Blood-Red Rivers aka The Crimson Rivers

by Jean-Christophe Grangé

  He felt the grip of the gendarmes. He heard their murmurs, their shouts, the rustling of their oil-skins. The headlamps danced obliquely. Once inside the truck, a man yelled at the driver:

  "The hospital! And fast!"

  Semiconscious, Niémans stammered:

  "No, the university."

  "What? Haven't you seen the state you're in?"

  "The university. I…I have a date there."

  CHAPTER 50

  The door opened to reveal a smile.

  Pierre Niémans lowered his eyes. He saw the woman's powerful, muscular wrists. Just above them, he noticed the close stitch of her heavy pullover, then he followed it up to the collar and her neck, where her hair was so fine that it formed a sort of misty halo. He thought of her marvelous skin, so beautiful and so immaculate that it magically transformed each material, each garment that it touched. Fanny yawned:

  "You're late, superintendent."

  Niémans attempted a smile.

  "You…you weren't asleep?"

  The young woman shook her head and stood aside to let him in. As he advanced into the light, her expression froze. She had just noticed his blood-covered face. She palled back to get a good view of the damage, his shattered body, blue coat in ribbons, torn tie, singed cloth.

  "What happened? Did you have an accident?"

  Niémans nodded curtly.

  He glanced round the living-room. Despite the temperature he was running, and the blood that was pounding through his veins, he was pleased to be in her little flat. With its spotless walls and pastel shades. A desk buried beneath a computer, books and papers. Stones and crystals lined up on the shelves. Climbing equipment, piles of day-glo clothing. The flat of a young woman who was at once sedentary and sporty, home-loving and adventurous. The memory of that expedition into the glacier flashed through his blood vessels like a shower of sparkling ice.

  Niémans slumped down onto a chair. Outside, it had started to rain again. He could hear drops hammering on the roof somewhere above them and the hushed noises of the neighbors. A creaking door. Footsteps. A hall of residence full of worried, cramped students.

  Fanny pulled off the superintendent's coat, then carefully examined the open wound on the side of his head. She did not seem the slightest bit put out at the sight of caked-up blood and dark, gaping flesh. She whistled between her teeth:

  "Quite a nasty cut! I hope that the temporal artery hasn't been severed. It's rather hard to tell. The head always gushes blood like that and…How did it happen?"

  "It was an accident," Niémans repeated brusquely. "A car accident."

  "I'm going to have to take you to hospital."

  "No way. I've got work to do."

  Fanny disappeared into the other room, then came back laden down with lint, drugs and vacuum packs containing needles and serum. She ripped several of them open with her teeth. Then she screwed a needle into the body of a plastic syringe. He tensed and grabbed the packaging:

  "What is this?"

  "An anesthetic. It'll kill the pain. Don't panic."

  Niémans seized her wrist.

  "Wait."

  He read through the description of the product. Xylocain. An adrenaline-laced painkiller which should reduce the aches without knocking him out. With a gesture of agreement, Niémans dropped his arm.

  "Don't worry," Fanny whispered. "This stuff will also help stop the bleeding."

  With his head down, he could not see exactly what she was doing. But it felt as if she was making several injections around the wound. A few seconds later, the pain had already diminished. "Can you stitch me up?" he murmured.

  "Of course I can't. You'll have to go to hospital. You'll start bleeding again soon and…"

  "Tie a tourniquet, or something. I've got to stay on the case, and keep my wits about me."

  Fanny shrugged, then sprayed an aerosol onto some pieces of lint. Niémans looked over at her. In her tight jeans, her thighs formed two curves' of force which he found vaguely arousing, despite the state he was in. He wondered at her contrasting qualities. How could she be so nymph-like and so concrete? So sweet and so hard? So near and so distant? He found the same contradiction in her stare: the aggressive flash of her eyes and the incredible gentleness of her brows. Breathing in the acrid smell of the antiseptic, he asked:

  "Do you live alone?"

