Island of Doom: Hunchback Assignments 4 (The Hunchback Assignments) (11 page)

“We’re safe here,” Colette said, patting Modo’s hand before she let it go. “Emmanuel will watch over us.”

“Where is here?” Octavia asked. “And who is Emmanuel?” Modo had not yet let go of her hand.

“We are in the southern bell tower,” Colette explained, “and Emmanuel is the bell above us.”

“How do you know the way so well?” Modo asked.

“As a youth I explored,” she said. “It was a game I played, to hide from the priests and my father. He would bring us here every Sunday. I would do my—what do you call it?—
sneaking
during the services.”

“So began a lifetime of sneaking,” Octavia noted.

Colette clicked on her petite lumière and Octavia let go of Modo’s hand as though she’d been caught with hers in a sweet biscuit jar.

“Now, let us have a look at those documents.”

Modo pulled the crumpled mess from his jacket and smoothed the papers out on the floor. Colette bent over to examine them, but Modo covered them with his hand. “There were documents about you, Colette.”

“Oh,” she said. “And what did my kind bureaucratic friends have to say?”

Modo cleared his throat. “There was a report on your mental faculties, including a description of your stay in an asylum.”

“Oh, that,” Colette said. “Yes, I
rested
, as they like to say.” But she wasn’t quite able to make it sound inconsequential.

“She was in a madhouse?” Octavia said. “We’ve been following a madwoman around on a merry chase?”

“The proper term is
sanatorium
,” Colette said indignantly. “I was put there against my will. I—I really didn’t need it. They wanted my job. My desk. My soul.”

“Soul?” Octavia echoed.

“Everything,” Colette hissed. “Everything I’ve fought for! They’ve taken it all away.”

She was shaking. Modo placed his hand on her cheek. “I’ve been inside those so-called madhouses,” he said. “Not everyone there was mad.”

“No. Not everyone,” Colette agreed, “though the man who believed he was Jesus Christ and Napoleon was certainly unhinged.”

“Our debt is paid,” Modo said. “Not that I ever thought you owed me.”

She shook her head. “It is kind of you to say so, but it is far from paid.”

“Well,” Octavia huffed. “If you two lovebirds are done we had better read these files or nothing will be solved or paid.”

Colette flipped through the pages. “Conjecture upon conjecture. Useless agents! And, wait—” She picked up a page, her eyes flitting back and forth across it. “No, my apologies, there is nothing.”

“But there must be
something
,” Octavia said. Colette
gathered up the documents and held them out to Octavia, her eyebrows knitted in despair. “I can’t read French, you know that.”

Modo took them and leafed through, trying to hide his desperation. He used his pocket lucifer to study every page carefully. “I was interrupted,” he said. “If I’d had more time, I might’ve found something of use.”

“Then we’ve come all this distance for nothing,” Octavia said.

Colette sniffed. “We cannot stay in Paris, that much we know. Perhaps we should visit Nanterre—we may find others who remember your parents, Modo.”

“But that will take days,” Modo said. “And the Deuxième Bureau will expect us to go there. They will have eyes everywhere.”

“I am aware of that. I suggest we sleep. Perhaps in the morning an answer will come. We will want to leave before sunrise.”

Modo sighed and nodded. They gathered what soft things they could find—they were lucky enough to discover a few cloth sacks—and made their beds on the cold stone.

L
ime, his pistol and knives hidden by a greatcoat, strode past the medieval ramparts that surrounded the outskirts of Montreuil-sur-Mer. The hut he was searching for was along the road to Étaples, if the drunks in the town pub could be believed.

The town lay on the banks of the Canche river and Lime hated the place. He had grown up in the squalor of Kuala Lumpur, the son of an Irish merchant. It was a small settlement, made ugly by the tin mines that scarred the muddy rivers and lush countryside. He had embraced that ugliness; things were meant to be scarred. As a consequence he hated anything picturesque and perfect. Montreuil-sur-Mer brought out that loathing. Another perfect French town.

His mute companion slouched a step behind him, eyes dead as ever.
Typhon
. Lime disliked the beast’s name. It
should have been Grunt or Lump or Dunghead. But it had been named Typhon, and that was the only name the sack of flesh and muscle responded to. Oh, how the Guild Master loved his word games and his Greek mythology. Lime loathed the Greeks.

