Heart Collector

by Jacques Vandroux

  “It happened, but only for certain kings or emperors. These kings or emperors in turn would offer some of their blood to the gods.”

  He asked again, “Do you really think this could be connected to the murders?”

  “I don’t know, Professor,” confessed Nadia. “But the killer is not of sound mind. Many serial killers have patterned themselves after templates of all kinds. Given the modus operandi, nothing should be ruled out.”

  “Have I answered all your questions?”

  “I have a last request, Professor.”

  Boisregard looked at his watch. “I can give you a few more minutes.”

  “We’ve talked about rather . . . expeditious sacrifices. Were there, to your knowledge, other types of offerings to the gods? I’m thinking of longer rituals, still based on blood, but for which the victim would have been kept alive for several days, or several weeks?”

  The professor looked at her questioningly. “Can you be more specific, Captain?”

  “The victim would be regularly bled, according to a precise ritual, to honor a divinity. But the priest doesn’t tear out the heart. He uses it regularly. He bleeds her, according to a religious code, then waits for her to regain some of her strength. Then he bleeds her again. Which today would be considered a torture session.”

  The curator slowly shook his head side to side. “The Aztecs honored their gods, but the objective was not at all to make their victims suffer. Which is the case in what you’re describing to me.”

  “Still, Professor, tearing out a man’s heart, drowning a child, or burying a woman alive—I don’t call that philanthropy toward the human race,” interjected Sophie. “So why not offer the deserving god the blood and suffering of the victim?”

  Ever the educator, Boisregard replied. “Only the blood interested the Aztecs. Not the suffering of the victim. However, I’m going to check with my friend in Lyon. He sometimes comes to Grenoble. Maybe there are cases I don’t know about?”

  “You’ve been a big help to us. We’ll let you get back to your work.”

  All three of them stood up and left Antoine Dupas’s office. They went their separate ways in the parking lot. The women headed for Sophie’s car.

  “Can you take me back home?” asked Nadia.

  “Of course.”

  Then, hesitantly, Sophie asked, “Do you have something planned for dinner?”

  Nadia looked at her, surprised by the offer. But then she realized it would give them some time to take stock of their conversation with the curator. And it would also prevent her from having to spend the evening alone at home.

  “No, I don’t have plans. Just drop me off at home first. I have to take my meds. After that, you can pick the restaurant. Just please not pizza tonight!”

  Chapter 36: The Psychic

  8:00 p.m. Julien Lombard had been waiting under a plane tree for a good half hour. Father de Valjoney had called him in the early afternoon and arranged this meeting without giving him any further information. A car pulled up along the sidewalk. The window rolled down, and the priest said to him, “Sorry for the delay, Julien, I had to go pick up Doctor Blanchet. Get in, please, they’re expecting us.”

  Speechless, Julien climbed into the little Italian car. Father de Valjoney took off, tires squealing, and merged into traffic. From the backseat, a middle-aged man with a full salt-and-pepper beard amiably extended his hand.

  “I’m Dr. Philippe Blanchet. I’ll be ensuring the interview goes smoothly.”

  Julien’s flabbergasted expression surprised him. He turned back to the priest. “Bernard, you didn’t tell him who we’re going to see?”

  “No, I had to run around all afternoon.”

  “The first thing to do is to actually get his consent,” reminded Dr. Blanchet.

  “You’re right, Philippe, but I’m sure he’ll agree. If that’s not the case, we’ll turn around and go right back.”

  This exchange intrigued Julien. He wanted to understand what was going on. Father de Valjoney pulled him aside.

  “Could you explain to me what’s happening?” Julien asked.

  “Well, of course, my dear Julien. I’ve thought a lot about our conversation yesterday. I was troubled when we parted. I went to see one of my close friends after you left, and we talked well into the night.”

  He gave the steering wheel a sharp jerk to avoid a motorcycle coming at them, then turned onto the highway going south.

