The Crypt Thief

by Mark Pryor

  Hugo started forward, a smile forming. “How the hell do you do that?”

  “I travel outside your human space-time continuum,” Tom replied. “I move with the sun’s rays. Now I’m here, now I’m gone.”

  “Or you lied about being at my apartment.”

  “Possibly,” Tom said. “But I meant what I said about your shitty coffee.”

  “You noticed that, too?” said Taylor. “Thank God for Emma.”

  The three men sat and Hugo looked at his boss. “I’m guessing that those tourists at Père Lachaise were American?”

  “Yes,” Taylor nodded. “Well, one of them. The young man.”

  “I see.” Hugo turned to Tom. “And why exactly are you here?”

  “Because the other one wasn’t,” Tom said. “Not by a long shot. Wanna have a guess?”

  “Well, I’m sitting with one former CIA spook and one freelancing spook. Which puts my guess somewhere in the Middle East or central Asia.”

  “Clever Hugo. She was from Egypt.” Tom grinned and looked at Taylor. “I get my brains from him.”

  “But Egypt’s a friendly, at least the last time I checked,” Hugo said, looking back and forth between the two men.

  “Mostly,” Tom said. “We’ve been keeping an eye on a few cells we think are targeting tourists. We’re worried they’re branching out, looking for US sites outside Egypt.”

  “Still seems like you being here is . . . an overreaction.” Hugo winked at his friend. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” said Tom. “But it’s not just her that brings me here. The guy is of interest, too.”

  “How so?”

  Taylor took over. “He was the son of Senator Norris Holmes.”

  “Wait, you mean . . . the kid was Maxwell Holmes?” Hugo sat straight up. “He was supposed to—”

  “Intern here at the embassy,” Taylor finished. “Yes. Which explains why you are here.”

  “Damn. That’s terrible. What happened out there?”

  “They were both shot close to Jim Morrison’s grave,” Taylor said, “on the main path leading to it. Small caliber weapon, but we’ve not been given any pictures or forensic information yet. As far as I know, there’s no indication of a motive or a suspect.”

  “What about the victims, do we know much?”

  “Not really,” said Tom. “We’re running on speculation and paranoia at the moment.”

  “And you’re speculating that this girl was a terrorist trying to infiltrate the embassy through an association with Maxwell Homes?” Hugo asked. “The paranoia being that there are zero facts to support that theory.”

  “That’s right,” Taylor nodded. “It’s been about eight hours since they were found, and we’re still gathering information. Sometimes the French aren’t good at sharing.”

  “If you know she’s Egyptian,” Hugo said, “then you know her name. That should open a few doors.”

  Taylor nodded. “The French cops went straight to his hotel and found some of her stuff there. That took them to her apartment, where they snagged her passport. So yes, they got a name, which they gave to us, but so far nothing’s come back on it. She seems clean.”

  “Unless it’s a fake name,” Tom said. “And a fake passport. We’d like to look at it to know for sure, but that’s where the sharing thing isn’t working out.”

  “Have you told Senator Holmes?” Hugo asked.

  “Yes, I told him myself.” Taylor shook his head. “Poor guy took it hard, as you might imagine. He’s heading over here, and when he arrives, he’ll be wanting answers.”

  The three sat in silence for a moment, then Tom and the ambassador exchanged looks. Taylor cleared his throat. “There’s one other thing,” he said. “Not sure it’s consistent with a terrorism-related theory.”

  Hugo raised an eyebrow. “What?”

  “Whoever did this mutilated one of the bodies,” Taylor said.

  “Maxwell Holmes?”

  “No,” said Taylor. “The girl. I’m getting this from the French and I’ve not seen any pictures yet, but they’re telling me that an area on her shoulder was intentionally hacked with a knife. The rest of her, and Holmes, completely untouched. No rape, and no significant injuries other than the bullet wounds.”

  “Interesting,” said Hugo.

  “It is,” Taylor said. “Any thoughts you’d like to share?”

