A Whisper of Regret

Chapter 1

...

He watched her rush through the black doors of the Grand Hotel de Palais Royal, not waiting for the doorman to open one for her. She wore tight white jeans with taupe ankle boots. Her long, peach colored silk blouse moved sensuously around her hips as she passed beneath the light under the glass portal over the hotel entrance. She was unlike most French women he'd met. But then most French women weren't intelligence officers or as smart as she had turned out to be. A worthy adversary. He had to admit she was beautiful. Stylish even. Her pale blond hair was cut short. No nonsense like her voice over the phone. She had come because of an anonymous tip. His tip. He had wanted to see her again. To take the measure of his adversary he now knew her to be. So he waited across the street, knowing she would be back out as soon as she realized no one was waiting for her inside. It made him smile with anticipation and curiosity. Where would she go? Would she pass him in the dark? Would she know how close she had come to the man she'd been hunting for almost a month?

The questions made him review his own decisions. Why had he stayed in Paris? He hated Paris. He hated the French. He was a man who could assimilate easily into most European countries. He spoke a wealth of languages, and had prided himself on his command of the French language until he had landed in Paris. The French were so damn arrogant about their language. Insufferable, really. His own client had smirked at his French, subtly to his face, but not so subtly with his accomplices. He had taken his money in spite of the insults. When he had completed his contract and his money was safely in an off shore account, he'd returned to the man's estate outside Avignon and killed him. Slowly. He had made him apologize first, of course, smiling at the fat man's tears as he whispered his regrets for his insensitive insults. It had been a mistake to leave him as he had, of course, but he'd enjoyed the moment and the display. But it was still a mistake, and it had put Lily Roche on his scent.

He was drawn from his thoughts when she appeared outside the hotel looking irritated, but determined. She walked purposefully right toward him, and he stepped further back into the shadows of the archway that led to his favorite place to be in the city at night. Colonnes de Buren. It was an art installation of black and white striped columns of varying heights set on a rigid grid that covered part of the courtyard of what had once been Cardinal Richelieu's palace. He wasn't sure why he was attracted to the place. The alternating black and white marble illustrated a striking dichotomy. Good and evil, perhaps. Right and wrong. But in his mind it represented him against the world. No shades of gray. No nuances. No morality. Only what he wanted versus what everyone else wanted. There were no good or bad laws, just laws that kept him from doing what he desired. He would not allow anyone to dictate what he could or could not do. He wanted no restraints on his appetites. In his mind he was both sides of the chessboard. Others played the game, but he never had. Until now.

Her perfume lingered around him in the dark as she passed by, and he knew then why he had stayed. Her closeness made him realize just how much she had intrigued him. It now became a game of wits. She wanted to catch him. A cat and mouse game. A game he would now control. The hunter and the hunted. But who was who now? He watched as she crossed diagonally through the grid of the stark black and white columns, her peach colored blouse the only color. He held his breath, suddenly struck by how perfect her death would be, especially if he could display her body here, in amongst the columns, her silky skin so soft in contrast to the cruel hardness of the marble.

He moved in the shadows along the arcades, hiding in the recessed doorways of the shops whenever she checked her surroundings. It was if she knew he was watching her. He was curious as to where she was going. It was past midnight, so perhaps she was going home. It would be a plus to know where she lived, but following her in the palace gardens would be difficult if he wanted to remain unseen. He smiled when she took the wide avenue beneath the lime trees making it possible for him to easily watch her. A few couples sat on the benches she passed. Lovers he assumed. Witnesses as well, if he moved to take her now. That would complicate things, and he didn't like complications.

He skirted the garden under the cover of the arcades. She moved quickly, and seemed suspicious, constantly checking her surroundings. He wondered if she was armed. Of course she was. He knew that much about her. When she reached the end of the path he lost her for a moment in the darkness. Then he heard her footsteps hurrying along the arcade at the rear of the garden, and he glided silently out onto the Rue de Beaujolais. The traffic was sparse, but there were still clusters of people to get lost among. He saw her cross the street and he followed, becoming more excited the longer he tracked her. A mark had once called him an animal just before he slit his throat, and he didn't disagree. He had those raw instincts. He felt the thrill of the hunt now as she hurried past the entrance to the Galerie Vivienne, glowing golden amidst the dark buildings that surrounded it. He stopped to observe as she entered one of the older buildings. She had gone to ground and he knew where to find her when he was ready. He leaned back against the building and lit a cigarette, watching to see if he could tell which apartment was hers. Top floor. He smiled and walked away, feeling the need for an expensive cognac to settle his excitement. His time would come. Hers would end.

