“Hello, I’m Aline Bergson, director of this establishment. My colleague told me you would like to have a visit with Monsieur Dupré.”
Captain Barka once again explained the reason for their presence.
“And who is this gentleman with you? One of the family?”
“I’m Julien Lombard. I’m a family member.”
“I must warn you. First of all, Monsieur Dupré is in the final stages of terminal cancer. He’s on morphine, and he won’t live much longer. He’s extremely weak. Even so, he hasn’t had a visit in more than three months. Whoever you are, I think it will do him good to talk with someone. You can’t imagine his loneliness! But I will ask you to leave him alone if you see he’s no longer capable of continuing the conversation.”
“Thank you, Madame Bergson.”
“I will tell you that I’m not respecting the rules of the establishment by authorizing you to interview him. Police officers trump everything! But it will lift his mood, and he’ll hardly have the opportunity anymore, unfortunately.”
She looked at a treetop outside the window. “He was a charming man. But we all must die. Hélène, please escort these people to Monsieur Dupré’s room.”
The director bid good-bye to the two visitors, then left them in the care of the nurse. They passed through freshly painted hallways. The large bay windows let in bright light. She knocked on the door to number seventeen and entered quietly. “Monsieur Dupré, I have a visit for you.”
Without making a sound, Nadia and Julien walked into the room. Positioned against the wall, a hospital bed took up most of the space. A man, who must have been tall but was now just a frail outline, turned his eyes toward them. An IV drip injected a colorless liquid into his arm, drop by drop, as if trying to replace the life that was leaving him. His extremely pale face reflected his physical weakness.
“Call me as soon as you need me, Monsieur Dupré. I’ll leave you with your visitors.”
The nurse left the room and closed the door behind her. Julien felt a strong emotion as he gazed upon this old man whose life was abandoning him. Even Nadia seemed troubled by the scene.
“I don’t know who you are, but I imagine I must be useful to you in one way or another.”
They were surprised by the clear voice speaking to them. Nadia decided to go first.
“Indeed, Monsieur Dupré. I’m Captain Nadia Barka of the Grenoble police. You can be a very big help to us. I’m going to get right to the point. I’m investigating the deaths of Monica Revasti and Camille Saint-Forge. Perhaps these names mean nothing to you, but they’re two young women who were just killed this week in Grenoble.”
“I didn’t know the names, but I heard about them. All the staff and residents were very shocked. And me, too, for that matter. But I don’t see how I can help you.”
“I’m getting there, Monsieur Dupré.”
“Can you call me Pierre? It might seem stupid to you, but no one has called me by my first name in months.”
“Okay, Pierre. We’ve identified the killer. His name is Dominique Sartenas.”
“Sorry, but I don’t know that man.”
“I know, and what I’m going to tell you will no doubt surprise you. We think that long ago, he was called Dominique Cabrade.”
Pierre Dupré stared at her, then looked at Julien. He closed his eyes, not saying a word or moving. The two visitors exchanged a worried glance. Julien was about to call a nurse when he spoke again.
“So he’s not dead. My nightmare will never end, then. Who sent you to me?”
Julien answered him.
“What I’m going to tell you will seem outrageous, Pierre. But I beg you to believe me.”
Pierre Dupré’s attention sharpened as Julien spoke. Emotion rose in him, like the lava of an ancient volcano finally able to vent its boiling energy. His face regained its color, but he said nothing, drinking in the young man’s words. When Julien had finished, tears ran silently down the old man’s face.
“And Magali had a son? But what became of him?”
“She didn’t tell me, Pierre, but he’s alive somewhere.”
The old man repeated, “Her son is alive, her son is alive . . . my grandson.” He fell silent. They respected his silence. Then Pierre Dupré told them, “Ask me all your questions.”
“You knew Dominique Cabrade. In your opinion, would he be capable of such murders?”
