The Book Artist

by Mark Pryor

  “And also what?” Hugo prompted.

  “This sounds terrible,” Drummond said in a whisper. “But I think part of the reason I was able to do it was because of my father.”

  “Your father? What do you mean?”

  “I killed him, remember? And killing Alia . . .” He shrugged his big shoulders. “I don’t know. It was easier the second time around, just like they say it is.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Hugo and Tom sat on a bench in the Luxembourg Gardens, both wearing long wool coats, hats, and fur-lined leather gloves. Their feet had left trails in the dusting of snow that covered the gravel pathway.

  “Feel good to be alive?” Hugo asked after a while.

  “Yeah. My ass is getting cold, but even that feels good.” Tom shifted. “Hey, man. I need to say something.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “The Cofers are assholes who deserved to die. They killed my sister, so there’s no doubt in my mind that they deserved to die. But the thing is . . .”

  “Are you saying you regret shooting Cofer in Houston?”

  “Fuck no!” Tom looked at Hugo, surprise on his face. “You think I feel bad about that?”

  “It crossed my mind that you might recognize the extrajudicial nature that—”

  “Shut up, Hugo, you sound like a lawyer. And let me be real fucking clear, I do not regret killing that bastard one little bit.” The anger dropped from his voice. “What I’m trying to say is, I’m sorry for putting you in a position where you had to . . . compromise yourself. Back there and, eventually, here.”

  “I appreciate that, but I chose—”

  “Dude, in Houston you had two choices, both shitty, and that was my fault. All my fault. I’d say nothing like that will ever happen again, but that’s not a promise I can keep. I can promise that I’ll do my best never to put you in that situation again.”

  “Good enough.” Hugo felt the tips of his toes start to tingle with the cold, but Tom was right, it did feel good to be out there, with the crisp air and the laughter of a nearby group of kids trying to gather enough snow to make snowballs. He felt a stab of sadness that Alia and Ryan were gone for good, that he’d never see them again, but then he turned his mind back to the moment, the weak but warming sun and the knowledge that his best friend was alive, well, and not chasing a murderer.

  “So, you’re quite the knight in shining armor, I guess,” Tom said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Saving Claudia from the guillotine with the DNA trick.”

  “It wasn’t a trick, Tom, is was solid, logical reasoning. And the guillotine, really?”

  Tom chuckled and shook his head. “You’re such an idiot.”

  “Why?”

  “Many reasons, but this time it’s because your adherence to logic and reason can be blinding.”

  “Well, I’m sorry if—”

  “Not to me, to you.”

  “Not following,” Hugo said.

  “You need to think how other people think. I don’t mean when you’re off hunting killers—you manage to do it just fine then. Which, if you think about it, is pretty fucking creepy. But I’m talking about Claudia.”

  “I need to think like her?”

  “You need to know how she’s thinking. Dude, look. You think I’m being dramatic because I said you saved her from the guillotine, and you think that because they don’t use it anymore. Well, congratulations for knowing what everyone else knows.” Tom turned toward him. “What you need to understand is that Claudia feels exactly like you’ve saved her from losing her head. To you, it’s a puzzle solved; you minimize the impact because . . . well, because you’re Hugo. But you saved her. Maybe from a trial, maybe from a murder conviction. Maybe even from getting shivved in prison. But you did that, and even if you’re going to be a dolt and not give yourself credit, you need to understand that she is giving you credit. And if you ever want to be with her, be with all of her all of the time, you need to stop holding back, to give up some of yourself and really start thinking like her, not just thinking of her.”

  Hugo sat quietly for a moment. “Getting shot by Rick Cofer turned you into quite the philosopher-cum-psychologist, huh?”

  “Maybe it did.” Tom blew out a breath, a puff that disappeared in a moment. “But you’re not going to be here forever. You’ve had a good ride in Paris; but, who knows, one day maybe we’ll get a moron of a president who doesn’t believe in international relations and shuts down all our embassies to stop moochers like you from suckling off the government teat.”

  “The world will always need diplomats,” Hugo said.

  “Yeah, in theory. But what if you get fired, get moved on—or what if Claudia finds a man who’ll commit?”

  “Tom, come on. It’s her not wanting to commit, not me!”

  “You’ve had that conversation?”

