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.

He lay back on the couch, too tired to shower, his clothes chafing from the sweat and dust that clung to him.

“J’arrive, maman,” he whispered. His eyes closed and a smile spread across his lips. “J’arrive.”

He lay quietly for ten minutes, working his mind from the past to the future. As disappointed as he was with the interruption at Père Lachaise, his backup plan would ensure no great delay of the reunion. Jane Avril was perfect, but she wasn’t the only one who could help him.

He sat up and allowed himself a smile. It was, he thought, a good backup plan, one that the man in the cemetery might guess, but not until it was too late.

He took his scalpel from the drawer in the coffee table and admired the light that glinted off its blade. He hesitated, feeling the hum in his veins, wondering if tonight he could sleep without the blade. The night’s excitement had left him drained but also unexpectedly elated, a sensation he felt only with the scalpel in his hand or, recently, taking the lives of those who might have derailed his plans.

Feeling had been the problem all his life. Physical sensations, those were familiar enough—the pain of his father’s belt, and when he was older the ache of the week-long bruises from his fists. The confines of the closet, dark and hard, too, making his muscles cramp and his knees burn.

It was the emotions he’d missed out on, as numbness had taken over his soul. Even fear had given way to its embrace, like a sword sinking into stone, pain disappearing into an impenetrable block of nothingness.

Lately though, like when he was trekking to Père Lachaise, the difficult journey itself made him feel a little something: the dust, dirt, and dark that swallowed him underground, the iron bars that jutted from ragged concrete like the knives of highway robbers, and the physically exhausting journey through passages that alternately squeezed him tight and then opened wide, like the mouth of Jonah’s whale, to swallow whole his insignificant, scuttling form.

All of these things, together, after many a crippling mile and because he always did them alone, they had become his and they made him feel, just a little.