“I don’t know if I’ll be objective. In fact, I know I won’t be. I hate that man. He took my daughter from me, my grandson, my happiness and that of my wife, Nicole. He stole everything from me. He was a manipulator. I sensed it from the beginning, and my wife even more acutely. We tried to warn Magali, but she didn’t want to listen. He fascinated her. Cabrade was a brilliant surgeon, very at ease in society, always at the center of discussion and attention. He pushed her forward, showing her a world we hadn’t been able to give her. But I felt viscerally that wasn’t the real Cabrade, that it was a performance.
“When Magali announced to us she was going to be married, Nicole and I were sick over it. But it was her choice. A few months after her marriage, she started to change—we were becoming strangers to her. And she stopped coming to see us. Each time we called her, we got Cabrade, who proclaimed that it was now up to him to watch over her.
“Four months before she disappeared, she came to the house. I remember the date, February 20. It was Nicole’s birthday. She seemed to have lost her mind; her statements were incoherent. We brought her to her old bedroom, and Nicole took care of her. I called a doctor. In the meantime, Cabrade arrived with a man I didn’t know. This was not the worldly, ever-smooth Cabrade. No, this was a madman facing me. He wanted to take Magali back. I told him she wasn’t there. But at that moment, Nicole came downstairs beaming, telling me she was doing better . . . and that she was expecting a child. I’ll always remember her face, so happy when she gave me that news. Cabrade pushed violently to get past me. I didn’t let him and punched him twice, which put him on the ground. But his sidekick threw himself at me. He was used to fighting and overpowered me. Cabrade got up, fought off my wife, and left with Magali, who was crying and didn’t put up a struggle.”
His breathing had become labored. He rested for a few seconds and feverishly resumed the course of his memories.
“I couldn’t do anything more to keep him from taking her. When he left, I called the police. Since Cabrade was Magali’s husband, they didn’t even intervene. So I called two pals and took my car to go get her. At their apartment, nothing. They’d moved two weeks ago. I went back to the police station. They took my complaint . . . and that’s it.”
“I imagine you did everything to find your daughter!” interjected Nadia.
“Naturally. I followed Cabrade to find out where he was living. I went to harass him as soon as my work gave me the opportunity. But one day, he told me my daughter would have big problems if I continued to harass him, and I was afraid for her. I believed he was crazy. That’s followed me for thirty years now. Why didn’t I keep looking for her?”
He retreated into his remorse, then said to them, “So, yes, I believe Cabrade is capable of anything, including killing two innocent women. My daughter certainly was one!”
The man was now beset by extreme restlessness. The events he’d just relived so intensely seemed to reignite the last spark of life remaining in him.
“May I ask you another question?” asked Julien.
“Go on, my boy.”
“Did Magali know an Aurélien?”
A smile flitted across the old man’s withered lips, soon chased away by a wave of bitterness.
“Of course, Aurélien Costel. I don’t know where she met him, but he came over to the house quite often. He was a fan of auto racing, like me. He had a gift for making her laugh. Nicole and I were convinced they were going to get married. Imagine the shock when I discov
ered Cabrade’s existence. She went from a boy who was good as gold to that worldly scoundrel. But I think Aurélien was always there for her, even when she decided to get married. He got along marvelously with my wife, and he burst into tears at the house when we told him the news about the marriage. But he retained his friendship with her.”
“Do you know what’s become of him?”
“Yes, he’s the only one who continued to come see me here every now and then. He’s managed a restaurant in Grenoble for about ten years—La Pomme d’Amour.”
A nurse entered the room with a meal on a tray. She put it down precipitously and went over to the sick man. She took his pulse.
“You’re going to have to leave Monsieur Dupré. He’s terribly agitated. I’m going to call the doctor . . .”
The old man grabbed her by the wrist.
“You know my life is coming to an end, Simone. But these two people are giving me something precious that will help me die with dignity. Can you leave us together for another ten minutes?” Pierre Dupré’s imploring look got the better of her.
“Ten minutes, Monsieur Dupré, no more.”
