by J. G. Sandom
“I’m sorry,” Mariane said quietly.
“Sorry? What do you have to be sorry for?”
“For the way I treated you before. I didn’t know. You were just doing your job.”
“Forget it. I’m sorry that I had to lie to you.”
“Sometimes you have to. Anyway, I was wrong about you. I should have listened to Joseph.” She shivered in the open doorway. “Well, I’ll tell them what you said.” She turned and started down the corridor.
Lyman waited for her to disappear around the corner before he stepped back through the open door. The rain had stopped. The fog was curling, rolling on, retreating across the square. He took up his position. Time passed. The fog came and went, billowing. The rain came and eased and grew intense, only to ease again. Lyman did not know how long he had been waiting when he saw a figure scurrying across the square. It was only as the face grew clear that he realized his hour was up. It was Captain Musel. The French policeman’s clothes were wet from the rain and he looked anything but happy.
“What’s the matter?” Lyman said. “You’re compromising the whole operation.”
Musel ducked into the doorway. “It’s over,” he said. “We’re rolling it up. Scarcella’s not coming.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Look at my face,” he said. “Do I look as if I’m joking? We’ve been waiting all day, for God’s sake. I tell you, Grabowski never called. He never talked to Scarcella.”
“You don’t know that for a fact.”
“Come on, Lyman. Give it up. Let go. If Scarcella were ever here, he’s long gone now. And he’s not coming back.” He shook his head. “Neither are we. You’d better tell your people we’re leaving.”
“All we need is a little more time.”
“I’m sorry, Inspector. I really am,” Musel said. “But it’s over. You did your best. I’ll put that in my report. You did all you humanly could. Now you have to think of those people downstairs. You have to think of their safety. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t even be here. It’s not even my jurisdiction.” He held out his hand. Lyman looked at it for a moment and then shook it reluctantly.
What was the point of arguing? Try as he might, he could not shake the truth. Something had gone wrong, dreadfully wrong. “Thanks for trying,” Lyman said. “I understand.” He paused. “Captain, can you do me just one more favor?”
Musel sighed. “What now?”
“Can you at least post a man by the door for the night? You’re going to have to stay in town now anyway. I’m sure you’ve missed the last train back to Amiens.”
“There’s another one in twenty minutes.”
“One man, Musel. That’s all I’m asking. Just in case Scarcella shows up. Just tonight. Then, if he doesn’t, well, then I’ll know that it’s really over.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’ll pay for his hotel room.”
“That’s not the point.”
“One night.”
The captain shook his head. “I shouldn’t do this, you know. God damn you, Lyman. Why did you have to come here? You’re asking me to put my pension on the line. I don’t owe you anything. You’re just a stranger.”
“That’s exactly right.”
“I’m going to regret this, I know it.” Then he laughed tightly. “All right, you win, Lyman. One man. I’ll post him under the southern porch where he can watch the door. But remember,” he continued, raising a finger. “It’s only for one night. It’s over, Lyman. Finished.”
Musel turned and headed out the door. Lyman watched the fat man walk across the square, watched him disappear into the fog. Then he thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and closed his eyes, listening to the random raindrops, listening to his heart. Over, he told himself. How could it ever be over? He shook his head, moving slowly back into the corridor.
A small apsidal chapel appeared to his right, shallow and full of broken artifacts, nameless, indistinct. What could have happened? he wondered. Scarcella had tried to kidnap Guy. He had threatened Mariane. And yet now, for some strange reason, the archbishop and Scarcella had had a falling-out, a change of heart. Musel was right. Grabowski had not called anyone. Lyman had given him a thousand opportunities, but they had waited out the day together at the Hôtel Métropole. Lyman. Grabowski. Koster. Mariane. All of them. Never apart, not for a moment even. Lyman froze. He could hear the sound of pounding in the distance. It was Koster in the crypt, armed with his chisel and pick. He spun about. Except for that one time, Lyman thought. Right at the very start, when Mariane had gone downstairs to put the coffee tray away.
