The Crypt Thief

by Mark Pryor

  Garcia grimaced. “You got pretty close, eh?”

  Hugo just shook his head. So near, and yet so far. They both watched as a portly crime scene officer waddled up to them. In his right hand he held two transparent evidence bags, the Scarab’s rope coiled inside one of them, captured and secured like a dangerous snake. The second bag held a small, glass scarab, and in the officer’s left hand was Hugo’s gun.

  “Monsieur Marston. We found this but not your phone. We have your description of it, so the boys will have it before long.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it,” Hugo said.

  Garcia nodded toward the bagged rope. “That was good thinking. Let’s hope we get something from it.”

  The moment Hugo had seen the rough surface of the rope, the knots for handholds, he knew there was a chance the Scarab had left his DNA behind. And he knew, too, that if he’d gone down the hole on the same rope, he could have contaminated or destroyed any sample taken. It had been a relief to finally have a shot at some real evidence, a real way to track the identity of the killer. But they’d have to get lucky first: the man’s DNA would need to be on file for them to know who he was. Otherwise, all they had was evidence to use once they caught him.

  If they caught him.

  “How long will it take to run the DNA?” Hugo asked.

  “I’ll check. If he’s in the system, it will still take a few days, maybe as much as a week. I’ll expedite as best I can.”

  “Good,” said Hugo. “And thanks. I’m not sure this lunatic’s going to give us a week.”

  Garcia grunted and pointed at a dark Renault sedan parked across the street. “My car. You want a ride to the hospital?”

  “Please,” Hugo said.

  By the time they got there, Tom was already in surgery. Two men with suspicious eyes scrutinized Hugo’s credentials before letting him anywhere near the doctors, and even then one of them followed close behind. Behind him, Garcia hovered in the waiting area, picking up magazines and putting them down unopened.

  “I’m not the surgeon,” a man in scrubs told him. “But I can tell you he’ll be in there for a while, unconscious a lot longer. You can wait if you like.”

  After an hour, Hugo felt like a bird in a cage, eyed continuously by the CIA’s rotating guards, like prowling cats watching their prey. Garcia was nodding off in a plastic chair across the waiting room, his suit jacket folded over the back of the seat beside him. The hospital’s weak, machine-brewed coffee did nothing to keep the policeman awake, other than provoke frequent trips to the bathroom.

  Hugo stood as a uniformed gendarme approached, an evidence bag in his hand. He looked uncertainly between Hugo and the dozing Garcia.

  “Monsieur Marston?”

  “Oui.” Marston showed his credentials.

  “Votre téléphone.” He handed it over, then looked at the closed doors of the operating room. “Votre ami. J’espère . . .” He waved an arm, solidarity conveyed.

  Hugo thanked him, then took the phone out of the bag as he walked over to Garcia. “Raul,” he said. “You should head out.”

  The capitaine stirred and sat up. “I was resting, excuse me. Any word on Tom?”

  “Still in surgery. But I have my phone back.”

  “Bien. Perhaps we should call and see what the crime scene people have.”

  “It’ll wait until tomorrow. Go home.”

  “What about you?” Garcia asked.

  “I’ll just wait until he’s out of surgery, then head home.”

  “You will call me?”

  “Of course. And thanks for your help tonight.”

  Garcia shrugged. “I just wish we could have been there with you. Faster, at least.”

  “You did fine.”

  Garcia picked up his jacket and threw it over his shoulder. He put out his hand and they shook. “Remember,” Garcia said. “Call me.”

  Hugo waved a hand, but Garcia was already shuffling away, a tired and rumpled policeman, and one Hugo was very glad to have on his side.

  Hugo checked his phone, surprised to see five messages from the ambassador, The most recent just fifteen minutes ago. He dialed his number.

  “Ambassador, it’s Hugo.”

  “Hugo, I’ve been trying to reach you, what the hell’s going on?” The ambassador spoke rapidly, his normally calm tone abandoned. “I couldn’t get Tom, either. I even thought about calling the police but I didn’t want to ruin your operation. Is everything OK?”

