Talking to Ghosts (39 page)

He stood in the middle of the hut, turning slowly around, wondering whether it would be possible to survive here, especially in winter. He had no clear answer to this question. He set the chairs facing each other and sat down on one, putting his feet up on the other, grabbed his backpack, rested it on his legs and began to rummage through it. First he took out the urn, laid it on his belly, placed one hand on it. He closed his eyes. It was warm. He took one of the tissues Marilou had brought and wiped the urn clean of fingerprints, then, wetting the tissue with spit, polished the red surface until it shone. “There you go, Manou,” he whispered.

They sat for a long time, lost in a daydream, a rush of chaotic images mingling old memories of Marilou, Rebecca and Julien, but also memories of Nicole and Denis, and he could no longer distinguish his previous life from this one. He had gone on living without quite knowing how. But there was still this pain, this tightness in his heart, this insurmountable void. This desert heat followed him like a shadow.

He was struggling to breathe, so he looked out at the river again, the powerful waves and eddies of the water, and took a deep breath, shaking his head with a groan. Suddenly he felt unbearably hot. He ran out of the hut and the air outside felt cooler as it whispered in the leaves. He went down to the boat and saw that it was chained to one of the piles supporting the jetty. He sat in it, his feet resting on a hillock of ropes. He looked around for the oars, went back to the hut in case he had missed them, then decided it was probably normal for the fishermen to take them home so no-one would steal the boat, as he had been planning to do. He wondered what he could use to steer to boat. The estuary was murmuring now with a thousand jets of spray as the waters swelled, the waves breaking in a spume of muddy water that glittered in the sun. The rising tide pushed against the river, the powerful current rippling the water.

Victor went back up onto the bank to explore around the old abandoned car. It was a veritable rubbish dump: old tyres, scrap iron, gravel and a few long planks that he dragged back to his den. There, he set to work on them with the broken hoe and the hacksaw. He had no skill and not much strength. Before long he was sweating profusely, perspiration burned his eyes and left his lips tasting of salt. He stopped from time to time to drink some water, finishing off the first bottle. He watched the rising tide, observed the inexorable patience as it encroached on the dry ground.

Eventually he fashioned a piece of wood that would serve, flattened at one end. He threw it into the boat and began slowly cutting through the first link of the chain, the steel ring shifting under the hacksaw which was reluctant to bite into the metal; the boy grunted and groaned as the boat rocked under his movements.

When he checked the time again on Rebecca's phone, it was almost 7.30. He decided to eat in the boat which he had now reattached to the jetty with the length of rope. From the hut, he got an old blanket that smelled of paraffin and threw it onto the seat. He opened a tin of sardines which he ate using the tip of his knife, then sopped up all the juice with some of his bread. He did not eat all the pâté, nibbled a few of the crackers. Finally, in small sips, he drank half the second bottle of water.

He felt happy and tired. He lay down in the bottom of the boat and looked up at the leaves of the trees above him. There were noises from the bank, a crackling in the dry reeds, river rats probably. He heard the fish leaping in the water, carried in on the high tide, which was calmer now the ocean had the upper hand.

Then he heard the shout. It was Julien. And another voice, muffled. A car door closing. Victor dashed to the hut to get his bag. He had trouble fitting the urn back into it, got tangled with his shoelaces, grabbed the hoe.

As he stepped out the door he saw the man running towards him, and behind him Julien scurrying down the bank shouting something he could not make out. The man was no longer paying any attention to Julien, who raced to the water's edge. Victor took his knife from his
pocket and leaned his weight against the boat towards the current, forgetting that it was still tied to the jetty and had to fumble to loosen the knots he had tied himself. He was still pushing the boat, his feet already in the water, when the man grabbed him by the hair, jerked him backwards and clamped a hand over his mouth in case anyone might hear a scream in this godforsaken spot, then he put an arm around his throat. The boy felt his face flush and gulped as much air as he could. He still had his knife, but did not know where or how to strike and he knew the man could easily disarm him, so he lashed out, stabbing behind him at random, feeling the blade hit something hard; he pulled it out and stabbed again. He felt a warm wetness on the fist gripping the handle that made him feel nauseous. The hand over his mouth disappeared and he heard the man stumble back and fall. Victor turned and saw him get to his feet and walk towards him, his trousers stained with blood. The pale, slick face betrayed no emotion. He looked like a robotic creature, executing a mission it had been programmed to perform. Watching him lumber forward, head down, dragging his injured leg, it fleetingly occurred to Victor that the man might be immortal, eternally destroyed only to be reborn. At that moment Julien leapt at the man, only to receive a punch in the face that sent him reeling; he fell onto his back, motionless, as though dead. Victor let out a cry. He called out then turned and jumped towards the boat which was drifting into the current. He fell into the water, trying to grab the length of rope, his hands sank into the mud and were cut on something sharp and jagged that made him think of bones. When finally he managed to grab the rope, he pulled the boat towards him, moving deeper into the water as he did so, then clambered over the side and fell onto his stomach.

