Of Fever and Blood

by S. Cedric

  He stood and darted after him. The trees were thick, making it hard to see anything. Still, he could discern the fugitive struggling to get through the dead branches and undergrowth.

  “Freeze! It’s an order! Freeze, you hear me?”

  The man kept giving it his all. He managed to hoist himself over a fallen tree limb and heave himself forward. Then he vanished into a tall clump ferns.

  There was no hesitating. The inspector picked up speed and caught sight of the fugitive again. But his right foot encountered a pile of branches.

  He stumbled and fell, his ankle stuck between two stumps.

  He did not know what hurt more, the razor-sharp branches or his twisted ankle.

  When he was finally able to extricate himself and wobble to his feet, the fugitive was out of sight once again.

  “Shit, shit and shit.”

  Infuriated, he trotted along, trying not to put too much weight on his right leg. His ankle hurt like hell, but he figured it was a sprain, nothing more. It was not his first, and he had no time to feel sorry for himself.

  “Salaville!” he bellowed.

  Where had he gone? To the right? Thick, black fir trees. To the left? A wall of tall ferns and thorn-filled bushes.

  And that damn silence in the woods, as though there was no life anywhere.

  He made his way through the trees, trying to detect a human trail.

  Roman Salaville could be lurking anywhere, hidden behind any trunk or rock. The only reason he had not fired at Vauvert was because he had run out of ammo.

  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.

  It’s not a dog. You can see that. It’s a fucking wolf.

  Vauvert wondered if he was hallucinating. Instinctively, he raised his gun.

  The wolf kept staring at him.

  Should I shoot it? Or just try to scare it away? Those animals can spread rabies, right?

  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 & 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 get to my car.”

  Eva grinned.

  “Hear that, Salaville?”

  Outside, officers were kicking in doors, barking orders, and
securing the perimeter.

  “Hear that?” Eva asked again, her voice falsely soft. “That’s the Homicide Unit. They’ll be in here any second. You don’t surrender, you lose your life.”

  “So you think.”

  Eva aimed her gun.

  “I can very well put a bullet in that degenerate brain of yours, and you’ll be dead before you can even think about slitting her throat. You want to take the risk?”

  “What risk? We’ve got to face death if we want to defeat it, right?”

  The guy had a cold smile, as though he had just made a private joke.

  Eva did not say anything. With her left hand, she slowly removed her glasses.

  The man shivered for the first time as he caught sight of her blood-red eyes. His hostage sobbed, not daring to move. The knife was still gnawing at her throat.

  “You’re calling me a degenerate?” Claude Salaville croaked. “When’s the last time you took a fucking look at yourself?”

  “To catch a monster, it sometimes takes a monster,” the investigator answered.

  In the darkness, a flash of doubt crossed Salaville’s eyes. But he pulled himself together.

  “You’re bluffing, lady cop. I tell you what we’re gonna do. You’re gonna let me go. I’m gonna get in my car and leave.”

  Eva did not budge.

  “You let go of the girl first.”

  The man grinned again.

  “Hey sweetie, what do you think? You think you can scare me with that zombie face of yours? You think you’re in a movie or something? You think that chicks like you shoot guys like me?”

  Eva said nothing.

  “Do you?”

  “You’re right.”

  The guy burst into laughter.

  “You see!”

  “Yes,” the inspector with red eyes said. “I see perfectly.”

  She pulled the trigger.

  The shot rang out. The bullet lodged in Salaville’s collarbone and knocked him backward. He let go of the girl, who threw herself to the ground with a shriek of terror. In disbelief, he looked at the inspector and raised the blade in her direction.

  The woman fired a second time. That bullet pierced his hand, sending the knife into the air.

  The third bullet found its way through his right eye, splattering the back of his head onto the wall.

  The man fell to his knees. His blood arced and spurt onto the carpet and the girl, who lay curled up.

  The inspector fired twice more before Claude Salaville collapsed and stopped moving for good.

  11

  In less than twenty minutes, two additional units had arrived, and some thirty homicide officers fanned across the farm. Floodlights were pointed at every nook and cranny as the officers secured one room after another. Even so, Eloïse Lombard had not let go of Inspector Svärta. She clung to her, mute and motionless. The inspector had asked for some clothes, which the girl put on slowly, in a kind of altered state. Then both of them had walked out of the house, away from the swarming police, away from the horror and the stench, and they sat in the back of a van, nestled together, waiting for the psychologist to come.

  Finally, she arrived. The psychologist was a chubby woman with a round face and big caring eyes. She crouched in front of Eloïse and spoke in a gentle voice. It had little effect, though. The girl refused to let go of her savior. Eva had to walk her to the psychologist’s car. Eloïse still had not uttered a word.

  “It’s all over,” Eva whispered in her ear. “They’ll never come back to hurt you. Now everything will be fine, okay?”

  Eloïse shook her head and held tight.

  “Your family is waiting for you. You won’t be alone. You won’t be left alone, ever.”

  She hated herself for lying this way. But she knew that sometimes lying was a lesser evil that was needed to do a little good, even if it was illusory.

  Finally, the girl, her eyes still vacant, let go of Eva. The inspector’s heart was sinking, but she remained stoic as she leaned toward Eloïse and pressed her lips to the girl’s forehead.

  “Everything’s going to be all right, honey. I promise.”

