First Blood

by S. Cedric

  Yet, he couldn’t see anything. The snow was all that he could make out. Already, he felt frozen to the bone.

  “Who’s there?” he called out.

  The wind moaned like an ensemble of lost souls. He thought about the reputation this place had. It was no wonder that Annie Lavigne had been afraid here.

  He got back into the warm SUV and looked at his phone. No bars. The mountain peaks were blocking reception. He hoped that Mira had gotten his message.

  “Okay, off we go.”

  He pressed the accelerator and climbed up the lane.

  The wheels sank in the thick layer of snow.

  He neared the buildings. As Annie had said, they were in ruins.

  Suddenly, a form ran in front of the headlights. A black flash.

  Vauvert jammed on the brakes.

  “Hey,” he cried out, lowering the window. He could not see anything.

  “Loisel? Is that you?”

  He took out his Smith & Wesson and opened the door. He was a few yards away from the abandoned stable. He realized that the roof had collapsed. Ruins.

  He stepped out of the SUV, looking around for Loisel.

  He saw the form again in the swirling snow. It was a well-built man wearing a long black coat that gleamed in the headlights. He was heading toward the rundown stable. He seemed to be limping.

  “Wait. You there.”

  The man stopped. His coat flapped in the wind. Vauvert approached.

  “Police! Come here!”

  The man nodded and slowly turned around.

  At that moment, Vauvert thought his heart was going to stop.

  He recognized the man. He looked just the same. But Elie Dupin had been dead and buried for fifteen years.

  Yet there he was, standing in front of him in the icy wind. His frost-covered beard glittered in the headlights. He had clear blue eyes set in deep, dark circles. He was holding his stomach, as if he were trying to keep something together under his black coat.

  “It is too late,” Dupin said. His intestines slipped through his fingers and landed at his feet.

  Vauvert felt a retch coming and stepped back. But his boot slipped, and he fell flat in the snow.

  “Dammit, no,” he yelled, panic gaining on him.

  He rolled onto his side, blinded by the white powder. He pointed his weapon all around him, before realizing that there wasn’t anyone in front of him, just the empty stable.

  A ghost.

  That was the only explanation.

  He had already seen things like that. It had already happened.

  And it was starting again, whether he liked it or not.

  He rubbed his eyes.

  What now?

  He looked at the dark stable.

  There was no way he was going in there. His hair was bristling at the thought.

  He stepped back and brushed the snow off his jacket and jeans. The cold was penetrating.

  Vauvert spotted a covered area in front of the main building. Something was in there. He walked over to get a closer look. When he got closer, he realized that it was a vehicle under a tarp. He grabbed the corner of the plastic and pulled it toward him, revealing the vehicle. It was an enormous black BMW. He recognized the license plate number. It was Loisel’s.

  Until now, his instinct had been right.

  But his heart was pounding.

  He took in the darkness around him, and the deep, frosty night. The snow falling in blankets felt stifling. He searched the landscape for the house that had served as a bed and breakfast fifteen years earlier.

  Ruins, now.

  He saw a flash of light inside.

  He turned off his flashlight. Yes, there was a little bit of light filtering through the broken windows.

  Vauvert took a deep breath to calm himself. In the darkness, the snowfields around him seemed to be phosphorescent, like a negative image of the world.

  He checked his cell phone again. Still no bars. If Mira had not gotten his message, his team would be wondering what he was doing.

  He could not waste any time.

  The light in the house moved.

  43

  Paris

  At the end of the day, Chief Ô called Eva Svärta in. She had been expecting it.

  “Let me guess. Larusso has already won you over,” she said, on the offensive as soon as she walked into the office.

  Ô gave her a weak smile. He had been pouring himself a cup of tea, and the steam was rising in front of his clean-shaven face.

  “He doesn’t approve of your exhumation request in Rodez. He even asked that you be taken off the case. I’d say he’s got you in his sights.”

