I Do Not Trust You: A Novel Page 7

  M: Well, obvs.

  M: Glyphs that indicate the Seine are sort of wrapped around the others.

  MIKE: My theory is it’s an island. The glyphs for Seine wrap around the other ones like a river flows around an island.

  M: So the temple we’re looking for is on an island? And it’s a royal temple (crown)? Or is it a castle? A royal residence? The house of a king who was worshipped? Unclear.

  MIKE: There are def islands. But a temple in the Seine? Any Roman ruins up there?

  M: Doesn’t have to be a pagan temple. It could mean any place of worship. Synagogue. Church.

  MIKE: Cathedral.

  M: Notre Dame!

  M sat back against the cool tiled wall. It couldn’t be that easy, could it? Or that obvious? She stared at the photo. The Seine wrapped around three glyphs for temple and one for crown. Maybe she should be looking for a church called Holy Trinity or something like that. One on an island in the river. One where a king or queen had been buried, or coronated, or something.

  MIKE: Too easy?

  M: I think so.

  MIKE: I dunno. Checking something.

  M closed her eyes, waiting. She could picture Mike at the computer, fingers flying over the keyboard. She’d never met a better researcher. Thank god she didn’t have to do all the translation work herself—just being able to share the burden made everything seem bearable. She’d almost fallen asleep when the cell buzzed again.

  MIKE: Yes! Notre Dame was built on the ruins of another cathedral. Saint-Étienne.

  M: Étienne. Stephen.

  MIKE: Yes, St. Stephen’s.

  M: Holy snakes! Stephen, from the Greek Stephanos, which means crown!

  MIKE: Yup.

  M: Notre Dame on top of St. Stephen’s, like one temple glyph on top of the other. Wait. Crap. There are three temple glyphs, not two.

  MIKE: No, it’s OK. St. Stephen’s was built on top of a Roman temple dedicated to Jupiter. Three “temples.”

  M: Cool. So I get under Notre Dame and search St. Stephen’s. Simple.

  MIKE: But there’s no record of the church still being there. They demolished it to build Notre Dame.

  M: Details.

  MIKE: It’s not details! How do you plan to get under the foundation of the most famous cathedral in the world?

  M: I don’t know yet.

  MIKE: M! Don’t be an idiot.

  M: Stop worrying. This is why you stay home and I’m the field person.

  MIKE: It is not why I stay home.

  M: Fight later, help now. How big was St. Stephen’s?

  MIKE: Pretty big. A basilica with five naves.

  M: There must still be some of it left under there.

  “Memphis! Please finish up!” Ash banged on the door, desperation in his voice. It sounded like she had blocked out his calls a few times already. If the poor guy needed the bathroom …

  “Coming,” she said, quickly erasing her texts. Mike was used to her not saying goodbye. She opened the door and found herself face to face with a visibly angry Ash.

  “You’ve been in there for an hour,” he snapped.

  “Sorry,” she lied. “You can use it now. I’m going to bed.” Suddenly a wave of weariness overtook M. Her eyelids felt heavy, and she wondered if she’d be able to make it to the bed without collapsing. M had to make sure her bag was safe from Ash.

  “Oh now you’re tired?” Ash said. “What have you been doing in there?”

  M raised her eyebrows. “In the bathroom?”

  “I’m not an idiot,” he growled.

  “Fine. I was talking to Mike,” she said, yawning.

  He sighed. “Where are we going tomorrow? Do I need to reserve a car or skydiving gear or anything else?”

  “Let’s talk about it in the morning.” There were two of him floating in front of her, and her voice seemed to echo in her head. “I really need to sleep.”

  Ash’s expression was skeptical. “I’m sleeping on the floor in front of the door,” he told her. “Just to make sure you don’t decide to go off to this secret place without me.”

  I would absolutely do that, M thought, as she looped her arm through her backpack strap and fell heavily onto the bed. If I had the slightest idea how to get there.

  CHAPTER 7

  Memphis was on her fourth cup of coffee. He couldn’t fathom how she could drink so much of the stuff. It didn’t appear to be helping, either—she showed no signs of moving any time soon.

