Once they had gone through the breach, they were among fir trees again. Lombard had disappeared. The track continued to climb, zigzagging through the forest; the wind was gusting, a blinding grey and white curtain. The beam from the headlight bounced back at them. Servaz felt as if a wrathful, roaring god were spitting his icy breath into their faces. He was trembling from the cold, but he also felt sweat trickling between his shoulder blades.
‘Where is he?’ shouted Ziegler. ‘Shit! Where has he gone?’
He could sense her tension, every muscle straining to control the snowmobile. And her rage, too. Lombard had almost managed to have her sent to prison in his place. He had used them. Servaz wondered fleetingly whether Irène was altogether sane, whether she was leading both of them into a lethal trap.
Then the forest thinned. They went through a small pass and down the other side. The storm subsided and the mountains appeared all around them, like an army of giants waiting as reserves in a nocturnal duel. Suddenly they saw him, one hundred metres below. He had left the trail and abandoned his snowmobile. Bent double, he was reaching towards the ground.
‘He’s got a snowboard!’ shouted Ziegler. ‘The bastard! He’s going to slip through our fingers!’
Lombard was standing at the top of a very steep slope scattered with huge boulders. Servaz recalled the articles boasting of the man’s sporting feats. He wondered whether their snowmobile would be able to follow him, then decided that Lombard wouldn’t have abandoned his own if that were the case. Ziegler was hurtling down the slope at breakneck speed now. She turned off to follow Lombard’s tracks, and for a moment Servaz thought they were going to go flying. He saw their quarry abruptly turn his head towards them and raise his arm in their direction.
‘Watch out! He’s got a gun!’
He would not have been able to say exactly what Ziegler did, but the snowmobile made an abrupt ninety-degree turn and Servaz somersaulted into the snow. There was a flash in front of them, followed by a loud bang. The sound reverberated against the mountain, was returned and amplified by the echo. A second detonation followed. Then a third. The gunshots and their echo made a deafening thunder. Then the shooting stopped. Servaz waited, buried in the powdery snow, his heart pounding. Ziegler was lying next to him; she had her gun, but for some reason she had decided not to use it. The last echo was still rippling in the air when a second sound seemed to emerge from the first, an enormous cracking sound.
Something unfamiliar. Servaz could not tell what it was.
Still lying in the snow, he felt the ground vibrating beneath him. For a moment he thought he was passing out. He had never felt anything like it.
The crack was followed by a hoarser noise, deeper, broader, more muted. And just as unfamiliar.
The deep, muffled grumbling grew louder, as if it were running on rails, a train coming nearer … No, not one train, but several together.
He sat up and saw Lombard looking towards the mountain, motionless.
Suddenly, he understood.
He followed Ziegler’s terrified gaze towards the slope on their right. She grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet.
‘Quick! We’ve got to run! Quick!’
She led him towards the path, and he followed, heavy and awkward in his jumpsuit and boots. He stopped for a moment to look back at Lombard. He had stopped shooting and was struggling with the bindings on his snowboard. Servaz saw him give a worried glance towards the top of the slope. He did likewise and it was like a fist landing in his guts. Up there, in the moonlight, an entire chunk of glacier was moving, a sleeping giant suddenly awake. Servaz plunged ahead, hopping and waving his arms to go faster, never taking his eyes from the glacier.
A gigantic cloud was plummeting down the mountain through the fir trees. It’s all over, he thought. It’s all over! He stopped looking, tried to hurry. The enormous wave hit only seconds later. He was picked up from the ground, catapulted, tossed like a wisp of straw. He let out a faint cry, immediately stifled by the snow. He was tumbling inside the drum of a washing machine. He opened his mouth, coughed, hiccuped, waved his arms and legs. He was drowning. He met Irène’s gaze; her head was down; she was staring behind him with an expression of absolute horror on her face. Then she disappeared. He was lifted, shaken, turned over.
