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onlookers. They seemed to interpret it as a sign from God. The men began to wail and throw themselves on the ground. Women tore at their clothes.
    â€œI’m ashamed for these people,” Lord Tuz said.
    The first flame reached the prisoner’s shirt, and he lit up like a torch. The crow d reacted.
    The prisoner squirmed a final time before the fire started eating his flesh. His hair blazed. His skin melted, and his eyes exploded.
    Next to Flamel, a man unbuttoned his pants and frenetically stroked his penis. Copulating couples moaned in t he bushes.
    Flamel was nauseated.
    The baron took him by the shoulder. “Come, my friend. Let’s leave this hellish cesspool. I’ll take you home.”
    When they reached the bridge, a wooden barrier blocked the way. A huge drunkard brandishing a sword stepped in fron t of them.
    â€œNobody leaves. It’s a party. Are you bad Chr istians?”
    The baron pushed Flamel aside and ordered the man to move. “Rogue, your manners are as bad as your breath. Get out of our way.”
    The giant burst out laughing and pointed his sword at them. “Get back to the fire, or I’ll cut you in half.”
    Before he could say another word, the baron pulled out a dagger, sidestepped the sword, and plunged the blade into the man’s belly. The man stumbled and collapsed. Tuz stepped over the body and took Fla mel’s arm.
    â€œMore talk than brawn, like so many in Paris these days. My valet will curse me when he has to clean my dagger. Let’s go.”
    A wild scream rose up from the crowd.
    Flam el turned.
    The prisoner’s head had just rolled into th e inferno.

17
    Grand Orient Masonic Hall
    Evening of the initiation
    T he immense and windowless museum was dark. The only light was from the hallway. It illuminated a few display cases containing aprons that had belonged to well-known Freemasons, precious eighteenth-century documents, and priceless ritual objects. Otherwise, the space was cluttered with scaffolding and wooden crates. Renovation work had been under way since the beginning of the year. Marcas knelt down and signaled to the guard. Nothi ng moved.
    â€œWhat do we do now?” the guard whispered.
    â€œTurn on th e lights.”
    â€œThe electricity’s being redone. There’s just the emergency lighting. The switch is across the room.”
    â€œOkay, that’s where we go. You take the left. I’ll take the right. We’ll get th e bastard.
    Marcas stood up. Their light footsteps were the o nly sound.
    When Marcas reached the stage, he heard voices in the hallway. The worshipful master had arrived with several brothers.
    â€œHe’s in here, and he’s armed,” Marca s shouted.
    The voices went silent. Marcas felt the switch. The emergency lights came on, and Marcas climbed onto the stage. He looked around, pushing aside the crates and construction m aterials.
    There was no killer. He had vanished.
    The guard and the brothers j oined him.
    â€œAre you sure he came in here?” one of the brothers asked. “Could he have taken the b ack exit?”
    â€œThat’s impossible,” the guard said. “It’s blo cked off.”
    As more brothers arrived, Marcas turned to the worshipful master. “Go call the police. Tell them I’m here, but we need backup. I know the killer came into the museum. Are you sure there’s no other way out?”
    The worshipful master shook his head. “Not that I know of.”
    â€œOkay. Just go make t hat call.”
    The worshipful master hurried out of t he museum.
    Marcas was getting angrier by the minute. He saw Paul in his carbon-fiber wheelchair. The killer had probably picked Paul because he thought he was weak and vulnerable. How the man didn’t know his friend! He was smart, capable, and faster in his chair than Marcas was on foot. Unfortunately, it hadn’t saved him from disaster. Who was this killer? A Freemason—Marcas was