  “We’ve been sitting here for an hour,” he said.

  “It’s a café in Paris. They don’t care if we stay all day.” She gazed out over the square where they sat and took another sip. Ash glanced around. She was clearly hiding something.

  “We’re wasting time. Let’s get going,” he said.

  She shifted in her seat, nervous.

  Ash studied her. He had yet to see her nervous. Something was definitely wrong. Should he summon the god within? Or would that be an overreaction? He stood abruptly. “Memphis. Now.”

  “Ugh, fine,” she replied. But she didn’t get up. She took another sip. “I can’t figure out how to get where we need to go. I’ve been wracking my brain all morning and … nothing.”

  Ash realized he was still standing there awkwardly. He sat back down.

  “Your piece is in a medieval basilica,” she told him. “Underneath Notre Dame. The current cathedral was built on top of the old one. Well, the old one was demolished first, supposedly, but given that all the—” She stopped.

  “All the what?” he asked.

  “It was called St. Stephen’s, the old cathedral,” she said. “That’s where your piece is.”

  He was certain she’d been about to say something else. “You said it was at Baiae, too.”

  “Are you going to question me or are you going to help?”

  Ash sighed. “What exactly is the problem?” he asked. “That we are searching for a destroyed church?”

  “Not necessarily. Île de la Cité,” she said, leaning forward. “That’s the island Notre Dame is built on.”

  He nodded.

  “Well, Paris has been occupied for a long time, since well before it was called Paris,” she went on. “The city we see now was built on top of the previous settlements. So Notre Dame is built on top of St. Stephen’s, and St. Stephen’s was built on top of the pagan temple that came before. Archeologists can usually find evidence of the earlier buildings below the current ones.”

  The corners of Ash’s mouth began to tug upward. Memphis’s eyes took on a special spark when she talked about archeology, her sarcastic facade disappearing entirely when she let her inner scholar show. “Often you’ll find that materials from the older structures were reused to build the newer ones—stones, columns, whatever they could use,” she continued.

  A chill crept through his body. “You mean the piece of Set may have been disturbed by the construction? That it could be inside a random piece of Notre Dame? Or, worse, lost entirely?”

  Memphis chewed on her lip. “It’s possible … but I have reason to believe it’s hidden in the actual church, St. Stephen’s. That the ruins are there, below Notre Dame and above the pagan temple.”

  “Reason to believe?” She was keeping something from him. “Even though it was destroyed?”

  “Sometimes the history books are wrong.” She shrugged. “Usually they’re wrong.”

  “So. A ruin under the cathedral.”

  “Yes. But that’s the problem!” She dropped her head into her hands. “We can’t exactly take a jackhammer to the floor of Notre Dame. I’ve been trying figure out how we can sneak down to the basement and search for lower levels. There must be a way, but it would take a lot of research to figure out the access point.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Ash said.

  “We don’t have unlimited time,” she argued. “My father—”

  “No, I mean don’t worry. I’ll handle it,” he said, pulling out his cell. He hadn’t spoken to Baptiste in five years,
not since before. But Baptiste would help. Baptiste would do anything if the price was right.

  Memphis was watching him curiously. “You’ll handle it how?”

  “You’ll see,” he said. Let her see how not knowing felt for a change.

  Annoyance crept over her face, but then she laughed. Ash ran his eyes over her, from her thick dark hair, to her faded black T-shirt, and down her beat-up jeans.

  “But first,” he said. “You need new clothes.”

  * * *

  “I already had jeans,” M complained.

  “They were the wrong kind,” Ash said, leading her down a cobblestone street.

  M peered down at her new jeans in the dark. They were tight and artfully distressed and had cost about as much as the beater car she and Dad had bought in Cambodia when she was twelve. The leather jacket Ash had picked out for her was obscenely priced, and the sleek leather backpack almost as expensive. But it was his money to waste. Besides, the jacket was gorgeous, the leather unimaginably soft. She hadn’t told Ash, though.

