by Mark Pryor
“I’m with you there,” Tom said. He reached out and grabbed a glass of champagne from the waitress.
“Not all morality,” Conroy said. “Excessive morality. The point being that those who claim to hold the highest moral standards, usually for others, have both the ability and the tendency to dilute their perspective either intentionally or subconsciously.”
“It’s more interesting than it sounds,” Fletcher said.
“I’m more of a mind that getting drunk is a very positive form of morality,” Tom said, holding up his champagne glass. “For me, it’s intentional, not subconscious.”
“Appetitus rationi pareat,” Conroy said. “Let your desires be ruled by reason.”
“Precisely,” said Tom. “You just make that up?”
“Cicero,” Conroy said, his nose rising at least an inch. “Or, if one wishes to remain French, one might quote Molière: ‘Le plus grand faible des hommes, c’est l’amour qu’ils ont de la vie.’”
“Man’s greatest weakness is his love of life,” Hugo said. “Rather bland, don’t you think?” He looked at his watch, a signal to his companions.
“Oh, Jeffrey.” Allison Fletcher rolled her eyes. “You can be a gasbag.” Hugo noticed that Conroy reveled in her attention, even the insults. “And remember,” she continued, “‘généralement, les gens qui savant peu parlent beaucoup, et les gens qui savant beaucoup parlent peu.’”
“Right!” Conroy turned to Tom. “She said that ‘generally speaking, the people who know little speak a lot, and the people who know a lot speak little.’ Rousseau, and he was quite right.”
“Good for him, and I do speak French,” Tom said, looking directly at Allison Fletcher. “German too: Setzt Dich auf mein Gesicht und sag mir dass Du mich liebst.”
The man’s mouth fell open and his companion covered hers in horror, putting her drink down with a shaking hand. Tom smiled innocently, slid his glass onto a side table, and steered Hugo toward the exit.
“My German’s not so good,” Hugo said. “What did you just . . . ?”
Tom looked over his shoulder as he started down the stairs. “You sure you want to know?”
“Pretty sure.”
“I said, ‘Sit on my face, and tell me that you love me.’”
Hugo closed his eyes, unsure whether to laugh or run back and apologize for his friend, make excuses about his mental health, and blame the booze. In the end, he just shook his head and followed Tom down the stairs and out to the Place de la Concorde.
Standing by the busy street, they waited for a taxi, both quiet as their minds turned to the task at hand. It was seven o’clock, and with traffic it might be an hour before they got to the cemetery, giving them little time to find the right grave and find somewhere safe to lie in wait and watch.
Tom fidgeted beside him and, when they spotted an empty taxi, they both waved it over, piling into the back seat, conveying their urgency to the driver with their body language as well as their words.
Hugo looked out the window as their cab joined the seemingly endless river of brake lights. He watched as the day began to yield, the horizon brimming with lava as the sky appeared and disappeared between the stone buildings as they drove. Eventually, he was forced to look away as the melting sun flowed into the street and flashed at him from the windows around them like a thousand eyes, scorched and angry.
Chapter Twenty-one
The cemetery was closed when they got there, but Hugo had called Garcia to arrange for the security guard to let them in. Hugo had tried, too, to get Garcia to post men throughout the cemetery, but the capitaine had turned him down flat, apologizing that he’d been reassigned to a drug operation and his senior officer would immediately know of, and quash, any order to redirect officers to Montmartre. Garcia was at that moment supervising a four-man stakeout in Montreuil.
“I’d offer to come myself, but you’d only get me shot,” Garcia said, and Hugo heard the regret in his voice. “But seriously, you have my cell. Call me if you need something.”
They asked the security guard to point them to the grave but the man shrugged. “I’m sorry, this is my first week. That’s why I’m the one who had to come meet you here. There are maps in the office but they didn’t give me that key.”
“I have a map,” said Hugo. “We can just use that.”
“Terrible,” Tom tutted. “You just can’t get good cemetery help these days.”
Hugo ignored the comment, busy studying the map. “She’s close, just the other side of the central monument.”
“Then let’s go stake her out.”