  “But you’re not going to give into that asshole,” she shouted. “He’ll be off the case himself in a few hours, when it goes to the investigating magistrate.”

  “I’m listening,” Ô said.

  He did not have to tell Eva twice. She put her hands flat on the chief’s desk and explained everything all at once. She told him how she had discovered that the child’s death certificate was faked and that only an autopsy of the body—if they found a body—could prove whether the death was due to natural causes. She told him about Guillaume Alban, how he had murdered his own child and how he had been slain barely a year after his release from prison. She explained how the house fire in Guadeloupe was similar to what had happened to Constantin. And finally, she mentioned the albums that referred to “first blood,” the expression that Amina Constantin had used, which meant, without a doubt, the blood of firstborn children—the ritual sacrifice of one’s own child.

  “Is that all you have?” the chief asked after listening patiently. “Nothing but suppositions and bad music. You don’t have any concrete proof, do you?”

  “Stop, Rudy. They all knew each other, and they were all up to here in the occult,” she said, running her finger across her neck. “We found a sect, okay? We need to find out how far it reaches. If everything I’m guessing is true, then there are others.”

  “You mean other people who have killed their children?”

  “Yes, that is exactly what I’m saying.”

  “And you think that someone is hunting down members of this sect? To kill them?”

  Eva was now pacing, unable to contain herself.

  “Does that seem so incredible to you? We have an avenger on the loose, taking the law into his own hands. Maybe it’s the child of one of the group members who managed to survive. Or it’s someone who thinks of himself as an inquisitor. What is certain is that it all goes back to when they were in college. Reich, Constantin, and Alban all studied in Toulouse thirty years ago. That is where it started.”

  Eva stopped pacing. Her chief drank his tea, unperturbed.

  “Well, say something! You know I’m right. We need to do an autopsy of Madeleine Ferrand’s baby, not only to prove that she killed it, but also to get other clues. And shit, Rudy, you can’t just throw me off the case.”

  “That never was my intention,” he said.

  She looked him in the eye, a little surprised. She had thought she would have a harder time convincing him.

  “What? You believe me?”

  “Why not? There is just one thing that bothers me in what you’ve said.”

  “What’s that?”

  Ô opened a drawer and looked through some papers.”

  “Since you mention Toulouse, blood, and witchcraft, take a look at this.”

  He slid a paper across his desk. Eva leaned over and picked up the missing-person’s report from the Toulouse police. She read it quickly.

  “Pierre Loisel?”

  “He disappeared two weeks ago. He’s from the region. I didn’t check, but he’s around fifty, which is the same age as Reich and Constantin. That makes me think they could have attended the same school at the same time.”

  Eva nodded. She understood where he was going with this.

  “I’ll ask Erwan to look through the list of students.”

  “I think that is a g
ood idea,” her chief said with a smile. “But that’s not all. The other troubling detail in this case is that Loisel’s wife and kid died in a so-called accident.”

  “When was that?”

  “Ten years ago.”

  “Him too. I told you there were others.”

  “If there is truth to your theory, yes. I must admit it is disturbing.”

  “But why did you mention blood and witchcraft?”

  Ô tilted his head. The smile had returned to his face.

  “Your friend Vauvert has a strange relationship with this case. Do you want to read the reports?”

  Rudy, you have to call Toulouse right away. I think he’s in danger. Terrible danger.

  44

  The gusts of wind and snow were becoming more violent. Vauvert tried the door. It was not locked, and it creaked open.

  He shone his flashlight inside the house, onto the dirty tile floor and an old, rotting piece of furniture against the wall. Snow swirled into the doorway as he inspected the entry hall.

  No one was there. A hallway led to other rooms.

  Vauvert took a deep breath. His heart was pounding a little too hard. Okay, his heart was in his boots, but he did not have a choice. Now that he was here, he had to go in. He entered slowly. The beam from the flashlight went from one wall to the other. The wallpaper was curled and had started to peel. After fifteen years of neglect, this was no surprise. The house was nothing more than a filthy ruin.

