The Burial Society Page 5

  “What’s going on?”

  Uncle Frank turned, unable to hide his relieved surprise at seeing Natalie out of her room.

  “Aunt Della and the girls are going home.”

  “You’re staying, though, Uncle Frank?” Natalie heard the rising lilt of panic in her own voice.

  “Of course, honey. As long as you guys need. It’s just hard on Della and especially on the girls. They’re really too young to understand what’s happening.”

  What did “young” have to do with it? How could anyone understand?

  Natalie burned to know why her father hadn’t stopped it. How could he have left the family flanks vulnerable to a predator? Wasn’t Daddy supposed to protect them? Wasn’t he supposed to fix everything?

  Uncle Frank laid a hand on her shoulder. “Hard for any of us to make sense of this, Nat. I know.”

  Natalie jerked away. Could Uncle Frank read her mind now?

  “But the police are doing everything they can,” Uncle Frank assured. “And we have each other.”

  Natalie managed a quick nod.

  Brian’s eyes rose to meet Natalie’s, as if Frank’s words somehow blazed a light through a dense fog, allowing the father to fully see the daughter in front of him for the first time in days.

  Natalie stared back at him, but found no comfort in his gaze.

  Still, she understood. She and her father sipped from a shared elixir of fear, guilt, rage, misery, love, and loss. She’d heard him prowl the house during the thickest hours of night, when she too was restless and haunted.

  She couldn’t blame him for how he had disappeared into himself—hadn’t she done the same?

  If I could tell the story differently…

  It would be a tale of bravery. Noble motives and nobler deeds.

  A story in which regrets were redeemed and the past forgiven.

  But one can only twist the truth so much.

  I haven’t slept. With the ransom note delivered, my only task now is to wait. Patience is not one of my virtues. I’ve been prowling around my apartment for hours. I feel jittery and unfocused.

  I draw the curtains open and peer down at the street below. Akili, my earth-brown neighbor, lifts the roll-up gate guarding his Moroccan spice shop. His son is Jumah, whom I enlisted for yesterday’s ransom drop.

  So many lives. So many stories. Perhaps tales for another time.

  With no definitive action to take, my thoughts are too free to roam.

  Mallory Burrows. Despite my many successes, it’s that failure that haunts. And now her husband, Brian, is dead? Murdered. Improbable. But true.

  Two nights ago I’d brushed past Natalie Burrows on my way out of their family’s apartment near Parc Monceau. I did nothing to stop her, even though I knew that girl was walking in to discover her father’s bloody corpse. My breath quickens remembering it. But I needed to get out of there. Brian’s laptop was tucked under my arm. I couldn’t afford kindness.

  I’d manufactured a persona, an expat running an organization for Americans living in Paris, arranged a meeting. I wanted to see how Brian Burrows was faring three years after Mallory’s disappearance. To look into his eyes and take his measure. There was no answer when I arrived at the appointed time. I picked the lock to allow myself a discreet look around.

  And found Brian with his throat slashed.

  I grabbed his laptop and bolted. Force of habit, I guess. I wanted, no, needed to trace his digital fingerprints.

  Brian’s computer awaits me, tucked into one of the two desks in my command center, my apartment’s second bedroom.

  I run the Burial Society from this sun-flooded room with its banks of monitors and multiple keyboards, numerous hard drives and neat stacks of supplies (medical, tactical, office), the two desks (both for me), and the austere hard-backed desk chair on wheels which I use to zip between them. I am known by face and (various) names to some of the people in my network; to many more I exist only in the cyber realm. I prefer it that way.

  I traffic in others’ secrets, but don’t want anyone knowing mine.

  I unlock the door to the command center by pressing my thumb against the fingerprint-activated biometric door lock. Pop open Brian’s computer. Crack his password, trying “Mallory,” her birthday, their anniversary, and a dozen other logical possibilities before hitting bingo: “jake&nat.”

