by Seth Patrick
Claire looked to Pierre for support. He stood and went over to Camille. “That isn’t a good idea,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder.
She brushed the hand away. “What do you know? Who are you anyway?”
“Pierre is a good friend,” said Claire. “He’s here to help. You can trust him.”
Camille didn’t look at all convinced. “So tell me, Pierre. Am I some kind of zombie?”
He shook his head slowly, smiling. “No, you’re not some kind of zombie.”
“That’s not what Léna thinks,” said Camille. “She said I was an impostor, but she doesn’t think that, not for a second. She knows who I am, and it scares her.”
“Léna missed you so much,” said Claire. “It’s difficult for her to accept that this is real.”
“So if I’m not a zombie, what am I?”
Pierre smiled. “You’re a miracle.”
“I don’t believe in miracles,” said Camille, her voice flat.
“It’s the truth,” said Pierre. “I went to your funeral. I saw you in your coffin. And here you are. You’ve been granted a new life, a new existence.”
“But why me? There were forty people on the bus. Why was I saved?”
Pierre shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “We don’t have all the answers, but there’s no need for you to be afraid. What’s happening to you is miraculous, however you choose to believe it’s come to be. Someone is watching over you.”
She looked at Claire, lost. “I just want a normal life, like before.”
My little girl, Claire thought. How could Léna and Jérôme not see that? How could they deny her? She wrapped her daughter in her arms and renewed her vow to keep her safe. Whatever happened.
• • •
Soon after Pierre left, Camille went to her room again to try to get some sleep. Claire made a start on preparing dinner, and as she did, she realized she was smiling: making dinner for Camille. Her worries about Léna were still with her, yes, but those were everyday worries, and miracles always won out over the mundane.
She went upstairs to freshen up, but as she reached the doorway to her own bedroom, she stood dumbfounded, staring. The drawer with the photo albums was open; the album they had shown Camille had been torn into pieces and strewn across the bed, alongside another one that contained pictures of Léna.
Clippings and photographs alike had been torn up, Léna at every age between the time of the crash and now. Everything Camille had missed.
Claire stared at the destruction for a long time, appalled that Camille would do such a thing. Resentment was inevitable, she thought, but even so. This was unacceptable.
She went to Camille’s door and opened it carefully in case she was asleep. Her daughter was sitting on her bed staring at the wall, her expression blank.
“Camille?’ There was no movement, no answer. “Camille?”
Then her daughter’s eyes seemed to focus. She looked around herself, disoriented, before turning to face her mother. After a few seconds, she smiled. “What?”
“Sorry, were you trying to sleep?”
“Yes, but no luck. What is it?”
“Did you…did you go into my bedroom?”
“No,” said Camille.
“Please,” said Claire. “You can be honest. Tell me if you…touched anything.” She recalled the blank look on Camille’s face as she’d entered the bedroom and thought of sleepwalkers. “Maybe you don’t remember?”
“I swear, Mum, I haven’t been out of the room. I promise. Why are you asking?”
Claire looked at her daughter for a long moment before shaking her head. She was telling the truth, Claire decided—the truth as far as Camille was aware of it. “No reason,” said Claire.
There was no need to tell her, Claire thought to herself. No need to tell anyone.
She fetched a trash bag and returned to her bedroom to clean the mess. As she collected the ripped pieces, she stopped when she realized the covers of the albums had also been torn in two. One was thick vinyl-covered card; the other was leather. Torn, just as easily as the paper of the photographs.
She put it all in the trash bag out of her sight, not wanting to think about it.
Because there was no need to worry. No need to worry at all.
15
Hell of a day, Inspector Laure Valère thought. The night before had been interesting, with the Costa man vanishing after setting his home on fire and almost taking his neighbor’s house along for the ride. Then this morning, the old man had been found. A phone call came in from the technicians at the dam, and Laure, as the senior officer on duty, had packed Alcide and Bruno off to handle the scene. She’d called Captain Pellerin at home to let him know—Thomas liked to be kept up-to-date on anything significant, even when, as this morning, he’d been off duty.
Laure had been living in the town for nine years now, and Michel Costa had only been the second suicide at the dam in all that time. That struck her as odd. Perfect location for the suicidal, offering great views and melodrama for those wanting to make a statement on their way out.
And certainty of death, of course. A little messy, from the sound of Alcide’s voice when he’d called in.
The mess had kept coming, though.
The attack at the diner was more run-of-the-mill. The perpetrator had done a bit of a number on the manager, who had, frankly, been lucky to get away without needing stitches on the back of his head where the glass had hit. Bruno had known more about the manager than Laure did; Alain Hubert had been in trouble with the law many a time when he was a younger man. With the only witness leaving the scene before the police got there, there was more than a little suspicion that Hubert had been paid a visit by some old associate. For all the man’s protestations about having left criminal behavior behind him long ago, it wouldn’t be a surprise if debt—unofficial and unpaid—had been behind the assault.
