S. Cedric - Of Fever and Blood

“Like vampires?” This made Eva smile, from exhaustion or curiosity or both. “If the brothers rise from the autopsy table, then you’ll have your answer,” she told him.

“Yeah, I know, it’s stupid,” Vauvert admitted.

“Not at all. But you know very well that our bosses are going to close this case as soon as possible. The press is going to come up with some idiotic name for those two serial killers, and in a couple of months, all this is going to be forgotten.. You and I will be chasing other horrors. That’s what we do, isn’t it?”

Vauvert nodded.

“Yeah. But that’s not an answer. You think that this is the end? It’s all really over?”

Eva stared at the Pyrenees Mountains, thinking.

She did not answer.

Neither of the brothers rose from the autopsy table. It did not keep the press from labeling them the Black Mountain Vampires and giving more or less accurate accounts of the murderous madness that had gripped the two men. After all, they had killed more than twenty girls in an especially atrocious way over the course of a year, and all that with total impunity. The mystery surrounding what they had done with all that blood-and the faces, which were never found-remained a source of speculation. It was a bonanza for the media.

Inspector Svarta stayed in Toulouse for only a few days before returning to Paris to chase other horrors, as she put it. There would always be other cases, other psychopaths to catch, and other nightmares that the human species loved inflicting on its own kind. It was her crusade, for reasons known only by her secret heart and the private wounds behind her ruby gaze. Vauvert remained the official in charge, stuck with facing the press onslaught, vultures armed with mikes and cameras.

This period of borderline hysteria lasted for a month or so. During that time, there was not a paper, radio or television station that did not suck the “vampire” vein dry. Some even went as far as including long clips from horror movies.

The first days, though, Vauvert was surprised at how politely he responded to the requests from the press. It did not last. He soon became fed up with the sensationalism and withdrew into his usual silence. He ignored the paparazzi camped on the sidewalk and started parking in the underground garage at headquarters to avoid the reporters. At night, he drove straight home to his big loft and did not go out. He kept the blinds closed. All he had to do was wait until the dust settled. He lived alone anyway and spent most of his hazy sleepless nights sprawled on the couch, either watching television or going through his case files.

He had talked to Eva again, but their phone calls were brief and professional. They discussed the few developments in the case and ended their conversations with trivialities.

On each one of these occasions, Vauvert wound up staring at the cell phone in his huge hand, drowning in his thoughts. There were things he wanted to say to Svarta. He wanted to talk about his behavior when they first met and the way he had underestimated her. He felt compelled to apologize. Except he had never been much of a talker, especially not with women. And especially, especially not with the ones he was really interested in.

He also wondered why she had bothered to call him several times at the very beginning, when she could just as easily have checked the files herself. Then she stopped calling. Why? Often, when the evening came, he would stare at his cell phone, scroll through the numbers until he got to hers, and then he would hesitate, his thumb on the call icon, his mind blank. What would he say to her? Nothing. Probably nothing.

He would put the phone aside and light a cigarette.

Loneliness was an old friend. At least he knew what to expect.

Besides, the media turmoil had started to die down. He could breathe again, even though the case was still officially open.

As far as the Salaville brothers were concerned, the forensics unit did not uncover anything more than what they already knew. The brothers had kidnapped those girls for reasons that remained unknown, and they had tortured them, one after another. With no exception, they had ripped the skin off their faces before bleeding them like livestock.

Nobody could begin to understand why they had committed such atrocities, why they had drawn pentacles and covered the walls with esoteric inscriptions. The men’s past, as their medical files pointed out, was but a pitiful series of stays in correctional facilities and psychiatric institutions. According to all of the specialists who had seen them, both had manifested behavioral problems for a long time. It was a congenital syndrome that ensured their whole lives would be spent on psychotropic drugs.

What the hell had they done with their victims’ blood? That was a total puzzler.

The disappearance of the faces, which had been peeled off the victims while they were still in agony, was a more haunting matter. But after six months, the Homicide Unit had no choice but to move on to other cases. The only two suspects were deceased.

There was nothing left to do. Meanwhile, other news-a radioactive leak up north-riveted the journalists’ attention. The Black Mountain Vampires gradually slipped into the oblivion of old nightmares, and were buried there.

Vauvert did his best to shake an uneasy feeling of incompleteness and avoid lingering in the nauseating twists of the grisly story.

Until he was pulled back into it.

Thirteen months later, precisely.

When the murders started again.

Identical.

Paris

Friday, 10 p.m.

Long after the sun dipped below the rooftops and disappeared, lightning lit the sky. The first raindrops plopped, almost timidly, against the expansive window. Then the splashing became blasts. There was no shyness about it. It was a tempest beating down with a rage.

Comfortable in her armchair, Audrey Desiderio shut her eyes and let the alcohol warm her. The boardroom was deserted. At this time of night, the entire staff was gone. Only she remained. She did not feel like leaving just yet. She was the boss and had every right to stay. Lately, she had even taken to lingering behind.

Tonight more than any other night, she needed to unwind. The magazine had gone to press. The week had seemed like it would never end, and she was worn out, mentally, as well as physically.

In such moments, nothing topped the pleasure of having no responsibility in the world beyond holding a glass of whisky, taking in the peaty fragrance, and feeling the cold of the ice cubes. She could lose herself in the whirl of her thoughts without worrying about the sales of the two publications she was responsible for, about editorial meetings and childish ego wars, battles over the price of every photo, and freelancers’ delays and excuses. She could escape, if only for a few moments, from the massive responsibilities that weighed on her shoulders and crushed her a bit more each day.

Audrey Desiderio felt old. How on earth do you feel old at only thirty-nine? Oh, she knew very well how. All she had to do was glance at the boardroom walls. All these covers with fourteen-year-old models who had no need yet for the blush and eyeliner on their faces. And the teasing captions on the covers: “Pink Goth-The Innocent Look for Bad Girls,” “The Five-Day Fast: When You Need Results Right Now,” “Dream Chick or Worst Nightmare? Which Girlfriend Are You?”

For years, she had felt so superior. When she actually was in control of her life. But now? In less than six months, she would turn forty. All this work over inconsequential magazine content designed to sell shampoos and shoes, and designer labels and all this watching anorexic kids dressed up like porn stars filled her with just one desire. To look like them. For just a few moments still.