Looking to the Woods

by Frédérique Molay

  After tying a final ribbon, she inhaled, her eyes closed, and enjoyed the fragrance of the freshly pruned bushes. She sensed instinctively that men were watching her. Why wouldn’t they, with her honey-colored hair falling over her shoulders, her pearl-white skin glowing in the sunshine, and her hips swaying as she wandered along the walkway? Her looks were her greatest weapon, and she was skilled at brandishing them. Why wouldn’t she? The world was a tough place, and she wasn’t ashamed of using the means at her disposal.

  “Madame Athénaïs?”

  She recognized the man’s voice and slipped into her role. He was waiting for her order. She nodded, and he tucked his instrument under his chin.

  The man playing the king flashed her a hungry smile. But why had they chosen him to play the role? His nose wasn’t long enough, and his eyes were all wrong. No matter. She wouldn’t have to pretend with him today, as she was meeting someone else. She imagined stealing away to a discreet corner with him, feeling his caresses on her neck and his hand searching for her bosom. A wave of warmth spread across her belly. She loved the pleasures of the flesh, but even more than that, she loved the desire she stoked in her lovers. It made her feel powerful.

  Everyone spread out in the garden, while the musician played the first notes on the violin.

  “You are radiant, my dear!”

  She turned and smiled at the woman playing Madame de Montespan’s sister Gabrielle.

  “I want to dance,” Athénaïs said.

  Gabrielle laughed.

  “You always want to dance, especially when our Jean-Baptiste’s playing the violin.”

  “Isn’t he extraordinary?”

  “Yes, he is. And you know how to bring out talent . . . like your beauty. These men have eyes only for you, and the women look at you with respect, fascination, and . . .”

  “And what?”

  “Jealousy.”

  “A dangerous emotion.”

  “For the one feeling it or for the recipient?”

  Athénaïs made a face. She knew the risks of being the mistress of the king of France. She had to be on her guard at all times—especially when it came to slipping away and meeting a lover.

  “Is everything all right?” Gabrielle asked. “We need to join the king. He won’t start the promenade without you.”

  Her place was next to him. The Sun King’s burning gaze made her uncomfortable, but she hurried over to him. She had a role to play.

  “Ah, my dear!” said the king.

  “I’m all yours.”

  “We were talking about our friend Molière, whom you hold in great esteem.”

  “A genius,” she said.

  The king nodded. “I agree.”

  As she smiled demurely and smoothed her gown, a valet slipped a note into her hand. What could it be?

  “Is madame feeling well?” an attendant asked.

  Athénaïs hadn’t expected this twist in the role-playing game. She apologized to the king and slipped off to read the note. Had he changed his mind and decided against meeting her? She needed to find out. She sighed in relief when she read the message. He was waiting for her at the Colonnade—earlier than planned.

  “I just couldn’t wait any longer,” he said when she reached him. “Forgive me.”

  “You want to leave now? We just got started.”

  “You can permit a slight breach, can’t you?”

  He was like a little boy who couldn’t control his desires. She supposed it was normal at his age. Irritating at times, yes. But charming, too. He had so much to learn, and she so enjoyed teaching him.

  “Let’s go then,” she said, as if she were granting him a favor.

  “To your place?”

  “Do you have a car? I came with someone.”

  “I do. Follow me.”

  He opened the passenger door for her, and once he slipped into traffic, he put a hand on her thigh.

  “You’ll have to hold on till we get to Rue Cambon,” she whispered, feeling flattered by his impatience.

  22

  Nico’s heart was racing as he entered Saint Antoine Hospital. Full of hope, he took the stairs two at a time and hurried into Dr. Caroline Dalry’s department. He hadn’t felt this nervous since he was a teen on a first date. Maybe, just maybe, she’d be happy to see him.

  He glimpsed her in the hallway, dressed in her usual white coat, with four colored pens in her breast pocket. She didn’t notice him until he got closer. When she did, the smile on her face disappeared, but he couldn’t turn back now.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I figured you might be missing me.”