  “I’m not sure yet. The Scarab was there—”

  “The Scarab?”

  “I thought I told you—he’s leaving little glass beetles, scarab beetles, at the crime scenes so that’s what I’m calling the bastard. Anyway, he showed up and got the jump on Tom.” Hugo took a breath. “I’ll be honest, I don’t know how he is, he took at least one bullet. They’re operating on him now.”

  “Jesus, that son of a bitch. Are you at the hospital?”

  “Yes. But don’t worry about coming down, there’s nothing to do.”

  “There’s nothing to do here. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “I’d rather you stayed on top of the French police, pull strings at the levels I can’t get near, make sure they put men on finding the bastard.”

  “As opposed to chasing Al Zakiri?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Be happy to. Promise to call me when he gets out of the OR, whatever time it is.”

  “Of course. Were you calling Tom for a reason?”

  “Yes. One of his guys had been trying to get him, pass on some information. Tom had set me up as the person to contact if he couldn’t be reached.”

  That made sense, Hugo thought, as Taylor had been a CIA spook before embarking on his diplomatic career.

  “Anyway,” Taylor went on. “Turns out this . . . Scarab has been busier than we thought.”

  “How so?”

  “The French have this neat law enforcement tool, don’t remember what it’s called, but it crawls through serious crime reports looking for similarities, either by type of crime or victim profile. Like the FBI’s ViCAP.”

  “Which can work wonders or ruin your day, depending,” said Hugo. “What did it come up with?”

  “The former. A murder in a tiny village in the foothills of the Pyrénées. A gravedigger shot in the middle of the night, same caliber bullet as killed the kids at Père Lachaise. Then the killer dug up someone’s grave and pulled out the skeleton.”

  “Sure sounds like our man,” Hugo said. “Was the victim a dancer?”

  Taylor laughed. “Not exactly. A truck driver.”

  “Seriously? He stole the bones of a truck driver?”

  “Looks like it. Hard to tell exactly, the crime scene people found bone shards spread all over the place, like he’d gone at the skeleton with a hammer. No way to know how many bones he took.”

  “If any,” Hugo mused.

  “Given his other history, I’m sure he took some. Anyway, with the .22 bullet and the grave robbing we got a notification of a possible connection.”

  “How about a name?“

  “No one famous,” Taylor said. “Local guy by the name of Villier.”

  “Doesn’t mean anything to me. What about the timing, could our guy have gotten down there to do this?” Hugo asked.

  “Yes. He’d have had to hurry but it definitely works.”

  “And the glass scarab, they found one of those?”

  “Actually, no.”

  “Then it could be someone else.”

  “Actually, no. Given the similarities, we had the ballistics people do a quick comparison of the slugs from the two crime scenes. Identical class characteristics, and more than a few matching individual characteristics. Same gun.”

  “Therefore, same shooter.” Hugo ran a hand over his eyes, willing the tiredness out of his body. “But it’s a break from his pattern.”

  “When you get a peaceful moment, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

  “A pea
ceful moment. That’d be nice.” Hugo looked up as voices echoed down the corridor, a woman shouting and the stern voices of the two CIA guards replying. “Someone making a fuss, I better go. I’ll call when Tom gets out of surgery.”

  Hugo hung up and started down the hallway, rounding the corner at the nurse’s station to see Claudia trying to get through to the waiting room by shoving the larger of the guards in the chest as the other stood behind his colleague in case she got past—which didn’t seem likely. Claudia spotted Hugo and pointed to him.

  “Just ask him. Do it!” She put her hands on her hips. “Hugo, merde, tell them.”

  “Claudia, they are doing their job. Be nice.” He turned to the men. “Guys, it’s OK. She can be a pest, but she’s not dangerous.”

  They looked at him for a moment, then stood aside, no doubt glad to make her someone else’s problem. Claudia looped her arm through Hugo’s as they walked down the hall toward the waiting area.

  “What the hell happened tonight, Hugo? Why didn’t you tell me you were doing something dangerous?”