“Ten minutes, Simone. I’m grateful to you.”
The nurse left the room. The man nodded to Julien. “Come here and sit close to me.”
Surprised by the intimacy, Julien took a chair and pulled it up next to the bed.
“Look at me.”
Nadia quietly left the room.
“Give me your hand.”
Julien extended his hands to Pierre Dupré’s. They were fragile, but full of renewed vigor. The silence that fell between them brought them closer. Julien felt emotion gripping him. In spite of himself, a tear rolled down his cheek. The old man also let himself sink into intense feelings of happiness.
“You have your mother’s eyes. The same eyes so full of life. I can never thank heaven enough for having brought you here.”
Julien took him in his arms. The words remained lodged in his throat.
“You’ve given me back my life, even if there isn’t much left of it. This is the greatest joy of my life . . . almost as great as the day Magali was born.”
The two men stayed together for several long minutes.
The door opened, and the nurse came in with a doctor. They froze, taken aback by the scene before them. Only a few words disrupted the silence.
“Julien, my grandson . . .”
Julien stood up. The old man, gazing at the sunlight playing atop the foliage on the other side of the window, wasn’t moving anymore. The smile that illuminated his emaciated face gave him a happiness he’d believed had faded away long ago.
Quietly, Julien left the room.
Chapter 47: The Manor
Arsène looked around. The foyer was empty. He motioned to Sartenas to follow him. He pushed open the door leading directly into the communal garage and walked quickly toward his car, a black BMW X6. He unlocked the doors, and Sartenas slipped into the front seat. The tinted windows assured them of the discretion they needed. Arsène had quickly decided to put his guest up at the manor, an old family property that had been passed to him through his father’s unmarried sister. He’d put it in the name of an old devoted cousin, but only he used it. He’d done substantial work there over the last few years. The initial curiosity had gradually died down, and he could take advantage of the tranquillity necessary for his activities.
Sartenas’s agitation had increased since he’d set foot in Arsène’s home. He was in a state of withdrawal, and Arsène knew it. He’d persuaded his passenger that eating young women’s hearts until the solstice would deliver him from his nightmares. Sartenas had quickly accepted his theory, unconsciously clinging to the smallest hope of being liberated from his phobia. And there was a good chance it would work. The persuasive force of Fra Bartolomeo’s writings would doubtless put an end to the vengeful image of Magali that he’d created for himself.
They left the highway that led to Valence, entering the valley that would take them to the Vercors plateau.
Fra Bartolomeo: a genius invention that had given him the power he’d dreamed of. The power to control men’s fates—and the power to increase his wealth. He’d discreetly enriched himself and become a puppet master.
He glanced at his neighbor, who was absorbed in the landscape. This sudden sluggishness that followed his agitation demanded a rapid intervention on Arsène’s part. He’d take care of it as soon as they arrived at the manor.
His mind went back to Fra Bartolomeo. The character he’d created one summer night for a rich idler in search of a passion had taken shape over the years. A defrocked monk who had gone to Mexico to escape the Inquisition, Fra Bartolomeo had learned, during his long stay, to interpret the knowledge of souls with the help of the great Aztec priests who had survived the massacre ordered by Cortés. Arsène had gradually expanded his work. He’d fleshed out his creation with historical details, improving the consistency of his story. And eight years earlier, he’d written the final version of The Book of the Sun—Il Libro del Sole. He’d produced one satisfactory copy that could pass for an ancient book if you didn’t look at it too closely.
