by Mark Pryor
“Right. Nice part of the world.”
“Beautiful,” said Garcia. “If you like all that nature stuff. Anyway, you’ll remember that a night watchman at the cemetery down there was shot.”
“While our hero was stealing bones from a grave.”
“Exactement. The ballistics reports matched that shooting with the two kids at Père Lachaise, and the girl last night. But I don’t see what they all have in common. Who exactly are we looking for? What kind of killer is he?”
“Let’s look at what those have in common.” Hugo sat back as the waiter arrived with their coffees. When the waiter had left, he continued. “For a start, he’s taken a trophy from every one.”
“Skin and bones,” Garcia said.
“Oui. And yet I don’t think they are just trophies.”
“Why not?”
“Too much trouble. A trophy is almost like an afterthought. A killer may know what he’s taking as his trophy, I’ve seen everything from rings to eyeballs, but it’s not usually as intricate as something like skin.”
“Eyeballs?”
“Delightful, I know.” Hugo grimaced at the memory. Six jam jars, each containing two pairs of eyeballs. Color coded. “Anyway, it’s like we have two distinct crimes, the bone-stealing and the killing. But I’d bet anything that’s not true. The murders and the bone gathering, they are for the same reason.”
“And what is that?” Garcia watched Hugo for a second. “You’re not saying he’s Dr. Frankenstein?”
“I’d have said he’s putting together a woman, except the bones in Castet were male, right?”
“Oh yes, most definitely.” A smile tugged at the corners of Garcia’s mouth. “And now we know the Scarab’s name, we can say that they weren’t any old male bones.”
“No? There’s a connection?” And then Hugo remembered his phone call with the ambassador while Tom was in surgery, a conversation all but forgotten in the stress of the moment. “Villier. That’s the name of the man who was dug up.”
“Exactement.” Garcia held Hugo’s eye for a second. “His father. He dug up his own father.”
Chapter Thirty
Capitaine Garcia looked at Hugo over the top of his coffee cup. “Why is he doing this?”
“It’s an act of recreation. He’s bringing someone back to life, either his mother, a sister, his girlfriend.” He shrugged. “Like I said, the father . . . that’s something else.”
“That’s bizarre, is what it is.”
Hugo took a sip of his coffee and thought back to the first report of the Castet cemetery break-in. “Am I right in thinking some of the bones were crushed?”
“Oui. A lot, actually.”
“You know, it’s possible he didn’t steal any at all.”
Garcia’s expression was blank. “Then why . . . ?”
“We assumed, because of Père Lachaise maybe, that a raided grave automatically means stolen bones. But that doesn’t have to be true. Maybe he broke into his father’s grave to do the opposite of what he was doing at Père Lachaise.”
“You mean, to destroy?”
“Yes. The grave has a hold on him, it possesses great power in his mind. Think about it that way. If he can steal bones from a grave to recreate something, then it makes sense for him to rob a grave and crush bones to destroy something.”
“He was destroying his father?”
“That was part of his plan yes, and the rest involves recreating a woman. It’s weird, but it fits.”
Garcia grinned. “His mug shot is in the file. An ugly little bastard, so I’m guessing he’s not recreating a girlfriend.”
Hugo opened the folder and stared at the color printout of Claude Villier. He recognized the high forehead and curly hair, the carelessly hewn features that were his nose and mouth. And the eyes, deep gashes chiseled into his face that said nothing, showed nothing. Neither anger nor remorse, and certainly not fear.
“We need to talk to people who know him,” Hugo said. “Family, friends, anyone. Does he have family?”
“Not that we could find. Father’s dead, obviously. The neighbors say the mother disappeared almost fifteen years ago.”
“When and how did the father die?”
“Drank himself to death. Apparently he was a piece of work, too. Used to beat the mother and the boy, control everything they did. The neighbors told us that eventually the mother just took off, left them both.”
