Hugo exchanged glances with Garcia. He didn’t like Villier’s tone, nor his reference to his friend in such an impersonal way. That didn’t bode well.
“He’s not just a policeman,” Hugo said. “He’s also a husband and a father.”
The Scarab turned his black eyes on Hugo, the eyes of an animal that cared nothing for such connections. He waved the gun at Garcia, who rose, his hands out to his sides. Villier moved, too, his gun shifting between his two captives as the French policeman walked slowly and sat in the wooden chair.
“Hands on your head,” Villier said. When Garcia had complied, it was Hugo’s turn. Villier threw the safety pin at him. “Get up very slowly. Go over to your friend and pin the circle over his heart.” The Scarab’s eyes glittered as he smiled. “And don’t try to be clever. If you have learned anything about me, you’ll know that my knowledge of human anatomy is improving rapidly.”
“Villier, no, this is … It’s not right,” Hugo said. “Something else I know about you is that you don’t kill innocent people.”
“Ah, so you recognize an execution when you see one? Don’t they do this where you’re from?”
“No, they don’t,” Hugo said through gritted teeth. He stood in the middle of the room, calculating his chances of getting to the Scarab before the man could shoot them both. He didn’t like the odds. Not yet, anyway.
Villier turned the gun on Garcia and his voice hardened. “Do it now.”
As if in a dream, Hugo drifted toward Garcia, his eyes imploring his friend for forgiveness, for a plan, for any sign of hope. Garcia looked right back at him, and Hugo saw calm in the man’s eyes, acceptance even.
And for the first time ever, Garcia spoke to him in English. “It’s OK, my friend. Do as he says. It’s OK.”
Rage burned inside Hugo, and he knew that if the Scarab let him live, he would track the man down and destroy him, personally. Hugo’s training, years of chasing and catching killers with total dispassion and detachment, all of it had been blown apart by this rat of a man, forcing Hugo to pin a target on his friend’s chest. He did as ordered, leaving his hand on his friend’s shoulder as he straightened.
“Back to the sofa. Vite.” He watched as Hugo sat, then looked back and forth between the men. “You know what this is, right? You see, I remember now. It’s in Utah they shoot people, but you are from Texas. So that’s close, I think.”
“The only people they execute are the guilty,” Hugo said. “Raul has a wife. He has two young children, for heaven’s sake.” Hugo thought he saw the corners of Garcia’s mouth twitch with amusement at the lie. “Villier, you gain nothing by killing him. For God’s sake, think of his family.”
“He should have gotten a safer job,” Villier said. “I can’t be responsible for his family. They are his responsibility, and his alone.”
“Monsieur,” Garcia began. He stopped when Villier raised the gun and aimed at his chest.
“I missed you at the cemetery,” Villier said, glancing at Hugo. “But I’ve been practicing.”
In slow motion, Hugo saw the man’s finger close around the trigger, saw his head turn toward Garcia, heard the crack of the gun firing, saw the circle that he’d drawn pierced by the bullet that slammed into Garcia’s chest.
Villier immediately swung the gun back to Hugo, who could only watch as his friend tipped backward in the chair, his head cracking against the desk as he fell to the floor.
A silence settled on the house as Raul Garcia lay motionless, a pool of blood spreading out beneath him, staining the wooden floor an even darker shade of brown.
Chapter Thirty-seven
The Scarab kicked the fallen Garcia, smiling when he got no reaction.
“You son of a bitch,” Hugo said in English.
“Comment?” Villier stared at him. “You are surprised? You come into my home carrying guns, looking to hurt me. You are surprised I would do that?”
“I am surprised every time someone is killed in cold blood. Every time.” Hugo took a breath. “What happens now? What happens to me?”
“We can start with these.” He stooped over Garcia and patted the policeman’s waist, coming up with a set of handcuffs. He tossed them to Hugo. “Put these on. One wrist only.”
Hugo followed the instruction, then held his arm out, the open cuff dangling in front of him. “And now?”
“To his wrist.” Villier backed to the front door, keeping space between him and Hugo as the American cuffed himself to the unmoving Garcia. Hugo looked down at his friend and noted that he was no longer bleeding. When the heart stopped, Hugo knew, so did the flow of blood.
“Sit.” Hugo did, not having much option. The Scarab scuttled past, gun pointing at Hugo, and picked up the two pistols on his way into the kitchen. When he came back out, Villier held only his.22 and a red gas can. “Drag him over here, by the kitchen.”
Hugo did it as gently as he could, one hand holding Garcia’s arm, the other under his armpit, the capitaine’s head cushioned against his stomach. “You’re going to burn the place now?”
“I told you I would,” Villier said. “And we’ll leave it to fate to see what happens to you.”
“I don’t believe in fate,” Hugo said.
“Neither do I. But I believe in the power of fire. I’ve seen it destroy the most precious thing in the world. Fire itself is a living thing, did you know that?”
“Living?”
“Oui. Like us, it needs air to breathe. Like us, it cannot penetrate metal and brick. And like us, it destroys without a care for what is good and bad.”
“Like you, you mean. Some of us care.”
“And I suppose you get to decide who’s good and who’s bad?” Villier sneered. “No, those decisions are not for us. That’s what makes fire so pure, it doesn’t make those judgments.”
He moved past Hugo to the desk, stepping around the pool of blood. He bent and pulled out a canvas bag, placing it carefully on the desk.
“This is your house,” Hugo said. “Your childhood home. How can you destroy it?”
Villier looked surprised. “Why would I need it? There’s nothing here for me. Everything I need I carry with me. In fact,” he opened the bag, “this is the only thing I really need.” He pulled out a turquoise ornament and held it up for Hugo to see, the smooth and familiar shape filling Villier’s hand.
“The scarab beetle,” Hugo said. “You’re not going to leave one with Capitaine Garcia?”
Villier shook his head. “You’d like that. For me to come that close to you. Nothing to lose at this point, n’est-ce pas?”
Hugo went on, his voice low and calm. “You’re saving that one for someone else?”
“Oh yes, this one …” Villier turned his eyes to it and paused. “This one is very special indeed.” He looked up. “We’re wasting time, I have work to do.”
“What kind of work?”
But Villier wasn’t listening. He put the gun on the desk, beside his bag, and unscrewed the cap of the gas container. He sloshed some on the sofa, then across the wooden floor, drawing a barrier between him and Hugo. Immediately the small room filed with the powerful smell of gasoline and instinctively Hugo started taking shallow breaths. He’d seen what gas did in a closed environment — child killer Nathan Montgomery doused himself in the stuff an hour before Hugo caught up with him, sitting in the front seat of his car. As soon as he lit the match, his lungs had been incinerated, the fumes charring the delicate tissue in a literal flash. Hugo didn’t want the same to happen to him, not if Villier was giving him the faintest hope of survival.