Morot had been studying the document for more than twenty minutes, almost without commentary. When Rivera had asked him for his initial feelings after only ten minutes of reading, the historian had made it quite clear that the request was too soon.
Pierre-Marie de Morot smiled faintly, straightened up, and looked at everyone with a learned air.
“As I told you over the telephone, I’m not a specialist in Aztec culture. Furthermore, it would require days to study this book in detail. But I think I have a rather good mastery of the Latin language and that period in history. The name Fra Bartolomeo is unheard of. I do not pretend to know everything, but I’ve never seen that patronymic appear in the collections of the time. But that doesn’t at all prove he didn’t exist.”
“Can you tell us about the contents?” asked Mazure.
“I’m getting there. The Book of the Sun deals with death. Death and how it can lead to renewed life.”
“A sort of resurrection?” asked Rivera.
“Yes and no. Well, more like no. If you take resurrection in the biblical sense, it’s based on the voluntary sacrifice of the Son of God who gives his life to save others. In the context of this collection, the Aztecs stole life from their victims in order to save or prolong their own. It would seem Fra Bartolomeo has done a sort of exegesis on these murderous rituals. From what little I’ve read, he’s promoting a pseudoreligion based on purification by the blood of the innocent.”
Silence answered Pierre-Marie de Morot’s last words. The same connection occurred in the minds of the others in the room. Antoine Dupas was the one who said it out loud.
“Sartenas wants to save himself from his demons. He finds Boisregard, one of his old friends. And Boisregard, blinded by The Book of the Sun he discovered who knows where, encourages him, even pushes him to find his salvation in the blood of young women chosen at random.”
“That could explain the deaths of Monica Revasti and Camille Saint-Forge, but in the case of Laure Déramaux, why take it that far?” continued Nadia Barka.
“Could it be that reading this document transformed Boisregard into a killer?” Dupas burst out, appalled. “Is it because he found this antiquity one day that my daughter’s life is in danger right now?”
“I’m convinced it wasn’t the discovery of The Book of the Sun that plunged Arsène Boisregard into this morbid mysticism!” interjected Morot.
“And what leads you to believe that?” asked Mazure, surprised by the historian’s confidence.
Pierre-Marie de Morot took a deep breath and started in, “As I began to read these pages, I got a strange impression. Not because of their content—though certainly edifying, I can’t judge the reliability. No, because of the writing itself. Then I discovered a detail that convinced me I’d been right. Monsieur Dupas, you read Latin, don’t you?”
“Yes, it’s a language I enjoy greatly.”
“Reread the first lines, and tell me what you think!”
As Antoine Dupas grasped the first page, Rivera, annoyed, cut in, “Couldn’t you get right to the point?”
“I’d just like to have confirmation of my reasoning. It will only take a minute.”
Rivera sat back down, ultimately willing to sacrifice a minute to the beauty of the demonstration.
“It’s very good quality Latin,” the professor threw out.
“Exactly. Latin of outstanding classicism! If the text had been written by a monk in the sixteenth century, the Latin used should have been much simpler and marked by several Italian, Spanish, or French turns of phrase. But that is not the case.”
“Couldn’t we be dealing with a scholar who has perfectly mastered the Latin language?”
“I highly doubt it, but let’s give him the benefit of the doubt. A second point then serves to annihilate that theory. Fra Bartolomeo explains at the beginning of the text that he set foot on the American continent on the day of the Feast of Christ the King.”
“So?” asked Mazure.
“The Feast of Christ the King, which is a Christian feast, was only instituted in 1925 by Pope Pius XI. So this document is clearly false, written less than eighty years ago. Taking into account the precision of the information on Aztec customs, we can very well imagine Boisregard himself wrote it. So all your theories about Boisregard’s influence on Sartenas, as well as our curator’s propensity to love violence and blood, would be legitimized by his work.”
“Fuck, that would mean we’ve got a real psychopath,” concluded Rivera.
An officer knocked on the door and came into Mazure’s office.
“Sorry to bother you, Commissioner, but we’ve just received some important information.”
“Go ahead.”
“The gendarmerie just sent us a snapshot. They caught Arsène Boisregard’s car doing nearly forty-five miles per hour on the Sassenage exit.”
“When?”
“Yesterday, early in the evening.”
“Do you have a copy of the photo?”
The policeman handed over a photo. Mazure grabbed it and set it on the table. The participants looked at it avidly.
“That’s him all right. And look, next to him—the passenger looks like Sartenas!”
“Our hypotheses are confirmed. They are indeed calling the shots together,” announced Rivera. “This information will help us. It’ll let us concentrate our search and our forces west of Grenoble. Given where they were photographed, they were definitely going either to Vercors or south of Chartreuse.”
“They could also have been going toward Lyon,” added Dupas.
“That’s a possibility. But you told Captain Barka you’d heard Boisregard refer to a manor. We can assume it’s located nearby. Still, we’ll call our colleagues in Lyon.”
Nadia’s phone rang at that exact moment. She left the room to answer it.
“Nadia Barka.”
“Good evening, this is Father de Valjoney.”
