Bred to Kill (26 page)

“T
ell me about lactose intolerance. Who does it affect, in what proportions, and why?”

While driving, Sharko had called his friend Paul Chénaix, the medical examiner. He wanted information about the causes and frequency of this trait, to make sure he wasn't heading down the wrong path. He put the phone on speaker for Levallois's benefit.

The specialist answered after a moment's pause.

“This goes back to my old studies of medicine and biology, but it was unusual enough for me to remember. At the time, it really threw me. It has to do with natural selection and evolution—you know much about that?”

Sharko and Levallois shot each other a quick glance.

“Do we ever. My partner and I have been in it waist-deep. Go ahead.”

“Fine. So the first thing to know is that lactose is a compound specific to mammals' milk. The individual difference between tolerating lactose or not is purely genetic. Lactose intolerance occurs in humans after the infant has been weaned from his mother, in other words from the moment they try to make him drink cow's milk.”

“Nothing unusual so far.”

“Hang on, this is where it gets weird. Lactose tolerance—and I did say ‘tolerance'—is relatively recent in the evolutionary scale. It goes back only about five thousand years and only exists in human populations that domesticated cows in order to consume their milk. In humans, we find the gene that allows us to tolerate lactose in the same geographical regions where cows also have the gene that encourages high levels of milk production.”

“So . . . nature acted both on cows and people, modifying their DNA by creating genes that hadn't existed before . . .”

As he said this, Sharko was thinking of Louts's thesis: violence in a population that inscribes the left-handed trait in their DNA. Culture influencing genetics.

“Right you are. Milk gene for the cows, milk tolerance gene for people. If I recall correctly, it's called coevolution, kind of like an arms race between cow and man: natural selection made it so man, originally a hunter-gatherer who lived exclusively on meat and fruits, could now drink the milk of the cows he domesticated. Because of this, it also made the cows better milk producers. And the more they produced, the more people drank . . . Hence the ‘arms race' part. It's pretty amazing, don't you think?”

“So if I've understood you right, it means that people who are lactose intolerant today don't have this protective gene, because their ancestors didn't raise cows?”

“That's it in a nutshell. Intolerant individuals must have descended from ancestors who lived far from areas where milk cows were domesticated. The farther away the cows were, the less these people tolerated milk or developed the gene. When I was a student, the statistics were something like five percent lactose intolerants in Europe and something like ninety-nine percent in China, for example. The fact is, a good seventy percent of the world's population is still intolerant. Does that pretty much answer it?”

“That's terrific. Thanks, Paul.”

The inspector hung up. Levallois pursued his own train of thought:

“So tell me if I've got this right: Grégory Carnot and Félix Lambert have in common not only their extreme violence and young age, but also deeper genetic factors. Some are obvious, like their size, build, and the fact that they're left-handed, and some more subtle, like being lactose intolerant.”

“You've got it. I'm not sure what we're dealing with here, but clearly there's something to do with medicine and genetics behind all this.”

The car turned off under the foliage. The army of trees closed in around the Peugeot and the sky disappeared. Rows of black trunks rose on either side, revealing only the occasional façades of handsome homes. In the fading light, the inspector navigated by GPS. A bit farther on, he turned onto a narrow road, drove a few more yards, and saw the Lambert house, set back near the tree line at the end of a large, wooded lawn: a superb two-story, nineteenth-century mansion, built from large blocks of white stone with a slate roof. Ivy devoured the façade, forming a second wall of vegetation. Two cars, a sports coupe and a classic Peugeot 207, stood in the driveway.

“They're here,” the inspector whispered. “Lambert junior and senior. Not exactly destitute, are they?”

“Now's when we should be calling for backup.”

“I'd like to get a look around the place first.”

The inspector parked farther along, on the side of the road, and came back on foot to about ten yards from the entrance. Entry was protected by a locked gate, and the entire property—which spread over several acres—seemed to be encircled by a brick wall a good ten feet high.

“No way we can buzz the intercom,” the inspector said in a low voice. “We'll have to use the element of surprise so that Lambert doesn't ambush us or make a run for it.”

