Two waist-high headstones were between them, and more lay either side of Hugo. He was unable to move, as if there were too much cover to choose from, as if the gun were in fact a magnet holding him in place. Twenty yards away the pistol jerked as fire spat from the muzzle, telling Hugo the man had missed, releasing him from its pull. Hugo dove to his right and kept rolling, hearing the snap of metal bullets fracturing stone above his head.
And then all went quiet.
Reloading?
Hugo stayed low, moving between the stone and marble blocks in a crouch, gun extended, trained on where the man had been standing. The slender moon above cast a filtered light over them and Hugo knew he’d be able to see if the man rose from behind the stone flower that protected him.
He slowed as he got closer, gun raised higher now, finger on the trigger, eyes flicking to the ground to make sure he didn’t stumble. Twenty yards away he changed angle, moving diagonally to give himself a sight behind the headstone. But as the ground opened up, Hugo realized the man wasn’t there. Instinctively, he swung around covering the area behind him but too slow to dodge the black shape hurtling toward him. The breath caught in his throat and he braced himself for impact but the shape flew past, a black ball of growling fur that brushed him as it went by.
Hugo put a hand on the cold stone beside him and exhaled, then looked up as he heard feet running toward him. Garcia led the way, a uniformed officer, the dog’s handler, close behind.
“Which way?” the uniform asked, panting.
Hugo pointed. “Twenty yards, when I last saw him, he can’t be far.”
“Stay where you are, please, messieurs,” the man said. “Makes it easier for the dog.”
“We will.” Hugo turned Garcia. “Make sure every pair of eyes is on those cameras and get those other dogs over here, now.”
Garcia was wheezing with the exertion, bent almost double. “Already did all that,” he said between breaths. “Tell me you at least clipped the bastard?”
“Barely saw him,” Hugo said. Three more dogs rushed out of the blackness, flicking their back legs left and right as they bounded between the tombs, tails high in full pursuit, following the whistles of their masters, desperate to please them by finding the intruder and dragging him to the ground.
They stood for five minutes as the dogs and the flashlights circled them in an ever-widening spiral, impatient to join the search but knowing this was the most they could do for now. The rhythmic wail of sirens reached them, growing louder as reinforcements raced to the cemetery, but Hugo knew that by the time they made it inside, the muscular little man with eyes like coal would be either captured or gone.
Time ticked on and beside him Garcia lit another cigarette, forcing himself to stand still so the dogs could do their work without distraction. “Can you give a description?” he asked.
“A vague one. Shit, no. Too dark and he moved too fast, but I can put something down on paper. For all the use it will be.”
“Bien.” Garcia slapped the tomb of a headstone. “This is taking too long. They should have him by now.”
“I know.” Hugo shook his head and felt the anger rising inside him. “He’s gone. They won’t find him.”
Hugo turned and walked back toward the statue of Casimir-Perier, crossing the cobbled street to pause under the statesman’s gaze. Garcia joined him, standing quietly.
“At times like this,” said Hugo. “I wish I smoked.”
“Ah non, mon ami,” Garcia said quietly. “Smoking will put you in the cemetery. And right now I’d rather be at a bar. Coming?”
Hugo followed the round figure as the capitaine led the way toward the cemetery exit. A drink did sound good, but it made him think of Tom, a man of action who could have been there to help, who might have made the difference if it weren’t for the poison he’d been pouring into his liver for the past year at least.
“Capitaine,” Hugo said, catching up to him. “If you don’t mind, I’ll head home. Someone I need to check on.”
Chapter Fifteen
The Scarab sat in the darkness, his back against the rough stone wall, his bag of tools at his feet and his headlamp in his lap. His breathing was normal now and the drip of water from somewhere nearby had soothed the anger from him, but still he was confused. Who was that man? A policeman? He must have been waiting there to spring his trap, but shouldn’t he have been in uniform? Police uniform or combat fatigues? Not jeans and a jacket.
The Scarab ran his hands through his hair and a sprinkle of dust fell onto the lamp on his lap. He needed to get back home, rethink things. Figure out what to do next. He had thought his camouflage of Avril’s grave would work. But he’d been too tired, too distracted to read the newspapers, and he cursed himself. Depending on when they’d found his work, it would have been reported and if he’d seen the news story he’d have known not to come back. Maybe he should have worked harder here, too, done a better job of covering her grave but time wasn’t on his side, had never been, and he’d needed just one more night to finish because a single journey wasn’t enough to collect and wrap all of her at once, nor had he the space in his bag to carry all of her safely. He’d been lazy and inattentive, perhaps, and he’d certainly underestimated them, but these were mistakes he wouldn’t make again.
He pulled himself upright and immediately felt the weakness in his legs, from the running and the rocket-fuel adrenalin that had burned away, taking with it his strength.
He put the lamp back on his head and adjusted the beam. He listened to make sure no one was around, then moved slowly through the tunnel, recognizing the change in the color of the brickwork, the occasional tumbles of stone, and the faded chalk marks he’d put there months ago to guide himself to and from Père Lachaise.
It was a long journey for a man with so small a stride, but it was also safe for someone who liked to move in the shadows and wasn’t afraid of the dark. Perfect for a man whose small but compact body fit like a marble in the labyrinth that snaked below the streets of Paris, the so-many miles that were off-limits and abandoned by all who lived in the City of Light, desolate and unsafe stretches that opened and narrowed without warning, crumbled at the slightest touch, and filled a man’s shoes with stagnant water and the grime and refuse of a hundred years.
It took him two hours to get home, the walk followed by a bus ride, a rattling coffin on wheels that was empty save for him, the driver, and an old woman talking to herself in reassuring tones. Then the slow climb up the piss-smelling stairs to the metal door that kept him safe from the world.
Inside, the life-giving light was still on in his sanctuary, a streak of red melting into the carpet at the foot of the closed door. He didn’t go in, couldn’t when he had nothing to offer, nothing to add.
And the moon. Soon it would be growing, an eye in the sky slowing opening to watch his misdeeds and, if others were nearby, letting them see him, too. A risk he couldn’t afford.
He couldn’t go out again tonight, it was too late and he was too tired, but the feeble moon would last another night, for one more visit, giving him one more chance to complete the first phase of his project. When that was done, the real work would begin. The real risks would be taken.
And the blood that would be shed this time wouldn’t be that of hippy-worshipping Americans. No, it would be the worthy who would die this time, those who carried the precious materials that he needed to complete his destiny and become the person he needed to be.