Chapter 70

I plucked one of the copies of the composite sketch off the desk as I briskly walked out of the precinct and onto the street. Once I was a distance from the station, I paused outside of a jewelry store and examined the image. Almost immediately I felt my anxiety escalate.

Time was swiftly running out and the opportunity to locate Erik was coming to a close. Everything would change once the rest of Paris knew my brother's undeniable features. Every single person throughout the city would be on the lookout for my brother, for a man with half a face covered in scars and the other identical to mine. There would be no escape for him, no possible way for him to seek shelter for long. They would come for him like dogs after a fox in the woods, cornering him for sport.

"Damn it," I said under my breath, dread coursing through my veins, imagining Erik hunted like an animal.

The composite sketch would most likely run in the evening newspaper at which time a depiction of the dreaded Phantom of the Opera would be delivered to the doorsteps of every family shortly before dinner. Husbands and wives would discuss his deplorable actions and speculate on the mind of a murderer on the loose.

Most likely there would be a reward offered for leads in finding the dreaded ghost and even more substantial rewards to anyone who brought him in–dead or alive.

If someone thought the drawing looked like me–if someone saw the advertisement in the opera program and guessed that the Opera Ghost and I were related, my life would be instantly over. If someone knew my brother by name, there was a chance Chief Alonzo would come to my apartment personally and have me detained once he realized that I had lied to him over my brother being deceased.

My thoughts became erratic and irrational as I imagined the threads of my life unraveling. I folded the paper and tucked it into my coat pocket, unable to look at the sketch for a moment longer. With each step I felt increasingly desperate to seek shelter from the rest of the world, afraid that I would be found out and questioned until at last I was forced into an admission that yes, my brother was not only still living, but responsible at least in part for the Opera Populaire disaster.

I thought of the ad I had placed in the theater program. If Erik somehow managed to find his way to my apartment and the gendarmes happened upon the two of us, there would be no escape for either of us.

I crossed the street and swallowed, glancing at the bank sign up ahead. There was no opportunity to empty my account as it was Sunday morning, but I could still return home, take a bag of essentials and Elvira and flee the city with the money I had on hand in my apartment. It wasn't much compared to my bank account, but I would be able to live for a month or two until I could sort out my life. Perhaps in a few months I could return and collect the money and start over elsewhere once the city was no longer engrossed in the tale of the Phantom.

If I did indeed choose to leave the city, I would effectively forfeit my position at the university, leave my students floundering at the end of the final semester, abandon all of my paintings at the gallery, and void my contract with Goupil and Cie.

No one would dare hire me to teach if I left without notice. My art would never sell again after my abrupt departure. After years of struggling to become a paid artist, I would become an outcast. That was my dismal future. All because of a sketch in the newspaper and my brother's misdeeds.

Somehow I found myself in front of Hugo's home, completely out of breath and feeling as though I would either pass out or vomit, more than likely both. With my head down, I frantically knocked on the door and called his name.

"Phelan?" I heard him shout from what sounded like upstairs in his bedroom. "Is that you?"

"Yes, it's me," I answered.

"The door is unlocked, come inside."

I raced up the stairs and into his room where he was lounging in bed with a book, spectacles on the tip of his nose and graying hair flying in all directions.

"What seems to be–" He paused abruptly once I was standing before him, his eyes wide with surprise as he looked at me over the wire rims. "My God, Phelan. You look terrible."

"I have to leave the city," I blurted out, ignoring his observation.

Hugo slowly placed his book in his lap and frowned at me. "Leaving?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

He pulled off his glasses and placed them into his shirt pocket. "Are you leaving today?"

"Yes, in a matter of hours."

Hugo nodded, his actions quite slow and deliberate, lacking all of the frantic swiftness I desired at such a crucial moment. Clearly he did not know what was at stake. "For how long?"

"I don't know."

"Where are you heading?"

My lips parted, but I had no answer. I hadn't thought past boarding a train as the direction didn't matter as long as I was out of Paris.