Tension gripped the policewoman. She was expecting the priest’s call to accelerate the investigation, hoping he could provide substantial aid.
“Good evening. I’m pleased you’ve called me back.”
“I did promise. The idea that took root during our discussion convinced our bishop.”
“And . . .”
“If I understood correctly, you think Boisregard and Sartenas are hidden in the area.”
“Yes. And most likely in Vercors or Chartreuse. Boisregard’s vehicle was spotted yesterday.”
“Perfect. I asked our bishop to activate the church network to find those two individuals.”
“Can you be more specific about your idea?”
“Of course. In each village, there’s a church and parishioners. There isn’t necessarily one priest per village, but the community is organized in such a way to compensate for that lack. Furthermore, those communities are active in the mountains. So I asked for the authorization to send photos of those two men to each hamlet to try and locate them.”
“And you think you could get quick results?”
“I can only hope so, but I believe we have a good chance. I called in a little emergency team willing to contact the different local people in charge. If you tell me to focus our searches on Chartreuse and Vercors, we’ll save time.”
“But how can just a few people do these searches?”
“They’ll also rouse their parishioners, who will then contact their neighbors. Sort of a grapevine, so to speak. It’s almost six thirty. People are starting to come home. I think we’ll be able to get results within two or three hours.”
“Godspeed, Father, if you’ll permit the expression,” replied Nadia with a smile in her voice. “Give me your e-mail address, and I’ll send you pictures of Boisregard and Sartenas within the minute.”
“We’re on the warpath.”
“Thank you for your assistance.”
<
br /> “Saving a young woman’s life and putting away those two monsters are sufficient arguments for us to participate in this search.”
“Contact me as soon as you have information.”
“Naturally. Can you also give me the phone number of one of your colleagues? In case your line is busy?”
“I’ll give you Commissioner Mazure’s. And I’m crossing my fingers your search ends quickly.”
Chapter 68: Origins
“Fuck, it’s stronger than you are! You couldn’t help yourself!”
Dominique Sartenas had been angry for more than ten minutes, ever since he’d seen the black sedan come up the driveway leading to Fontfroide Manor’s main entrance. Two men had gotten out and rung the bell. For a moment, Sartenas had panicked—the cops! Quickly, the fear had given way to anger. The two men hadn’t come to arrest him but rather to attend that night’s ceremony.
Arsène Boisregard welcomed them, then settled them in the sitting room before returning to talk with his old friend.
“But what were you thinking?” Sartenas asked. “That it’s a public spectacle? No! I have to regain my peace of mind tonight! I have to chase away thirty years of nightmares that hound me on a regular basis. Don’t you think for an instant I’m going to let those two assholes fuck up the moment I’ve been anticipating for such a long time!”
The curator let the doctor vent his spleen, then stopped him. “Under no circumstances is there a risk to you, be sure of that. I know what this moment means for you. And to be practical about it, I wouldn’t risk losing the fifteen million dollars you promised me to satisfy those two men’s morbid inclinations. Do you find that argument acceptable?”
Sartenas thought about it for a few seconds, then replied more calmly, “It holds up. So, tell me what they’re doing here! They’ve come to dine at the château?”
“They’ll have dinner, but you know perfectly well that isn’t why they came. Those two men are fascinated by the works of Fra Bartolomeo. They’re two important people in Grenoble’s political and financial scene. I’ve known them for more than three years. So I took the liberty of inviting them to what will be for me the resurgence of Aztec practices. Tonight, the blood of an innocent will regenerate you but will also regenerate those who participate in the ceremony.”
“Then there are others yet to arrive?”
“Just one person. But an important one.”
“And who is it?”
“I can’t tell you yet.”
“This business is getting close to showbiz. Then again, you’re the high priest. And if you assure me it presents no risk to my cure . . .”
“Not only is there no risk, but the presence of these men will only amplify the energy Quetzalcoatl dispenses to us.”
Appeased by the historian’s convincing tone, Sartenas recovered his serenity.
Boisregard left the room to join his guests. He’d often wondered about Sartenas’s sincerity in believing Fra Bartolomeo’s writings. He’d seen him again only recently, but he had known him very well during their shared years of studying medicine and up until he’d disappeared, shortly after Magali’s death. Cabrade had always been a man without scruples, admirably hiding his contempt for his fellow man underneath a near-perfect charming exterior. He’d always refused to grant credibility to religious facts. He’d also considered all religious practice to be incurable weakness, but, as always, he didn’t mention it to anyone. Boisregard had to be one of his only confidants, if not the only one.
The shock expressed by his friend at Magali’s death had truly surprised the historian. He knew Cabrade had killed her, but he also knew the word remorse was absent from his vocabulary. Cabrade’s overnight disappearance, even though he’d never been suspected, had shaken Boisregard. He’d lost his best friend.
Cabrade had heard about Boisregard and Fra Bartolomeo by sheer coincidence six months earlier from a Frenchman he’d encountered who was stationed in Miami. The doctor wasn’t necessarily seeking out the company of his fellow countrymen, but he’d learned of a new arrival from Grenoble, and he’d had an evening to kill. He’d taken the Frenchman on a tour of Miami Beach’s strip clubs and bars. After the sixth or seventh whiskey, the confessions had begun. And Boisregard’s well-protected secret had spilled out on a mahogany table in a Florida club. Cabrade had quickly found his old companion’s contact information. They’d chatted twice on the phone, and Cabrade had decided to return to France.