  The wooden doors leading off the hallway were solid. Vauvert opened one that looked like it led to the middle of the house and closed it carefully behind him. That way, he would hear if someone opened it.

  He found himself in the living room, which was vast. The flashlight could illuminate only a small part at a time. Gripping his Smith & Wesson with his right hand, Vauvert moved even more cautiously. He saw china cabinets with broken glass windows that reflected the light everywhere and pieces of furniture that gave off myriad shadows. Shadows and flashes of light. Here, too, the wallpaper was coming unglued. Tree branches had been piled on the grimy floor. When he tried to sidestep them, he ran into a stool and swore. Then he lit up the table and saw the remains of a meal of bread and cheese. A wooden chair was pulled up to the table. Three other chairs were against the wall, but they all seemed broken, as if someone had had a go at them.

  “Loisel,” he called out. “Show yourself.”

  He swept his flashlight from right to left, advancing in the shadows. He passed a grandfather clock that reached to the ceiling, and he found himself at the bottom of a staircase. There was snow on the steps. He pointed the light at the upper floor, looking for the spot where the roof had caved in. Seeing nothing but darkness, he hoped he would not have to go up there.

  Behind the staircase, there was an arch that opened onto another door.

  Vauvert turned off his flashlight. There was a sliver of light coming from behind the partially opened door. Someone was in that room.

  “I know you are there,” he said, turning his light back on and pointing his gun, just in case. “Police. I’m going to open the door and come in. Do you hear me?”

  There was no answer.

  He pushed the door open with his foot, his gun directed in front of him.

  “Don’t shoot,” Loisel finally said.

  “Loisel! What the hell?”

  The man was sitting cross-legged on the floor, his back against the wall. In front of him was a single lit candle. Vauvert had a moment of discomfort. The man looked like the man in the pictures, but like he was already dead. Decomposing. His face, which had been handsome and angular, now looked gray, gritty, and caked with dirt. His blond hair was plastered against his skull. Loisel squinted in the beam of the flashlight, and then Vauvert took in the strangest part. His eyes were all red. It was as if all the veins in his eyes had ruptured. There was no white left. Hunched over there, shivering, he was a frightening sight.

  “What happened to you?”

  Loisel smiled, and cracks appeared in the thick layer of grime on his face. Vauvert realized that his face was covered with ashes. Apparently, the man had smeared them on himself, even on his beard, which had grown considerably in two weeks.

  “You are not who I was expecting,” Loisel whispered. “Get out of my house.”

  His voice was nothing but a whistle. It looked like he had not slept for days. Vauvert realized that he was wearing nothing more than trousers and a suit jacket over a shirt that must have been pristine at one time but was now stiff with filth. No wonder he was trembling. It was freezing in here. He wondered how the man had been able to survive like this for two weeks without any electricity or heat.

  “Mr. Loisel, I am a police officer. I have come to help you. Hell, you are in a bad state.”

  “Do not come near me. I will defend myself if you approach.”

  Vauvert hesitated.

  “I know that you are afraid. I also know that you are in danger. I am here to help you. Everyone has been looking for you for the past two weeks.”

  “You cannot help me.”

  Large, dark drops were forming in the corners of the man’s eyes. Vauvert realized with some anxiety that he was shedding tears of blood.

  “Your eyes.”

  Loisel wiped his eyes, spreading the blood on his cheeks.

  “Usually saints are the ones who cry blood,” he mumbled. “Or rather, it is the martyrs. I always wondered if I would become a martyr.”

  His smile was cold.

  “You cannot save me, because I am already dead, like the others. I am dead, and I know it.”

  What do you mean you can’t reach him? Try again. Right away. It’s serious.

  Seriously? Nobody knows where he is?

  45

  “What others are you talking about?” Vauvert asked, paralyzed with fear. He did not dare to approach this ash-covered man.

