Spectacle(78)

Nathalie glanced down at Maman, who closed her eyes and nodded.

“Of course. Whatever I can do,” Nathalie said, pressing her knuckles into the leather.

“I’d go with you,” Simone said, “but my mother is leaving for the market in a little while and I need to look after Céleste.”

Maman put up her hand. “I’ll watch her, Simone.”

“Would you? Thank you, Madame Baudin.”

Not since that fateful day at the wax museum had they been out together, and if there was ever a time Nathalie wanted Simone at her side, it was now.



* * *



A short while later, they arrived at the morgue. The queue was lengthy and Christophe escorted them inside through the morgue exit. A colleague whisked him away, but not before Christophe promised to meet them at Café Maxime afterward.

Nathalie’s mouth was dry. “Last time I did this…”

It had been for Agnès. She left it unsaid. Simone knew; there was no need to say it.

“Do you want to go home?”

Nathalie shook her head. I promised Agnès.

Simone hooked her elbow around Nathalie’s and they shuffled toward the crowd. They couldn’t yet see the corpses, but as always, the cluster of people told them where the victim lay. They waited for an opening at the viewing pane, slipping in when some people stepped aside.

The victim had pockmarked skin and a mess of caramel-colored ringlets that snaked across her breasts. Her swollen face was slashed so badly it was impossible to discern her features, and a deep, uneven gash stretched across her stomach. Nathalie pulled Simone closer.

What did he mean that getting murdered was Agnès’s idea?

Once again she was lured in by his games.

“Each one is worse than the last,” whispered Simone.

Sweat began to dot Nathalie’s neck and forehead. “I saw him yesterday, Simone. It doesn’t matter if I don’t remember much. It just happened. Yesterday.”

Simone took her hand. “You really don’t have to, Nathalie.”

“What don’t I remember? Maybe it’s worse than what I do, or what I told you.” Nathalie stepped back from the viewing pane. “I’m going to be ‘seeing’ through eyes that saw me. From the man who killed Agnès. Chased me. Pulled a knife on me. Killed Sébastien the policeman.”

“Pardonnez-moi,” said a soft-spoken young woman behind them, “but might you two make room for others if you’re done?”

“Are we?” Simone said, then turned toward Nathalie. “Christophe will understand. Everyone will understand.”

Nathalie gazed at the sixth unfortunate girl, at what used to be her face, what used to be her stomach. “You’ve been right all along. I have this gift for a reason.” Before she could hesitate another moment, like plunging into cold water, she reached for the viewing pane.

The victim was already dead.

Her mouth was open, mid-scream, and blood ran from her mouth. One eye was open; the other was shut. She was a bloody, shattered doll.

The Dark Artist, gloves soaked and scarlet, caressed the victim’s cheek. One singular, angry cut traveled from her ear to her throat.

“Too late,” he said.

Blackness fell like a drape over a birdcage.

But Nathalie didn’t find herself standing in the viewing room next to Simone. Instead the vision continued. She no longer saw a room; she was outside.

Everything was white, in every direction.

Fog.

The Dark Artist opened the rear door of a covered cart and pulled out the girl’s body. Nathalie felt the weight, heavier than anything she’d ever lifted before.

He carried the corpse a few steps and laid it down.

The river.

The Dark Artist knelt down, kissed the dead girl on the forehead, and slid her into the water gently, like a father bathing a child.

He arranged her, face up, hands lightly clasped. With a firm push he sent her down the Seine.

When he stood up, he took off his gloves. “Enough already.”

Then he started choking.

His fingers flew to his neck—rope. It grew tighter. He gasped and stood up, pulling at the rope. It loosened slightly, then completely.

He turned in time to see a wrought-iron bar come toward his head.

Blackness fell again.

Nathalie still wasn’t in the viewing room.

She was reclined and saw an enormous pane of glass in front of her. A dense crowd stood behind it. Simone was there.

And Nathalie’s own self, next to Simone.

In the viewing room.

Nathalie came out of the vision with a start, hands jerking. Her eyes locked on the viewing pane.

Simone put her arm around Nathalie and hugged her close. “You’re with me now. You’re safe.”

“Mon Dieu.” Nathalie tried to stop shaking. Simone pulled her closer and motioned for someone to go away.

“What happened?” Simone whispered.

The words were hard to form; she coughed on the first attempt to speak. When she did, she whispered so quietly Simone had to lean in. “Simone—the Dark Artist…”

Nathalie wriggled from Simone’s embrace, struggling to get some air, and pointed to a corpse off to the side in the second row. “He’s right there.”