Heart Collector

by Jacques Vandroux

  The man thought about it, then shook his arm out of her restraint. “It seems to me I’m not the only one on a crusade, Captain. But you’re right. We’ll only get there by joining forces.”

  “You can call me Nadia. And you’re right—I want those two bastards’ hides. But I also want to find Sophie.”

  “Good. But what about the interrogations and the investigation?”

  “Rivera took over. He can be difficult, but he’s a good cop. In fact, he’s an expert. So good—we’re going to look for the priest?”

  Julien spoke to the receptionist. “Hello, I absolutely must meet with Father de Valjoney.”

  She was typing away on her computer. “I’m sorry, Father Bernard is in a meeting until seven o’clock. Then he has an outside engagement all evening. However, I can leave him a message.”

  “I have to meet with him. It’s a matter of life and death.”

  “I’m really sorry, but he’s meeting with the bishop. Maybe I could help you somehow?”

  Nadia intervened. She took out her police badge and handed it to the receptionist. “Captain Barka. We absolutely must meet with Father de Valjoney. I’m going to ask you to interrupt his meeting. Tell him Julien Lombard and Captain Barka need him. He’ll understand why we’re here.”

  The receptionist sighed but obeyed the police officer’s orders. She left her post and headed into the building’s hallways. They didn’t exchange a word until the priest arrived. He thanked his colleague, greeted the two guests, and invited them to follow him into his office.

  “What emergency has brought you here?”

  “The killer has struck again. Another woman was abducted,” replied the policewoman.

  The priest sighed heavily and asked, “When did the abduction take place?”

  “I had the vision two hours ago,” interjected Julien.

  “Do they know the identity of the victim?”

  “It’s Sophie Dupas,” announced Nadia.

  The priest grew pale at the name. The policewoman continued, “We know Sartenas’s accomplice in this abduction. It’s Arsène Boisregard.”

  “Arsène Boisregard?” He looked at the police officer and saw certainty in her face. “Who would have thought Monsieur Boisregard was mixed up in this case?”

  “We’ve done an investigation, which quickly revealed Boisregard is a dangerous psychopath. We have only a few hours to find Sophie Dupas. But we don’t know where she’s hidden. Your help will be critical.”

  Bernard de Valjoney looked at the two of them. He was barely recovering from the news he’d just received. “I’m listening.”

  Julien took the lead. “The police are currently on the trail of the two men but don’t have any serious leads yet. I can think of only one person who can help us . . .”

  “Your mother’s spirit. It must be her you’re thinking of, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I want to meet with Lucienne Roman to contact Magali Dupré. I’m sure she’ll be able to help us.”

  “Unfortunately that won’t be possible.”

  “But—”

  The priest cut him off. “Lucienne Roman is currently at Mure Hospital. She had a heart attack the day after our visit. She’ll probably recover, but she’s very weak for the time being.”

  “Could we still ask her if . . .”

  “If we ask her to, she’ll agree. But I visited her yesterday, and I can assure you she won’t be capable of getting in contact with your mother. If there were the smallest chance, I would ask her to try.”

  Julien was stunned. His hope was evaporating. He’d already imagined a whole scenario, but on the assumption the old woman was in good health. He went on the attack. “But there must be other people who can get in touch with my mother? I’m sure you know some!”

  The priest dampened Julien Lombard’s wishful thinking with a gesture.

  “No, I don’t know any. Understand that the session we conducted with Lucienne Roman is an exception.”

  “But there are clairvoyants, people who communicate with spirits!”

  “Yes, they exist. But then we’re getting into an area that runs from charlatanism to black magic.”

  “I’m willing to do anything to find Sophie!”

  Julien was in a state of increasing agitation. Father de Valjoney got out of his chair and sat down next to him on the sofa.

