leader, was working on a mustache and goatee, but he was fair-haired and it was going to take a long time. Village lothario, Casson thought. The others waited by the car while the leader approached the truck. He had his hand in the pocket of his jacket-more than a hand, a revolver, from the way he strutted. Perhaps something Papa brought home from the war.
“Milice,” Degrave said. One of Petain’s militia units-La Jeunesse de Marechal, La Jeunesse Patriote, they had all sorts of names. Dedicated foes of France’s enemies: Jews, Bolsheviks-outriders for the Tartar hordes from the east, just waiting to sweep across Europe.
The leader stood at the door of the truck and stared up at Degrave.
“Good morning,” Degrave said. He said it well, Casson thought. You’re a kid and I’m a grown man and there can only be courtesy between us.
Casson saw the leader’s chin rise. “We’re on patrol up here,” he said. “We watched you in Beaufort.”
“Yes?”
“That’s right. Saw you put gas in your truck.”
“And so?”
“We could use some ourselves.”
“Hey, look,” Degrave said, man-to-man. “We’re taking some stuff up to Paris-you understand what I mean? We don’t mind donating some money to the cause, but gasoline is hard to get, and we have to go all the way up north.”
“What stuff?”
“Sardines, this trip. We won’t miss a couple of cases.”
“I guess you won’t.” He laughed. It meant he wanted money and the sardines and the gasoline too. All of it.
“Take a look in the back,” Degrave said. Then, to Casson, “Show him what we have.”
The leader made a gesture with his head and said “Allez, Jacquot.” His pal in the ski sweater walked toward the back of the truck. Casson jumped down to the road and went around the other side. He started to untie the rope that held the tarpaulin together. Jacquot stood next to him, too close. “Get a move on,” he said. “We don’t have all day.”
Casson pulled the tarpaulin open. “See for yourself,” he said. Jacquot put a foot on the iron step, climbed onto the truck bed, and started to inspect the merchandise. The crates were stenciled CON-SERVERIE TEJADA- BEZIERS. Sardines en Boites.
Suddenly the leader started talking-Casson couldn’t hear the words but the tone was tough and impatient. Degrave’s answer was soothing. From inside the truck, Jacquot called, “You better get up here and help me unload this stuff.” He was standing in shadow, one hand resting on the stacked crates.
“I’ll be right there.”
Casson never knew who shot first or why, but there were five or six reports from the front of the truck. Somebody shouted, a car door opened, somebody screamed “Maurice!” When Casson saw Jacquot’s hand move, he grabbed for the Walther, pulled it free of his belt, and forced the hammer back with his thumb. In front, a shot, then another, from a different gun. Jacquot’s hand came out from under his sweater, Casson fired twice, then twice more. Jacquot grunted, there was a flash in the shadows. Casson ducked away and ran around to the front of the truck. On the road by the Citroen, somebody lay on top of a rifle.
Casson crouched down, edged around the hood until he could see the other side. He heard somebody cough. It sounded strange in the silence. He leaned out as far as he dared, the gun ready in his hand. The leader was sitting with his back propped against the rear tire, breathing hard, one hand inside his shirt.
“Casson?” That was Degrave, his voice hoarse and thick. Casson stepped out from behind the hood. The leader stared at him, then turned away and closed his eyes. Casson could see his chest rise and fall as he tried to breathe.
Casson opened the door, there were two holes in the metal. Degrave was white. He swallowed once, then said, “I need help, I think.” There was blood on his shirt. For a moment he stared out into the distance. “We have to go,” he said. “But first, make sure here.”
Casson went to the back of the truck. Jacquot lay curled up on his side, eyes wide open. Casson could smell sardines, and an oil stain had spread across the wood flooring. Casson tugged at the body, dragging it back until its weight toppled it over the edge and onto the road.
He walked over to the car. The man he’d thought was a younger brother still lay sprawled across the rifle, his blood a dark patch in the dirt. Casson returned to the truck. The leader seemed to be resting, almost asleep. He opened his eyes and saw Casson standing beside him. “I surrender,” he said, raised one hand, then let it fall.
Casson aimed carefully and shot him in the temple. The report echoed over the fields and faded away.
SERVICE B
Night settled on the mountain villages in the late afternoon.
Sometimes a small cafe lit up a cobbled street, but the cold drifted in with the shadows and the people disappeared. Casson drove with his hands tight on the steering wheel, stopping often to peer at a map, trying to stay on the deserted roads that climbed the western slope of the Basses-Alpes.
He’d spent a long time outside Beaufort, doing what Degrave told him to do. He had managed to drag the bodies of the three miliciens into the Citroen, then drove it back toward the village to a place where the hillside fell sharply away from a curve in the road. He turned the engine off, set the gearshift in neutral, and pushed it over the edge.
It barely moved at first, the dense brush crackling under the wheels, then it sped up, bouncing over rocks and fallen trees, finally slewing sideways and rolling over, coming to rest upside down, its tires spinning slowly to a stop. It would be found, he knew, but not immediately, and all he needed was a few hours to be somewhere else when the alarm was sounded.
Degrave died sometime in the middle of the day. After he’d pushed the Citroen down the hill, Casson walked a long way back to the truck and moved him, very carefully, to the passenger side of the front seat. He was conscious for a moment-looked at Casson as though he didn’t know him, mumbled something, then closed his eyes and leaned his head against the window.
Casson drove to the next village as fast as the truck would go. He had intended to seek help from the local priest. It was the general rule, since 1940-if nothing else can be done, find the church, and the cure. But by the time they reached a village, Degrave was gone.
Casson drove north. The road wound through a narrow valley by a stream, its banks lined with poplar trees. He stopped the truck. Here, he thought. Degrave would have told him to do it this way, to do what needed to be done. But there was no shovel in the truck. He couldn’t leave Degrave to the dogs and the crows, so he rammed the shift back into gear and drove on. At the end of the valley he found a road marker, ST.-SYLVAIN-14.
The church was in the center of the village. Just inside the door he found a stand with tiers of burning votive lights. Casson took a fresh candle from the box, lit it, and fixed it with melted wax beside the others. Then he went to the vestry and knocked on the door. The priest answered, his dinner left on the table. He was young and bearded, his face weathered by life in the mountains.
Casson explained. A friend had died, he was in the truck outside the church. The priest looked Casson over carefully. “I will have to ask you,” he said, “if your friend died a natural death.”
Casson shook his head. “He was a soldier.”
Together they went to the truck, and Degrave was carried on a blanket into the vestry and laid on the stone floor. “Can we put a marker on the grave?” the priest said.
“Better not to,” Casson said.
The priest thought for a time. “A small plaque,” he said. “ ‘Mort pour la France.’ Among the dead of the last war, it won’t be noticed.”
He drove out of Saint-Sylvain into the darkness. No moon. A fine, light snow dusted the windshield. After an hour, he couldn’t go on. He pulled off the road, forced himself to eat a piece of bread, and drank some water.
He stared out the window; a meadow, the stubble white with frost. The engine ticked as the metal cooled.