He’d begun to frequent amateur archaeological circles throughout France. He’d identified a certain number of members, to whom he’d revealed, bit by bit, the existence of The Book of the Sun. He’d chosen them carefully—influential, gullible, and full of themselves, personalities disinclined to self-examination. He’d been careful and made sure at each stage that his victims would completely believe his pronouncements. As soon as he sensed one of his disciples was starting to doubt, he separated from him, with an adroitness that had allowed him to prevent the birth of any suspicion. The backsliders recovered . . . or not. Once, he’d had to put in place a much more expeditious method than he would have liked. Twelve people were currently part of the brotherhood he’d created. At first he’d been hesitant to give it a name, but upon the insistence of certain members, he’d relented. He’d chosen a very simple title: “The Order of Bartolomeo.” He was the master, the one who knew how to interpret the words of the inspired monk. The members were now totally devoted to him. He had the intelligence not to abuse it and presented to his disciples a humble facade that delighted them to no end. Because sharing secrets from the fine collection of history, being part of an elite group—what pleasure! What a feeling of superiority over the ignorant masses around you!
Arsène had never promised them anything nor asked for anything. They’d been lucky to be chosen to share in unique knowledge. What a wonderful motivator vanity is! And how effective! Little by little, this knowledge had acted like a drug. Arsène had prepared his set pieces in considerable detail. And the success had been beyond his most optimistic hopes. Magistrates, bankers, politicians were eating out of his hand . . . without realizing it, which was the key to his success. He had become powerful and rich. The money Sartenas had promised him would allow him to undertake great projects.
The car passed through the village of Lans-en-Vercors and entered the Vercors plateau. The light was slowly starting to fail. The road was rarely taken at this hour of the evening. The inhabitants who went to work in Grenoble every day were already at home, busy cutting the grass in their yards or preparing the barbecues for dinner.
Upon arriving in Villard-de-Lans, Arsène left the major road, then took a labyrinth of little byways that led them to the manor’s doorstep. The name “manor” was very pompous for this large bourgeois building, but he was proud of it. It had become the center of his parallel universe.
Sartenas was inert in his seat. He didn’t take his eyes off the residence, as if he were scanning the facade for the answer to an unfathomable question. He suddenly turned toward the driver, a flash of panic in his eyes. “It can’t start again, Arsène, it can’t start again!”
“It won’t start again, Dominique, trust me.”
“But how can you sa
y that!” he screamed suddenly. “You’re the one who taught me. Eat a piece of the heart at each sunset, said the Fra!”
The historian laid his hand gently on Sartenas’s forearm. The surgeon jerked it away as if he’d just received an electric shock.
“Don’t try to confuse me. I’ve been waiting for this moment for thirty years! Don’t get in my way. Let me go. I’ll go to Villard, and I’ll find the heart I’m missing.”
Arsène took his arm more firmly. He didn’t let go when Sartenas tried to escape his grip, and forced him to look him in the eye. He retained his calm tone, but now he spoke to him like a child.
“Listen carefully to me, Dominique. Have I abandoned you recently? You asked me for help, and I helped you. I revealed to you the mysteries of Fra Bartolomeo. Do you know how many of you know them? No, you don’t. Just a few privileged people.”
At the sound of his mentor’s voice, Sartenas calmed down as quickly as he’d flared up.
“To you I revealed mysteries the dead themselves want to keep at the bottom of their tombs. And you don’t trust me more than that?”
Sartenas lowered his head, sheepish and contrite.
“My apologies, Arsène. I don’t know what came over me. But I’m so afraid of Magali, so afraid she’ll make me live this hell I don’t deserve. She’s a . . . witch. Keep helping me, save me. You’ll find me even more generous than you think.”
Arsène fell silent, scenting an even greater profit than he could have imagined.
“Half of what I’ve accumulated over the last twenty years will be for you,” Sartenas said. He seemed to hesitate. Then, with a flash in his eyes, he announced, “Fifteen million dollars!”
Sartenas looked with devoted confidence at the stone disc placed on an altar before him. The flames of two candles flickered at the whim of a quiet fan.
Arsène observed his guest. He’d regained his usual self-control and now seemed peaceful. Sartenas’s panicky crisis had worried him. Not for the doctor’s health, but for the sum of money in play. The fifteen million dollars mentioned at the end of their brief exchange in the car had awakened all his curiosity. So Sartenas hadn’t told him everything about his years on the run.
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