  “Julien, I’ve known Sophie for thirty years. I baptized her, and I have only one wish right now: to care for her. So you can be certain that I’ll do all I can to help the police find her . . . alive. I’ll do all I can, but not just anything. Imagine you went to see a psychic. You absolutely won’t know who you’ll come across. Let’s even imagine this psychic puts you in contact with the great beyond, as you say. How will you know you’ll be dealing with your mother and not some evil spirit who will try to lead you astray? And who knows what state you’ll end up in?”

  “I’m willing to try the experiment.”

  “You say that because it’s a world you don’t know.”

  “But Madame Roman?”

  “I told you. Lucienne Roman’s case is an exception. Understand that I’m going to make every effort to find Sophie, but I beg of you, believe me—you won’t find your mother by going to see a random psychic, even if you do find one.”

  Julien Lombard was crushed. He was ready to fight when he’d started their meeting, but the priest’s words had made him change his mind. He knew about the tenderness between Father de Valjoney and Sophie; he also knew he wanted to save her.

  “So what do you advise us to do?” asked Barka, also disappointed by their meeting’s conclusion.

  The priest reflected, then seemed to hesitate. He got up from the sofa and paced around the room, searching for an idea that could end the situation’s deadlock. His guests respected his period of introspection. He stopped, then spoke to them.

  “I might be able to offer you our aid, but first I have to confer with my bishop.”

  The policewoman’s curiosity was piqued. “How much time will you need for him to come back?”

  “He’s still in the meeting, but I’m going to permit myself to disturb him. One hour from now, I will come back to you.”

  “Can you tell us more about this idea?”

  “Unfortunately, no. I can’t get involved personally, but rest assured I’ll contact you as soon as I have his response, whatever it may be. I have your cell phone number.”

  “Thank you. We’re going to go back to the police station. Before leaving, do you think your idea will allow us to significantly speed up the search?”

  “I can’t prejudge anything, but it would be able to contribute. So I’d need information from you.”

  “You’ll have it. Julien, are you coming back with me?”

  As Julien Lombard stood up, the priest took him by the arm.

  “I’d like to chat for a few minutes with you, if it’s not inconvenient.”

  Julien nodded and motioned to Nadia, who left the office.

  “What do you want to say to me?”

  “I’m still reading disappointment in your eyes. You expected to find help for getting Sophie back quickly, with the cooperation of Lucienne Roman. Unfortunately, she can no longer offer her service. But that doesn’t mean there’s no solution.”

  “What do you mean? Each time I had a premonition about, or even saw, the disappearance of one of Cabrade’s victims, she’s died within hours! Do you believe he’ll make an exception for the third? Surely not! So excuse me, but I don’t see why I should rejoice!”

  “I didn’t ask you to rejoice. But if you’ve received the gift of communicating with your deceased mother, it’s because there was a reason for it.”

  “I respect you, and I respect the Church. But what are you hoping for? That I acquire the gifts of a psychic during the evening? That by some miracl
e I encounter my mother while leaving here? ‘Here you go, my darling, here’s the plan for recovering Sophie. Obey the speed limit!’ Don’t you believe now is the time for action?”

  “Isn’t it a sort of miracle that you came to look here?”

  Julien sat back down in the chair. He hid his head in his hands and breathed deeply. Everything was getting so confused in his mind. His mother who spoke to him, his father who was a killer and was going to sacrifice the woman he wanted to build his life with. And especially the impotence they were all subject to, while the seconds ticked by inexorably, bringing them closer to the fatal conclusion. He wanted to act, run, fight, kill if he had to. He was simultaneously in a state of intense excitement and crushed by the curse that had befallen him. He was the son of a murderer who had killed his mother and was going to kill his future wife. How could he morally get out of that discovery unscathed?

  The distant voice of the priest brought him back to reality.

  “First of all, Julien, you are not responsible for the actions of the one you call your father. He’s at best a progenitor.”

  “Maybe, but don’t I have half his DNA inside me?”

  “Ah, the theory of crime being passed on by genes. If it were true, statistically, the earth would be filled with killers. No, Julien, everyone is responsible for his own actions in the witness of men!”

