among those. They’re going through the missing-persons files from the past few years with a fine-tooth comb.” He paused to sip his cappuccino. “They autopsied Officer Arnaud Puech’s body. The boy had been eaten by beasts that seem to be dogs or wolves. The problem is, no such animals could be found anywhere in the area. Our friends down there are tearing their hair out trying to come up with a plausible explanation.”
He gave them a curious glance, and, for a just a moment, Vauvert wondered how much of their talk the chief had heard.
Vauvert said nothing.
“The teams are still collecting evidence over there. The lab in Bordeaux is in charge of the analysis. They’re the best, by far. Until further notice, we’re all on this case.”
Vauvert cleared his throat.
“I’m really sorry about what happened down there.”
“You should be,” O snapped. “Eventually, there will be an investigation. Internal Affairs will suspend your ass, and there’s not a damn thing I can do to change that. You realize that, don’t you?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
“I’ll make sure you can stay here, but in exchange, I demand full cooperation.”
“You’ve got it,” Vauvert said.
He hesitated before asking the question that had been eating at him. “Say, did you have the chance to speak with the doctors about Eva?”
O looked him in the eye.
“She’ll recover quickly. She lost a lot of blood, but the doctors got her a transfusion in time, and they sewed up her wounds. It doesn’t look like any infection has set in. Basically, all she needs now is rest.”
“Eva told us she stabbed Judith Saint-Clair,” Leroy said. “She thinks she killed her.”
“I hope she’s right, and that the bitch is actually dead somewhere,” the chief replied. “The entire area is being heavily searched as we speak. Come hell or high water, there’s just no fucking way we won’t find her hidden in some hole.”
“Come hell, yeah.” Vauvert said, sarcasm in his voice.
“Where was she holding Eva, anyway?” Leroy asked.
“No one told you?” O said, looking surprised.
The two men shook their heads.
“Well, she was in Audrey Desiderio’s summer house, in Seine-et-Marne.”
Vauvert exploded.
“How the fuck could we have missed that? No one checked?”
“Not that one house,” the chief admitted. “Saint-Clair stole the keys from Desiderio when she slaughtered her. That was actually where Desiderio and Meyer were supposed to spend their weekend.”
“You think she found out about the house while she was torturing Barbara Meyer?” Leroy asked.
“That’s the most logical explanation. She must have made Meyer talk, and then she went over to Desiderio’s office.”
Vauvert understood better how things happened, now. This was totally consistent with Saint-Clair’s logic.
“She’s always done that. She finds out-of-the-way places where she can commit her murders and stash her victims. Like the Salaville farm.”
“That’s the conclusion we all came to,” O said.
He stood up and straightened his suit. “I have to leave you now. I’m expected at Homicide. Until all of this is settled, keep me posted about everything you do. And the same goes for you, Erwan.”
Then, before leaving, he added: “One last thing, guys, I’m setting up an appointment with a psychologist for you. You’ve been through some pretty traumatic events. He’ll help you sort things out.”
82
The blood.
Oh, the blood.
Flowing over her skin again. The delicious fluid oozes between her fingers and streams down her face. Its powerful smell rises. The salty metallic flavor fills her mouth.
She twists the girl’s inanimate body into the perfect position.
The blade of the scalpel makes an incision, ever so softly, around her charming little face. She drives her fingers underneath, and she pulls. The skin peels off the muscle with a wet sigh.
Gently, she lays the skin on her own face. Her wrinkles start quivering. A mask of blood. A mask of innocence.
“May my blood be yours. May your blood be mine,” she chants.
And with each syllable, her voice becomes younger.
Lightning sets the sky ablaze.
Thunder rolls over the city.
The gods exult. The gods are impatient, too.
The moment is near. It will come. Any minute now.
The final victim will soon be here. It is written. It has always been written this way. The gods chose her long ago. This is how it must happen. There’s no other way.
And then. Oh yes, then. The cycle will be completed.
The seventy will have been sacrificed.
The gods will be satiated.
Shivering with expectancy, she lays the skin on the table and removes her dress. It had become too large for her. The garment crumples onto the floor.
There she stands, naked, her body pulsating, and slowly she places the porcelain mask back on her face.
The wailing from the second teenager snaps her out of her ecstasy.
The girl, the one whose name is Rebecca, is huddled in a corner, blood flowing from her many wounds. She doesn’t have the strength to even crawl anymore, but life hasn’t left her little shivering body. Which is very, very good. More tears for the gods.
The girl tries to open her mouth, then shuts it. She slides a hand along the pane reaching for the handle? Her figure looks like that of a broken doll, outlined against dusk’s bluish lights from outside.
She smiles tenderly at the girl.
She exalts in the feel of skin stretching across her face again. The blood has soothed her illness.
Turning around, she looks into the full-length mirror on the living-room wall.
The frightful reflection surprises her and puts her to shame. The fresh blood is doing its work, but the illness still pulses in her veins. Her translucent skin sags over brittle bones and soft muscle.
But magic comes through mirrors, and this is no exception. Mirrors are doors. Mirrors are eyes. One only needs to know how to open them, either one.
She raises her bloody fingers and draws a line on the mirror, from top to bottom.
“Diseebeh. My eyes are opened.”
And where she has drawn the opening, the mirror contorts.
“Fearsome gods who have power over life and over death, receive this sacrifice. Abandon your solitude, and come taste the tears and the blood! Come to the scarlet feast! May the doors be opened again!”
Paws with heavy nails break through the mirror, and a black beast heaves itself out of the netherworld.
It looks like a wolf, with its hair mangy, its fangs yellow. Yet just like the woman, the beast is trembling. Every molecule of its body seems in a struggle to remain tangible in this world.
“Oh,” the woman whispers. “Yes, may life water death.”
The animal gives her a knowing look, its eyes shining with infinite malice, and goes over to the girl in the corner. It laps up her blood.
