“Now,” Nico said, pushing the barrel under the man’s chin, “call off the goon squad and take me to see Mr. Quere.”
They entered the living room. Edward Quere was there. His back was turned to them, and he was staring out the window. Nico wondered for a moment if Quere had lost himself in the scenery, just as he had recently lost himself in the wintry window of the department store. A woman standing in front of a bookshelf filled with leather-bound classics watched them come in. His wife, Nico presumed.
Quere spun around. And Nico knew he would never forget what he saw. This wasn’t the face of a man beguiled by the winter landscape outside. It was that of a man who was wasting away from the inside. His cheeks were hollow and his features emaciated. His eyes were two dark dry wells. His face mirrored the calamity in his life. In that second, Nico understood that Edward Quere, the respected boss and businessman, the power broker who often dined with the president, would not survive his daughter. He had opened Pandora’s box. And Bruno Guedj had been a victim of his folly.
“What can I do for you?” Quere said with authority, his words echoing in the stillness of the room.
What arrogance, Nico thought. He had played in outside the boundaries. He had crossed the line. He had given orders to kill those who compromised his plans. Dr. Parize might have made the decision to flee his life and his responsibilities and reject the ethical rules of his profession, but Bruno Guedj had been nothing more than an innocent victim.
“For a start, you can tell us where you daughter is,” Nico said calmly.
29
Nico heard sirens outside and movement behind him. He glanced around and saw the men in black regrouping as Kriven tensed to have his back.
“Stop,” Edward Quere shouted to his bodyguards. “Idiots. It’s over.”
Quere’s dogs had jumped to defend their master and had frozen at the sound of his voice. One did not resist Edward Quere. One obeyed.
“Edward,” his wife pleaded.
He raised a hand to quiet her. Then she shot Nico a look that he found strange. It held more than despair. There was bitterness in her face with a hint of hatred.
“Where is Clarisse?” Nico asked.
“In the basement,” Quere answered.
They crossed the sumptuously decorated ground floor. The walls were covered with paintings, some of which were worth a fortune. What use was such luxury, Nico thought, when one’s child was desperately ill?
They opened a steel door and rushed down a flight of narrow, poorly lit stairs. At the bottom, a bright white light diffused a strange halo. Kriven hesitated, his hand on his gun. Nico knew the hospital stink had to be affecting him. The rest of his team was just behind them.
“No weapons,” he ordered.
They were about to enter a ghostly world inhabited by a dying girl and a few apprentice sorcerers. That world had a name—the shadows—and a master—the devil. Nico refrained from telling Kriven that his gun would be superfluous.
They reached a vast tiled room with bright fluorescent lighting. A hospital bed drew their attention. Clarisse Quere lay there, emaciated. Nico could hardly bear to look at her. The nurse at the girl’s bedside jumped at the sight of the men.
“These people are from the police,” Edward Quere said. There was no emotion in his voice.
“Danièle Lemaire?” he asked.
She nodded, looking scared but remaining at the side of the only patient she had tended for many months.
“What’s over there?” Nico asked, pointing to three doors in the room.
Kriven hurried in toward them, ready to find out.
“A private apartment, a bathroom adapted for my daughter, and a laboratory.”
“Our daughter!” Helen Quere cried out, coming up from behind.
Nico saw Quere’s posture droop. He walked over to the bed and touched Clarisse’s forehead. She let out a nearly inaudible moan, her eyes closed for good.
“Go on,” Nico ordered.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Helen Quere hissed. A vein pulsed in her temple. “We’re so close.”
A man in a white coat appeared, hands cuffed behind his back. Captain Franck Plassard nudged him from behind.
“Professor Claude Janin,” Plassard said. “He’s got quite a lab here.”
Nico sized up the scientist. “What have you done?”
“I perfected specific antibodies to fight T-cell lymphoblastic lymphoma!” Janin snapped. “The results are so promising, even the Nobel Prize wouldn’t be enough recognition.”