  The priest was imagining the tortures of the man crumpled on the sofa and had instinctively adopted an intimate tone. His assertion had reassured the young man.

  “But my mother! Why would she have spoken to me, then abandoned me when I need all her support?”

  “Why do you say she’s abandoned you? Listen and be patient.”

  “But how can I be patient when time is fleeting?”

  “The evening is still long. She wants to help you save Sophie. You must be attentive to what she has to tell you. She’s doing all she can for you. You must help her transmit her message to you.”

  Chapter 66: The Jail

  The intense blackness that enveloped her was terrifying. Even with her eyes wide open, she could see absolutely nothing. She felt nauseated and lost.

  But where was she? What was she doing in such an inhospitable place? She knelt down and waited for everything to stop spinning around her. Seconds passed, long and agonizing, before Sophie began to recover her wits. She knew she still had to be patient for a while before her brain would obey her again. She took the opportunity to try identifying the place where she found herself. The young woman felt at the floor and recognized wood by touch. Parquet, probably. She moved carefully on all fours and reached a wall. She clutched it and stood up gingerly. Her balance was better than she’d feared it would be for a moment. She circled the room until she arrived at a door. Overcome by a sudden burst of hope, she grabbed the handle, pushed it down, and applied all her weight. Nothing moved: locked in! So she was a prisoner! But why?

  She had to reactivate her brain, to understand. She concentrated intensely on the previous hours in her day. What had she done?

  Suddenly, the veil lifted and all her memories flooded back in a rush!

  Lunch with her father, Professor Boisregard’s call, the drive up to Uriage. She was in such a hurry to hear the historian’s revelations that she’d nearly gone off the road during a turn. Seventy miles per hour in the valley, it was undoubtedly too fast for the road. A skillful turn of the wheel had put her back on the right path and calmed her enthusiasm for driving. She’d then stationed the car alongside the park and found her contact near the children’s carousel.

  Boisregard was very excited. She’d had to calm him down, his statements were so incoherent. He seemed to be under the effect of an extreme psychotic episode. So they’d walked and headed toward a little wood apart from the main path. Sophie had not noticed, convinced a little activity would allow the curator to get his head on straight. The images were now coming back clearly to her mind . . .

  She’d followed Boisregard, who was explaining his train of thought to her. He’d arrived at the name of the person he suspected. His last sentence had rooted Sophie to the spot! She’d turned toward the historian. Within a few seconds, the timid, panicked curator had given way to a man whose self-possession had rendered her speechless. His features had radically altered—they were hard, and the only smile that lit his face was cold and sardonic.

  “Oh, yes, my dear Mademoiselle Dupas. My deduction leads me to believe that the man who lent his support to the butcher of Grenoble is me! I couldn’t announce it directly to the police, now could I?”

  Sophie had remained speechless. Her brain was idling. Boisregard had to be the victim of an attack of dementia. But the cracking of branches had alerted her. She’d turned around abruptly.

  That face! She’d seen it recently. But where? No! Him! Sartenas was standing before her. A surge of adrenaline infused Sophie. She’d succeeded in escaping Sartenas’s arms when he tried to grab her. Get out of the woods, get out of the woods, and go back to the protection of the eyes of the badauds strolling around the park! But Boisregard had stuck out his leg, catching her ankle like a scythe. She’d skidded, but managed not to fall. She was athletic! That second of imbalance, however, had doomed her. Sartenas, mad with rage, had caught her by the shoulders. Boisregard had put his hand in his pocket. He’d pulled out a syringe. The needle had approached the young woman’s neck. She’d wanted to scream, but she couldn’t tell whether a sound had come out of her throat. A sudden prick, then a black hole.