"May I ask why are you leaving?" he asked.

"Because I cannot stay here in Paris."

Hugo removed his glasses from his breast pocket, blew a hot breath onto the lenses, and proceeded to clean them while I stood awaiting his response. My heart threatened to leap out of my chest, my nerves awakened with the thrum of anxiety coursing through me.

"If I may say so, Phelan, you have never been one to fly by the seat of your trousers. Come inside," Hugo implored as he placed his newly cleaned reading glasses on the nightstand and folded his hands in his lap. "And tell me what has happened that you have come to my home in such a state of distress."

At last I took a breath in an attempt to quiet my buzzing mind and collect my thoughts. "The sketch of Erik will run tonight in the newspaper," I said, attempting to keep my voice even. "By this evening everyone in Paris will know what he looks like."

Hugo remained silent for a moment, brow furrowed and lips pursed. "I see."

"The Chief of Police thought the sketch of Erik was me," I continued. "I am certain he will figure out by tonight or tomorrow morning that we are brothers."

"There is a sketch?"

I reached into my pocket and handed Hugo the folded paper I'd taken from the station. He slowly unfolded the sheet, put his glasses on again, and examined the sketch for a dreadfully long and silent moment.

"This is a terrible portrait," he said. "Considering all of the sketches I've seen of your brother, this is pathetic."

"It looks enough like him. And like me."

Hugo made a face. "It looks like the artist drew with his eyes closed. My God, I want to slap whoever is responsible for this piece of so-called art."

"It isn't meant to hang in a museum, it's meant to find a criminal and bring him to justice," I impatiently replied, snatching the paper from his hands.

"Even so, it's awful. Where in the hell do they find such artists lacking all talent?"

"Hugo–" I groused.

"You were confronted by the Chief of Police?" Hugo questioned. "Did he come to your home? Are you in trouble?"

"No, I was in the precinct to file a missing person report. Chief Alonzo and I spoke briefly and he thought the sketch resembled me so greatly that he inquired where I was Friday night."

Hugo remained perfectly calm while I spoke. "Chief Alonzo needs glasses if he thinks that atrocity looks like you."

"I believe it looks enough like me to be incriminating."

"You have people who can confirm your whereabouts that night, correct?"

"Yes, but it is a matter of time before the dots are connected and someone confirms that Erik and I are related. And then…then I will be arrested."

Hugo's eyes widened. "Arrested?"

"Yes."

"Hmm."

The longer he remained calm, the more I found his casual responses aggravating and unnecessary. "I think I shall be on the four o'clock train," I said. "I have no destination in mind, but I would like to be out of the city before the newspaper is distributed."

Hugo scrubbed his hand over his face. "Phelan, forgive me for not quite understanding. If I may ask, what crime have you committed that warrants your arrest?"

"I–" I swallowed, my hands clammy and nails pressed into my palms. My ramblings were that of a madman and I wished to retract everything I had said to Hugo. "I apologize for disrupting your reading. I will see myself out."

"Friends are never disruptions, which you know quite well," he said. "While I do agree that time away would benefit you, fleeing the city and all of the ramifications that would accompany your abrupt departure would not. And I might add, running would be a poor decision as I do not believe you've done anything that would warrant an arrest. If anything, it would raise suspicions and make you appear guilty."

Hugo's level of sensibility left me utterly speechless as I was not prepared for rational thought.

"I need to do something."

"Yes, I understand," Hugo said. "But for now, I cannot allow you to leave in your current condition, so make yourself comfortable–or as comfortable as you will allow yourself to be."

If I decided to leave, I was aware that Hugo was incapable of chasing after me, but still I took a seat by his bedside, feeling no more comfortable than I had standing.

"I gather the missing person in question is the young lady who was supposed to be your guest at the opera Friday night?"

I sat back and folded my hands. "Abigail, yes."

"No sign of her?"

"None."

"That is very strange indeed."

"It is as if she has vanished without a trace. The shop and her apartment appear abandoned and no one seems particularly concerned by the disappearance of an entire family."

