When he’d emptied the can, he looked at Hugo. “Silly me, I forgot something.”
“Matches?” Hugo said.
“Your cell phone. And his.”
Hugo’s last lifeline. He was tempted to tell Villier to come and take them, but he knew that could only get him shot. Reluctantly, he slid them across the floor. Villier gathered them and dropped them, and his pistol, straight into his bag. When he brought his hand out, it was holding a cigarette lighter and he made sure Hugo was watching as he flipped the lid open. Taking a lingering look around the room, the Scarab picked up his bag, opened the door, and started to back out, his eyes on Hugo. “Bonne chance,” he said, his voice a whisper. “Let’s test our disbelief in fate.”
The Scarab threw the keys to the handcuffs at Hugo and lifted the arm that held the lighter. In that moment of silence, Hugo could hear the thumbwheel as it began to grate against the flint. He held his breath and twisted his body as the roar filled his ears, Hugo pressing himself face down over Garcia, protecting them both from the sudden burst of light and heat that scorched across his back. He lay there for five long seconds as the pop and crackle of flame intensified behind him, making sure all the fumes had burned up before taking a breath.
When he was sure he could move safely, he rolled to his side and dragged Garcia toward the kitchen, panic rising as the heat rolled over them. Plaster dropped from the walls and ceiling, burning clumps of orange that exploded as they hit the floor.
Hugo bumped his head against the door jamb and he felt his throat close as smoke streamed over his head into the kitchen. Moments later Hugo was on his knees and through the doorway. He grabbed Garcia’s legs and pulled the rest of him in, then kicked the door closed against the inferno raging in the living room.
He bent over, the keys shaking in his hands, Hugo willing himself to stay calm enough to get the tiny piece of metal into the lock. He managed it at the second stab, twisting his wrist out of the metal cuff and automatically rubbing it. He stepped quickly to the side door he’d checked earlier that led into, he presumed, an outside alleyway that would take him to the back of the house. He reached up and slid open the bolt, then did the same at the foot of the door. He turned the handle and pulled, but the door didn’t budge. He looked on the counter for a key, pulled open a drawer and rifled through it, but found nothing. He went back to the door and pulled again, using all his strength, but it didn’t move. He threw open the small window and tested the bars, knowing in an instant they were stronger than he was.
He looked toward the living room and saw flames licking at the foot of the kitchen door, threatening to melt it with the ferocity of the heat that was destroying the living room. He swore under his breath, then stepped across the capitaine’s limp body to the sink. He plugged it and turned both taps on, then started opening drawers. He found a meat tenderizer, like a small metal hammer, and tucked it into his back pocket.
He took hold of Garcia by the wrists and dragged him through to the bathroom. Hugo grabbed a thin towel, dropped it in the basin, and let water run over it as he closed the bathroom door. Once the towel was wet, he wedged it under the door, a weak and temporary barrier to the smoke that was already finding its way into the tiny space.
He put one foot into the tub and took aim at the small window. He wasn’t even sure he would fit through, but it was the only way out, and his only source of fresh, breathable air. He raised the hammer over his shoulder and aimed it at the center of the glass. It gave way, and large shards crashed into the bath tub, shattering around his feet. He swung again and again, more controlled now, encouraged by the fresh air that swirled around his face into the room. The window broken wide, Hugo ran the hammer around the frame, clearing the glass away, not caring that it fell onto his clothes. When all the visible pieces were cleared, he pulled his jacket off and used it to wipe away the smallest of the shards, then dropped it on the floor.
He took one more look at Garcia and his heart lurched. “I’m not going to leave you here, mon ami. I’ll come back, I promise.”
He meant it, but Hugo had no idea how he was going to keep that promise. The smoke had weakened him and he didn’t think he had the strength to lift the policeman up to the window, and he was certain that even if he did, Garcia’s round form wouldn’t fit through.
He turned to the window and dragged himself up. His muscles screamed with the exertion, and the edge of the window frame chewed and scraped its way into his flesh, but by wriggling and kicking he forced his upper body through the small gap. The rest of him followed easily and, exhausted, he dropped into the unkempt yard. He didn’t pause to rest. He scrambled up and ran to the low brick wall that separated Villier’s back garden from a farmyard behind it.
Two men, a father and son perhaps, came out of the rear of the farmhouse as Hugo reached the wall. They pointed to the Villier house, bleeding smoke out of every pore.
“What’s happening?” the elder man shouted. “Who are you?”
“Police,” Hugo shouted. “There’s a man inside, another policeman. He’s hurt.” That word rang in his head, as if saying it would make it true.
The two men shot each other a look and trotted over to the low brick wall. “How can we help?” the younger man asked.
“Please, we need an ambulance and the firemen.” Hugo looked back at the window he’d just breached and was relieved to see a thin stream of smoke and no flames. The door was holding, for now.
The men gave each other the look again. “Monsieur,” the eldest said. “Ce n’est pas possible. The fire engines can’t get up to the house. The street is too narrow. If there’s something that must be done,” he shrugged, “it must be done by us.”
Hugo wanted to scream. “The man inside, he’s in the back bathroom but he can’t get out. He’s injured and won’t fit through the window.”
They turned at a loud cracking sound and watched as the roof at the front of the house collapsed, filling the air with sparks and a thick spew of black smoke, and releasing angry tongues of flame that flicked toward the sky.
“Whatever it is, we need to hurry,” the old man said.
“J’ai une idée,” said the younger man, pointing to the bathroom. “They used to have an outhouse, the bathroom was an addition. Brick, not stone.”
He turned and ran into the open barn that stood behind the farmhouse. An engine roared and seconds later a tractor rumbled around the corner into the farmyard, three long spikes pointing at them from the semi-raised arms of the front loader.
“Bale spears,” the old man grinned. “For hay. My son is a genius.”
The young farmer gunned the engine and waved at Hugo and the old man to get out of the way, and they backed off as the tractor picked up speed.
The garden wall split like plywood, barely slowing the tractor as it bounced toward Villier’s house and the wall to the bathroom. Hugo grimaced as he watched the charge, hoping Garcia would be safe from those fearsome spikes and whatever they knocked loose. He ran through the hole in the garden wall and stopped as the heavy metal of the arms punched into the house below the small bathroom window. The tractor’s engine screamed as the farmer threw it into reverse, the bale spears goring the house and not wanting to give up their purchase. But the tractor finally bucked as the prongs pulled free and the window frame collapsed, bricks and plaster spewing out into the yard.
The farmer killed the engine and threw himself out of the cab, joining Hugo who was working himself into the hole in the side of the house. They stopped as a cloud of dust and smoke billowed out over them, forcing them back into the open air, choking and spitting.