The Burial Society

by Nina Sadowsky

  A black silhouette looms over him, an outstretched arm holding a red umbrella that shelters a black cat. The cat, in turn, intently, expectantly, observes a red fishing pole. It’s a painting, Jake realizes queasily. The quaint blue-and-white enameled street sign affixed next to the mural reads RUE DE LA CHAT QUI PÊCHE.

  Jake tries to pull himself up to a sitting position. Grunts in pain. Eases back down. He needs to be still. Just for a little longer…

  Maybe if he pushes from the other side…

  He realizes he’s lying in an alley, or more accurately half-in and half-out of it, his long legs stretched across the sidewalk. People stream past, deftly skirting his limbs, averting their eyes.

  The night returns to him in flashes. The girl with the gold ring and the beatdown of her thieving father ignited a bloodlust in Jake. He’d gone looking for trouble and he’d found it, welcoming every punch and every kick, both landed and received.

  He understands Natalie a little better now. There is a perverse pleasure in his physical pain and the temporary escape it provides.

  Shit. Natalie must be worried sick about him. How is he going to explain coming back in this state?

  Bells peal and Jake counts along, curious to know the time, even as the chimes bruise his throbbing headache. Five o’clock in the evening. He’s lost an entire day.

  Jake takes a shaky breath. Yelps as pain ricochets once more across his chest. But he grits his teeth and pushes through it, maneuvering himself upright, his back pressed against the painting of the hopeful black cat.

  A mugging. He’ll tell Natalie it was just a random mugging. He was jumped coming out of a bar. That’ll have to do for now.

  Christ knows what he’ll say when that bitch Martinet shows up to tell Natalie she thinks Jake murdered their dad.

  Struggling to his feet, Jake staggers into the pedestrian flow. He keeps his battered head lowered to avoid the curious glances of passersby. He catches the comet’s tail of a glittery pack of young socialites as they shoot off rue Saint-Honoré and into the Mandarin Oriental hotel. Keeping one arm raised to shield his broken face, he trails them through the lobby and into the woodsy Bar 8, before cutting away to the bank of elevators going up to the guest floors.

  Jake fishes out his wallet. There’s the key card, pressed between his driver’s license and his NYU student ID. He pulls the key card out.

  A pair of elevator doors whooshes open. A couple stumbles out, laughing, hanging on to one another, she tripping out of her stiletto heels, his hand snaking inside her flimsy dress. Jake steps past them. He punches the button for the fifth floor.

  Jake’s certain he can make his pitch about coming clean with success. The last time they’d been alone together (which admittedly had also been the first time they’d been alone together) had been in this very hotel, Room 517. Everything about that night had magic dust sprinkled on it. Why shouldn’t there be more of the same?

  But as the elevator rises, so does his anxiety.

  What if he’s not in the room alone?

  Oh god.

  What if this is all a terrible mistake?

  The elevator stops. The doors open. Jake hesitates. Steps out onto padded carpet. The elevator doors whoosh shut behind him.

  Walking down the hallway, Jake runs his key card along the flocked wallpaper. Thup, thup, thup goes the plastic card flicking against the paper’s raised pattern.

  Room 517. Jake inserts the key card into the door handle. The sensor blinks green.

  He swings the door open.

  “Honey, I’m home,” he attempts feebly, to both announce his arrival and make light of it.

  “My god. What happened to you?”

  Anger and worry crease Hank Scovell’s face in equal measure as he looks up from his sprawl on the room’s maroon sofa.

  Jake blinks. Whoa. Fuck, I’m dizzy. He puts a steadying hand to the wall.

  “I got mugged. Jumped. Coming out of a club.” There, it’s done. The first time he’s told the lie. Keep it clean. That’s the trick to lying well.

  “Come with me.” Hank directs him into the bathroom. Gestures that Jake should take a seat on the edge of the white porcelain tub. Hank soaks a washcloth, twists it out, and dabs a smidgen of the hotel’s fig-scented Diptyque soap onto one corner.

  “This is going to hurt,” he warns.

  He cleans Jake’s face of blood and dirt, extracting a couple of glass splinters from his left cheekbone along the way. Jake winces.