  Fanny was cleaning his wound in short, precise dabs. The painkiller was now flowing, so he scarcely felt any sensation of burning. She grinned:

  "You really don't miss a trick, do you?"

  "Sorry, um…Am I being nosy?"

  Close beside him, Fanny concentrated on the job in hand. Then she whispered into his ear:

  "Yes, I live alone. And I don't have a boyfriend, if that's what you mean."

  "I…um…But why in the university?"

  "I'm near the lecture halls, the labs…"

  Niémans turned his head. Tutting, she at once shifted it back into position. Then, his face tilted down, he remarked:

  "That's right, I remember…the youngest PhD in France. Daughter and granddaughter of emeritus professors. Which means you're one of those children who…"

  Fanny butted in:

  "One of those children who what?"

  Niémans swiveled round slightly.

  "Nothing…What I meant was…one of the campus's superheroes who's also a sports champion…"

  The woman's expression hardened. A sudden note of suspicion broke into her voice.

  "What are you insinuating?"

  Despite his burning desire to question Fanny about her family background, the superintendent did not answer. Was it done to ask a woman where she got her genetic riches from or what was the source of her chromosomes? It was Fanny who spoke next:

  "Superintendent, I have no idea why you dragged yourself along to my flat in this sorry state. But if you have something to ask me, then please come out with it."

  The tone of this command was biting. Niémans was now no longer in pain, but he would have preferred that gnawing agony to the lashing of her voice. He smiled in embarrassment:

  "I just wanted to talk to you about that university magazine you write for…"

  "Tempo?"

  "That's right."

  "And?"

  Niémans paused. Fanny put the lint back into one of the plastic packets, then strapped a bandage around his head. Feeling the pressure rising round his skull, the superintendent went on:

  "I was wondering if you had written anything about a strange occurrence in the university basement last July…"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Some birth papers were discovered in a file belonging to Etienne Caillois, Rémy's father."

  Fanny shrugged.

  "Oh, that?"

  "So did you write an article about it?"

  "A couple of lines, perhaps."

  "Why didn't you mention it to me?"

  "You mean…It might be connected to the murders?" Niémans raised his head and hardened his tone of voice:

  "Why didn't you tell me about that theft?"

  Fanny replied with another slight shrug of her shoulders; she was still wrapping the bandage round Niémans's temples.

  "There's no proof it was really a theft…Those archives are an absolute mess. Papers go missing here, then turn up there. Do you really think it matters?"

  "Have you seen those papers yourself?"

  "Yes, I went to the archives to have a look."

  "And you didn't notice anything odd?"

  "What, for example?"

  "I don't know. You didn't compare them with the original files?"

  Fanny pulled back. The dressing was finished. She declared: "They were just some loose leaves, with nurses' notes on them. Nothing very exciting."

  "How many of them were there?"

  "Several hundred. But I don't see what you…"

  "Did you name any of the people concerned in your article?"

  "I told you, I just wrote a couple of lines."

  "
Can I see your piece?"

  "I never keep what I write."

  She was standing stock upright, her arms crossed. Niémans went on:

  "Do you think somebody else might have taken a look at those records? Somebody who might have found their name or their parents' names among them?"

  "I've already told you, I didn't mention any names."

  "Do you think it's possible that somebody else had a look?"

  "No, I don't think so. They're all locked up now…Anyway, who cares? What's all that got to do with the case?"

  Niémans took his time. Avoiding her eyes, he hit her with another question, like a punch in the guts.

  "You went through those records in detail, didn't you?"

  No reply. The policeman raised his eyes. Fanny had not moved, but suddenly she seemed far away from him. She finally answered:

  "I've just told you that I did. What do you want to know?" A moment's hesitation, then Niémans asked:

  "I want to know if you found your parents' names among those records. Or your grandparents'."

  "No, not at all. Why?"

