Seeking Whom He May Devour by Fred Vargas Read Free Book Online

“here he is with his gun and his pooch. Bloody cheek.”
    “Doesn’t anyone talk to him?” Camille asked.
    “No point talking to him. He doesn’t like people.”
    Suddenly, at a sign from the mayor, the men stubbed out their cigarettes, piled into the cars, put the dogs in the back, started up the engines. Doors slammed, wheels spun, for a moment the whole square reeked of diesel fumes, and then it all faded away.
    “But will they get near the beast?” Lucie wondered with her arms crossed on her counter.
    Camille said nothing. Johnstone’s position was clear-cut, but she wasn’t so sure which side she was on. From afar, she would have defended the wolves, all and any wolves, but close up, things weren’t so simple. Shepherds did not now dare to leave their flocks during seasonal migrations, the ewes weren’t lambing properly, there were more and more savagings, more and more guard dogs, and children had stopped rambling over the peaks. But she also did not like war or extermination, and this hunt was the first step. Her thoughts went out to the wolf, to warn it of looming danger – run off, get going, so long, old chap. If only the wolves had not been so lazy, and had made do with the chamois in the wildlife reserve. But there you are, they went for the easier meal, and that’s what the problem was. She had better get home, close the door and concentrate on work. Today, though, she did not feel at all inclined to compose.
    So it would have to be plumbing. Her salvation.
    She had several jobs in her planner: the tobacconist needed a central-heating pump changing, then there was a gas water-heater that came near to exploding each time it ignited (lots of equipment in these parts was in similar condition) and right here in the café was a soil pipe that was backing up.
    “I’ll deal with the soil pipe,” Camille said. “I’ll go and get my gear.”
    Shortly before eight in the evening there was still no sign of returning hunters, which suggested that the animal had remained elusive. Camille was finishing off the last job on her list, putting the cowling back on the old boiler and adjusting the pressure. Only two hours left. Then night would fall and the search would have to be suspended until dawn.
    From the outdoor washing trough that overlooked the whole village Camille kept watch for men coming back. She had laid her loaf and cheese on the ledge that was still warm from the day’s sun, and she was nibbling at her food, making the meal stretch out as long as possible. Just before ten, cars flooded into the square, doors slammed, and guys now looking quite worn slithered out and unfolded their stiffened limbs. Their shuffling stride and glum tone, as well as the dogs’ tired whelps, made it plain to Camille that they had drawn a blank. The beast had given them the slip. Camille flashed mental congratulations to the wolf. Be seeing you, old buddy.
    Only then did Camille decide to go home. Before switching on the synthesiser, she called Johnstone. There had been no incursions by the hunters. Sibellius had not been seen, nor had Crassus the Bald. On Day One of the war, the combatants had stayed on side.
    But the campaign wasn’t over. The hunt would resume at dawn. And the day after next, on Saturday, there would be five times as many men available. Johnstone would stay in position, high up in the hills.

IX
    THE LAST TWO days of the week – before Sunday’s rest day – witnessed the same departures, the same tensions, and then the same silence settling on the village like a lid. On Saturday afternoon Camille escaped with a long walk up to St Peter’s Stone, a lump of rock that was supposed to cure impotence, sterility and disappointments in love, provided you sat on it correctly. Camille had never been able to learn exactly what that meant, apparently it was vaguely embarrassing. Anyway, she reckoned that if the stone could sort out so many troubles, then it really ought to relieve her grumpiness, her