Before the doctor had called him, Boisregard had nearly forgotten Cabrade existed. At their reunion, Boisregard of course hadn’t recognized him. It must have taken an effort of will on Cabrade’s part to transform his handsome face into such a banal one. Or had the risk of his past catching up with him been so serious that he hadn’t had a choice? After the reunion, the historian had been shaken by his friend’s psychological changes. This cynical being was now tortured by inner demons. Cabrade and inner demons! He never would have believed it if he hadn’t had the proof right in front of him. And even more surprising, the demon—or rather demoness—was named Magali. Year after year, an incomprehensible remorse had plagued Cabrade’s dark soul.
Remorse for having killed his wife? Perhaps, but the doctor’s recent confidences about his worldly escapades over the last thirty years had proved to Boisregard that the lives of others still weren’t his main concern. Or remorse for not being able to keep the son Magali owed him? Arsène Boisregard had leaned toward that answer, but Cabrade descended into black rage each time he talked to him about it. Or did the memory of Magali stir complex motives buried deep in his unconscious? Boisregard didn’t know. And really, he didn’t need to know.
Boisregard had quickly understood that Cabrade was looking more for psychotherapy than for a dive into the Aztec underworld, but he knew the doctor was willing to do anything to chase away his terrors. Over the years, Boisregard had become well acquainted with the ways of the human soul. It was obvious to him the apparitions of Magali Dupré were merely the fruit of Cabrade’s imagination. But he knew they were so deeply rooted that only a shock treatment could erase them. So he’d accepted the personal challenge, eager to test his power over his old friend’s unconscious. Fra Bartolomeo would be his weapon! When Cabrade had spoken of financial compensation, Boisregard had at first declined. But then Cabrade had announced the amount, and he was no longer able to refuse. That had added some real spice to the challenge—his mindset had shifted from merely making a best effort to producing actual results.
As he opened the door to the sitting room, he was convinced of his action’s success. And taking care of Sophie Dupas excited him terribly. Fra Bartolomeo had never forbidden mixing the useful with the agreeable—quite the contrary!
Chapter 69: The Revolt
Sophie recovered her composure. Her situation was dire, she knew that. But Monica Revasti’s and Camille Saint-Forge’s were more so. She knew she had only one thing left to do: buy time for the police force to pick up her trail. Of course it wouldn’t be easy. Nadia had briefly recounted Laure Déramaux’s ordeal, but those torture sessions had lasted for days and days. She just had to hang on for a few hours, just had to push back the moment when Sartenas would prepare to kill her.
She’d managed to shove that eventuality deep down inside her, so as not to be paralyzed with fear. She didn’t know how long she could maintain control of herself—as long as possible, she hoped!
Sophie had kept the last match and slipped the razor blade inside a little pocket sewn into her skirt. She’d then climbed up on the table and settled there, cross-legged, facing the door—a position that would allow her to relax. She also hoped sitting this way would confuse her executioners when they came back for her.
Sophie no longer had any sense of the time. Her abductors had left her watch, but the room was still completely dark. She didn’t want to use the last match she had to look at how much was left before the fateful moment. She knew the
two previous victims had been killed around three o’clock in the morning. But would it be the same for her? She breathed deeply and forced herself to think of Julien. She now regretted not having called him back in the morning; she was convinced he was searching desperately for her. Underneath her athletic, mountaineer exterior, she was very romantic. She even sometimes read sentimental novels she bought at used bookstores. She wasn’t proud of it, but from time to time she loved poring over those uncomplicated stories. At the end of those novels, the young woman in love found her Prince Charming. She forced herself to remain in that world of hope so as not to succumb to the horror of the moment.
An abrupt sound woke her from her fantasy—the noise of a key someone was sliding into the lock on the door of her jail. She sat up straight and laid her hands flat on her knees. Her eyes scrutinized the movement in the darkness. The door opened slowly, letting conversation filter in. A bright light flooded the room. By reflex, Sophie closed her eyes. She heard the visitors enter, then noticed their sudden silence. Sophie realized her position had surprised the new arrivals. She half opened her eyes, careful not to let herself be blinded. Four men walked into the room. She immediately recognized Boisregard and Sartenas. Then she observed the other two individuals. The first, short and bald, was a total stranger. The second, however, was familiar. Tall and solid, even portly, that man was looking at her insistently. Sophie’s vision was adapting to the ambient light. She recognized him from the birthmark on his neck—Jacques Lèguezeaux. She’d met him at the party her father had thrown for his Palmes Académiques. Had Boisregard assembled a network, then? These men weren’t hesitating to show themselves to her—of course, since she wasn’t supposed to survive the night.
“So this is the one we’ll use to make contact with Quetzalcoatl!” commented Gilles Ballat, the short bald man. “Pretty slip of a girl, young and athletic. Her blood undoubtedly contains the vigor of her youth.”
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