Chapter Thirty-one

The Scarab had followed him all day. Now, he watched as Marston stopped near the Place de la Concorde to talk on the phone. He watched closely as the man’s features clouded over. Bad news, eh? The Scarab moved back into a side street as Marston turned and started toward him. The man had become like a drug to him, a dangerous one. But why?

Perhaps because Marston was everything that the Scarab was not: tall, handsome, and confident, able to operate in the open without people looking away, repulsed. Or, maybe it was because they were studying each other. The Scarab had researched Marston as best he could, using the Internet at the public library. He knew Marston was former FBI, a profiler no less, and now the RSO at the US Embassy. The Scarab had even read a couple of papers that Marston had written about behavioral analysis, and read up on some of the man’s more newsworthy cases.

A profiler. That meant he was trying to understand the Scarab, to figure out what made him tick. To understand him. His mother, too long ago, had been the only person who understood him, the only one to even try. Until now. Marston wanted to understand him for all the wrong reasons, in order to catch him, yes. But the American actually sought to know him and, whatever the policeman’s motivations, that brought them closer.

The Scarab was only disappointed he didn’t have more time, couldn’t leave more clues for Marston. He’d just have to explain it to his face right before he killed him.

And then it dawned on him. He could let the American live. He could explain it all and then, as long as the man was restrained, he could finish his project. The realization came like an explosion in his mind. How perfect to complete this, to bring her to life through the death of others, and to leave behind the one person who might understand!

 

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At his apartment the old woman above him had tacked a note to his door, complaining about her water heater again. The Scarab lived here for free, no paperwork or anything, but the deal was he fixed things. He’d fixed her water heater twice, unstopped her toilet, even replaced a window. The bitch thought he worked for her.

The people below, he liked them. Two men and a boy. He supposed they were homosexuals, but they left him alone and fixed their own stuff, so he liked them.

He knocked on the door of the gay couple first, waiting patiently before knocking a second time, then a third. He was in luck, they were out. The old woman was in and less than polite.

“I thought you had fixed it, non? Why is it not working still?”

“Let’s look, shall we. Can you turn on the hot tap for your bath?”

“My bath?”

Si. Show me.”

He followed her into the narrow bathroom. She leaned over to turn on the hot tap and he eased her weak body over the edge into the tub. She didn’t fight because she didn’t realize what was happening, her wrinkled mouth opening in protest only when she hit the bottom of the porcelain bathtub. The sight of a gun in his hand silenced her and he thought he’d never seen eyes so big.

Not too big, though, because he managed to put the bullet right between them, snapping her head against the side of the bath with a hollow thump. He watched as she settled back, blood filling the drain. Just before he left, a wheeze escaped her cracked lips, and that made him smile.

He went back to his apartment and threw her note into the trash container he kept under his sink, then went to the grubby couch in the living room, his eyes running over the door to his sanctuary. Two more nights, and two more additions. One hard, one easy.

Tonight the easy.

He picked up the phone and dialed the number. She’d been here once before and he’d been gentle, very gentle, and then he’d overpaid, making sure she’d remember and be happy to come back. Not that people had trouble remembering him—coming back was usually the problem.

“Can you be here soon?” he asked. It wouldn’t take long, but he had a long drive ahead of him, an empty house that needed clearing out. Gutting.

“You’ve cut your hair,” she said when she arrived an hour later. She ran a friendly hand over his head. “I like it.”

She had a hard face, pretty but as if she’d skipped from childhood to middle age, missing adolescence and the soft years of early adulthood. He wondered if maybe she’d had the same kind of father he did, but he wasn’t comfortable making conversation. Not something he was good at. She was his height, with a narrow waist and large breasts and hips, so he didn’t take her for a drug addict. Her hair had been many colors, he could tell because of how brittle it was when he touched it, how the individual hairs went from blonde to mud to red to black, and back again. Before it had been blonde, now it was mostly red.

“Shall we go to the bedroom?” she asked.

“No,” he said, a little too quickly. It’s a sanctuary, not a bedroom.

“It’s your money, chéri, whatever and wherever you want.”

The idea repulsed him, the memory of last time, how he’d gone through the motions just to see, to check that she was right. But she’d been perfect. Not in that way, but for what he needed today, and her advertisement indicated she’d go along. Mostly.

“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.”