The Book of Lost Fragrances: A Novel of Suspense (28 page)

“I’m sure you are. Drink it anyway.”

She sipped the amber liquor. It burned going down. She’d never acquired a taste for Cognac, even as aged as this one.

“Is there a stereo hidden behind one of these mirrors, too?” he asked.

She pointed to the matching panel on the other side of the bar. “You want to listen to music?”

He shook his head. Put his finger to his lips. She remembered what he’d told her in the restaurant. If the police were watching, there was a good chance they were listening, too.

Griffin pressed on the upper-right-hand corner of the mirror and a full stereo swung out. He hit the eject button, saw the tray was full, then pushed the tray back and hit play.

He kept his eyes on the console, waiting for the first strains of music. Saint-Saëns’s
Danse Macabre
filled the room.

Jac recognized the piece. “Great choice,” her voice thick with sarcasm.

She sat on the couch, drink in hand.

He pulled over a chair, faced her. Talked softly. “I know how much you want to find him. But you have to trust me. We have to do this the right way.”

“I can’t bear to think he’s down there. Alone. Scared.”

He drank some of his brandy. “We have to wait, we have no choice.”

“You don’t understand.” It came out more sharply than she intended.

Griffin put down his drink on the coffee table between them and stood. “If you’d rather, I can go back to the hotel.”

She wanted to tell him yes, that it would be much better if he left. Instead she shook her head. Rubbed her wrists and said, “No. I’m sorry.”

“Maybe I’m not as worried as you are . . .” His voice was low and kind, and she felt as if he’d put his arm around her even though he hadn’t touched her. “But I want to find Robbie too. Please stop fighting me. I’m not the enemy here.”

She shut her eyes.

“Do you know anything at all about that tunnel?” he asked.

“It was another one of those crazy legends that my family seemed to collect the way other people collect china dogs. Have you ever heard of the
Carrières de Paris
?” She realized she’d used the French and corrected herself, referring to them in English. “The quarries of Paris?”

“Yes,” Griffin said. “The city is built on mines, some of which date back as far as the thirteenth century, right? The stones that built Paris came from those quarries, leaving a network of empty tunnels and caves that became the catacombs. Most archaeologists know about them.”

“Exhuming the dead from overcrowded aboveground cemeteries that were causing health problems started in 1777,” Jac continued, “just as the revolution was gaining momentum and the government’s greed for accumulating land was growing. The House of L’Etoile was already founded by then. My grandfather used to tease us that our ancestors weren’t above us in heaven but beneath us in the cellar. ‘A city sitting on an abyss,’ he’d call it
.
When I was little and didn’t get what I wanted, sometimes I’d stamp my foot and—”

“Why am I not surprised?”

Jac ignored Griffin’s comment and continued. “Grand-père Charles would warn me to be careful. ‘If you stomp too hard, you’ll make a hole in the earth and fall though. And then you’ll have to make friends with those bones.’”

She still missed her grandfather, who’d died while she’d been living in America. Everyone she cared about in her family was gone except for Robbie.

“I didn’t believe him,” she continued. “I wanted to know how he knew people were buried there. When I was old enough, he told me that he and his brother were part of the resistance movement during World War II, and they used the tunnels and galleries beneath Paris to help Allied soldiers and airmen escape.” Jac got up and walked over to the glass doors leading to the courtyard. Her grandfather had planted those bushes, imported heirloom roses from all over France and England. He’d cultivated hybrids as he strove to create scents other houses couldn’t copy.

A fine rain was falling in a shimmering mist. She opened the door and breathed in the semisweet nighttime scents and green cool air. “Grand-père said he had his own private entrance to the tunnels. That it was more secret than most because of where it was and how it was hidden. Robbie used to pester him to take us down.”

“Did he?”

“No.”

Griffin got up to refill his glass. She’d never imagined she’d see him here. But he belonged in a way. Wasn’t this room a repository for memories? Antiques and artifacts dating from eighteenth-century L’Etoiles sat on tabletops and on shelves. Silver perfume chatelaines amassed by a great-great-grandmother. A large assortment of Limoges snuffboxes that had been collected over generations.

