Sting

March climbed down the rungs as, above him, Jules resettled the grating. He felt carefully for each rung, then landed in a puddle. He could smell the river here, strong and green. Jules landed next to him and leaned against the ladder, breathing hard.

  “That was a little too close,” she said.

  “You think?” March shivered. He felt like a drowned rat; he hoped he wasn’t about to see one.

  Just then the noise of a siren penetrated the gloom.

  “Let’s keep moving,” Jules said.

  “Right behind you.”

  Using her phone, Jules shone a light around the space until she located a square opening, barely big enough to squeeze through. She bent over and crawled into it. March followed.

  He found himself in a narrow stone passage, its walls weeping with moisture. They splashed through puddles as they moved through it.

  “It will be drier when we get away from the river,” Jules said. “This tunnel floods.”

  March’s socks were so wet it felt like he had sponges in his shoes. “How did you know about this place?”

  “Been here before,” Jules said shortly.

  They walked farther down the passage and came to another ladder leading down.

  “This is the main entrance,” she said.

  “Entrance to what?”

  “The underground life of Paris. Below the city. Parisians call it le gruyère — you know, like Swiss cheese? Paris is built on a maze of tunnels.”

  “Like the catacombs.”

  “Yes, they’re part of it, but these tunnels don’t have bones.”

  “That’s the most encouraging thing you’ve said so far.”

  “Limestone mines,” Jules said, sending the light along the walls. “It’s what Notre Dame and the Louvre were built with centuries ago. It created a whole vast network of tunnels. There’s a whole society down here. Mostly young people who come for exploring, and parties and dances and picnics. There’s even a movie theater carved out of the rock. Completely illegal, of course.”

  “Cool.”

  “There are rules, though. Whatever you bring down here, you take out. We can head to the exit near the Sorbonne. It’s by the apartment.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  Jules’s face changed in that way that he knew she was about to bring up her past. “Blue did shows down here a few times. We set up a pitch in a place called La Plage — ‘the beach.’ ”

  Jules hardly ever mentioned the aunt who had raised her. Even the sound of her name was like some weird, mangled bell clanging doom. Blue had killed Alfie, pushed him off that rooftop. She’d raised Jules to be a street performer, just like her. She’d never loved her. March felt the familiar rush of heat, the need to punch a wall.

  He was going to get Blue back someday for everything she’d done. But most of all for putting that blank, remote look in Jules’s eyes. It scared him how sometimes Jules went away to a place he couldn’t reach.

  “Do you hear that music?” March asked quickly.

  Jules turned and followed the sound of a guitar and a harmonica. They passed through a large room with a ledge thickened by wax from countless dripping candles, and a smaller passage with a colorful mural of a world on fire.

  A young couple with a lantern and a string bag of groceries appeared out of a dark passage. They greeted Jules and March with a polite salut and brushed past them to enter a room off to the side. March glanced in and saw a dinner party in progress, glowing with lanterns and candles. Young people laughed around a stone table. Speakers connected to a phone softly played electronic music.

  A few turns later the tunnel opened into a vast room. Young students sat around with bottles of wine and bread and cheese and sausage. In the corner a duo played a guitar and violin. A few couples were dancing, twirling gently in a small circle. Someone lifted a hand in welcome.

  “Sorbonne?” Jules asked. She gestured with a finger, pointing up.

  A slight, pretty girl in jeans and boots stood. “Americans! Have you been to Brooklyn? I am dying for Brooklyn.” Brook-leeen.

  “Sure,” Jules said. “It’s cool. But we need to get to the Sorbonne.”

  “I can tell you. If you follow the tunnel to the third turning, then go right at the blue graffiti, then left at the skull, you’ll see a stairway leading up. It’s a manhole, so you have to push, okay?” Poosh.

  “Right at the graffiti, left at the skull,” March muttered. “Do you think that’s what the GPS would say?”

  Just then a long-haired guy in an orange scarf ran into the space. “Catacops!”

  The lounging students sprang up. Bottles of wine were corked and shoved into backpacks, food tossed into bags, candles snuffed out, music system dismantled and disappeared.

