S. Cedric - Of Fever and Blood

Vauvert fired again.

He missed and fired again.

Then he fired a burst of shots.

His sixth or seventh-Vauvert didn’t know-hit one of the animals in the breast. The wolf fell back and emitted a howl like the scream of dozens of babies, blood seeping from its jaws.

Still, it got back up. In its eyes was the fiery glow of pure hatred.

It lunged at the man, its bloody jaws open wide, its fangs like razors.

Vauvert fired one last time. He hit the beast in the head. The wolf stiffened, as though electrocuted, and crashed at the inspector’s feet.

He raised his gun toward the other beast.

It was not there.

Vauvert pressed his back against the side of the house. He whirled his gun from one side to the other, covering all the space in front of him. No wolf. Somehow it had bolted off.

But where? The wolf had been at least thirty feet from the gate. He would have seen it heading in that direction.

So where had the animal run off to? And how could it have just slipped away?

The inspector blinked. He wondered whether he could trust his senses. Was he seeing things? Nothing like this had ever happened before.

He turned to the animal that he’d shot down.

It was gone too.

Where the beast had collapsed, a bullet in its head, there was nothing.

In different circumstances, Vauvert would have thought he was losing his mind.

Over the years, he had learned what it meant to be a cop, to be the one who was paid to plunge into the dirty parts of society, into the blood and hate, in order to spare everyone else. And he did plunge into the blood and hate, each time emerging a bit dirtier. But always standing.

Now, as each time before, he was standing. He scanned the yard, trying to calm the rush of blood pounding in his chest.

This was no time to panic. Maybe he didn’t understand what had just happened, but it was a case he had to solve.

In his fifteen years, he had seen his share of other strange sights. Things that couldn’t be put in the reports, things that he understood instinctively as a cop but did not make sense on paper.

He lowered his eyes. His fatigue pants were caked with mud. The wolf had splattered him as it crashed to the ground, so he had not dreamed this.

He walked to the gate and inspected it. At least one of the bullets had damaged the metal. He had thought he hit the animal, though. Twice.

Crouching, he examined the ground.

Casings from the bullets were scattered in the mud..

He also spotted two small lead objects.

From his pocket, he retrieved a pair of latex gloves and a small plastic bag.

Ever so carefully, he picked up the bullets.

He was no ballistics expert, but he could clearly see that they were crushed and fragmented, like bullets that had struck flesh and bone.

And both of these were covered with blood.

Sunday, noon

Wearing her sky-blue T-shirt with the image OF Corto Maltese, her favorite graphic-novel antihero, and sitting comfortably on her couch, Leila Amari was having a late breakfast while watching Funny Face on her big flat-screen television. She owned a large collection of musicals, which she knew by heart and never tired of watching. They evoked a carefree past when you could sing and dance in the rain without getting locked up before the end of the day.

That was her secret pleasure, really-the bubble she could retreat into when she needed to get away. She spent every other day inspecting depressing crime scenes, her nose in the blood, leading her forensics team as they looked for hints of powder and DNA, evidence that revealed each day more macabre secrets. No matter how much Leila loved her work and no matter how perfectly happy she was managing her own team, just for one afternoon a week, she really needed this escape.

She poured herself another cup of red fruit tea, her eyes glued to the flat screen. Fred Astaire was dancing with Audrey Hepburn, doves and swans all around them. It did not get any better than this.

Until the doorbell yanked her from her reverie, spelling the end of her Sunday afternoon.

She had not been expecting anyone. Grumbling, she paused the video and walked to the intercom.

“Yes?”

“Leila, it’s Alexandre. An emergency.”

She pressed the button and waited for her colleague to come up the stairs. Soon his massive figure appeared at the door. He stared at her, speechless. She was wearing nothing but her T-shirt, a pair of men’s boxers, obviously too big for her, and thick pale-pink socks.

“Yes?” Leila asked again.

“Your phone is off,” he said.

“That’s because I’m not on call today.”

“You are now.”

Exactly what she was afraid of. With a gesture, she invited him in. On the flat screen, Fred Astaire was frozen in midair. Farewell, imaginary world where people are always happy. She turned off the video. The screen went black.

“I’m really sorry to bother you like this,” Vauvert said.

“So why don’t you tell me what you want instead?”

“Yes. Here.”

He pulled a transparent plastic bag from his pocket. Inside the bag, she could see two bloody pieces of metal. Leila frowned.

“Oh. Bullets?”

“Yes.”

She took the little bag and examined the contents.

“And these bullets, where do they come from?”

“They’re mine, Leila.”

Okay. She was beginning to understand.

“You got yourself in trouble again, right?”

“Not yet. But I need you to analyze the blood on these bullets as soon as possible.”

“Who did you shoot?”

“Don’t worry. It was only an animal. Not a human being, okay?”

Leila sighed.

“An animal, huh?”

“Yes.”

“And you want me to believe that you actually extracted your own bullets from some creature’s carcass? Who do you take me for?”

“To tell the truth, I didn’t really extract the bullets,” Vauvert said. “It’s, well, it would be too hard to explain. But I absolutely have to know what kind of animal it is.”

She tilted her head.

“Because you don’t know?” She couldn’t help snickering. “I think you really are taking me for a bimbo, Alex. But I won’t force you to tell me the truth. I assume you have your reasons. The lab is closed today, though. It’s Sunday.”

“And you are the head of the team. You can come and go as you please.”

As usual, trying to argue with Vauvert was no use. The guy was definitely pig-headed. But he was also a friend, and she knew that if she were ever the one in trouble, she wouldn’t have to explain herself to him. Vauvert would send every procedural excuse to hell and come to her rescue.

“This really can’t wait till tomorrow, huh?”

“Leila, would I be here if it weren’t an absolute emergency?”

“I know. That’s what worries me.” She looked down at her bare legs. “Okay. Do I get a minute to put something on, or do you want me to go to the office half naked?”

Just as Leila had said, the forensics headquarters were deserted.

Vauvert sat in a chair in her office while she sifted through the cabinet and picked up a vial of serum.

“You still don’t want to tell me what kind of animal it comes from?” she asked again as she opened her sample box. “It would save us some time.”

The giant cleared his throat.

“Truth is, I don’t know. That’s the reason you’ve got to analyze it.”

“Okay then,” she said. “I’m going to do the search step by step. It shouldn’t be too long, though.”

With a cotton swab, she took a small sample of blood from one of the bullets and placed it on a drop of serum.

As the precipitate turned fluorescent red, Leila made a face.