Still, they had CCTV footage, and the town’s security camera system was being used to keep an eye out in case the assailant made an appearance, but surely he was long gone.
Yet that hadn’t been the end of the mess. The worst of all was still to come.
A man had been walking his dog through the underpass by the town hall when he came across what he thought was a woman’s corpse hidden in the bushes at the tunnel exit. As second in command, Laure had gone to the scene, only learning on her arrival that the victim was still alive.
She had been stabbed repeatedly in the abdomen at least a dozen times, but it was even more disturbing than that: a ragged fragment of human tissue sitting on the skin of the woman’s belly had been tentatively identified by one of the paramedics. From the woman’s liver, he’d said, giving her the information in a whisper away from other ears, because that paramedic knew about the older cases, seven years before.
Laure felt herself grow cold. She thought of Julie then, of that New Year’s night when they had gone their separate ways, Laure heading back to the party, Julie back to her apartment. It had been the next afternoon before Laure had surfaced, hungover, to the terrible news.
From the scene of the current stabbing, she called the captain at home once more to inform him of this new discovery, and he told her he would come to the station immediately. Seven years before, there had been two killings, one survivor, and half a dozen suspects. None of the suspects had panned out, but the man who’d been police captain at the time, hounded by the mayor, had done his own piece of hounding—he and a group of like-minded officers had focused on one of the suspects and had pushed hard. They managed to scrabble together a sloppy case from hearsay and coincidence and ran with it until the case fell apart in a mess of litigation. Too close to the surviving victim at the time, Laure had watched it all happen from the sidelines.
The fallout had been the end of the old captain’s career. The mayor, just as culpable in the eyes of
some, had tried to save his position by funding the state-of-the-art CCTV system the town had ended up with. Ultimately, though, the only thing that had saved him was the fact that the attacks stopped.
Stopped, and no one was ever brought to book. A big-shot forensic psychologist had come down from Paris and pronounced that the killer had either left the area or was dead, since if he’d still been around, the killings would have just kept going. The investigation petered out, and the files were left open.
Back at the station, Thomas summoned her and Bruno to his office to discuss the attack. She dug out the files from the previous cases and brought along the photographs of the new victim. As they laid them all out together, old pictures and new, it was impossible to deny the similarities in the injuries.
“Christ,” said Thomas. Bruno was just staring.
“Her name is Lucy Clarsen,” said Laure. “She’s been a barmaid at the Lake Pub for the past year.”
“Shit, yes,” said Bruno. “I know who you mean. Alcide’s taken a shine to her.”
“As far as we know,” said Laure, “she has no family in the area, but we’re keeping the identity quiet until we’ve been able to track down relatives. And of course, we’re keeping the details of the attack from the press.”
“Bruno,” said Thomas, “once we’re done here, can you have a word with Alcide? Let him know about Lucy Clarsen, and make sure he understands that he can’t discuss the case with anyone.”
Bruno nodded, then started to look through the older case notes.
“So what do we have?” asked Thomas.
“She’s still critical,” said Laure. “She’d probably been lying there for at least four hours. Last I spoke to the doctor treating her, he said it was a miracle she was alive. The blood loss was severe.”
“And the diner attack?” said Thomas. “Could that be linked?”
“Possible,” she said. “The manager hadn’t seen the guy around before, and the assault was vicious.”
“CCTV of the tunnel?”
“Indistinct, but it shows a guy in a hooded top, no image of his face, no way to rule the diner assailant out at the moment.”
“OK.” Thomas took a long breath. “Thoughts?”
Bruno stepped in. “The manager didn’t recognize his assailant, so if it is the same man, maybe he hasn’t been around for a long time and he’s come back. It would explain the hiatus in the attacks.”
Laure’s turn. “There was one key suspect before, sir, and he has a link to the victim. We should bring him in. Now.”
Thomas raised an eyebrow. “He was cleared, Laure.”
“Captain Onesto didn’t think so.”
“Onesto was under too much pressure to get a result. The evidence wasn’t there, and nobody who knew the suspect thought it was plausible.” Laure started to interrupt; Thomas held up a hand. “But…we have to talk to him anyway. Bruno, bring the pub manager in for an interview. Don’t tell him anything.”
Bruno looked surprised. “You mean Toni Guillard? He was the suspect?” Bruno had only transferred to the town three years ago.
Thomas nodded and sent him on his way. Once the office door closed, he turned to her. “Laure?”
She understood what he was asking. “I’m fine, sir.”
“I need to know you can handle this. If it’s too personal—”
“As I said, sir. I’m fine.” After all, it hadn’t been personal for a long time.
• • •
She reviewed the old cases as she waited for the pub manager to be brought in. The details had been kept from the press back then, of course. They’d been referred to as stabbings; the ferocity of the attacks and the grim mutilations had not been revealed. Julie’s identity had been protected; Laure had always feared it would become common knowledge, but mercifully it never did, even after the inevitable rumors of the severity of the assaults emerged.