“We named it Clarimab,” Helen Quere said. “‘Clari’ was for Clarisse, and ‘mab’ was for monoclonal antibody.”
“Did it work?”
“There was a generalized viral infection after the treatment,” Edward Quere said. “It’s the end.”
“For her!” Janin said.
“Claude!” Quere shouted. “That is my daughter. She’s going to die, and I don’t give a damn what becomes of your research. Do you understand?”
“But because of Claude, there’s hope for many others,” Danièle Lemaire said.
“Bullshit!” Helen Quere yelled, losing control. “Without our daughter, that means nothing to us.”
The room fell silent. Nico took out his phone and made the call. “Dispatch? Get me an ambulance, please.”
“You don’t have the right to do that,” Helen Quere screamed.
Nico ignored her. The paramedics would arrive any time now. He turned to Clarisse’s mother and spoke to her with his characteristic calm. “Your husband arranged everything, of course. He had the means and the power, right? He had sacrificed so much to build his empire, stolen so much time from his family. He owed it to you. It never was his idea, was it?”
“He wouldn’t have done anything,” she spit out. “He would have just watched her die!”
“You threatened him.”
“I was ready to leave with my daughter. Without any hesitation, and he wouldn’t have seen us again. But believe me, it didn’t take much to get him to come around. I was the one who took her to her ballet lessons and hired her tutors all those years when she was little, and he was busy building his empire. He always had plans for her, though. She was supposed to carry on after him. He was invested in her and cared about her every bit as much as I did. And in the end, he wasn’t going to let her go. He was willing to do whatever it took to keep her alive.”
“Take them away,” Nico said.
His team escorted the Queres, Janin, and Lemaire to police headquarters, where they were taken into custody. It was the first step in a process that would inevitably lead to prison. The resolution of the molar mystery would be in the headlines first thing in the morning, and even bigger headlines would follow. The arrest of Edward Quere would rumble like thunder around the country. And everyone would know the details. Obsessed by his daughter’s illness and willing to do everything in his power to save her, the businessman had stopped at nothing, not even murder. The man found in Dr. Parize’s burned car had been a snare. But Quere couldn’t control Parize, and then Bruno Guedj had threatened the entire operation. The CEO, backed against the wall, had gotten rid of them.
The forces of order prevailed. Strangely, Nico did not feel at ease. He had a bitter taste in his mouth.
The cancer had triggered all of this havoc. But the Queres and their willing—even eager—recruits had to take responsibility. Helen and Edward Quere had lost their moral compass, and the doctors had violated their ethics. Nico wondered what DrNo, Lol, and the others would have thought of that.
30
Nazebroc: How are things with you, Clarisse?
Stella1: I’m new to this blog, but I read your story and wanted to wish you the very best.
Lol: Hey, girl, not sharing any news these days?
Pilou56: Hey, you. Where’d you go? You’ve gone black. I hope you’re taking care of yourself.
Océan2000: Hi, Stella1. Don’t wear yourself out. Clarisse hasn’t shared a thi
ng in weeks.
Lol: I’m starting to worry. Please, give us some news.
DrNo: ALL is a bitch. Dammit! I told you so.
Lol: Bird of ill omen, don’t you have anything positive to say?
Bella: I know you’re sad, Lol. Me too.
DrNo: Sissies. Go to hell.
Lol: Clarisse!! Come back.
Helios: DrNo was right. ALL got her.
Lol: It’s been months since we’ve heard from her.
DrNo: Let it go, Grandma.
Bella: Bird of ill omen! Lol is the best. And Clarisse is alive.
DrNo: You know what this bird has to say? That he’s got a cancer that’s been eating away at him for two years, and he knows it’s the end. The END. Even you sissies could lift me with one finger. I’m a walking corpse—not even walking anymore. I can’t get out of bed, and I’ve got tubes going everywhere. I’m screwed. I’m going to die. What do you have to say about that? Nothing. Too bad I won’t be able to give you news of Clarisse from up there, because that’s where I’m headed, friends. So Lol? You’re not laughing anymore, huh. I’m crying. Like Clarisse. In heaven, I’d like to kiss her on the mouth. Make love to her. Think that’s possible?