  “At least I got to keep my shirt,” she mumbled. The guy at the last boutique had complimented her on it. She’d gotten it at a thrift shop in Brooklyn for two dollars. When she told the shop boy, he pronounced it to be flawless. “Hey, can we stop for coffee?”

  “You’ve had enough coffee to last you a week,” Ash replied.

  M yawned. She’d taken a nap in the afternoon, but it had only served to highlight how tired she still was. Now it was 1 a.m., and they were finally meeting Ash’s friend. She’d stopped asking why they had to meet so late.

  “Here,” he said, abruptly turning into a butcher shop. M was astonished it was open so late. Or sort of open. The lights were off, but the door was unlocked. Inside, a tall, thin black man stood checking his phone.

  “You’re late,” he said in French, not looking up.

  “I am not,” Ash replied, unperturbed.

  The guy grinned, putting his cell away. “Years late,” he said. He hugged Ash and kissed him on both cheeks. “And your hair looked better long.”

  “Nice to see you, too,” Ash joked. He ushered M forward, a hand on her back. “Memphis, this is Baptiste.”

  M was so thrown by the sudden change in Ash’s behavior that all she could manage was a weak smile.

  Baptiste regarded her suspiciously. “American?”

  “Half,” she answered. “My mom was from Malaysia.”

  “Mmm. What kind of a name is Memphis?”

  “It was her father’s favorite ancient Egyptian city,” Ash told him.

  Again, M stared at him in surprise. Had Dad told him that? “Everyone at home thinks I’m named after the American city, though,” she added.

  Baptiste kept looking at her. M held his gaze. He had three earrings in his left ear, a stud in his right ear, and a tattoo of a snake on his neck. She figured he was about thirty.

  “You can call me M,” she said.

  “Your accent is good,” he announced. “I’ll take you.” He winked at Ash. “She speaks better French than you, my friend.”

  “You say that like it’s a compliment,” Ash retorted.

  M laughed. Where had this wiseass version of Ash come from? “How do you two know each other?”

  “Ah, sweet M, it is a long and sordid tale.” Baptiste gestured them toward the back of the shop. “Let’s go down first. Have you been to the catacombs before?”

  “I haven’t,” she said, shooting a look at Ash. At least now she knew his plan.

  “I love a virgin. Quietly now,” Baptiste added, opening the back door into an alley. “The police sometimes watch here. You two wait.” He slipped outside, vanishing into the darkness.

  “How are the catacombs supposed to help?” M demanded, switching back to English. “Notre Dame is on an island. We’re on the Left Bank. Even if we’re underground, there’s still a river between us.”

  “Just trust me,” Ash said.

  M raised her eyebrows. Trust him?

  Ash raised his eyebrows back, mimicking her incredulous look.

  M snorted. “What’s with you tonight? You’re almost … fun or something.”

  He shrugged. “I like Paris.”

  “Come, children!” Baptiste called. “Quick! Quick!”

  Ash grabbed her hand and pulled her out the door and across the alleyway to where Baptiste was standing above an open manhole. Ash swung himself down into the hole with no hesitation. M followed, the old iron rungs cold against her hands as she descended. Above her, Baptiste climbed in and pulled the cover back over them.

  “That manhole cover doesn’t seem as heavy as I would expect,” she said.

  “I had it specially made,” Baptiste replied, laughing. “It is a cat and mouse game, always. The police try to keep us from exploring, and we find new ways down.”

  “Bottom!” Ash called from below.

  M felt his hand on her leg a moment later, so she let go of the rungs, dropping the last couple of feet. Ash held his cell up, flashlight app on, illuminating a musty access tunnel filled with cables strapped to the walls. It looked like an electrical crawl space and smelled like rat dung.

  “I assumed the Paris catacombs would be a little more exciting and creepy,” M commented.

  Baptiste jumped down next to her. “The tunnels beneath the city are vast and confusing. There are different layers, different depths. Some were for burials, some were for travel, some for storage, others for hiding, others still for worship. Even some for fixing the lights.”

  He pulled out a flashlight and headed off down the tunnel.

  “Baptiste knows the catacombs better than anyone. He’s a type of tour guide,” Ash explained, as they took off after him.

  “And you know him how?” she asked again.