* * *
He couldn’t hear anything.
His ears were whistling.
He was gasping for air.
He was going to die suffocated, buried.
It’s all over.
* * *
Diane saw the cloud hurtling down the mountain before he did.
‘Look out!’ she screamed, as much to frighten and unsettle him as to warn him.
Hirtmann cast a surprised look at her and Diane saw his eyes open wide. Just as the huge wave of snow, debris and stones was about to reach the road and bury them, he swerved abruptly and lost control. Diane’s head struck the window, and she felt the rear of the car skid sideways. In the same instant the avalanche hit them head on.
Sky and earth turned upside down. Diane saw the road spin like a ride at an amusement park. Her body was thrown this way and that, and her head banged against the car door. A white fog enveloped them with a dull, terrifying roar. The car flipped over several times on its way down the slope, its passage scarcely slowed by the bushes. Two or three times Diane lost consciousness, so that the whole sequence seemed like a series of unreal flashes. When at last with a sickening groan of metal the car came to a halt, she was dazed but conscious. The windscreen had shattered; the bonnet of the car was entirely covered with snow; small streams of ice and pebbles were flowing down the dashboard onto her legs. She looked at Hirtmann. He was unconscious. His face was covered in blood. His gun … Diane tried desperately to unfasten her own belt and managed only with difficulty. Then she leaned over and searched for the gun. Eventually she found it at the killer’s feet, almost stuck beneath the pedals. She had to lean even further, and with a shudder she put her arm between Hirtmann’s legs to reach for it. She looked at it, wondering if the safety catch were on. There was one good way to find out … She aimed it at Hirtmann, her finger on the trigger. But she was not a killer. Whatever this monster might have done, she was incapable of pulling the trigger. She lowered the weapon.
Only then did she become aware of the silence.
Other than the wind in the leafless branches of the trees, nothing moved.
She looked for a reaction on Hirtmann’s face, some sign that he was going to come round, but he remained perfectly still. Maybe he was dead. She didn’t feel like touching him to find out. Her fear lingered – and would be there as long as she was shut inside this metal box with him. She searched her pockets for her phone and found it had been taken. Hirtmann might have it, but there again, she did not have the courage to go through his pockets.
Still holding the gun, she struggled to climb over the dashboard and crawled through the shattered windscreen. She did not even feel the cold. The rush of adrenaline kept her warm. She slipped off the car bonnet and immediately sank up to her thighs in the surrounding snow. It was hard to make headway. Overcoming an initial wave of panic, she started to climb towards the road. The gun in her hand was reassuring. She looked one last time at the car. Hirtmann hadn’t moved. Perhaps he was dead.
* * *
It looooks like he’s cooooming roooound.
Can you heeeeear us?
Voices. Far away. They were calling him. And then the pain. A lot of pain. Exhaustion, a desire to rest, drugs … A flash of lucidity where he saw faces and lights – then the avalanche, once again, the mountain, the cold and, finally, darkness.
Maaartin, caaan youuu heeeear meee?
He opened his eyes, slowly, dazzled by the circle of light on the ceiling. Then a figure leaned over him. Servaz tried to focus on the face speaking quietly to him, but the halo of light behind her hurt his eyes. The face went in and out of focus. Yet it seemed to him that it was beautiful.
A woman’s ha
nd took his own.
Martin, can you hear me?
He nodded. Charlène smiled at him. She leaned down and kissed his cheek. It felt good. A faint perfume. Then a door opened and Espérandieu came in.
‘Is he awake?’
‘It looks like it. He hasn’t said anything yet.’
She turned and gave him a wink, and suddenly Servaz felt wide awake. Espérandieu crossed the room with two steaming mugs. He handed one to his wife. Servaz tried to turn his head, but there was something in the way: a neck brace.
‘What a business, fuck!’ said Espérandieu.
Servaz tried to sit up, but he flinched with pain and decided against it. Espérandieu noticed.