Among the police, the attacker immediately earned the nickname “Cannibal.” Each of the three attacks had been in a different part of town. The last had been in the same underpass where Lucy Clarsen had been assaulted; it would make sense to keep a careful eye on the other two locations, in case the killer was reliving old memories.
The pub manager was a huge man, physically imposing from sheer height and bulk, and a little overweight. He was no athlete, that was certain, but he was easily capable of overpowering someone. When Bruno led him in, Laure found herself looking at him, picturing him with a knife in his hand. It didn’t take much imagination.
“Have a seat,” said Thomas. The man sat. Laure watched his face carefully; his expression was wary. “Do you know what happened to Lucy Clarsen?”
“No,” said Toni Guillard. He didn’t exude confidence by any means, but if anything, he was bemused rather than frightened.
“Was she working with you last night?”
“Yes.” Matter-of-fact.
“At what time did she leave work?”
“I don’t know exactly. About two a.m.?”
“What were you doing when she left?”
“Closing up.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I went home.”
The captain paused for a moment. “Can someone confirm that?”
“Why all these questions?”
Laure couldn’t hold back any longer. It was time to push him. “Seven years ago you were suspected of murder and attempted murder.”
“It wasn’t me,” said the man, fear showing in his eyes for the first time. “I was innocent.”
She thrust a photograph of Lucy Clarsen’s injuries in front of him, feeling her anger grow. “Look at your barmaid. It’s a miracle she’s still alive.” The man just stared at the image, horror in his eyes. “You’re the one who put her in that state. And the others too. But if that wasn’t sick enough, you started to eat them.”
“That’s enough,” said Thomas, glaring at her. She knew she’d overstepped the mark. “You can go, Inspector. I’ll take it from here.”
She looked down at the floor, angry with herself. “Yes, sir.”
Then Toni looked up from the photograph, dazed. Gawking at both of them. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “It isn’t possible…”
She and Thomas shared a look. The man’s reaction was genuine.
He was as shocked as they were. He wasn’t their killer.
16
After Léna had walked away from her father, she had ended up where she always did. Even for the afternoon, the Lake Pub was quiet. Frédéric was there as usual, playing pool with a few others. He looked over at her from time to time, but at the moment she just wanted to sit alone with a beer and analyze what she was feeling.
She didn’t know how to deal with what was happening, but the idea that her mum was right—that Camille really had come back, that a miracle had happened—was difficult for her to accept. She wanted that version to be true, wanted it badly. That was why she was so cautious, she thought. And there was something else about Camille now that fed into her unease. She’d always known what her sister was thinking, always. Sometimes even when they were apart, she’d known. But last night and this morning? Nothing. Her sister, if that was what she really was, had been unreadable.
Then Simon, the dark-haired guy from the night before, came in, looking around. He saw her and came straight over, a cagey look about him. She watched him with a little suspicion. He was wearing the same clothes as last night, his suit a little crumpled. She wondered if he’d slept in it.
“Well, if it isn’t our mysterious regular,” she said. “How are things? Feeling any less vague these days?”
“Where did you say Adèle works?” he asked.
She wondered if the guy even had a sense of humor. “Ah. Straight to business. She works at the library.”
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br /> “Near the church?”
“No,” she said. She tried to think how long ago the new library had opened. Six years, at least. “Next to the town hall. I thought you said you lived around here?”
“I’ve been away.”
“Right.” She peered at him; he looked back at her, clearly uncomfortable. “So why do I feel like I know you?” she said.
He shrugged. “Just that kind of face.” Then he thanked her and went on his way.
“What did he want?” It was Frédéric, showing up conveniently to check on her.
“To sleep with me.” She grinned. Frédéric said nothing, just looked hurt—a little more hurt than she’d intended. “But he’s not my type.”
He held up the pool cue he had in his hand. “You want a game?”
She shrugged. Why not? She could do with the distraction. She beat him with ease, relishing the discomfort he felt in defeat—something he always found hard to mask. He could be very competitive, could Frédéric, however much he claimed otherwise.
“Another game?” he asked.
“If you can stand it.” She smirked. “Back in a minute.”
She headed for the bathroom, and on her return, two police officers came in through the front door and walked toward the bar. She hung around to see what the excitement was. They asked for Toni, had a quiet word with him, then left the pub with the bemused manager in tow.
She turned to the barman, Samuel. “Any idea what that was about?”
“Not a clue,” said Samuel.
“Did Toni leave you in charge?” she said, a coy smile on her lips.
Samuel scowled. “No freebies, Léna.” She gave him a worth-a-shot shrug before he turned to serve a customer.
Léna drifted over to the windows at the front and watched Toni get inside the police car. After they’d gone, she was about to head back to Frédéric when something stopped her. The wall beside her was covered in photos, old and new, full of the regulars of the Lake Pub. One of the pictures was very familiar. It had her in it, nine years old, sitting and pretending to play the drums. Beside her was the guitarist from the band that had played that night. She moved closer, suddenly feeling cold.