  Ash hesitated. “We used to do … business … together in a different life,” Baptiste called back.

  M glanced at Ash. He was wearing a new jacket too, though he’d kept his old jeans. She figured they must be the “right” kind. Otherwise he looked the same as always, yet there was something different about him tonight. A strange expression in his hazel eyes.

  “Here we are. Perhaps this will be exciting enough for you, hmm?” Baptiste waved them up to where the tunnel ended in a blank concrete wall. “But first, we should prepare. I have Molly and some hash. Ashwin? Molly for you, yes?” He pulled a small plastic baggie from his pocket.

  “No,” Ash said. His tone made it clear that there would be no further discussion.

  Lips pursed, Baptiste turned to M and held out the baggie.

  “None for me, either. Thanks,” she said.

  Baptiste shrugged, popped a pill into his mouth, and shoved the drugs back in his pocket. He pointed up. There was a small hole blasted through the wall where it met the ceiling.

  Without a word Ash jumped up, grabbed the edge, and pulled himself through, vanishing into the darkness on the other side. M turned to Baptiste. He smiled knowingly at her. “I have never seen my friend Ashwin turn down any type of enhancement. He has changed.”

  There was a question in his words. “I haven’t known him that long,” she replied.

  Baptiste smiled and laced his fingers together, forming a stirrup for M’s foot, to boost her up. “Thanks,” she said. She pulled herself through the hole, not sure what to expect on the other side.

  “Watch your head,” Ash told her as she climbed out into a small, round room. “The ceiling is low.” Ash hunched over, and when Baptiste came through, he had to crouch. He led them quickly out through an arched opening that led to a much larger hall.

  Skulls. Skulls lining the walls, stacked on top of one another from floor to roof. Most had teeth, but others were toothless, mouths filled with candles, flickering and otherworldly.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” Baptiste said. “They’ve been dead a long time.”

  “Bones don’t scare me. I’ve been hanging out in graves since I was a toddler,” M replied.

  “Have you?” He seemed
thrilled. “Then you are the perfect girl for Ashwin!”

  M glanced at Ash, but if he was bothered by Baptiste thinking they were together, he didn’t show it. He just laughed. “It’s not the skulls I like in the catacombs, it’s the art,” he said. “Show us something new, Ba. I haven’t been here in years.”

  “Come! I will take you to the garden,” Baptiste said. He headed down the hall of skulls, veering left between two tall piles of bones. They were tightly stacked, mimicking two columns on either side of the entryway.

  Inside someone had placed black lights operating off a generator. The eerie blue glow filled the classroom-sized space. A narrow path snaked through its center, like a path through a garden, just as Baptiste had said. Skulls and other bones had been painted different florescent colors and arranged into flower shapes on the floor. They glowed in the black light. Daisies made of bones arranged around a central skull—or a circle of central skulls for the bigger flowers. Tall bushes made of bone piles, with painted skulls scattered throughout as flowers. One long vine of long, thin bones, laid end to end, trailed through the whole room and up onto the walls, where the bones had been attached with mortar.

  M stood still, staring. It was beautiful, and horrible, and strange. A few others walked around, snapping photos or examining the bone flowers. M wasn’t sure where they had come from. Ash had gone ahead and now leaned against a wall at the other end of the pathway, gazing at the room. His expression was intense, but not the intensity M was used to seeing—the tense, worried, vaguely annoyed look he wore whenever they argued. This intensity was something different, almost like he was praying.

  “He is an artist, you know,” Baptiste murmured in her ear, “or at least he has the heart of one. His troubles, I think, kept him from following his passion.”

  “I thought he was into archeology,” she said, surprised.

  Baptiste shrugged. “He came to Paris for art school. I don’t think he ever got there.”

  A loud shrieking sound split the air, making her jump. “Is that a guitar?” M asked. It seemed so incongruous down here.

  “Yes!” Baptiste’s face lit up. “I’ll show you.” He practically danced along the garden path toward Ash. The pill he took was obviously starting to kick in. “Come, Ashwin. I want to dance,” he sang, grabbing Ash’s arm as he passed.