That was good, but not good enough.
If he lost Salaville now, he would never forgive himself.
He scrutinized the trees, the branches, the roots, and the undergrowth.
Everywhere, perverse shadows teased him.
He sensed a presence.
It crept toward him, then froze.
It was not Roman Salaville.
It was an animal.
Some sort of black dog with dirty fur. It was crouching, as if on the lookout, just a few yards from him. Its red eyes glowed in the dim light.
It did not move.
It stared at the inspector.
There were few-very few-things that could scare Alexandre Vauvert.
That beast and all it radiated, was one of them.
Vauvert wondered if he was hallucinating. Instinctively, he raised his gun.
The wolf kept staring at him.
His hand trembled as he aimed and shot.
The beast did not move.
In his peripheral vision, Vauvert spotted something moving. Amazingly, the huge, clumsy Roman Salaville had approached him from the left without making a sound. For Vauvert, it was too late. The man leaped on him and went for his gun. They collapsed in the mud, their arms straining for possession of the Smith amp; Wesson.
Two ear-splitting shots rang out. The two men rolled over each other, head-butting and kneeing, until the weapon was kicked out and disappeared in the bushes.
Salaville closed his hands around Vauvert’s throat and squeezed.
His eyes were fixed. Glowing.
It was the same look of glittering hatred, Vauvert realized, that the wolf had given him.
Then he focused on his compressed throat. Already black spots were consuming his vision. He knew what it meant. He had about thirty seconds to free himself. After that, he would lose consciousness.
It was way more time than he needed.
He threw a punch into Salaville’s gut. His fist sank deep into the mass of fat. The man shut his eyes in pain. Then he reopened them. His look was feverish, vicious. His smile broadened as he tightened his grip on the inspector’s throat.
Then Vauvert opened his arms and slammed them against his opponent’s elbows. He felt the joints crack, and the pressure on his throat ended.
The black spots went away.
The man tried to retreat.
Vauvert was not going to let him get off that easily.
His fist crashed against Salaville’s face. The cartilage in his nose snapped.
Vauvert threw another blow to his gut, bending him double.
One last uppercut sent two of his teeth flying.
Salaville staggered.
“You can’t stop nothing, you know.”
Vauvert stared at him, his face blank.
“Stop what? Your brother?”
Salaville gave him a ferocious look. He leaned forward, and Vauvert understood he was about to lunge.
Vauvert drove his fist into Salaville’s face. More teeth flew. Salaville was hurled backward, over a rock.
The obese man stumbled, slipped on wet ferns and fell over.
Vauvert rushed forward.
The ditch behind the rock was no more than three feet deep. The short fall would not have done any harm if Roman Salaville had not landed on the deadly sharp end of a tree limb. It had torn through him like a stake. Blood poured from Salaville’s chest, where the tree limb protruded.
“Oh shit!” Vauvert exclaimed, jumping off the rock and into the ditch.
He tore off his shirt and pressed it against the man’s wound. But the crimson flow was unstoppable.
The man, even in this condition, just stared at him with wild, beastly eyes that burned.
“Roman? Can you hear me? Don’t fall asleep. Don’t do that, you bastard.”
Salaville opened his mouth.
“Oh, someone ain’t gonna be happy about this.”
Then his jaw slackened, and his chest stopped rising and falling. The blood flow slowed.
“Shit, stay with me,” Vauvert kept saying, slapping him. “Shit, shit, no!”
The eyes held their gaze. It was over.
Someone ain’t gonna be happy about this.
Who was he talking about? Who wasn’t going to be pleased?
His brother?
When he had asked, the fat man seemed amused.
Vauvert rose to his feet. He surveyed the trees around him.
He wondered where the wolf had gone.
10
“You can’t do nothing against us, bitch!” Claude Salaville shouted from the top of the stairs.
His victim was terrified, her eyes wide with panic. The knife, a trickle of blood running down the blade, was at her throat.
“Let her go,” Eva said, venturing a foot on the first step.
Salaville pulled his hostage tighter. In a smooth, almost caressing motion, he ran the blade back and forth against the girl’s throat.
Eva froze, attentive.
The man took this for some sort of indecision and snickered.
“So tender,” he said. “All honey and spice, a little one like this. You pull something, and I bleed her like a hog.”
The inspector climbed another step. Then one more. She continued, calmly, methodically.
“Stop it right now, Salaville.”
She did not raise her voice. Her tone was even.
“Or else what? Huh? What you gonna do?”
Eva reached the top of the stairs.
“Back off!” the man yelled.
“Don’t do anything stupid. It’s all over. You’re not getting away.”
“You think so? You and your partner, you can’t shoot me.”
“You’re wrong about that,” she said.
Salaville’s eyes bore into hers. Black eyes, two icy pits. And the air around the man seemed suddenly impenetrable.
Eva’s hand was trembling, but she was not going to let the jerk throw her off her game.
“What do we do now?”
“Oh, it’s real simple,” he answered. “You go back downstairs. You get the fuck out of my way. You let me
