Of Fever and Blood Page 6

  “God dammit, it’s been a year already.”

  He opened the thick cardboard folder as he had done so many times before, glancing with a distracted eye at the medical files and the countless press clippings. In many of them, he himself appeared.

  And there also was the photo that ran in Le Temps Réel, a double-page spread. The picture showed him talking with Eva Svärta at the farm. The paparazzi had been kept at a distance, but the telephoto lens had captured their features with great sharpness. Inspector Svärta was putting her sunglasses on after showing him her tears. Vauvert remembered the moment well. It could have happened just yesterday. He had felt like taking her in his arms. He wondered if anything would be different today if he had actually done it. He knew full well that the answer was no.

  Then he wondered if the inspector also had a copy of the newspaper. And if so, what had she thought about that picture?

  Truth was, he knew nothing about her personal life. Did she have a family? Did she have children to hold in her arms? They never talked about their personal lives during their brief phone calls.

  All of a sudden, he wanted to talk to her. To talk the storm and the night away with someone who could understand him. Someone who knew how it felt to shoot another person, hating yourself for it but having no damn choice. Someone who knew how helpless it felt to be confronted with the despair of families, to take on their anger and be able to do nothing to help.

  Realizing how stupid his thoughts were, he grabbed the Salaville folder, along with several other older files, and stuffed them all into the garbage can.

  That’s where they belong.

  “And all is well that ends well,” he said.

  He settled back on the couch, in front of the erotic movie, and raised his beer to his mouth as thunder shook his apartment windows again.

  15

  Blood.

  All this blood.

  Spurting from the body on the table.

  The blood splattered the walls, the carpet, and the leather armchairs. Some of it had traveled as far as the window. In the lightning’s glow, it dripped down the glass, mimicking the rain outside.

  All this wonderful blood.

  This immortal source of power.

  The weary fingers relaxed and dropped the scalpel. It was important to remember to pick it up later. Nothing implicating could be left behind.

  The figure stooped over the dead woman. Like her, naked. Smooth and animal-like and covered entirely in blood.

  With a step back, the blood-soaked carpet made soft, sucking sounds.

  Now the white porcelain mask, immaculate and radiant in the bluish light of the storm. Worn elsewhere, it would have been a party mask covering the eyes but leaving the mouth and chin visible.

  The porcelain was delightfully cold, delightfully pure.

  Looking through it, the world—transfigured—reappeared.

  Walking toward the window, step by step, over the blood spatters. Watching the nocturnal world. Below, so far below, cars were going by, but no one was looking up at the eighth-floor, where the figure was looking down and smiling. No one could see the fingers smeared with blood being licked clean, and the impassive, serein mask.

  A few more moments of rapture, then it would be time to make sure no evidence was left behind. The police would come, of course. But they wouldn’t find anything, as usual. They never found anything. They never understood anything. And it was all so obvious. It was right before their eyes.

  Outside, the rain poured down harder.

  It was fine weather for the gods. Every day they drew closer.

  Finding her took awhile, but it was done now, and the gods were listening. They were closer than ever. The gods had been fed.

  In hand was the flaccid skin that was once the face of this woman, yes. The face of this very woman, lying there, dismembered, torn apart on the big boardroom table.

  An offering. Another one.

  Before leaving, there was one last task, thanking the gods for their patience.

  Under the woman’s head, beneath her slit throat, blood had been dripping into a plastic bucket.

  A hand sank into the thick liquid, which had already begun to coagulate. The blood glistened on the fingers, which then started to draw the circle.

  16

  Saturday

  Eva Svärta thrashed in her sweat-soaked bed sheets.

  Outside, the ferocious rain pummeled the windows.

  She blinked her scarlet eyes. She had had a nightmare. She could not remember it, but it had left a taste of metal in her mouth. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she felt as though the darkness was trying to catch up to her. Memories she had been trying to outrun all these years, like tentacles clutching at her thighs, looking for some way in.

  Calm down.

  Turning to one side, she pushed a strand of white hair away from her eyes and took in the familiar interior of her darkened bedroom: opera-red walls, modern paintings, dark wood furniture that had cost her a fortune, and impeccably clean black lacquered floors. The room ended in an open archway, through which Eva could see part of the living room. Across from her bed, she could make out her carefully folded skirt on the chaise lounge. She pictured her tailored suits perfectly organized in the closet. Her books, lined meticulously in her wooden bookshelves. Yes, everything was fine.

  It helped her, always, knowing that her personal universe was in order.

  Somewhere, her phone was ringing with insistence.

  That’s what woke me up, right? Not the nightmare.

  She turned toward the illuminated numbers of the alarm clock.

  Six in the morning.

  Don’t pick up, she thought, even as she knew she was going to. Her hand reached across the bed, fumbling for her cell.

  She froze.

  At the far end of the bedroom, sitting on the chaise lounge, a little girl with white hair was watching her.

  Her eyes were two red embers burning in the night.

  “Oh fuck. Get lost, will you?” Eva whispered to the apparition.

  It had been awhile since she had last experienced that kind of hallucination. She thought, quite naively, that she had rid herself of them.