...

It had been a set up from the start, but she had gone to the hotel anyway. Somehow she knew the man with the seductive voice had not been who he said he was over the phone. Remy had tried to talk her out of going, and it had angered her. She regretted that she had snapped at her on-again, off-again boyfriend, accusing him of being overly protective. She had arrogantly gone alone to the rendezvous she knew deep down wouldn't provide the information she was seeking. Remy would be angry when she told him she thought it had been their suspect who had called. He had warned her, but she hadn't wanted to hear it. Their liaison wouldn't survive much longer. She was sorry she had used him as a poor substitute after her breakup with Elan Hand. He was a gentle lover, and a kind man, but he wasn't Elan.

She swallowed a large mouthful of Bordeaux, her second glass. She hoped it would ease the tension in her shoulders. She was fairly certain she'd been followed. But it was only a feeling. She remained uneasy, and a sudden explosive curse escaped and she slammed the wine glass down on the table. She went to the window, surveilling the few people still out on the street. She didn't expect to see him because she didn't know what he looked like, but hoped she might sense his presence. Even if he was out there watching, he was too good to be caught this easily. She turned to look around her little apartment, it's warmth calming her once again. She had moved in right after Christmas. Her flat in the Marais had reminded her too much of Elan. She'd even bought another bed, one she didn't like. She loved this place, especially the old wooden beams and their contrast with the white plaster. They reminded her of Normandy. Better that than Elan.

"Merde!"

She regretted thinking about him, especially in the middle of a case. It was counterproductive, and made her sad. Swearing softly this time, she took her glass of wine and climbed the dark wooden stairs up to the loft where she kept her office and the notes on this particular assassin. He wasn't your typical serial killer, because he was hired by others to kill, but a serial killer is what he truly was. Most hired assassins want to fly under the radar, to complete their contract and disappear to kill again. Not this assassin. He wanted his kills to be noteworthy. He wanted to be admired for his cruelty. No one knew his true name, just his signature of sick violence. That was known throughout Europe, the killer having completed high profile assassinations in six countries that they knew of. There were several nicknames coined by Interpol, various intelligence agencies, and major city police departments, but she wasn't sure if any one of them accurately represented the horror he left behind him. Amsterdam police called him The Butterfly Man, because of how two of his earliest victims had been discovered. That name seemed too tame to her. The Germans called him The Specimen because he displayed his victims as an insect collector would. The Italians had named him The Crucifier. That one was close, but Interpol called him Scarabaeus, or The Scarab, the ancient beetle sacred to the Egyptians and which lives off the dung it collects. Whoever coined it had ranked the assassin as the lowest of the low. That name at least seemed creepy enough, and French Intelligence used it as his identifier. Thinking about it made her shiver, and she decided to call Remy.

"You went, didn't you?" his voice strident and full of hurt. "Alone."

"Mon bébé, s'il vous plaît," she said softly. "Do not be angry. You knew I would go."

"And I let you," he replied, making her flush with anger.

"This is my case," she said. "I do not follow your orders at work or after."

"Finally, you are being honest with me."

"I have always been honest with you."

"You are a beautiful liar, ma raison de vivre."

"Remy...we cannot do this now," she said softly as her heart went out to him.

"Or ever?"

"We are not meant to be, Remy."

He did not reply, and she hoped he had finally accepted that their affair had come to an end.

"Please come over for a glass of wine, mon ami," she said gently. "We can discuss the case and our next steps to finding this sick bastard."

"So the anonymous tip was...what?" He asked, a hint of anger still in his voice.

"Nothing. A wisp on the night air," she replied. "Maybe whoever called was too frightened to show up. I cannot blame him for that. I actually expected it to turn out this way."

"Then why did you go? Never mind. You had to follow the lead even if it was a doubtful one."

"Will you come?"