The fog had lifted slightly by the time he reached the door. The rain had started again. The cobblestones glistened, dipped in the milky wetness of the sky. Lyman looked up at the cathedral’s southern porch. Musel’s guard stood off to one side, wearing a hat, smoking a cigarette. Lyman waved and he waved back. Perhaps he was wrong, Lyman thought. Perhaps he was just jumping to conclusions.
He looked across the open square and as he did so, as the fog receded slowly down the street, the figure of another man came into view. At first Lyman thought it was Musel. He was about to shout a greeting, hoping the captain had changed his mind, when he realized with a chilling certainty that it was not the French policeman. The fog licked at the stranger’s feet. His glasses caught the soft light of a passing streetlamp, his face came into view.
Lyman fell back. He felt his hands freeze at his sides. The cold began to creep along his spine, clawing at the nape of his neck. Then he let go, breathing. He took a step forward, and peered up at the southern porch. The guard was lying at the base of the stone apostles. His hat had tumbled down the steps. Another man leaned over him.
Lyman darted back through the door. The ambulatory was brightly lit and he struggled for a hiding place, turning round and round, until he suddenly remembered the chapel down the corridor. It was shallow, but at least it would hide him from the entrance.
A minute passed, two minutes, and he heard a footfall on the stone. He reached into his coat and removed his Smith and Wesson slowly, reluctantly. It felt odd in his hands, intractable and huge. He loaded a bullet into the cylinder, and saw the face of Crosley in the darkness down the corridor, the look of bald surprise as the knife slipped into him. Shoot, Nigel! Bloody shoot! And then the quiet countenance of that boy beside the river back in Amiens, with that piece of rose-red masonry in his hand, staring open-faced into the barrel of his gun. This gun.
“I can hear them,” someone said.
“They’re in the Carolingian crypt.”
Lyman held his breath. Then he breathed. Then he held his breath. A shadow wavered on the wall and a young man in an olive-colored raincoat ambled by.
“That’s far enough,” Lyman said, stepping forward into view.
During that first moment, as the thread unwound, it was almost unavoidable that he should feel some sense of disappointment. There was George in London. There was the Hôtel de la Paix. There was his son, Peter. But against the horror of those memories, Scarcella looked piteous and pale, dwarfed by his own actions, only a symbol of who he really was.
He was a big man, but his size was insincere. It was difficult to believe he was in his seventies. He was dressed in an ivory raincoat. Beneath it Lyman could see a charcoal suit, a red rose pinned to his lapel. He wore thick black plastic spectacles. His bald pate was flecked with rain. His puffy round face shifted from expression to expression, holding one and then another up against the moment, trying them on. “Well,” he said at last. “Inspector Lyman.”
“Signor Scarcella.”
The young man in the olive-colored raincoat began to tip his body slightly to the side, cutting down the target.
“Don’t even think about it,” Lyman said. He pushed the young man with such brute strength against the wall that the sound of the air being forced from his lungs resounded down the corridor. Lyman searched him carefully, holding the muzzle of his gun against his neck, puckering the s
kin. He was carrying an American .357, a Python. Lyman tossed it to the ground behind him. “You too, Scarcella,” he said.
“I never touch them.”
Lyman laughed. It felt good to laugh. It made him feel strong. “You too,” he repeated.
Scarcella shrugged and slowly, deliberately, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small Beretta. The butt was covered with malachite and ivory. Lyman snatched it from his hands and threw it to the floor. “This was a special occasion,” Scarcella said.
“Now, turn around,” said Lyman. “Slowly.” Lyman stepped back, his gun still aimed at Scarcella’s belly. “Put your hands on your neck, behind your head. Both of you.”
They did so.
“I’ve waited a long time for this,” Lyman said.
“So have I,” Scarcella said. “Of course,” he added whimsically, “I didn’t visualize it quite this way.”