  The doctor she’d been talking to gave Nico a nod and slipped away.

  “Have you finished your rounds?” he asked.

  “Nearly. I’ve got two more patients to see.”

  “I’ll wait, and then you’re coming with me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Home,” he said, hungry for her.

  “You know everyone can see you,” she teased.

  Sometimes she acted like her usual self, but it never lasted long.

  “Am I that transparent?”

  She laughed. He hadn’t heard her do that in days.

  “Most definitely.” She was still smiling.

  “Shoot. I didn’t do it on purpose, ma’am,” he said, raising his hands. “It’s entirely your fault.”

  “Is that so?”

  “You’re provocative, doctor.”

  “You’d say that even if I were wearing one of your old robes and a thick pair of wool socks.”

  “You have a point. That is, if you were naked under the old robe.”

  “Nico! You’re obsessed.”

  “With you and only you, my sweet.”

  “Where’s Dimitri?” she asked.

  “He’s spending the night with his grandmother.”

  “So you planned this all out,” Caroline said, looking away.

  “Finish up. I’m not going anywhere,” he said, ignoring that she’d averted her gaze from him.

  She kissed him on the cheek and turned around. Nico followed her with his eyes as she walked into a patient’s room.

  An hour later, Nico was pouring two glasses of Château-Chalon, a white wine from the Jura region, which he had tasted with his brother-in-law a few years earlier. Caroline had put on a pair of jeans and a simple tank top. He lit a candle and hit “Play,” and U2’s “One”—the version with Mary J. Blige—came on. They had made unforgettable love to this music once. Tonight, though, he felt the tension in her shoulders when he pulled her close.

  “This feels like a trap,” Caroline said.

  “I don’t have any ulterior motives. I just wanted to be alone with you.”

  She smiled her magnificent smile, which always made his stomach flutter, and pushed aside her glass.

  “I’m not really in the mood for a drink.”

  He said nothing and stood up. Taking her hands, he brought her to her feet. “How about a slow dance, then?”

  “I’m really sorry,” she said in barely a whisper.

  He held her tight. He wouldn’t let her go.

  “I didn’t want to . . . It’s idiotic,” she murmured.

  It felt like the floor was falling out from under him. What was she trying to say?

  “I’m so sorry, Nico. I’m a doctor, and I know about these things. I’m taking responsibility, and I messed up. I feel so stupid. I didn’t mean . . .”

  She was crying now, her tears wet on his cheeks. He held her close, still swaying to the music.

  “If you want to be free again, I won’t stop you. I’ll understand,” she said. “I won’t ask anything of you.”

  He pulled back and gazed in her eyes.

  “What are you talking about? Why would I ever want to be free again? What are you trying to tell me, Caroline?”

  Her eyes were red, and she looked scared.

  “Are you sick? Is that it? Don’t you know by now
that I’d never abandon you?”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  Nico felt the blood drain from his face. Shocked, he let go of her. Caroline stared at him for a half second and then turned her back to him. She was going to leave—he knew it—but he quickly came to his senses. The voice in his head was shouting, “Do something, damn it! Now!” He grabbed her arm and pulled her close.

  23

  Thursday, May 16

  A call straight from dispatch—that was a bad sign.

  “Chief Sirsky?”

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  All calls for the police went through dispatch first. Then dispatch alerted the appropriate unit. Dispatch usually didn’t call the chief directly.

  “A maniac is holed up in an apartment on Rue Cambon. He called emergency services at 9:51 this morning to report a homicide. He asked to speak directly to the chief of the Criminal Investigation Division. He mentioned a body burned in a bathtub. He won’t let anyone in.”

  Nico’s gut cramped. A body burned in a bathtub. He looked at his watch: it was 10:45.

  “Do we know who the man is?”

  “He won’t say.”

  “Who lives in the apartment?”

