The Crypt Thief

by Mark Pryor

  “Garcia said the same thing. And,” he said, nudging her ribs with his elbow, “not every time. Now lie still.”

  Hugo lifted his head to look for Al Zakiri, but the gunwale blocked his view. Claudia shifted. “Can you see him?” she asked.

  The boat rocked before he could answer, the wake from the three speedboats shoving the barge against the stone quay, and seconds later they heard the drumming of feet on the deck.

  “Lie still!” a voice ordered, and Hugo knew they had half a dozen guns trained on them. Two hands pulled him off Claudia and deposited him face down on the deck. A knee pressed into his back and more hands went through his clothes, checking his holster and pulling out his credentials.

  “Let them up.” Hugo recognized the voice of Moreau.

  Hugo and Claudia stood, both looking toward the walkway. A figure lay motionless on the ground, surrounded by Moreau’s men, their guns aimed at his back. A shift from one of the men let Hugo see Al Zakiri’s hands pinned behind his back by handcuffs. But he wasn’t moving.

  Moreau looked toward the quay. “We got him,” he confirmed.

  “I see that,” Hugo said. “Dead or alive?”

  “You surprise me, Monsieur Marston. We are good at what we do.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, a man who is in France to murder civilians, who points a gun at an American security officer in the middle of Paris,” Moreau paused and looked at Hugo. “That man doesn’t get a second chance.”

  “My God, you killed him.”

  “Mais oui. You aren’t the only ones who shoot to kill.”

  On the bridge above them, the man with the buzz cut and the limp had watched everything, having moved back to his hiding spot behind the sculpture of the nymphs as soon as the American vacated it.

  Now the man walked away, he’d seen all he needed to see. By the looks of things Marston would be busy with the French police for a while. His girlfriend, too.

  As he walked, the man peeled off his fake beard, enjoying the sharp sting as the glue tore from his skin. He was used to it now, the idea that pain was the greatest physical sensation. As if he’d been striving to get this far, to eliminate the irritations of noise, ugliness, and sour taste, leaving him with the only sense that mattered, the one whose sole purpose was to alert the body to injury. Injury and death.

  But he wanted to get these shoes off, he’d had them a long time but never worn them. This was discomfort, not pain, and so not welcome. At the end of the bridge, he slipped the backpack off his shoulders and leaned against the balustrade as he kicked the thick-soled shoes off, replacing them with the tired black sneakers that had carried him through the tunnels of Paris, into and out of its finest cemeteries.

  The Scarab headed due north toward the Champs-Élysées, toward the nearest metro stop. As he walked, he congratulated himself. He’d seen Al Zakiri by chance, a by-product of his plan, and after seeing the US Embassy’s press release he’d made the easy connection to Marston. Following Al Zakiri today, for fun as much as anything, had brought him within touching distance of the American. And the stupid man hadn’t had any idea who he was.

  The Scarab had been hesitant to shave his head at first, not wanting to acknowledge to himself that on at least one occasion he’d been close to being captured. But he could take no risks, not when he was so close to finishing. And that was why today he’d not confronted Marston, just watched him. There wasn’t much time, but there would be enough to deal with him.

  He found a public phone and pulled the piece of paper with the number out of his pocket.

  “Oui?” A woman answered, her throat torn up by cigarettes.

  “Bonjour,” he said. “I’d like one of your girls. One in particular.”

  “Bien sûr. Which one, and when?”

  “This afternoon, and her name is Rose. She has a snake tattoo.”

  “Rose? Ah, non, she doesn’t work here any longer.”

  His stomach lurched. “What?”

  “Last week. She went home to her family, somewhere near Bordeaux.” The woman coughed. “We have others, as good.”

  “With the same tattoo?”

  “I don’t know. Probably not the same but—”

  He slammed the phone down, glaring at the passer-by who’d frowned at his moment of anger. The Scarab took a breath and pressed his forehead to the cold metal above the phone.

  Calm, stay calm and think.