  I’m into his email easily enough. Lots of work-related correspondence. Promotions from Barneys New York, Amazon, Maxim, Uber, American Express, Architectural Digest. Missives from friends back in the States. An invoice from a place called Meadowfield, an elder care facility. An email from Brian’s brother, Frank, about his unexpected trip to London, suggesting they spend a couple of days together when Frank’s trade show was over. Brian’s enthusiastic reply.

  They would have a very different sort of reunion now.

  I snap Brian’s computer closed and fire up one of my own.

  Going through encrypted and secure Tor channels, I am assured that Elena is safely deposited in Genoa. The tomato-red warehouse where she is now housed nestles anonymously among many others of similarly brilliant hues that clutter the rocky beach. Four floors of the warehouse are devoted to the storage of olive oil before it is loaded onto ships for distribution. The top floor has been fitted out as a luxurious apartment. Elena will be comfortable. I’ve stayed there myself.

  The enormity of what I’m trying to accomplish abruptly overwhelms me. I’m putting others in danger as well as myself. The whole plan is risky, possibly insane. I can’t afford a single mistake.

  The last thing I need is the complication of the Burrows family.

  Frank has insisted on the meeting at the prefecture. He wants to rouse those two dazed kids from the hotel room, get them some fresh air. Remind them that they are still alive.

  For his own sake, Frank craved action, information. He needed a sense of what the police know, what they are doing. But now that he, Jake, and Natalie are cooling their heels in the waiting room, Frank feels less sure.

  The room reeks of desperation and institutional indifference. Threadbare gray carpet, dun-colored walls. Posters announcing police initiatives against such things as graffiti and subway groping, which Frank can only decode based on the brightly jarring artwork. He speaks no French. He’s been assured of an English-speaking translator. This is all hard enough without the language barrier.

  They arrived on time for their appointment, but have been kept waiting almost forty-five minutes. Natalie sits on the bench next to him, knees pulled up to her chest. Jake slouches against the wall, tapping at his phone.

  Frank reflects that these kids are well trained in the art of patience in the face of a dreaded unknown. That’s a sorry fact.

  The inner door swings open. A woman greets them in a soft, lightly accented tone. “Monsieur Burrows? My name is Aimee Martinet. I am your liaison.”

  Aimee Martinet’s in her forties, striking, gray-streaked dark hair pulled back into a chignon, frank brown eyes, a permanent furrow between her brows that makes her look as if every single word has been carefully deliberated before utterance. Her skirted uniform fits her superbly. Her navy leather heels are surprisingly high.

  Aimee clicks, clicks, clicks down the hallway and ushers them into a room. A blond wood table surrounded by molded plastic chairs. Three stark white walls, a fourth painted red, a mirror in its center. Frank wonders if it’s the kind that allows someone unseen to observe them. He wonders if someone unseen is observing them.

  A pile of yellow legal pads and a ceramic mug full of pencils grace the center of the table. Frank takes a legal pad and then opens his own pen, a fancy Cross number that had been a Christmas gift from his brother. Frank glances first at his nephew and then his niece, flanking him at the table. Jake pretends indifference. Natalie gnaws a cuticle.

  Aimee sits opposite them. When she speaks, her voice is intended to soothe. “Are you sure you want the children here?”

  Frank nods. He promised them this. H
e understands. The desire to make sense of a senseless universe is one of humanity’s most urgent needs, and it’s been developed to an especially fine edge in these two young people whose mother disappeared off the face of the earth three years ago, whose father has just been murdered in cold blood.

  Aimee opens a file. The police have interviewed the other residents of the building as well as neighbors along the street. Run fingerprints found at the scene. Talked to Brian’s co-workers. They’re checking CCTV footage. However, as of now she’s sorry to say they have no specific leads. They suspect it was a robbery gone terribly wrong, as Brian’s laptop is missing. Surmise that perhaps someone saw him with his computer bag, followed him home. Either tricked or forced his way into the apartment. Her voice drops (reverence for the dead? compassion for his loved ones?) as she announces they believe the robber killed Brian, then panicked, grabbed the computer, and ran. Aimee is terribly sorry. They will continue to do all they can.

