Bred to Kill (34 page)

M
anaus, or perpetual sweat. A city of crushing humidity and equatorial heat. The mercury never dropped, not even at night. The moment she passed through the sliding doors, Lucie wasn't just perspiring, she was dripping. The jungle breathed, the waters of Rio Negro saturated the air and went for the lungs. The Amazon rain forest, though invisible, announced the local color.

After changing currency, Lucie and the group guided by Maxime rode in a minibus to the small local Eduardinho Airport. One and a half miles of road. Concrete high-rises in the distance, multilane highways, industry. Advertising billboards in Portuguese between the palm trees and the mangroves.

Maxime gave them bottles of water and snacks, with big helpings of tourist information that Lucie couldn't have cared less about. Manaus, former rubber capital . . . Colonial mansions built with French materials, etc., etc. Her cell phone had automatically switched over to the Brazilian network Claro and she tried desperately to reach Sharko. It must have been around 10:00 p.m. in France. Still no message, no news.

Only one airline, Rico Linhas Aéreas, flew into São Gabriel da Cachoeira. At 6:32 p.m., the group took off on board a small-model Embraer EMB. The landscape was breathtaking, its opulence arrogantly expressed. Lucie saw before her the formation of the Amazon River, resulting from the confluence of the black waters of Rio Negro and the yellow waters of the Solimões. At certain points, its breadth reached nearly twenty-five miles. A few scattered villages marked the last vestiges of civilization. Slowly, the sun set over the emerald horizon, slit by liquid clefts, dark mires, secret swamps. Brown wounds opened, as mountains broke through the vegetation. Lucie imagined the mysterious life teeming below, those millions of species of plants and animals that struggled to survive, reproduce, perpetuate their genes in the tropical swelter. The Ururu were one of those species. Predators of the shadows that had come down through the centuries, carrying with them a prehistoric violence.

She drifted off, then started awake when the landing gear hit ground two hours later. A burst of applause as the engines shut off. The airport boasted all of two runways, with barbed wire around them, and a large unpainted building. No rolling walkways here; they pulled out your bags on the tarmac. It smelled like hot asphalt and especially like river water, that peculiar blend of silt and deadwood. Passport control, customs. Oppressive military police presence. Harsh, inquisitive looks. Remnants, according to Maxime, of the dark years when the mining companies hunted down and massacred the natives for the gold, lead, and tungsten to be found in the upper Rio Negro. Today, these police were men of the jungle, who traveled the river in canoes and looked for poachers in the forest: traffickers in precious woods, medicinal plants, and animals. Not to mention drugs. The borders with Colombia and Venezuela were just a hundred miles away, and the FARC not much farther. For the first time, Lucie was happy to be with the group. She didn't know a word of Portuguese—it wasn't the sort of language they taught in northern France—and she wanted to avoid complications.

The group was mobbed the moment they exited the airport. People offered to take their picture with a sloth in their arms, a boa around their neck, a baby caiman on their knees. Some held out pamphlets in English: boat tour up the Rio Negro, visit to Indian reservations, excursion in the jungle. Merchants and guides squeezed around them by the dozens . . .

At that point, it occurred to Lucie how she might speed up the process. In the tumult, she moved away from the tourists, pulled out a photo of Eva Louts that she'd had blown up, and let herself be submerged in the flood of locals.

“Who knows?” she asked in English. “Who knows?”

The photo circulated from hand to hand, was crumpled, sometimes disappeared, until a man of about forty, with a long black beard and a dark, gaunt face, approached her.
A mix of white and Indian
, Lucie thought. The man answered in English, “I know her.”

Behind her, Maxime called his charges, as best he could, to gather on the parking lot near a minibus. Lucie looked squarely at the other man and drew him aside.

“I want to go where she went. Is that possible?”

“Everything is possible. Why the Ururu?”

So he knew about the Ururu; he really had brought Louts there. His voice was somber. The man's shirt was half open and soaked with sweat; his black chest hairs jutted out. He's got the face of a crook, thought Lucie, but she didn't have much choice.

“To meet Napoléon Chimaux, like she did. How much?”

The guide pretended to think about it. Lucie watched him carefully. He was tall, strongly built, and had scars everywhere. His hands were as fat as rock crabs.