“I want you to do that. If we’re both sitting still watching, it might let him sneak up behind us. Remember, we have no clue where he’ll come into the cemetery. I figured I’d walk a wider circle, see if I can spot him coming. Keep your phone handy, but turn off the ringer.”
“Aye aye, cap’n.” Tom touched his forehead and slouched off along a narrow walkway that ran at the foot of the first row of graves. Hugo thought he saw his friend stumble, and, even though he put it down to the uneven path, Hugo didn’t like going into a dangerous situation with a man he couldn’t rely on. Not like he used to be able to, anyway.
He started his own patrol, turning right along the near wall, eyes peeled for movement. The cemetery was twenty-five acres in size, almost a rhomboid but not quite, its irregular shape not by design but by necessity because the entire cemetery fit neatly into an old quarry, a fact that had stood out to Hugo as he considered the killer’s method of travel. Not the biggest draw in this part of the city, the cemetery sat low in the crowded and hilly district of Montmartre, whose higgledy-piggledy streets drew tourists up to the Sacré Coeur a mile to the east, where sketch artists and crepe vendors waited to take their money.
Hugo felt a breeze on the back of his neck, the cool wind wrapping itself around the stone tombs that were still warm from the day’s sun. The trees took notice, rustling gently all around him, and Hugo realized that the darkness had taken over, seeping into the graveyard like liquid, obscuring the tombs that lay more than a few feet from him. He looked but couldn’t see Tom, then listened and heard no one.
He picked up the pace, trotting along the outside wall, but stopped when his phone rang. It was Tom.
“I found her. She’s near where we came in, her grave backs up to a brick wall, which will help us out.” It may have been the connection, but his words sounded slurred. “Where are you?”
“Other end. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Tom, are you drinking?”
“It’s called keeping warm. That’s why they invented flasks.”
“Next time wear a damn jacket,” Hugo snapped.
“I am. Shit.” Hugo heard a fumbling sound, as if Tom had dropped the phone. Then Tom’s voice again, an excited whisper. “Fuck. He’s here.”
A pit opened in Hugo’s stomach. “Wait there. Don’t do anything, you hear me? Stay on the line and sit tight.”
“I’ve lost him. He was there, the little fucker, but I don’t see him.”
“I’m on my way.” Hugo took off, not worried about being quiet until he was closer. He ran hard, eyes boring into the night looking for any sign of movement. His feet slipped on the Avenue Cordier as the flat soles of his boots hit leaves, and as he fought to stay upright the night seemed to press in on him, clawing at him as if it were a conspirator working to keep Hugo away from its accomplice, and apart from his friend and colleague.
Hugo slowed and then stopped when he thought he might be close, panting hard but lifting the phone to his ear. “Tom? Can you see me?”
“No. Wait, is that you?”
“I’m halfway down Avenue Dubuisson.”
A crack broke the quiet and Hugo heard the distinctive zing of a bullet hitting stone. He crouched and raised the phone to his ear as the gun went off again.
“Tom, are you OK?”
“I guess that wasn’t you,” Tom said. “Shit, he’s already been here, the grave is empty. Fucker came early,
probably knew we wouldn’t come until dark.”
“Smart guy. Can you see him?”
“No, and he’s got me pinned down. I’m too old for this shit, Hugo, where the fuck are you?”
“Where I was when he started shooting.”
“Stay there, then. I’ll hang up and call for backup.”
“No, Tom, I’m coming. And don’t hang up until I see you. I don’t mind if he shoots you, but I don’t want to.”
“Well hurry the fuck up, I could use the cavalry about now.”
“Stay on the line, whisper if you see me.”
“Hugo, he’s—Oh, fuck!” A wave of panic hit as he heard Tom’s phone fall, then heard his friend’s voice cry out in pain somewhere in the dark in front of him. A gun fired, two, three, then four loud retorts, louder than before and Hugo hoped it was Tom doing the shooting. Hugo kept low, moving fast toward the sounds, his phone in his pocket now, both hands wrapped around the gun that he held high in front of him, its muzzle sweeping the tombs and statues as he closed in.