  “I even have Band-Aids,” Hank promises. “Lucky you.”

  “Yeah. Lucky me.”

  Hank leans in closer to clear the crusted blood from Jake’s right eye. Jake snakes a hand up and cups Hank’s jaw. Rises up to kiss him hungrily, despite his busted lip. Hank responds with urgency.

  But then Hank pulls away. Places his hands solidly on Jake’s shoulders and eases him back to sitting on the tub’s edge. “We can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Come on. Your father was my boss, my mentor, my friend—”

  “I’m your friend.”

  “Yes. You are. But don’t be naïve. You’re twenty-one, I’m thirty-nine. We both know how it’ll play. Older man corrupts young innocent, betraying the trust of his boss in the process…”

  “We both know I turned you, Hank. Not the other way around.”

  “I’m talking about perception! I have way more on the line here than you do. And for Christ’s sake it was bad enough before your father was—”

  “You have more on the line?” Anger rips through Jake. “The cops found out that I came back to Paris a day earlier than I said. They want to know why. They think I killed my father! But I couldn’t have, could I? Because I was here fucking you!”

  “Did you admit we were together? What have you told them? Dammit, Jake—”

  “That’s what worries you? What is it, 1950? Do you think anyone actually cares if you’re gay?”

  “That’s not the point! Our…thing…it could be construed as motive.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? We’re each other’s alibis.”

  “Or co-conspirators to murder if the cops want to spin it that way.”

  “But we didn’t do anything!”

  “That’s why we don’t have to worry.”

  “So we’re just supposed to say nothing? They think I did it, Hank! They came right out and said so!”

  Hank extends an index finger to Jake’s jaw. Tilts his head so he can look into his eyes. “We will if we have to, if it comes to that, of course. We’re just not there yet, is all I’m saying.”

  Jake pushes his hand away. “I’m out of here—”

  “Okay. But don’t be so harsh on me, Jake. You know who you are. You’re lucky that way. I’m…I’m just not so sure yet.”

  Ursine Fournier’s tiny apartment in the 5th had revealed three Siamese cats, a cleverly arranged collection of Japanese fans, and the hot waiter from the Indian restaurant, bare-chested and pleased with himself.

  But no sign of Natalie.

  If the girl sought out help and comfort, it wasn’t from either of the only two women she knew in Paris. That I knew of. I try to put myself inside Natalie’s head. I understand all too well the hardship of not knowing. How it twists at your guts and leaks poisons into your mind. How filling in the blanks allows one to create an endless loop of catastrophic outcomes, each one more horrible than the last.

  Poor girl. Poor Natalie.

  I stop that thought dead as soon as it floats. Neither of us can afford sentimentality.

  The brutal heat is fading as the day turns to evening and the sky glows cobalt. A welcome breeze caresses my face.

  As with any missing persons case, I’m starting with known associates. I’ll fan out wider based on any gleaned information. I’m applying a cold-eyed assessment to each person I encounter: psychologies and quirks, soft spots and hard shells, the nature of their relationship to truth, the self-interest that powers their actions.

  The
social engineering aspect of any endeavor is always paramount. There’s always a human being who can be worked.

  I’ve dispatched Jumah as my advance man to the Mandarin Oriental. He’s confirmed that Hank Scovell returned to the hotel. Jumah has kept to his post across from the main entrance, and as far as he can tell, Scovell hasn’t left.

  As I turn the corner onto rue Saint-Honoré, Jumah sees me and straightens, squares his shoulders. I join him. Thank him. Tell him I’ll take it from here. He gives me a sharp little salute and goes on his way.

  A pair of smartly clad doormen flanks the hotel entrance. Its simple façade, golden rectangles of light forming orderly rows five wide windows across and seven stories high, doesn’t do justice to the sleek, austere beauty I know lies within. The hotel appears deceptively small, when in fact it runs a full block, cradling a courtyard with a pool and lush greenery. The guest rooms are gorgeous, both aggressive in their modernity and boldly spare in color, touched with Asian accents. I stayed here once, in a happier, long ago time.

  I’m about to cross the street when I see Jake Burrows exiting from the hotel.