31
It was Wednesday, December 23. An impulse. Nico knocked on the door one more time. One last time.
“Hey, buddy.”
It was Marcel, with his laughing eyes.
“Congratulations. Hats off to you. You’re gettin’ so much praise from all around, you must be looking for somewhere to hide. You found the right place. Your boss lady must be happy. What’s her name again? Nicole Monthet, Montle?”
“Monthalet.”
“That’s it. Quite a woman. She owes you a big one. That’s what she said in the papers.”
Nico smiled.
“Glad you stopped by. The last time, I was sorry I didn’t take you to the museum. You were in a hurry, though.”
“To the museum?”
“That’s right. It’s something to see. And these days, most folks don’t have the chance to visit, because it’s closed. Follow me.”
They climbed the huge staircase to the eighth floor, which was much quieter than the floors below. They walked past a gigantic painting of a young man who was slashed and bloody and tied to a rack. It was a grisly sight.
“That’s Poirier dissecting. The Poirier Lab is named after him.”
They walked into a room without knocking.
“John?” he called out.
“Yep, I’m here.”
“I’m bringing you a living hero. Chief Sirsky.”
A man who looked to be in his sixties, like Marcel, walked over to them. He had a willowy build and a gentle face. The window in his office offered an unobstructed view of the Eiffel Tower.
“John is a volunteer curator at the Delmas-Orfila-Rouviere Museum. Without him… Well, I have to show you.”
Nico couldn’t take his eyes off the glass case that held a lifelike Sleeping Venus. She was breathing.
“It’s a unique masterpiece,” John said. “It belongs to a rare collection of anatomical wax sculptures. She is so beautiful. You see how she breathes? Its creator, Dr. Spitzner, got a medal at the Vienna World’s Fair in 1873 for the ingenious mechanism in the lady’s chest that gives the impression that she is alive. It was really innovative in the nineteenth century.”
“Show my friend around,” Marcel said.
“This way.”
In the hallway, Nico explored the strange exhibits: mummies of a father, mother, and their child found in the Paris Metro in 1900, a head dating from 1696 and presented to Louis XIV, the oldest known anatomical wax sculpture in France, molded skeletons, legs, arms, animals, and more.
“The Delmas-Orfila-Rouviere Museum comprises collections and specimens of both people and animals,” John said. “The museum itself dates from the eighteenth century, but much of it was lost in subsequent centuries. Then, in the nineteen forties, Professor André Delmas was instrumental in bringing the museum back to life, so to speak. Today, it has nearly 6,000 items.”
They walked through the dusty rooms, which were filled with cartons. Showcases displayed skeletons, from fetal to adult, various organs, and the skulls of torture victims.
“That skull belongs to Giuseppe Marco Fieschi, who conspired to kill King Louis-Philippe in 1835. In the nineteenth century, forensic scientists focused a lot on the behavior of murderers.”
Nico stopped in front of the preserved skin of a thirty-five-year-old man and then in front of a wax representation of a woman undergoing a Caesarean section. Her hands and feet were bound, and the child was being extracted with hooks.
“There wasn’t any anesthesia in the nineteenth century. Doctors used opium. Two-thirds of the women who underwent Caesarean sections died in childbirth. Did you notice that none of the wax figures show any pain? Here’s an anatomical Venus, which can be taken apart in forty-four pieces. It comes from the Spitzner collection. It was an attraction at fairs for a long time.”
“It all looks abandoned.”
“The museum has been closed to the public for some time now. Every year, the school takes away a little more of our space, which explains the boxes. I only see students doing research these days.”
“But why?”
“There’s no money for upkeep. Priorities are elsewhere. We’re looking for a buyer, but so far, one hasn’t shown up.”
