by Pryor, Mark
The procession behind the backhoe was slow and silent, but Hugo knew that everyone’s nerves were keyed high. Finding a skeleton, a little boy’s bones, would confirm his theory and add to the evidence supporting the idea that Alexandra Tourville had blackmailed Charles Lake.
But Hugo also knew that everyone in the group saw this mission as more than just a collecting of evidence. Rather, they were in search of a child abandoned to his grave by his parents, a mother and father who in simple terms had replaced him with the kidnapped heir to the throne of France.
As they started up the last rise to the stand of trees, Hugo looked over the fields and saw the lines of police officers holding back the throng of media. News trucks and reporters’ cars filled every available lay-by and field entrance, the tiny bodies of reporters milling around each other looking for the best angle, the best shot toward the woods.
Jennifer Winkler led them into the trees on a grassy path just wide enough for the backhoe. Dr. Alain Joust and two evidence technicians were in attendance; they’d help Winkler photograph and preserve whatever they found for analysis back in Paris. Marie and Georges Bassin had already given DNA samples, eager to help identify their long-dead ancestor if at all possible.
The site was near the eastern edge of the trees, the place with the best view of the Bassin house and the surrounding countryside. Winkler had cleared the area by hand and the depression in the soil was plain for them all to see. They stood to one side as the backhoe operator took off a layer of dirt, peeling it away like a strip of bark from a tree. Winkler stood closest, supervising and directing the operator with hand signals, having him strip out another inch-deep layer, and then another. She held up her hand for him to wait, then knelt to study the soil.
“Look, you can see,” she said to the group, who inched closer. “The soil here in the burial site is darker. Even after so much time, it’s less compact than the lighter soil around it.”
She stood and gestured for the operator to resume, and Hugo could see the concentration on his face as he took off more layers of soil, inch by inch. Winkler’s eyes were glued to the ground, and as the bucket of the hoe dipped into and out of the hole she held her arms in a cross, telling him to stop altogether.
She knelt by the grave and waved the investigation team over. “Look closely, see how the soil is slightly lighter?” A soft mumble as that fact was acknowledged. She leant in closer. “And look here, see the very faint red lines in the dirt?”
“That can’t be blood,” George said, “surely not after—”
“No, no,” Winkler said. “They must have used nails to hold the coffin together. I wondered if they’d still be here, and we might find some still. But what you’re seeing here are stains in the soil were the nails resided after the coffin disintegrated.
She was, Hugo saw, a teacher as well as a technician, enjoying her work and appreciating a good audience. But now she went to work in silence, Hugo and the others drifting away to give her space. She spread a square blanket of canvas by the hole, to lie on and to collect evidence, Hugo assumed. She began working by hand, at first kneeling beside the hole and then lying on her belly before finally stepping gingerly inside, digging and scraping with a hand-trowel and some other tools Hugo couldn’t name. She dug around like a surgeon, with gloved and careful hands, to find what she knew to be in there and Hugo continued to watch, fascinated. Beside him, though, Tom was getting antsy, and if he couldn’t do anything physical then he wanted to talk.
“So you think Lake knew he was a Frenchman?” he asked Hugo, keeping his voice low, as if they were in church.
“I doubt it. He thought he had native American blood, and I suppose he may have. But the French thing, no, his reaction was too extreme.”
“You mean, killing Alexie?”
“Right, killing Alexie. That makes me think it came as a shock, made him totally rethink who he was. Plus, if he’d known about his heritage I don’t think he’d have been so anti-Europe. Of all the bad things you can say about Lake, I never really saw him as a hypocrite.”
“Fair point.”
“So you tell me something.” Hugo watched his friend closely. “The Queen Mary’s captain told me you turned your voice recorder on, he saw you do it. Yet five minutes later, Lake confesses to everything and jumps from the ship. And somehow none of that is preserved.”
“Ah, Hugo.” Tom pursed his lips. “Everything that happened in that cabin, from his confession to his going overboard, all of that was his doing, one hundred percent voluntary.”
“And that’s all you can tell me?”
“Are you worried about his demise, or the state of my conscience?”
Hugo chuckled. “Well, let’s just say I’m glad to hear you acknowledge a conscience.”
Tom raised an eyebrow, then leaned in and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Fuck you, Marston. I’m a goddamn saint.”
They both looked up as Winkler pushed herself to her knees and called out, “I have something!”