Lime had spent the first three days in town looking for Monsieur and Madame Hébert. The French townspeople had begun to all look the same. And no one had any memory of potters with the last name Hébert. But there were many potters in Montreuil—half the population. He’d bought their wares, spoken with them, and uncovered nothing. He took pleasure in smashing the bowls and plates in the fireplace of his room at the hotel.

The first potter he visited was the right age to have been Modo’s father, but he’d never been married. The second potter and his wife had ten squalid brats running around half naked; the mother was too young to have given birth to Modo.

Every street Lime explored, Typhon slouched behind him. Why the Guild Master had sent the beast with him was obvious. Its brute strength was beyond any Lime had ever witnessed. And as far as he could tell, the thing was indestructible. Mute and dumb as a stone, with the occasional glimmer of intelligent light in its eyes.

They approached the hut and he commanded Typhon to stand a few feet back. The size and extreme ugliness of the monster was helpful for intimidation, but not so helpful when one needed to appear friendly.

The door creaked open and a gray-haired woman poked her head out. “May I help you?” she asked in French.

He guessed her to be fifty-five, a little too old to have had a child fifteen years ago.

“Are you Madame Hébert?” he asked.

She shook her head. “
Non
, Lambert. I do not know an Hébert.”

“So you have never met a potter named Hébert?”

“I have not.”

Typhon let out a rumbling grunt and the woman looked behind Lime and went pale. Leave it to the monstrous lump of flesh to make a noise now!

“My brother has a simple mind,” Lime said, “and he was disfigured at birth.”

She continued to stare in fright. “Disfigured at birth? Is he an abomination?” She crossed herself. “Cursed by the devil?”

Lime laughed. “No, only cursed with an abundance of ugliness.”

The woman did not smile back. Instead, she crossed herself again. Lime glimpsed a man with reddish-gray hair at the table, his back to them. Then the door closed.

“Thank you,” Lime said to the door. Another dead end.

He turned and walked down the edge of the road. The leaves in a tree rustled, a bird chirped. The frost would take care of them soon enough. A moment later he realized that Typhon was missing. The beast’s brain was useless gray sludge. He turned to see Typhon standing in the same spot as before. “Follow me, you mud-headed dunderbuss!” he shouted. It had been one of his father’s favorite curses. The beast didn’t move. “Follow me, Typhon.” The monster trudged behind him. Such a literal creature.

They returned to the inn and he asked for three roast hens to be delivered to his room. Once inside, he laid his greatcoat on the wooden chair, knives clicking together, and sat on the bed to gather his thoughts. “Sit beside the hearth, Typhon,” he said, and the man sat on the floor and stared straight ahead, shoulders against the wall, legs stretching halfway across the room, his feet bumping a bowl that Lime had been using to water the beast. Lime was impressed by his size. Even his hands were thrice the length and width of a normal man’s, except for the tiny pink finger on his right hand. It was so different from the rest of his grayish-green flesh.

Ah, the science that had brought the creature to life, that made it walk and grunt, he did not understand. Dr. Hyde did, of course, and perhaps the Guild Master did too. Lime didn’t care how it had been created as long as it obeyed orders.

He was becoming convinced that Modo’s parents were not in this town. It had been fifteen years; they could easily have moved anywhere. How many potters could there be in France? He was at a loss as to where to look next. Perhaps he shouldn’t have killed that priest. After all, Mauger may have had other documents. Or the midwife. She might have been able to recognize Modo’s parents. He’d been too quick to kill. Again. But what was done was done.

There was a tentative knock on the door. Lime unlocked it, letting in a pale, dark-haired chamber boy who carried a large brass platter with three cooked hens surrounded by roasted vegetables. “Set them there.” He pointed to the table. The boy did so and left without a word. Lime began eating, meticulously cutting the flesh from the birds with one of his
own knives. The birds were still pleasantly steaming. The carrots and potatoes were delicious. At least the French knew how to cook.