The man was behind him, clinging to the back of the boat, the water up to his waist, trying to climb aboard. Victor got up on all fours, grabbed the hoe and lashed out with all his strength but he only struck the man's shoulder with the handle, the rusted metal barely grazing his shoulder blade. The man arched his back, leaned his weight on his hands, but he seemed unable to hoist himself, sinking back into the
mud. The boy stood up, unbalanced by the man rocking the boat, he took the hoe in both hands. This time he was careful to keep his eyes open, but as he struck out he stumbled and had to steady himself against the side of the boat and the blow caught the side of the man's head and he saw the metal scrape across the scalp, seeming to rip his ear off, Victor could see nothing in the gush of blood. Screaming, the man clamped his hand over the wound, staggering in the water, clumsy and heavy, his whole upper body now spattered with blood, bogged down in the mud, the water lapping around him.

Victor paddled as best he could with his makeshift oar, and the boat moved away from the stupefied man who shook his head and slowly turned back towards the bank. The boat slipped into the current and was carried, askew, far from the bank, so Victor stopped paddling, his arms stiff, his back aching. He could still see the fisherman's hut, but the man had vanished. He wondered whether Julien had come round, picturing again that brutal punch that would have stunned a rabid dog. He felt like a coward, running away like this, but did not know what else he could have done. He knew he had to disappear. And here, in the middle of the estuary, being carried upstream on the tide towards Saint-Estèphe and Bordeaux, he was going back in time, going back to the place he had left and as he lay exhausted in his little boat there was nothing he could do about it – he could not fight the power of the tides which, tomorrow, might drag him back and fling him into the roaring ocean.

The telephone. Vilar did not dare to move, as though the device were capable of detecting his presence and would stop ringing if it thought he was not there. He dearly hoped this was just another dream. Go back to sleep. Everything will be fine. This is what he and Ana used to say to Pablo. Pablo was often scared during the night. Perhaps scared of the night itself.

His mobile. Slowly he emerged from the delirium of sleep. It was almost 2.00. He found the telephone. The call was coming from a landline.

“Were you asleep?”

Vilar had not turned on a light and yet around him the darkness began to pale to the point that the room seemed to have been sprayed with phosphorous. He blinked and now the shadows were lit by spots before his eyes that darted in time to the pulsing in his veins.

“What do you want?” Vilar asked.

“To get this over with. I don't want to play anymore.”

“So this was a game?”

“Sometimes, yeah. I think it was the same for you. At least it keeps your mind busy, all your police bullshit, the corpses, the investigations, all that shit. That's what gets you up in the morning, dickhead. If it weren't for that, you'd have put a bullet in your head long ago, am I right?”

Sanz was interrupted by a hiccup. Vilar could hear his breathing.

“Where are you calling from? Have you gone into business as a shrink?”

“I'm in the Médoc, if you can believe that. I came to get my son, but the little bastard doesn't want anything to do with me.”

“Your son?”

“That's right, my son, Victor – ring any bells? I'm sure you know, they placed him here with a foster family … Just like his father before him. We've got a lot in common. But this is the second time he's got away from me, so fuck it, he can drop dead just like his whore of a mother …” He paused, took a breath. “Anyway, we're coming to the end of the road.”

Vilar tried to think, but his mind was blank. All his concentration was focused on this voice in which he thought he could finally hear a crack, a supressed quavering.

“Where's the kid? Is he with you?”

Sanz sighed.

“I … Are you fucking dense or what? I just told you, he got away. I don't know where he is, and I don't give a shit, you got me?”

“Where are you right now?”

“I'll tell you. Come and get me …”

Vilar wondered if this was a request or an order. The voice had trailed off towards the end. There was none of the manic triumph, the overweening arrogance with which Sanz usually imbued every word.

“You want me to come get you? Don't you have a car?”

Sanz sighed again and mumbled vaguely.

“No petrol. And I'm not heading out in the middle of the night, the place is crawling with cops.”

“Cops? Looking for you?”

“No. You're the only one looking for me. No, they're looking for the kids. Probably think I raped them or killed them, fuck knows. Get me out of here. You have a warrant card, you can get through the cordons.”