  He continued walking, scruffy and invisible on the streets, but at the metro station he had to ignore the looks from the other commuters, from the uniformed flics who no doubt expected him to try and board the train for free. But he didn’t mind too much, their eyes didn’t see the real man, they had no idea who he was. And the metro itself was cool, a cavern that took him away from the heat of the city, a refuge with its own smells, its grimy tiles, and its graffiti-spattered tunnels. He liked it because down here the rest of the world felt slightly uncomfortable, he could see how they tried not to breathe in the oily air or touch the walls and benches.

  The girl boarded the train two stops before his, throwing him off completely. He’d intended to stalk through the Pigalle region, where women showed off the art on their bodies during the day and tried selling themselves in the back alleys by night. But this girl, she was so perfect he found it difficult to breathe, almost impossible to take his eyes off her.

  She was petite, wearing a plain white summer dress and sandals that wrapped themselves around her ankles with the help of brown straps. Her hair was yellow, like corn, and stood up from her head in two sprouts, and she carried a small red bag, slung easily over her shoulder. She held a book in one hand as she leaned against the side of the carriage. Those things, the purity of her dress, the dedication to the book, those things were not what held the Scarab’s throat. What sealed her fate was the snake whose tail peeked out from under the cotton to tickle her knee, and whose head he glimpsed every few seconds, when the sway of the train pushed the girl off-balance and toward him, revealing a smear of green and a flicker of red lurking under her neckline. A snake, he knew, that ran the length of her little body, across the flatness of her stomach and between the swell of her breasts. A snake he needed.

  His heart soared when she closed the book and tucked it into the bag. Saint-Augustin. This was his stop, too.

  He followed her out of the train, through the station, and out onto Boulevard Haussmann. He kept his distance, hoping she didn’t live here, hoping she wouldn’t disappear into an apartment and be gone forever. She walked slowly, stopping to look in store windows and read the menus of the cafés along the way. It was warm and a breeze rippled her dress when she paused, laying the thin cotton against her body in a way that made the Scarab’s heart beat faster. Other men noticed her too, and that realization made him want to act sooner. Now.

  But where? The farther she went, the more hope drained from him. How could he get her alone? Alone with him where he could take what he needed.

  He felt better when she turned off the main road into a side street. She was moving faster now, as if in a hurry. The Scarab realized that she was on the phone. He sped up, hoping that she wouldn’t notice him if she was talking to someone else, distracted. He saw her fish into the bag for keys and he knew it was time to decide.

  She let the front door close on him, she didn’t even know he was there. He let it swing most of the way, stopping it from clicking shut with one hand, the other holding the butt of his gun.

  He counted to ten and then stepped into the dark foyer. Mailboxes surrounded him, and a glass door led from there into the building proper. All he could do was act like he lived there, though his heart was racing. He pushed against the door and it opened.

  The girl was halfway down the carpeted corridor, still talking on the phone. The Scarab quickened his step, knowing she was close to home. A few seconds later, she stopped in front of a door on the left side of the hallway, missing the keyhole as the voice on the phone distracted her. He stayed to t
he right, knowing the phone would stop her seeing him, jogging now as he closed the space between them. She opened the door, pushing it inward, and the Scarab saw her hesitate as she moved into the apartment.

  She’d seen him, but it was too late.

  Her mouth opened as she turned to face him, her eyes widening in disbelief. The Scarab reached out and took the phone and snapped it shut, his eyes locked on hers. He glanced over his shoulder as he shoved her into the apartment, but the corridor was deserted. Now he had to make sure her apartment was.

  The place was small. Two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a tiny lounge, a small galley kitchen at the back. Small enough that he knew it was empty within a minute. They stood in the lounge, and the Scarab kicked a cheap wooden coffee table to one side, opening up a space on the floor. His grip on her upper arm, and the .22 in his other hand, had dissuaded her from resisting.

  “What is your name?” he asked. She was short, but still an inch taller than him and she smelled clean, like soap or flowers, despite her trip on the metro.