“So how are we going to get in, then?”

“You're kind of slow on the uptake, aren't you? Follow me.”

“What? Wait, shouldn't we call in first? This isn't . . .”

Sharko began skirting the wall, heading into the dense woods.

“. . . correct procedure,” the young lieutenant muttered between his teeth.

After a brief hesitation, he ran after his partner, who was already disappearing into the vegetation. The trees crowded in around him, ferns attacked his ankles, branches twisted against the wall, as if nature were trying somehow to reassert its rights. After moving forward for several minutes, Sharko stood back a bit to get a better view, and managed to make out the top of the house's western façade.

“Looks like a windowless gable. The perfect spot to get onto the property without being seen.”

Levallois stamped his foot.

“You're out of your mind! Shit, this guy massacred two kids. We don't know what sort of monster we'll come face-to-face with in there. And besides, we . . .”

Sharko walked up to him and looked him in the eye, cutting his diatribe short.

“You can either come with me or stay here feeling sorry for yourself. But in either case, shut your trap, got it?”

The inspector scanned the trees and found a branch low enough to hoist himself up, while keeping the soles of his feet flat against the wall. He wasn't cut out for this kind of acrobatics anymore, and he made his way up like a disjointed puppet. But it didn't matter how he went up or how much pain his tired limbs felt: all that counted were results. His jacket covered with greenish smears, his loafers half ruined, he landed in the thick grass with a heavy grunt, then ran to the wall of the house.

Levallois followed several yards behind. He flattened himself against the house next to Sharko, weapon in hand.

Sharko caught his breath. Not a movement around them, save for a few birds in the branches and the trembling leaves. The atmosphere was too calm, too quiet. It didn't bode well. Sharko rolled quickly onto the next wall, his partner right behind. Ivy brushed over their shoulders. Moving cautiously, he threw a quick glance into the first window he came to. A huge room, very high ceiling, enormous chandelier. No doubt the living room. Sharko heard a noise. He shut his eyes and listened. Bass notes droned through the walls.

“The TV,” whispered Levallois. “Sounds like the volume's turned up full blast.”

Hunched over, Sig Sauer in his fist, the inspector continued forward and headed toward another window, which looked into the kitchen. Levallois covered their backs, casting quick glances in every direction. He saw the inspector blanch and freeze in his tracks.

“What is it?”

Sharko was looking through the window. His eyes were squinting toward the tile floor.

Their hearts were racing.

“Shit! I don't believe it . . .”

Inside the house, trails of blood stretched from a chair and into another room. Someone had dragged a badly wounded body; given the shape of the trails, probably by the feet. Breaking out in a sudden sweat, Sharko rushed to the next window.

A dining room. A body lay on the floor, eyes staring at the ceiling. His face was black, covered in dried blood, as were his shredded clothes, no doubt the work of a large knife. The man's head was bald, with just a few gray hairs. He must have been about fifty.

“Looks like Lambert's father.”

The two cops flattened against the wall, breathing hard. The situation had just changed. Levallois was white as a sheet.

“We've got to get out of here. We've got to call for backup.”

His voice was broken by his anxious breathing. Sharko leaned toward his ear.

“They'll take ages to get here. There's a killer hiding in that house. We're going in. Can you do it?”

Levallois pressed into the ivy, head against the wall. He stared at the sky with round eyes. Then he nodded, lips pressed shut. Silently, Sharko crept toward the door. He pushed down the handle with his elbow. Locked. Then, without a second thought, he took off his jacket and rolled it around his hand and wrist.

“Get ready. We're going in. You cover the left, I'll take the right.”

Standing at the window, he gave the glass a sharp rap with the butt of his gun, shattering it with a loud crash. As fast as he could, he cleared away the shards of glass with his protected arm and yanked on the latch inside. Less than ten seconds later, two armed silhouettes tumbled into the dining room. The sounds from the television made the walls shake: evidently a music channel. The house seemed to be holding its breath. The rooms, too large and lifeless, made them feel dizzy. Muscles taut, Levallois vanished briskly into the next room, then reappeared a few seconds later, shaking his head.