A streak of heat tore across his cheek as a statuette disintegrated beside him, spraying the path with splinters of marble. He swung around, knowing he’d missed his chance to spot the man from the muzzle flash of his gun, looking for movement as he pressed his back against a granite crypt.
Twenty yards away he spotted one of Tom’s legs, motionless, protruding from between two low tombs.
“Tom!” He thought he saw movement but it might have been a shift in the darkness. He took another look around and sprinted across the path to Tom, skidding to the ground beside him and tearing the skin from his elbow as he landed.
Tom gripped Hugo’s arm. “That fucker shot me in the chest. Jesus, get help.”
Hugo flipped open his phone, whispering urgently for an ambulance. When he was sure one was on the way he dialed Garcia, scrabbling for Tom’s hand as it rang. “Hang on, Tom, the cavalry’s coming. Just hang on, OK?” Garcia answered and Hugo cut him short, telling him what had happened.
“Merde. Hang up and keep your head down,” Garcia said. “The good guys are on the way.”
Hugo put his phone away and looked at Tom, his friend’s face ghostly white, his eyes half-open and his breathing labored. Hugo pulled Tom’s jacket open and looked for the wound but he couldn’t find any serious bleeding, which meant that any damage was internal, and so there was not much he could do to help.
“They’re coming, Tom. Can you hear me? They’re coming.”
“I heard you, now go get him. Get that fucker.”
“Next time,” Hugo whispered.
Tom squeezed Hugo’s hand, strength still there. “No. Now.”
“Tom—”
“The cavalry’s coming for me. They can’t catch that bastard, only you can.”
Hugo hesitated for a second, but he knew Tom was right. Every passing second put space between them and the Scarab. He stood, and when Tom gave him a weak smile Hugo turned and ran toward the last muzzle flash he’d seen. He pulled his flashlight from his pocket, knowing he had no chance of seeing movement otherwise because the dark had settled in tight, the silver slice of moon brushed black by heavy rainclouds.
As he ran through the narrow spaces between the grave sites, he heard the rising chatter of a helicopter. The cavalry. In seconds, a white disk flitted across the cemetery toward him, the chopper’s search light cutting through the night, turning everything under it into day. Hugo used the light, scanning the patch ahead for movement, seeing the blur of a man running away from him, heading toward the north side of the cemetery.
The chopper had seen their quarry, too, and Hugo could see a black silhouette leaning out of it, a sharpshooter waiting for his chance. Hugo ran harder, knowing the Scarab would, too, the adrenalin of terror spurring the grave robber and killer toward his bolt-hole, a place Hugo needed to spot before the man disappeared.
They emerged from the line of crypts into Chemin Baudin, Hugo’s feet pounding the earth for several seconds before he skidded around the corner into Avenue Hector Berlioz, just thirty yards behind the Scarab. But he was tiring, his body used to gentle laps of the Luxembourg Gardens, not twisting sprints at night, and each breath tore at his lungs. He kept his eyes fixed on the man who’d shot his friend, expecting him to dart back into the line of graves, but the Scarab kept running straight, his legs powerful but small, his stride barely half of Hugo’s, and a canvas bag swinging in his hand.
Above them the helicopter hovered, wind from its rotors buffeting them, acting like a physical fog that they had to run through and Hugo cursed it, knowing the squat Scarab would be affected less, furious that the pilot didn’t see that. He used that anger, gritting his teeth, pushing himself onward, and then he was just ten yards away. Suddenly, the ground at the Scarab’s feet exploded, vertical lines of sand and stone kicking high into the air as the sharpshooter tried to bring their suspect down. A second burst of gunfire made the Scarab stumble and, as he righted himself, Hugo was on him, his full body weight on the smaller man’s back, crashing him down onto the path.
“Police!” Hugo snarled, his lips barely an inch from the man’s ear. “Stop fighting, or I will shoot you.”
