by Mallock;
“Do you think we’re looking at a copycat killer? Or several of them?”
“No, it goes a lot further than that. MO, similarities . . . down to the slightest details.”
“Initiates? Or disciples?” persisted Mallock.
But Tom Marvin heaved his big body out of the armchair. “I hope you don’t mind, but I don’t want to go any further today. And we’re . . . how do you say it in French again?”
“Running late?”
“That’s it—running late. We’ll see you on Sunday and then you’ll know everything.”
Several people had already knocked on the door. The FBI agents were expected elsewhere. It would have been stupid to trigger the journalists’ curiosity even more, to hand them their next headline: Mallock, the head of Number 36, and the FBI, together in a suite at the Crillon!
None of them wanted to give the press a gift like that.
28.
Sunday, August 8th, 1888.
A storm on the deck of the Stella Maris
God created man with nimble hands, sturdy little legs, a brain capable of tenacity, and the irrepressible desire to reach the horizon. Here it was on the battered deck of an old caravel that the Marquis François-Henri de Salis-Viracalas tested the limits of his body’s endurance.
The ocean thrust up each of its waves like so many obstacles to be overcome in order to reach America. A violent wind swelled even the smallest clouds. From high above, needle-sharp flashes of electricity speared the heavy cumulus billows, forcing them to dump their cargoes of freezing water.
François-Henri found the danger and the terrible weather thrilling.
In his eyes, the ocean was the darkroom for a symbolic revelation. By crossing it, he would finally be able to observe and immortalize what he believed to be the first humans created by God. Bloodthirsty and heavily made up with war paint, the Indians were more than screaming savages bristling with feathers. In their own primitive and impious way, the Redskins were closer to the Creator, to his first desires.
In his sweet delirium, the marquis was certain that in photographing them and studying their features, he would have a clearer vision of the image of God, of his designs and intentions. The Creator had made Man in his image, as the Holy Scriptures said; so it was enough to reverse the proposition—taking care, of course, to select the chosen ones intelligently.
Marquis François-Henri de Salis-Viracalas did not have the slightest idea then of the horde of murders his little idea would generate.
An even higher wave broke over the parapet, drenching him from head to foot. Even with his gloves soaked through and his boots full of seawater, the marquis was exultant. He readjusted his wig smoothly and settled his bicorn hat more firmly over his forehead. Above him, hanging in the rigging, drunk sailors struggled to reef the sails.
Though weighed down by its sixty thirty-pounder long guns, the first-class frigate Stella Maris, twin sister of La Boudeuse, fought valiantly. The marquis of Salis-Viracalas was only afraid of one thing: seeing his precious cameras damaged during the crossing.
For the plates, he used a pioneering technique that had yet to be officially invented at the time.14 Potato starch fixed by resin gave particularly accurate results, which was essential if all the faces were to be harvested. There was only one pitfall, one weakness in their invention: the gaps between the grains of starch being filled with soot. This natural filter had the effect of limiting the effective sensitivity of the plates, which increased the length of posing time required when the photo was taken, and which often resulted in movement effects. Then there was also the tendency of reds to saturate.
The solution, a very simple one as it turned out, was found by the Marquis Viracalas, and he resolved to keep it a secret. All you had to do was knock out the model you wanted to photograph, drain him of his blood, put makeup on him, and wait for the final instant of death to press the shutter release. To perfect his clever system, François-Henri also used a sturdy tripod and a remote shutter release mechanism.
Before leaving for the Americas, just to be sure, he had tested his system on a couple of village peasants and a distant cousin visiting for Christmas. The results obtained with the emulsion and the whole shooting sequence had exceeded all his hopes. The victims’ features were astonishingly clear.
But he had said that this voyage would be one of great revelations, as if God above had decided to come personally to his aid.
On this 8-8-1888, as François-Henri prepared to leave the deck of the Stella Maris and take refuge in his cabin, the prow of the caravel was suddenly thrust into the trough of a wave. Salis-Viracalas was thrown a full thirty feet, and two sailors fell from the rigging, shrieking like seagulls. One of them ended up in the sea, while the other was impaled on a metal rod used to coil fishing net.
He began to scream, trying to tear himself away from the trap. The rod had entered through his lower back and come out just under his neck, ripping through his lungs and intestines as it went. Pink foam bubbled out of his mouth and was blown away by the ferocious wind. His howls of pain coupled with the noise of the storm and the roaring of the waves were, for the marquis, a revelation.
Nature, God, the Devil, and the cry of men were all one and the same entity, a single mystical body. In the midst of this fury of nature, François-Henri de Salis-Viracalas gained a full understanding of the redemptive virtue of suffering.
It only made his quest more meaningful.
29.
Saturday, January 8th
On a plate was a huge slice of galette and, on top of it, a gold cardboard crown. The day before yesterday, with the arrest of the little priest, he had missed Epiphany. Yesterday, same story; he had spent the day at the Crillon with Tom and Angelina. That made two days now that he hadn’t held to tradition. On Friday night, before the weekend, the whole Fort had gathered without him to share the traditional cake and drink the champagne that ritually waters these occasions. His team knew he wasn’t overly fond of these get-togethers, which he generally referred to as “bloody stupid,” But Julie Gemoni also knew her Amédée and his special affection for frangipane. The added detail of the crown on top—well, that was Ken all over.