"An entire family?" Hugo questioned.

"She has three children," I answered.

"Have you spoken to her neighbors?"

"No, I have not, but only because the hour of the day I've been by her shop has not led me to cross paths with anyone who may know her or her children."

"What else can be done?" Hugo asked.

"I was advised to see if the train station has a record of Abigail and her children traveling Friday."

"Traveling?"

"It seems unlikely, but I suppose I shall explore all possible leads."

"Yes, I agree that is a good and sensible start."

I rolled my tongue along the inside of my cheek. "I grow more concerned each passing hour," I admitted. "For both Abigail and Erik. I don't know if I will see either of them ever again, and if that is the case then."

Hugo turned his head to the side and exhaled. Leaning forward, he placed his hand on the edge of the bed and tapped his fingers on the mattress.

"That is a bridge that has yet to be crossed. Do not place your focus in the future when you have the present to consider first," Hugo said.

"The present has left me feeling like I am being torn apart limb by limb, not knowing up from down or left from right. I am beside myself with distress, Hugo. I cannot tolerate the present or the future."

I longed for the past, for the simplistic moment in time when I had been whole, not fractured. That reality would never be mine and I hated to think I would never, ever experience happiness or wholeness again.

Hugo frowned. "You must take care of yourself or there will be no taking care of others."

"How can I possibly focus on myself when there is no one concerned about Abigail aside from me? I am riddled with guilt for placing all of my energy in locating Erik rather than sparing a thought for Abigail and her family. I have done too little, far too late."

"You had no way of knowing her absence Friday night was a reason to be concerned," Hugo pointed out. "It's only Sunday morning, Phelan. You are doing what you can. No one should fault you for that. Give yourself from grace."

"I have done nothing for Abigail and I do not know what I can possibly do for my brother at this point. By nightfall the drawing will be circulated to every home in the city and Erik will be forced to barricade himself inside of a hole if he wishes to survive."

"Barricade himself?"

"Yes. He will not be safe anywhere once people are familiar with his face. Have you read the Epoch from last night? Paris thirsts for the blood of my brother and they will lap it up like famished wolves when the first drops are spilled." I ran my trembling hand over my hair. "I find myself unprepared to cope with losing Erik in this fashion. It is far worse than if he would have perished as a child."

Nothing terrified me more than thinking of Erik spending his entire life alone as an outcast. I had been deeply troubled knowing the way he had been forced to live with Bjorn and Gyda, a prisoner in a cellar through the heat of summer and chill of winter, but the letters from Alak with proof that my brother had survived brought me hope. We were destined to see each other again. It was the sole reason he had managed to survive, for the two of us to see each other again.

But now I felt nothing but dread as I imagined Erik hunkered down somewhere in the city, curtains drawn and lamps unlit in order to hide like a rodent. My heart flooded with endless sorrow thinking of him in distress.

If he had managed to find shelter. For all I knew, Erik truly lived in a lakeside cottage beneath the opera house and that was now under military and police watch day and night, leaving him homeless. If he had managed to secure hotel lodging for the weekend, undoubtedly he would be forced out the moment the newspaper began circulating as he was far too recognizable given the scars from birth.

Hugo ran his finger over the spine of the book. "You know, I have a little place in Reims I've been meaning to visit for a few years now," he commented. "Have you been there before? To Reims?"

I shook my head.

"It's an hour at most by train, perfect for a weekend retreat. If you and Elvira would care to assist an old man with one leg, I would very much like to get out of Paris next Friday. The wine caves have been calling my name, but I'm afraid with my limited mobility I'd be unable to retrieve a few good bottles by myself."

"I will consider it," I promised.

A devilish twinkle shined in his eyes.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" I questioned.

"I am by no means making light of the situation, but I am begging my darling husband to whisk his wife away for the weekend. It will keep our marriage from crumbling."

"Crumbling?"

"Yes, a wife stuck at home all day reading in bed needs to feel special once in a while."

"Dear God, Hugo."

