This symbol was the center of it all.
The eye of the hurricane, the illusory calm in the heart of chaos.
She drew closer.
It was not paint.
She held out her hand and touched the circle, bringing the powdery matter to her nose. The characteristic acrid smell of dried blood assailed her.
From the start, she’d known that the Salavilles were involved in some kind of mystical mania. It was the common element in all the disappearances. The only thing she had not expected was the heights their psychosis had reached. What she saw here did not jibe with the reports filed by the doctors who had treated them.
What did this symbol represent? A circle with three bars. Blood had dribbled down the wall, and it was hard to make out the details. What was certain was that it resembled none of the pentacles usually used by Sunday satanists.
She would have to look it up. Find an explanation of what went on in the heads of these men. Understanding these kinds of things was vital to Eva Svarta. It gave a bit of sense to her own chaos.
She would deal with that later. This would be for the office investigation, after the Salaville brothers had been neutralized. No longer able to slaughter defenseless kids.
7
Vauvert positioned himself in front of the barbed wire-crowned gate. The bullet scratches under his vest were itching. Getting rid of it was out of the question, though. In the very likely event of another gunfight, he wanted to stay alive.
He scanned the yard. He could see the stone barn, typical for the area’s farms, as well as another house in the background, all shutters closed.
He jumped when his cell phone began to vibrate in his pocket. Finally, he had service! Staying put for fear of losing the connection, he yanked the phone to his ear.
“Damien? Where the hell are you guys?”
“We just left the main road. What a fucking goat path.”
“I know. Listen, we had an exchange of gunfire here. Hurry up.”
“Oh shit. Okay. We’ll get there as quick as possible.”
“And call backup too. I’ve got a bad feeling. Got it?”
“Loud and clear.”
Vauvert ended the call. Silence still reigned on the property.
There was no time to waste. The inspector caught sight of a spot where the barbed wire looked a little less dense. He hoisted himself onto the gate and jumped down to the other side. He froze when he recognized the red pools on the ground.
He carefully took stock of the farm’s layout. Two houses facing each other, with a barn between them. Where could the kidnappers be?
He decided to go with his instinct. The barn. He sneaked toward the building, all his senses alert. There was a strip of muddy ground. Beyond that was a curtain of fir trees, thorn bushes, and black trunks. The Salavilles had blocked this way with an even thicker tangle of barbed wire that wouldn’t be easy to get though unhurt.
Vauvert heard a burst of voices and crouched at the edge of the barn.
The brothers were inside, all right, and they were having quite a row.
Good. If they were panicking, they would be divided.
Vauvert slowly pulled his weapon out of its holster.
Creeping near a closed shutter, he could hear their argument more clearly.
“I’m telling you we’ve got to untie her! She was chosen, get it? The gods chose her!”
“I don’t care! The cops are out there! We ain’t got no time to wait for her!”
“You’re gonna fuck everything up, you fat dumbass!”
“Fuck you, Claude!”
Very, very good.
The spaces between the wooden shutters were too narrow for Vauvert to make out anything inside the barn, but they let out an excruciating stench. What else were they up to in there?
He intended to find that out.
He crept along the barn, ever so slowly, toward the doors.
If Svarta didn’t mess up on her part, the brothers would be trapped. Then, hopefully, the rest of the unit would show up. Given their situation, the Salavilles would have only two options. The first would be to remain holed up in this barn and fight for their lives, shooting at anything that moved. That was the option most psychos went with. More often than not, it all ended in a monumental bloodbath.
Or else they could try to flee the farm before the entire police force swooped down on them.
Roman Salaville went for option number two.
Vauvert barely had time to see him. The fat man dashed out the doors and disappeared behind the barn. Vauvert reacted right away. Spinning on his heels, he ran around the building in the opposite direction, hoping to catch the runaway on the other side, face to face.
But when he got to the back, he realized Roman Salaville was following the muddy path leading to the woods. The man reached the barbed-wire wall and started climbing it, hurting himself in the process.
Too late for discretion.
“Police!” Vauvert shouted. “Don’t move!”
Salaville climbed twice as hard. His pants tore. He’d worked his way up only twenty inches or so, when the wire ferociously grabbed his shirt. He struggled and thrashed, bloodying his arms and legs.
Cursing, Vauvert ran toward him.
He saw the huge man topple over the fence, leaving scraps of clothing in the barbed wire, and then heard him thud down heavily in the bushes, beyond Vauvert’s field of vision.
“Bastard,” he mumbled, speeding up.
When he reached he fence, he saw his suspect tearing as fast as he could through the fir trees.
Not a second to waste. Putting his handgun back in its holster, the inspector began to climb the fence himself. The sharp spikes pierced his hands. He clenched his teeth, trying to minimize the damage. He was just as challenged as his fugitive as he laboriously made his way to the top and finally tumbled to the other side. He squawked as he landed in the bushes. The collision with the stony ground sent a wave of pain down his spine.
God dammit, the fat bastard was going to pay for that.
He leaped to his feet, scanning the woods around him. He soon located Roman Salaville, who was slipping between the trees, and without a second thought he darted after him.
8
Eva Svarta hurried across the foul-smelling living room. There was no one here.
She went through a second hallway and entered a small room where a stained mattress lay, straps attached to it at the top and the bottom. Light shone into the room through a half-opened door.
As she approached the door, she put her sunglasses back on so she could see outside without burning her eyes.
She saw the farmyard.
The large brown splatters could only be blood.
The space looked deserted.
The inspector studied the two other buildings composing the farm.
A high-pitched scream rose from the barn.
The girl was still alive. Eva’s heart filled with an unrealistic hope. She had to stay focused.
At that very moment, a bolt of lightning tore across the sky. The sudden brightness blinded her, and she had to shut her eyes.
When she opened them again, she saw Claude Salaville dashing out of the barn. The man was carrying Eloise Lombard. The girl was a naked, pale figure, so fragile that she looked about to break at any moment. She was struggling, but the man was holding her tight with one arm around her waist. The other hand held a shotgun.
Eva planted herself in the doorframe.
“Police! Freeze!”
Claude Salaville offered her the grin of a wild beast and pointed the gun at her. He fired.
Eva dove back into the house. Buckshot ripped chunks off the door. The mirror over the chest of drawers exploded into a thousand shards.
She rolled onto the ground and, flat on her chest, took aim at the man.
But he held the girl in front of him, making her a human shield. If Eva fired now, she might harm her.