‘The doctor said you shouldn’t move. You have three broken ribs, some minor injuries to your head and neck, and frostbite. And, um, they had to amputate three toes.’
‘What?’
‘Just kidding.’
‘And Irène?’
‘She made it. She’s in another room. She’s a bit worse off than you are, but she’ll be fine. A few fractures, that’s all.’
Servaz felt a huge wave of relief. But there was another urgent question.
‘Lombard?’
‘His body hasn’t been found: the weather up there won’t allow a search. Tomorrow. He probably died in the avalanche. You two were lucky: it only grazed you.’
Servaz flinched again. He would like to see how Espérandieu would get on if he were grazed in a similar fashion.
‘Thirsty,’ he said.
Espérandieu nodded and went out. He came back with the nurse and the doctor. He and Charlène left the room while Servaz was questioned and examined from every angle. Then the nurse handed him a glass with a straw. Water. His throat was incredibly dry. He drank it all and asked for more. The door opened again and Margot appeared. He could tell by her expression that he must look awful.
‘You could star in a horror film! You’re really frightening!’ she laughed.
‘I took the liberty of bringing her along,’ said Espérandieu, his hand on the doorknob. ‘I’ll leave you now.’
He closed the door.
‘An avalanche,’ said Margot, not daring to look at him for too long. ‘Brrr, that’s really scary.’ She gave an awkward smile; then it vanished. ‘Do you realise you could have died? Fuck, Dad, don’t ever do anything like that again!’
What sort of language was that? he wondered. Then he saw she had tears in her eyes. She must have come by before he regained consciousness; she’d had a shock. He had butterflies in his stomach. He pointed to the edge of the bed.
‘Have a seat,’ he said.
He took her hand. There was a long moment of silence, and he was about to say something when there was a knock on the door. He turned to look and a young woman in her thirties entered the room. He was sure he had never seen her before, and she had a few injuries on her face – on her right cheek and eyebrow, a nasty gash on her forehead. Her eyes were bloodshot with dark rings underneath. Had she too been caught in the avalanche?
‘Commandant Servaz?’
He nodded.
‘My name is Diane Berg. I’m the psychologist from the Institute. We spoke on the phone.’
‘What happened to you?’
‘I had a car accident,’ she replied with a smile, as if there were something funny about it. ‘I could ask you the same thing, but I already know the answer.’ She glanced over at Margot. ‘May I speak to you for a moment?’
Servaz looked at Margot, who made a face, looked the young woman up and down, stood up and went out. Diane came over to the bed.
‘You know that Hirtmann has disappeared?’ she asked as she sat down.
Servaz stared at her for a moment. He shook his head, in spite of the neck brace. Hirtmann at liberty … A shadow passed over his face; his expression become hard and dark. In the final analysis, he thought, that entire night was a wasted opportunity. Lombard may have been a murderer, but he was a danger only to a handful of evil individuals. Hirtmann’s motivation was very different. The uncontrollable fury that burned like a relentless flame in his heart would for ever set him apart from other human beings. Boundless cruelty, a thirst for blood, a total absence of remorse … Servaz felt a tingling down his spine. What would happen now that the Swiss killer was roaming free? Out there, without the drugs, his impulses and hunting instinct would be revived. The thought of it turned Servaz’s blood to ice. Major psychopaths like Hirtmann did not feel the slightest trace of humanity; the euphoria they experienced while torturing, raping and murdering was far too great. The moment he had the opportunity, Hirtmann would strike again.
‘What happened?’ he asked.
She told him what she had been through from the moment Lisa Ferney surprised her in her office until she began walking along the frozen road, having left Hirtmann behind in the car. She had walked for nearly two hours before she found another living soul, and by then she was frozen, suffering from hypothermia. When the gendarmerie reached the scene of the accident, the car was empty; there were footprints and blood leading up to the road – then nothing more.
‘Someone gave him a lift,’ said Servaz.