  She never told the shrink about it. The shrink would not have understood, and it most surely would have jeopardized her job in Homicide.

  But there she was. It was happening. Again. The goddamned apparitions would leave her alone for a few months, and then they would return, each time with more clarity.

  The little girl with red eyes and white hair broke into a shrieking—screeching even—laugh.

  Eva found her phone on the floor, just as it stopped ringing. She picked it up and checked it. Unknown number.

  Then she looked at the impossible child again.

  I can’t see you. I can’t hear you. You don’t exist, understand?

  “Of course I exist. And you know it very well,” the girl said in a very serious tone.

  Then she slid off the seat, took two steps a few inches above the floor, as though gravity was a nonissue, and, for a moment, she was nowhere to be seen. The next moment, she was lying in bed beside Eva, her lips stretched in a mocking grin.

  Eva turned her back on her, the phone clenched in her hand.

  “You’ve got to admit, the darkness has found you. Everything will start again.”

  I can’t see her.

  The phone lit up and started to vibrate in her hand.

  “You know very well that everything is about to start again.”

  “Fuck you,” Eva grumbled, as she answered her cell. “Hello?”

  “Eva? It’s Rudy. An emergency.”

  Well, it had to be. If the unit chief himself was calling at six in the morning, two months after their knockdown, drag-out row, something really serious had to be happening.

  “I’m listening.”

  “We’ve got a homicide. Erwan and Jean-Luc are already on their way.”

  Eva lifted herself onto an elbow. Looking around
, she found that the ghostly little girl was gone. For now.

  “Jean-Luc Deveraux? You expect me to work with that sexist pig again? But anyway, why are you even calling me, Rudy? I’m not on active duty anymore. I’m on… What did you call it? On administrative leave. Remember? You kicked me out of the unit yourself.”

  “I never kicked you out, you know that.”

  “Not officially,” Eva corrected.

  At the other end, Chief Rudy Ô let out a sigh.

  “Falgarde’s death will have no consequences. Internal Affairs closed their investigation just yesterday. An accident, that’s the conclusion. You’re back in the field. I thought you’d be happy.”

  “Why me?”

  “The victim. You’ve got to see her. I want to know what you think.”

  “What happened, Rudy? Who’s the victim?”

  “It’s not who she is. It’s what was done to her. Her face was skinned.”

  Eva processed the news.

  “Okay. What’s the address?”

  “22 Rue de Sofia, Nineteenth Arrondissement.”

  “I can make it there in less than fifteen minutes.”

  “I’m glad we talked again, you know.”

  Eva ended the call.

  She scanned the room by reflex. The imaginary girl had not come back.

  Sometimes Eva wondered what her life would be like without the girl. Or rather, what her life would be like with her. If her sister had not been murdered when she was six.

  If she had not had to grow up alone.

  That was the past. That was so far away.

  She sat on the edge of the bed. In the full-length mirror, she looked at her reflection, the figure of a slender woman, a mane of white hair cascading down her pale shoulders. And the two red flames of her eyes, which pierced the darkness.

  So far. And yet so close. Deep in her flesh. Deep in her heart.

  She rummaged through the drawer in her nightstand, looking for her pills.

  17

  6:30 a.m.

  The streets of Paris were mostly deserted. Even so, a market was being set up on Avenue de Flandre, and traffic was stuck under the rain in both directions.

  Faced with the problem, Eva Svärta chose a simple solution. She swerved into the lane for oncoming cars and drove to the first intersection, getting honks and flashing lights from other drivers all the way. Then she turned left, once-again speeding the wrong way, and took the narrow side street to the police security perimeter.

  She brought her Audi to a screeching halt just before hitting the barricade.

  As she opened her car door and unfolded her umbrella, an officer ran toward her. Looking furious, he ordered her to move her car right away. She waved her badge.

  “Homicide. Inspector Svärta.”

  “Oh, sorry, inspector,” the policeman apologized, moving the barrier aside so she could get through.

  From behind, she heard a voice calling out, “Wait!” As she spun around, she saw Erwan Leroy, wrapped in a knee-length beige leather coat, stepping out of a Peugeot cruiser parked across the street. He ran toward her, head bowed in the downpour. Moments later, it was Jean-Luc Deveraux’s turn to get out of the passenger seat. He slammed the door moodily.

  “Erwan! Glad to see you again,” Eva said.

  “I knew you were nostalgic.”

  He gave her a big, ambiguous smile. Detective Leroy was barely thirty, a robust man with an angular face and golden slicked-back hair. He was well aware of his good looks and never hesitated to take advantage of them.

  “In your dreams, pretty boy,” Eva replied.

  She had made the mistake of sleeping with him once, and Leroy took wicked pleasure in reminding her on every possible occasion. To be perfectly honest, Eva had good memories of their lovemaking, of Leroy’s large and muscular body, his gestures both gentle and not-so-gentle just when it was necessary. But that, of course, the young man would never know. She did not want to spoil their working relationship, because on the job she liked Leroy a lot. He was one of the few colleagues who did not make her feel different.

