Bred to Kill

by Franck Thilliez

  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.

  49

  36 Quai des Orfèvres, Monday, 3 a.m.

  Manien’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.

  50

  Once back home, Sharko rushed over to his cell phone and listened to his messages. There were six of them. Lucie, at Charles de Gaulle. Lucie, in Manaus. Lucie, in São Gabriel. Each more panicky, desperate, and distant than the last. At the sixth, he switched out of voice mail and immediately dialed the number of the hotel she had last called from, the King Lodge. Operators, interminable wait. Five minutes later, they were finally connected. Sharko felt his heart contract. Her voice was so faint, so far away.

  “I had some problems, Lucie. Problems with Manien. They wouldn’t let me call because I was in custody.”

  “In custody? But . . .”

  “Manien’s been trying to screw me over since the beginning, I’ll explain everything. Please forgive me. I’m taking the first flight out. I want to be with you. I want to be near you—we should be looking for the answers together. Please, Lucie, tell me you’ll wait until I get there.”

  In the hotel lobby, Lucie stood alone against the phone booth. She had put a bandage on her left temple. Everything was still a big jumble in her head.

  “They tried to kill me, Franck.”

  “What?”

  “Someone snuck into my room and put a black widow in my bed. If I’d been asleep, I wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

  Sharko’s fingers gripped the phone. He paced back and forth, feeling like he wanted to bang his head against the wall.

  “You have to go to the police! You have to . . .”

  “The police? The guy was a cop, or a soldier. I don’t know anything about this town, this world. I think if I talk to someone, it’ll only make things worse. We’re in the middle of nowhere here. I told the hotel staff I’d left my window open, which you’re never supposed to do. And that I’d panicked and banged my head when I saw the spider. Nobody suspects a thing.”

  Lucie noticed the receptionist staring at her. She turned away and lowered her voice.

  “That goddamn murdering scientist knows why I’m here, I’m sure of it. I circulated Louts’s photo at the airport, that’s how he must have found out. All I know is they tried to make my death look like an accident.”

  Sharko had already gone to his computer and entered a search for a flight to Manaus.

  “The first flight is two days from now—shit!”

  A silence.

  “Two days? That’s too long, Franck.”

  “No, no, listen to me: you stay quietly at the hotel and surround yourself with people until I get there. Change rooms, try not to spend time alone, eat at the hotel restaurant, and especially don’t go into town.”

  Lucie gave a sad little smile.

  “Two days is too long. If . . . if I stay here, where I am, I’m done for. The killer won’t give up. He’s going to keep at it. I don’t have a weapon or any way to defend myself. I don’t know what my enemies look like. Listen, I’ve already found a guide. I leave at five in the morning for the jungle. Finding Chimaux is my only hope.”

  Sharko put his hand to his head.

  “Please, wait for me.”

  “Franck, I . . .”

  “I love you.”

  Lucie felt tears welling up.

  “I love you too. I . . . I’ll call again soon.”

  And she hung up.

  Sharko rammed his fist into the wall. He was here, thousands of miles away from her. And there was nothing he could do. In his rage and his powerlessness, he went to open a beer, which he downed in several gulps. Then a second one. The liquid ran down his chin.

  Then he started in on whiskey. Not in moderation.

  Lurching across the room, he saw his Smith & Wesson on the table. He picked it up and threw it at the television.

  An hour later, he collapsed, dead drunk.
>
  • • •

  Sharko struggled to get up off the couch when he heard the knocking at his door. He squinted at his watch through bleary eyes: five in the afternoon.

  Almost twelve hours of heavy alcoholic sleep.

  Coated tongue, breath like a sewer. Disoriented, he dragged himself upright and shuffled to the door. When he opened, Nicolas Bellanger was standing there, a dark look on his face. He came straight to the point:

  “What are you playing at with Chénaix and Lemoine?”

  Sharko didn’t answer. Bellanger walked in without being invited, noticed the empty bottles on the coffee table, the gun on the floor, the smashed TV.

  “Shit, Franck, did you think you could keep at it on the sly and no one’d be the wiser? You’re still investigating this case on your own, aren’t you?”

  Sharko rubbed his temples, eyes half closed.

  “What is it you want?”

  “I’m trying to understand why you were so anxious to get a decoded DNA sequence. I’m trying to find out what you’ve learned, and how and where. Who wrote that sequence?”

  Limply, Sharko headed into the kitchen and glanced at his phone. No messages from Lucie. She must now have been somewhere in the middle of the river. He chucked two effervescent aspirin tablets into a glass of water and threw the window open wide. The fresh air felt good. He turned back to his chief.

  “First tell me what you’ve found out.”

  Bellanger nodded his chin toward the inspector’s chest.

  “Go get dressed, swallow a tube of toothpaste, and fix yourself up. We’re running over to the lab. Did you tell anybody about this sequence? Who knows about it?”

  There was urgency and gravity in his words.

  “What do you think?”

  “Good. We’re locking down everything. Nobody is to know about this, nothing can leak out. This lousy case is threatening to become an affair of state.”

  The inspector downed his aspirin with a grimace.

  “Why’s that?”