The Crypt Thief

by Mark Pryor

He laid out the other pieces one by one, checking the markings on the bandages to make sure that each went in the right place, using fingers for the larger bones, tweezers for the smallest ones, working like a surgeon to be precise and meticulous, and just like a surgeon he knew that a life depended on him getting it right.

  It took him two hours and when he was finished the hypnotic state that had held him wonderfully captive deserted him in as much time as it took to put down his tweezers. His knees screamed with pain and his back tormented him with needles of fire that paralyzed and made him gasp. But when he stood over the coffin and looked down his heart leapt at the sight of a woman’s small body, partially complete, anatomically correct, lying in repose just waiting for him to get back to work, to bring the rest of her. To complete her.

  “Maman,” he whispered. “J’arrive.” I’m coming.

  He stooped and picked up his bag and the bandages, and backed out of the room, leaving the bloodred light glowing over the casket.

  He put the bag and bandages on the coffee table in front of the couch then walked into the bathroom, stripped, and stood under the shower, chiding himself for not doing it before assembling the bones, washing the dirt of the outside world and Père Lachaise from his skin, watching the gray swirl of water slipping into the drain at his feet. Clean, he walked toward the bedroom and lay his cheek against the closed door, pictured the room glowing, the bones resting and regenerating in the quiet. Now they were here, now this was truly started, he didn’t like being away from them but he knew what was right, how it needed to be done.

  Unwilling to feed off the nascent energy growing in the bedroom, he resisted the creeping numbness that sat heavy in his chest and spread, always, into the rest of his body. Always, that is, unless he made himself feel something, that raw connection to life and bone and blood that pulsed in the room next door, the room he dared not disturb. Today, even more than usual, he needed to feel something.

  He turned and walked into the living room, sat on the couch, leaning forward to open a drawer in the coffee table in front of him. A scalpel lay wrapped in tissue, and in seconds it glinted in his hand. He piled the bandages, her bandages, on the seat beside him and looked down at his forearm, crisscrossed with ridges that were whiter than the surrounding skin, a network of tiny lines, a map to the deadness inside him, images of the suffering he’d inflicted on himself, just to feel.

  He looked at the bandages next to him and focused his eyes on a small, clear patch of skin on the inside of his arm. He put the tip of the scalpel there, saw the skin dip before giving way, and he threw back his head with the anticipation of sensation.

  Chapter Eleven

  Hugo woke just after six the next morning, the sun starting to seep over the buildings into Rue Jacob. He pulled on shorts and pants and went straight to the kitchen to find coffee, but stopped in the doorway to the living room.

  “Can I help you?” he said.

  The woman was standing by the counter that separated the kitchen and living area, her back to him, straight dark hair touching her shoulders. She turned at the sound of his voice and put something on the counter. Tom’s wallet. Hugo stepped forward, slowed by the fact that the woman wore a black lace bra and pale blue shorts that, on anyone else, would barely have been underwear. The bra was also a couple of sizes too small, giving him the image of two basketballs in butterfly nets. She watched him approach, seemingly unconcerned, and Hugo felt like she was appraising a new customer.

  “He owe you, or just getting your own tip?”

  “The former.” She ran a hand through her hair and tilted her head. Definitely appraising, Hugo thought. Pretty, too.

  “He probably doesn’t have enough in his wallet,” Hugo said.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  Hugo tried not to smile. “How much?”

  “Mille.”

  “A thousand? Seriously?”

  “Oui. Special discount for a regular.” She held Hugo’s eye and softened her voice. “I have discounts for first-timers, too.”

  “How nice for them.”

  “Je m’appelle Martine.” She held out her hand, forcing Hugo to go to her and be a gentleman or stay where he was and be ill-mannered. He stepped forward but didn’t let her hold onto his hand for long. And no reason for her to know his name.

  “Wait here, please.” He went back into his room and put on a shirt and flip-flops, then picked up his wallet. When he returned, she hadn’t moved. He looked around and saw three empty wine bottles, dirty plates, and a bottle of his scotch on the coffee table, also empty. Hugo, a heavy sleeper, hadn’t heard them come in. “I’m surprised he was able to . . . enjoy your services.”