  Within seconds, they were alone in the darkness.

  “Was that left at the skull or right at the skull?” March asked nervously.

  Just then the young woman materialized next to Jules. “It’s okay. Follow me.”

  They walked behind her in near-darkness through the tunnels, twisting and turning. “The cops come down sometimes,” the girl said, introducing herself as Juliette. “But Rolf said there were a lot of them this time. Unusual.”

  They could hear noises of rushing footsteps, but it was impossible to tell which direction they were coming from.

  “Don’t worry, I know these tunnels better than anyone,” she said. “You picked a good guide.”

  They walked for twenty minutes, staying close to Juliette. March’s pulse skittered whenever he heard footsteps, but they only met other young people scattering to find the exits.

  “Jean-Luc!” Juliette called to a young man who appeared in the tunnel ahead. She hurried toward him, and they greeted each other with kisses on both cheeks. Juliette exchanged a few words and then hurried back to them as Jean-Luc turned off the main tunnel. “Jean-Luc says it seems like they’re looking for someone.” She eyed them with sudden suspicion. “You are awfully young to be down here, you know? How old are you anyway?”

  “Sixteen,” Jules said promptly. “We did sneak out,” she said with a short laugh. “But believe me, we’re heading home. Are we almost there?”

  Juliette chewed on her lip for a moment. Then she shrugged. “Almost. But let’s move faster.”

  They picked up the pace, hurrying behind her and brushing past the weeping walls, the graffiti, the half-burned candles. Finally, Juliette stopped. “If you go up ’ere, you’ll be near the church — Saint-Etienne-au-Mont. Just poosh ’ard on the manhole. I go on for a bit.”

  She gave them a little wave and walked on. They scrambled up the ladder. Carefully, they pooshed at the manhole and peered out. The street was empty. They crawled out and ran.

  * * *

  The safe house had been arranged for them. It was a small apartment in a building with an interior courtyard, mostly inhabited by students. The courtyard was full of cracked stones and weeds, with a small iron table and chairs. March and Jules ran up the stone stairs, their centers worn from thousands of footsteps over hundreds of years. The staircase wound around and around until it narrowed and they had to go single file to the top floor. As they approached the door, it opened, and Darius greeted them with a raised eyebrow.

  “First trip to Paris, and so far, I don’t even have a T-shirt.” He tried to joke, but they could see the concern on his face. “Where were you? We tried to get you on the earpiece, but you must have been out of range.”

  “It’s okay. The earpieces are in the Seine. With the car.” March collapsed onto the couch. Suddenly, he could hardly keep his eyes open.

  Izzy appeared like a ghost at Darius’s side, her big brown eyes watchful. “Are you okay? We were scared.”

  “Nothing a week in Tahiti wouldn’t cure.”

  She smiled, revealing the dimples you could practically crawl into.

  “Did you get the loot?” Darius asked.

  “No diamonds. We only got this,” March said. He carefully put the star sapphire in the
middle of the coffee table.

  It was a trick of the moonlight, maybe, but the silver star suddenly flickered like a flame.

  “Whoa,” Darius said, taking a step forward.

  “It’s beautiful,” Izzy said, taking a step back. “I don’t like it.”

  A white curtain stirred, billowing out and molding, for the briefest of seconds, into a female form.

  “Uh. Did anyone else … see that?” Darius swallowed. “Because I definitely didn’t.”

  “A trick of the wind,” Jules said.

  “The window is shut,” Izzy pointed out. Her eyes darted to the sapphire.

  “You know these old French places.” Jules slung an arm around Izzy. “Drafty. Voltaire probably lived here in, like, 1400 or something.”

  Izzy licked her lips. “Voltaire was born in 1694,” she said. “And I’m getting a very strange vibe all of a sudden.”

  Jules smoothed Izzy’s hair. She was more gentle with Izzy than with any other human. “Izzy, you don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “Actually …”

  Darius frowned. “You feeling something, Iz?”

  “A … presence,” Izzy said.

  “What are you talking about?” March asked, rubbing his eyes.