  Without responding, the superintendent got to his feet. They were now both standing, two enemies, like opposite poles. Niémans noticed his bandaged head reflected in a mirror at the other end of the room. He turned toward the young woman and whispered apologetically:

  "Thank you. And sorry about the questions."

  He picked up his coat and said:

  "I know it sounds incredible, but I think those records have already cost one of our officers his life. A young lieutenant, at the beginning of his career. He wanted to look through them. Which is why I think he was killed."

  "But that's ridiculous."

  "We'll see about that. I'm off to the archives now to compare those papers and the files they belong to."

  He was slipping on his soaked rags, when the young woman stopped him.

  "You're not going to put those tatters back on!"

  Fanny dived off and returned a few seconds later with a tee-shirt, a pullover, a fur-lined jacket and waterproof leggings.

  "They won't fit you," she explained. "But at least they're warm and dry. And this is essential…"

  She smoothly slipped a polyester balaclava over his bandaged head, then folded it up over his ears. When he had recovered from his surprise, Niémans rolled his eyes comically behind his mask. Suddenly, they both burst out laughing.

  Their complicity momentarily returned, as though blown back from the past. But the superintendent gravely announced:

  "I really must get going. To the archives. To continue my enquiries."

  Niémans did not have time to react. Fanny had already wrapped her arms round him and was kissing him. He stiffened. A new warmth flowed through him. He did not know if it was his fever coming back, or the sweetness of that little tongue which was working its way in between his lips, burning him up with its heat. He closed his eyes and mumbled:

  "The case. I've got to get back onto the case."

  But his shoulders were already pinned down against the floor.

  PART X

  CHAPTER 51

  Karim tore down the yellow no-entry cordon and knelt in front of the door of the tomb, which was still ajar. He slipped on his gloves, stuck his fingers into the gap and pulled violently. It gave way. Without a moment's hesitation, he switched on his torch and slid inside the vault. Bent double, he edged down the steps. The beam of light bounced back off a mass of dark water – a veritable underground lake. The rain had got in through the door and half filled the vault.

  He said to himself: "There's no other choice." He held his breath and dropped into the water. Holding his torch in his left hand, he advanced, Indian-style, in a sort of breast-stroke. The ray of light cut through the darkness. As he entered further into the vault, the trickling of the rain rang deeper and the smell of mould and decay grew heavier. With his face turned up toward the ceiling, he spat out the water and paddled onwards, caught between the lake and the arched roof.

  Suddenly, his head hit the coffin. In a panic, he screamed, span round and slowed his movements, in an attempt to calm himself down. He then looked at the little casket that was floating on the waters like a boat.

  He repeated to himself: "There's no other choice." Then he swam round the coffin, examining each of its sides. The lid was still screwed down, but he noticed something which he had not had time to spot that morning, when the keeper had caught him trespassing. Around the screws, the pale wood was coming away in darker splinters. The paint had cracked. Someone had – perhaps – opened the coffin. "There's no other choice." From his jacket pocket, Karim produced a pair of folding pliers, the two ends of which formed the blade of a screwdriver, and tried to prise open the lid. Little by little, the wood started to give way. At last, the final screw loosened. Banging his head against the ceiling – the water was still rising and was now up to his shoulders – Karim managed to pull away the lid. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve then, telling himself to hold' his breath, he peered inside.

  He need not have bothered. He felt as though he were already dead himself.

  The coffin did not contain a child's skeleton. Nor had there been a hoax, or any sign of desecration. It was filled to the brim with tiny sharp white bones. A sort of rodents' burial ground. Thousands of dried out skeletons. Chalky snouts, as pointed as daggers. Ribcages, as vivid as claws. Countless scraps, as thin as matchsticks, coming from tiny femurs, tibias and humeruses.

  Still leaning against the edge, Karim's muscles started to give way and he reached out a hand toward that charnel-house. Those myriads of skeletons, reflecting the beam of his torch, looked like a mass prehistoric grave. It was then that he heard a voice coming from behind him, breaking through the din of the rain.

