“Other end. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Tom, are you drinking?”
“It’s called keeping warm. That’s why they invented flasks.”
“Next time wear a damn jacket,” Hugo snapped.
“I am. Shit.” Hugo heard a fumbling sound, as if Tom had dropped the phone. Then Tom’s voice again, an excited whisper. “Fuck. He’s here.”
A pit opened in Hugo’s stomach. “Wait there. Don’t do anything, you hear me? Stay on the line and sit tight.”
“I’ve lost him. He was there, the little fucker, but I don’t see him.”
“I’m on my way.” Hugo took off, not worried about being quiet until he was closer. He ran hard, eyes boring into the night looking for any sign of movement. His feet slipped on the Avenue Cordier as the flat soles of his boots hit leaves, and as he fought to stay upright the night seemed to press in on him, clawing at him as if it were a conspirator working to keep Hugo away from its accomplice, and apart from his friend and colleague.
Hugo slowed and then stopped when he thought he might be close, panting hard but lifting the phone to his ear. “Tom? Can you see me?”
“No. Wait, is that you?”
“I’m halfway down Avenue Dubuisson.”
A crack broke the quiet and Hugo heard the distinctive zing of a bullet hitting stone. He crouched and raised the phone to his ear as the gun went off again.
“Tom, are you OK?”
“I guess that wasn’t you,” Tom said. “Shit, he’s already been here, the grave is empty. Fucker came early, probably knew we wouldn’t come until dark.”
“Smart guy. Can you see him?”
“No, and he’s got me pinned down. I’m too old for this shit, Hugo, where the fuck are you?”
“Where I was when he started shooting.”
“Stay there, then. I’ll hang up and call for backup.”
“No, Tom, I’m coming. And don’t hang up until I see you. I don’t mind if he shoots you, but I don’t want to.”
“Well hurry the fuck up, I could use the cavalry about now.”
“Stay on the line, whisper if you see me.”
“Hugo, he’s — Oh, fuck!” A wave of panic hit as he heard Tom’s phone fall, then heard his friend’s voice cry out in pain somewhere in the dark in front of him. A gun fired, two, three, then four loud retorts, louder than before and Hugo hoped it was Tom doing the shooting. Hugo kept low, moving fast toward the sounds, his phone in his pocket now, both hands wrapped around the gun that he held high in front of him, its muzzle sweeping the tombs and statues as he closed in.
A streak of heat tore across his cheek as a statuette disintegrated beside him, spraying the path with splinters of marble. He swung around, knowing he’d missed his chance to spot the man from the muzzle flash of his gun, looking for movement as he pressed his back against a granite crypt.
Twenty yards away he spotted one of Tom’s legs, motionless, protruding from between two low tombs.
“Tom!” He thought he saw movement but it might have been a shift in the darkness. He took another look around and sprinted across the path to Tom, skidding to the ground beside him and tearing the skin from his elbow as he landed.
Tom gripped Hugo’s arm. “That fucker shot me in the chest. Jesus, get help.”
Hugo flipped open his phone, whispering urgently for an ambulance. When he was sure one was on the way he dialed Garcia, scrabbling for Tom’s hand as it rang. “Hang on, Tom, the cavalry’s coming. Just hang on, OK?” Garcia answered and Hugo cut him short, telling him what had happened.
“Merde. Hang up and keep your head down,” Garcia said. “The good guys are on the way.”
Hugo put his phone away and looked at Tom, his friend’s face ghostly white, his eyes half-open and his breathing labored. Hugo pulled Tom’s jacket open and looked for the wound but he couldn’t find any serious bleeding, which meant that any damage was internal, and so there was not much he could do to help.
“They’re coming, Tom. Can you hear me? They’re coming.”
“I heard you, now go get him. Get that fucker.”
“Next time,” Hugo whispered.
Tom squeezed Hugo’s hand, strength still there. “No. Now.”
“Tom—”
“The cavalry’s coming for me. They can’t catch that bastard, only you can.”
Hugo hesitated for a second, but he knew Tom was right. Every passing second put space between them and the Scarab. He stood, and when Tom gave him a weak smile Hugo turned and ran toward the last muzzle flash he’d seen. He pulled his flashlight from his pocket, knowing he had no chance of seeing movement otherwise because the dark had settled in tight, the silver slice of moon brushed black by heavy rainclouds.
As he ran through the narrow spaces between the grave sites, he heard the rising chatter of a helicopter. The cavalry. In seconds, a white disk flitted across the cemetery toward him, the chopper’s search light cutting through the night, turning everything under it into day. Hugo used the light, scanning the patch ahead for movement, seeing the blur of a man running away from him, heading toward the north side of the cemetery.
The chopper had seen their quarry, too, and Hugo could see a black silhouette leaning out of it, a sharpshooter waiting for his chance. Hugo ran harder, knowing the Scarab would, too, the adrenalin of terror spurring the grave robber and killer toward his bolt-hole, a place Hugo needed to spot before the man disappeared.
They emerged from the line of crypts into Chemin Baudin, Hugo’s feet pounding the earth for several seconds before he skidded around the corner into Avenue Hector Berlioz, just thirty yards behind the Scarab. But he was tiring, his body used to gentle laps of the Luxembourg Gardens, not twisting sprints at night, and each breath tore at his lungs. He kept his eyes fixed on the man who’d shot his friend, expecting him to dart back into the line of graves, but the Scarab kept running straight, his legs powerful but small, his stride barely half of Hugo’s, and a canvas bag swinging in his hand.
Above them the helicopter hovered, wind from its rotors buffeting them, acting like a physical fog that they had to run through and Hugo cursed it, knowing the squat Scarab would be affected less, furious that the pilot didn’t see that. He used that anger, gritting his teeth, pushing himself onward, and then he was just ten yards away. Suddenly, the ground at the Scarab’s feet exploded, vertical lines of sand and stone kicking high into the air as the sharpshooter tried to bring their suspect down. A second burst of gunfire made the Scarab stumble and, as he righted himself, Hugo was on him, his full body weight on the smaller man’s back, crashing him down onto the path.
“Police!” Hugo snarled, his lips barely an inch from the man’s ear. “Stop fighting, or I will shoot you.”
The Scarab yelled something back, they didn’t even sound like words, and Hugo fought to hold him down, to push him into the earth as he gained control, but he was shocked at the strength of the smaller man, his body taut and violent as he battled like a trapped animal fighting for its life, writhing and snapping at Hugo with his elbows and fists, bucking to get a clear kick with his heels. Hugo felt his grip loosen on the man and a split second later his body was stunned as an elbow caught him below the ribs, knocking the wind from him and, as if in a dream, he heard his gun clatter to the ground. The Scarab bucked the other way, using the moment of weakness to tilt Hugo off his back, like a clever bronco shucking its cowboy, and Hugo clutched desperately at the man’s shirt as he fell to the ground.
The police shooter fired again, and Hugo knew it was because the Scarab was free, free to escape or to kill an unarmed man. Instinctively, Hugo rolled over three times as the ground beside him splintered, throwing his body behind the protection of a marble tomb, glimpsing the gun in the Scarab’s hand as it swung away from him and up, toward the chopper. Hugo saw flames spit from the barrel but the sounds of the gunshots were lost in the clatter of the helicopter, which wheeled away from them, its turn to scramble to safety.