She dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a frayed hooded sweatshirt with “ Oxford ” stenciled on the front and slipped out the rear kitchen door. She wasn’t sure if Whit had gone back home or stayed over. She didn’t want him, or anyone, to see her like this. It only took her a few minutes to reach the old cemetery and, even in the dark, mere seconds after that to locate the old tombstone of Laura R. Campion. She stood in front of it, hands in her pockets.

In a completely irrational way, since she had no family left alive, Reggie had come to think of this dead woman as representing a touchstone for her, to visit in times of stress and uncertainty. It was madness, though, she knew, to try to escape the terror she was feeling by coming to a cemetery in the middle of the night and staring at the grave of a woman dead for over two hundred years who as far as she knew had no connection to her at all.

“Yet I must be a bit mad,” she said softly, “to do what I do.”

And yet it was perfectly sane, she told herself, to be afraid of a man like Fedir Kuchin, who burned children alive without a second thought. A man who’d slaughtered thousands of people at a time in horrific ways. It would be madness not to be afraid.

On the other side of the graveyard was a small private chapel that had fallen into ruin. Its stone-block walls were blackened with age, the roof was partially fallen in, and the thick arched wooden doors had grown frail from termites and rot.

Reggie passed inside and walked up near the altar. She would come here on occasion to get away from the demands of her “career” and to listen to the birds that had taken up roost in the old joists of the structure. There were no stained glass windows, simply lead ones that had been broken or merely disintegrated. Through these openings the sounds of the surrounding woods poured inside.

Apparently unlike Fedir Kuchin she had long since given up notions of a higher power guiding them all. She had done so for a simple reason. An all-knowing, all-powerful, benevolent god would never allow the monsters to roam the earth, killing whomever they desired. So for her, their mere presence in the world ruled out any possibility of a benign supreme being. Others would argue that point, and many had with her. She listened patiently to their reasoned statements and then simply disagreed with their conclusions.

They would have two more days to finalize everything, and then she was leaving for Provence. Before that happened she and the professor would make the exact decision on how to do it. Whether Fedir Kuchin lived or died would depend on their making the right decision.

Finally, realizing all that was riding on this, and despite her own personal misgivings, Reggie knelt down at the altar, put her hands together, and started to pray, that good would defeat evil one more time.

She figured it couldn’t hurt.

THE VILLA that Evan Waller would be staying at cost over twenty thousand euros per week and he’d leased it for a month, paying in advance, or so the leasing agent had told Shaw. The house was parked next to the cliffs of Gordes and rose five levels high, reachable inside only by a single spiral limestone staircase. The place had six bedrooms and a saltwater pool in the rear grounds where there was also an al fresco dining area under a wooden pergola, along with an outdoor kitchen and propane grill. The villa’s owner had recently renovated it, and all the appliances, including the Wolf gas stovetop in the spacious kitchen, were new.

Shaw knew all of this because he was meeting with the leasing agent at her office in Gordes in the guise of being a potential renter for next year. The agent was polite and informative.

“Don’t take too much time,” she’d warned him in efficient French. She was a Brit transplant but her French was very good. “Just yesterday there was another person here who wants to lease for next year too.”

“Really,” said Shaw. “Who might that be?”

The woman arched her eyebrows. “That is confidential. But she is young, American, and quite lovely. And obviously quite well-to-do. These villas are the best in the area and beyond the purse of most. The same builder did the renovation on the villa next door. They’re not exactly alike inside, but there are many similarities, including the limestone spiral stairs connecting all floors.”

So much for confidences, thought Shaw. “But if the place is leased now as you said, where’s the tenant? The villa is empty.”

The woman appeared uncertain. “It’s true he’s leased it for the month. Paid in advance.”

“So it is a man, then?” Shaw said.

She looked upset with herself. “Yes, but his name is confidential.”

“Of course.”

“Anyway, he’s not here yet. It was quite unusual, actually. I mean, to pay thousands of euros for something you’re not even using? Well, it’s not for me to say, I suppose. Rich people are peculiar that way, aren’t they? But you yourself must be rich, if you’re looking at renting such a villa.”

“I’ve done well in life,” Shaw said modestly. “And we can speak in English if you prefer, though your French is far better than mine.”

She looked both pleased and relieved by this. Her demeanor and tone instantly changed, and her British accent rang loud and clear. “Well, that’s sweet of you to say. I’ve been doing these lessons for a month to get that gurgling thing going in my throat, but I can’t say I’ve quite got the hang of it. These French, though, they speak so beautifully, so brilliantly, don’t they? But it just about wrecks my poor esophagus.”

“Mine too.”

“Anyway, since the place is empty I could’ve taken you up for a quick peek, but we don’t want to barge in and find Mr. Waller in his underpants, now do we?” She chuckled.

“So it’s Mr. Waller?”

The woman looked chagrined. “Now look what I’ve gone and done. Okay, that’s the man’s name, but don’t bandy it about. Our work is confidential.”

“Of course. Not a word. Thank you.”

He left her and walked to the place in Gordes where he was staying, a small hotel that also had a spa. Situated on the precipice of the Vaucluse plateau with the Luberon valley and hills beyond, Gordes could be reached almost faster on foot from the villas below by a series of steps cut into the rock. A car ride was quite circuitous and involved a number of switchbacks. The village of white and gray stone structures clung to the rock sides like bees to a honeycomb. The village itself was twice crowned: by the Catholic church with its soaring bell tower and by a medieval castle that now housed part of the town’s government.

He called Frank and filled him in. Ever since he’d arrived here Shaw had methodically reconnoitered each building of note in the town. He probably knew Gordes better than many of its longtime residents. He and Amy Crawford were due to meet tomorrow, but Shaw had been in contact with her since he’d landed in Provence.

There were a number of possibilities in the village for lunch, so he took his time reading menus printed on crisp white paper and tacked onto exterior walls. He selected L’Estaminet Café near the town center and had his meal, supplementing it with a glass of Rhone, which was of course quite popular around these parts. On the other hand, Italian wine was almost impossible to find, Shaw thought with a grin. His smile faded when she walked in. Though the place was teeming with tourists, for some reason he knew this must be the American of whom the real estate agent had spoken; young, lovely, and so well off.

She was in her late twenties, with streaked blonde hair that he sensed wasn’t her natural color. Her skin was tanned to almond with a few freckles on her shoulders the size and color of coffee beans. She was wearing a sundress with a scalloped front allowing a glimpse of her cleavage; leather sandals covered her long, narrow feet. Shaw could only see her in profile as she was escorted to her seat. But as she put her bag in the chair next to her she momentarily turned his way.