Bred to Kill (32 page)

“It must have been Napoléon Chimaux who was here in France, in Vincennes, in 1984 and 1985, along with another man. The two were in contact with a gynecologist. They gave him several tapes of the same nature. Does that ring any bells?”

The anthropologist thought for a few moments.

“Chimaux did come out of the jungle from time to time. He was seen in Brazil, Venezuela, Colombia, and here as well. He kept up relations with people in France, we know that for a fact. In 1967, he was detained in Venezuela with a shipment of test tubes—from France, in fact—which he was planning to use to take blood samples from the Ururu. He had no authorization from any kind of scientific regulatory commission, no documents. He claimed he wanted to take the blood samples to help ‘his' Indians, to study the different strains of malaria infecting the area. It raised a stink at the time, but Chimaux wiggled out of it, no doubt by having greased a few well-chosen palms, and also thanks to the pull his father's name still carried in the region.”

Lucie paced the room, hand on her chin. Napoléon Chimaux's break with the civilized world in 1966, the film from the same year, the test tubes in 1967 . . . At the time, Stéphane Terney couldn't have been involved: he had returned from Algeria only a few years earlier to begin a career as an obscure ob-gyn. What sinister plot was Chimaux hatching in the Amazon rain forest? Who else had been involved? Who had supplied the measles virus? And who was supposed to analyze the Ururu blood samples?

It had to be the second man at the racetrack.

Three men knew the secret of Phoenix.

Terney the obstetrician. Chimaux the anthropologist. And the unknown scientist.

“Do we know where those test tubes came from, which French laboratory?” Lucie asked, her nerves straining.

“Not to my knowledge. A plane had left France with the crate, but Chimaux never gave any further information. He must have been working with a lab, that's certain. But he knew how to protect his sources.”

Lucie leaned on the windowsill. Behind her, the rain clattered against the panes like small children's hands. She sighed:

“He got caught that time, but you can bet he continued smuggling. What was he coming back to this house for? To do what?”

“We don't know that either. But after they tried to kill him, he disappeared into the jungle for good, and he hasn't been seen since.”

“Wait, tried to kill him?
Who
tried to kill him?”

“It made the news. It was in . . . 2004, if I remember right. I followed the story closely, since I'd been so interested in Chimaux's career. Napoléon was stabbed here”—he pointed to his left groin—“but he was with a woman that night, who surprised the killer just as he was about to strike. It saved his life. His iliac artery was barely scratched. The killer fled, and Chimaux was lucky to have survived.”

Lucie and Sharko gave each other a knowing glance. The would-be assassin's method left no doubt: the man who had eliminated Terney by severing his iliac artery had attempted to kill Chimaux six years earlier.

“What did the police investigation turn up?” asked Lucie.

“Not much. Chimaux claimed it was an attempted robbery. That said, the minute he'd recovered, he disappeared into the jungle and among his ‘savages' forever.”

Sharko tried to hand back the book, but the other man refused.

“You can hold on to it, along with the photo. Give it all back when you give me the DVD.”

He shrugged his shoulders, vexed.

“It's all such a waste. Today, it's clear that the Ururu have been increasingly contaminated by civilization—even if it hasn't entirely wiped them out, it's encroaching more and more. They're no longer pure, and they know the outside world exists. They've discovered metal, technology, they've seen airplanes in the sky. By keeping them for himself, Chimaux deprived the world of a paramount discovery, the chance to know the real history of his people, and what prehistory might have been like . . .”

They went back down to the living room in silence, feeling drained. This house had sheltered a perfectly normal child who had grown into a monster. What horrors had he committed in the heart of the Ururu tribe? What other horrors were contained on those Phoenix tapes? How many pints of blood, how many samples had traveled through the jungle and on to France? And for what reason?

As Yves Lenoir was about to head outside, Lucie stopped him.

“Just a moment. We'd like to go there, just as Eva Louts did. Tell us how to go about it.”

His eyes widened.

“Go to the Ururu territory? The two of you?”

“The two of us,” Sharko repeated, in a voice that brooked no objections.

After a hesitation, the anthropologist returned to the middle of the room.

“It's no small feat. You do realize that, don't you?”

“We know.”

He took a map of northern Brazil from his bag and unfolded it on the table. Sharko and Lucie squeezed in next to him.

“Getting to Brazil is no problem. You don't need a visa, just a passport. I'd strongly recommend you get vaccinated for yellow fever and take antimalarials. If your student went to meet the Ururu, she traveled about five hundred miles north of the capital, toward the Venezuelan border. She almost certainly got a plane from Manaus to São Gabriel da Cachoeira, the last town before the pure jungle. There are two or three flights a week from Charles de Gaulle; they're popular with tourists trekking up Pico da Neblina, the highest mountain in Brazil.”

