It took five minutes to paddle across to the grassy slope that led up to the graveyard and, despite the cool air, he was soon sweating. The slow pace irritated him, but driving through the village, with its narrow streets and watchful, curious residents was too risky, even at night. They knew him there.
The dinghy bumped against the shore and he threw his paddle onto the grass, then hopped out and pulled the dinghy onto the bank. He started up the steep slope, holding the bag of tools in his right hand, using his left for balance, his legs driving him upward. He stopped once to look back at the water but he’d picked a moonless night on purpose, and the darkness had come to help, covering his van and the little boat with its inky cloak.
He reached the low stone wall that surrounded the cemetery and pulled himself over it, dropping onto the grass beside a battered and tilting cross. Again, he scanned the darkness for signs of life. Nothing.
He knew exactly where to go, the thrill rising within him as he neared the drab patch of earth where the bones lay buried. Bones that had lain there for a decade, and would lay there for a century more if he let them. Within moments he was beside the grave. He dropped his tool bag on the ground and smiled. Not long now.
He bent down and pulled a collapsible shovel from his bag and wasted no time going to work. It would take hours, getting through this stony soil, but that was OK because he had the perfect frame for this, short and muscular with a low center of gravity. And he’d driven all day to get here, nine hours behind the wheel, so he was ready for some exercise.
He knew, too, how lazy old man Duguey had been ten years ago, the church’s caretaker and gravedigger, the man who never slept but never worked either, who’d always ignored the six-feet rule when no one was there to measure his work. Four feet, the Scarab guessed. Four feet at the most, because as a child he’d hidden behind distant headstones and watched the old man dig graves. He’d enjoyed doing that.
His shovel bit into the soil and its cut told him that the mountains were on his side, that they’d brought rain to soften the ground. He smiled as he worked, his body falling into a smooth rhythm as he peeled away the earth from the grave, and the burn that settled into his palms and fingers served only to remind him of the importance of his task. His mission. A compulsion, almost, to bring up the bones of the man who’d raised him, who’d brought him into this world and then, on seeing a boy who looked just like him, worked to destroy his spirit the same way he worked to destroy the boy’s mother.
The Scarab pictured the old man staring up at him as the earth and stone slid off the face of the shovel onto the growing pile beside the gravesite. It was his own face, too, though, and as the sweat began to drip down his brow into his eyes, the image blurred even more.
The clang of metal behind him snapped the Scarab into the present. The churchyard gate?
A light bobbed at the entrance to the graveyard, then started forward, blinking in and out between the gravestones as it moved toward him. The Scarab watched, the shovel resting on his shoulder, his body tense and immobile as if the swinging light was a hypnotist’s pocket watch holding him in place. The only thing to move were his eyes, which followed the slow plod of the night watchman as he wound his way through the headstones toward the man dressed in black.
The light stopped thirty yards away and a feeble voice spread out toward him. “Allo? Is someone there?”
The Scarab said nothing.
The light started forward, two paces, maybe three, then stopped. “Who is that?”
The Scarab stepped away from the gravesite. “C’est moi.”
“Who? Who’s ‘me’?” The old man moved toward the Scarab, holding the light high. The watchman stopped and the Scarab heard a sharp intake of breath. He recognizes me. It’s been years but the face he sees has grown older, not less repugnant.
The watchman moved forward, just a step, and the Scarab could see the old man’s head haloed by the light of his lantern. “It’s really you? I thought … we all thought … Merde, it’s really you? You have come back?”
“Oui,” said the Scarab. “It’s me, and I’m back.”
“But …” the old man looked around, as if seeing for the first time that this was the middle of the night, and the man in front of him was digging. “What are you doing? I mean, out here. At this time?”
“I wanted to clean up Papa’s grave, plant some flowers on it. But I can’t stay in Castet. I have to be back in Paris.”
“Ah.” The old man looked around again. “But at night? Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
“Bien. But we can do that for you next time, no need to come all this way.”
“Merci.” But there won’t be a next time. “Can you have a look at this?” The Scarab pointed to the turned earth at his feet. “I was wondering about something …”
Duguey stepped forward, resting his light on a low crypt just a few yards from the gravesite. “What is it?”
“This, what do you make of it?”
“I don’t see what—”
As Duguey stooped, the Scarab brought his shovel down hard on the back of the old man’s head, sending him face first into the moist soil. Duguey groaned and his body flopped in the dirt as if he were still falling.
Blood, the Scarab thought. The less blood, the better.
He went to his tool bag and felt inside, reassured by the fit of the.22 in his hand. He pulled it out, racked it once, and walked over to Duguey. The old man lifted his head, gasping for air and spitting mud from his mouth.
The Scarab put one foot on either side of Duguey’s shoulders and leaned down. He placed the barrel of the gun against the back of the watchman’s head and both men held still for two long seconds, a moment of calm as each man considered this twist in his fate.
The Scarab squeezed the trigger and a single shot rang out across the valley, marking the start of watchman Duguey’s permanent shift in the picturesque Castet graveyard, high on a hill and surrounded by the towering peaks of the Pyrénées, mountains that maintained their indifferent watch over the quick and the dead, day and night, year after year.
Chapter Five
Hugo was in the ambassador’s office at nine the next morning, Tuesday, and Norris Holmes was waiting. The two shook hands and Hugo recognized the willowy figure from television, famous for his bright smile, steel-blue eyes, and swathe of silver hair. The light in his eyes was dim today, though, and Hugo felt the shock and sadness that emanated from the man.
Ambassador Taylor directed them to the comfortable chairs by the fireplace, then went to his desk and pressed the intercom button, connecting him to his secretary. “Coffee for everyone please, Claire. And if Tom Green shows up, send him right in.” He walked slowly to where Hugo and Holmes sat in silence, and lowered his bulk into a wing-backed leather chair.
“Senator Holmes and I have talked some this morning,” Taylor began. “Hugo, if you could tell him what you told me last night.”
“Sure. First of all, my condolences, Senator, I’m very sorry to meet you under these circumstances.”
“Thank you, Hugo. I appreciate that.” The smile that accompanied his words was genuine but strained, and for the first time Hugo saw the dark circles under the man’s eyes.
“As you may know,” Hugo said, “I went to see your son and Ms. Elserdi yesterday. I was interested in several things, but mainly in helping to resolve the issue of motive. In my experience, if you know why someone was killed, it makes it a lot easier to find out who did it.”
“You mean, whether this was somehow related to the embassy.”