"Let me think about it, Lily," he replied. "If I come I might not be able to say goodbye."

"I care for you, mon chou."

"Don't call me that," he said sadly. "It's what you always called him. I obviously could not make you forget your Arapaho lover. I must try to live with that now."

"Please come, Remy. We are still good friends, are we not?"

"Of course."

He hung up, leaving her unsure if he would come or not. She had hurt him badly, and was sorry for that. He was a good man.

She drank more wine and waited. It felt like a vigil for a lost love that wasn't strong enough to survive. Her love for Elan had been overpowering, but not strong enough to bridge the wide barrier of the sea. Unlucky to have come from such disparate worlds, neither would compromise. He loved his son, and that son anchored him to the land and to the family he cherished. It would have been cruel to insist he break away from his heritage to satisfy her. She had been just as selfish, unwilling to leave her beloved Paris for the wind swept mountains of Wyoming. She couldn't picture herself living there, or loving it as he did. It was the same for him. He loved Normandy, but barely tolerated Paris. He was who he was, and she was who she was, and it had doomed their love for one another. She cursed, finished the bottle of wine, and went to bed alone.

...

The spitting sound of sirens outside and the insistent ring of her cell phone dragged her from her dream. She cursed the headache that settled between her eyes and reached over and grabbed the phone, thankful she could stop one source of irritation.

"Dieu Merci! You are alive."

"Marcel?"

"Stay inside, Lily," he ordered. "Do not open your door. Wait for me to come to you."

"What's going on? Where are you?"

"Downstairs," he said. "Do as I say for once."

Her commandant rarely spoke to her that way, and she felt a chill as she threw off the duvet and grabbed her jeans and an old tee shirt. She dressed quickly, sliding into the flip-flops she wore around the apartment as she hurried to the window in the front room. The street was crowded with police vehicles, their lights flashing blue, intensifying her headache. She jumped at the soft knock on the door.

"Lily? It's me. Stand back. I'm opening the door."

She was suddenly very cold. The door slowly opened and she saw the pale face of her boss, Marcel Hulot.

"Keep your eyes on me," he said as he stepped over something and through the partially opened door.

"Just tell me," she said.

"It's Remy...His body is just inside the vestibule downstairs. His throat was cut...and..."

She started forward, but he grabbed her arms and stopped her.

"And what, Marcel? What else?" She demanded, knowing there would be more pain to absorb.

"The bastard cut out his heart," he whispered. "He left it in front of your door."

"Sonofabitch!" She screamed the word in English and covered her face with trembling hands.

"Do you want to sit down?" He asked.

"Not until you tell me the rest," she replied, steeling herself so she wouldn't collapse.

"He cut off Remy's middle finger," he said through gritted teeth. "He attached it to your front door."

She turned and ran for the sink in the kitchen and threw up. Marcel moved as close as he dared, and she was grateful he hadn't touched her. She wouldn't have been able to bear it. He handed her a towel and she wiped her face, knowing she wouldn't be able to hold back her tears much longer.

"I asked him to come to me last night," she whispered. "It is my fault, Marcel. Mine. Why am I so damn selfish?"

"How did Scarabaeus know where you live?"

"I think he was the anonymous tip I received," she said as she wrapped her arms around herself. "He must have been outside the hotel watching and followed me home, and then I lured poor Remy here. I lured him to his death, Marcel. He didn't deserve to die...not like that. How do I tell his family?"

She slid down to the floor and pulled her knees up to her chest and began to shake as tears streaked her face. "Oh, Remy...sweet, sweet man. I am so deeply sorry, mon chéri."

"I will talk with his father," Marcel promised. "But right now we have to get you away from here...to a safe place."

She looked up at him and he held out his hand and helped her up. "There is more, isn't there?"

"He left a note," he said. "It was addressed to you."

"What the fuck did it say?"

"He isn't French is he?"

"I don't think he is, no," she replied. "Why do you ask, and why does that matter...now?"

"The note is written in English," he replied. "He has threatened to kill everyone you love."

"How can he know who I love?" She asked, her thoughts flying to her dearest friends, Mimi and Luc Caron, in Normandy.

"He hasn't survived this long without knowing things about his prey," Marcel said.