  “Not yet.” Hugo frowned. “I can imagine a couple of possibilities but I need to see her body, or at the very least photos. Preferably her body.”

  Chapter Three

  Hugo and Tom were let into the morgue by a young technician who’d been told by the French police to expect, and cater to, the Americans. The young man, round and red-faced, flipped his blond hair as he fired questions at Hugo about America and the FBI.

  They moved through the administrative area toward the morgue proper, Hugo recognizing the gentle lap of sterility that seeped toward them, the sharp odor of disinfectant and the even more telltale scent of lavender and lemon that so many morgues used to mask the smell of death. As carpet gave way to tile under their feet, the youth paused in front of a heavy swing door. He turned, waiting for an answer to his final question.

  “I am pretty sure,” Hugo said, creasing his brow for effect, “that the bureau does not hire its own specialist morgue technicians. But if I find out I’m wrong, I’ll let you know.”

  “Vraiment, you will?”

  “Absolutely. In fact, if they do, I’ll bring you an application form myself.”

  “Merci!” The young man beamed. “Alors, nous sommes ici, messieurs. I took the liberty of laying out the bodies. I’ll leave you to them, just stop by the office when you’re done so I can put them away.”

  “We will,” Hugo said. “Do you know when the autopsies will be done?”

  The tech shrugged. “When the authorities stop fighting about who should do it. Tonight, maybe tomorrow. Sterile gloves on the cart if you want to touch them, they’ve been scrubbed for evidence, so you can.”

  The room was windowless but bright, the white tiles of the walls and floor bouncing the glare from the strip lights overhead. It was smaller than Hugo had expected, with room for just two autopsy tables and, at the far end of the chilled room, three cooler doors. A metal cart held an array of cutting implements and, on extendable arms above each table, Hugo recognized the other essential tools of the trade: a saw, a camera, and a voice recorder.

  Hugo went straight to the body of the girl. Only her waxen face was visible, the rest of her body covered with a sterile blue blanket of thick tissue. Hugo pulled it off and folded it neatly as he looked up and down her body.

  “Good-looking girl,” Tom said.

  “She was. And you never told me her name.”

  “Hanan Elserdi. Twenty-six years old. Home town: Cairo. Been in France for eight months—according to her passport, anyway.”

  She’d been a healthy young girl this time yesterday. Now she lay on a metal tray, lifeless and stiff with rigor mortis, suffering the gaze of two complete strangers who stared at her naked form with the dispassionate eyes of scientists sizing up a new specimen. Hugo shook his head. “I assume you have people working on her background.”

  “I expect a phone call any minute,” Tom said. His voice and tone were unusually gentle, respectful of the dead body in front of him, but without being sentimental. Gruff, foul-mouthed, and, Hugo suspected, often lethal, Tom was a much nicer person than he let on. And sometimes Hugo reminded him of that.

  “Looks like she was shot five times,” Tom said. “Hand, shoulder, two in the chest, and one in the throat.”

  “Maybe,” Hugo said. “And then again, maybe not.” He stooped over the wound in her shoulder, then straightened and moved to her side. “I’d say four times. Look.” He took her left arm and raised it, pressing against the rigor mortis to create a right angle with her body. “The wound in her shoulder isn’t as deep as the others because the bullet went through the flesh of her hand first
. She put it out, an instinctual act, trying to stop him. Just a guess, of course.”

  “Of course. What else?”

  It was, in some ways, a game, a puzzle. A gruesome one, no doubt, and one tinged with tragedy because the essence of the puzzle was a once-live, now-dead human being. But the best way, usually the only way, to shine a light on the events that led to a death was to cast an unemotional and critical eye over the remains. To spot the pieces that fit together and to solve the puzzle that had put this young woman on a metal tray.

  Hugo studied each wound, careful not to touch the entry points. Even though the evidence people had gotten all they needed from her, whoever did the autopsy should measure the bullet holes, their widths and depths, and he didn’t want to skew the results.

  “Four shots, all close range,” Hugo said. “He’s not an experienced marksman because they are all over the place. No grouping, and no vital organs hit.”

