The Killing Song, page 31
I straightened my arms, thrusting the gun closer to Demarais. My vision tunneled, the corners edged in black. All I could see was his face, half-gold, half-black, eyes glimmering like wet stone.
“I really must be going,” Demarais said. “There are other little sisters waiting for their next dance.”
With a flick of his wrist, Demarais collapsed the end pin and put it in a backpack. He slung the backpack over his shoulder and turned away from me.
Suddenly, I saw the opening behind him. There, behind the cage of rocks, another passageway, leading away from Two Hearts.
I pulled the trigger.
Explosions of sound. Flashes of white light.
The dying echo of the gunfire, a stinging in my hands. Then, finally, a silence so thick it felt as if my ears were bleeding.
“Matt!”
I stared into the blackness before me. I could see nothing. What had I done?
“Matt!”
I pushed Juliette’s hand off my arm and moved forward into the dark passage. My foot hit something and I stopped, knelt and put out my hand.
I felt his arm first, then followed the rough fabric of the coat to the center of his back. My hand grew warm and sticky with his blood.
“Matt?”
“I’m here,” I said. “Stay where you are.”
I found Demarais’s neck and pressed my finger to his skin. Not just one place but many, holding my breath as I felt for a pulse anywhere a human being might have one. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
I pushed to my feet and, drawing a hard breath, I turned away and walked back to Juliette. Her hand was extended and I grabbed it. Even as we started to walk out of the chamber, she didn’t seem to want to let go. Neither did I.
48
The sky was still dark gray but there was a pale bleed of pink above the roofs. From my position in the backseat of the police car, I could not see anything except the chain-link fence through which Pierre had led us six hours ago. The narrow street was clogged with police cars and ambulances. The cold November air smelled of oil and baking bread.
I had been sitting here since before dawn, and even though I had endured incomprehensible things since Mandy’s disappearance weeks ago, this last hour had felt like the longest of my life.
Eve had still not been brought out of the tunnels. Juliette and I had retraced my route back to her, but Eve had insisted that we leave her and get Juliette out first.
The moment Juliette and I emerged from underground, I had used Eve’s cell to call the police. As we waited for them, I realized the map was no longer in my jacket. I had lost it somewhere in the tunnels, probably in the water. And now the searchers had nothing but my memories of the tunnels to guide them to Eve.
A spray of flashlights suddenly swept over the vacant lot.
I heard an eruption of voices and saw uniformed officers running in the direction of the recessed railroad tracks beyond.
My breath came out in a painful exhale.
Eve was strapped to a board, carried by paramedics. A tall man took off his cap and I recognized him as Maurice Fournier, the head of the cataflics. I watched as he leaned down to Eve and took her hand.
A flash of white caught my eye and I saw Juliette throw off a blanket and run across the street, pushing her way to Eve.
Immediately, an officer pulled her away. Even half a block away, I could hear her sobbing. It was heartbreaking, but I had followed enough investigations to know the cops would keep us apart. They interrogated us separately to make sure our stories were in sync and to catch those details that didn’t match.
I sat back down on the cruiser seat and put my head in my hands.
Our stories.
The walk away from Two Hearts had been long and quiet. Juliette asked only about Eve. I told her that Eve was fine, left behind only because of a sprained ankle, but I don’t think Juliette comprehended a word I said. It was not until she fell into Eve’s arms that she even seemed to understand she was safe, that they were both safe.
And it was not until then that I felt the heaviness of Eve’s gun in my jacket. I removed it and held it out to her.
What happened, Matt?
I shot him. Three times.
She weighed the gun in her hand, popped the magazine and checked the number of cartridges left.
You emptied the gun, Matt.
I had shot a man fourteen times.
In the back.
I had no knowledge of the French judicial system or homicide laws, but I knew that I had committed murder. I knew that you couldn’t shoot even a monster in the back.
It was Eve who first gave voice to the idea that we could somehow hide this. That we could crawl out, dispose of her gun in case anyone ever found Demarais and never say a word to anyone.
That meant Eve’s career would survive, but she and the police would have to continue the charade of looking for a man who was already dead.
It meant that Juliette would be criminally complicit in covering up a murder and be forced to keep the secret for the rest of her life.
And it meant that I would be able to go home a free man. I would be able to walk away again, untouched, from a pile of wreckage I had helped create.
Eve was the one who suggested we lie.
I was the one who said we had to tell the truth.
And we had. I had given my statement to a detective and was sure Juliette had done the same. Commandant Boutin would talk to Eve, then he would come to me.
Again I waited. The sun appeared above the building, a white glow behind frosted glass clouds. The air grew warmer but still I felt chilled. I closed my eyes.
“Monsieur Owens.”
I must have dozed off because I jumped at the sound of the commandant’s voice. He stood next to the open car door, peering in at me. Fournier came up behind him.
I pulled myself to my feet and stood next to the cruiser. I was taller than Boutin and had to look down to meet his eyes.
“You should never have come here,” Boutin said.
For a moment, I thought he meant the tunnels. Then I realized he meant Paris.