  “As drunk as he was?” she laughed. “Not a chance. But it’s my time he pays for.”

  “Of course it is,” Hugo said. “I assume his wallet’s empty?”

  She nodded. “Almost.”

  “Of course it is,” Hugo said again. “Come on, there’s an ATM down the street.”

  She retrieved a shoulder bag and they walked the four flights downstairs. As they crossed the stone foyer, the front door opened and Hugo stopped short.

  “I still have my key, remember?” Claudia said, her eyes on Martine. “Let me guess: this isn’t what it looks like.”

  “Actually,” Hugo said, “it’s exactly what it looks like. Man heading to get cash to pay for services of . . . Martine.”

  “Time, not services,” Martine reminded him with a smile. “I can also play chess, watch football, or sing karaoke.” She eyed Claudia. “And I’m flexible as to who I spend time with.”

  Claudia laughed. “I like her, Hugo. Make sure you get her number.” She looked at Martine. “How much does Tom owe you?”

  Martine nudged Hugo. “She is smart. And trusts you. You should marry her, and quickly. Hugo.”

  “If we could just get this done, please,” said Hugo. “Mille euros, apparently.”

  “A thousand?” repeated Claudia. “I knew I liked her for a reason.” She dug into her bag and pulled out a handful of notes. “Voila.” Claudia, the daughter of the late Gérard de Roussillon, le Comte d’Auvergne, for whom money had never been a concern, neither the earning nor the spending.

  “I’ll pay you back later today.” Hugo turned to Martine. “I should have asked before, do you need to borrow some clothes?”

  “You think I should get dressed?” Martine smiled, and put down her own bag. “You’re right, we can’t have people getting the wrong idea about me.” She took out a summer dress, white with large red flowers, and Hugo watched in guarded admiration as it flowed quickly over her head, the hem stopping several inches above the knee. “Better?” she asked.

  Hugo said nothing, just held the door, utterly still as she tiptoed to brush her lips against his cheek, just once. When he’d closed the door behind Martine, Claudia burst out laughing.

  “Something funny?” Hugo asked.

  “Mais non. Just you acting the gentleman with a whore. A very smart and attractive whore, but a whore nonetheless. As long as you’ve been in Paris, Hugo, you still need to loosen up.”

  “Now you sound like Tom. You coming upstairs?”

  She laughed again. “Now you sound like Tom.”

  He made the coffee while she perched on the barstool at the counter. She flicked through Tom’s wallet, took out and counted seventy euros, then put them back in. “I think it’ll be more fun if he owes me,” she said.

  “No doubt. Toast? It’s the one thing I don’t burn.”

  “Oui.” She cocked her head and looked at him. “I wouldn’t care, you know.”

  “If I burned the toast?”

  “No, silly. If you employed Martine. Or someone like her.” She took a mug of coffee from Hugo. “Preferably her, she seems interesting.”

  “And I wouldn’t mind if you did. That make us even?”

  “I’m serious. Do you have some moral objection?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “I’
m just curious.”

  “Because I’m so straightlaced?” He smiled. “You of all people should know better than that.”

  “But you’d never pay a pretty girl to sleep with you.”

  He looked at her over the rim of his cup. “Would you?”

  “Stop deflecting.”

  “No. What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “Père Lachaise,” she said. “Two break-ins in as many days that seem unrelated. Are they?”

  “No idea,” said Hugo.

  “I talked to Capitaine Garcia. He said the same thing.”

  “I’m meeting with him this morning,” Hugo said. “How about we have lunch afterward and I give you the scoop then?”

  “That the best offer I’m going to get?”

  “For now.”

  “OK then.” Claudia picked up her phone as a text came in. “Gotta run.”

  “You keep doing that. Anything I should know about?”

  “Probably. Press conference at your embassy. Apparently Senator Holmes is going to issue a press release.”