  “And no head shot or heart shot. So, not a pro.”

  “Right.”

  “You’re trying to tell me he’s not a terrorist,” Tom said. “But—”

  “I know,” Hugo interrupted, “there’s no shortage of amateur radicals out there. You’re right, I don’t think we can rule that out, not just on the wounds.”

  “Agreed,” Tom nodded. “Maybe she knew the killer, if he got this close to her.”

  “Could be, although it was dark and a cemetery. Easy enough to lie in wait and pounce at the last moment.”

  “Which begs a question.”

  “Yes, it does. If the killer is neither experienced or a pro, why is he lurking in a graveyard waiting to kill people?”

  “That’s the question, all right,” said Tom. “You have an answer, I assume?”

  “Nope.” Hugo looked up. “All I can think is that he was there for some other reason. They stumbled across him, or vice versa, and he shot them.”

  “Which means we have to figure out why they were there, as well as why he was.”

  “Right. Could have been nothing more than a midnight jaunt to see Morrison’s grave; they certainly wouldn’t be the first. But to be sure, we need to know a lot more about our victims.” Hugo moved to the sheet covering Maxwell Holmes. He pulled it off and folded it like he had the one covering the girl, absentmindedly, as he studied the body.

  “Same deal,” said Tom, looking over Hugo’s shoulder. “Shot twice. No kill shot to make sure, and two feet of skin between the hits.”

  Hugo moved back to Elserdi’s table. “The only significant difference between the bodies is this.” He carefully rolled her onto her side to reveal her shoulder. Tom moved beside him and they stared at the ragged patch of obliterated skin. The area was roughly the size of a hockey puck, and the killer had gone after it with a vengeance. The skin had been shredded, and Hugo could see that cut after cut had been made until this patch of her shoulder was raw.

  “What the fuck does it mean?” Tom said.

  To Hugo, every mark on a dead body meant something. Every bruise, cut, scrape, and blemish told the story of either the victim’s death, or their life.

  “They were both wearing T-shirts when they were shot, right?” Hugo asked.

  “Yes. But both were topless when they were found. Tit fetish?”

  “Didn’t see any tits on Maxwell,” Hugo said.

  “Good point.”

  “But we should check for one thing.” Hugo laid the girl back how he’d found her, and turned to the young man, looking over the front of his body before turning him on his side. Hugo looked him up and down, chewing his lip, inspecting the skin carefully. Satisfied, he laid him flat on his back again. Hugo went back to the girl, this time raising her shoulder to look at the mangled area of flesh over her clavicle.

  “Interesting,” Hugo said, more to himself than to Tom.

  “Interesting how? Hugo, come on, what are you seeing?”

  “He’s gone after her here.”

  “Like he’s angry?”

  “No. Angry would be deeper. You’d see muscle, bone even. This is . . . not that.”

  “Well, thanks for telling me what it’s not. Very helpful.”

  “Welcome.” Hugo looked up at Tom. “You’re very welcome.” He winked at his friend, and they both knew Tom would have to wait to hear more.

  Chapter Four

  The gravel parking lot beside the lake was empty, but the Scarab watched it from the side of the road for twenty minutes, just to make sure.

  The sun had set behind the Pyrénées mountains an hour ago, turning down the lights on the summer fishermen, letting them know it was time to grill their catch by the campfire, to wash down the trout with the beer they’d been chilling at water’s edge, or perhaps with some of the local Jurançon wine. He’d watched the last of them leave but there was always the possibility of a straggler, someone being where he shouldn’t. That was the lesson from Père Lachaise.

  As he pulled into the little parking lot he leaned forward and looked through the windshield at the high ridges that loomed over him, watching over the lake and the village of Castet. These dark mountains seemed nearer at night than in the day, and the Scarab sensed something from them, as if they were fearsome watchdogs resentful of his presence. But he knew them well, these hills, and this village. He knew especially well the little church and its graveyard that sat atop a small knoll a hundred yards from him, across the water.