  “Izzy doesn’t talk about it much, but she’s what you call sensitive when it comes to spirits,” Darius said. “Didn’t we ever tell you about the ghost she saw on Spring Street?”

  “Okay, cut it out,” March said. “I’ve been spooked enough tonight.”

  “Maybe it’s a friendly ghost,” Jules said to Izzy.

  Izzy didn’t pick up on her light tone. “Spirits aren’t friendly,” she said. “They have a mission. Something holds them to life, but they can’t grasp it. They haunt streets, or houses. Sometimes even objects.” Izzy crossed her arms, hugging herself. “They’re here to find something they lost, or to make something right. And sometimes they’re here for revenge.”

  A month ago, back in New York, Hamish Tarscher, yogi, healing crystals expert, and crook, had asked March for help. “Foolproof heist. Easy money, easy in, easy out. Cakewalk!”

  “No way,” March had said. “I’m retired.”

  “If Einstein had retired, we wouldn’t be on the moon!”

  “I’m no Einstein.”

  “Sure, you are. If he’d been a crook. You have a gift.” Hamish handed him a glass of green juice, which smelled like grass and old dandelions.

  Hamish ran an East Village shop that sold crystals and yoga mats, but his real work was as a fence. Bring Hamish a chunk of diamond, and he could cut it into five perfect solitaires — or sell it to the right person, who wouldn’t ask too many questions. He’d been Alfie’s best friend, and one of a tribe of “uncles” and “aunts” who had been a presence in March’s life since he was a toddler, or at least when Hamish wasn’t at the racetrack.

  Hamish had leaned back, pushing his gray ponytail behind his shoulder. “All right, then, I’ll tell you.”

  “I didn’t ask!”

  “Drink your kelp juice. It’s a long story. Okay, okay, I’ll shorten it. I have this new line of homeopathic oils, and the condo roof in Florida has to be replaced —”

  March surreptitiously poured his kelp juice into a potted plant. Why did adults think their problems were so fascinating?

  “And I got myself into a spot of trouble,” Hamish continued, rubbing his friendship bracelet. “There’s this balloon payment — if my lovely wife finds out about it, she will leave me and move to Mexico — so I find myself with an urgent need for cash. I wouldn’t ask you to do this if it wasn’t a walk in the park. A strawberry smoothie on a summer morning! I promise you!”

  “Never trust a sentence that starts with ‘I promise you.’ ”

  “Ah, Alfie, right? He’s so right! But in this case, he’s wrong!” Hamish chortled. “I have blueprints of the house. I know every single thing about the mark down to what he has for breakfast and when he last saw his urologist. The odds are in our favor. And I taught you odds at the racetrack when you were a mere boy.” Hamish reared back and held up his hands. “Not that you should help me out for sentimental reasons! Oh no. This is strictly biz. I wouldn’t want you to feel obliged, even though I was Alfie’s BFF, and I’m your honorary uncle, and I’ve done you enormous favors.”

  March wasn’t buying what Hamish was selling. No way. But Hamish had helped the gang, over and over — sometimes without even being paid. Even resourceful kids need an adult once in a while. They’d all run away from what they still called the Worst Group Home in the History of Child Care Services and landed in New York, looking for moonstones, and completely on their own. They’d lost the moonstones but found Alfie’s legacy: a diamond as big as a walnut. The Makepeace Diamond had bought them everything they wanted — a real home. With twenty million dollars, they didn’t have to worry about money ever again. They only had to wish for something, and they would have it. That plus no school meant they basically lived in kid paradise.

  But they still needed important adult things, like electricity. Things you needed a bank account for. Apparently even criminals had to pay taxes. Hamish had helped them with all that.

  “Besides, young March, haven’t you” — Hamish placed his hands together, his eyes twinkling — “missed the old life at all? Going straight is hard for us. I could never seem to manage it.”

  That’s when March had known he was sunk. Because he did miss it. He missed the puzzle of figuring out how to get in and how to get out. He missed the clockwork exhilaration of a perfect plan. He still thrilled at the word heist.