  Natalie shifts in her chair. Expels a gusty breath of dissatisfaction. Frank places a hand on hers. Is surprised to realize her fingers are trembling.

  Is more surprised to realize that so are his own.

  Lights pulse in the near darkness. Red, violet, and golden-amber flicker and glow, revealing tantalizing glimpses of breast, hip, ass. On the stage, platinum blond Louise Brooks wigs and provocative strips of barely-there black patent leather are the order of the day. Electronica throbs through the sound system; the girls arch and stretch, spin and twerk, open their thighs, lick their lips.

  Other beauties thread through the crowd flirting and sipping, encouraging private dances, rounds of drinks. The club is upscale. The patrons are as well dressed as the performers are undressed.

  The crowd is white, brown, black, yellow. Straight, gay, trans, fluid. Lots of couples. Several polyamorous clusters. A man who looks like he could be with his granddaughter. A regal African woman in traditional garb leads two naked Chinese men in collars and leashes. There are no rules here if the price is right.

  Gerard’s delighted eyes and slack jaw show I have done well on my offer of a surprise. I run one hand up along his inner thigh and gesture to a passing girl with the other. A sheer black negligee flung over hot pink panties, tits bare. In her six-inch heels, she’s taller than both of us. She crooks a finger and shoots me a smile.

  “Let’s go, Cathy. Let’s go.” A slivered whisper of memory twines through the pulse of the music, brings me to my feet.

  Gerard’s eyes lift to mine, as if to ask, Really? My lover looks so happily shocked when I give him an impish nod that I can’t help but laugh.

  We follow Pink Panties back into the recesses of the club. To the private rooms.

  I don’t know that you need all the details of what transpires next; let it suffice to say that lips, tongues, cocks, ears, pussies, necks, toes, assholes, mouths, breasts, and thighs are thoroughly explored. Backs are turned, asses slapped, tummies licked, calves stroked, wrists tied, orgasms had.

  Gerard and I stumble out into shocking pink dawn. We’ve been here all night. The street’s shops and cafés, the movie theater, the travel bookstore, the tabac, they are all still closed. I kiss Gerard goodbye. He has to go. Face work. Face his wife. He breathes a satiated merci into my ear and hurries away.

  I’m not ready yet to face what’s in front of me. I squint my eyes against the sunshine.

  Then head back into the club.

  Aimee Martinet, the police liaison, told one story, but Natalie can’t help but wonder: How many other versions could also be told? Robbery just feels wrong. Yes, Dad’s laptop’s missing, but his watch and his wallet weren’t taken. Nothing else from the apartment was stolen.

  So what are the other ways to look at it? What other scenarios could have led to Dad’s vicious murder?

  Natalie burns with the need for more information. She must find out what was happening right before Dad was killed, while she and Jake were out of Paris.

  Who was Brian spending his time with? Did anything unusual happen at work? In the apartment building? How can she find out?

  She’s determined to investigate. But how? Where to begin? She can’t ask Jake for help. He’s too volatile. Natalie finds it difficult to admit, even to herself, but she’s afraid of her brother when he’s angry. And he’s been angry a lot. Not that she blames him.

  Natalie contemplates her reflection in a mirror identical to the one Jake smashed their first day in this hotel. That very night, a pair of maintenance men clad in navy coveralls had come in, swept up the debris, hung a duplicate mirror, and departed, all without saying a word. It was like Jake had never broken the mirror, like the whole incident had never happened. Natalie finds it simultaneously reassuring and disturbing, this evidence that damage done can be so easily erased.

  Uncle Frank will know what to do; he always does. Wasn’t he the one who took care of everything when Mom disappeared?

  Natalie knocks on her uncle’s bedroom door. Frank calls to her to come in. He’s propped up on the bed, a New York Times international edition open on his lap, a soccer match playing on the TV, the sound turned off.

  She starts by posing questions, getting a feel for Uncle Frank’s impression of the robbery theory before she advances her own qualms about its validity. She listens intently to his answers. Nods as if his words about faith in the system and the determination of the police actually reassure her.