Suddenly the two partners froze, holding their breath. They heard the sound of footsteps just above their heads. A heavy movement, regular as a pendulum, that lasted no more than five seconds. Cautiously, they crossed the entrance foyer and moved toward the staircase, Sharko in front. Their feet were suddenly in water, which was oozing slowly from upstairs. Along the oblique walls and on the carpet was a string of bloody handprints.

“Left hands . . . Jesus, what happened here?”

As quietly as he could, the inspector climbed the stairs, keeping his gun aimed at the wall in front of him. His heart sent the blood pounding into his temples. In his alert muscles he could almost feel every vein pulsing, hear his body preparing to meet danger. A vile odor assailed him, a mix of shit, piss, and blood. Entire sections of carpet had been ripped up, and the wood of the steps was saturated with water. It was like advancing into a nightmare.

Upstairs, the cops turned right and went past the bathroom.

The faucet in the sink was turned on full, water flooding everywhere. Dirty clothes floated in the bathtub.

They kept moving. Every door was wide open except the one in back, its handle covered in blood. The bloody handprints led up to it, with no ambiguity. The monster was huddled in his lair.

Waiting.

Panting, Sharko took up position right next to the door, slightly crouched. Holding his breath, he tried to push down the handle with the butt of his gun, but it was locked.

The cop raised his gun against his cheek and breathed out. He could feel Levallois's warm breath on the nape of his neck.

“This is the police! Open up and let's talk.”

Silence. The cops then made out little mewing sounds, like whimpers. They couldn't tell if they were made by a man or a woman. A victim that Lambert had kept alive?

They gave each other a horrified look. Sharko tried to reason one last time.

“We can help you. You just have to unlock the door and give yourself up quietly. Is there someone in there with you?”

No response.

Sharko waited a moment longer, nerves on full alert. The maniac was probably armed, but no doubt with a knife or he would already have fired. At that point, total silence had fallen over the house. The cop couldn't stand waiting any longer and decided to go in.

“You wait here. I wouldn't want to take a pregnant woman's husband from her.”

“Go fuck yourself. I'm going in with you.”

Sharko nodded. Without a sound, the two cops positioned themselves in front of the door. Levallois aimed his barrel at the lock and fired. An instant later, the inspector gave the door a mighty kick and rushed into the room, his Sig Sauer in front of him.

Immediately he pointed it at the colossus who was standing in a corner, huddled over, fists crushed into his chest. He was alone. His eyes were an intense, feverish yellow, lined by purplish shadows.

He had ripped the skin from his cheeks and was glaring directly at Sharko. Solidly planted on his spread legs, the inspector didn't flinch. Levallois aimed his gun as well.

“Don't you dare move!”

Félix Lambert was unarmed. He closed his eyes, biting his fingers until they bled while his face contorted in pain. His gums were raw, his lips dry as parchment. Madness scorched his features. He was baleful, unreal. Shaking violently, he suddenly snapped open his eyes and bolted for the window. Sharko barely had time to cry out as the murderer flew headfirst through the glass.

His body slammed against the ground thirty feet below, without so much as a whimper.

G
aëlle Lecoupet pressed Stop and ejected the tape with trembling hands.

“I hadn't seen it in years. It's still just as horrible . . .”

Lucie had a hard time coming back to reality. Had she seen that right? The film's documentary aspect horrified her as much as its content: the veracity of the images and garbled sound track seemed to deny the possibility of trickery or staging. It had actually happened, somewhere in the world, forty years earlier. Something violent had struck those natives in the heart of the jungle, and someone aware of the massacre had come to record it with his movie camera. Someone sadistic enough to film the survivors without lifting a finger to help.

The men at the racetrack . . . the authors of Phoenix no. 1.

Perhaps even the killer or killers Lucie was after.

She heaved a sigh. Since the beginning, this investigation had dredged up only shadows and mysteries, confronted her with her own past, forced her to dig into her deepest reserves of strength to keep going.