Nico sighed. “So meticulously collected and cared for, and still, there’s just so much you can control. The people who hold the purse strings don’t have the same vision for this place that you have. It’s like so much else in our lives. Elements beyond our control often get the better of our hopes and ambitions.”
“It’d be nice, wouldn’t it, if you could get someone in accounting to cook the books a little and filter some of that cash to this museum,” Marcel said. “But that wouldn’t be right, would it?”
“Sometimes you have to accept what you can’t change. As wonderful as this museum is, it will probably remain closed.”
“Aha. We’ve saved the best for last,” Marcel said.
The showcase displayed castings of two human brains.
“The statesman Léon Gambetta.”
“Nine hundred cubic centimeters. That’s the equivalent of a five-year-old child’s brain,” John said.
Marcel laughed. “Conclusion: just because you’ve got a big head, that doesn’t mean you’re smart.”
“And there you have Vacher’s brain,” John said.
“Joseph Vacher, the serial killer?” Nico asked.
“Exactly.”
The two hemispheres were enormous.
“Now, he did have a huge brain, but that didn’t prove he was smart, either,” John said. “We’d call it a pathological brain.”
The tour ended, and Marcel accompanied Nico back down the stairs.
“Isn’t that museum a gas?”
“I agree.”
“I spend more time talking to dead folks than living ones. It’s the job. But I have the feeling that you’ve got something on your mind.”
Nico stopped at the bottom of the staircase. Just a few students were coming and going. It was Christmas vacation.
“Clarisse Quere died this morning,” he said.
32
Caroline had slipped on her lace panties and was hooking her bra. Nico never tired of watching her do these simple things. She had so much grace and sensuality, it took all his discipline to keep from grabbing her, kissing the back of her neck, and telling her how beautiful she was.
Caroline gave him a mischievous smile. She made her way over to him like a cat. She buttoned his light-blue shirt and tied his tie, while rubbing against him and pretending to be sweet and innocent. And there he was—six-foot-two and all muscle—feeling like a wobbly teenager. He stopped moving, his heart beating hard in his chest. He felt hot. Caroline slipped her fingers through his blond hair and slowly pressed her lips against his. They kissed for a long time. He co
uld think of only one thing: making love.
She pulled away. “Darling, we’re going to be late,” she murmured.
The angel had slipped from his grasp. She put on a magnificent black silk dress and asked him to clasp her pearl necklace. He had to put out the fire that was still smoldering. Suddenly, she turned to him and gave him an intense, troubled look. A shiver ran up Nico’s spine. What was happening?
“I have something for you.”
She dug around in her bag and handed him a small box wrapped in Santa paper. He undid the ribbon and clumsily ripped at the paper. The Santas seemed to be mocking him. He opened the box, and his eyes widened. Was he understanding this correctly?
“If you still want to,” she said, shyly.
The box held a magnificent key ring with a multicolored heart.
“Don’t move,” he said. He rushed out of the bedroom and returned with the key. “This is for you.”
He slipped the key onto the key ring and gave it to her. It was official. This home was their home. He took Caroline in his arms and held her tight. “I love you so much,” he whispered in her ear.
“And I love you.”
“Dad! Caroline! Are you ready?”
Dimitri was eager to leave. “Where are the gifts, Dad?”
“In Santa’s bag, of course!”
“Aha. You put them in the trunk of the car, right?”
“No, my son. You must believe in the magic of Christmas,” Nico said in Russian.
In truth, he had dropped them off at his sister’s house the day before.
“But I do believe.”
“Can we go, boys?” Caroline said, smiling.
“Madame,” Nico replied, presenting his arm.
She took his arm and nodded. Dimitri laughed and closed the door behind them.
Paris, dressed in its Christmas finery, was ready for the festivities. A thousand lights twinkled in the city. Covered with a blanket of snow, the Luxembourg Gardens gleamed in the moonlight.
Crossing the Line Page 19
