Hugo pulled his shirt off and wrapped it around his nose and mouth, then dove back into the crumbling hole, falling sideways into the bathtub, scraping his side and elbow on the rubble that had been knocked into it. He scrambled out and dropped to the floor, landing on Garcia’s legs. Hugo wrestled himself into position and hoisted his friend toward the hole, his eyes stung by the smoke and streaming tears, his only guide to safety the halo of light made by the farmer.
Hugo lumbered to the gash in the wall where the young farmer was waiting. Hugo flinched as another rafter or section of roof crashed down behind him, sending a furnace-like wave of heat over his back. The bathroom door popped once and flew open, smoke pouring through into the bathroom as if it were a living entity looking to smother its prey.
“Vite! Vite!” the farmer shouted, his thick arms stretching through the gap. Hugo fell into them and found himself dragged out into the garden, rolling on the grass to dissipate the heat that had scorched his back, neck, and hair, gasping at the clean air as he coughed out the soot and smoke from the burning house.
He crawled on all fours to the back of the yard where the two farmers knelt beside Garcia, ash and burning debris raining down around them.
He heard voices and looked up to see half a dozen men stretching two garden hoses from the farmyard toward them. The Villier house was already dead, Hugo knew, their only intent was ensuring the survival of the farm and neighboring houses. With Hugo beside Garcia, father and son stood and watched for a moment.
“Stay still and rest. You’ll be safe there,” the old man said to Hugo. Then he nodded at the still form of Garcia and the two men walked quickly through the gap in the garden wall, taking charge of the village firefighters.
Hugo lay back next to Garcia, his lungs thick and heavy, his muscles and the scrapes from the rubble burning. He twisted to look at his friend, their heads almost touching. He felt tears coming, and closed his eyes.
The voice in his ear was barely there, barely a whisper. “Hugo.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
Hugo jerked onto his side and stared at Garcia, sure his mind was playing tricks. He leaned over and took the Frenchman’s wrist, but his own hands were shaking too much to locate a pulse.
All Hugo could do was stare while his mind did somersaults. It wasn’t possible, he’d seen Garcia shot in the chest. In the heart.
Then Garcia groaned and again whispered, “Hugo.”
Hugo forced himself to sit up, incredulous. “Raul? Can you hear me?” He tore open Garcia’s windbreaker and then the shirt underneath. He almost laughed with relief.
“They hurt,” Garcia’s voice was weak, ragged. “My head, my chest.”
“No wonder, you wily old bastard. When the hell did you put this on?”
Garcia looked at him for a second, as if taking his time to focus, to understand. “Oh, the vest.” A thin smile. “I was embarrassed. It was in the trunk of the car with the.44. Merde, did that bastard also shoot me in the head?”
“Non, you hit it when you fell backward. You bled a lot and I thought …” He took Garcia’s hand. “You scared me, Raul. You scared the hell out of me.”
Garcia grunted, then, “Why are we out here? Where is Villier?”
“He set the house on fire. And he’s gone.”
“Alors, go get him. Why are you waiting?”
“I was busy getting you.” But he was right, Hugo knew. In the mountains, Villier had a limited number of routes available to him but the farther north he went, toward Paris, the harder it would be to catch him. He remembered the blue Citroën and cursed himself for not taking the license plate, or even noting the model.
“Messieurs.” Hugo looked up and saw two medics stepping over the bricks and into the garden. One carried an orange, lightweight stretcher. Beside them, a policeman with the tired walk and crumpled suit of the nearly retired was advancing, his eyes wary.
“Attendez,” the policeman said, and the medics halted. He looked at Hugo. “Monsieur Bazin, the farmer, told me you were policemen.”
“I’m security chief at the US Embassy,” Hugo said, nodding toward Garcia. “He’s the policeman.”
“Alors, you are the ones who flew in from Paris.”
“Oui,” Hugo said.
“I heard about that, but no one knew why you were here.”
“You’ve heard of the serial killer they call the Scarab?” When the policeman nodded, Hugo went on. “The Scarab is Claude Villier. He was here, did all this.”
“I have been in this region for forty years, been a policeman for most of that time.” He shook his head and looked at the burning house. “That has always been a dark place. How can I help?”
“I need to use a phone. And if you can alert every policeman in a car to be looking for a blue Citroën heading for Paris.” Hugo held up a hand. “I know, there will be thousands of them, but it’s all we have right now.”
“Bien, I will radio from my car.” He reached into his pocket and took out his cell phone. He handed it to Hugo. “Here, you can use this.
“Merci.” Hugo flipped it open and dialed Tom, willing him to pick up. After the fourth ring, a sleepy voice came on the line.
“Tom Green. Who is this?”
“Tom, it’s Hugo. Are you awake?”
“I am now, you fucker. Whose phone is this?”
“A local cop. Listen, I need your help. Villier got the jump on us, he shot Garcia and left us to burn in his house.”
“Holy shit,” Tom said. “Tell me Raul’s OK.”
“He’ll be fine. But the bastard got away and we need to find him fast.”
“How the fuck did he get the jump on you?” The word again hung in the air.
“Yeah, I’m not happy about it either, Tom, but if you don’t mind, we’ll save the debrief for later.”
“Fine. What the fuck can I do?”
“First, look up Villier’s mother. He claimed she’s dead, if that’s true, the French will have a record of it somehow. I want to know as much as possible. Garcia probably checked when he did a search for her, but you have more resources.”
“I do. Consider it done. Next?”
“He took our cell phones, so if you can still track mine it might take us straight to him.”
“I’ll assume he has your gun, too.”
“Right. Seems like everyone’s having a turn.”
“I trust you managed to keep your pants on?”
“Funny, Tom. Go track my cell phone and call on this number when you have something useful to say.”
Fifteen minutes later, Garcia sat in the back of an ambulance, arguing with the medics about his treatment. When it looked like Garcia might pull rank and win, Hugo stepped in.
“Look at it this way, Raul,” he said. “If you go with them and get that head seen to, you can skip the airplane ride, just drive or take the train back to Paris later.”
Garcia nodded, then winced. “You are a persuasive man, I like that idea. What are you going to do?”
“Tom’s tracking my phone. If that doesn’t take us to him, I’ll fly back to Paris and try and figure out his next move.”
“The way he was talking, you think it’ll be his last move?”
“Yes,” said Hugo. “What worries me is that it might be someone else’s too.”
“You’re sure he’ll be in Paris?”
“That’s where he’s centered everything. He came down here to get closure on the house, but whatever he’s got planned he’ll do in Paris.”
“Alors, mon ami, go there and figure it out. Find him and stop him.”
They shook hands and Hugo walked away from the ambulance, looking for a ride to the airstrip. The phone in his pocket rang, and he recognized Tom’s number.