Franck Thilliez - Syndrome E

He suddenly interrupted himself and turned toward the bay window.

“Did you hear that?”

“What?”

He ran to the table to grab up his weapon.

“A cracking sound.”

Lucie remained calm. The beer had steadied her nerves.

“Isn’t it just the fire?”

“No, no. It came from outside.”

He turned off the lights and inched toward the window. The stove gave his face a red glow. Lucie came closer. He stretched his hand toward her.

“Stay away from the window!”

Lucie froze. Outside, everything was perfectly still. The black tree trunks rose like malevolent totems.

“Who are you afraid of?” whispered Lucie. “You can see there’s no one around. And no one followed us—I’d never seen such long, straight roads in my life.”

“Only a few months ago I still lived in the center of Montreal. Then someone tried to kill me.”

He moved aside and lifted the tail of his shirt. Lucie saw wide scars.

“Two stabs with a knife. Another quarter inch and that would have been it.”

“The CIA?”

He tightened his lip and shook his head.

“That’s not how they operate. The recent discovery of the bodies in Normandy makes me think now that the guy was French.”

“Secret service?”

“Perhaps.”

“If I said Foreign Legion, would that sound right?”

“I couldn’t say. I vaguely remember what the guy looked like… Square jaw, well built, military bearing.”

The guy in combat boots , thought Lucie.

“What is for sure is that the attempt on my life was clearly connected with Szpilman’s film and what we’d discovered. Even so, he and I were working in strict secret, trying to find the trail, marshal our facts, as you’re trying to do now. He was a lot more careful than I was. I still don’t know how the people following me found out. The leak could have come from anywhere. While I was investigating, I made a lot of phone calls and met a lot of people. In mental hospitals, archives, religious institutions. Those killers must have contacts, lookouts. Since then, I’ve been hiding out here, protected by reliable sources, in the middle of nowhere.”

Squatting, gun in hand, he ventured another quick look through the bay window. He sighed heavily, and after thirty long seconds stood up again.

“Maybe an animal after all. There’s no shortage of elks and beavers around here.”

He regained his calm. In his younger years, this man must have stared down a fair number of dangerous and influential people, faced the darkness and managed to keep his wits about him, and yet he was ending his days as a full-blown paranoiac.

“I suppose you didn’t turn up much in the archives?” he asked. “I went there myself, about a year ago. It’s clear that the names corresponding to little girls’ faces can be found in the religious communities. But as I’m sure you’ve discovered, they’re inaccessible. It’s the only thing I’m still missing: the names of those young patients, to help us find our way back to the mental ward with the children and the rabbits, to those girls, get their testimony, living proof that—”

“I have the names.”

“You what?”

“Many religious institutions are closing for lack of funds. Their archives have been relocated to the center in Montreal. Didn’t you know?”

He shook his head.

“Since I’ve been in hiding, it’s harder for me to keep current.”

“The little girl on the swing is named Alice Tonquin.”

“Alice…” He sighed, as if the name had remained caught at the back of his throat for years.

“The Sûreté lost track of her, but her last known address was the convent of the Gray Sisters. I have the name of the nun who took care of her. Sister Marie du Calvaire. That’s where I was headed before you… kidnapped me.”

“How did you manage that?”

“We mined the film for everything in it.”

He smiled imperceptibly.

“I think it’s time I told you about the rest of our findings, Vlad’s and mine. And that we were making progress thanks to your information. Let’s go back to the computer…”

When he returned to the table, his eyes fell on Lucie’s cell phone. He picked it up.

“Your phone…”

“What about it?”

“You said it wasn’t working. Since when?”

“Um… I tried to use it when I landed in Canada and—”

Lucie didn’t finish her sentence, having just understood. Rotenberg turned the device over and opened the cover in back, his hands trembling. He tore what looked like a small electronic chip from its compartment.

“That’s got to be a tracking device.”

His blue eyes widened in panic. Lucie’s hands flew to her head.

“The guy sitting next to me, on the plane… I was asleep for almost the entire trip.”

“Drugged, most likely. They must have been watching you for a while. And they used you to find me. They—they’re here…”

Lucie thought of the hidden microphones in her apartment and Sharko’s. It was easy for the killers to shadow her.

Rotenberg immediately pulled out his own cell phone and dialed 911.

“Philip Rotenberg. Send someone right away to Matawinie, right next to the lake, where it meets the Matawin River. I’ll give you the exact GPS coordinates—please take them down quickly!”

“What is the nature of your emergency?”

“They’re here to kill me!”

He gave the memorized coordinates and hung up, again urging them to hurry. Then, hunched over, he crept back toward the stove. Lucie imitated him. The fire made the inside of the house dangerously bright, and there was glass on all sides. Just as he approached the stove, the bay window exploded.

Philip Rotenberg was thrown backward, his body landing heavily on the floor. A red bloom began spreading on his white shirt. His chest was still heaving. From outside, flames suddenly surged. Large moving curtains, coming from the woods. In front and behind. A violent red dance suddenly enveloped the outer walls of the cabin.

Fire, which had cost Lacombe his life so long ago, was seeking new victims…

Lucie rushed to Rotenberg, who was wheezing through a hole in his throat. She pressed her two palms over the wound. Her fingers instantly turned purple.

“Hang on, Philip!”

The man gripped Lucie’s wrists tightly. His eyes seemed to be preparing for death. Thick black smoke was pouring under the door.

“On my neck… The key… Pull…”

Lucie hesitated a split second, then did as told. She yanked on the thin chain at the end of which hung a small bit of metal. Blood had begun to foam from Rotenberg’s mouth.

“What is this a key to?”

The lawyer murmured something inaudible.

A teardrop, then no more.

Lucie stuffed the key into her pocket and stood up partway, in a panic. She grabbed up the gun, looked quickly around her. There was only one place the fire hadn’t attacked yet: the shattered bay window.

She tried to think fast. The sniper could have taken her out at the same time as Rotenberg, yet he hadn’t. He wanted to force her outside like a rabbit from its warren.

Lucie had no doubt: the killer wanted her alive.

If she set foot outside, she was done for.

She began to cough. The temperature was rising, the wood starting to crack. She had to hold out.

Behind her, outside, the flames were rising greedily. It wouldn’t be long before they engulfed everything. From her hiding place behind the stove, Lucie dragged herself to the coffee table, pulled off her sweatshirt, rolled it into a ball, and doused it with water. She stuffed it against her nose.

Wait, just wait … The attacker would surely start wondering, having second thoughts, thinking she might have gotten away. He’d have to give in.