“You have interfered in an investigation,” Boutin said. “You have caused an innocent American woman to be attacked. And because of you, Inspector Bellamont’s career is over.”
I thought of telling him what was in my head, the only thing that had been in my head from the moment I watched Demarais disappear into the passage—that I couldn’t let him kill anyone else. But I knew what was coming once this story broke. And I knew that this petty man would do anything he could to protect his rank and reputation. I had made him look foolish and he had the power to make me, and Eve, pay.
“It would be best if you would just leave,” Boutin said.
My God, is he going to let me go?
“But that cannot happen,” Boutin said. “You have confessed to a murder.”
Boutin looked toward Fournier, who was giving directions to a group of men who were obviously equipped to go down into the tunnels.
“When they find Laurent Demarais,” Boutin said, “you will be charged with murder.”
Boutin turned, snapped out some French to a nearby officer and walked away. The officer came over to me, drawing his handcuffs from his belt. He spoke French but I understood what he wanted. I turned and put my arms behind my back.
He put me inside the car. I sank back in the seat and leaned my head against the glass. Across the street I saw Juliette and Eve staring at me.
I was exhausted, but I was seeing two things clearly. Juliette was alive, and my life was over.
49
The first night I didn’t sleep. I lay in the dark of my cell listening to the din of French. Despair and rage sounded the same in any language.
Finally, on the second night, exhaustion claimed me. I fell into a black hole of dreamless sleep and awoke with a start.
The light from the small window was bright, hinting at morning. But what morning? How long had I slept?
I had talked to more detectives whose names I did not remember, always telling the same story. They offered me no information in return. I called Cameron, and I remembered asking for a lawyer. Since then, the cops had left me alone.
I could remember little else. I was wearing a blue jumpsuit but I couldn’t remember changing clothes. I couldn’t remember eating.
It was as if my mind was shutting down, and that’s what scared me most. Not the phone call to my father that I still had not made. Not the murder trial that could put me away for the rest of my life. I was scared that I didn’t know who I would be after this was over. The man who had crawled across those bones was gone. I had no idea who was still left inside me.
Sleep saved me again. I was drifting off when a noise jarred me awake. I looked toward the bars.
Cameron.
“Hey, Matt.”
I rose and went to him. “How’d you get back here?”
“You can pay me back later.”
I smiled and leaned my head on the bars. I caught a whiff of Cameron’s foul cigarettes. It smelled like perfume.
“How you holding up?” Cameron asked.
I shook my head slowly. “They haven’t charged me yet. Nobody’s telling me anything. I don’t know what the fuck is going on.”
“Eve’s getting you a lawyer,” Cameron said.
I looked up at him. “How is she doing?”
Cameron held out a newspaper. “See for yourself.”
I took the copy of the Herald Tribune and opened it up. The story was stripped across the top in a bold headline.
SERIAL MURDERER KILLED IN CATACOMBS
Cameron had written the story himself. He quoted unnamed police sources. I was sure the information came from Eve.
I read it quickly, digesting the main points. The story detailed our pursuit of “an international serial killer” and his fatal shooting by American journalist Matthew Owens. It also credited Inspector Eve Bellamont’s dogged five-year investigation for solving cold-case murders in France and Great Britain. There was a quote from Hélène Molyneaux’s father about finally being able to bring his daughter home. There was a quote from Inspector Gregory Harrison about reopening Dylan Rumsley’s case and another from John Mulligan in Fyvie about reopening his investigation into Caitlyn McKenzie’s death. There was a quote from the Miami Beach PD lauding the French police’s cooperation in their investigation.
I scanned the rest of the story quickly. Cameron had described Juliette’s abduction and our journey to Two Hearts. It also said that I was in custody, awaiting formal murder charges.
I lowered the paper and looked at Cameron. He held up a stack of other newspapers.
“They’re all trying to follow up with it this morning,” he said. “And it’s on CNN.”
I shook my head, knowing I had to call North Carolina. And Nora. “Cam,” I said, “how could you do this to me?”
“Do what?”
I waved the newspaper wearily.
Cameron was quiet for a moment. “Don’t you see, you poor bastard?” he said softly. “This is what’s going to save your ass.”
I looked down at the newspaper in my hand. Somewhere in my fogged head, it began to come together. The story was irresistible; it already had a life of its own. Eve would be lionized as a savior of not just her own niece but the memories of five other women. Demarais would be vilified as the monster he was. And me?
I looked up at Cameron. “I still murdered a man,” I said.
A loud clang echoed in the corridor. I leaned forward against the bars to see who else might be coming to see me.
It was a guard, the heavy keys on his belt clinking as he walked. He stopped next to Cameron and said something in French. Cameron stepped back against the wall. The guard stuck a key into the lock on my cell door. A buzzer rang and the door slid open.
“Vous êtes libre de partir,” the guard said.
My eyes shot to Cameron. His mouth hung open.
“He says you can go,” Cameron said.
The guard said something else.
“He says there are no charges,” Cameron said. “He wants you to follow him.”