  “Virginie Ravault, a lawyer. Divorced, with two children.”

  “Is she the victim?”

  “The man won’t say. He’s totally incoherent.”

  “And the children?”

  “At school. We checked.”

  “Good. I’ll take over from here.”

  Nico alerted Kriven’s squad, and they responded as though their own lives depended on it. Wound as tight as a spring, Kriven led them into Nico’s office. Vidal was complaining, as usual, but that was who he was. Plassard threw out a crude joke. They all laughed before turning their attention to what awaited them on Rue Cambon. For the first time in a long while, Nico felt indestructible, thanks to Caroline. He had that invisible shield, after all.

  Local precinct officers had already arrived at Rue Cambon, a narrow one-way street in a fancy part of town near the Tuileries Gardens, and cordoned it off.

  “Mrs. Ravault lives on the top floor,” an officer told Nico. “You can see her apartment from here. The balcony with the flowers is hers.”

  The special interventions unit had arrived and taken up positions at strategic points. These masked officers were cold-blooded ninjas—their slogan: “Serve without fail.”

  Onlookers armed with cell-phone cameras lurked behind the police cordon waiting for something to happen.

  “We’ve sighted him,” said the head of the special interventions unit. “He appears to be alone.”

  “Is he armed?” Nico asked.

  “That’s what he says. We haven’t seen anything yet.”

  “I’m going up.”

  “Put on a vest, Chief.”

  He strapped on the vest without a word. He didn’t care to explain that even without one, nothing could stop him now.

  “We’ll cover you,” the ninja said.

  “I’m going with him,” Kriven said, grabbing another vest.

  The ninja glared at him, spoke a few code words into his walkie-talkie, and escorted them to the elevator. He was clearly used to being in charge, but he would soon be disabused of that notion. When they reached the top floor, Nico brushed past him and took the lead.

  “Chief Nico Sirsky here!” he shouted through Virginie Ravault’s door.

  He felt the masked men shift behind him. They were used to stealth. But there was no time for that.

  “You asked for me, and I’m here.”

  “Are you alone?” asked the voice from the other side of the door.

  “One of my men is with me.”

  “You’re the one I want to talk to.”

  It sounded like a wish, not an order. The guy seemed more lost than dangerous.

  “How about I come in with Commander Kriven? Two won’t be too many. You say there’s been a murder?”

  “It’s true. My God . . . What happened here?”

  He sounded like a frightened child. The ninjas could go home.

  “Open up, and tell us what’s going on.”

  “I saw you on TV!” the man yelled. “They said you handle major crimes, and you’re a super cop.”

  People shouldn’t believe everything they saw on television.

  “I want the best person for this!”

  “For what?”

  “For . . . Virginie.”

  “Who is she to you?”

  “My ex-wife.”

  Apparently, he was still in love with her.

  “I took the kids to the movies yesterday afternoon. She had something to do and needed a hand. I brought them back at the end of the day, but when I rang the bell she didn’t come to the door. So I took them home with me for the night. I dropped the kids off at school this morning, and then I tried to call her. She wasn’t home, and she wasn’t at her office, either. Everyone there was worried, because she had missed her first appointments of the day. You don’t know my wife. Her job is very important to her. By this time I was really worried, so I came here and used my key to get in.”

  Nico heard a tinge of guilt in his voice. Maybe she didn’t know he still had a key.

  “And I found her! Shit! Fucking shit! I found her. And now I can’t leave her. Do you understand?”

  He was whimpering.

  “Where is she?”

  “In the bathroom.”

  “You should let me in, Mr. . . . Ravault?”

  “Yes, she kept my name. It was what she always used for work. And she wanted to have the same name as the kids.”

  Maybe, to him, it meant that they weren’t entirely finished. If you’re that much in love, Nico thought, you’ll hang on to any remnant of hope.

  “You’re right,” Nico said. “Having the same name is better for the children. Can you open the door now? I want to help you, but I can’t do anything for you if I’m in the hallway.”