“Claude would have been about twelve. Being abandoned like that would have been traumatic for any young boy, even more so for one left behind with an abusive father.” Hugo drank more coffee while he thought. “You have people looking for the mother?”
“Yes, but it’s been so long, if she’s still alive she probably changed her name and has been living under a different identity for a decade. Do you think she’d come out of the woodwork if we published his picture?”
Hugo hesitated. “She might, but I doubt it. She’s probably already ashamed to have left him behind, she’ll be even more ashamed if she finds out he’s a serial killer. She’ll blame herself for that.” He shook his head. “No. I doubt she’ll come forward, and even if she does it doesn’t get us that far. It’s him we need.”
“You think he’ll kill again?”
“Oh yes,” Hugo said. “They always kill again. Which means we need to catch him before he has the chance.”
“And how do we do that? Do we issue his picture and ask for help?” Garcia spread his hands. “I’m afraid I don’t have much experience with serial killers.”
“I do.” Hugo drained his coffee cup. “No, letting the world know we have a serial killer out there will cause panic. And this guy can hide, either by disguising himself or disappearing through the underground tunnels.”
“Then what do we do?”
“We figure out who his next victim is, and when he plans to kill her.”
Garcia left, his agreed task to try and find the Scarab’s mother. In Hugo’s mind she was key, despite what he’d told Garcia and even though he couldn’t articulate a reason why. Years of experience chasing killers with mommy issues, maybe. Somehow, as Freud figured out, it always came back to the parents, be they good, bad, or indifferent. And here, Hugo thought, there seemed to be a pretty good mix of all three.
He began the walk back to the embassy, wondering what he could do to supplement Garcia’s search, and planning to go over the second file the capitaine had given him. It was on the girl shot the previous evening, and it contained the police report, crime scene photographs, and as full a history of the girl as they had been able to work up. His phone rang as he neared the Place de la Concord and he checked the display: J. Bradford Taylor.
“Mr. Ambassador,” Hugo said. “How can I help?”
“Actually, I’m calling to help you,” Taylor said. “You might want to take the rest of the day off. Or work from home, if you must.”
“Why?”
“Let’s just say you’re not the only one who thought Mohammed Al Zakiri an innocent victim.”
“Meaning?”
“We’re having a bit of a gathering outside the embassy. Couple hundred people with the usual stuff, banners, effigies, and the like.”
“Protestors?”
“Yes. Pakistani nationals and expats, some antiwar people, the usual generous dollop of America haters.”
Hugo groaned. “That’s just great. Who’s the lucky effigy this time, our president again? The French president?”
“A couple of me, for a nice change, but that’s why I’m suggesting you stay at home.”
“What, me?” Hugo stopped in his tracks. “They’re burning me?”
“Your name was on the original press release, and you’ve been quoted a couple of times in Claudia Roux’s stories. Plus, in this morning’s article.”
“She has a new one out? I haven’t seen it.”
“Very nicely written,” said Taylor. “In the first person, as she witnessed it herself. Accurate, too, as far as I can tell,
but your name pops up again.”
“Making me the American face of this almighty cock-up.” Hugo looked around, as if the protest might spill this far from the embassy and drown him in its fury. “Never mind that I was the only one saying he wasn’t a goddamn terrorist.”
“I know, I know. But I don’t suggest you try explaining that to anyone just yet. Go home and let them calm down, there’s nothing to be gained by being here and antagonizing them.”
“I have work to do, Ambassador, a serial killer to catch.”
“Then go catch him. Just don’t do it from here.”
“Fine, I’ll be in touch.” Hugo hung up and started to walk back the way he’d come, aiming in the vague direction of the river and his apartment on Rue Jacob. The phone was still in his hand, and he decided to call Claudia. She owed him lunch or, if he had the stomach for it, dinner.
Chapter Thirty-one
The Scarab had followed him all day. Now, he watched as Marston stopped near the Place de la Concorde to talk on the phone. He watched closely as the man’s features clouded over. Bad news, eh? The Scarab moved back into a side street as Marston turned and started toward him. The man had become like a drug to him, a dangerous one. But why?
