Spectacle(67)
Nathalie took in the joy around her, wishing she could make it last forever. This was the best day she’d had in a long time.
They made plans to meet up again at Le Canard Curieux in a week. Simone might be out of the picture, but Agnès was here, and Nathalie appreciated her companionship more than ever.
And she had almost a year to convince Maman to let her go on holiday to the Normandy coast for a month next summer. After all, she had a mission. She had to return some sand to the sea.
* * *
Several days later, after going through the morgue, Nathalie moseyed over to the Seine. She stood on the nearby Pont de l’Archevêché and watched for a while as boats sailed under the bridge.
“Good afternoon, Mademoiselle Baudin.”
Her favorite voice this summer.
“Hello, Christophe.” She turned, hoping he wouldn’t notice the blush in the bright sun. “Stepping out for some fresh air?”
“Fresher than bodies.” He rested his elbows on the railing. They both faced the river and spoke of the boats and bathers and how nice it would be to have some glace à la vanille on a day like this. Then he paused and looked behind them. “I see your escort is nearby. Everything is going well, I assume?”
“It is,” she said, stealing a glance at his handsome profile. “I’ve never had anyone look after me this way. I’m flattered.”
Christophe spread his hands out on the railing. “It’s part of what we do, particularly in times of heightened awareness. More importantly you … remind me of someone dear to me. You have her curiosity and wit.”
“Do I?” Nathalie’s body tingled with anticipation. She wanted to place her hand on his but refrained. “Who?”
“My sister. I became a police officer to honor her life,” he said. “Her husband came home in a drunken rage and beat her, as he often did. One time he pushed her out a window, and…”
He didn’t have to say the rest.
“I’m sorry. I—I had no idea.” She felt sorry for him, and she also felt foolish. “Paris is very lucky to have you protecting it.”
He half smiled. “Insofar as I can. This is the most sinister set of crimes I’ve ever seen—and unpredictable. There’s no pattern as to how or why the Dark Artist is picking them. At least two men spend their days trying to figure out what connects all these young women and there’s still no clear answer,” he said, shifting his weight. “My betrothed is in America with her family for the summer. Although I miss her, I’m very glad she’s not in Paris right now.”
Nathalie found herself gripping the railing tightly. “Betrothed?”
“Ah, yes. I’ve not mentioned her? I proposed just prior to their departure in May.”
Several feelings surrounded her, partnering in a quadrille dance around her heart. Pity for Christophe, sorrow for his sister, admiration for his pure heart, and embarrassment that his heart wasn’t for her, not in that way, despite her deeply buried hope.
“No, you hadn’t.” Nathalie kept her focus on the river. “How exciting for you.”
He said something after that, but she didn’t hear him. If he noticed the tears in her eyes, she’d have blamed the sun. Fortunately an acquaintance approached him, giving her an opportunity to leave, and she didn’t have to explain.
* * *
Visually the morgue was always a screaming, macabre kaleidoscope of deaths both violent and passive. Yet the place itself was quiet—somewhere between a church and an empty restaurant. People stared at the corpses, bearing expressions of horror, and often fell silent. Sometimes they gasped or prayed; sometimes they murmured to their companions or the stranger closest to them. All in all, however, the morgue was generally a place full of thoughts and respect accompanied by little sound.
But not this day.
Eight days after the fourth victim, Charlotte Benoit, was identified, and six days after her corpse was removed from display, the morgue echoed with sobs. It was a devastating sound; Nathalie was wearing a black skirt and caught herself bunching up the fabric as the sobs intensified. The room was the fullest it had been in a while, and Nathalie couldn’t see the corpses just yet.
She did, however, see the back of a woman Maman’s age, heavy-set and wearing a hat. The woman stood near the viewing pane, face buried in her hands.
Mme. Jalbert?
Her mind started to form questions about why and what a coincidence when Nathalie’s hands, as if possessed, pushed through the crowd. She didn’t bother to apologize, because when she made her way to the glass, a piece of her soul disintegrated.
There on the slab, with a jaundiced old man on one side and a toothless woman on the other, lay a girl with sun-lightened hair and sightless blue eyes and gentle hands that would never write another word. The corpse of beautiful.
Beautiful.
Agnès.
30
No, it was a dream.
She’d had nightmare after nightmare about the morgue.
This was only a dream. The worst one yet, but a dream. Or an illusion of some sort. She’d only seen her a few days ago. Agnès was very much alive. Very much Agnès.
Then Nathalie heard Mme. Jalbert sob. Agnès’s father came out of the Medusa door and embraced his wife. The two of them stared at their bloated, dead daughter and held each other close.