The telephone rang. His mouth full, it took Mallock a moment to answer it. It was the Secretary of the Interior.
“The two federal agents you met yesterday just left my office. I’ve been aware of the situation for several days now, but I was just given the details. Let’s not beat around the bush; our backs are to the wall.”
“I’m well aware of that,” said Mallock carefully, just as he bit down on a tiny figure of a hedgehog dressed like Santa Claus.
“I don’t need to tell you that I have every confidence in you, but we’re in really bad shape. With the regional elections coming up it’s going to become an issue, and . . . ”
“I know, I know. Rest assured, I have no intention of failing.”
Mallock didn’t want to hear any political talk. It, and bathroom-related stories, made him very uncomfortable when he was trying to eat.
“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. What can I do to help you from my end? Don’t scrimp on men. Every single lead has to be investigated, without fail, for each murder. Do you remember the Yorkshire Ripper in England? They focused on his accent, and—”
“Don’t worry, I know my job. But if you can keep the media’s attack dogs away from me it would be beyond helpful.”
“Journalists aren’t my specialty. I’m one of their favorite targets myself. I can only assure you of all my sympathy and moral support. A fat lot of good that does you, I know.”
The secretary had a sense of humor, which was something, at least. Mallock smiled silently, waiting for him to continue.
“Seriously, and this is no empty promise, if you need anything, or if anyone bothers you, call me and I’ll try to clear the way for you. If anyone can get us out of this
mess, it’s you. I’ll talk to you soon, and good luck.”
A bit dazed, Mallock continued nibbling carefully on his slice of cake—which was the right thing to do, because shortly, with a slight crunch, he extracted a second charm from his mouth, this one a tiny dinosaur wearing a Scottish kilt! He dropped it on the edge of his plate next to the hedgehog. Then he set to work writing up an assessment of the situation, an initial summary. But he didn’t get very far with it before he was interrupted.
Ken’s head popped around the door. “Should I come back tomorrow?”
“No, relax. We won’t be back on the hunt until Monday anyway, and you’re going to need all your strength. You haven’t stopped going for ten days now.”
Without needing to be asked twice, Ken was executing a perfect military about-face when Mallock stopped him.
“Hey! It’s still Saturday, and it’s only eleven A.M. You weren’t planning on leaving this early, were you?”
“Well, actually, yes, given my thousand and one overtime hours in hell. But since I don’t want to seem like I’m disobeying my superintendent, I’ll go sit in my little office, have a nice little cup of coffee, and accept your orders.”
“No, get out of here. You’re of no use to anyone anyway,” Mallock teased him.
“How true,” Ken agreed, smiling. “Thanks, Chief. You should try to relax a bit yourself.”
Just before leaving, he turned around again. “Hey, what’s this? You haven’t put on your beautiful crown, Your Majesty!”
Mallock threw the crumpled crown at him, which hit the door as Ken yanked it quickly shut behind him. Still smiling, he stood to pick it up. He would have to decide on Monday: bring his team into the loop, or keep the secret. He tried to weigh the pros and cons. Fifteen minutes later, he was forced to acknowledge that there was no ideal solution. This was exactly where the real art of decision-making came into play, of knowing how to accept a choice and deal with its negative aspects. For once, he decided to put his final decision off until later. He wanted to wait and hear what Marvin would tell him tomorrow.
Amélie’s condition tormented him and occupied a huge part of his mind. At two o’clock he made up his mind, got into his car, and drove straight through the crowd of journalists without stopping. His old Jaguar, which had previously belonged to a Chechen mafioso, was equipped with an ultra-powerful engine, puncture-proof tires, and an armored chassis. It had to weigh at least five tons. He surprised himself by hoping he had run over a foot or two in his escape.
He was out of the media’s reach in a very short time.
The smile that the thought of flattened toes had brought to his face faded away quickly. The closer he got to Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital, the more his heart tightened in his chest. When he parked, he noticed that his hands, which were always dry and warm, were now damp and icy-cold. Shaking. In the elevator he found it hard to breathe. He felt as if he were suffocating. When he got to intensive care it took all his courage to ask for news of Amélie.
The extern looked at him like he was an idiot. “Maurel? You’re sure? No, we don’t have anyone with that name here,” he affirmed.
Mallock was speechless for ten seconds, then persisted. “She might have been moved to another department.”
“Maybe,” said White-coat, in a tone meant to be reassuring.
“Maybe you could have a look?” Mallock asked.
“Maybe,” the man repeated, smirking.
Mallock exploded, and the extern feared briefly for his life. Five minutes later, almost completely calm, Amédée knocked on the door of an old room, one that Professor Ménard had turned into an office so he could be closer to his patients.
