Hugo forced himself to his knees, eyes scouring the ground for his gun, lost in the dark. The outline that was now the Scarab bent and picked up something, surely his bag, and then took off down the avenue. Hugo gave himself the luxury of a deep breath and set off after him, slowing to look for his weapon as he passed the spot where they’d fought. When he knew he wouldn’t find it he looked up to see the Scarab jink back into the line of tombs.
Gun or no gun, Hugo couldn’t let him get away again, so he did the same, running parallel to his quarry, four rows of graves between them, the dark figure flitting between statues and markers until, like a specter absorbed into the night, the Scarab vanished.
Chapter Twenty-two
Hugo skidded as he changed direction, skipping across the distance between them, anger growing at the thought that the Scarab had done it again, disappeared from view, escaped just when he should have been captured.
Except, this time, Hugo knew what to look for.
There was one candidate. A granite structure a foot taller than Hugo, not much bigger than a London phone booth. A cross bearing a pain-wracked Jesus topped the crypt, and a pair of stone angels stared out at Hugo from atop a faded green door, as if daring him to enter their hallowed lair. Hugo put his hand to the metal door, felt the dry brush of aged paint under his fingertips. He pushed, gently at first, keeping his body to the side in case a gun was pointed his way.
The door swung inward silently, easily, giving out a hollow clang as it hit the inside of the crypt. Hugo pulled out his flashlight as he knelt, taking the unexpected sightline, and peered quickly around the stone and into the tomb. He ran the light over the interior and saw the hole immediately. Broken concrete had been stacked neatly around it, and a plywood board leaned upright against the back of the crypt.
Hugo stayed low, inching toward the opening in the ground, knowing he had the right place when he saw the knotted rope dropping into the black hole. He listened for a moment, unsure in this tiny echo chamber if the sounds he heard were coming from below or from the helicopter above, which had returned to wash this hidey-hole with light.
Hugo extended his arm over the hole, shining his light onto the ragged earth that made up its walls, shifting forward until he could see all the way down, the beam following the dirty rope until it ended, its tip resting on a stone floor, thirty feet below. No sign that the Scarab had waited to ambush him.
Hugo stood and backed out of the crypt, waving to the chopper, hoping that a couple of fit men in black would abseil down and do what he had no great desire to do: climb down a rope into the bowels of a cemetery in search of a killer. Unarmed.
The chopper hovered above him, no movement from its open doors, and Hugo turned, steeling himself, knowing he was on his own and that he had to try to find the Scarab’s route, if not the man himself. Perhaps, if he got lucky, the Scarab would have bled.
He went back into the narrow crypt and knelt beside the hole. He flashed his light down there one more time and the beam came to rest on one of the knots.
Hugo smiled. Finally, a break.
A crowd had gathered outside the cemetery’s lone entrance, held back by portable barriers erected by the four officers who stood guard there. In the open space between them and the cemetery gate, Hugo shook hands with Garcia.
“Your boys came quickly,” Hugo said. “Thanks.”
“Bien sûr. How is Tom?”
“I’m not sure. I couldn’t even tell how many times he was hit. They took him away while I was chasing that little bastard.”
Garcia grimaced. “You got pretty close, eh?”
Hugo just shook his head. So near, and yet so far. They both watched as a portly crime scene officer waddled up to them. In his right hand he held two transparent evidence bags, the Scarab’s rope coiled inside one of them, captured and secured like a dangerous snake. The second bag held a small, glass scarab, and in the officer’s left hand was Hugo’s gun.
“Monsieur Marston. We found this but not your phone. We have your description of it, so the boys will have it before long.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it,” Hugo said.
Garcia nodded toward the bagged rope. “That was good thinking. Let’s hope we get something from it.”
The moment Hugo had seen the rough surface of the rope, the knots for handholds, he knew there was a chance the Scarab had left his DNA behind. And he knew, too, that if he’d gone down the hole on the same rope, he could have contaminated or destroyed any sample taken. It had been a relief to finally have a shot at some real evidence, a real way to track the identity of the killer. But they’d have to get lucky first: the man’s DNA would need to be on file for them to know who he was. Otherwise, all they had was evidence to use once they caught him.
If they caught him.
“How long will it take to run the DNA?” Hugo asked.
“I’ll check. If he’s in the system, it will still take a few days, maybe as much as a week. I’ll expedite as best I can.”
“Good,” said Hugo. “And thanks. I’m not sure this lunatic’s going to give us a week.”
Garcia grunted and pointed at a dark Renault sedan parked across the street. “My car. You want a ride to the hospital?”
“Please,” Hugo said.
By the time they got there, Tom was already in surgery. Two men with suspicious eyes scrutinized Hugo’s credentials before letting him anywhere near the doctors, and even then one of them followed close behind. Behind him, Garcia hovered in the waiting area, picking up magazines and putting them down unopened.
“I’m not the surgeon,” a man in scrubs told him. “But I can tell you he’ll be in there for a while, unconscious a lot longer. You can wait if you like.”
After an hour, Hugo felt like a bird in a cage, eyed continuously by the CIA’s rotating guards, like prowling cats watching their prey. Garcia was nodding off in a plastic chair across the waiting room, his suit jacket folded over the back of the seat beside him. The hospital’s weak, machine-brewed coffee did nothing to keep the policeman awake, other than provoke frequent trips to the bathroom.
Hugo stood as a uniformed gendarme approached, an evidence bag in his hand. He looked uncertainly between Hugo and the dozing Garcia.
“Monsieur Marston?”
“Oui.” Marston showed his credentials.
“Votre téléphone.” He handed it over, then looked at the closed doors of the operating room. “Votre ami. J’espère …” He waved an arm, solidarity conveyed.
Hugo thanked him, then took the phone out of the bag as he walked over to Garcia. “Raul,” he said. “You should head out.”
The capitaine stirred and sat up. “I was resting, excuse me. Any word on Tom?”
“Still in surgery. But I have my phone back.”
“Bien. Perhaps we should call and see what the crime scene people have.”
“It’ll wait until tomorrow. Go home.”
“What about you?” Garcia asked.
“I’ll just wait until he’s out of surgery, then head home.”
“You will call me?”
“Of course. And thanks for your help tonight.”
Garcia shrugged. “I just wish we could have been there with you. Faster, at least.”
“You did fine.”
Garcia picked up his jacket and threw it over his shoulder. He put out his hand and they shook. “Remember,” Garcia said. “Call me.”
Hugo waved a hand, but Garcia was already shuffling away, a tired and rumpled policeman, and one Hugo was very glad to have on his side.