"And you think that's now me?" She said slowly. "But why didn't he just kill me last night?"

"Perhaps he enjoys the game," Marcel said. "He wants to terrorize you. He is hunting you for sport, Lily. And that makes him even more dangerous."

"I will not hide from this monster, Marcel," she said.

"What if he made Remy give up Mimi before he killed him?" He asked. "Mimi and Luc...they are too old to survive a man like this."

She rushed back to her bedroom to grab her phone as terror roared through her heart. Mimi was old school French Intelligence. Famous for her exploits. They had met when Mimi had gone rogue to save the life of her friend, Hetty Lange, and her own in the process. She had recuperated at Mimi and Luc's farm in Normandy. Luc was well over ninety now, an American expat who had never gone home after the war, eventually marrying Mimi, the young girl whose mother had saved his life after he'd been badly wounded by the Germans. She adored them both. They were like seconds parents to her.

"Mimi? Get out! Now!" She said over the phone, choking on the words. "Scarabaeus has breached my safety net and possibly yours."

"How?" Mimi asked calmly.

"He killed Remy."

"That poor, sweet man," she said softly. "Tell me everything."

When Lily finished she was crying, but Mimi remained strong and spoke firmly to her. "I will warn your family. You must go where I told you to go if this happened. Do not hesitate, mon trésor."

"But I have to track him down, Mimi," she argued. "I cannot run. He has to pay for this abomination."

"You are thinking with your heart, Lily," she replied. "Stop. Use your head. If he is hunting you, you must take him out of his element. Lure him out into the open. Meet him on your own terms."

"I will be putting them all in danger," Lily said.

"You saved his life once. Do not deny him the chance to save yours," Mimi said. "He will want that chance. He still loves you."

"So did Remy, and it got him butchered."

"I cared very deeply for that young man, but there is no comparison and you know it," Mimi said. "Leave at once, and don't make it easy for Scarabaeus to follow. He is into the game now, and a psychopath that does not like to be beaten at his own game. He won't realize until it's too late that he has chosen the wrong person to attack. Now go dark. I will be in touch through the usual channel."

Lily knew she was right, but leaving the country still made her feel like a coward. During her last visit to the farm in Normandy, Mimi had given her a list of contacts throughout Europe. They were people she trusted, people who would help her keep one step ahead of her pursuer. She would have to be careful and drop breadcrumbs along the way, but even that made her wary. She felt that bringing such an evil man to the doorstep of the only man she had ever truly loved was a cruel and selfish act. It didn't seem fair to involve him, but she knew he would be angry with her if she refused to let him help her. Especially if she were killed because of her stubbornness. When her phone rang, she was startled.

"Did you get my message? His heart was still warm when I laid it at your door."

His voice was smooth and filled with arrogance, and she was suddenly filled with rage.

"No comment?" He continued. "Was he your lover? And who are the people in Lisieux? Are they your friends or closer? family maybe?"

She listened to him gloat in a cold fury. He had Remy's phone, so he knew exactly where to find Mimi and Luc. She could only hope he hadn't reached the farm. She could hear the arrogance in his voice, and she had to draw him away from them.

"You will never find me," she said softly. "And if you do, I will cut out your heart while you are still breathing."

"I do love a challenge," he laughed. "On with the game, Lily Roche."

"Fuck you," she said in English and shattered the phone on the footboard of the iron bed she hated.

...

"Mr. Deeks? I'm sending someone to take over your stakeout," Hetty said quietly over the phone. "I need you to meet me at the boat shed. And please come alone."

"What's going on, Hetty?"

"Boat shed, Mr. Deeks," she replied. "And bring a go-bag."

"Can I tell Kensi?"

"Not at this time. None of the others either. And that's an order."

She ended the call before he had a chance to say anything. She had always done things in mysterious ways, but her request to come alone surprised him. She'd never sent him on a secret mission before, and he was finding it hard not to call Kensi. They had a thing about keeping secrets. She was only a few blocks away, keeping track of another suspect. He had no idea where Callen and Sam had ended up, but he knew Callen would be pissed at this new wrinkle, and so would Kensi. Especially Kensi.