“Four thousand reais. That includes the crew, the boat, equipment, and food. I take care of everything. I'll bring you there.”

He had spoken in French—with a pronounced Latin American accent but perfectly understandable. Lucie didn't try to bargain. The price corresponded to the amount of cash Eva Louts had withdrawn.

“Fine.”

They shook hands.

“Are you staying at the King Lodge?” he asked.

“Yes.”

The man handed back the photo.

“Tomorrow morning, five o'clock sharp. That way, we'll get to the end of the river before nightfall and sleep there before setting out on foot the next day. Full payment up front. Don't forget your authorization papers and some cash for the trip downriver.”

“Tell me what happened with Eva Louts. What was she looking for out there?”

“Tomorrow. By the way, my name is Pedro Possuelo.”

He disappeared into the crowd, as discreetly as he'd come. A shadow among shadows . . .

 • • • 

The trip from São Gabriel was a trek in itself. They took another minibus with mismatched doors and a grinding engine. Lucie couldn't make out much of the town, even under a full moon, but she could sense its poverty. Half-crumbled concrete walls, tin roofs, dusty sidewalks under hanging lightbulbs. These people didn't even have a road by which to leave the area; the jungle enclosed and strangled them.

Maxime, whose face was beginning to betray his exhaustion, still kept up his explanations, playing his role to the hilt: after the occupation by the Carmelites and until the beginning of the twentieth century, the waterfalls along the river had turned São Gabriel into a garrison town. The large freighters from Manaus couldn't advance any farther into the jungle because of the rapids. The Indians came from the other side, in light canoes, to buy and sell commodities, making the spot into a trading post for goods and services. The current population—fewer than twenty thousand—was composed mainly of natives who had left the forest: growers, merchants, and artisans who maintained ties with their birth regions. São Gabriel wasn't just a town in the forest, housing the headquarters of NGOs such as FUNAI and IBAMA or the National Health Foundation. It was also a town
of
the forest.

The travelers arrived at the King Lodge, a small hotel at the edge of the jungle, managed by whites. Bright colors, giant fans, palm trees in the lobby. Maxime gathered his troops and retrieved the FUNAI authorizations from one of his colleagues, who had arrived earlier. He handed out the documents to each traveler and explained the next day's program: departure at ten o'clock in a motorboat to reach a campsite sixty miles upriver, night in a hammock in the middle of the jungle with a dinner of typical local fare.

After giving final instructions, he said goodnight and left everyone to their own devices.

Exhausted, Lucie went to her room on the ground floor and turned on the fan. She checked her cell phone: no network connection; they had reached the end of the civilized world. With a sigh, she went to take a good, long shower. She needed to rid herself of that obscene dampness, refresh her spirit and regenerate her body.

She slipped on a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops, and went down to the hotel lobby; it had a phone booth that she'd already noticed when she arrived. A man was reading the paper on a bench, some young people were having a drink at the bar. She tried one more time to call Sharko: it must have been nearly 3 a.m. in France. Voice mail. Feeling hopeless, she left the phone number of the hotel and hung up.

When she went to bed, she was surprised not to find any mosquito netting, then recalled what Maxime had said: the acidic waters of Rio Negro kept insects away. Still, she spotted a large moth against the glass. She opened the window to let it out and stared at the night. Infinite blackness in a pure sky, a handful of fireflies, crackling, squawks, screeches. Lucie thought of the monkeys on the videotape, the white-headed capuchins. Perhaps they were out there, right nearby; maybe they were watching her. Around her, the trees shook, the branches vibrated, and Lucie half expected to see dozens of mysterious animals leap from them.

Just before shutting the window, she glimpsed a spot of light in the dark. Something circular and gleaming.

The full moon seemed to be reflecting on . . .

Binocular lenses.

Lucie suddenly couldn't breathe. Could she be mistaken? Was her imagination playing tricks on her in her exhaustion? No . . . A dark shape was looking in her direction, at the edge of the jungle, about thirty yards away.

Lucie could feel her heart pounding. She tried to control her emotions and closed the window without locking it. She drew the curtains, turned off the light, and quickly returned to the window, casting a furtive glance outside. She stared into the void. No doubt about it, someone was near the tree line, moving but not coming closer.