The guard started away. I had heard the words but I couldn’t move. Cameron pulled on my arm.
“Go, go,” he said.
I stepped into the corridor and followed the guard into another room, where my clothes and personal items were stacked next to my muddy boots. My passport lay on top.
A different guard was waiting with a clipboard. He filled out a form while I hurriedly threw off the jumpsuit and pulled on my clothes.
The guard thrust the clipboard into my hands. “Sign here, here and here,” he said, stabbing his pen at various lines on the form.
I hesitated, afraid I was somehow being conned into signing a confession that would put me back in jail. The guard cleared his throat.
“It is a standard release form,” he said. “You are just certifying you have received your belongings and that you are leaving our facility in good health.”
I was going to ask permission to go find Cameron so he could read the form when the guard stepped close to me.
“Inspector Bellamont is waiting for you outside,” he said, indicating a red door at the end of a long hallway. “Sign the form. It is not a trick.”
I scribbled my name and within seconds pushed out the door into the sunshine. I was in a cobblestone walled courtyard packed with cruisers. My clothes were stiff and gray with gypsum dust. I was still holding my passport. I opened it, staring at my photograph. It was so old I still had my beard.
Eve was coming toward me, moving gingerly on crutches over the cobblestones.
I went quickly to her. I knew she might find a hug awkward but I couldn’t resist. I was sure she was responsible for getting me out of that cell. I embraced her, crutches and all.
“How are you doing?” she asked when I drew back.
“I’m fine,” I said. “How about you?”
She glanced at her bandaged ankle. “It is just a bad sprain. I will heal.”
“And Juliette?”
“She is in the car,” Eve said. “She is well.”
I started over to the car, but Eve caught my arm. “Wait. I must speak with you first.”
I turned back to her, and as I stood in the warmth of the morning sun, my joy at being free began to erode. Something was wrong.
“Inspector Fournier’s team found Two Hearts late yesterday,” she said.
I said nothing, more confused than I had been a few minutes ago. Eve went on.
“They did not find Demarais’s body.”
A few seconds passed while my brain tried to process this information.
“Then they had to be in the wrong place,” I said.
“No, it was Two Hearts,” Eve said. “They found everything else you described. Hélène’s bones, the red candles and the end pin. No Demarais.”
“That’s fucking impossible.”
Eve was silent. Her eyes were steady on mine, dark with suspicion.
“You don’t believe me?” I asked.
“I don’t know what to believe.”
“Then ask Juliette,” I said. “She saw me shoot the bastard.”
“Juliette saw you fire the gun,” Eve said.
“Eve,” I said. “He’s not some ghost! I checked. He was dead. He was there.”
“He was not there, Matt. He was not anywhere nearby. They searched every tunnel down there.”
I spun away from her, walking a tight circle. As crazy as it was, as impossible as it was, the fact that they found no body was the reason I had been set free. No body. No crime.
I looked back at Eve. “The cartridges,” I said. “They had to have found the cartridges.”
“Not a one,” Eve said.
“Bullets,” I said. “There had to be holes in the walls.” Eve shook her head and looked up at me. She had the same question in her eyes now that had been there two weeks ago in the cemetery. Can I trust you?
I thought I had answered it.
“Matt.”
Eve’s voice drew me back. “I owe you so much,” she said.
“But you don’t believe me.”
She hesitated. “It does not matter.”
“It does to me, Eve.”
We were quiet for a moment. Eve’s eyes went to the passport in my hand. “You are going home?”
I exhaled. “No choice. It expires in two days.”
She gave me a small nod. “I will make sure Juliette sees you before you leave.”
“What about you?” I asked. “What will you do now?”
“I will go on looking for him.”
For a moment I didn’t know what she meant. Then it hit me like a jab to the chest. Demarais. She would go on just like before, except now she would be hunting a ghost.
And there was no way I could stop her.
50
My flight was scheduled to leave at noon. The one-way next-day ticket to Miami had set me back almost three grand. It was a small price to pay.
The ticket was safe in the breast pocket of my blue blazer, along with my passport. I was cramming the rest of my stuff into my duffel when Cameron came to the door of the bedroom.
“Was it something I said, dear?”
I turned and gave him a smile. “You could come visit me in Miami, you know.”
“Been there, done that, bought the guayabera.”
I picked up the fake Burberry scarf I had been wearing for the last three weeks and held it out to Cameron.
“Keep it,” he said. “Something to remember me by.”
“I won’t need a wool scarf in Miami and I sure as hell won’t need anything to remember you by,” I said, folding the scarf and laying it on the bed. I looked around the room to see if I had forgotten anything. My jeans were crumpled in the corner, where I had left them last night. They were caked with the dust and mud of the tunnels. For a second, I thought about leaving them, but then I picked them up and gave them a good shake.
Something fell to the floor. I picked it up.
It was the silver chain Pierre had given me back in the tunnel before he left. I had forgotten about it. As angry as I was at him for leaving Eve and me on our own in the tunnel, it was only right that I return this.