  “The decision I made wouldn’t have been approved by my superiors. But I felt the experiment was necessary. So I contacted the person we’re going to see, and as soon as I explained the context of my request, she agreed to meet you. That’s why we’re headed for Corps.”

  Julien knew the little village of Corps, nestled between the Notre-Dame-de-la-Salette basilica and the majestic slopes of l’Obiou. La Salette was the most famous shrine in the Dauphiné region. One hundred and fifty years earlier, the Virgin was said to have appeared on the mountainside to two young shepherds tending their flock. But Julien didn’t see how that could connect to his nightmares. And why were they bringing a doctor with them?

  “Excuse me, but I didn’t get why we’re going to Corps.”

  The priest concentrated on not missing the Vizille exit, then continued his explanation. “Your visions—or nightmares! There are far too many coincidences for them to be merely an exercise in autosuggestion on your part. Someone is speaking to you. So let’s call this someone a spirit. As I told you, the Church urges Christians not to try to contact spirits. In many cases, the spirits can be harmful to those who speak with them. In your case, the will of the spirit speaking to you is clearly to avert the murders, and the murderer was nearly arrested between Sunday night and Monday morning.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “The police informed me. This spirit is talking to you and wants to help you help us stop the killer.”

  “But why not do it in a clearer way?”

  “A spirit isn’t an investigator, Julien. It expresses itself with the resources at its disposal. And we’re going to try to help it.”

  “But how?”

  “We’re going to meet with a psychic.”

  Julien had more or less foreseen this, but the priest’s announcement froze him. “A psychic?”

  “Yes. That’s why making such a decision required careful consideration on my part. But given the gravity of the situation, and the risk of the murderer striking again, I finally organized this meeting.”

  Julien turned toward the doctor. His presence here was obviously not solely to satisfy a desire to take a walk around the Corps countryside at sunset. Philippe Blanchet responded to his silent question.

  “You’re going to meet Lucienne Roman. She’s had this gift for more than fifty years, but she’s eighty now. She agreed to meet with you; however, her séances are exhausting for her. I’ll be there to make sure everything goes well, and I’ll interrupt the conversation if she starts to faint.”

  Father de Valjoney added, “It’s been ten years since Lucienne last played the role of medium. We hesitated a long time before contacting her. But she agreed right away, very affected by what happened to those poor girls.”

  “And how is this going to work?” asked Julien.

  “Lucienne is what they call a trance speaker. She allows the spirit who is present to express itself using her mouth. She is just a channel and doesn’t participate in the exchanges.”

  “So I’ll be in direct contact with whoever’s been communicating with me through visions for the last eight days?”

  “Exactly.”

  Silence fell over the car. Each passenger was lost in his thoughts. Julien saw Vizille fly by, the Laffrey lakes, the old mining village of La Mure, then they headed for Gap. They followed the Route Napoléon that had taken the emperor, traveling in the opposite direction, from Golfe-Juan t
o Grenoble in 1815, after his departure from the island of Elba. But the speed at which Father de Valjoney was traveling the road had nothing in common with that of the Napoleonic armies.

  When Julien saw the sign for the village, he felt a knot in his stomach. He could no longer escape this meeting, which he was dreading. Who was he going to encounter, or what? What if this spirit ultimately wanted to hurt him?

  The car passed through the village. The priest turned onto a dirt road, the vehicle jolting in the random rhythm of the road’s ruts. A plume of dust, the sign of a land already dried out by the sun and the wind, danced around the car. At the end of the road, Julien spotted a lonely little house—an old farmstead with dry stone walls, huddled between two ancient boulders that protected it from the harsh mountain climate. Four goats were grazing around the old sheepfold. They lifted their heads upon hearing the car arrive, then resumed their search for the rare tufts of grass. Father de Valjoney turned off the engine. “Here we are.”

  They got out of the car. The priest opened up the trunk, held out a satchel to the doctor, and then removed a worn little leather suitcase.