The shadow was waiting.

Waiting for Lucie to fall asleep.

Gripped by panic, Lucie looked around the room. Moonlight filtered through the curtains and onto the sides of furnishings. She made out a bedside lamp, a vase with tropical flowers . . . She yanked with all her might on a coathook screwed into the wall and finally managed to pull it out. She was now holding a piece of wood about fifteen inches long, with metal hooks. Quickly, she arranged the quilt and pillows beneath the sheets to make them look like a body.

Then she hid in the bathroom, between the window and the bed.

Who knew she was here? Who was watching her? Locals? Indians? The military? Had the photo of Louts she'd circulated at the airport fallen into the wrong hands? This was a small town, and news must travel fast.

Lucie thought of the murders of Louts and Terney, the attempted murder of Chimaux. Time seemed to stretch into infinity. The fan thrummed, stirring the thick, unwholesome air. Lucie could hear herself panting like a cornered animal. She was crazy not to go down to Reception for help.

But she needed to know.

Suddenly, a sound at the window: the handle turning. Then a body moving heavily on the carpet. Lucie held her breath, heard the slight hiss of a lid being removed. She knew the intruder was very close, just on the other side of the wall. He surely had his back turned. She got a good grip on her weapon, raised it over her head, and burst into the room.

She struck just as the shadow near the bed was turning toward her. The wood struck his skull, and the hooks dug into his face. The metal sliced through his cheeks like butter. Lucie just had time to notice the tanned face, combat fatigues, and green beret: a soldier. The man grunted and, half dazed, threw his fist straight in front of him. Lucie was hit in the temple and knocked backward. The wall shook, a vase broke with a crash. She had barely regained her wits as the silhouette leapt through the window. She moved to jump after him, but a fat black shadow crossed her field of vision and froze her in her tracks.

A spider.

The creature was just on the edge of her bed, almost balancing over the void. It seemed to be staring at her, exploring the texture of the sheets with its long legs. It was all black, with a red hourglass on its upper abdomen.

Lucie scuttled back on her hands and knees, almost crying out. Then she spun around and flew into the hotel corridor, while her two young neighbors stepped outside to see what all the noise was about.

Overcome by emotion, she collapsed in their arms.

36 Quai des Orfèvres, Monday, 3 a.m.

M
anien's husky smoker's voice. “The recording on this CD here comes from the psych ward of Salpêtrière Hospital. It's dated March 14, 2007, and it was given to us by Dr. Faivre, Frédéric Hurault's psychiatrist. Do you know Dr. Faivre?”

Sharko squinted. In the narrow confines of the office, the bright light of the bulb was hurting his eyes. Shadows clung to the file cabinets and shelving, plunging them into a tenacious darkness. Manien had been grilling him for more than twenty minutes already. In the course of the day, he had brought him sandwiches, coffee, and water but had denied him a phone call.

Leblond wasn't in the room, but he hadn't gone far. Now and again, they could hear his soles creaking in the hall.

“I've heard of Dr. Faivre,” Sharko replied.

“Nice guy, with an excellent memory. I asked him a few questions, and from what he told me, you saw each other from time to time, you and Hurault, since you were being treated in the next department over. Does that ring any bells?”

“Vaguely. So what?”

Manien picked up the CD.

“Did you know the psych ward has surveillance cams?”

“Like everywhere, I imagine.”

“They especially have them in the lobbies and in front of the hospital, where the patients sometimes go to have a smoke and a chat. It's where you used to have your coffee while waiting for your appointment . . . They keep it all archived, for security reasons and in case of problems down the road. They keep the recordings for more than five years. Five years, can you imagine? I suppose that's not too surprising, when you're dealing with loonies . . .”

Sharko felt he was on a slippery slope. If his interrogators had put wires on him, they would have seen that, despite his outer calm, his tension level had just spiked, and his body begun to sweat abnormally. The last day and night had been pure hell. This time he didn't answer at all. Manien sensed he was gaining traction and pushed on.

“I'm sure you can guess that we found several instances of you and Hurault talking together. I've spent the last two days looking through these tapes. Hours and hours of watching retards stumble around in pajamas.”

“And?”