The investigators moved in closer and two of the evidence technicians joined them, one firing up his video camera to record the actual excavation. The other held a stack of paper bags into which the bones would go, the paper absorbing any moisture and preventing formation of mold or fungi.
It took two hours, but one by one the bones of a little boy came out of the soil and into the light. Hugo found the scene bizarre, like a funeral in reverse; awed and respectful watchers gathered around the lip of the child’s grave, holding onto their emotions as his bones were freed from the muddy and anonymous hole that had held him in death as his fragile remains were raised from the dark and brought back into the light, into the land of the living. The last piece to come out caused Camille Lerens to utter a prayer and Tom to rest a hand on Hugo’s shoulder, the communion necessary to withstand the sight of a mud-encrusted skull lifted from the grave and placed like a holy relic on the canvas, where it sat looking at them in wide-eyed surprise before another set of gloved hands picked it up and gently placed it in a cardboard box.
Hugo, Tom, and Camille Lerens stopped on the way back to Paris at a restaurant that Tom had read about somewhere, an article declaring it world-beating for its champagne coq-au-vin.
“Don’t worry,” Tom said as they sat down, “the alcohol burns off in the pot.”
“I’m not worried,” Hugo said. “Just wondering which wine to order.”
“Hey, go for it. Be a good test, and you can’t go on martyring yourself forever.”
“Just for that, I’ll drink sparkling water.”
“You hate sparkling water.”
“That’s what martyrs do,” Hugo said. “Anyway, the stuff helps me think.”
“Idiot. The case is over, you don’t need to think.” Tom nodded to a shopping bag Hugo had brought into the restaurant. “Don’t tell me you grabbed a souvenir out there.”
“Nope, but that reminds me, I got some help from my colleague Ryan Pierce. First of all, he confirmed that Alexie Tourville was in the States at the time Jonty Railton was essentially bullied out of the talks. I’m thinking she slashed his tires and made the threats, figuring Lake was next in line. Which, Ryan tells me, was no surprise in Washington and something she could have known given her connections.”
“A careful planner, that one,” said Lerens.
“Careful and cold,” Hugo said.
“No doubt, but I was asking about your bag?” Tom prompted.
“It’s a present for Camille, thanks in part to Ryan’s shopping abilities.”
Lerens looked at Hugo. “Present? It’s not my birthday.”
“I know. But you did solve the case and that warrants something, don’t you think?”
Lerens laughed. “I thought you solved the case? I just kept you company.”
“Team effort,” Hugo said. “You’re the case detective so you get the credit but, sure, the Americans helped. Which brings me to the present.” He brought the bag out from under the table and handed it to Lerens
. “Go ahead, open it.”
Lerens peered inside the bag and shrugged. “OK, I’m game. Thank you.”
Hugo and Tom watched as the lieutenant dug in the bag and pulled out a rectangular box, placing it carefully on the table. She opened the top flap of the box and moved aside some tissue paper, a smile spreading across her face as she saw its contents.
“Shoes!” she said.
“There’s a company in the United States,” Hugo said, “that makes shoes for transgender people, that’s all they do. I guess they spotted the hole in the market that you identified when we were climbing those stairs. This pair is designed for people on their feet all day. My resourceful deputy researched them and tells me they received excellent reviews.”
Lerens shook her head slowly. “Hugo, you’re a thoughtful man. A kind man, thank you.”
“You’re welcome. There’s a gift certificate in there, too, you can get another pair.”
“A Godsend. A lifesaver. Thanks again, from the soles of my feet.”
“Ahem.” Tom cleared his throat. “You guys aren’t gonna kiss, are you? I’m about to eat and that would totally fuck up my appetite.”
“Bullshit,” Lerens said. “You’d love it. I’ve heard about you and your appetites.” They laughed as Tom blustered and pretended to be embarrassed, then Lerens patted his arm. “And like I told Hugo a few days ago, I like girls. Always have, always will. In fact, I make a very good wingwoman.”
“Now you’re talking,” Tom said, looking at his watch. “We can be back in Paris in an hour, shower up and . . . Oh, wait.”
“Already have plans?” Lerens asked.
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“What are you doing on a Sunday night?” Hugo asked.
Tom grinned. “Same as I did last Sunday. Going out and not telling you where.”
“Oh, right.” Hugo took a sip of water. “Maybe I’ll have to follow you again. Except I’ll do a better job of it this time.”
“Try it,” said Tom. “I dare you.”
“Fine, I will.”
