Dimitri. He adored him. The adoration was simple, basic, in much the same way a small ugly dog might adore his master, even after a few good kickings. What few brains Barns had been blessed with had been rattled well over the years. If Dimitri wanted the woman, he’d bring the woman to him. He gave Remo an amiable smile because in his own fashion Barns liked Remo.
“Dimitri wants Lord’s ears,” he said with a giggle. “Want me to cut ′em off for you, Remo?”
“Just drive.”
Dimitri wanted Lord’s ears, but Remo was well aware he might settle for a substitute. If he’d had any hope that he would’ve gotten away with it, he’d have headed the car in the opposite direction. Dimitri would find him because Dimitri believed an employee remained an employee until death. Premature or otherwise. Remo could only pray he still had his own ears after he reported to Dimitri at his temporary headquarters in Diégo-Suarez.
Five churches in two hours, she thought, and they’d found nothing. Their luck had to come in soon, or run out. “What now?” she demanded as they pulled up in front of yet another church. This one was smaller than the others they’d been to. And the roof needed repair.
“We pay our respects.”
The town was built on a promontory, jutting out over the water. Though it was still morning, the air was hot and sticky. Overhead, palm fronds barely moved in the slight breeze. With a little imagination, Doug could picture the town as it had once been, rowdy, simple, protected by mountains on one side and the man-made wall on the other. As he strode away from the jeep, Whitney caught up with him.
“Care to guess how many churches, how many cemeteries there are around here? Better yet, how many there were that’ve been built over?”
“You don’t build over cemeteries. Makes people nervous.” He liked the layout here. The front door was hanging crooked on its hinges, making him think no one used the church with any regularity. Around the side, a bit overgrown and canopied by palms, were groups of headstones. He had to crouch down to read the inscriptions.
“Doug, don’t you feel a bit ghoulish.” Skin chilled, Whitney rubbed her arms and looked over her shoulder.
“No.” The answer was simple as he peered closely at headstone after headstone. “Dead’s dead, Whitney.”
“Don’t you have any thoughts on what happens after?”
He shot her a look. “Whatever I think, what’s buried six feet down doesn’t have any feelings at all. Come on, give me a hand.”
It was pride that had her crouching down with him and tugging vines from headstones. “The dates are good. See—1790, 1793.”
“And the names are French.” The tingle at the back of his neck told him he was closing in. “If we could just—”
“Bonjour.”
Whitney sprang to her feet, poised to run before she saw the old priest step through the trees. She fought to keep guilt off her face as she smiled and answered him in French. “Good morning, Father.” His black cassock was a stark contrast to his pale hair, pale eyes, pale face. His hands, when he folded them, were spotted with age. “I hope we’re not trespassing.”
“Everyone is welcome to God’s house.” He took in their bedraggled appearance. “You’re traveling?”
“Yes, Father.” Doug stood up beside her but said nothing. Whitney knew it was up to her to spin the tale, but she found she couldn’t tell a direct lie to a man in a white collar. “We’ve come a long way, looking for the graves of family who immigrated here during the French Revolution.”
“Many did. Are they your ancestors?”
She looked into the priest’s calm, pale eyes. She thought of the Merina who worshiped the dead. “No. But it’s important we find them.”
“To find what is gone?” His muscles, weary with age, trembled with the simple movement of linking his hands. “Many look, few find. You’ve come a long way?”
His mind, she thought as she struggled with impatience, was as old as his body. “Yes, Father, a long way. We think the family we’re looking for may be buried here.”
He thought, then accepted. “Perhaps I can help you. You have the names?”
“The Lebrun family. Gerald Lebrun.”
“Lebrun.” The priest’s withered face closed in as he thought. “There are no Lebrun in my parish.”
“What’s he talking about?” Doug muttered in her ear but Whitney merely shook her head.
“They immigrated here from France two hundred years ago. They died here.”
“We must all face death in order to have everlasting