall, shoved Frankenstein in, and pulled out its neighbor. Bride of Frankenstein , part two of his private James Whale Festival. A glance out the window revealed the usual vista of sandy shore, calm blue ocean, and supine sunbathers. He was tired of the view. Especially since some of the bricks had started showing through. Three years since hed had the scene painted on the blank wall facing the windows of this and the other bedroom. Long enough. The beach scene no longer interested him. Perhaps a rain forest mural would be better. With lots of birds and reptiles and animals hiding in the foliage. Yes … a rain forest. He filed the thought away. Hed have to keep an eye out for someone who could do the job justice. The phone began ringing in the front room. Who could that be? Hed changed his number a couple of months ago. Only a few people had it. He didnt bother to lift the receiver. The answering machine would take care of that. He heard a click, heard his own voice start his standard salutation: "Pinocchio Productions … Im not in right now, but if youll-" A womans voice broke in over his own, her tone impatient. "Pick up if youre there, Jack. Otherwise Ill call back later." Gia! Jack nearly tripped over his own feet in his rush to the phone. "Gia? That you?" "Yes, its me." Her voice sounded flat, almost resentful. "God! Its been a long time!" Two months. Forever. He had to sit down. "Im so glad you called." "Its not what you think, Jack." "What do you mean?" "Im not calling for myself. If it were up to me I wouldnt be calling at all. But Nellie asked me to." His jubilation faded, but he kept talking. "Whos Nellie?" He drew a blank on the name. "Nellie Paton. You must remember Nellie and Grace, the two English ladies?" "Oh, yeah. How could I forget? They introduced us." "Ive managed to forgive them." Jack let that go by without comment. "Whats the problem?" "Grace has disappeared. She hasnt been seen since she went to bed Monday night." He remembered Grace Westphalen: a very prim and proper Englishwoman pushing seventy. Not the eloping sort. "Have the police-?" "Of course. But Nellie wanted me to call you to see if youd help. So Im calling." "Does she want me to come over?" "Yes. If you will." "Will you be there?" She gave an exasperated sigh. "Yes. Are you coming or not?" "Im on my way." "Better wait. The patrolmen who were here said a detective from the department would be coming by this morning." "Oh." That wasnt good. "I thought that might slow you up." She didnt have to sound so smug about it. "Ill be there after lunch." "You know the address?" "I know its a yellow townhouse on Sutton Square. Theres only one." "Ill tell her to expect you." And then she hung up. Jack tossed the receiver in his hand and cradled it on the base. He was going to see Gia today. Shed called him. She hadnt been friendly, and shed said she was calling for someone else-but shed called. That was more than shed done since shed walked out. He couldnt help feeling good. He strolled through the third-floor apartments front room that served as living room and dining room. He found the room immensely comfortable, but few visitors shared his enthusiasm. His best friend, Abe Grossman, had, in one of his more generous moods, described the room as "claustrophobic." When Abe was feeling grumpy he said it made the Addams Family house look like it had been decorated in Bauhaus. Old movie posters covered the walls along with bric-a-brac shelves loaded with the neat stuff Jack picked up in forgotten junk stores during his wanderings through the city. He wound his way through a collection of old Victorian golden oak furniture that left little room for anything else: a seven-foot hutch, intricately carved, a fold-out secretary, a sagging, high-backed sofa, a massive claw-foot dining table, two end tables whose legs each ended in a birds foot clasping a crystal sphere, and his favorite, a big, wing-back chair. He reached the bathroom and started the hated morning ritual of shaving. As he ran the razor over his cheeks and throat he again considered the idea of a beard. He didnt have a bad face. Brown eyes, dark brown hair growing perhaps a little too low on his forehead. A nose neither too big nor too small. He smiled at himself in the mirror. Not an altogether hideous grimace-what they used to call a shit-eating grin. The teeth could have been whiter and straighter, and the lips were on the thin side, but not a bad smile. An inoffensive face. As an added bonus, a wiry, well-muscled, five-eleven frame went along with the face at no extra charge. So whats not to like? His smile faltered. Ask Gia. She seems to think she knows whats not to like. But all that was going to change starting today. After a quick shower, he dressed and downed a couple of bowls of Cocoa Puffs, then strapped on his ankle holster and slipped the worlds smallest .45, a Semmerling skeleton model LM4, into it. He knew the holster was going to be hot against his leg, but he never went out unarmed. His peace of mind would compensate for any physical discomfort. He checked the peephole in the front door, then twisted the central knob, retracting the four bolts at the top, bottom, and both sides. The heat in the third floor hall slammed against him at the threshold. He was wearing Levis and a lightweight short-sleeve shirt. He was glad hed skipped the undershirt. The humidity in the hall wormed its way into his clothes and oozed over his skin as he headed down to the street. Jack stood on the front steps for a moment. Sunlight glared sullenly through the haze over the roof of the Museum of Natural History far down the street to his right. The wet air hung motionless above the pavement. He could see it, smell it, taste it-and it looked, smelled, and tasted dirty. Dust, soot, and lint laced with carbon monoxide, with perhaps a hint of rancid butter from the garbage can around the corner in the alley. Ah! The Upper West Side in August. He ambled down to the sidewalk and walked west along the row of brownstones that lined his street. Along the way he pulled out his Tracfone and dialed his office number, then a four-digit code. A recorded voice-not Jacks-came over the wire with the familiar message: "This is Repairman Jack. Im out on a call now, but when you hear the tone, leave your name and number and give me a brief idea of the nature of your problem. Ill get back to you as soon as possible." After the tone a womans voice started talking about a problem with the timer on her dryer. Another beep and a man was looking for some free information on how to fix a blender. Jack ignored the numbers they gave; he had no intention of calling them back. But how did they get his number? Hed restricted his name to the white pages-with an incorrect street address, naturally-to cut down on appliance repair calls, but people managed to find him anyway. The third and last voice was unique: smooth in tone, the words clipped, rapid, tinged with Britain, but definitely not British. Jack knew a couple of Pakistanis who sounded like that. The man was obviously upset, and stumbled over his words. "Mr. Jack … my grandmother-was beaten terribly last night. I must speak to you immediately. It is terribly important." He gave his name and a number where he could be reached. That was one call Jack would return, even though he was going to have to turn the man down. He intended to devote all his time to Gias problem. And to Gia. This might be his last chance with her. He punched in the number. The clipped voice ans Details ISBN0765327406 Author F. Paul Wilson Short Title TOMB Language English ISBN-10 0765327406 ISBN-13 9780765327406 Media Book Format Paperback Pages 432 DEWEY FIC Residence New York City, NJ, US Birth 1953 Year 2011 Country of Publication United States AU Release Date 2011-03-01 NZ Release Date 2011-03-01 UK Release Date 2011-03-01 Series Adversary Cycle/Repairman Jack Series Number 2 Audience General Publication Date 2011-03-15 US Release Date 2011-03-15 Publisher Tor Books Imprint Tor Books We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. With fast shipping, low prices, friendly service and well over a million items - you're bound to find what you want, at a price you'll love! TheNile_Item_ID:36229379;

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