The Crypt Thief

by Mark Pryor

  “Didn’t you shoot him?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t hang around to check his condition. Despite everything, I don’t want him to bleed to death if I can help it.”

  “I don’t know why not,” Claudia muttered, but she took Amelia Rousseau’s arm and led her toward the car.

  Hugo walked quickly back to the stairs and started up. He slowed near the top and drew his gun, in no mood to take chances with a man who’d already proved, several times, how good he was at surviving. As he got close to the window, he thought he heard movement inside and the glow from the candles seemed to pulse against the glass. He held his gun high and looked into the apartment.

  The Scarab stood in the center of the room, his face twisted in agony as fire engulfed his body and leapt from the floor around him. Hugo felt the heat pressing through the window but was unable to tear himself away, his eyes glued to Villier, who staggered to the head of the coffin, then slowly turned his back to it and raised his arms toward the ceiling. The entire room was ablaze now, but Hugo was able to glimpse the ragged hole in his upper chest as Villier turned, the flow of blood no match for the raging fire around him.

  Flames exploded across Villier’s torso and Hugo could see the skin of his neck turn black. The Scarab screamed once, swayed back and forth for two long seconds as his whole body flamed, then his knees seemed to give way and he dropped like a flaming torch into the coffin.

  Chapter Forty-five

  The following night they met at a place that served wine—Tom insisted on it.

  It was a small restaurant three streets from the Moulin Rouge, a place famous for its fondue. They put Garcia at one end of table, Tom at the other, honoring the injured. Hugo sat beside Claudia on one side, and opposite them Ambassador Taylor sat next to Amelia Rousseau.

  Hugo watched as Tom poured himself a large glass of water and raised it, the table falling silent. “To the end of a bad man,” he said, “and the end of a drunk man.”

  Hugo raised his own glass of water, poured for solidarity. “Good riddance to both.”

  Claudia reached for the wine list, then signaled the waiter. “We won’t be needing this,” she said.

  “I don’t know.” Amelia Rousseau smiled at her. “Hanging around with these guys seems to mean trouble, I might want it in a few minutes.”

  “Fondue for the table?” the waiter asked, and six heads nodded in unison.

  The order given, Hugo fixed Tom with a stern look. “I support your abstinence, Tom, but you’re going to have different health concerns if you ever ask Claudia to disarm another bomb.”

  “The protective American male,” Amelia Rousseau said. “So they do still exist.”

  Tom winked. “I’m right here.”

  “Now wait just a minute,” Taylor chimed in. “I’m as protective as the next American male. And I don’t go around getting myself shot.”

  There was an awkward pause, the ambassador’s comment reminding them all of Al Zakiri’s unnecessary death. “I’m sorry, my dear,” Taylor said quietly. “That was insensitive.”

  They waited for her to accept the apology, and she did with a sad smile. “You know, there was always this air of tragedy about him,” she said. “I think it was part of the attraction for me, he had such a dramatic story, a sad one. In some ways, and this might sound strange, I’m not surprised that something like this would happen.”

  “Well,” Tom said, “I for one am very sorry we didn’t listen to Hugo. Not just listen to him, but do the right thing and leave Mohammed alone. For that, I apologize.”

  “Same here,” Ambassador Taylor said. His tone suddenly lightened. “And that reminds me, I want to encourage everyone to eat as much as possible, and then choose the most expensive dessert on the menu.”

  “You’re picking up the tab?” Hugo asked.

  “You know me better than that,” Taylor smiled. “No, our friend Senator Norris Holmes asked me to convey his regrets at not being here. He also requested that I pass along his thanks at finding the man who killed his son and that we allow him to treat us all to this meal.”

  “Request accepted,” Hugo said. “As long as we don’t forget why we’re here.”

  “Bullshit,” Tom said. “We have to, for tonight at least.” He grinned mischievously. “Otherwise, we’ll have no fun at all.”

  “Alors.” Amelia Rousseau laughed. “I think that if I can forget the pain and bloodshed for a few hours, it’s OK for you all to do the same.”

  Under the table, Claudia reached for Hugo’s hand and leaned into him. “Don’t worry,” she whispered, “next time I’ll let you do the defusing.”

  “I have a better idea.” Hugo squeezed her hand. “Next time, we’ll let your explosives instructor do it himself.”

  Hugo looked over at Tom for a reaction but realized his friend wasn’t listening, all his attention was on the bottle of wine being slowly uncorked by a waiter at the next table. Hugo kept watching and after a few seconds Tom took a deep breath and seemed to drag his eyes away, back to the table and then up at Hugo. A smile tugged at one corner of Tom’s mouth and he raised his glass of water in salute.

  He held Hugo’s eye as he spoke and his words were quiet, as if for himself and Hugo alone. “To avoiding self-destruction. In all its forms.”

  Acknowledgments

  As ever, a host of kind and generous people made this book possible. First and foremost, my wife, Sarah, who encourages and supports me every step of the way. As have the professionals in my life, Ann Collette and Dan Mayer: deep and ongoing thanks to you for bringing Hugo Marston to the world.

  Sincere and specific thanks to Craig Whitfield, a friend I made while researching this book. I am grateful for the photos and information about Jane Avril and Paris (and its cemeteries), which I know you admire as much as I do.

  Thanks, also, to Special Agent Susan Garst for her help with all things bony and decaying. I knew nothing about forensic anthropology and now I know more than most—maybe more than is good for me.

  And as ever, my thanks to fellow writers Jennifer Schubert and Elizabeth Silver for always being available and always cheering me on. You are coaches, cheerleaders, and fans all rolled into one . . . two.

  About the Author

  Mark Pryor is the author of The Bookseller, the first Hugo Marston novel, and the true-crime book As She Lay Sleeping. A former newspaper reporter from England, and now an assistant district attorney with the Travis County District Attorney’s Office in Austin, Texas, he is the creator of the true-crime blog D.A. Confidential. He has appeared on CBS News’ 48 Hours and Discovery Channel’s Discovery ID: Cold Blood. For more on Mark Pryor, visit his website at www.markpryorbooks.com.