  Quelle surprise.

  He hesitates, glancing first right and then left, before turning sharply and striding down the avenue. I follow him.

  Jake’s agitated. Muttering to himself, tugging his hands through his hair, his back curled into a protective hunch.

  I calculate my approach. I don’t know what Natalie or Frank has said about me to Jake, if anything. Still, Hannah Potter seems my best alternative. Keep it simple.

  Hurrying my steps, I catch up to him. His long legs take big easy bites out of the pavement; I have to double step to keep pace.

  “Jake? Jake Burrows?”

  He wheels to face me, eyes wild, barely contained violence bristling through his lanky limbs. I get a good look at his face, bruised and battered, see the stiff and halting way he’s moving to protect his ribs.

  “Are you okay, Jake? Do you need a doctor?”

  “Who the fuck are you?’

  “My name’s Hannah Potter. I know your uncle. And your sister.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “I was looking for Natalie, actually. I thought she might have gone to see Hank Scovell.”

  “Why would Natalie go to see Hank?” Jake is incredulous. His face contorts with confusion. He towers over me.

  “Jake. I’m trying to help you. Calm down.”

  He laughs then. A wild, unrestrained chortle. From deep in his belly. He bursts away from me and down the sidewalk. Dashes across the street.

  An irate driver in a red Peugeot has to slam on his brakes to avoid hitting him and lays on the horn.

  I cross the street as the horn blasts, Jake staggering ahead of me. I make a grab for him. Get only a handful of his bloodied T-shirt. He whirls. Hauls back to punch me.

  I duck. As the momentum of his futile swing arcs the nape of his neck into my easy reach, I jab a syringe upward.

  Jake shoots me a bewildered glance before folding in half and swaying toward the ground.

  I catch him under his arms and haul him to his feet. He’s surprisingly light. Parchment over dry bones.

  One or two passersby give curious glances, but in French I angrily berate the unconscious young man for drinking too much yet again.

  Scanning the street for a taxi, I’m surprised and pleased to see a dinky white van pull up.

  “Get in,” Jumah insists urgently in French. “We have a problem.”

  Like I need another problem.

  He needed to get away from that fucking hotel. He’s furious with both Jake and Natalie. Scared shitless about them. And terrified of the face and the name that Hannah Potter has put to the man who had been stalking Brian. Victor Wyatt. Funny how a photograph and four syllables can lead to an onslaught of emotion.

  Frank longs for action, but has no idea of what to actually do. He walked for blocks without a destination. Then one occurred to him. A place he knew would provide both peace and perspective.

  Here at last.

  Striding through the wrought-iron gates of Père Lachaise gives Frank a profound sense of relief. A sigh escapes him.

  He’s always liked cemeteries.. The tangible monuments to love and respect. The sense that honor can endure after death.

  And Père Lachaise is extraordinary, housing as it does the remains of French presidents and poets, scientists and novelists, opera singers and painters, statesmen and foreign generals. Hundreds of years of history are concealed under its softly rolling hills.

  Forbidding mausoleums with names carved into stone flank his walkway: Famille Arman, Gueretor, or Ricard. Ponsat, Bourdieu, or Demonjay.

  Many are simple gray slabs, others fantastically carved and adorned with swooning women, spritely cherubs, or musical instruments so realistic they look as if they could be played. Some of the tombs are lovingly tended, with blooming flower boxes or potted trees. Others are neglected, leaf-strewn, moss-ridden, crumbling stone.

  The last time he had come to this cemetery, it had been 2011. Frank happened to visit the day after July 3, the fortieth anniversary of Jim Morrison’s death. Hundreds of emo-looking kids had poured in to visit Morrison’s grave in macabre celebration on the third, leaving behind offerings of wine, record albums, flowers, posters adorned with lipstick kisses. A handful still lingered when Frank was there on the fourth, burning candles and singing along as a soulful-eyed teenager strummed Doors songs on his guitar.

  Today, Morrison’s grave is quieter, still a highlight of the cemetery tour, but with no traces of the frenzy from Frank’s prior visit. The Oscar Wilde tomb has changed too. Then, it had been covered in scrawled graffiti: hearts and lips and penises. Lovers’ initials and exhortations such as “give in,” or “reach for the stars.” Now Wilde’s final resting place is scrubbed clean and barricaded behind protective plate glass.