‘Yes.’
‘A car that was just going by, or else … an accomplice.’
He turned to look out of the window. It was pitch dark.
‘When did you realise that Lisa Ferney was in league with Lombard?’ he asked.
‘It’s a long story. Do you really want to hear it now?’
He smiled at her. He sensed that although she was a psychologist, she was the one who needed to talk to someone. It had to come out. Now … This was as good a time as any, for both of them. He could tell that she was feeling the same sense of unreality as he was – a feeling born of a strange night of terror and violence, of all the days leading up to it. At that moment, although they were strangers, they were close.
‘I have all night,’ he said.
She smiled.
‘Well,’ she started, ‘I got to the Institute the day they found that dead horse up on the mountain. I remember it very well. It was snowing, and…’
Epilogue
Crimen extinguitur mortalite (Death extinguishes crime)
When Caesar realised, he gave the signal they had agreed on to the fourth line he had made up of six cohorts. The troops rushed forward at great speed, and in assault formation they made such a vigorous charge against the horsemen of Pompey that no one was able to resist.
‘There they are,’ said Espérandieu.
Servaz looked up from The Gallic Wars. He rolled down his window. At first sight he saw only a dense crowd rushing about under the Christmas lights; then, as if he were zooming in on a group photo, he saw two figures emerge from the crush. A sight that left his chest aching. Margot. She was not alone. A man was walking at her side. Tall, elegant, dressed in black, in his forties.
‘That’s him,’ said Espérandieu.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
Servaz opened the door.
‘Wait for me here.’
‘Don’t do anything stupid, all right?’ said his assistant.
Not answering, he lost himself in the crowd. One hundred and fifty metres ahead of him, Margot and the man turned right. Servaz hurried to reach the street corner in case they were headed down a side street but, once they had gone over the crossroads, they went straight towards le Capitole and its Christmas market. He slowed down, then hurried to the vast square with its small wooden chalets. Margot and her lover were wandering along the stalls. He noticed that his daughter looked perfectly happy. Although they did not make a display of it, their gestures betrayed an obvious physical closeness. Servaz felt a pinch of jealousy. When was the last time he had seen Margot look this joyful? He was beginning to think that perhaps Espérandieu had been right, that the man was harmless.
Then they crossed the square in the direction of the cafés beneath the arcades and he saw them take a seat outside, despite the cold. T
he man only ordered for himself, and Servaz concluded that Margot would not be staying. He hid behind a chalet and waited. Five minutes later, his suspicions were confirmed: his daughter got up, gave the man a light kiss on the lips and walked away. Servaz waited a little longer. He used the time to study Margot’s lover in detail. A good-looking man, sure of himself, with a high forehead and expensive clothes that testified to his social standing. Well preserved, but Servaz thought he must be a few years older than he was. A wedding ring on his left hand. He felt a surge of anger. His seventeen-year-old daughter was going out with a married man who was older than her own father.
He took a deep breath, covered the last few yards with a decisive stride and sat down in Margot’s place.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘The seat is taken,’ said the man.
‘I don’t think so; the young woman has left.’
The man gave him a surprised look and studied him. Servaz returned his gaze, without betraying the slightest emotion. An amused smile lit up the man’s face.
‘There are other free tables. I would prefer to sit by myself, if you don’t mind.’
He had put it nicely, and his ironic tone confirmed his self-assurance. It would not be easy to unsettle this man.
‘She’s not yet of age, is she?’ said Servaz.
Now the smile faded from the man’s face. His gaze hardened.
‘What business is it of yours?’
‘You haven’t answered my question.’
‘I don’t know who you are, but you’re going to get the fuck out of here.’
‘I’m her father.’
‘What?’
‘I’m Margot’s father.’
‘The cop?’ asked his daughter’s lover, incredulous.
Servaz felt as if he had just been kicked by a mule.
‘Is that what she calls me?’
The Frozen Dead Page 53