“You seem to know a lot about it.”

“Practically every anthropologist in the world has been there; it's where you find the largest Indian reservations. Some have even tried their luck getting to the Ururu, obviously without success. Rather than buying your tickets alone, do it through a tour operator. This way your flights will be taken care of all the way to São Gabriel, and more to the point, they'll take care of getting you the necessary documents from FUNAI, the National Indian Foundation. There are police and soldiers who patrol the river and they don't go easy; you're better off having your papers in order if you want to cross through the Indian territories along the Rio Negro. At that point, leave the tour and get your own guide. The locals there are used to foreigners; you won't have any trouble finding one.”

He marked the exact spot on his detailed map. A veritable no-man's-land.

“From here, you should count on a day's journey by boat, then another on foot to reach the Ururu territories. The guides will bring you there if you pay them well. I won't say people ask often, but often enough. In any case, to my knowledge, the results are always the same: Chimaux and the Ururu drive away anyone who comes near their villages, and sometimes it gets ugly.”

Lucie looked closely at the map. Flat green areas stretching forever, mountains, vast rivers slicing through the vegetation. So very far from Juliette.

“We'll give it a shot all the same.”

“I would gladly come with you if it weren't for this leg of mine. I know the jungle pretty well—it's not your typical forest. It's a world in motion, made of illusions and traps, where death might await at any given step. Keep that in mind.”

“It's our daily bread.”

They shook hands and wished one another good luck, then separated beneath the rain and drove off. Before turning the ignition, Sharko looked at the photo of Napoléon Chimaux.

“They try to kill him in 2004 . . . right around the time Stéphane Terney starts writing his book
The Key and the Lock
and hides those genetic codes. He obviously got scared and tried to protect himself. Our killer must have terrified him.”

“After the attempt on his life, Chimaux claimed it was a thief, to protect himself as well. He must have known who tried to kill him. But if he'd talked . . .”

“. . . He would have screwed himself, because of Phoenix. And I suspect it explains Louts's role in all this. Since Chimaux was trapped in the jungle, he might have used her as a kind of . . . scout, or courier. He sent her back to get him something.”

“The names, faces, and characteristics of left-handed murderers?”

“Yes, quite possibly. Extremely violent left-handed murderers, between the ages of twenty and thirty.”

Sharko turned on the engine.

“There's one last thing I need to check.”

 • • • 

In the animal housing facility of the primate research center, Sharko and Lucie followed Clémentine Jaspar in silence. The latter walked up to Shery and showed her the recent photo of Napoléon Chimaux. Using Ameslan gestures, she asked: “You know man?”

As any human would have, Shery took the photo in her large hands, looked at it, and shook her head. She'd never seen him before.

Lucie looked at Sharko with a sigh.

“We've got Terney, we've got Chimaux. We're still missing the third man. The scientist . . .”

“. . . Who casually eliminates anyone who gets in his way. A vicious, single-minded animal, willing to do anything to survive.”

“And given where things stand, I unfortunately see only one place where we can go to learn his identity.”

“To the monster himself: Napoléon Chimaux.”

T
he departure for Manaus was scheduled for the morning after next, Sunday at 10:30, which left Lucie time to get ready for the trip and especially time to spend with Juliette. Before leaving Paris three hours earlier, she had borrowed Sharko's cell phone—hers needed to charge—to tell her mother she'd be getting home around 4:30.

It was now 4:45. Although she was very late for the end of the school day, she parked on Boulevard Vauban and ran up to the building. The gates were locked, parents and children having already deserted the place for the weekend. In front of her, the playground was dismally empty. But it didn't matter. Lucie liked this school; she could have spent hours there, alone, basking in her own childhood memories. She gazed at the stretch of blacktop with delighted eyes.

Then she rushed home to her apartment. For the first time in many months, she was happy to return to that familiar structure with its brick walls, to see the faces of the students who lived in the neighborhood. Was it because of Sharko, their night of lovemaking, their shared confidences? Because she felt she was still able to love, and could tell herself everything
wasn't
over? When she opened the door, she saw Marie Henebelle sitting on the couch, watching TV. Toys, dolls, and notebooks from summer vacation were still there, on the floor, scattered about in duplicate. There was a wonderful smell of childhood, laughter, a joyful presence.

Lucie greeted Klark, who slobbered all over her face, then rushed over and kissed her mother on the cheeks.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, Lucie . . .”

They gave each other slightly strained smiles.

“I'll be right back, I'm just going to say hi to you-know-who,” said Lucie.