  With a sick twist of loss she remembers that it was her dad who taught her this technique. Listen first, in order to disarm your opponent with his or her own words. Different context, of course. Model United Nations negotiations in eleventh grade.

  But Uncle Frank is on to her.

  “I can tell you’re up to something, Natalie. And all I can say is let the police do their jobs. You’re not some kind of secret agent.”

  “I’m not saying I am! It’s just his watch and his wallet weren’t taken and—”

  “You don’t have superpowers.”

  “Am I saying I do? I’m just asking questions. Why was nothing else taken from the apartment? How did the killer get in? Why was the door locked when I got home?”

  “That’s enough, Nat! Stay away from this investigation! It’s not safe for you.”

  Natalie pales. “Why do you say that? Do you know something you’re not telling me?”

  Uncle Frank swings his legs over the side of the mattress. Gently grasps Natalie’s wrist and pushes up her sleeve. Natalie averts her eyes.

  “Look at your arm, Nat. Don’t pretend they’re not there.” He touches her chin with his index finger to turn her face. She refuses to look. She knows what she’ll see. She carved them there: tiny incisions sliced by the precise blade of a razor into the thin, bluish skin of her inner arm.

  “It makes me feel better,” she manages to whisper.

  “Not really,” Uncle Frank whispers back before he releases her arm. He reclines against the headboard.

  “Look, Nat,” he continues in a level tone, “I know this is awful for you. It’s awful for all of us. But it’s not your job to fix it or solve it. Your only job right now is to take care of you.”

  Natalie capitulates. She lets Uncle Frank suggest a nearby rustic bistro for dinner. She goes through all the motions. Dices her food into bits and pushes it around on her plate so it looks like she’s eaten just enough. Makes desultory conversation with Jake and Uncle Frank. Tries her French on the waiter. She hears herself laugh at a corny joke Frank floats out, registers his pleased flush at her response.

  All the while, she is dreaming of her escape. Of diving into the streets of Paris, seeking out her father’s murderer, and bringing him to justice, her journey protected by the shining beacon of truth.

  Bone weary, I stumble into my apartment. Avert my eyes from the image greeting me in the mirror over the hall table as I drop my keys in their accustomed place. Pale skin, raccoon circles around my eyes. Strands of fine, light brown hair escaping from underneath my honey blond wig. My torn Versace dre
ss reveals a purplish bruise rising on the soft flesh of my upper arm. I don’t even remember it happening. I step out of my strappy Jimmy Choo snakeskin stilettos, my feet aching and raw. Pad into my bedroom.

  I throw myself on top of my bed. Pull my favorite heavyweight chenille throw on top of my throbbing body. Burrow my head deep into a down pillow. All I want to do is sleep.

  A phone vibrates. Shit. No.

  Sleep. Please, just let me sleep.

  The phone buzzes again, deep from the recesses of the black leather Céline handbag I used tonight.

  Shit. The phone in the Céline is the emergency number for all things Elena.

  I claw into my bag and extract the cell. Stare at the new text message without comprehension, at first too shocked and exhausted to make sense of it.

  I’m on my feet and running a computer search the moment it sinks in.

  There she is, Elena, radiant, laughing, pulling a scarf over her exquisite blond head, out and about on the Italian coast in an Instagram posted by a teenage fangirl from New Jersey on vacation with her parents.

  Shit.

  The music is deafening, propulsive. Euro-disco at its finest. Laser lights split the darkness, streaking the mirrored surfaces, bouncing off shiny bodies. The dance floor throbs; it looks like a single gigantic organism composed of writhing torsos and twirling limbs.

  Jake’s bare-chested, slick with sweat, his T-shirt lost god-knows-where. He throws back another shot. He has never seen so many nearly naked men.

  He’s lost himself in this club, in the pure sensual pleasure of dancing, in the moody, theatrical lighting, among the hundreds of moving bodies.

  He pushes damp hair away from his forehead.

  A sleekly muscled guy in a pair of royal blue satin shorts and not much else grinds up against him. Whispers something Jake can’t understand in his ear, though the message is clear enough in the man’s smile.