“You brought your bag of …”
She winked. “Mais oui, toujours.” She unzipped a cloth shoulder bag and opened it wide for him to see. “What should we use?”
“I think,” he said, acting now, the unsure neophyte, “the handcuffs?”
“Bien. Me or you?”
He could just kill her, of course. But the closer he got to the day, the more perfect he wanted everything to be. The fresher he wanted his offerings. And so he fumbled with the cuffs, smiling as she cooed and showed him how, her large breasts jiggling like insults to the memory of his mother and he glanced, several times, at the closed door to the sanctuary as if she were alive already, and looking out at him.
She lay on the floor, naked, and he lay beside her, naked too. She looked between his legs. “Not enjoying yourself. What can I do?”
“Turn over,” he said, his voice gentle.
“Bien sûr. Comme ça?” She rolled onto her stomach, her arms stretched out over her head, the metal of the handcuffs rattling as she moved. She raised her backside and smiled as the Scarab inhaled sharply.
“Perfect,” he whispered.
“Merci bien. I’m glad you like it.”
But it wasn’t her backside he was enjoying. “Did you ever dance?” he asked, and her eyes opened wide in surprise.
“No, not really.”
“You will,” he sighed. “It’s OK, you will.”
“You want to dance now?”
There was confusion in her voice, so he smiled at her. “No. I have a … toy. Can I use it?”
His voice reassured her, and she smiled. “Certainement,” she purred. “Have I been naughty?”
“No,” he said, caressing her back. “You’ve been good. And you’re going to be even better for me. Let me use your blindfold, though.”
He dipped into her bag and slipped the silk blindfold over her head as she giggled and simpered, adjusting it so she was comfortable. He stood and went to the coffee table, opening the drawer as quietly as he could, to take out his hunting knife.
“Where did you go, chéri?” she asked, but she didn’t seem too worried.
He moved back, kneeling beside her. “I’m here. Are you ready?”
“Always,” she said, arching her back. “What are we going to do?”
“A little cutting,” he whispered.
She stiffened. “A little what?”
He put his left hand on the back of her head and pushed her face into the carpet. She grunted and began to squirm. The Scarab smiled, knowing she was coming to the realization that the handcuffs and blindfold weren’t for play anymore. He slid onto her legs and hit her once, hard, on the back of the head with the butt of his knife. She let out a long, low moan and lay there, whimpering.
The Scarab smiled again, and ran his fingers down her back, admiring the tattoo that ran from the top of her buttocks to her neck, the roaring lion in shades of orange, yellow, and black, whose front paws rested on a rock and whose majestic head lifted high, bellowing at the world, showing his voice and his long, dangerous teeth. It was no leopard, of course, but the king of the jungle was a good substitute. She’d understand.
He slid the knife into her side, two inches outside the tattoo — experience had shown him how the skin contracts, tears a little, so a margin was necessary — and when she bucked, he hit her again.
He sliced her carefully, thinking himself a surgeon, separating the skin from her body with short, caressing cuts. He kept her still with the weight of his body and the hard end of his knife, and soon her gurgles became background noise. Once, early on, he thought she was going to throw up, so he quickly stripped a cushion of its cover and shoved as much of it as he could deep into her mouth. Soon after that she stopped protesting altogether.
When he was done, he took his trophy into the bathroom to clean it, marveling at the canvas in his hands. When he came out, he looked at her, wondering if somehow she’d moved. Had he left her right there?
His knife was clean now, too, but he couldn’t risk a disturbance, so he stood over her, placed the tip of the knife in her bloodied back, over where he thought her heart might be, and pressed down, letting his body-weight do the work. Her legs kicked a little, and there was an odd liquid sound from her throat. He left the knife there, up to its hilt in her back, and went to the door of his sanctuary. Before he went in, he looked back at the girl on the floor and smiled.
“Merci, ma chérie.”
Chapter Thirty-two
Hugo sat in his favorite armchair, across from Tom who was sprawled on the sofa. He looked tired, but some color had returned to his face. Between them on the coffee table lay the file on the dead girl, Elaine Fournier.
“I’m not waiting on you hand and foot, you know that, right?” Hugo smiled, but was only half-joking. The way he’d been lately, Tom would be demanding martinis and whiskeys like he was at a bar.
“I know what you’re thinking, and on that score you can do me one favor.”
“A little early in the day, isn’t it?”
“Depends on the favor.”
“True enough,” Hugo said. “What is it?”
“I’d like you to remove all the alcohol from this place.”
Hugo cocked his head. “Are you serious?”
“Very. Look, I’ve been sober for two days. It’s been hard, but it’s also been good.”
Hugo sat forward, hardly believing his ears. “Sure, Tom, whatever I can do to help.”
“I’m tasting food. Seeing colors. Thinking about something other than having a drink. It’s fucking amazing.”
“Tom, you’re about to make me cry. Or hug you.”
“Please don’t, you’ll drive me straight back to the bottle.”
Hugo held his hands up in surrender, still smiling. He went to the phone and dialed the concierge. “Dimitrios. Hugo Marston. When’s your birthday?”
“Three weeks ago, monsieur. Pourquoi?”
“I have a present for you, if you like single malt Scotch, wine, and beer. Some of it opened.”
“Bien sûr, merci bien.”
“Don’t thank me, you’re doing us a favor. But you’ll have to come collect it, unwrapped.”
“I’ll be up in a little while, monsieur.”
“Bien.” Hugo hung up. “You just made a Greek very happy.”
“That’s what I live for, to make people happy.”
Hugo dropped back into his chair. “What the hell did they do to you at the hospital?”
“They mentioned something about fixing a heart that was two sizes too small.” Tom adjusted his position, and winced. “They also mentioned that you took possession of …” he gave Hugo a sheepish look.
“Your possessions?” finished Hugo. “Yes, I did. Flushed.”
“I figured.”
“Cocaine’s bad, Tom. You’re giving that up, too, right?”
“Honestly, I’d barely even started on the stuff,” his voice was defensive, but softened. “Which is to say yes.”
“Case closed, then.”
“Thanks. Now let’s talk shop. Where are things with the Scarab?”
“I’m working with Garcia. He’s trying to find his mother, maybe she can lead us to him. Or help us figure him out, which may help us identify his next victim before he gets to her.”
“So far they’ve been pretty random,” Tom said. “The two at Père Lachaise, the girl yesterday. Plus the bones, old and new. What’s the general theory, he’s recreating Frankenstein’s monster?”