  Panic instantly swept over Sophie Dupas. She was alone, doubtless far from all habitation, at Sartenas’s mercy. And she no longer had one psychopath to deal with, but two. One, or two—would that change anything about her fate? Chronicle of a death foretold . . . She trembled and retreated to a corner of the room. She didn’t want to die. She especially didn’t want to die this death. The idea of Sartenas’s hand entering her chest to seize her heart repulsed her. No, not that! She sank to her knees and vomited repeatedly, in long streams. Her tears flowed without her trying to restrain them. The shock was too violent. She knew what was waiting for her. She was completely overwhelmed for long minutes, then gradually calmed. She had to survive. She couldn’t die like the others, not her! A man was waiting for her out there, and they had more than fifty years to live together.

  Sophie looked for a few reasons to hope. Julien had undoubtedly foreseen her disappearance, and the police must now be looking for her. They’d find her and save her life. She decided not to dig deeper into her reasoning. She’d doubtless find multiple arguments that would damage this kernel of optimism. And she didn’t want to appear as a willing victim.

  She thought back on Sartenas’s career. She would not take part in his kill count.

  Her phone! She crawled on all fours, scouring the dark room for her handbag. After two minutes of frenetic agitation, she stopped. Obviously, my poor Sophie, they would have left you your bag, the keys, and a plan for escaping this prison! Now, calm down. She sat down on the floor and patted the waist of her skirt: she felt a slight protuberance. A smile came over her in spite of herself. She ran her fingers over it and pulled sharply on a thread sticking out: she felt a little packet fall into her hand. Three safety matches wrapped in plastic film and a one and one-quarter inch razor blade protected by a piece of paper. A habit she’d picked up in her younger days during hikes with her father.

  If you have enough to make fire, a piece of string, and a knife, you’ll be able to get yourself out of almost any situation, the man who’d been her hero at the time told her. As a child and teenager, she’d had those things in all the pockets of her clothing and bags. Then, she’d sewn them into the linings of her clothes. It had been several years since she’d indulged in that kind of mania, but that morning she’d grabbed the first skirt she touched in her wardrobe. And to think she’d wanted to give it to charity the previous week! She took this discovery as a sign of encouragement from fa
te. She took the matches out of their plastic pouch. She moved up next to the wall and struck one on the stone.

  The light given off by the flame lit up the room just enough. Sophie memorized it with her eyes. The red brick walls were about twenty feet wide. Several paintings she couldn’t make out the details of were hung there. The ceiling, supported by two thick, barely hewn beams, was low. The ground was covered in a rough wood floor. Against the wall facing the door, a massive stone table—a substantial slate slab comprised the wide tabletop. Behind the table, as if glued to the wall, a wheel, sculpted from a piece of rock. As Sophie approached to look at it more closely, the flame went out, burning the tips of her fingers. She struck a second match and observed the sculpture. She immediately recognized a Mayan solar calendar, later taken up by the Aztecs. If she’d still had the slightest doubt, now it was no longer allowed. She shivered; it was taking tremendous effort to maintain her cool. Letting herself wallow in despair wouldn’t help. She suddenly remembered a saying from Cicero, one of her only memories from the Latin proverbs her father tried to teach her when she’d been twelve: “Dum anima est, spes esse dicitur. As long as there is life, there is hope.” Another sign—there would be no other reason for her to remember that phrase, which she hadn’t recalled in forever, at such a dramatic moment. Hold on, girl, they’re looking for you, and you have to give them time.

  Chapter 67: The Book of the Sun

  6:00 p.m. Pierre-Marie de Morot once more consulted the sheets on the table. Commissioner Mazure, Stéphane Rivera, Nadia Barka, and Antoine Dupas were awaiting his verdict. By calling Father de Valjoney, Mazure had managed to get Morot’s private contact information. As luck would have it the historian was stopped at a red light a few hundred yards away from the police station when his phone had rung.

  Antoine Dupas had started to study the document. However, he’d quickly proposed seeking out Pierre-Marie de Morot, distinguished Latinist and French specialist in monastic history from fifteenth- and sixteenth-century Europe.