  Another lie. For her own good, she repeated to herself. For her own good.

  Eva Svärta watched the car drive off and disappear.

  Then she leaned against a tree. There she was. This girl’s fate was no longer in her hands. From now on, little Eloïse would be left to shrinks. To drugs. To sleep filled with nightmares.

  Like you. So long ago. Or only yesterday. It was only yesterday, wasn’t it?

  For a moment, Eva couldn’t help wondering what would happen to that kid. How she would manage to live again after experiencing such horror. Could Eloïse Lombard live a normal life, get married, have a family. Could she even set eyes on a man without feeling threatened?

  She forced herself to refocus.

  That’s the reason you became what you are. That’s why you don’t have the right to crack up.

  Eva surveyed the farm, which now looked like an army barracks full of men in uniform. Another vehicle had just pulled up, and more technicians, all of them dressed in white, were getting out. They were busy unloading video cameras and other equipment. A bit farther down the road, she saw no fewer than three forensic vans approaching.

  Her mind was churning. She did not want to think of the past anymore. That was another life. It was behind her, where it had to stay. But reality seemed to be fissuring once again. Her private demons were lurking, lured by the smell of blood. All that glistening liquid life spilled.

  Eva clenched her fists in an effort to get herself together, to come back to the present. Sometimes her mind switched off. Like this. Like it had right now. It was as though no sound were reaching her anymore. There were so many people whirling around her, coming and going like ants, latex-gloved hands setting down yellow markers for every trace of blood, every bit of human meat.

  Get a hold of yourself, Eva.

  At the far end of the farmyard, she saw a young officer dashing to a corner to vomit. His colleagues gave each other commiserating looks before putting masks over their mouths and noses and resuming their dance. For it was a dance, wasn’t it? Some sort of intricate ballet in which she had no role. She did not know the steps anymore. She watched men pushing gurneys out of the barn. Body bags with broken flesh inside.

  Eva bit her lip. She wanted to scream. The real and the unreal blurred. They had been right when they said she was nuts. But she had more immediate concerns.

  She heard footsteps on the gravel.

  It was Alexandre Vauvert. He had taken his bulletproof vest off, and all he wore now was a gray T-shirt that hugged his muscular chest and revealed a tattoo weaving up his right bicep. His left shoulder had been bandaged. He was amazingly pale. His scarred boxer’s face had a formidable look, but his eyes were brooding.

  “You okay?” Eva asked.

  Vauvert gave a bitter laugh. He glanced at the woman.

  “I think we all have a limit. I’ve reached mine.”

  He drew a pack of Marlboros from his pocket and lit one. He breathed in the tobacco, his eyes half-closed and his lips tight around the cigarette. The smoke flowed from his nostrils.

  “Damn, I needed that.” He took in the mountain landscape before continuing in a low voice. “I’ve had more than my share of corpses in this fucking job. I’ve seen things so twisted no one would believe me if I told them. But this…” His gaze became distant. “This, Svärta, is beyond everything. It’s beyond what I can stand. There are about twenty victims in that barn. All women, of course. These sick fucks bled them like animals. They ripped their faces off, for fuck’s sake! What kind of a human being does something like that? When I think of all the doctors who had them under their care and who, each time, let them out.”

  “They’re not going anywhere now,” Eva said with a trace of a smile.

  “Yeah.”

  Taking a drag of his cigarette, he watched the members of the forensic unit doing their thing
. The first of the refrigerated vans holding the corpses left, lumbering away through the trees.

  Then he turned to the Eva again.

  “At least, you saved this girl’s life. I wanted to thank you for that. How was she doing?”

  Eva shrugged.

  “She’ll survive. That’s the main thing. She left with the shrink ten minutes ago. Her family is waiting for her at the hospital.”

  “What she went through… I don’t know how a kid can go back to a normal life after something like that.”

  “Don’t worry, we manage,” Eva said.

  Vauvert studied her for a moment.

  “How do you deal with it?”

  “What makes you think I deal with it? You think it doesn’t affect me, just because they say I’m some kind of heartless machine, a monster hunting monsters?”

  Eva took off her sunglasses, revealing the two red embers that were so unlike the blue and brown eyes of most other albinos. Vauvert saw that those scarlet eyes held glistening tears. The woman’s skin was white as chalk; her eyes had dark rings under them.

  He gave her an embarrassed smile and nodded to show that he understood.

  “For what it’s worth, I know you’re no monster, Eva.”

  “Of course I am. But that’s off topic.”

  “You don’t like talking about yourself much, do you?”

  She put her sunglasses back on.

  “You’re absolutely right. We all have a limit. That girl in the house, she had a knife stuck in her vagina.”

  “I know,” Vauvert said. He hesitated, then asked, “Is it what was done to you that made you the way you are?”

  Eva gave a cryptic smile.

  “What makes you think that something was done to me?”

  “Because you didn’t just neutralize that son of a bitch. You emptied your clip into his head. I’ve been a cop for fifteen years, you know. I’ve seen behavior affected by stress and panic. But that’s not you. You didn’t lose your cool for a second. What you came here for, it was no job. It was a crusade.”

  “Ever thought of becoming a profiler, Vauvert?”

  The inspector chuckled.

  “Getting into people’s heads? No thanks. This job fucks with my brain enough.”

  For the first time that day, she laughed.

  “Thank you.”