The Scarab yelled something back, they didn’t even sound like words, and Hugo fought to hold him down, to push him into the earth as he gained control, but he was shocked at the strength of the smaller man, his body taut and violent as he battled like a trapped animal fighting for its life, writhing and snapping at Hugo with his elbows and fists, bucking to get a clear kick with his heels. Hugo felt his grip loosen on the man and a split second later his body was stunned as an elbow caught him below the ribs, knocking the wind from him and, as if in a dream, he heard his gun clatter to the ground. The Scarab bucked the other way, using the moment of weakness to tilt Hugo off his back, like a clever bronco shucking its cowboy, and Hugo clutched desperately at the man’s shirt as he fell to the ground.
The police shooter fired again, and Hugo knew it was because the Scarab was free, free to escape or to kill an unarmed man. Instinctively, Hugo rolled over three times as the ground beside him splintered, throwing his body behind the protection of a marble tomb, glimpsing the gun in the Scarab’s hand as it swung away from him and up, toward the chopper. Hugo saw flames spit from the barrel but the sounds of the gunshots were lost in the clatter of the helicopter, which wheeled away from them, its turn to scramble to safety.
Hugo forced himself to his knees, eyes scouring the ground for his gun, lost in the dark. The outline that was now the Scarab bent and picked up something, surely his bag, and then took off down the avenue. Hugo gave himself the luxury of a deep breath and set off after him, slowing to look for his weapon as he passed the spot where they’d fought. When he knew he wouldn’t find it he looked up to see the Scarab jink back into the line of tombs.
Gun or no gun, Hugo couldn’t let him get away again, so he did the same, running parallel to his quarry, four rows of graves between them, the dark figure flitting between statues and markers until, like a specter absorbed into the night, the Scarab vanished.
Chapter Twenty-two
Hugo skidded as he changed direction, skipping across the distance between them, anger growing at the thought that the Scarab had done it again, disappeared from view, escaped just when he should have been captured.
Except, this time, Hugo knew what to look for.
There was one candidate. A granite structure a foot taller than Hugo, not much bigger than a London phone booth. A cross bearing a pain-wracked Jesus topped the crypt, and a pair of stone angels stared out at Hugo from atop a faded green door, as if daring him to enter their hallowed lair. Hugo put his hand to the metal door, felt the dry brush of aged paint under his fingertips. He pushed, gently at first, keeping his body to the side in case a gun was pointed his way.
The door swung inward silently, easily, giving out a hollow clang as it hit the inside of the crypt. Hugo pulled out his flashlight as he knelt, taking the unexpected sightline, and
peered quickly around the stone and into the tomb. He ran the light over the interior and saw the hole immediately. Broken concrete had been stacked neatly around it, and a plywood board leaned upright against the back of the crypt.
Hugo stayed low, inching toward the opening in the ground, knowing he had the right place when he saw the knotted rope dropping into the black hole. He listened for a moment, unsure in this tiny echo chamber if the sounds he heard were coming from below or from the helicopter above, which had returned to wash this hidey-hole with light.
Hugo extended his arm over the hole, shining his light onto the ragged earth that made up its walls, shifting forward until he could see all the way down, the beam following the dirty rope until it ended, its tip resting on a stone floor, thirty feet below. No sign that the Scarab had waited to ambush him.
Hugo stood and backed out of the crypt, waving to the chopper, hoping that a couple of fit men in black would abseil down and do what he had no great desire to do: climb down a rope into the bowels of a cemetery in search of a killer. Unarmed.
The chopper hovered above him, no movement from its open doors, and Hugo turned, steeling himself, knowing he was on his own and that he had to try to find the Scarab’s route, if not the man himself. Perhaps, if he got lucky, the Scarab would have bled.
He went back into the narrow crypt and knelt beside the hole. He flashed his light down there one more time and the beam came to rest on one of the knots.
Hugo smiled. Finally, a break.
A crowd had gathered outside the cemetery’s lone entrance, held back by portable barriers erected by the four officers who stood guard there. In the open space between them and the cemetery gate, Hugo shook hands with Garcia.
“Your boys came quickly,” Hugo said. “Thanks.”
“Bien sûr. How is Tom?”
“I’m not sure. I couldn’t even tell how many times he was hit. They took him away while I was chasing that little bastard.”