Jac’s grandmother had a penchant for enameled jeweled frames. Crystals set in scrolls. Ruffles edged with marcasites. Openwork gold studded with pearls. Dozens sparkled all over the room. Once there had been Fabergé borders around the likenesses of long-dead family members, but those had long been sold.

On the mantel was a gold clock decorated with symbols of the earth, moon, sun, and stars of the zodiac. It not only told the hour and the day but also the times of sunset, sunrise, moonset and moonrise.

It had been broken when Jac spotted it in a corner booth at the flea market early one Saturday morning. Her grandmother had bought it over Jac’s mother’s protestations that it was going to be impossible to fix.

Grand-mère had patted Audrey’s hand in that way she had. “It’s a beautiful piece,” she said. “We’ll find a way.”

Robbie’s collection of malachite, quartz, lapis lazuli, and jade obelisks flanked the clock. On the other side, a Lalique bowl was filled with green, blue and milky-white sea glass that Jac had collected with her mother the summers they’d spent in the south of France. There was nothing here that didn’t have memories attached.

“Is it possible your grandfather took Robbie down into the catacombs and not you?”

“Of course. After I left—when I was in America—my grandfather lived for another six years and was very healthy until the end.”

“When was the maze in the courtyard constructed?”

“The exact date? I don’t know, but those are architectural drawings of the house and the courtyard.” She pointed to a series of six framed etchings. “They date back to 1816, and the maze is in the second to the end.”

“So it’s possible that the manhole in the center of the maze is the entrance to the underground tunnels that your grandfather used to tell you about. And that he showed it to Robbie?”

“Yes. Don’t you think?” She was excited by the idea. If her brother was down there, he might be safe after all. “If there’s a city of the dead underneath our house, it’s exactly the kind of mystery Robbie would gravitate to.”

Griffin stared into his glass. “When I was younger,” he said, “I wanted to grow up to be the kind of man whose friends and lovers had secrets.”

“Did you?”

He nodded. “I discovered we all have secrets. You know most of mine.”

“I did, but . . .” She didn’t complete the thought.

After a minute, he said, “We need to go online. Do you have a computer with you?”

Jac fetched her laptop from the desk in the corner. “The house is wireless. Robbie saw to that. What are you looking for?” she asked as she handed it to him.

“Maps first. There are always maps. We need to figure out what’s down there and how to prepare for it. The more we know going in, the more likely we are to meet with success.”

For the next hour, they sat side by side on the couch. Said little. Read a lot. Most of the information was in English as well as in French, so Jac didn’t have to translate much.

The city beneath the city had first supplied Paris with all the limestone it needed for its grand mansions, wide boulevards and bridges. The hollowed-out earth and tunnels then became home to the bones of more than six million dead crowding cemeteries that couldn’t contain them anymore. Over the years, the catacombs had been utilized as makeshift resistance bunkers during the war, galleries for avant-garde artists, prisons and escape routes. All but a mile of them had been officially shut down—that mile was now a tourist destination. But the laws didn’t prevent determined cataphiles from continuing to go underground for all sorts of reasons.

“It’s illegal to explore the tunnels,” Jac said as she skimmed another article. “I don’t even want to read these stories about people who have gotten lost and never came out. There are one hundred and ninety miles of underground passages. Uncharted, and, for the most part, unmarked and dangerous.”

“I’ve crawled through pyramids. I know how to take care of us.”

“And find him? In all those tunnels?”

“He found a way to get you to the tunnel. He’ll find a way to lead you to him.”

According to the Greeks, the fates—three minor goddesses—appeared seven nights after a child’s birth. Their job: to determine the trajectory of the baby’s life. Clotho spun the thread of life that Lachesis measured and that Atropos cut after deciding how old the child would be and how death would occur.

And yet, even with the goddesses making the decisions, man had the freedom to influence and alter his fate. Jac believed everything in mythology was a metaphor. She didn’t believe in fate. But as she stared at Griffin, she wondered about the odd coincidence that he would be in Paris now. Griffin. An expert in exactly the kind of mission necessary to find her brother.

“There are no coincidences,” she could hear her brother saying. Someone else had said it to her recently too. She struggled to remember. Then it came to her. Malachai Samuels.