  Loisel coughed and spit blood, splattering the candle. The flame sputtered.

  “He will find us all, one by one. It is the price of our sin. It is none of your business. Leave.”

  “I can’t do that,” Vauvert said. “You know I can’t. I have to bring you back with me. You need help.”

  Loisel’s red eyes went from Vauvert’s flashlight to his gun.

  “You will regret it,” he said with fire in his voice.

  Vauvert instinctively raised his gun.

  “This is no joke, Loisel. Do you understand?”

  “He will know if I call them again,” the man said. “But you don’t leave me a choice, do you?”

  Vauvert did not understand what Loisel was saying. He saw another tear of blood roll down the man’s cheek. The guy looked crazy—and dangerous.

  Vauvert had a sense of foreboding.

  He jumped back just as a plank from the ceiling gave way.

  Debris came down with a roar. Vauvert raised his arms to protect his head. The plaster, bricks, and wood stopped falling, but the room was now drowned in thick dust. The flashlight lit up nothing but a thick curtain of suspended particles.

  “Loisel,” he cried out.

  Loisel had not moved. He sat amid the swirling dust.

  “You felt it,” he said, sounding surprised.

  “What?”

  “That is why you found me. You also feel it.”

  Feel what? Vauvert did not know what this man was talking about. What he felt was the familiar prickling—like tiny pins—on the back of his neck, which was getting more intense.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying? You’re a medium, you dumbass,” Loisel spit out.

  The giant did not know how to respond.

  He saw Loisel get up. His body was covered in a layer of dust. He ran a hand through his beard. There was a gleam in his eye. Then, suddenly, he moved to the side. Vauvert had trouble keeping the light on him.

  “What are you doing? Don’t move so fast.”

  The man disappeared behind an overturned table.

  “Don’t move again,” Vauvert
shouted.

  “If you dreamed about a power that was greater than you, a power that went beyond the flesh, and you suddenly realized that this power existed, what would you do?”

  Vauvert did not answer. He tried to locate the man with his flashlight.

  “It’s a power that transforms you,” he heard Loisel saying. “It is more appealing than any kind of drug. It shows you the universe as it is.”

  Vauvert found him on the far side of the room, his back against the wall. His reddened eyes were focused on him.

  “But every time you use it, you lose a little of your light.”

  “Loisel, calm down.”

  “It’s too late.”

  And then Loisel began to murmur. Incomprehensible words flowed softly from his lips.

  “Anochi ha yehidi betehom metzulot hahoshech, lifnei leidati mitehom hahoshech anochi ba, midamamat hasheina harishonit. Anochi hu hadover betoch hahoshech, avir hazohar betoch hahoshech she hahoshech eino mechilo klal.”

  Vauvert remembered what had happened with Madeleine Reich. She had also chanted in some foreign language. Panic ran through him.

  “Stop that right now!”

  The man continued his litany.

  “Hakshev li ve-asseh shekol hanefashot ykaanu li, shekol nefesh barakia oubaavir, al haaretz oumitachta, al adama mutzaka oubamaim, memaarbolot haavir oumehaesh hapeziza, ve-kol kessem ve-shot shel hael hayehid ve-hacholesh al hakol ykaanu li.”

  Vauvert felt it coming a fraction of a second before it happened.

  He took a step back when the heavy wooden door slammed closed, blocking his way.

  “Loisel.”

  He threw his shoulder at the door. The door resisted.

  All around him, Vauvert felt a vibration, a rippling. Loisel’s voice carried all the way to him, as if his murmur were an invisible snake slithering through the air.

  “Loisel, no!” he yelled, rushing the door again and using all his weight.

  This time, the door gave.

  Vauvert pointed his gun at Loisel, who now stood in the middle of the room. He had raised his right hand, his index and middle finger straight, the others folded, like a parody of Christ. His other hand was pointed down. He continued chanting.