  Hugo drained his cup. “The hell he is. Where’s your car?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Hugo didn’t wait to be waved into the ambassador’s office, silencing his secretary’s rising objection with a look he normally reserved for suspects.

  Senator Holmes was alone inside the spacious office, striding back and forth in front of Ambassador Taylor’s desk, talking on his cell phone. He looked up as Hugo entered and hung up immediately.

  “Where’s Tom Green?” Holmes said.

  “We don’t need Tom for this.”

  “For what? What do you think we’re doing here, Mr. Marston?”

  “Senator, we don’t need Tom to cancel a press conference or to conduct an investigation that has nothing whatsoever to do with terrorism.”

  “And you’re the one who gets to decide this?”

  “It’s not who decides that’s important, it’s who’s right. And I’m right.”

  Holmes looked at him, then slipped the phone into his jacket pocket. “We’re on the same side here, Hugo. We both want the same thing. I want whoever killed my son brought to justice. I trust you do, too.”

  “Wanting something isn’t the same thing as getting it, Senator. With all due respect, you’re a politician with no law enforcement experience. And on top of that . . .” Hugo trailed off.

  “On top of that I’m emotionally involved.” Holmes held his stare. “Hell, yes, sure I am. I don’t deny that, how could I? It was my son killed in that cemetery. But don’t forget, I also have the power to make this investigation get up off its ass and move.”

  “And what if it moves in the wrong direction?”

  “Then we find a terrorist. That’s bad?”

  “In some ways no, but if we’re looking for whoever killed you son, it’s useless. Look, Senator, I don’t doubt your motives for a second. But there are thousands of dedicated agents out there, American, French, Israeli, British, all looking for jackasses like Al Zakiri. If we waste time chasing him, we’ve done them a favor but not much else.”

  “What if he’s here to blow up a bridge, an airport, the Eiffel Tower?”

  “Then he wasn’t here to kill your son. And that’s my priority.”

  They turned as the door opened. Ambassador Taylor stood in the doorway and looked back and forth between the men in his office. “Sharing sound bites?” he asked, the smile forced.

  Hugo looked at Holmes to answer.

  “Not exactly,” the senator said. “Mr. Marston here is trying to persuade me to forego a great asset, the press.”

  “Maybe an asset if Al Zakiri is our man,” Hugo said. “Which he isn’t.”

  “Then who is?” Holmes colored. “Some random guy who magically appeared in the same cemetery as them? You have no fucking idea who killed my boy, do you?”

  Taylor walked farther into the room, like a referee coming between two fighters. “Senator, I think that’s Hugo’s point. If we don’t know who did it, we might not want to start pointing fingers just yet.”

  “And as I said to your precious chief of security, even if Al Zakiri didn’t do it, what the hell’s the harm in finding the son of a bitch? He’s a terrorist for fuck’s sake.”

  A voice from the doorway. “Which is precisely why peckerheads like Marston shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near this operation.”

  Three heads turned to see Tom leaning against the jamb, hands in pockets and large black circles under his eyes.

  “What operation?” Ambassador Taylor asked.

  Tom shrugged. “Fucked if I know. But if Al Zakiri’s in France you can bet your last French franc that several intelligence agencies know where he is, why he’s here, and what’s he’s doing while you’re all standing around here comparing dick sizes.”

  Holmes took two steps toward him. “Who the hell do you think you are, talking to me like that?”

  Hugo bit back a smile. “I’ll answer that, Senator. He’s a consulting analyst with the CIA who knows what he’s talking about, even if he doesn’t quite know how to say it politely.”

  Holmes glared at Tom. “You’re telling me that my son wasn’t killed by Al Zakiri? That it was pure coincidence he died on foreign soil in the company of a woman who came to this country with a known terrorist?”

  “No clue,” said Tom. “Missed my briefing this morning.” Hugo thought he saw a shadow of regret on his friend’s face. “Point is,” Tom continued, “we need more answers before we go around flinging poo like drunk monkeys.”