  Unlike Deveraux.

  He crossed the barrier now, shooting her a half smile. He was slim, with sunken cheeks and, as usual, dressed to the nines.

  “Eva, what a surprise. They finally let you out of your coffin?”

  “Screw you, Jean-Luc,” she said, with no trace of a smile.

  Working with Deveraux was a pain in the ass, plain and simple, and everybody knew it. The last time they’d had to work together, they almost came to blows.

  Fortunately, Leroy anticipated the situation. He stepped between the two, as he often did, brandishing the shield of his usual good spirits.

  “Everyone ready for a bit of a morning workout?”

  It was not entirely a joke. Before even reaching the apartment building, they had to make their way through throngs of police officers, go around the forensic department van in front of the entrance, and ask the two technicians to move aside so they could enter the hall. The obstacle course did not end there. Stepping inside the building was like entering an ant colony. The dancers had already started their confused ballet, labeling, taking pictures, coming and going in just about every direction.

  “I so hate this useless charade,” Eva mumbled.

  “Any idea what we’re in for up there?” Leroy asked as he shook off his rain-soaked coat.

  “You know the boss,” Deveraux said. “He hardly even gave me the address.”

  This time, the three of them shared knowing smiles. The chief’s economy of words was legend in the police division.

  They reached the second-floor landing.

  As they planted themselves in front of the open door, any traces of smiles left their faces.

  It was as though an insane artist had painted the room red. Blood was splashed everywhere, including the ceiling, and it was not even completely dry.

  “Oh,” Leroy grunted.

  “Fuck me,” Deveraux muttered.

  Eva did not say anything. A painful ball had wedged in her throat.

  Seeing them on the threshold, Chief Vincent Garenne went over to greet them. He was in charge of the district precinct. Well into his forties, he was tall and wiry, and the gray suit he wore, added to his salt-and-pepper hair, made him look ten years older. Straight as an arrow, by all accounts. The kind of guy who didn’t take bullshit from anyone. Eva had come across him many times. He always gave her the impression that he was a good cop.

  At the moment, he looked like he was about to lose his breakfast.

  “Welcome to hell, folks,” he said, expressionless.

  Eva spotted the victim behind him. A dead girl, hoisted in the air, her legs spread apart. She was bloody all over.

  “See what I mean?” he added. “It’s a real slaughterhouse in here.”

  Eva breathed slowly through her mouth to tamp down the pestilential stench.

  “Who’s the victim?” she asked, her voice perfectly controlled.

  “Barbara Meyer. Nineteen years old, student. This is her place. It all happened sometime this week. No evidence of a break-in, though.”

  Eva kept her eyes on him to avoid looking at the mutilated body. That would come soon enough.

  “Witnesses?”

  “Only the downstairs neighbor. Anne-Lise Monbailly. She’s a student, too. She had been with her family in Tours since Wednesday, and she got back this morning, just before six. When she got to her door, she caught a whiff. She came up to take a look. She found the door unlocked. And here we are. She called us right away, totally hysterical. She’s still in shock.” The man paused, obviously lost himself. “We get about ten homicides a year in this area. But I’ve never seen anything so brutal.”

  Erwan Leroy knew what he meant.

  “We have the case now, so we can take it from here, all right?”

  “You bet you can,” Garenne said. “I’ve never been happier to pass the torch.”

  Eva, for her part, tried to clear her mind
. The baton passing between the two police units was now official. It was their turn to take over.

  She stepped into the room.

  The victim was on the bed: a naked figure, her body tilted back, her legs raised toward the ceiling, held by what appeared to be chains hooked to a beam above the bed. Her arms were pulled outward, her wrists tied with straps, so that her body was laid out in the shape of a star. Even from where she stood, Eva could clearly see that the victim had no skin left on her face.

  A coincidence?

  Eva moved closer to the body.

  Upside down. The legs tied up. The skin of the face removed.

  Such a coincidence?

  “You’ve got to be one sick motherfucker to do something like that,” Deveraux mumbled.

  Eva did not reply. In her mind’s eye, the picture of other bodies superimposed themselves on the scene. Other faceless victims hanging upside down. Bled to death.

  One sick motherfucker, yes. Or even two of them.

  It was one year ago. One year already.

  Even so, those killers were dead, both of them. She tried to dismiss the thought. There was no way this could have any connection to them. She repeated it to herself. They are dead.

  “You think that this is the end? It’s all really over?” Vauvert had asked her.

  Eva clenched her jaw. Of course not, she never thought so. She had not answered him at that moment or later on, the few times they spoke on the phone. She would not have known what to tell him. Deep down, part of her was convinced that the nightmare had not come to an end there. They would just have a temporary break. But she did not tell anyone. She wanted to be wrong, just once.

  Camera flashes were going off all around, and she squinted in spite of her sunglasses.

  “Hey! Careful not to touch anything, please!” shouted the woman crouched next to the body.

  The three Homicide Unit officers made sure to keep their feet on the narrow plastic strip that ran across the apartment.

  “My name is Pauline Chadoutaud,” the woman said. “I’m the forensic pathologist.”