He ushered Amédée in and reassured him:
“I believe she’s out of the most critical phase,” he said to Mallock, who almost cried with gratitude. “I attempted to assess her level of consciousness as soon as I could. But we have to be careful, and wait to be completely sure that the various sedatives have had time to be metabolized.”
“Your intern told me about your initial results. Frankly, it wasn’t very encouraging.”
“You know, Superintendent, nothing is simple or definite in medicine, apart from the patient’s will to get better, and the doctor’s desire to help that happen. And even then, it’s not always clear-cut. They say sometimes that medicine consists of helping a sick person be patient while nature does its healing work, and that’s not entirely untrue. The physiopathology of coma is one of the most complex things in our field. The lack of alertness may, in this case, result from both visible traumatic causes and the psychological effects of mental trauma, which are closely intertwined. There’s only one thing that will help us get a clearer idea of what’s going on here, and it’s not easy. We just have to wait.”
Mallock thanked him for his directness, and for a humility that high-level clinicians rarely possessed. Then he asked if he could see Amélie. The extern, still in shock from the telling off he had received, escorted him to her room and obsequiously opened the door for him.
Inside, an affecting scene greeted him. Still unconscious but breathing without the help of a ventilator, Amélie was lying in bed. A teenage boy bent carefully over her prone body appeared to be praying. When Mallock coughed discreetly to announce his presence, the young man turned to him with tears streaming down his face. Amédée was struck by the boy’s beauty. It was her neighbor, the pharmacist’s son, and one of Amélie’s very first clients. She had taken care of him since he was very small. Between sobs the boy confided in Mallock, as if the older man had the power to console him.
“She moved into our building right after she passed her exams. She was twenty years old, and I was three or four. She was so nice, and she smelled so good. I really think I fell a little bit in love with her . . . or maybe a lot.” The last confession made the boy smile.
“Isn’t your mother here with you?”
“She was supposed to come instead and see if there was any news, but she had a problem at the pharmacy at the last minute, so she gave me the flowers—and here I am.”
“Want a ride home?”
The pharmacist’s son nodded silently. When you were his age, the first significant loss of someone in your life was hard to bear. But Amélie seemed to be through the worst now, and there was hope. Mallock shared this news with the boy. As they drove back, the young apprentice pharmacist talked about nothing but Amélie. She had babysat him often when he was younger. She had always been so attentive to him. She wore such pretty dresses. She . . .
Mallock was only half-listening. He savored the feeling of euphoria coursing through him. Even if not tomorrow, Amélie was going to live, and they could go back to seeing each other, to their lunches and their budding love affair. Amélie was alive, and so life would resume again. When he dropped the boy off in front of the pharmacy, the latter asked:
“Would you keep us updated, please?”
Mallock promised that he would. “What’s your phone number?”
The boy fought back fresh tears. “The same as Mademoiselle Maurel’s, with an eleven instead of a ten at the end. We used to get her phone calls all the time, and she’d get ours.”
Mallock was preparing to head straight back to the office when Julie popped up in front of him.
“Peekaboo, Superintendent!”
“What brings you here? Nothing serious, I hope.”
“Nope! We have something for you.”
Jules came up behind her. “It’s really hard to find a parking place in your neighborhood, boss.”
Remembering the presence of the building manager’s son, Amédée turned around to introduce him—and abruptly realized that he didn’t remember the boy’s first name. It was one of his special talents, which he called patronymic amnesia.
Julie, quick on the uptake as always, introduced herself first, which would force the young man to give
his name. “I’m Julie Gemoni, chief lieutenant, and a friend of the superintendent.”
“Didier Dôthem,” offered the boy, making it possible for Mallock to jump in.
“Didier is my pharmacist’s son,” he said.
“Then he must know you very well indeed,” teased Julie gently.
All four of them laughed heartily. Didier seemed transfixed by Julie; he gaped at her as if she were a holy apparition. She was used to making conquests, though, and pretended not to notice.
“Can we sit out here on the terrace for a minute, boss?”
“Of course. See you soon, Didier. I’ll keep you posted about Amél—Mademoiselle Maurel.”
Didier said good-bye to them and went into the pharmacy.
“Three beers!” called Jules.
Women don’t like beer, as a rule—but Julie did.
“What can I do for you, my little ones?”
“Oh, it isn’t what you can do for us; it’s what we can do for you.” Julie took an object wrapped in tissue paper out of her purse. It was a large dark-green gorilla, made out of some delicately woven material. It was a superb piece of work, and Amédée adored it immediately.
“When Jules and I saw it, we knew you absolutely had to have it.”
“It looks like me, is that it?” asked Mallock, smiling.
“Let’s just say it made us think of you,” said Jules. “Do you like it?”
“I love it. Really. But you must have broken the bank. It’s incredibly sweet of you, but why give it to me here?”
“Er . . . well, we weren’t quite flush enough to buy something for everyone. So since we didn’t want to make anyone jealous, we picked you. Thought we might as well suck up a little.”
“I knew it!”
Mallock was touched by their kindness. Jules and Julie sensed his emotion, and hurried to lighten the mood.