  “I wasn’t really sure what we were planning to do,” Hugo said truthfully. “And even if I had known it was dangerous, you would have either asked me not to go, insisted on going with me, or put it on the front page.”

  “All three, probably,” she said. “Just so you know, I already filed something for tomorrow’s paper. The prefecture gave me some official stuff, a source gave me some other bits and pieces.”

  “And now you want a comment from me?” Hugo stared at her but then realized how alike they were. Policemen never stopped chasing bad guys, and reporters never stopped chasing stories.

  Claudia shrugged. “It’s up to you, Hugo. I’m not going to pretend I wouldn’t like something, but I won’t push it.”

  Hugo thought for a moment. “Got your pen handy?”

  “Always,” she smiled.

  “We know how he moves about. We have a good description of him, too.”

  “I got one from the prefecture,” she said. “Already in the story.”

  “Good. OK.” Hugo stared at the ceiling. “He’s not so much a scarab as a rat, scuttling through the sewers, nibbling away at Paris’s great attractions, feeding on the already-dead.”

  “Ooh, I like it,” Claudia said, scribbling into her pad. “Go on.”

  “He’s also a coward, sneaking about at night and shooting people in the back. We’ll catch him before long, make no mistake. And when we do, he’ll spend the rest of his life in a cage.”

  Claudia finished writing, read it back to him, and said, “Are you sure? It’s pretty strong.”

  Hugo looked toward the operating room. “I’m sure.”

  Claudia stood, then pulled out her phone and Hugo heard her relay his quotation, pictured the copyeditor typing it into the computer, adding it to the story.

  “Let me ask,” Claudia said into the phone. She called over to Hugo. “Mind if we use your picture?”

  “I’m not looking to make headlines myself, so—”

  She interrupted, speaking into the phone. “He says it’s fine. Sure. The name of the guy who was shot?” Her eyes flicked at Hugo but she answered without waiting for his response. “No, they’re not releasing that still.”

  “Thanks,” Hugo said when she’d hung up. “Certain people would be upset if Tom’s name appeared in print.”

  “I figured,” she said. She lowered herself into the plastic seat beside Hugo and took his hand. When she spoke, her voice was a whisper. “Tell me he’s going to be OK.”

  Hugo squeezed her hand, the only response that seemed truthful.

  They sat for an hour, taking turns to pace the small room, talking very little, holding hands a lot. Without warning, the doors to the operating room swung open. A doctor moved toward them, untying the mask that covered her face, muscular forearms working the knot. Strands of hair stuck to her forehead and her large brown eyes were bloodshot. She had a paper bag in her hand.

  “You are here for Tom Green?” she asked. Even her voice was tired.

  “Hugo Marston. This is Claudia Roux. We’re from the US Embassy, and we’re Tom’s friends.”

  “I am Doctor Reynard. Bullet wounds seem to have become my specialty, especially lately.” Her shoulder seemed to sag with the memories of torn flesh. “Anyway, I would guess the gun was a .22 caliber and the shooter used bullets with a lead core and copper jackets. Normally, when they hit their target the copper opens up like the petals of a flower, jagged metal leaves that shred everything they touch. They make truly horrible wounds, almost always irreparable and usually fatal.” She held Hugo’s eye. “Your friend, Tom. He is charmed.” She allowed herself a small smile before continuing. “I don’t know who he prays to, but I’d like to find out.”

  “He’ll be OK?” Claudia blurted.

  “Oh, yes. He is perhaps the luckiest shooting victim I’ve ever seen. He was hit twice. One bullet passed right through his upper arm, but I think it was a ricochet because there was no sign of that monstrous shredding. The second shot lodged between two ribs.” She reached into the bag. “Thanks to this.”

  Hugo grinned as he took the metal hip flask from her. “This saved his life?”

  “Yes. The flask stripped the jacket off, which otherwise would have probably torn his heart and lungs to shreds. As it was, the flask peeled off the copper and changed the trajectory. The lead core made it through and bounced like a pinball between those two ribs. Both are cracked and he will be in a lot of pain for a while. But yes, that saved his life.” She handed him a small plastic film canister. “I’m supposed to report this, but under the circumstances . . .” She shrugged and turned away.