“I bet you didn’t.”
“But I wanted to meet you.”
“Here I am. And here’s my gun.”
“So I see. Yes.” Scarcella laughed.
In the distance, Lyman could hear a steady, rhythmic pounding. They were still digging in the crypt, hacking at the mortar.
“You’re an intelligent man,” Scarcella said. “You know who I am, what I can do.”
“You’re not doing very much at the moment, are you?”
“I could make you wealthier than you’ve ever imagined. Pick an island, Lyman.”
“Go ahead,” Lyman said. “Make it easier.”
Scarcella smiled. “You’re not going to do anything silly, are you?”
“I don’t know. That depends on your answers now, doesn’t it.”
“Still trying to solve the puzzle. You’re as bad as Koster. How admirable. Always the inspector.”
“You murdered Pontevecchio, didn’t you? You’d better tell me, Scarcella, or I swear I’ll put a hole in you. Who’s your man at the City of London Police? It wasn’t just Hadley, was it?”
“Oh, this is so tiring. Really, Lyman. You’re not going to kill me.” He took off his glasses and began to rub one of his eyes. “I know who you are, you see. I know all about you. I know about Jackie and your son, Peter. I know about the College Killer. I know about George. I even know about poor young Geoffrey Crosley. You see?” He put his glasses back on.
“Your hands, Scarcella. I’m warning you.” Lyman took a step back.
“It’s no use warning me. I already know what’s going to happen. But you,” he said, gazing deep into his eyes. “You’re the one who needs a different future. Let me make one for you.”
Lyman pointed the gun at Scarcella’s face. “If you don’t answer my bloody questions, I’m going to shoot you. God help me, but I will.”
“And then what? What are you going to do then? Go back to England, back to your little metal desk with the bottle in the second drawer? Back to Dotty Taylor? I’m offering you another door. When you’ve already stepped through so many, Lyman, what is another door?”
Lyman tried to pull the trigger. He tried with all the power of a thousand nightmares. He tried to picture Peter’s frantic struggle in the dark as the cold Atlantic drew him to the ceiling. He envisioned little George, still panting in his lap, still trying to lick the blood back. And then the sun shone through the clouds between the three trees by the river, and they gathered in a circle, their heads bowed, the two boys watching, following the rainbow flashes as the trout fell to the ground.
Lyman brought the gun round with a vicious snap. It struck Scarcella on the cheekbone and he stumbled, first one knee bending, then the other, crashing to the floor.
“You’re a bloody fool. You don’t see it, do you?” Lyman said. “You don’t understand at all. Criminals don’t win, Scarcella. In the end, it’s only crime that wins. That’s all. Only the ugliness.” He waved the .38. “Now get cracking. We’re going for a little walk—to police headquarters.”
“Don’t turn around,” a voice said, out of nowhere.
Lyman felt the strength rush from his arms.
“Lower the gun. That’s right.”
His fingers turned to stone. The Smith and Wesson dangled at his side. One second it was there, and then it vanished from his grasp.
Lyman turned around. A pale man with a thin mustache stood in the open doorway.
“Where have you been?” Scarcella said. He leaned awkwardly against the wall and struggled to his feet. His cheek was bleeding where Lyman had struck him with his pistol. “That’s the second time today, Mr. McCoy. You’re making a habit of being late.”
“I’m sorry, Signor Scarcella.”
Scarcella walked across the corridor, picked up his Beretta, and slipped it inside his raincoat. Then he turned and looked at Lyman with a smile. “Too bad,” he said. “You had your chance, Inspector.” He took another step. “They were right about you. You don’t have it in you anymore. No wonder you let Crosley die. You’re all washed up.”
“If I don’t have what you have, Scarcella, I’m a lucky man. There was a time I thought I did.”
Scarcella nodded and the young man in the olive-colored raincoat struck Lyman in the face with his gun. A flashing light exploded in Lyman’s head. Then came the pain, the rush of blood inside his mouth. He stumbled to his knees. His entire head throbbed with the pounding of his heart.