“And? And so I asked myself, what can a child-killer, who's been judged irresponsible for his actions and who got off with just nine years in psych, what can he possibly have to say to the cop who put him away?”

“No doubt stuff along the lines of, ‘How's your schizophrenia coming along? Still hearing voices?' The usual chitchat when two loonies get together. How am I supposed to remember?”

Manien twiddled the CD between his fingers. A ray of light danced on the surface, like the sinister eye of a lighthouse.

“The video on this CD has no sound, but we can clearly see both your lips. We were able to reconstruct one of your conversations with the help of a lip-reader.”

Manien got off on the intrigued look that flashed across Sharko's face. He stood up abruptly, a smug twinkle in his eye.

“That's right,
Chief Inspector
, you're screwed. We found a recording.”

Silence. Manien twisted the knife a little more.

“That day, Hurault told you he'd pulled it over on everybody—cops, judge, and jury. He confessed he was fully aware of what he was doing when he killed his two girls. And that's why, three years later, you stabbed him in the gut several times over with a screwdriver. You made him pay.”

Stunned, Sharko leaned forward to pick up his cup of water. His fingers were trembling and his eyes stung. His entire organism was about to give in. Of course, he could demand to see what was on the CD, but wouldn't that be playing their game and digging himself in even deeper? His words and his reactions had been recorded; now it would all work against him . . .

He tried to read Manien, hesitated a long time. His eyes fell on the calendar behind the other man.

He choked back the words that were about to come out of his mouth.

He leaned back in his chair and made a quick mental calculation.

Then he slapped his two open hands to his face.

“You're bluffing. Jesus fucking Christ, this whole interrogation is just hot air!”

For a second, Manien looked shaken. Sharko was exultant. He took a moment to calm his nerves, then asked:

“What was the date of that recording again?”

“March 14, 2007. But . . .”

Manien turned around to look at the calendar behind him, not understanding. When he turned back toward Sharko, the inspector was standing, fists planted on the desk.

“That's three years ago. If I've figured correctly, it was a Wednesday. And I
never
had any sessions at the hospital on a Wednesday. They were always on Monday, sometimes on Friday when I had to go twice a week. But never Wednesday. You know how I know? Because my wife and daughter died on a Wednesday, and it's the day I go visit their graves. I was going to the hospital to get rid of the little girl in my head who reminded me of my daughter, and to do that on a Wednesday would have been unthinkable. The illness wouldn't have allowed it, don't you see?”

Sharko snickered.

“You tried to beat me down with details, dates, places, to make me think you had something. But you overdid it and got yourself caught in your own trap. You don't have any video of me and Hurault. You were just . . . supposing.”

Sharko took three steps backward. He could barely stand.

“It's three o'clock in the morning. I've been rotting in this stinking office for twenty-one hours. The battle is over. I think we can call it quits now, don't you?”

Manien gave the ceiling a spiteful glare. He picked up the CD and flung it in the trash. Then he shut off the digital recorder with a sigh, before giving a coarse laugh.

“Goddammit . . . Son of a bitch . . .”

He stood up and slapped his hand noisily on the calendar.

“You can't convict somebody because he starts parking his car underground. Right, Sharko?”

“No, you can't.”

“There's one last thing I'd like to know. Just between us, how did you manage to get Hurault into the Vincennes woods without leaving any traces? Not a phone call, not a meeting, no witnesses, nothing. I mean, shit, how did you
do
it?”

Sharko shrugged his shoulders.

“Why should there be any traces when I didn't kill him?”

As he was about to leave, Manien called to him one last time.

“Go in peace. I'm dropping the case, Sharko. The file will go cold and get stacked up with the others.”

“Am I supposed to say thank you?”

“Don't forget what I said the other day: nobody knows about this. The DA acted in secret, as did I. He doesn't want any waves.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“Meaning that if you try to fuck me with what happened here, be prepared for all this shit to explode in your face. And frankly, Sharko, between you and me, you did the right thing offing that bastard.”

Sharko went back inside the room, picked up his holstered weapon, and held his hand out to Manien, who held out his own with a smile. Sharko grabbed it, yanked the police captain toward him, and jammed his head smack into the other man's nose.

The cracking sound, like the shock, was huge.