He heard a thump behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. Had Typhon moved? The monster was in the same place. Lime finished the first bird, then set the plate of scraps next to the creature. It stared at the food. “Eat, Typhon,” he commanded, and Typhon leaned over and began to devour the remains of the hen, bones cracking and crunching between his large teeth. He left the vegetables.

Lime returned to the table and the remaining hens. So where were the Héberts? Had they died? Emigrated? That wasn’t beyond possibility. The French were as adventurous as the English. Perhaps they’d moved to India, to Africa, even to America. He banished the thought; he didn’t want to spend months sorting through passenger lists.

“More meat,” a voice rumbled.

Lime shuddered and looked up from his meal. The monster had spoken and was looking directly at him with those horrible eyes.

“Did you say something?” Lime tried to keep his voice steady.

The monster lifted a foot and stamped once, the floorboards shaking. “More meat,” he growled.

So it could speak! Could it think? If so, he couldn’t just let it order him around. It needed to know who was in charge.

“Ask nicely,” he said.

“More meat …” The thing paused, struggling to find the right word. “Please.”

Lime carried the last hen over and watched it disappear into the maw of the creature. Then it downed the bowl of water, splashing half of it across its chest, and closed its eyes.

“Yes, you sleep, my pretty one,” Lime said quietly, staring at the creature from several feet away.

In time, too much time, he too fell asleep, clutching his gun under his pillow.

M
odo turned his back to Octavia and Colette and let his natural form return. At this stage of his transformation there was little pain; this was where his body was meant to be. When Modo was a child, Mr. Socrates had once given him a hand mirror and let him take his first real look at his own face. He had stared in horror. Mr. Socrates then said, “You are deformed. You are ugly. But remember this day, Modo. It’s the day you learned that you’ve been given an incredible gift. Your unsightly countenance may seem unbearable now, but because of it, the world will always underestimate you.” Modo had been five years old.

He was no longer troubled by people underestimating him, nor did he fear the horrified glances of strangers. Who cared about them! No. But the fact that Octavia and Colette couldn’t stand to look at him. Ah, that seared.

He had grown more comfortable in his hunchbacked body. Any time he changed into one of his many personae, his skin was itchy. When he had been training, Mrs. Finchley used to slap him lightly with a wooden ruler if he scratched. Habits such as scratching drew attention; spies should not have noticeable habits.

He slipped on his mask so he wouldn’t frighten the two women if he rolled over in his sleep. Not that there would be much slumber. They were certainly in a tricky situation. No matter how hard he focused, he couldn’t figure out how they would find his parents. By now Lime and his companion would be well ahead of them.

Finally, he stood and slowly wandered around.

“Are you leaving us?” Octavia whispered.

“No,” Modo said, “I need to walk out my aches. If I’m not back in half an hour, look for me.”

“I’ll send the hound,” Octavia said, gesturing toward Colette, who seemed to be asleep.

Modo found he could see quite clearly in the dim light. He passed through an open door and into what appeared to be a storage room. There were old pews up here; imagine hauling them up all the stairs. He sat for a few minutes, rubbing his head, then spied an open doorway on the other side of the room.

The next chamber was strangely warm. Modo stood in the center of the small room. It slowly dawned on him just what he was seeing, and he grew numb with shock. He had assumed the shadows along the walls were rectangular crates, but now he could see they were cradles. Wooden rattles sat
along the ledge beside each one. He stepped over to the nearest cradle and gasped when he saw eyes peering back.

In a moment he recognized that they were the glass eyes of a ceramic doll. Good Lord, it was a nursery! Way up here? A hearth had been bricked into the exterior wall. This was a place where abandoned infants had been raised.

He touched the blanket, so carefully tucked around the doll. Each cradle held a ceramic child, all neatly tucked in.

Was I once here?
thought Modo. Here, up high, away from the eyes of the parishioners.

“Who walks my halls?” a voice whispered in French. “A ghost?”

Modo stood perfectly still. Someone else—a man—was in the room, but he couldn’t tell where the voice had come from. “Speak,” the man said softly. “Please speak.”

His pleading loosened Modo’s tongue. “It is no one,” he replied in French.

“There are no no ones,” the man said.

“A traveler, that is all. I do not want to bother you.”