  The cobblestone path is painful under the thin leather soles of Frank’s shoes. His back is aching and tight. He suspects a blister has risen on his left heel.

  He settles down on a curb and sags back against a tree just across from Edith Piaf’s grave. Heavy black marble with etched gold lettering and a carved depiction of Christ on the cross. Earthenware pots filled with blood-red begonias surround the monument.

  The wind picks up. Frank tilts his head and watches cotton-candy clouds scud across the sky. Shielded behind his sunglasses, he closes his eyes, enjoying the feel of the cool air on his face.

  Everything changes, Frank reflects. He wishes he could roll back time, just put it in reverse like film through a projector.

  For a moment he pretends his brother is still alive, his nephew and niece in the safe arms of his paternal care. Then he allows himself a deeper flight of fancy: Mallory—vibrant, beautiful Mallory—resurrected. Their whole golden family intact, an inspiration of enduring love for all, frozen in perfection forever, in that magical time before.

  Jumah pilots the van expertly through the narrow streets and alleys of the Marais.

  He pulls into an open, empty garage, wooden pallets piled along the sides. His father, Akili, waits for us, stepping in after the van and pulling the roll-up door firmly down behind us.

  Silently, the three of us move into action, hoisting Jake Burrows from the van and up a narrow flight of stairs. Finally, we haul his long, lean body into the attic of this stone-and-timber building.

  Weathered rafters span cathedral-style across the plastered ceiling. Green velvet curtains are drawn tight against a pair of vaulted windows. An enormous antique trunk overflows with discarded costumes, a jumble of sequins and feathers. The rough-hewn floor planks vibrate with the provocative music thundering up from the cabaret below.

  We dump Jake on the narrow cot in the corner. I examine his face. Someone cleaned and bandaged the worst of it. Still, the kid looks like hell. I pull up his shirt to examine him further and then wince at the bruises. The best thing for him in this state is unconsciousness. This must hurt as bad as i
t looks.

  He should be out for hours, but I can’t take any chances. I loosely fit a hood over his head; I want him to breathe, after all. I bind his wrists with plastic ties. I murmur thanks to Jumah and Akili and quietly they slip away.

  I pull open the rope attached to the attic crawl space and lower the ladder to the floor. Take a last look at Jake’s inert form before scrambling up the ladder, lifting the hatch and clambering onto the roof. I pay an exorbitant amount of rent each month for this threadbare little attic precisely for this view: a place of pure obscurity from which I can observe my apartment cleanly.

  Down below, lurking on the sidewalk a few meters from my front door, I see two shadows, one boxy and jittery, the other lanky and languid. Both smoke cigarettes, the glowing tips arcing from hand to mouth. They would seem benign, two friends shooting the shit, if it were not for the forbidding bulges in their waistbands. Akili had spotted them. Called Jumah to warn me.

  I spy Jumah, moving as elegantly as a cat along the rooftop of the apartment building adjacent to my own.

  Jumah leaps over to my roof. Shimmies down the spiral fire escape and slips into my apartment through a window. Slides out the same window moments later and skims back up to the roof with my emergency backpack strapped to his shoulders.

  If mine was that kind of company, I’d give the kid a promotion.

  In a matter of minutes, Jumah ascends the stairs and emerges to join me on my rooftop perch. He hands over my emergency pack. I rummage through it, confirming all is in order. Passports granting me three different identities, each one based on a dead double from a different country: U.S., Canada, France. Credit cards that match. Ten thousand euros in cash. Ten thousand American dollars too. Half a dozen prepaid cellphones. A laptop. A modem extender/scrambler. A night-vision camera. A stun gun. A packed medical case which holds, among other things, three more syringes loaded with the powerful sedative fentanyl.

  I train the night-vision camera on my two visitors. The bulky guy looms green through the scope. Something about him is vaguely familiar, but I can’t place him. I draw a blank on the lanky kid, but take several pictures of them both before clambering back down the hatch and into the attic.