Perhaps because Marston was everything that the Scarab was not: tall, handsome, and confident, able to operate in the open without people looking away, repulsed. Or, maybe it was because they were studying each other. The Scarab had researched Marston as best he could, using the Internet at the public library. He knew Marston was former FBI, a profiler no less, and now the RSO at the US Embassy. The Scarab had even read a couple of papers that Marston had written about behavioral analysis, and read up on some of the man’s more newsworthy cases.
A profiler. That meant he was trying to understand the Scarab, to figure out what made him tick. To understand him. His mother, too long ago, had been the only person who understood him, the only one to even try. Until now. Marston wanted to understand him for all the wrong reasons, in order to catch him, yes. But the American actually sought to know him and, whatever the policeman’s motivations, that brought them closer.
The Scarab was only disappointed he didn’t have more time, couldn’t leave more clues for Marston. He’d just have to explain it to his face right before he killed him.
And then it dawned on him. He could let the American live. He could explain it all and then, as long as the man was restrained, he could finish his project. The realization came like an explosion in his mind. How perfect to complete this, to bring her to life through the death of others, and to leave behind the one person who might understand!
At his apartment the old woman above him had tacked a note to his door, complaining about her water heater again. The Scarab lived here for free, no paperwork or anything, but the deal was he fixed things. He’d fixed her water heater twice, unstopped her toilet, even replaced a window. The bitch thought he worked for her.
The people below, he liked them. Two men and a boy. He supposed they were homosexuals, but they left him alone and fixed their own stuff, so he liked them.
He knocked on the door of the gay couple first, waiting patiently before knocking a second time, then a third. He was in luck, they were out. The old woman was in and less than polite.
“I thought you had fixed it, non? Why is it not working still?”
“Let’s look, shall we. Can you turn on the hot tap for your bath?”
“My bath?”
“Si. Show me.”
He followed her into the narrow bathroom. She leaned over to turn on the hot tap and he eased her weak body over the edge into the tub. She didn’t fight because she didn’t realize what was happening, her wrinkled mouth opening in protest only when she hit the bottom of the porcelain bathtub. The sight of a gun in his hand silenced her and he thought he’d never seen eyes so big.
Not too big, though, because he managed to put the bullet right between them, snapping her head against the side of the bath with a hollow thump. He watched as she settled back, blood filling the drain. Just before he left, a wheeze escaped her cracked lips, and that made him smile.
He went back to his apartment and threw her note into the trash container he kept under his sink, then went to the grubby couch in the living room, his eyes running over the door to his sanctuary. Two more nights, and two more additions. One hard, one easy.
Tonight the easy.
He picked up the phone and dialed the number. She’d been here once before and he’d been gentle, very gentle, and then he’d overpaid, making sure she’d remember and be happy to come back. Not that people had trouble remembering him—coming back was usually the problem.
“Can you be here soon?” he asked. It wouldn’t take long, but he had a long drive ahead of him, an empty house that needed clearing out. Gutting.
“You’ve cut your hair,” she said when she arrived an hour later. She ran a friendly hand over his head. “I like it.”
She had a hard face, pretty but as if she’d skipped from childhood to middle age, missing adolescence and the soft years of early adulthood. He wondered if maybe she’d had the same kind of father he did, but he wasn’t comfortable making conversation. Not something he was good at. She was his height, with a narrow waist and large breasts and hips, so he didn’t take her for a drug addict. Her hair had been many colors, he could tell because of how brittle it was when he touched it, how the individual hairs went from blonde to mud to red to black, and back again. Before it had been blonde, now it was mostly red.
“Shall we go to the bedroom?” she asked.
“No,” he said, a little too quickly. It’s a sanctuary, not a bedroom.
“It’s your money, chéri, whatever and wherever you want.”