“You said kids. What kids? Victor? Who else?”

“It's no big deal, I'll explain later … Come get me and I'll take you where you want to go.”

Vilar felt an excruciating current course through his body. The
bruises from the previous day's altercation ached as though Sanz were beating him again.

“And where is it you think I want to go?”

“You know perfectly well. You've known for the past five years.”

“I'm tired. Why should I go anywhere with you? What do you know about what I want? I should rip you apart for what you've said about my son, what you've done. I …”

Suddenly he had no more breath, his chest felt as though he were suffocating.

“It's not like I'm not tired too. Chill out. You're not going to rip anyone apart because you're not like me, you don't have that rottenness in your brain.”

Vilar tried to marshal his thoughts. It was like trying to catch and hug the driving rain.
He's trying to suck up to me. All psychopaths do it. But I've got him. He's got me
.

“Tell me where you are. If I can't find you, I'll get directions from a local officer.”

He turned on the light, reached for a piece of paper and a pen. Out of the shadows the lamp conjured a familiar reality and he feared his nightmare might fade away. Vertheuil. A remote house with a blue door on the road to Cissac. A white Golf parked out front. Some sort of pine in the garden. Vilar may have stumbled across the names of such villages on the labels of wine bottles. In the chaos on his desk, he dug out a sufficiently detailed map and went down to the car.

He did not know what he planned to do when he found him. He did not know what his promise was worth. The urge he had had to shoot him in the stomach and watch him die slowly was gone now: perhaps because something in Sanz was exhausted. The way you might say a seam of coal is exhausted. Vilar was about to come face to face with this man he had dreamed of slaughtering for months, and it was this man he was now allowing to guide him. He felt like a blind man in the darkness led by a mad dog. Perhaps he would get to watch Sanz die without having to touch him, watching this blaze that had consumed everything gutter out of its own accord. And it would happen in the
darkest hour, there where the earth petered away, where the Médoc narrows to a jagged point and buries itself in the ocean.

He took the pistol Pradeau had given him before he disappeared. He checked the ammunition. Fifteen cartridges. He put the gun on the passenger seat and, as he drove along the dark, straight road, passing the occasional speeding car, his fingers caressed the placid, warm steel.

A little way past Pauillac, he came to a police roadblock. He slipped the gun into the pocket of his jacket and submitted to the questioning without mentioning he was one of them. The
gendarmes
were wearing bulletproof vests and some of them, who remained in the background, were hefting rifles, butts tucked into their armpits, fingers on trigger guards. He allowed them to open the boot and shine their torches inside. The number plate of Sanz's Renault estate had obviously been circulated that afternoon so they were probably on the lookout for the car, and for the missing boys, but it was unlikely that Sanz's mugshot had been sent to every patrol unit.

Afterwards he strayed onto narrower roads, driving through pitch darkness interrupted only by the street lights of deserted villages, stopping three times to consult his map. When he got to Vertheuil, he made a tour of the village to get his bearings, passing the house where Sanz was waiting for him. He parked some fifty metres away and, engine and headlights off, found himself in shadows as thick and murky as oblivion. He suddenly felt a weight on his chest, and he had to inhale deeply two or three times to catch his breath. Through the rolled down windows, he could hear crickets. The night was warm, without a breath of wind. Nothing moved, nothing seemed to exist anymore. Vilar realised he could not even see his hands and was struck by the idea that his body too had ceased to exist, dissolving into the blinding void that surrounded him, that he was dead and had only just noticed.

He opened the car door, leapt out and stood, gasping and feeling foolish as the light inside the car automatically came on, casting a dim glow on the grassy verge. He worried that Sanz was watching for him, perhaps could see him standing here, so he closed the door soundlessly and walked towards the house. The starry vault above his head cast no light.

The gate opened without squeaking. The windows were dark, the shutters open. Vilar wondered if Sanz could see him. He also wondered where the people who lived in the house were now. He curled his hand around the pistol and circled the house, keeping his distance, trying to make something out through these windows that seemed to be staring at him like vacant eyes. From time to time, he saw the green or red L.E.D. of some device set on standby. Gradually, he became convinced that he was not circling a sleeping house, but a dead one.

He found himself back at the front door and decided to open it. It swung noiselessly open and he waited for two or three seconds. He could hear nothing in the silence but the muffled ticking of a clock. He stepped inside, pointing the gun this way and that as though it might cast some light on things. He felt ridiculous gesticulating in the dark like this. He found a switch and the light immediately alleviated the pressure in his chest and he could breathe normally once more. He moved towards a door behind which he could glimpse the hulking form of a sofa and cautiously stepped into the room. He smelled stale cigarette smoke. He felt certain that Sanz had laid a trap for him and would jump out at any minute. He slid his feet across the floor, skirted around the sofa and, just as he reached the fireplace, a lumbering movement and a creak of wood made him start and turn towards the sofa.

