Bred to Kill by Franck Thilliez Page B

it’ll help you see things straight and set your mind at ease. But you be careful, all right?”
    Lucie nodded, her face expressionless, now devoid of feelings. Kashmareck knew that expression so well on the ex-cop’s face that it made him shiver.
    â€œI promise.”
    â€œAnd don’t hesitate to come by the squad room whenever you like. We’d all be very happy to see you.”
    Lucie smiled politely.
    â€œI’m sorry, Captain. I have to keep all that far away from me from now on. But tell everyone hello for me, and let them know that . . . that I’m okay.”
    He nodded and moved to gather his photos, but Lucie snatched them up.
    â€œI’m keeping these, if you don’t mind. I’m going to burn them. It’s a way of telling myself that all this is almost over. And . . . thank you, Captain.”
    He looked at her as he would look at a close friend.
    â€œRomuald. I think we’re at the point where you can call me Romuald.”
    She accompanied him to the door. Just before leaving, he added:
    â€œIf someday you ever want to come back, the door is always open.”
    â€œGood-bye, Captain.”
    She closed the door behind him, resting her hand on the knob for a long time.
    Back in the kitchen, she used a chair to climb up next to a cabinet and ran her hand over the top. Hidden there were a brown envelope, a Zippo lighter, and a 6.35-mm Mann semiautomatic pistol. A collector’s firearm, in perfect working order. She didn’t touch it but grabbed up the rest.
    In the envelope were two recent photos of Carnot. Front and profile. The brute had a slightly flattened nose, bulging forehead, and eyes sunken in their sockets. Six-foot-five, an ominous face, and the build of a giant.
    He ripped open an artery in his throat with his bare hands
. The words were still echoing in Lucie’s head. She could perfectly well imagine the horror of the scene, in the depths of the solitary wing. The young colossus lying in his hot, black blood, hands still clutching his neck . . . Did madness really have something to do with all this? What kind of frenzy had seized Carnot that it could drive him to mutilate himself so drastically?
    Looking at the photos, Lucie felt only bitterness. Since Clara’s death, she couldn’t see Carnot as a human being, even if, for some incomprehensible reason, he had spared Juliette. For her, he was nothing but a mistake of nature, a parasite whose only purpose in life had been to cause harm. And try as they might to come up with some sort of explanation, to pass this off as sadism, perversion, uncontrolled impulse, when you got down to it there was no satisfactory answer. Grégory Carnot was different from the rest of the world. Clara and Juliette had had the misfortune to cross his path at that particular moment, the way some people get bitten by a disease-carrying mosquito as they leave the airport. Chance, coincidence. But not madness. No, not madness . . .
    The photos of Carnot had already been ripped up and taped together again, several times over. Lucie placed them in the sink, along with the ones showing the upside-down drawings.
    â€œYes. It’s a good thing you’re dead. Go burn in hell with all your sins. You are completely responsible for your actions, and you are going to pay.”
    She turned the flint on her lighter.
    The flame devoured Carnot’s face first of all.
    Lucie felt no satisfaction or relief.
    At most, the vague sensation of spreading ointment on a third-degree burn.

6
    C hecking in at Quai de la Rapée is a required step in any criminal investigation assigned to the sleuths of 36 Quai des Orfèvres. The cops rarely go there to admire the Seine and the barges: the sights they see are much less picturesque.
    Arms folded, Sharko stood between two autopsy tables in one of the large rooms of the Paris forensic institute. Around him were solid walls, endless corridors,