The idea repulsed him, the memory of last time, how he’d gone through the motions just to see, to check that she was right. But she’d been perfect. Not in that way, but for what he needed today, and her advertisement indicated she’d go along. Mostly.
“You brought your bag of . . .”
She winked. “Mais oui, toujours.” She unzipped a cloth shoulder bag and opened it wide for him to see. “What should we use?”
“I think,” he said, acting now, the unsure neophyte, “the handcuffs?”
“Bien. Me or you?”
He could just kill her, of course. But the closer he got to the day, the more perfect he wanted everything to be. The fresher he wanted his offerings. And so he fumbled with the cuffs, smiling as she cooed and showed him how, her large breasts jiggling like insults to the memory of his mother and he glanced, several times, at the closed door to the sanctuary as if she were alive already, and looking out at him.
She lay on the floor, naked, and he lay beside her, naked too. She looked between his legs. “Not enjoying yourself. What can I do?”
“Turn over,” he said, his voice gentle.
“Bien sûr. Comme ça?” She rolled onto her stomach, her arms stretched out over her head, the metal of the handcuffs rattling as she moved. She raised her backside and smiled as the Scarab inhaled sharply.
“Perfect,” he whispered.
“Merci bien. I’m glad you like it.”
But it wasn’t her backside he was enjoying. “Did you ever dance?” he asked, and her eyes opened wide in surprise.
“No, not really.”
“You will,” he sighed. “It’s OK, you will.”
“You want to dance now?”
There was confusion in her voice, so he smiled at her. “No. I have a . . . toy. Can I use it?”
His voice reassured her, and she smiled. “Certainement,” she purred. “Have I been naughty?”
“No,” he said, caressing her back. “You’ve been good. And you’re going to be even better for me. Let me use your blindfold, though.”
He dipped into her bag and slipped the silk blindfold over her head as she giggled and simpered, adjusting it so she was comfortable. He stood and went to the coffee table, opening the drawer as quietly as he could, to tak
e out his hunting knife.
“Where did you go, chéri?” she asked, but she didn’t seem too worried.
He moved back, kneeling beside her. “I’m here. Are you ready?”
“Always,” she said, arching her back. “What are we going to do?”
“A little cutting,” he whispered.
She stiffened. “A little what?”
He put his left hand on the back of her head and pushed her face into the carpet. She grunted and began to squirm. The Scarab smiled, knowing she was coming to the realization that the handcuffs and blindfold weren’t for play anymore. He slid onto her legs and hit her once, hard, on the back of the head with the butt of his knife. She let out a long, low moan and lay there, whimpering.
The Scarab smiled again, and ran his fingers down her back, admiring the tattoo that ran from the top of her buttocks to her neck, the roaring lion in shades of orange, yellow, and black, whose front paws rested on a rock and whose majestic head lifted high, bellowing at the world, showing his voice and his long, dangerous teeth. It was no leopard, of course, but the king of the jungle was a good substitute. She’d understand.
He slid the knife into her side, two inches outside the tattoo—experience had shown him how the skin contracts, tears a little, so a margin was necessary—and when she bucked, he hit her again.
He sliced her carefully, thinking himself a surgeon, separating the skin from her body with short, caressing cuts. He kept her still with the weight of his body and the hard end of his knife, and soon her gurgles became background noise. Once, early on, he thought she was going to throw up, so he quickly stripped a cushion of its cover and shoved as much of it as he could deep into her mouth. Soon after that she stopped protesting altogether.
When he was done, he took his trophy into the bathroom to clean it, marveling at the canvas in his hands. When he came out, he looked at her, wondering if somehow she’d moved. Had he left her right there?
His knife was clean now, too, but he couldn’t risk a disturbance, so he stood over her, placed the tip of the knife in her bloodied back, over where he thought her heart might be, and pressed down, letting his body-weight do the work. Her legs kicked a little, and there was an odd liquid sound from her throat. He left the knife there, up to its hilt in her back, and went to the door of his sanctuary. Before he went in, he looked back at the girl on the floor and smiled.