“What is your name?” he asked. She was short, but still an inch taller than him and she smelled clean, like soap or flowers, despite her trip on the metro.
She opened her mouth to speak but no sound came out. A single tear rolled down her cheek and she shook her head. But the Scarab was no longer watching her face, the movement had revealed the head of the snake and sent a shot of adrenalin through him.
He didn’t need to know her name. What for?
Finally, she found words. “Please,” she whispered. “My roommate will be home any moment. Please, just … don’t.”
She started to whimper and pull away as the Scarab raised the gun to the side of her head. He had to be fast, he couldn’t risk a struggle. That might damage the snake.
He shot her once, through the temple. Her head snapped to the right, her eyes still wide, and a thrill passed through him as he watched the life go out of her. It was like a bulb sparking out, the energy of fear and hope that had flickered in her eyes just a second before had vanished at the speed of a bullet.
He let her fall, and watched for a moment as her blood seeped into the carpet and matted her hair, turning yellow into a sticky brown. He dropped his backpack onto the couch. He put the gun inside and rummaged through it, finally finding his knife and a roll of bandages.
He knelt beside her and split the front of her dress, sucking in his breath as he revealed the beautiful green and brown of the serpent that lay, still alive, across the dead woman’s torso. He freed it slowly, cautiously, working with the skill he’d picked up from practice on the girl at the cemetery. His body tingled as he worked, and it took a conscious effort to contain the excitement. It took ten minutes, but when he’d finished he laid the skin on the unfurled bandages, then rolled them up and placed them into his pack with the care of a father laying his child in a crib.
He didn’t look at the girl as he left, concentrating more on slipping on his pack as gently as possible. He resolved to walk to his apartment, to avoid the press of the metro and buses. He wondered if maybe people that close might smell the death on him, and he put the pistol in his pocket, just in case.
He went to the front door and paused to listen. Footfalls were making their way toward him in the hallway, and he waited for them to pass. They slowed and stopped outside the snake girl’s apartment. He clenched his teeth and slid a hand into his pocket as the door opened and a young woman, with pretty, black skin and surprised eyes, opened the door and looked at him.
The Scarab smiled. “You must be her roommate,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Hugo sat across from Ambassador Taylor, an untouched coffee pot between them. It was not yet eight on Sunday, the morning after Al Zakiri’s death, but the ambassador had wanted to circle up, see where everyone stood. They leaned forward, listening to Tom’s phone as it rang, both relieved to hear his voice.
“Tom Green.”
“It’s Hugo. I’m in the ambassador’s office.”
“Does he know? If not, steal some of his good hooch.”
“He knows,” Taylor said with a smile. “How’re you doing, Tom?”
“Hey, boss. They said they’d let me out today, if I promise to stay still and not work.”
“Guess you’ll be staying there, then,” Hugo said. “Have you had a full report on Al Zakiri?”
“Yeah, and I gather you almost got Claudia and yourself shot. I warned you those boys were trigger happy.”
“You were right,” Hugo said. “Are they still investigating Al Zakiri?”
“Yes. And finding nothing. They went through his barge and didn’t even find dirty pictures. Not that he needed them, damn, did you see his girlfriend?”
“You know I did,” Hugo said. “Plus she’s famous, everyone’s seen her.”
“Quite something, we should go to a show. Anyway, she was interviewed all yesterday afternoon and evening. All night, probably. I got a report on that, too. When you were with him, did you tell the stupid bastard to turn himself in?”
“I did,” Hugo said. “Several times. He thought he’d end up being tortured or framed or something. Didn’t trust us, not even a little bit.”
“Do you blame him?” Taylor chipped in.
“Nope,” Tom said. “But look where it got him. Anyway, I found my terrorist, did you find your beetle?”
“Scarab,” Hugo corrected. “And he wasn’t a terrorist.”
“Maybe, but your guy’s a serial killer,” Tom said.
“Not technically,” Hugo said.
“Actually yes, technically.”
The ambassador and Hugo exchanged glances. “What are you talking about?” Taylor asked.
“Killed a girl in the Eighth Arrondissement. Close range, side of the head, shot and dumped in her apartment.”
“Who found her?” Taylor asked.
“Her roommate. Not only found her, but ran smack-bang into the Scarab himself as he was leaving. He just walked right on past her. She described him as a little guy with a buzz haircut and a forehead like the Rock of Gibraltar. Well, those are my words but you get the picture.”
“A buzz haircut?” Hugo asked. A blurred image tugged at his mind. “He’s changed his appearance. No surprise there, I guess. But he didn’t hurt the roommate?”
“Scared the crap out of her. Of course, that ugly bastard was nothing compared to what she saw in the apartment.”
“Her dead friend?”
“Her skinned dead friend. He’d cut her dress off and skinned her.”
“He did? Like Abida Kiani, or … worse?” Hugo asked.
“Worse. Much. Sliced from the knees to her chin. Trophy, you think?”
“If he took the skin with him,” Hugo said. “I guess it must be.”
“He did,” Tom said. “The crazy son of a bitch has graduated from the dead to the living. Well, the long-dead to the recent-dead, but you know what I mean.”
“What was her tattoo?”
“He took the front off of her, does it matter what the damn picture was?”
“Jeez, Tom, you know it does. Find out, will you?”
“Sure, of course. Sorry. It’s like this shit’s getting to me finally.”
“That’s OK. Was she sexually assaulted?” Hugo asked.
“It doesn’t look like it.”
“Still, it’s a shift in MO,” Hugo said. “He’s getting bolder as well as changing his target. The question is, why?”
“No idea,” Tom said. “But as I pointed out before, I found my bad guy so you better hurry up and find yours.”
“Are the French police back in charge now?” Hugo asked. “And can I see the report and photos from the scene?”
“Yes and yes,” Tom replied. “And I’ll let you know if the fingerprints come back to anyone.”
Hugo sat straight up. “You have fingerprints?”
“Yep.”
“Well, thanks for mentioning that.” Hugo paused. “When will you know? And how much longer on the DNA from the Montmartre Cemetery?”
“A week, probably less, for the DNA. Fingerprints are much quicker, we’ll know within an hour or two. Oh shit, hold on. I figured out how to use call waiting and the lab’s calling right now. Sit tight.”
Hugo and Ambassador Taylor sat staring at the phone, their nerves humming.
A minute later Tom came on the line. “Now there’s a spot of luck,” he said. “Our guy has a record, and exactly what you’d expect from a serial killer.”
“Let me guess,” Hugo said. “Trespass, maybe burglary, either indecent exposure or peeping in windows.”
“Don’t forget the big two,” Tom chided. “Both present here.”