  The graveyard. The highest point in the village, with a view of Castet’s half-dozen narrow streets on one side, and overlooking the lake on the other. Before, when he’d been young, he’d heard grumblings about the best view being afforded to the dead, but he knew better. He understood the importance of those people lying in repose under stone and marble. It wasn’t that they could see the view, that wasn’t the point. No, they were there because with open air on all sides, the power of the dead spread over the villagers like a protective blanket. In his mind’s eye he saw the village as a candle, its body changing form and shape over the years but with an invisible flame that grew only stronger.

  The Scarab opened the back doors of his van and stepped out into the cool air, his eyes roaming the trees for signs of life, stray campers or lovers walking this lonely stretch of land. He saw no one, heard nothing.

  Satisfied, he reached into the van and pulled out his dinghy, manhandling the light but awkward craft to the water’s edge, laying it gently on the surface, watching the ripples spread into the night.

  It took five minutes to paddle across to the grassy slope that led up to the graveyard and, despite the cool air, he was soon sweating. The slow pace irritated him, but driving through the village, with its narrow streets and watchful, curious residents was too risky, even at night. They knew him there.

  The dinghy bumped against the shore and he threw his paddle onto the grass, then hopped out and pulled the dinghy onto the bank. He started up the steep slope, holding the bag of tools in his right hand, using his left for balance, his legs driving him upward. He stopped once to look back at the water but he’d picked a moonless night on purpose, and the darkness had come to help, covering his van and the little boat with its inky cloak.

  He reached the low stone wall that surrounded the cemetery and pulled himself over it, dropping onto the grass beside a battered and tilting cross. Again, he scanned the darkness for signs of life. Nothing.

  He knew exactly where to go, the thrill rising within him as he neared the drab patch of earth where the bones lay buried. Bones that had lain there for a decade, and would lay there for a century more if he let them. Within moments he was beside the grave. He dropped his tool bag on the ground and smiled. Not long now.

  He bent down and pulled a collapsible shovel from his bag and wasted no time going to work. It would take hours, getting through this stony soil, but that was OK because he had the perfect frame for this, short and muscular with a low center of gravity. And he’d driven all day to get here, nine hours behind the wheel, so he was ready for some exercise.


  He knew, too, how lazy old man Duguey had been ten years ago, the church’s caretaker and gravedigger, the man who never slept but never worked either, who’d always ignored the six-feet rule when no one was there to measure his work. Four feet, the Scarab guessed. Four feet at the most, because as a child he’d hidden behind distant headstones and watched the old man dig graves. He’d enjoyed doing that.

  His shovel bit into the soil and its cut told him that the mountains were on his side, that they’d brought rain to soften the ground. He smiled as he worked, his body falling into a smooth rhythm as he peeled away the earth from the grave, and the burn that settled into his palms and fingers served only to remind him of the importance of his task. His mission. A compulsion, almost, to bring up the bones of the man who’d raised him, who’d brought him into this world and then, on seeing a boy who looked just like him, worked to destroy his spirit the same way he worked to destroy the boy’s mother.

  The Scarab pictured the old man staring up at him as the earth and stone slid off the face of the shovel onto the growing pile beside the gravesite. It was his own face, too, though, and as the sweat began to drip down his brow into his eyes, the image blurred even more.

  The clang of metal behind him snapped the Scarab into the present. The churchyard gate?

  A light bobbed at the entrance to the graveyard, then started forward, blinking in and out between the gravestones as it moved toward him. The Scarab watched, the shovel resting on his shoulder, his body tense and immobile as if the swinging light was a hypnotist’s pocket watch holding him in place. The only thing to move were his eyes, which followed the slow plod of the night watchman as he wound his way through the headstones toward the man dressed in black.

  The light stopped thirty yards away and a feeble voice spread out toward him. “Allo? Is someone there?”

  The Scarab said nothing.

  The light started forward, two paces, maybe three, then stopped. “Who is that?”

  The Scarab stepped away from the gravesite. “C’est moi.”