She glanced back at the computer. “It says most of the tunnels are over a hundred feet down. That’s what you said. When you dropped the candle. That the chute went down a hundred feet?”

“From the sound the candle made when I dropped it, absolutely.”

“That’s about five to seven flights of stairs, depending on how far apart they are, right?”

He nodded.

“Seven stories is twice the size of this building.”

“You don’t have to go if you’re uncomfortable. Let me do it. I’ve gone down deeper—it doesn’t bother me at all.”

“It’s Robbie. I’ll manage.”

“There are tricks to not panicking. One is, don’t anticipate what’s ahead of you. Not being able to see ahead of you—not knowing where the end is—can be the worst part.”

“I’m not afraid of heights; I don’t imagine I’ll be afraid of depths.”

“Or the dark?”

“No. I like the dark. It’s comforting.”

Griffin laughed. “Well, then, you’ll be happy. It’s going to be dark. There’s no natural light that far down. This article says that in the early nineteen hundreds, the catacombs were used to grow mushrooms.”

They made a list of what they’d need to buy in the morning.

Jac checked the clock on the mantel. It was ten. “The stores won’t be open for another twelve hours.”

Griffin followed her glance. “You should try to go to sleep.”

“I won’t be able to.”

“You’re not going to be any good to Robbie if you’re exhausted.” Griffin crossed the room and placed his glass on the bar. “I don’t think you should be alone in the house. I’ll camp out on the couch.”

“I’m not afraid to be alone.”

“No. I’m sure you’re not.” He almost sounded aggrieved. “But I’m afraid for you, and I’ll be able to sleep better knowing you’re not here by yourself.”

“I’m not in danger, Griffin.”

He just nodded.

“You think I am?”

“I just don’t want to take chances.”

Jac looked at him. Held his eyes. Once she had imagined so many stories, all with him in them. Once she had thought that they would be together. Once she had believed in him the way she now understood no one should ever believe in anyone. Yes, she’d had great expectations for him. For him and for Robbie—and for herself, too. It might have seemed like too much pressure. Maybe she’d been wrong to want so much for him and to think that accomplishments defined a person. But he’d accomplished it all, hadn’t he?

“Why are you shaking your head?” he asked.

“Was I?”

“Like you were having an argument with someone.”

“You’re doing what you always wanted to, aren’t you?” she asked.

“For the most part, yes.”

“What I thought you’d do.” She smiled.

“You knew exactly who I wanted to be.”

“Then what was the problem, Griffin?”

“I couldn’t bear the thought of failing.”

“Failing?”

“Failing and being a disappointment.”

“To who? Me? Or you? Which one of us?”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “I thought you. Now I’m not sure.”

He came back to the couch and sat beside her. He put his hand on her shoulder and turned her toward him. “You ask impossible questions, you know that? Things people don’t ask. Frank. Forward. You haven’t changed.” He laughed. But it wasn’t joyful. “You want to go so far in. To know so much. Too much. You’re so damn curious.”

“Not me. I stopped being curious a long time ago.”

“Liar,” he said. And then he pulled her toward him and kissed her.

Jac felt more questions swirling in her head, demanding she not ignore them, insisting she take them seriously and focus on them. But the pressure of his lips was too distracting. She was tired. And, yes, scared. If she didn’t think, if she rested here inside his embrace for a little while, it would be all right. Wouldn’t it?

Griffin’s smell swirled around her. If she let herself, she could get lost in that smell. If she could forget what had happened between them—no, not forget, but let it go for now. Just for a little while. It had been so long since she’d felt this urgent pull. And she wanted to give in to it.

Except not with Griffin.

With anyone but him.

It had taken her so long to bring herself back from the brink where he’d left her. Was she strong enough to now take what she wanted without unraveling afterward? A mixture of want and fury pounded in her veins. Her fingers dug deep into his arms. Pulling him toward her, she hoped she was hurting him. Wanted the pressure to cause him pain, but from the way he leaned deeper into her, she wasn’t sure. Then his fingers were pressing into her flesh. There would be marks left on her skin tomorrow. Black-and-blue imprints of his touch. Long ago he’d gone away and had left invisible bruises that had never quite healed. But these would. These were only surface blemishes.