"I do beg your pardon?" he said, feigning insult.

I sighed to myself and pressed my palm to my forehead. "On top of everything else, now you are asking me to save my fake marriage?"

Hugo swatted at me with a rolled up newspaper. "Your fake wife should really be more of a priority, Phelan. Perhaps I shall travel to Reims by myself and meet the man of my dreams."

oOo

Hugo requested that I keep him company a while longer, claiming he was a 'very lonely old man' when in reality he wanted me to fix him lunch, a task he was not accustomed to doing on his own as Dorothea made all of his meals.

In truth, I was aware that his request was little more than a ploy to keep in his home a while longer. Over the years, when I was far more combative, he had become very good at making excuses to keep me at the salon rather than releasing me onto the streets. While I knew his intentions, I never argued with him or pretended I had more important places to be. The more time we spent together, the more grateful I was for the distraction from my own self depreciation.

"How on earth are all of these dishes in the sink?" I shouted over my shoulder.

"How would I know?" Hugo responded.

"Because you are the only one living here."

"Then I suppose it was my doing."

I rolled my eyes and filled the sink with water. "You are going to have to wait an extra ten minutes to eat. I cannot leave the kitchen in this condition."

"Do as you must, Phelan."

Few things brought me as much satisfaction as seeing a towering pile of dishes cleaned, dried and put away. I scrubbed the pots and pans, gathered up an untold number of forks, knives, and spoons, and cleaned the table before organizing the pantry and taking the trash outside to the alley.

Maddening as he was when it came to clutter, I would not have traded Hugo for anyone or anything in the world. Despite the differences in our ages and social standings, he was always glad to see me, and I felt more welcome in his company than anyone else's presence.

"Remember, my darling, until death do us part!" Hugo shouted from the dining room as I finally dried and put away the dishes and began to fix us both sandwiches.

"Death may be coming sooner than you think," I said under my breath.

"I hear you, husband, and I know you are not speaking to me in that fashion."

"My apologies, darling," I said, carrying both plates into the dining room. "

We chatted for a while about the rapidly approaching end of the school year, which we both agreed hardly seemed possible, and my summer spent away learning to sculpt marble.

"Sculpting! I think I would have been very good at sculpting," Hugo said. "I understand you will be using stone, but I've always liked clay. I wish I'd pursued that medium in my younger days."

"You told me you abhorred stepping foot in Monsieur Raitt's pottery class."

"Well, that's because of Monsieur Raitt, not the clay."

"What is wrong with Monsieur Raitt?"

"The man has the personality of moldy cheese. And I am positive he is deaf due to the amount of hair protruding from his ears. He looks as though he has permanent earmuffs."

"Well, don't hold back your feelings on the matter," I dryly said.

"We taught in the same department for sixteen years. I thought for sure he would retire or be found dead before I left the university. Unfortunately he did neither."

"Do you have plans for the summer?" I asked Hugo, deciding it was best to discuss something else other than poor Monsieur Raitt, whose hair-filled ears surely had to be ringing.

Hugo shrugged. "I did before the surgeon removed my leg. Now I fear I shall not be able to travel alone."

"What was your intended destination?" I asked.

"Egypt," he answered. "I have always wanted to see the Great Pyramids and the tombs of the pharaohs. I had planned a two month excursion. I suppose being in the midst of royals is no longer possible."

"I could wrap you up in bandages and make you feel like you're there amongst Egyptian royalty."

Hugo snorted at my comment and shook his finger at me. "My sense of humor has rubbed off on you."

"Surely with the use of crutches or a wheeled chair you would still be able to travel," I said.

"The world is difficult when you are not built like everyone else, and I fear that my lack of mobility would be problematic with a two month stay outside of the country. At least I have a house filled with books and plenty of articles on the subject."

I frowned at his statement, my thoughts once again drawn to Erik, who had not been designed like anyone else.

"What about your nephew? Would he travel with you?"