“Shit, you're here …”

Vilar fumbled for a light, switched on a lamp.

Sanz sat up blinking. On his right temple was a huge gauze bandage soaked in Betadine, held in place by a piece of tape that ran across his forehead such that one eye was almost closed. The top of his T-shirt was brown with dried blood and the right leg of his trousers was also stained above the knee. Next to him was a hunting rifle and a cartridge pouch. He looked at Vilar, nodding, a twisted smile on his face.

“What the fuck are you doing in the dark with that gun? You come to arrest me?”

His voice was slurred. He blinked constantly in the dim light.

“Where are they?”

“Who?”

“The people who live here. What did you do to them?”

“I scared them. One look at me and they were shitting themselves. So I nicked their rifle before I passed out completely and I made sure they wouldn't piss me off anymore.”

“Where are they?”

Sanz brought a hand to his thigh and gritted his teeth. Then he slumped back against the sofa.

“I buried them in the garden.”

A forced, guttural laugh wracked his throat.

“I'm a natural born killer,” he said coughing, “and you're fucking Super Cop … And I should know, we've got police in our family.”

“I'm going to take that rifle,” Vilar said. “Don't move a muscle.”

He moved a round into the chamber of his pistol, cocked it and stepped towards Sanz.

“Go ahead, I don't need it anymore. You're the one with the guns now. You see what you can do with them, whether they're any use.”

He touched the side of his head and his fingers came away smeared with blood.

“Shit, it's bleeding again. That little fucker ripped my ear off.”

He did not move as Vilar lifted the weapon onto his shoulder and took the cartridge pouch.

“Who ripped your ear off?”

“My fucking son.”

“How do you know he's your son?”

“I just know. I can feel it in my balls.”

“And when exactly did you start to give a shit? What about your daughter? You don't think about her much, from what I've heard.”

Sanz was leaning back against the sofa, his eyes closed. His chest shook with something that might have been a chortle or a silent cough.

“You talked to that slut, that's how you know … how you traced it back to me … I don't give a fuck about her and her little brat. I never wanted a kid. She was the one who wanted to keep it when she found out she was pregnant. I warned her …”

Vilar stared at the man who, in the past four months, had murdered two women with his bare hands and slit a teenage boy's throat. He had desecrated the memory of Pablo, sullied his name, twisted a knife in old wounds. His duty was to knock him out, drag him back to Bordeaux and have him banged up for as long as possible. Instead of which, and without the least curiosity, he simply watched the man writhe with pain as blood seeped into the sofa.

And yet here before him was a human being capable of committing those crimes, motivated by such perversity. A human being with a face, an expression, one who could close his eyes, overcome by sleep, now so utterly drained and so helpless that any
gendarme
could probably come and slip the cuffs on him without waking him. He could hurt, he could suffer, even die. Perhaps Vilar believed in ghosts, but he did not believe in monsters. Neither monsters nor the heroes who hunt and kill them. But dealing with men like this, those who sow private chaos, falls to other men who must confront them with no assurance that they will defeat them. Vilar stared at the man. He had so badly wanted to make him suffer, to kill him. He had sometimes been woken in the night by terrible dreams in which he had the man at his mercy, but the blows he tried to rain down had no power, no effect, and his bullets bounced harmlessly off this body like paper pellets, and he would notice that the body had no face and realising it was a dream would wake with a start, his heart pounding with impotent rage.

Vilar vainly searched inside himself for some vestige of rage, of hatred. He wished that he felt overcome by a desire for revenge, because it would have been easier to lash out, to revel in each blow until the last, what they call the
coup de grâce
. But he felt nothing. There was nothing in him now but an expectation he no longer dared to name.

“Where are we supposed to go when we leave here?”

Sanz opened his eyes. He looked solemnly at Vilar, seeming to consider this question or perhaps the answer he might give.

“I already told you. You know where we're going. You know what we're going to find there. It's almost in the Dordogne. Two hours' drive. My brother is waiting for us. He's the one who figured it all out.
He just had to check to make sure. He called me yesterday, he was going to call you anyway. He said it was the least he owed you.”

“Why did you kill him?”

“Who?”

“Morvan, the
gendarme
.”

Sanz shrugged and sighed as though the question were of no interest.