A figure was curled on the sofa. A slender form covered with some sort of fur blanket.
“Police,” Vauvert shouted, pointing the flashlight with one hand and his gun with the other.
The form moved.
“Police! Show me your hands!”
The figure turned and stretched.
On its four legs.
The fur was not a blanket.
It was a wolf. A black wolf, with eyes that gleamed like mirrors.
“Oh shit,” Vauvert grunted, stepping back.
Then, through the other door, a gaunt second figure slipped into the room.
Vauvert stared at one and then the other. He realized he must be exuding fear. Did they smell it on him? If he fired at one, would the other have time to leap on him?
He did not feel like taking the chance. He just wanted to get out of this place. Quick.
He took another step back.
He turned off his flashlight. And yet he could still see the animals’ eyes. Four small red flames burning in the darkness. Were wolves’ eyes supposed to glow like that?
No, wolves’ eyes were not supposed to glow, and they were not red. Not outside nightmares.
Then, with terror, he placed that feeling of deja-vu.
He was facing the wolves from his dream.
He was descending into his own fucking nightmare.
Finally he felt the door against his back.
The two wolves lunged at him.
He threw himself through the doorway and slammed the door shut.
27
Alexandre Vauvert ran across the yard.
Whatever it was that was going on in there, it was far from normal.
He had to call for backup.
As he reached the iron gates, he pulled out his cell phone. Once again, the screen was filled the impenetrable text:
He didn’t have time to think about its meaning. The shutters on a window flew open, and one of the wolves leaped out, its red eyes locked on him. The second wolf followed on its tail.
The two black beasts separated and took positions on both sides of the gate, cutting off Vauvert’s escape.
Vauvert dropped the phone and gripped his gun with both hands, aiming it at the two animals. Why weren’t they just running away?
He shot at the closest wolf. The wolf crouched and sprang to the side as he fired. The bullet hit the mud, heaving up dark muddy matter.
The two beasts began to move together, as if they were of one mind.
They came at him.
Vauvert fired again.
He missed and fired again.
Then he fired a burst of shots.
His sixth or seventh-Vauvert didn’t know-hit one of the animals in the breast. The wolf fell back and emitted a howl like the scream of dozens of babies, blood seeping from its jaws.
Still, it got back up. In its eyes was the fiery glow of pure hatred.
It lunged at the man, its bloody jaws open wide, its fangs like razors.
Vauvert fired one last time. He hit the beast in the head. The wolf stiffened, as though electrocuted, and crashed at the inspector’s feet.
He raised his gun toward the other beast.
It was not there.
Vauvert pressed his back against the side of the house. He whirled his gun from one side to the other, covering all the space in front of him. No wolf. Somehow it had bolted off.
But where? The wolf had been at least thirty feet from the gate. He would have seen it heading in that direction.
So
The inspector blinked. He wondered whether he could trust his senses. Was he seeing things? Nothing like this had ever happened before.
He turned to the animal that he’d shot down.
It was gone too.
Where the beast had collapsed, a bullet in its head, there was nothing.
In different circumstances, Vauvert would have thought he was losing his mind.
Over the years, he had learned what it meant to be a cop, to be the one who was paid to plunge into the dirty parts of society, into the blood and hate, in order to spare everyone else. And he did plunge into the blood and hate, each time emerging a bit dirtier. But always standing.
Now, as each time before, he was standing. He scanned the yard, trying to calm the rush of blood pounding in his chest.
This was no time to panic. Maybe he didn’t understand what had just happened, but it was a case he had to solve.
In his fifteen years, he had seen his share of other strange sights. Things that couldn’t be put in the reports, things that he understood instinctively as a cop but did not make sense on paper.
He lowered his eyes. His fatigue pants were caked with mud. The wolf had splattered him as it crashed to the ground, so he had not dreamed this.
He walked to the gate and inspected it. At least one of the bullets had damaged the metal. He had thought he hit the animal, though. Twice.
Crouching, he examined the ground.
Casings from the bullets were scattered in the mud..
He also spotted two small lead objects.
From his pocket, he retrieved a pair of latex gloves and a small plastic bag.
Ever so carefully, he picked up the bullets.
He was no ballistics expert, but he could clearly see that they were crushed and fragmented, like bullets that had struck flesh and bone.
And both of these were covered with blood.
28
Wearing her sky-blue T-shirt with the image OF Corto Maltese, her favorite graphic-novel antihero, and sitting comfortably on her couch, Leila Amari was having a late breakfast while watching Funny Face on her big flat-screen television. She owned a large collection of musicals, which she knew by heart and never tired of watching. They evoked a carefree past when you could sing and dance in the rain without getting locked up before the end of the day.
