Chapter 58: Inside the Talon Rehabilitation Institute
I felt as if I were in the catacombs beneath Paris, lost under the earth. After knocking Phil Candorelli out cold, I exited that underground room, entered darkness, and believed I was among the six million graves in Paris’s earliest burial ground beneath the city, a place that was now called Defert-Rochereau. The walls were rocky limestone and felt like human skulls, rounded throughout time by runoffs from Talon Park. The institute’s remaining ceiling was low and comprised of many bricks. I felt my way through the darkness, rolling fingers and palms against the once-hallway’s frame. I stepped through puddles of collected water. A filthy stink collected on my heels and toes. The smell that felt heavy in my nostrils was of muck and rot.
