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

overused well. Love could give you wings, but it also knocked you off your feet, so it wasn’t much of a bargain overall. Far less so than a
ten-ton hydraulic jack
, for instance. Broadly speaking, love meant that men stayed around when you didn’t love them and ran off when you did. The system was simple, entirely predictable, and never failed to engender either massive boredom or catastrophe. To put up with all that just for twenty days’ wonder, no, it really wasn’t worth it. Lasting love, love on which you can build, love that brings strength, nobility, sanctity, purity and succour, in a word all the stuff you believe love can be before you really try the thing out, well, that was stuff and nonsense. That was where Camille was at, after years of try-outs, numerous mishaps and a really sore patch. A scam for the naïve and a godsend for narcissists, love was a rubbish idea. Which is to say that as far as the heart was concerned, Camille was halfway to becoming a complete cynic, and she felt neither contentment nor regret about that. The thick skin she had grown did not stop her loving Johnstone sincerely, after her own fashion. It allowed her to appreciate him, even admire him, and snuggle up to him. But not to entertain the smallest hope of anything. Camille had retained only immediate desires and short-range emotions, she had bricked up all ideals, hopes, and grandeur. She expected virtually nothing from anybody, or almost. That was the only way she could love nowadays: with greediness and goodwill verging on utter indifference.
    Camille moved further into the shade, took off her jacket, and immersed herself for two good hours in close study of a
Water-cooled grinder with abrasive disk
, a
Turbocharged double-protection sump pump
, and other clever contraptions that brought her both reassurance and instruction. But her eyes kept wandering from the page and peering into the far distance. She was not entirely at ease. She was holding her walking stick tight. Suddenly she heard something rustling, and then bushes being trampled. In a flash she was up on top of the stone, her heart racing and her stick on guard. A wild boar came out of the undergrowth ten metres away, saw her standing there, and then went back into the scrub. Camille took a deep breath, buckled up her bag, and went back down the path to Saint-Victor. It was not a good time for being on the mountain.
    At dusk she perched on the rim of the trough in the village square, with her legs crossed under her, and the bread and cheese laid out beside her. Awaiting the hunters’ return, she could hear the muffled thuds of disappointment and defeat. From her lookout she also saw Johnstone coming back on his motorbike. Instead of parking it on its kickstand on the square, as he usually did, he drove on this evening, passed his weary companions, and rode straight up the steep incline to the house.
    Camille found him sitting on the top step, lost in thought, his helmet still in his hand. She sat down next to him and he put an arm round her shoulders.
    “Any change?”
    Johnstone shook his head.
    “Any trouble?”
    Repeat gesture.
    “Sibellius?”
    “Found him. With his brother Porcus. Their territory is right down in the south-east. In a really nasty mood. Nasty but in clover. The hunters are going to try to get tranquillisers into them.”
    “What for?”
    “So as to get a cast of their jaws.”
    Camille nodded to show she understood. “And Crassus?” she asked.
    Johnstone moved his head once again. “Not a sign,” he said.
    Camille finished her piece of cheese in silence. Dragging words out of the Canadian phrase by phrase could be tiresome.
    “So nobody can find the beast,” she concluded. “They can’t, and you can’t.”
    “Can’t be found,” Johnstone agreed. “But he must leave a scent, the dogs ought to pick it up.”
    “And so?”
    “He must be one tough guy. Real tough.”
    Camille pursed her lips. She wasn’t convinced. It was true, of