  "You shouldn't have come back, Karim."

  He did not need to turn round to know who had spoken. He clenched his fists and lowered his head until it was resting on the bones, then murmured:

  "Crozier, don't tell me you're involved in this business…" The voice answered:

  "I should never have let you loose on this case."

  Karim glanced rapidly at the doorway of the vault. Henri Crozier's figure was clearly outlined. He was holding an MR73 model. Manhurin – the same gun as Niémans used. Six bullets in the cylinder. Fast-loading magazines in his pocket. A few seconds to empty it, then reload it, without any risk of it jamming. A precision piece. The lieutenant asked:

  "What the fucking hell's your role in all this?"

  The man did not reply. Lifting up his soaked elbows, Karim tried again:

  "Can I at least get out of this shit-hole?"

  Crozier gestured briefly with his gun.

  "Come toward me. Only slowly. Nice and slowly."

  Letting go of the desecrated coffin, Karim slipped through the water and headed for the steps. His torch, which he had put back between his teeth, flickered up crazily at the stone ceiling. Whirling flashes, like stabs of lightning.

  The lieutenant reached the staircase and heaved himself up it. As he ascended, Crozier pulled back, keeping his gun on him. The rain was beating down in gusts. Soaked to the skin, the Arab got to his feet and faced the superintendent. He asked again:

  "What's your part in all this? What do you know?"

  Crozier replied at last:

  "It was in 1980. I spotted her as soon as she arrived. This is my town. And it's small. My patch. What's more, I was practically the only cop in Sarzac at the time. That woman who'd come to work as a primary school teacher, she was too beautiful, too powerful…I immediately sensed there was something wrong about her."

  The Arab whispered:

  "Crozier, the Guardian of Sarzac"

  "Yeah. So I looked into things. I found out that she had a child with her…And I got her to confide in me. She told me everything. She said that the demons wanted to kill her child."

  "I know all that already."

  "What you don't know is that I decided to protect that family. I had
false papers made for them, I…"

  Karim felt as if he was on the edge of a precipice.

  "Who were these demons?"

  "One day, two men came to town. They said they were collecting old school books. They'd come from Guernon, the same town as Fabienne. So I guessed at once that they were the demons…"

  "What were their names?"

  "Caillois and Sertys."

  "Don't fuck me about. At that time, Rémy Caillois and Philippe Sertys were only about ten years old!"

  "Those weren't their names. They were called Etienne Caillois and René Sertys. They must have been about forty. With bony faces, and wild staring eyes like fanatics."

  A taste of acid rose up into Karim's throat. Why had he not thought of that? The "crime" of the blood-red rivers went back several generations. Before Rémy Caillois there had been Etienne Caillois; before Philippe Sertys, René Sertys. He murmured:

  "And then?"

  "I acted the inquisitorial cop. ID check, the works. But they were clean. As straight as dies. Still, they left again without having been able to identify Fabienne and her child. At least, that's what I thought. But, as soon as she heard that they'd been nosing around Sarzac, Fabienne wanted to beat it. So, I didn't ask her any questions. We just destroyed all the records, tore pages out of registers, wiped out every trace…Fabienne had changed her child's identity, but…"

  Karim interrupted him. A curtain of rain lay between the two men.

  "Young Sertys came back here on Sunday night. Do you have any idea what he was looking for in this vault?"

  "No."

  Abdouf pointed back at the tomb.

  "That flicking coffin's full of rats' bones. It's a goddam nightmare. What does it all mean?"

  "I don't know. You shouldn't have opened that coffin. You should respect the dead…"

  "Who? Where's Judith Hérault's body? Is she really dead?"

  "Dead and buried, my boy. I was the one who arranged her funeral."

  The Arab shivered.

  "And you tend the grave?"

  "Yes, at night."

  Walking up to the barrel of the gun, Karim suddenly roared: "Where is she? Where is Fabienne Hérault now?"