  Hugo watched as she walked down the hall. She stopped to talk to the CIA goons, no doubt reassuring them that the bullets themselves had been saved for ballistics comparison. As if there were any doubt about who’d fired them.

  He looked down at the container and peeled the lid off it. He immediately recognized the distinctive color and fine grain of powdered cocaine. His heart sank, but it explained Tom’s alertness that evening. Hugo resealed the plastic tub and put it in his pocket. He wrapped his arms around Claudia, pulling her close and resting his chin on her head so she couldn’t see the tears that filled his eyes.

  “Hugo. You’re squeezing a little hard,” she whispered.

  He let her go and they both turned as two orderlies propped open the doors to the operating room, then went back in to take their places at either end of Tom’s gurney. Hugo and Claudia watched as they wheeled him slowly past. Tom’s chest was wrapped in bandages and tubes ran into both arms like Frankenstein’s wires. What they could see of his face was as white as the sheets that covered his lower body and Hugo shook away the vision of his friend lying dead. Unconscious, Hugo told himself. He’s just unconscious.

  “Come on,” Claudia said. “You could probably use some rest, too.”

  Hugo took her hand and smiled. “There’s no ‘probably’ about it.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The Scarab raged.

  Fists clenched, he stalked the inside of his small apartment, shins banging into furniture as he muttered under his breath. He pressed his fists to his forehead as he moved, anguish slipping its claws through his skull and into his brain. That anguish was starting to take shape, too, dark shadows melting in from the walls of his mind to take the form of the silhouette of a man, a man tall and broad-shouldered.

  He was sure it was the same man he’d seen at Père Lachaise, it must have been: not only was he the same size, but moved the same way. And he had almost ended things, cut off the only line he had left from this world to the next, to the woman on the other side.

  Nothing, nothing, could be worse than that.

  But he’d made it out. He had fought the man off and escaped with enough of the beautiful, lovely, wonderful La Goulue.

  He concentrated his thoughts on the woman wrapped carefully in gauze and felt the anguish subside, taken over by a gr
owing wash of pride that swept over him. Despite all the work, all the danger, he was getting close and after tonight, after a few hours in his sanctuary with Jane Avril and La Goulue, he would be so much closer still.

  Three deep thumps came from the floor above, the old bitch with the broom handle. He must have been crying out again. She didn’t like it when he did that.

  She wouldn’t have to put up with it for long.

  He showered, washing himself slowly and carefully, still fascinated by the muscular body that was his, pleased by the lines of strength across his stomach, the steel of his thighs, self-indulgence made possible by the steam from the water that distorted perception and hid the shortness that tempered his pride, and that blurred the mirror across from him, obscuring the brutal face that was all anyone else ever saw of him.

  When he had dressed, he walked to the door of his sanctuary, paused as he always did, and entered slowly, switching on the red bulb that hung from the middle of the ceiling. Its light was perfect for his task, sunrise and sunset, muted energy, turning the corners of the room into shadows and putting all the light’s focus on what lay below it.

  He worked for two hours in his sanctuary, unwrapping La Goulue with a tenderness he felt sure she’d never enjoyed while alive, placing her piece by piece in the casket, her light and brittle bones barely creasing the silk that lined the box. Every touch was electric, he could feel the life flowing into the box as each bone took its rightful place, like branches added to a bonfire—except he was reversing the process, turning bones into life, not sticks into ashes.

  When he was done, when she was done, he stayed on his knees just staring. She was there, the women that had once been La Goulue and Jane Avril, together as only he could make them, and almost as together as they would ever be.

  Four more nights.

  That’s all he needed, that’s all the time he had left. A few more additions to make, and while none of them would be perfect, they didn’t need to be. Even though she herself was perfect, she’d never expected him to be. No, she’d only ever expected him to try, and he’d certainly done that.