Marie noticed she was holding a present. One of those create-your-own-fashion kits. In high spirits, Lucie headed toward her daughter's room. Her heart was pounding. She opened the door and saw Juliette greet her with a lovely smile.

Lucie beamed at her daughter, then noticed the cell phone she had bought, lying in a corner. She picked it up and checked the liquid crystal screen. None of her messages had been listened to.

“Didn't you get all those messages I left you?”

“Gramma didn't show me how it worked. I don't think she likes it.”

“Gramma can be a bit old-fashioned,” Lucie told her daughter with a wink.

She didn't hear her mother come into the room behind her.

Marie stood there stiffly, a desolate look on her face.

“I'm sorry to interrupt, but a policeman from Paris came by this morning. Don't you think you owe me a few explanations?”

Lucie stood up, frowning, then looked at her daughter with a smile.

“I'll be back in just a minute, my lamb.”

She went out, closing the door behind her. The two women walked back to the living room.

“What do you mean, a policeman was here?” she said in a whisper. “Who?”

“His name is Bertrand Manien. He came up from Paris. He asked me a lot of questions about Franck Sharko and you. And what happened last year.”

Lucie recognized the name: Sharko had told her about him.

“Manien is Sharko's former boss. Why did he come here?”

“I don't know, he didn't say. He just asked questions.”

“And you answered them, just like that? Our relationship and . . . what happened afterward?”

“What was I supposed to do? He was a detective, and not a very nice one. The odd thing is that he wanted to know all about Clara and Juliette, and how they got along with Sharko.”

Lucie started unpacking her travel bag, deep in thought. Manien had driven all the way from Paris; he'd come here, to her home. He'd been alone . . . so he was investigating unofficially. What was he looking for? Why was he so interested in the twins? What was Sharko concealing from her?

She went to pour herself a Coke from the refrigerator, suddenly feeling less warmly toward the chief inspector: she and he would be having a long talk about this on the plane. For now, she made sure Juliette wasn't within earshot, collapsed into an armchair, and began telling her mother the broad strokes of her last few days. She described how deep the investigation had sunk in its claws, compelling her to see it all the way to the end—which unfortunately meant having to leave again the day after tomorrow.

“So,” Marie said sarcastically, “what hellhole are you visiting this time?”

“The Amazon.”

Her mother stood up, hands to her face.

“You're out of your mind. Completely out of your mind.”

Lucie tried to reassure her the best she could.

“I won't be alone. Franck is coming with me, and we'll be going with a tour group, with a guide and everything. People go there all the time, you know? Besides, I . . . I must have the e-ticket in my in-box already. Franck is very organized. I'll be safe with him. We're just going to land in Manaus, go meet with an anthropologist, and come back. Nothing more.”

“Nothing more? Do you hear what you're saying?”

Lucie clenched her jaws.

“Yes, I hear it just fine. You can scream and yell all you want, but nothing is going to stop me from going there.”

She lowered her eyes.

“I'm sorry, Mom, but . . . I'm going to have to ask you to take care of Juliette a few more days.”

Marie sighed through trembling fingers. Tears streamed down her face, and the words, the secret words she had kept buried in herself for so long, tumbled out as if by themselves:

“Take care of Juliette? Don't you know it's
you
I've been taking care of for the past year? That it's you and you alone I've been trying to protect from . . . from your head?”

Lucie stared at her in astonishment.

“What are you saying?”

Marie paused for a long moment, trying to get hold of herself.

“I'm saying that everything is exploding in your head, and I don't know if it's a good or bad thing. So yes, maybe you should go there, to the other end of the world, to find your own answers. Maybe that's your path to recovery after all.”

“Recovery from what, for God's sake?”

Without answering, Marie went to fetch her handbag and her shoes, which she set down by the door. She wiped her nose with a handkerchief.

“Do what you have to. I'm going to gather up a few things that have been lying around here too long and go spend some time at home. I'll come back before you leave to say good-bye and look after . . . your dog.”

In the hallway, Marie choked back a sob. She went into her room, pulled out her small wheeled suitcase, and threw in some jumbled clothes from the closet.

Lucie gave a long sigh at the closed door of Juliette's room. That damned cell phone was ringing again. It was probably voice mail pinging over and over, until someone finally decided to check the messages.

She opened the door wide.

She walked past the bed and picked up the phone. She erased all her messages without listening to them. Then she put away the fashion kit that was lying on the floor next to a still-wrapped school bag and a pile of untouched objects: a pearl necklace kit; a scooter bought for Christmas, still in its box; a dress encased in plastic, still with its price tag.

There was no child anywhere in the room.

Nor anywhere else in the apartment.