  She opened her mouth to speak but no sound came out. A single tear rolled down her cheek and she shook her head. But the Scarab was no longer watching her face, the movement had revealed the head of the snake and sent a shot of adrenalin through him.

  He didn’t need to know her name. What for?

  Finally, she found words. “Please,” she whispered. “My roommate will be home any moment. Please, just . . . don’t.”

  She started to whimper and pull away as the Scarab raised the gun to the side of her head. He had to be fast, he couldn’t risk a struggle. That might damage the snake.

  He shot her once, through the temple. Her head snapped to the right, her eyes still wide, and a thrill passed through him as he watched the life go out of her. It was like a bulb sparking out, the energy of fear and hope that had flickered in her eyes just a second before had vanished at the speed of a bullet.

  He let her fall, and watched for a moment as her blood seeped into the carpet and matted her hair, turning yellow into a sticky brown. He dropped his backpack onto the couch. He put the gun inside and rummaged through it, finally finding his knife and a roll of bandages.

  He knelt beside her and split the front of her dress, sucking in his breath as he revealed the beautiful green and brown of the serpent that lay, still alive, across the dead woman’s torso. He freed it slowly, cautiously, working with the skill he’d picked up from practice on the girl at the cemetery. His body tingled as he worked, and it took a conscious effort to contain the excitement. It took ten minutes, but when he’d finished he laid the skin on the unfurled bandages, then rolled them up and placed them into his pack with the care of a father laying his child in a crib.

  He didn’t look at the girl as he left, concentrating more on slipping on his pack as gently as possible. He resolved to walk to his apartment, to avoid the press of the metro and buses. He wondered if maybe people that close might smell the death on him, and he put the pistol in his pocket, just in case.

  He went to the front door and paused to listen. Footfalls were making their way toward him in the hallway, and he waited for them to pass. They slowed and stopped outside the snake girl’s apartment. He clenched his teeth and slid a hand into his pocket as the door opened and a young woman, with pretty, black skin and surprised eyes, opened the door and looked at him.

  The Scarab smiled. “You must be her roommate,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Hugo sat across from Ambassador Taylor, an untouched coffee pot between them. It was not yet eight on Sunday, the morning after Al Zakiri’s death, but the ambassador had wanted to circle up, see where everyone stood. They leaned forward, listening to Tom’s phone as it rang, both relieved to hear his voice.

  “Tom Green.”

  “It’s Hugo. I’m in the ambassador’s office.”

  “Does he know? If not, steal some of his good hooch.”

  “He knows,” Taylor said with a smile. “How’re you doing, Tom?”

  “Hey, boss. They said they’d let me out today, if I promise to stay still and not work.”

  “Guess you’ll be staying there, then,” Hugo said. “Have you had a full report on Al Zakiri?”

  “Yeah, and I gather you almost got Claudia and yourself shot. I warned you those boys were trigger happy.”

  “You were right,” Hugo said. “Are they still investigating Al Zakiri?”

  “Yes. And finding nothing. They went through his barge and didn’t even find dirty pictures. Not that he needed them, damn, did you see his girlfriend?”

  “You know I did,” Hugo said. “Plus she’s famous, everyone’s seen her.”

  “Quite something, we should go to a show. Anyway, she was interviewed all yesterday afternoon and evening. All night, probably. I got a report on that, too. When you were with him, did you tell the stupid bastard to turn himself in?”

  “I did,” Hugo said. “Several times. He thought he’d end up being tortured or framed or something. Didn’t trust us, not even a little bit.”

  “Do you blame him?” Taylor chipped in.

  “Nope,” Tom said. “But look where it got him. Anyway, I found my terrorist, did you find your beetle?”

  “Scarab,” Hugo corrected. “And he wasn’t a terrorist.”

  “Maybe, but your guy’s a serial killer,” Tom said.

  “Not technically,” Hugo said.

  “Actually yes, technically.”

  The ambassador and Hugo exchanged glances. “What are you talking about?” Taylor asked.

  “Killed a girl in the Eighth Arrondissement. Close range, side of the head, shot and dumped in her apartment.”