Getting hold of herself, Lucie turned to the other woman.

“That village was completely wiped out. It was like, I don't know . . . some kind of virus, in the middle of nowhere.”

“Yes, probably so. A virus, as you say, or some kind of infection.”

“What do you know about this film?”

Gaëlle Lecoupet pursed her lips and changed the subject.

“You can imagine what happened when Stéphane came home, the day I'd gone into his study. Discovering I'd searched through his cabinet. And me, demanding some sort of explanation about that vile film and those mysterious men that he'd been meeting for months. That day, it all burst apart between us. Stéphane disappeared for several days, taking all his secrets with him, his papers and tapes, without a word of explanation. When he returned from wherever he'd been, it was only to announce that he was moving to Reims and that he wanted a divorce.”

She gave a long sigh, clearly still upset even a quarter of a century later.

“It was as simple and sudden as that. He sacrificed our marriage for . . . for something that obsessed him. I never knew why he buried himself so suddenly in that hospital in Reims. I had imagined, as I told you earlier, that he wanted to get back to his roots. And maybe even get away from all that filth, those strange men who could film such abominations. Now all I have left of him is this old tape.”

Lucie asked again:

“And . . . were you able to get anything from those images? Did you ever try to understand what it was about?”

“Yes, at first. I lent the tape to an anthropologist. He'd never seen anything like it. Given the state of the bodies and the little information he had, he couldn't tell me what tribe it was. Only the monkeys gave him a reliable indication.”

She rewound the tape and froze the image on one of the primates in close-up.

“Those are white-headed capuchins, which you only find in the Amazon rain forest, near the border of Venezuela and Brazil.”

Lucie suddenly felt as if an abyss had opened at her feet and that, all at once, the plain truth blazed before her eyes. The Amazon . . . where Eva Louts had traveled right after Mexico. And where she was planning to return. Could there still be any doubt? Lucie was convinced the student had left Manaus and headed into the jungle, that she had gone in search of that village and that tribe. It explained the withdrawal of cash, the weeklong trip: an expedition.

Gaëlle Lecoupet pursued her story:

“After that, I stopped searching. It hurt too much. Our sudden breakup and divorce had been painful enough. I wanted to leave all of it behind me and start over. The first thing I did was to put that horrible tape at the bottom of a trunk. I felt profound denial toward what I'd seen, I didn't want to believe it. Deep down, I didn't really want to understand what it was about.”

She shook her head, eyes lowered. This woman, who had all the trappings of happiness, was still bleeding inside, beneath her elegant exterior.

“I don't know why I never got rid of it. Maybe I thought someday I'd try to learn the whole truth. But I never did. What good would it have done? It's all in the past. I'm happy with Léon, and that's what matters.”

She placed the black plastic cassette in Lucie's hands.

“You've come all this way. You'll discover the truth, you'll get to the bottom of it. Keep this cursed tape, do what you like with it, but take it away from here, get it out of this house. I never want to see or hear of it again.”

Lucie nodded, without losing her cop's instincts.

“Before I go, would you mind burning it onto a DVD for me?”

“Yes, of course.”

Finally, the two women said good-bye. Getting in her car, the ex-cop nodded politely to Léon, put the cassette and the DVD on the passenger seat, and started up, her head buzzing.

 • • • 

A few miles from Highway A1, Lucie pondered which direction to take. Lille or Paris? Left or right? Her family or the investigation? See Sharko again or forget him completely? Lucie thought of him and sensed she could falter at any moment. All the feelings she thought buried forever were slowly rising to the surface.

Paris to the right, Lille to the left . . . the two extremes of a deep wound.

She made up her mind at the last minute, veering right.

Once more she'd have to go back in time, plunge more deeply into the shadows. One of her daughters had been murdered beneath the sunshine of Les Sables d'Olonne more than a year ago, without her really understanding why.

And today, she knew that it was in the terrifying depths of a jungle, thousands of miles away from home, that the answers might be waiting.