  So he’d said yes. And the rest of the gang had signed on. Even Jules, who had never liked thieving and was completely relieved to go straight. She’d prefer to dangle on her silks in a gym. Despite her great criminal skills, she was basically an honest person.

  March didn’t hold it against her.

  After this harrowing night, after not even getting the diamonds, he still felt more alive than he’d felt in months. Besides, he got to do a favor for a friend.

  Chump, Alfie said in his head. I wouldn’t have done it.

  After a fuzzy, distorted moment, Hamish appeared on the tablet. His ponytail was loose, and his wiry gray hair streamed to his shoulders. His wooden beads looked like they were strangling him.

  “At last!” he said. “I’m on my third cup of green tea, I’m about to levitate! Is everybody okay?”

  “We’re all okay,” March said. “Couple of things went wrong.”

  “NO! What?”

  “One, the housekeeper came back from Brittany and called the cops.”

  Hamish groaned. “Always a problem in Paris, I’m telling you. Housekeepers! So unreliable! Minds of their own! Did she see you? Did you get the jewels? What’s the second thing?” He put a hand on his chest. “Bad news first, so if I have a heart attack, at least I die knowing.”

  “Another thief broke in while we were there. They stole the diamonds.”

  Hamish got up from the chair, stamped his foot, and sat down again. “Who? I curse their karma!” he yelled.

  “We’re okay, thanks,” March said. “I just had to drive into a river.”

  “Did you see who it was?”

  “And I was almost decapitated.”

  “Decapitation?” Hamish leaned so close his face was distorted. “Fascinating! Uh … in what way, exactly?”

  “Never mind. But we did manage to pick up this.” March held up the sapphire.

  Hamish let out a strangled cry of excitement. He straightened. “Can you rotate that stone, maybe shine a light on it?”

  Jules aimed her cell flashlight while March held it up and turned it.

  “It can’t be,” Hamish said, slamming both hands down on the table. The image jumped.

  “What is it?”

  “A shock to my already overloaded system, that’s what!” Hamish cried. “I can’t be sure, but … I’m not seeing it in person, but it could be … because it’s so distinctive … the
size … and that color … oh, I just saw the star! They’re right! It’s eerie!”

  “What is it?” Jules asked.

  “The Morning Star!” Hamish crowed. “I’m almost sure of it. Every gemologist knows about it. One of a trio of cushion-cut sapphires from Ceylon, set in a necklace for Anne Boleyn called the Gate of Heaven. The stones have been missing for, oh, fifteen years or so. They’re known for their color, purity, and the … shall we say otherworldliness of the star at the heart of each of them. The necklace was also owned by Marie Antoinette.”

  “Whoa, two headless queens,” Darius observed.

  “Decapitation seems to be a theme here,” March said. He remembered the spinning heavy metal tray and wondered. Could it have? Really?

  “Rather well and gruesomely put,” Hamish said.

  “Hamish, is this stone enough to get you out of trouble?” Jules asked.

  “Here is the thing, young yogis,” Hamish said. “Sometimes things happen in Adult World. Let’s call it a poopshow. In other words, everything goes wrong at once. That appears to have happened to your fine fellow here. So, in a word? Close but no cigar. Individually, the stones are too hard to move. Too recognizable with that red flash. I’d have to cut them into smaller gems. Hardly worth it. However, all is not lost!”

  All is never quite lost with Hamish, March thought. There is always another angle.

  Hamish stood. “We are this close —”

  “Ham, we can’t see you, man,” Darius said. “How close is this close?”

  Hamish sat down again. He held up his thumb and index finger. “This close! To achieving the greatest challenge in history!”

  “What?” Jules asked.

  “Well, jewel thief history,” Hamish said. “Which is the best kind of history, let’s face it.” He clasped his hands. “What if we were able to reunite them?”

  “Think about it,” Hamish said. “If I were to locate the other two sapphires, and you were to steal them in the same brilliant fashion, then, well, we’d have a fortune beyond our wildest dreams. Alone, you just have three sapphires worth not much. Reunite the three … you could buy a private island! A castle in Spain! And I could settle a few enormous debts I have outstanding.”