He arrived at the boat shed after midnight with a go-bag stuffed with a variety of clothing. He had no idea where he was going and he wanted to be prepared. Her Jaguar was parked out front, but the boat shed looked dark.

"Okay Hetty, you're really starting to freak me out," he murmured to himself as he got out of his truck.

Opening the door slowly, he peeked in to see her sitting calmly on the couch. "Tea, Mr. Deeks? Or will you be joining me with a glass of Scotch?"

"I'm good, Hetty," he replied with a frown. "What's the occasion?"

"I'm not sure that's an appropriate term in this case," she replied. "This is an off-the-books mission, Mr. Deeks. One that involves a dear friend of mine and a member of your adopted family in Wyoming."

"What's going on? Are they in danger?" He quickly sat down, suddenly very alert and concerned.

"Lily Roche is in trouble," Hetty replied. "She has been working a case involving an assassin who is, in truth, a disturbed serial killer. He's been given various names across Europe, but Interpol calls him The Scarab, or Scarabaeus. After he kills his victims, he displays their bodies in disturbing ways that I won't go into. I have his file for you to study."

"Hetty...is Lily okay?"

"For now, yes. Remy DuBois, the man who helped her save you and Elan in Paris, was not so lucky."

"That doesn't sound good. What happened?" Deeks wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Her description was chilling, and his heart raced with fear for Elan. "Lily's headed for the ranch, isn't she?"

"I believe she will eventually end up in Wyoming, but I'm not sure she's informed Elan. I got a call from Mimi. She was on her way to a secret location with Luc. The Scarab left a note threatening to kill everyone Lily loved. We don't think he knows about Elan, but we can't be certain."

"Are you telling me there's a mass murderer headed for the ranch and they don't know he's coming?" Deeks asked, angrily standing to his feet.

"Lily wants to face this man on her own terms, so she is drawing him to a place he's unfamiliar with," she replied and motioned for him to sit down. "Do you think Elan would refuse her the chance to take out this man...to avenge a close friend she was quite fond of?"

"Of course not. He loves Lily, " he said. "But no way does he let her put Soldier or George and Uncle Jim in danger. What is she thinking?"

"The man is hunting her, Mr. Deeks. She is doing whatever she can to survive," she replied. "And she intends to make him earn their confrontation."

"So a wild goose chase then," he said.

"Something like that, Mr. Deeks."

"Is she calling Elan or should I?"

"You can ask her when you pick her up in London."

"London? Seriously?" Deeks questioned. "And she's sure this assassin will follow her? How would he even know she'd left Paris?"

"He's good at what he does, Mr. Deeks. And...Mimi thinks someone inside French Intelligence might have been compromised," she replied. "It wouldn't be the first time someone has discarded their principles for money."

"Awesome," he mumbled, stunned by the danger ahead of him.

"You don't have to do this, Mr. Deeks. This is a purely voluntary assignment."

"Come on, Hetty. You knew I'd go when you called me," he said. "Elan is family...and Lily should be. But I need to tell Kensi. I can't just disappear without a word."

"I understand," she said with a slight smile. "But I need her here, especially with you gone. I'll inform Mr. Callen and Mr. Hanna. Our current case is at a critical point, and we can't afford to screw it up."

"You're afraid they'll follow me," he replied.

"This isn't a sanctioned op, Mr. Deeks. I can make a case for your absence, but not the others."

"This isn't going to get me fired is it, Hetty?" He asked with a glimmer of humor.

"That is not part of the plan," she replied. "But eliminating a threat like The Scarab will reverberate through the International Intelligence community. Try not to make any splashy headlines."

"You mean like bringing down a serial killer who Interpol and the rest of Europe hasn't been able to catch?"

"Don't get cocky, Mr. Deeks. He's still alive for a reason."

"Copy that."

"I'm providing you with a Sat phone and documents for your undercover identity, Jimmy Satterlee," she said, handing him a large envelope. "You might need to go undercover at some point."

"Not sure how a photographer would fit into this scenario."

"Make him whatever or whomever you want him to be. This is a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of mission, Mr. Deeks...and you're very good at that."

...

...

Lily Roche was introduced in one of my earlier stories, Promises to Keep, and also appeared in Crossroads. Both are part of my Atwood Chronicles.