Scarcella walked over to him casually, his hands on his hips. He shook his head, and with a sigh of exasperation, reached underneath his coat. Lyman shrunk back reflexively, expecting to see the Beretta. But with a simple movement of the wrist, Scarcella pulled the pin out of the rose on his lapel, removed the flower, and held it up before him. A trickle of icy water seemed to crawl down Lyman’s spine. Scarcella took a step closer, the pin in one hand and the flower in the other. Lyman could not take his eyes off the pin. He felt the presence of Scarcella rise up all around him. He heard him breathing in his ears.
Lyman shook his head, trying to tear his eyes away. Scarcella stepped closer.
Suddenly, Lyman lashed out at the rose. Thorns tore at his skin. He threw the flower to the ground. Petals scattered.
Scarcella cursed under his breath and stepped away. He shook his hand. Then he glanced down at his fingers. They were scratched and stained with blood. The thorns had cut him too. He looked up.
Lyman could feel the hatred in the old man’s eyes. It was palpable. It radiated from him with a power and virility that belied his age. “You’re dead,” Scarcella said. He reached into his raincoat and pulled out the Beretta.
Lyman shrugged. “Go ahead. It’s easy to pull the trigger. It’s the easiest thing in the world.” He laughed scornfully. “Go ahead. Do it. I’m not afraid. I don’t give a bloody damn.”
“Wait!” The pale man with the thin mustache rushed forward. “They’ll hear the shot in Paris. We can take care of him outside.”
The man in the olive-colored raincoat smiled. He reached into his coat to put his gun away. Then Lyman saw the cool glint of a blade.
“All right, but hurry,” said Scarcella. “We’ve wasted enough time.” With that he turned and headed down the corridor, into the heart of the crypt.
Lyman found himself staring at the young man in the olive-colored raincoat as he struggled to his feet. The blade caressed the air before him, cutting it open, and Lyman remembered one of his old instructors at the academy back in England.
They call it cut to ribbons, he had said the first day of their self-defense class, because if your knife’s sharp and you’re good, you can slice a forearm like a joint, and the skin will hang down from the bone in strips like crimson ribbons.
“Come on,” McCoy said flatly. He motioned to the young man with the knife. “Let’s get it over with.”
A single naked lightbulb dangled from the ceiling, casting a snowy afternoon glare about the crypt. Nearly forty feet across, the room was roughly semicircular, punctuated by a pair of massive pillars near the center. A large stone altar squatted by the wall where Koster
and Grabowski were digging. Mariane hovered nearby, trying to shine a flashlight over their shoulders, down into the opening in the wall.
Koster eased the chisel down the crack, and began to hammer at it steadily again. More masonry gave way. It was difficult to maneuver in the narrow shaft, and the hammer kept slipping off the chisel. He rested for a moment, scraped some loose stone behind him, took aim and struck again.
The more Koster worked, the more uncomfortable he became. He was scratching at the very heart of the cathedral. Somewhere at the root of this great edifice was a tiny spring, said to have magical curative powers. For centuries, before anyone had even built a structure here, the mound and grove around it had been worshipped as a holy site, a place where farmers made their offerings to the great mother. The Virgin. The Cult of Relics. Koster smashed at the chisel.
It was as if the cathedral were alive. As if she breathed, was sentient. She seemed aware of everything he did.
More masonry crumbled. Dust choked the cavity. Koster waved at the air, trying to clear his vision.
Then, suddenly, there was a glint of gold. There! The hint of something to the side, a surface winking in the mortar!
Koster dropped the chisel and reached deep within the hole. It was there. After all this time and speculation, after all the calculations, it was there!
He shoveled the mortar back behind him like a badger. First gold, and then a glassy nub. An edge. A side. Grabowski joined Koster in the opening, and they began to work the object together, pulling and pushing at it like the loose tooth of a child.