S. Cedric - Of Fever and Blood

“Sure it can. So, you guys never talked about her past?” Vauvert went on. “What happened when she was a child, and when that killer kidnapped her? The Night Scourge?”

“I told you, she never talks about herself. I think she put that part of her life behind her.”

Vauvert had a hard time believing that. You could not erase such a thing from your existence. You could fake it maybe, pretend it was all in the past, but it would keep crushing and shaping you. He knew that all too well.

“And so you think she has never taken advantage of her job to try to find the identity of the man who killed her mother and sister? Give me a break, Erwan.”

Entering a small village with high beams glaring, he shot full-speed through back-to-back traffic circles.

“You really should be more careful,” Leroy said. “You’re going to get us killed.”

“Don’t worry. There’s nobody else on the road.”

Leroy closed the book on his lap and slipped it into his leather bag. There was no way he could keep reading.

He grabbed the handle once again.

“Okay, listen. I really don’t know any more. When I first got to Homicide, some of the guys told me the story. I tried to find out more about it, as you can imagine. It’s not every day that you work with the victim of a serial killer. And well, I guess I was also trying to find out more about Eva. I admit that. People were saying so many things about her.”

“And?”

“And nothing. Nobody ever knew the details. All we know is that the Night Scourge held the two girls in a basement and that he slit the throat of Eva’s sister, probably right in front of her eyes. Her name was Justyna. I remember it because it’s not a name you see every day.”

“Yeah,” Vauvert responded. “But we never found out who he was? Not even a guess?”

“Nothing at all,” Leroy said. “He stopped killing overnight.”

“After that one night,” Vauvert said. “Just like that.”

“Exactly. Those were his last known murders. It’s possible that the man killed himself. It happens. Or maybe he died in an accident. We’ll never know.”

“You don’t think it’s a bit odd? That a killer would take so many risks to abduct two kids, going as far as staying in an area swarming with cops, only to spare one of them while he had her in his grasp?”

“We’re talking about a psychopath. Who knows what goes on in a mind like that? Anyway, no one has ever figured out why he attacked all those girls in the first place.”

“Yeah.”

Up ahead, an overpass appeared. It was a simple and massive structure, lined with red and blue lights. It looked like something out of a sci-fi movie.

“Almost there.”

The SUV shot past the road sign, cut through yet another rotary and ended up on a street decorated with holiday lights.

“For Christ’s sake, slow down. We’re there already,” Leroy implored.

Dr. Fabre-Renault’s house was on a drab gray avenue. Across from it was a car dealership. Vauvert parked in front of the dealership. He was so tired, his head was spinning.

“You okay?” Leroy asked, unbuckling his seat belt.

“Of course I’m fine,” Vauvert grumbled.

The cold wind hit them as soon as they stepped out of the SUV, and their breaths vaporized in the air. Despite the holiday decorations, this street, like those in all the villages they had driven through, was deserted. A motorcycle revved on a nearby street, and a traffic signal beeped at the corner, but otherwise everything was silent.

They hurried to the house across the street, tightening their coats against the cold. Looking up, Vauvert could see a golden light seeping through the second-floor windows. He pressed the bell under the brass plate that read “Dr. J. Fabre-Renault, Psychiatrist.”

A man in his fifties opened the door. He had a tired expression, gray hair, and a face covered with freckles. He was wearing huge yellow eyeglasses. They looked like novelty glasses, not something that someone would seriously wear. But then again, he was also wearing a thick red sweater and gray corduroys that looked a good thirty years out of date.

“Doctor Fabre-Renault? I’m Inspector Vauvert from Homicide, and this is Detective Leroy.”

“We called you earlier,” Leroy said. “We need to talk to you.”

“Yes,” the doctor said in a solemn voice. “I knew you people would show up sooner or later.”

He invited them inside.

“Come on in. We’ll be more comfortable in my office. I just made fresh coffee. You guys look like you could both use a cup.”

12:25 a.m.

He led them up a stone staircase to the second floor. It was a big house with rooms crammed full of old mismatched furniture that seemed to have been scavenged from garage sales. The walls were covered with gaudy paper-yellow fleur-de-lis in one room crimson-and-black stripes in the next room, and green toile in still another room.

The office was at the back of the house. Fabre-Renault opened the door and asked them to have a seat.

Vauvert hesitated. He had to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. The wallpaper in the doctor’s office was a pink floral. The traditional psychoanalyst’s couch was there, but it also was pink. Moreover, the desk, the leather chair behind the desk, and the carpet were pink. Old sepia photographs of men and women from a bygone era-family souvenirs maybe-hung on the walls. Vauvert wondered if this was the way you would see things if you were on a mind-altering drug.

“This is where I see my patients,” the doctor said. “I’ve tried to create an atmosphere.”

“Yeah,” Vauvert responded cautiously. “It’s quite an atmosphere.”

“Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be right back.”

Leroy did not need to be told twice and hung his long leather jacket on the coat stand. Then he lay down on the pink couch, shutting his eyes. Vauvert was so tired, he was having trouble concentrating. The fatigue would soon be a serious problem.

The doctor returned with a tray holding an old porcelain coffee pot and three large mugs. He set the tray on the desk and poured Vauvert some coffee. It appeared that Leroy had fallen asleep.

“Sugar?”

“No, thank you,” the inspector said, finally taking a seat in an armchair.

He took a sip. The coffee was strong, the way he liked it. He welcomed the warm, mellow taste in his mouth

“We really are sorry to disturb you this late at night, doctor. We are investigating a series of murders, and we think you might be able to help us shed light on certain… facts.”

“Well, I figured as much. I recognize you, you know. You’re the one who arrested the Salaville brothers last year. You were in all the papers.”

“Not just me,” Vauvert said. “A colleague of mine actually solved the case.”

“That woman with the white hair? She’s an albino, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is,” Vauvert said, uncomfortable. “But that’s beside the point.” He glared at the doctor. “Listen, we’re running out of time. The Salavilles committed atrocities, but it’s our belief that they weren’t the only ones involved. We have reason to believe that something happened in your former hospital that started them on their murder spree. It’s absolutely essential that we understand what it was.”

Fabre-Renault nodded. He dropped four cubes of brown sugar into his coffee. He stirred with the spoon, absorbed in his thoughts.

“There’s no question that a lot of odd things did happen at Raynal.”

“The apparitions,” Vauvert said.

“The hallucinations,” the doctor corrected. “When we told the administration what was happening, everybody thought we were out of our minds. And look what they did in the end. They got rid of the hospital, simple as that. The Regional Office claimed that we were not profitable enough. What complete bullshit, if you’ll pardon my language. They’d had enough of Raynal’s reputation, that’s all. They couldn’t blame me, though. So they sent me here, as the head of the loony bin. My bosses have a mean sense of humor, to say the least. They are the craziest of all.”