Chapter Four

The gravel parking lot beside the lake was empty, but the Scarab watched it from the side of the road for twenty minutes, just to make sure.

The sun had set behind the Pyrénées mountains an hour ago, turning down the lights on the summer fishermen, letting them know it was time to grill their catch by the campfire, to wash down the trout with the beer they’d been chilling at water’s edge, or perhaps with some of the local Jurançon wine. He’d watched the last of them leave but there was always the possibility of a straggler, someone being where he shouldn’t. That was the lesson from Père Lachaise.

As he pulled into the little parking lot he leaned forward and looked through the windshield at the high ridges that loomed over him, watching over the lake and the village of Castet. These dark mountains seemed nearer at night than in the day, and the Scarab sensed something from them, as if they were fearsome watchdogs resentful of his presence. But he knew them well, these hills, and this village. He knew especially well the little church and its graveyard that sat atop a small knoll a hundred yards from him, across the water.

The graveyard. The highest point in the village, with a view of Castet’s half-dozen narrow streets on one side, and overlooking the lake on the other. Before, when he’d been young, he’d heard grumblings about the best view being afforded to the dead, but he knew better. He understood the importance of those people lying in repose under stone and marble. It wasn’t that they could see the view, that wasn’t the point. No, they were there because with open air on all sides, the power of the dead spread over the villagers like a protective blanket. In his mind’s eye he saw the village as a candle, its body changing form and shape over the years but with an invisible flame that grew only stronger.

The Scarab opened the back doors of his van and stepped out into the cool air, his eyes roaming the trees for signs of life, stray campers or lovers walking this lonely stretch of land. He saw no one, heard nothing.

Satisfied, he reached into the van and pulled out his dinghy, manhandling the light but awkward craft to the water’s edge, laying it gently on the surface, watching the ripples spread into the night.

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.