  “What answers?” Holmes demanded.

  “I’d like to hear more about the second break-in.”

  “Me too,” said Ambassador Taylor. “Hugo?”

  “I’d planned to meet with Capitaine Garcia this morning, still will if I can. I think they are connected, I’m just not sure how yet.”

  “Jesus, people.” Holmes threw up his arms. “I don’t give a shit about a bag of old bones from that goddamn cemetery.”

  “Maybe you should,” said Tom. “Because my pompous big friend is usually right. Whoever stole those bones also killed your son. And I know you care about that.” He slouched to an armchair, impervious to the senator’s furious gaze, collapsing into it and closing his eyes with a sigh of relief.

  “I can do this press conference whether you like it or not,” Holmes snapped.

  “Not here, you can’t,” Ambassador Taylor said. “Not in my embassy.”

  “You would fight me on this?” Holmes said, incredulous.

  “My interest is in maintaining good relations with our French cousins. Setting off a manhunt for the wrong man doesn’t further those goals. But,” he held up a finger, “I also don’t believe we need to harbor terrorists, or risk harboring them.” He turned to Hugo. “Get me something, Hugo. Twenty-four hours. Get me something solid in twenty-four hours or I’ll give the good senator here the backdrop of the US Embassy to make whatever announcement he pleases.”

  The three men looked at Holmes.

  “I’ll wait that long,” the senator said. “But not a moment longer.”

  Garcia picked up the phone on the second ring and Hugo breathed a sigh of relief. This was no time to be playing phone tag.

  “Sorry for the late call,” he said. “Emergency at the embassy.”

  He filled Garcia in on Holmes’s plan and heard the air whistle through Garcia’s teeth.

  “Merde,” the capitaine said. “You stopped the press conference?”

  “The ambassador did. That’s the good news. The bad news is that we have twenty-four hours to show we’re getting somewhere.”

  “Twenty-four hours?”

  “Oui.”

  “Bon. Then we have time for coffee. Café Panis is between us, do you know it?”

  “I do.”

  “Half an hour. See you there.” Garcia hung up without waiting for an answer.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Garcia sat back and looked at Hugo. “Maybe it’s not su
ch a big deal. He’s a grieving father, so let him issue his press release, it’s just a piece of paper.”

  “No, it’s not.” They were sitting under the awning of the café, watching the lines of camera-toting tourists stream toward the Cathedral of Notre Dame. “Look at all those people. You think they’ll want to visit your precious monuments if they know a terrorist is on the loose?”

  “Ah, maybe not.”

  “And even more importantly, it will shut down any investigation not related to Al Zakiri.”

  “You think?”

  Hugo gave a wry smile. “A terrorism investigation is as much politics as it is crime prevention. Here’s what will happen: someone will be put in charge of finding Al Zakiri and his little band of bomb-throwers. That person will be able to demand all the resources he wants, and believe me when I tell you that once he has them, he won’t let them go. We get another killing that looks even slightly related to Père Lachaise, it’ll be roped into the Al Zakiri hunt and fuel the terrorism paranoia.”

  Garcia nodded. “And because you think Al Zakiri has nothing to do with this, the real killer gets away.”

  “Right. And a killer who gets away with it has no reason to stop.”

  “Attends, you think it’s a serial killer?” Garcia scoffed. “That seems like a stretch. To go from two random killings, maybe some bone snatching, to a serial killer?”

  “That’s the point,” said Hugo, his voice hard. “We have no idea who he is or what his motives are. Should we just assume he’ll melt into the night never to harm anyone again?”

  “No we should not. But it’s your twenty-four hours, what do you suggest?”

  “Start by telling me where we stand.”

  “D’accord.” Garcia ran a fingertip over his pencil-thin mustache, nodding as he organized his thoughts. “Like you, we were assuming that the person who killed those young people is the same person who broke into Jane Avril’s tomb. We found out this morning for sure.” He took out a photograph and showed it to Hugo. “This is a picture, what we found is being processed by our evidence people.”