  They heard the lock turning. Head ninja assumed a combat pose.

  “Don’t try anything,” Nico ordered. “I got this.”

  Their guard stood down. The situation was no longer his responsibility. The door opened, and a shadow of a man stood before them. He was disheveled and distraught, his face swollen from crying. Nico figured he probably couldn’t even remember his children’s names. He entered the apartment, with Kriven on his heels. The place was luxurious and bathed in light.

  “The bathroom . . .”

  The man showed them the way. Nico gently pushed the door open, and a vision more horrifying than his worst nightmare assaulted him. Third-degree burns, acid eating away at the flesh. Her body, immersed in a brown bath, was unrecognizable.

  “Did you touch anything?” Nico asked in a low voice.

  “No. There’s more over there.” Mr. Ravault pointed to a corner.

  Nico followed his finger. A note above the body; a rubber apron, gloves, and a gas mask lay on the floor. It was then that something else assaulted him: the vile odor. But inhaling sulfur wasn’t just unpleasant. It was dangerous. Breathing it could cause chest pain, dizziness, low blood pressure, and a rapid pulse, as well as respiratory problems. Nico was already suffocating. He pushed Mr. Ravault and Kriven out of the room and shut the door. Mr. Ravault was coughing.

  “Call the paramedics,” Nico ordered. “Mr. Ravault needs oxygen. And tell Vidal he’ll need some equipment.”

  Then he prayed that Virginie Ravault had experienced the same destiny as John Haigh’s victims, all of whom had been shot in the head before being plunged in acid.

  Finally, he reflected on the handwritten message taped above the bathtub: “Still life with lemons.”

  When the rescue squad arrived, they had Mr. Ravault take off his contaminated clothing. They rinsed his eyes and gave him oxygen. Meanwhile, Nico and Kriven waited for Vidal to arrive with protective filters, glasses, gloves, and bodysuits.

  “We’re taking him to the hospital,” one of the paramedics told Nico. “
There’s a risk of a pulmonary edema. And that bathtub should be pumped as soon as possible. Sulfuric acid is extremely dangerous and reacts violently with water.”

  “I imagine the worst is past,” Nico said.

  “The bathwater must have boiled as soon as it mixed with the acid,” the paramedic said. “It was probably some time ago.”

  When Vidal arrived with the necessary equipment, they geared up and went in.

  Almeida was the first to say anything. “A piece of fried meat.”

  Nico, knowing full well that he was distancing himself from his feelings, didn’t reprimand him.

  “Let’s just hope he killed her first,” Vidal said. He delicately pivoted her head. “There’s a bullet wound in the back of the skull. But I can’t tell if it was inflicted before or after she died.”

  “The killer is taking more liberties and diverging from his models,” Nico said. “None of John Haigh’s victims were found in bathtubs. He used metal barrels.”

  “The exit wound is in the left temple,” Vidal said.

  “No trace of impact on the wall,” Almeida said.

  “Check the other rooms,” Nico said. “Still Life with Lemons on a Plate,” he mused. “Van Gogh. I saw a reproduction of that painting just yesterday.”

  “A .38!” Kriven shouted. “In the bedroom.”

  “Haigh shot with an Enfield .38, which he kept in a hatbox,” Nico said.

  “This is an Enfield, too,” Kriven called out. “Along with an envelope containing four bullets. I believe we’ve got our ‘four planes a pretty lemon yellow.’”

  “I’m going to look around the apartment,” Nico said as Vidal carefully removed what was left of the body from the bathtub.

  “Fancy lingerie, sex toys . . . Mrs. Ravault took her pleasures seriously,” Kriven said. “But look at that piece of clothing on the carpet over there.”

  Nico picked up what looked like an elaborate seventeenth-century gown.

  “I’m guessing it’s a costume of some sort—a very expensive costume. We’ll have to ask Mr. Ravault. Maybe he has some idea why she had this.”