So he waited behind a nearby van, watching. She carried the last two bags inside, then came back out and stood behind the car. She stretched up to close the trunk, pausing when she heard his voice.
“Excusez-moi, madame.”
She turned and the Scarab shot her once in the face, shouldering her falling body into the back of the car. He shot her once more as she lay there, then closed the trunk. He took the keys out of the lock and walked to her front door. He listened for a moment, smiling at the silence, then closed the door gently. He turned and walked to the front of the car, climbed in, and drove away.
He spent the night in his old room, the first time he’d done that since he was a child. He didn’t mind the damp smell of the house because the mustiness had always been there. It was stronger now, but that was because the thick stone walls were soaked with memories of the good times he’d had here with his mother. But he’d not dared go in the other bedroom, the one across the hall, because of all the rooms in the small house, that one retained the darkness of his spirit.
In the morning, he left the house before it was light. It was unlikely the police would find this place but if they did, the less time he spent here the better. In the black hours, he walked up to the cemetery and hopped over the low wall. He was curious to see what they’d done to his father’s grave, whether there was any sign of the caretaker’s blood on the ground. But the site had been cleaned up and the grave, now empty, looked the way it had before he’d exhumed those evil-filled bones.
He turned and walked back past his house, turning right on the main street, then left up the winding little road that led to the Port de Castet, an expanse of meadows high above the village split by a gravel track that was used only by those with four legs, and their keepers.
It took an hour to reach the port, and he was breathing heavily by the time the road turned to gravel, leveling out for a few hundred yards before sloping up into the mountains. He moved off the track and began to climb a steep hillock. Halfway up, he stopped to look back at the valley below, where the lights of the villages of Bielle and Bilhères sparkled on the opposite mountainside.
He sat until the sun had risen behind him, warm fingers spreading over his shoulders and back, pulling him out of his reverie. This was their spot, the place he and his mother had come to picnic, to escape the monster in the cold stone house that was out of sight from here. He thought about the conversations they’d had, her halting apologies for … what? His life? Yes, the Scarab thought, for the life with his father, the brute. She’d told him, with longing in her voice, of her days working in Toulouse, Pau, Valence, and how she’d met the ugly man who’d been the first to treat her like a lady, the first to make her feel beautiful inside. Oh, the money, she’d laughed, he had so much money back then, and they’d spent it on champagne and laughter. She’d go silent at this point, as she relived so swift a change in the man who’d captured her like an ogre, chained her with a child, and locked her in his dungeon in the Pyrénées. She would stroke the rough head of her petit scarabée so that he’d know it wasn’t his fault, not really, and so he’d know that her love for him was real. But he felt the resentment, too, the anguish that she felt up there, high on a hill, a thousand miles away from her dreams.
He stood and stretched, then walked higher into the mountains until his breath was ragged. Soon he would feel nothing, so now he wanted to feel everything. Pain, pleasure, and the memories that were both, memories that were released in waves by the mountains around him.
When his legs were too tired to go on, when his chest heaved with the pain of breathing, he rested on the tumbledown stones of a deserted hillside barn. And when the well of his tears had dried up, he turned for home.
Chapter Thirty-five
The pages were from a journal, hand-written. They were pasted all over the downstairs walls, both sides of the narrow living room.
“You think he put them up?” Garcia asked.
Hugo held a finger to his lips, then whispered. “Let’s clear the house.”
He went first, his Glock in his hand. The downstairs consisted of just the living space and, behind it, a kitchen and bathroom. Inside the kitchen, to the left, was a small window with three iron security bars, once painted white, on the outside. Next to the window was a door that was bolted shut, and that Hugo assumed led out to the backyard. He checked the fridge while Garcia stuck his head into the small bathroom that sat at the back of the house.
“Anything in there?” Hugo asked.
“A bathtub and a toilet. Otherwise, no.”
Hugo looked around the small kitchen and ran a finger over the counter, the dust soft against his skin.
Garcia joined him. “It doesn’t seem like anyone’s been here, certainly not to live. But no doubt you’ll want to look upstairs.”
“Correct.” Again, Hugo led the way. The stairs were little more than planks of oak, and they creaked with age and disuse. Hugo’s breathing deepened as he neared the top, as if the darkness itself were pressing in on his chest. He paused on the small landing, closed doors either side of him. He chose the one to his right. The handle turned easily, but the door itself stuck in the jamb until he gave it a shove with his shoulder. He swept his gun in a wide arc, eyes straining for signs of movement.
Behind him, Garcia whispered, “I’m turning the light on.”
A weak mist of yellow filled the room, spilling out from an old bulb covered in dust. They moved into the little room, furnished with a double bed, a small side table, and a battered blanket chest at the foot of the bed. A yellow stain on the ceiling told Hugo the roof needed repair. A worn rug covered the floor, preventing Hugo from seeing whether the dust had been disturbed. The bed was a tangle of blankets, damp to the touch, and they might have been there a night or a year.
On the wall was a large, framed photograph. It was in color and showed a line of dancers, chorus girls, high-kicking in unison. Hugo studied the picture and beckoned Garcia over.
“Look at this,” he whispered.
“Comment?” Garcia stooped to look.
“It’s at the Moulin Rouge. I saw this exact photo when I was there.”
“Meaning?”
“No idea,” Hugo said. “Coincidence, maybe. A boy with a picture of pretty dancing girls is nothing new, but it’d be one hell of a coincidence.”
“C’est vrai. Let’s keep going.” Garcia touched his elbow and they moved to the doorway, eyes on the other bedroom. Garcia went in first this time, moving more deftly than Hugo would have given him credit for.
This bedroom was bigger. A king bed sat on a brass frame and dominated the room. To their left, as they faced the bed, was a tall pine armoire and on the other side of the room a door led to what Hugo found to be a bathroom. He cleared it, noting the dry sink and bathtub, as Garcia checked under the bed and opened up the empty armoire.
“If he was here, he’s not now,” Garcia said. They both put their guns away and Hugo started down the stairs, Garcia right behind him.
A sound behind him, no more than a scrape, made the hair on Hugo’s neck stand on end, but his reaction came too late.
“How did you find me?” The voice was scratchy, angry.
Hugo swiveled as he reached for his weapon, but froze before he could pull it. The Scarab stood on the landing, the end of his.22 an inch behind the capitaine’s left ear.
“Monsieur Villier,” Hugo said.
“You didn’t check the blanket chest,” Villier said, a smile creeping over his thick lips. “And I’m very good at hiding.”