  “Who found her?” Taylor asked.

  “Her roommate. Not only found her, but ran smack-bang into the Scarab himself as he was leaving. He just walked right on past her. She described him as a little guy with a buzz haircut and a forehead like the Rock of Gibraltar. Well, those are my words but you get the picture.”

  “A buzz haircut?” Hugo asked. A blurred image tugged at his mind. “He’s changed his appearance. No surprise there, I guess. But he didn’t hurt the roommate?”

  “Scared the crap out of her. Of course, that ugly bastard was nothing compared to what she saw in the apartment.”

  “Her dead friend?”

  “Her skinned dead friend. He’d cut her dress off and skinned her.”

  “He did? Like Abida Kiani, or . . . worse?” Hugo asked.

  “Worse. Much. Sliced from the knees to her chin. Trophy, you think?”

  “If he took the skin with him,” Hugo said. “I guess it must be.”

  “He did,” Tom said. “The crazy son of a bitch has graduated from the dead to the living. Well, the long-dead to the recent-dead, but you know what I mean.”

  “What was her tattoo?”

  “He took the front off of her, does it matter what the damn picture was?”

  “Jeez, Tom, you know it does. Find out, will you?”

  “Sure, of course. Sorry. It’s like this shit’s getting to me finally.”

  “That’s OK. Was she sexually assaulted?” Hugo asked.

  “It doesn’t look like it.”

  “Still, it’s a shift in MO,” Hugo said. “He’s getting bolder as well as changing his target. The question is, why?”

  “No idea,” Tom said. “But as I pointed out before, I found my bad guy so you better hurry up and find yours.”

  “Are the French police back in charge now?” Hugo asked. “And can I see the report and photos from the scene?”

  “Yes and yes,” Tom replied. “And I’ll let you know if the fingerprints come back to anyone.”

  Hugo sat straight up. “You have fingerprints?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, thanks for mentioning that.” Hugo paused. “When will you know? And how much longer on the DNA from the Montmartre Cemetery?”

  “A week, probably less, for the DNA. Fingerprints are much quicker, we’ll know within an hour
or two. Oh shit, hold on. I figured out how to use call waiting and the lab’s calling right now. Sit tight.”

  Hugo and Ambassador Taylor sat staring at the phone, their nerves humming.

  A minute later Tom came on the line. “Now there’s a spot of luck,” he said. “Our guy has a record, and exactly what you’d expect from a serial killer.”

  “Let me guess,” Hugo said. “Trespass, maybe burglary, either indecent exposure or peeping in windows.”

  “Don’t forget the big two,” Tom chided. “Both present here.”

  “Arson and animal cruelty,” Hugo said. “Who is he?”

  “They’re digging into his background right now, but I assume you weren’t asking a philosophical question.”

  “No, I wasn’t.” Hugo didn’t disguise his impatience. “His name, Tom. Give me the bastard’s name.”

  Hugo met Capitaine Garcia at a café halfway between their respective offices, on the Rue Saint-Honoré. The little Frenchman beamed when Hugo walked through the door and rose to shake his hand.

  “Salut, mon ami,” Hugo said. “They told me you’re back in charge. I’m very happy about that.”

  “Moi aussi. And I’m glad that other business is out of the way, though I’m sorry it ended the way it did. I’m hearing, unofficially, that he was more of an asylum seeker than a terrorist.”

  “I think that’s right. And yes, a great shame.”

  Hugo ordered a grand crème from the waiter, and Garcia asked for a second one.

  “Alors, to work.” Garcia reached into a briefcase by his side and pulled out a manila file. “We know a little about him, and we’re searching high and low.”

  Hugo picked up the file. It read Claude Villier in block letters on the front. “Tell me,” Hugo said.

  “He’s twenty-six years old,” Garcia began. “Born and raised in the southwest, a little village called Castet.”

  “Believe it or not,” Hugo said, “I know the place.”

  Garcia raised an eyebrow, then remembered. “Ah yes, the case last year, your friend Max. You interviewed a witness down there.”