"Yes, I'm certain he would, but I am also certain Gregoire would probably drown me in the Nile for his share of his inheritance. Therefore, I shall stay in Paris with my crutches and fortune and die on my own terms."

"Which is decades away, I'm sure."

"God willing."

I looked away from Hugo, wondering where Erik was in that moment or what he was doing. Surely he had to be aware that he was running out of time, at least in terms of remaining in Paris–if he had not fled the country altogether.

"You are thinking of your brother again, aren't you?"

"I am terrified for him, far more terrified for his safety than I've been in years."

"Foolish as it may be, I am still hopeful that you will see Erik again," Hugo said.

"My hope has been snuffed out," I replied. "At this point, I fear the only chance I have of seeing my brother again is when he is led to the gallows, if they allow him visitors."

"Do not say such things," Hugo said.

"What other fate is there?" I asked.

"I don't know, but I am willing to believe there are other options brewing in the universe."

"I wish I could be less pessimistic," I replied. "Years of baseless optimism have taken a toll."

"I shall be optimistic on your behalf. Erik will survive."

I gathered up the plates and stood. "I certainly hope you are correct."

OoO

Hugo offered me the use of his carriage and his supportive company, but the train station wasn't terribly far and I hated to make him dress and leave the house for what I expected to be a fruitless endeavor.

He seemed relieved to be able to return to his bed and book, and grinned when I shook out his blanket and tucked him in, as any loving husband would do for their wife.

"I have company coming tonight. Jean-Luc, Skye, Reginald, and Usman are stopping by if you would like to see the others," he said. "I'm certain they will be glad to see you."

They were all men from the salon, fellow artists that I hadn't seen since the fall as I'd not attended any of the weekly meetings over the winter or the spring. Most were Hugo's age, if not older, leaving me as the sole artist under the age of fifty.

"My cousin hosts game night at six," I replied.

"If you would care to stop by, we shall be discussing the future of our critique group," Hugo explained.

I furrowed my brow. "Future of the critique group? What does that mean?"

"We aren't getting any younger, Phelan. Skye and Usman no longer paint regularly, Jean-Luc and Reginald grow tired of listening to us tell them what they need to do to improve when they create art for the sake of creativity, not sales or fame, and I am exhausted merely thinking of leaving the house to listen to them bicker. I believe next Thursday will be the final meeting."

I wasn't a regular, but the thought of the group disbanding was not what I wished to hear. Those six men, whether they knew it or not, had been instrumental in the development of my artistic skills."

"Have them come to you," I suggested.

"We are retiring the group," Hugo said. "I'm certain we will see each other still, but not at the Salon Vive."

I exhaled. "Is this my doing? Are you disbanding because I haven't been to the salon in six months?"

"No, no, of course not."

"What if you were able to recruit newer members?"

"We would still be old," Hugo said with a chuckle. "You, however, are more than welcome to form your own group and take our place at Salon Vive. In fact, I would absolutely encourage you to maintain a group of your own, one with artists under the age of fifty. I'm sure the salon owner would be delighted for a younger crowd in attendance. Perhaps with women invited to participate, especially now that the University allows females in their prestigious halls."

"I do not know the first thing about starting a critique group."

"Put up a notice in the salon stating you are looking for new members."

I snorted. "Is that all I must do?"

Hugo shrugged. "That's what Reginald did twenty years ago. Obviously you are not under obligation to start your own group at the salon, but something to consider in the future."

"Will you be a part of it?" I asked.

"For Heaven's sake, why in the world would you want an old man at your table?"

"Your unmatched knowledge of art, for one, and our long standing friendship, of course," I answered.

"We will discuss the possibilities," Hugo said, grinning at me in his devilish way. "Next weekend in Reims over a fabulous meal and wine. Now doesn't that sound lovely?"

A weekend away certainly did sound like an opportunity I would be foolish to pass up. Still, I couldn't commit to his inquiry, not until I knew Erik's whereabouts.

"You are quite the bargainer," I observed.

"I have to keep you on your toes, my love."

"Indeed, Hugo."