  A tiny woman came toward them waving her hand. Skin wrinkled by the sun, her thick bun of gray hair held by a net, she moved confidently, cheerfully carrying her eighty years. She patted the neck of a goat that came out to meet her. The image of this serene woman, in harmony with the harsh environment where she’d always lived, soothed the young man.

  She headed toward the priest and greeted him respectfully. She uttered some words of welcome for Julien Lombard and Doctor Blanchet before leading them to the house.

  The farmstead was rustic. A main room with the kitchen in one corner, an old woodstove, and a massive table that seemed to occupy the whole house. Through a half-open door, Julien spied a little bedroom. The rooms exuded the modesty of a hard life, but they were impeccably kept. Two narrow windows let in the last light of the evening. This house had been built, centuries earlier, to protect its inhabitants from the torments of the outside world. Julien took that as a sign.

  Lucienne Roman invited them to sit at the table and served them coffee, which had been warming for hours. She’d dressed for the mission. The old woman had agreed immediately to Father de Valjoney’s request, but she knew the séance would exhaust her. She’d long ago lost that incredible stamina that won the admiration of all the boys in the village. But she wasn’t afraid of death. She’d lived through too many trials to fear it. She didn’t wish for it, but she’d confront it with serenity if it had to come. And if her life allowed her to save a young woman, then what a good trade!

  She thought quickly back on all the people she’d helped during all those years and rejoiced at being useful again. She spoke to Julien, voice cracking. “Can you remind me of your name, young man?”

  “Julien Lombard, madame.”

  “Go pull the curtains across the windows, Julien. We mustn’t be disturbed.”

  While Julien carried out the psychic’s request, Lucienne spoke to the priest. “Father, I’ve prepared my bedroom so that you may rest there comfortably.”

  “Thank you, Lucienne. I’ve already stored my things there.”

  At Julien’s questioning look, Father de Valjoney explained. “I’m going to pray in Madame Roman’s bedroom while she puts you in contact with the one who’s sending you messages. I will call on Christ to protect you two. But I won’t listen to what is said.”

  “Neither will I,” added Doctor Blanchet. “I’ll look after the health of our hostess. If I see the effort is too much for her, I’ll ask her to stop the conversation.”

  Seeing Julien’s worried look, Lucienne Roman gave him a smile. “Don’t fret, my young friend. If the father decided to bring you here, it’s because he thinks you’ll benefit. Leave it to me, and do what I tell you, or what the person who speaks through me tells you.”

  Father de Valjoney added one last detail before leaving the room. “Lucienne won’t have any memory of what the spirit who wants to communicate with you says. She’ll be only a vessel. As for what you’re going to see, or hear, or feel, that will be yours alone.”

  “Now, let’s get to it,” said the old woman.

  The room was plunged into darkness that deepened from one minute to the next. Two chairs had been placed facing each other for Lucienne and Julien, and Lucienne took Julien’s hands. Doctor Blanchet seated himself off to the side, ready to intervene at the first sign of weakness in the psychic.

  Julien felt the women’s gnarled hands grip his wrists. She seemed about to fall asleep. The young man started to shiver. He shouldn’t be afraid. And he wasn’t! The temperature in the room was dropping almost imperceptibly. He could barely see the face of the woman across from him anymore. Her hands now gripped his more and more strongly, and he heard her breathing accelerate. The temperature continued to fall inside the house. Then he heard the psychic murmur, “It’s coming . . . it’s very near . . . I feel it, so close.”

  Then in a stronger voice, the old woman said, “If you are of the devil, flee this house. If you are of God, take possession of me.”