“Oh, leave him to his secret plans,” Lerens said. “Why do you care so much, Hugo? You’re not his mother.”
“It’s not that,” Tom chuckled. “Oh, don’t get me wrong, he’s a sweet and caring man, he proved that with the shoes. But it’s not some weird parental or protective motivation driving you, is it Hugo?”
Lerens looked back and forth between the two friends who sat silent, smiling at each other as if communicating by thought alone. “Then tell me,” she said, “what is it?”
“Simple,” Tom said. “It’s a mystery that he can’t solve. Back when he was in London, only a few years ago, he found himself a murder-mystery that no one had solved. A woman killed in an alleyway that some people attributed to Jack the Ripper, and some didn’t. Hugo had his own theories and visited the scene of the crime, oh, how many times?”
“Just a couple,” Hugo said.
“Yeah, right. Anyway, he never did solve it and my guess is he’ll never stop trying.” Tom grinned. “Nothing Hugo hates more than a mystery he can’t unravel, and now he’s facing one that I created. Ain’t nothing worse than that, is there Hugo?”
Hugo smoothed the table cloth in front of him and leaned back to catch the attention of a passing waiter.
“S’il vous plaît, monsieur,” Hugo said. “When you have a moment could you bring me some water?”
The waiter looked at the table, then at Hugo. “Mais monsieur, you have some already.”
“Yes,” said Hugo with a smile. “But I think I need some sparkling water, too. Perhaps you could bring a whole bottle. Merci bien.”
Sincere thanks once again to my posse of beta readers, Jennifer Schubert, Theresa Holland, Elodie, Nancy Matuszak, and Donna Gough, whose insight and honesty were invaluable. I am extremely grateful for your time and your wisdom.
Thanks also to Susan Garst for her guidance on forensic archeology (again!) and to Philip Breeden, who has the impressive title of Minister Counselor for Public Affairs (Information and Cultural Affairs), but who I know as the kind person who made time to show me around the US Embassy in Paris and tell me what I was getting right and wrong in Hugo’s world. Likewise to his colleague, who must remain mysterious and anonymous, my thanks.
As this journey progresses, my friends continue to impress and assist me with their support and encouragement. I can’t name you all but need to mention the likes of Sareta Davis, Johnny Goudie, Andy Baxter, Michelle Pierce, Caro Dubois, Ed and James Frierson, Jeniffer Barrera, and Mike Luna. A special thank you to Ann and David Hillis for letting me hideaway in their Hill Country retreat, a place of natural beauty and calm with just a hint of danger to keep a writer sharp. Likewise, but on the other end of the process, much gratitude to Scott Montgomery and his crew at BookPeople in Austin, including Raul Chapa, Colleen Farrell, Sarah Bishop, Emily Rankin, Consuelo Hacker, Kathleen Allen, Mandy Brooks, Carolyn Tracey, Elizabeth Jordan, and Julie Wernersbach. I need to mention, too, my friends at APD, the guys in Charlie Sector who give me inspiration (and protection) when I ride shotgun: Lawrence ‘Nic’ Nicoletti, Steve Constable, Bob Miljenovich, John Mosteller, Andrew Morris, Dave Nickel, Nick Draper, A. J. Carrol, Joe Strother, Jason Cummins, Dan Kessler, Will Johns, Jamie Byrnes, Brent Cleveland, Brian Yarger, and Michael Whitener. I know I forgot someone there, so to every APD officer: my thanks!
There are many professionals in my world now, people who are more to me than their job title, people whose dedication and enthusiasm have brought Hugo to life for my readers. Dan Mayer, my editor; Jill Maxick; Meghan Quinn; Melissa Raé Shofner; Mariel Bard; Catherine Roberts-Abel; Ian Birnbaum; and my wonderful agent, Ann Collette.
And as ever, I am eternally grateful to my wonderful, understanding, enthusiastic family who cheer my every success and give me the time, space, and inspiration to write.
Mark Pryor (Austin, TX) is the author of The Bookseller and The Crypt Thief, the first and second Hugo Marston novels, and the true-crime book As She Lay Sleeping. An assistant district attorney with the Travis County District Attorney’s Office, in Austin, Texas, he is the creator of the true-crime blog DAConfidential. He has appeared on CBS News’s 48 Hours and Discovery Channel’s Discovery ID: Cold Blood.
Visit him online at www.markpryorbooks.com, www.facebook.com/pages/Mark-Pryor-Author, and http://DAConfidential.com.
