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.”

“We noticed,” Garcia said. “Now, do you mind putting that thing away?”

The Scarab gave a mirthless laugh. “I mind. Please, go down stairs, slowly. If either of you try anything, the bald man dies.”

In the living room, Hugo turned to face the Scarab. The man looked tired and unkempt, but his eyes glittered. “What now?” Hugo asked.

Villier ignored him. “I asked you a question. How did you find me?”

“Fingerprints,” Garcia said.

“So soon?” Villier looked surprised. “Les flics are more efficient than I’d thought.”

“Why are you here?” Hugo asked. He wanted to get Villier talking, try to direct them onto safe ground. Not many people looked down the barrel of a gun at a serial killer and lived to tell of it, but the man had let one person live, so Hugo needed to figure out whether this killer might do the same for them. He doubted it, but for now it was the only option.

“This is my house. Why wouldn’t I be here?”

“Fair enough. I’ll ask it another way. Why are you here now? Today.”

“Non. No more questions.” Villier shook his head. “Not from you. Sit on the couch, both of you.” They lowered themselves, watching him intently as he moved to stand beside Garcia, his .22 again behind the capitaine’s ear. “Now, Marston, take out your gun and put it on the floor between your feet.”

Hugo paused. “You know my name.”

Villier’s lip curled. “Mais oui. After all, you know mine so that’s only fair, isn’t it? Alors, the gun.”

Villier watched as Hugo complied, then tapped Garcia’s head with the barrel of his weapon. “Now you.”

“OK, OK,” Garcia said. Hugo didn’t like the note of panic in his friend’s voice.

When both guns were on the floor, the Scarab moved to stand in front of them. “Now kick them to me.”

The guns clattered over the wooden floor and Hugo felt like a lifeline had been cut. “Did you hang the papers? What are they?”

Villier stared at him for a moment, as if wondering whether to answer. Then he nodded. “The salaud who raised me. He kept a diary. I didn’t know until after he’d died. He catalogued all the things he did to me and my mother. The sick bastard got off on hurting us, then got off all over again by writing it down.” He waved his gun at the walls. “Each of those pages details something he did to one of us.”

“Why paste them on the walls?” Hugo asked.

“So I can watch them burn.”

“You’re going to set fire to the house? What would your mother say about that?”

“My mother?” Villier laughed, but again without humor. “She wouldn’t mind.”

“Where is she?” Garcia said, his voice firm.

“Maman?” The black eyes swiveled to look at the capitaine. “My mother is dead. She’s been dead for thirteen years.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. How did that happen?”

Hugo saw Villier’s jaw tense and the man suddenly bristled. “You mean there’s something you don’t know, American?”

“There’s a whole lot I don’t know,” Hugo said, keeping his voice neutral. “A whole helluva lot. You mind enlightening me?”

“Bien sûr,” Villier sneered. “I’ll tell you how she died. Or do you want to guess?”

“Non,” Hugo said. “I don’t want to guess. Why don’t you just tell me?”

“Very well.” The Scarab nodded slowly, a smile spreading over his thick lips. “I did it myself. I killed my mother.”