  More silence. The woman ceased panting. The room was now pitch-black, and cold, as if life had disappeared to make room for the world of the dead. Julien felt abandoned. He was about to find himself face-to-face, alone with the great beyond. Alone with his nightmares? Lucienne was no longer there to reassure him. She was elsewhere and had ceded her place to the stranger, a stranger such as he’d never before encountered, nor even imagined. No! He had to pull himself together. Hiding in his deepest fears was unworthy of the confidence Lucienne had in him. He breathed slowly and regained control of himself. A silhouette then appeared quietly before him. He jumped. At first indistinct and diaphanous, the image gradually sharpened. The ectoplasmic vision, far from terrifying him, enveloped him in a warmth that contrasted with the icy air of the room. Instantly, he recognized the feeling he’d had in the killer’s basement—that presence that had accompanied him. Yes, it was indeed the spirit who had already spoken to him several times.

  “Hello, Julien.”

  He was astonished by the clear voice coming from the psychic’s throat. A clear, young voice—a woman’s voice. Hesitantly, the young man replied. “Hello . . . who . . . who are you?”

  “I am the one who was sent to stop the tragedy.”

  The silhouette now appeared clearly in the darkness of the room. A woman looked at Julien. A young woman with a boyish haircut. It was difficult to make out her face, a gentle face with a sad smile. Julien’s gaze was hypnotized by the woman’s dress. A white dress, stained with blood.

  “You, too?” he asked in a whisper.

  “He did kill me, too. Thirty years ago. But he’s been haunted by his act all these years.”

  The situation was unreal. The old woman, in a trance state, was speaking with a sweet and enchanting voice. She continued, “To fight his obsession, he’s begun to kill. Kill to chase away his demons! I tried to warn you.”

  “You can’t give me his name?”

  “Alas, it’s not possible for me. I can tell you only one thing. He will seek to kill again. I will help you, but this time, you’ll be ready.”

  “Why me?” he asked.

  The voice fell silent. Julien feared she had vanished for a moment, but the silhouette was still there.

  “Because . . . because you are someone with whom I can communicate.”

  He didn’t understand at the moment, but he would undoubtedly have the opportunity to think about it later. “Who is he?”

  “He was my husband.”

  “Your husband killed you?”

  “Yes, he was jealous. Jealous of my freedom and the child I was about to bring into the world.”

  “Did he kill the child, too?”

  “No, the child escaped him.”

  Julien had recovered his composure. He felt total confidence in t
he woman speaking to him. “How can we stop him?”

  “He killed me thirty years ago, in Grenoble. No one knew anything about it, but seek out and go find Aurélien. He’ll tell you everything.”

  The woman’s directives were hardly specific, but they were engraved on the young man’s heart. He noticed that Lucienne was starting to have difficulty breathing. The doctor noticed as well.

  “Be careful, Julien, he’s not alone. A diabolical man is helping him with his enterprise.”

  “Who?”

  “I cannot give you his name . . . Julien, I’m going to have to leave you now.”

  The doctor was holding Lucienne’s hand and trying to revive her. Julien motioned at him to wait a few seconds.

  “What’s your name? Please tell me.”

  Her gentle gaze rested on him. “My name is Magali.”

  Although he knew no one named Magali, the name evoked something deep inside him. He whispered to her, “Good-bye, Magali.”

  The silhouette was disappearing. But he clearly heard her last words.

  “Good-bye for now . . . my son.”

  Chapter 37: Julien’s Mother

  The priest had come out of the bedroom, leaving Doctor Blanchet to lay Lucienne on her bed. The old woman hadn’t been too taxed by the experience and was starting to come to.

  Julien hadn’t moved from his chair. Father de Valjoney had wanted to speak to him, but the doctor had gestured to the father to give the young man some time to assimilate the discovery he’d just made. In fact, Julien wasn’t thinking. He didn’t want to emerge from the fog enveloping him. He didn’t want to try to understand. He’d believed this woman, Magali, but the last sentence hadn’t made any sense. He pulled himself together. It was stupid, stupid, but . . . he was going to celebrate his thirtieth birthday in a few days. No, it was just a coincidence. His parents were Denise and Emmanuel Lombard, and he was born in Grenoble. This Magali had lied to him! But why? Why did he sense she was protecting him? He came out of his stupor.