  “We’ve tried, yes.”

  “And I bet every time you’ve tried, someone’s called your phone, or you’ve been summoned by Taylor, or . . . some damn thing has come up.”

  “Usually you,” Hugo said.

  “Yeah, well, you saved my life too, I guess, so now focus on her.” Tom was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry about Ryan, too.”

  “He was different, Tom. Too good for this sordid world we inhabit.”

  Tom smiled. “I’d never admit this in front of any other human being . . . but that’s how I feel about you.”

  “Me?” Hugo was surprised. “No, Ryan was—”

  “Look, don’t compare yourself. And don’t beat yourself up.”

  “I won’t,” Hugo said. “I expect I’ll find a nice compartment for him, somewhere in the recesses of my mind, somewhere I can access from time to time to remember him.”

  “How many compartments do you think people like us have?”

  “It’s the only way we can keep going,” Hugo said. “Without sorting them out, putting them away . . .”

  “Oh, I know. Mine are not so much compartments as walled gardens, filled with monsters roaming around, gnashing their teeth.”

  “Sounds dangerous.”

  “It’s only dangerous if they get out,” Tom said, his voice quiet.

  Hugo turned to him. “Speaking of dangerous, we never talked about the bullet you left in the .32 that Cofer went for.”

  “Nope, we sure didn’t.”

  “Mind telling me what that was about?”

  Tom held his eye for a moment. “Well, then. It occurred to me that you’d be in greater danger, from your delicate conscience, if you shot an unarmed man than you were from actually being beaten to the trigger by that asshole.”

  “Quite the risk you had me take.”

  “Nonsense. Fastest gun in the West, you are. Best shot in the academy and cool as a cucumber under pressure. I never had any doubt you’d fire first, and I knew you wouldn’t miss. Especially at that range.” Tom pushed himself to his feet with a groan. “Come on, Wyatt Earp, I’m cold.”

  “Were are you going?”

  “To buy you a hot chocolate.”

  “You know, that sounds good. Really good.”

  “They serve it in bowls here,” Tom said. “Did you know that?”

  “No, Tom.” He rolled his eyes, even though his friend had already started walking away. “I’ve been eating and drinking in Paris’s cafés for five years; how would I possibly know something like that?”

  “You don’t have to be a sarcastic dick about it,” Tom called over his shoulder.

  Hugo smiled as he followed his friend along the pathway toward the park’s exit, and he slipped off a glove so he could dial Claudia. He’d been planning on asking her to dinner, and still would.

  But maybe she’d like some hot chocolate, first, he thought.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To all the wonderful friends who allow/request/cajole me into using their names in the book, I hope you have as much fun with it as I do! Thanks for playing.

  To my family, who, as always,
puts up with my disappearances to the library and coffee shops to write, thank you for filling in the gaps and doing the chores I would otherwise love to do.

  To the wonderful folks at my two favorite libraries. First, to Eric, Linda, Lyssa, and company at the Will Hampton Library at Oak Hill, who manage to show interest in whatever I’m working on while giving me the space to get on with it. And to my new friends at the Laura Bush Library in Bee Caves. You’ve created a haven for me, with peace, quiet, and beautiful views of the hill country. And you’re open on Sundays, bless you for that!

  My thanks as ever to the folks at Seventh Street Books: editor extraordinaire Dan Mayer, the wonderful Jill Maxick, fixer and font of all wisdom; editor-cum-genius Jade Zora Scibilia, publicist Jake Bonar, and the magnificent cover artist, Nicole Sommer-Lecht. And always a huge thank you to my agent, Ann Collette, who survived a move to Texas just to be closer to me and continue to guide my career . . . right?!

  Finally, to a friend too-soon departed. My thanks to Philip Kerr, who was more of an inspiration than he knows, and a better friend than he realized. See you on the flip side, matey.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Mark Pryor is the author of The Bookseller, The Crypt Thief, The Blood Promise, The Button Man, The Reluctant Matador, The Paris Librarian, and The Sorbonne Affair—the first seven Hugo Marston novels—as well as Hollow Man and Dominic: A Hollow Man Novel. He has also published the true-crime book As She Lay Sleeping. A native of Hertfordshire, England, he is an assistant district attorney in Austin, Texas, where he lives with his wife and three children.