The sultry humidity had been rising for some time.
Chandeler reckoned that the sun must be approaching its zenith or possibly past it. The sounds of drawers and cupboard doors being opened and closed reached him through the wooden slats of the trapdoor.
Suddenly, he heard a door slam with a heavier noise, different from the others. The man who was keeping him prisoner must have just gone out. This was not the first time. On each occasion, the lawyer had noticed that his jailer returned after a period he reckoned at over an hour.
He went over to the trapdoor, guided by the tiny point of light that glinted through the shadows, then he started to bang on the wood, first with his shoulder, then with his heels. His keeper gave no sign of life, which gave him courage.
He braced his hands on the floor for maximum support, then drew his knees up to his chin and kicked out hard. A violent pain shot from the tips of his toes to his spine. He slipped his nails between the edges of the door and noticed that there was now a little give. He crouched back down and kicked, again and again.
The pain in his feet and legs was becoming unbearable.
He clenched his teeth. Tears were in his eyes.
Another blow.
The trapdoor gave way.
He threw himself at the aperture.
He was free. Blinded by light.
On a desk in front of the trapdoor was a huge computer with a screensaver showing large white birds. The cries of birds emerged from the loudspeakers. On the other side of the room, to either side of the window, stood two stuffed white birds the size of storks, the same as the ones on the monitor.
On the walls there were photographs pinned up. In snapshots taken with a zoom lens, Chandeler recognized Morini, his former client, taken at a three-quarters angle, sitting in his bar. In two other shots, a man was walking in the street. Above it a Post-it read: Jean-Claude Marceau.
Chandeler began to tremble. Thirst was constricting his throat, but he did not take the time to look for water. He gathered the little strength he had left and headed toward the door. It was locked from the outside. A huge bunch of keys hung from the door jamb. His fingers shaking, he tried the keys one after the other. Twice the bunch fell from his hands. His feet hurt as if they had been beaten by canes. About a dozen keys later, he found the one that turned.
The door opened out onto a narrow path that retreated through a reed bed. He walked as fast as he could, trying not to scream each time his feet touched the ground. Most of the rushes had to be over three meters high. He turned round and saw that his prison was no more than a tiny farmhouse, half engulfed by ivy, concealed in a grove of ash trees and reeds. It was absolutely invisible in its jungle sanctuary.
Father Favier’s fingers were long and gnarled, as though one-euro coins had been slipped in between the phalanges. His hands were in constant motion, which Moracchini read as a sign of nerves.
“You’re telling me that just before the death of Christian Rey you spoke to Gouirand in your church!”
“That’s right, yes. But why are you asking me these questions again?”
She ignored the priest’s reply, went over to him and tossed her hair back provocatively. Favier did not even notice her gesture.
“Never mind about your discussion. You then state that once Gouirand had left your church, you heard some noises, is that right?”
“As I’ve already explained several times: Gouirand had come to fetch the Tarasque to clean it. When he had gone, I closed the door behind him. Everything seemed quiet, then I heard those noises. I couldn’t find out where they came from, but I’m sure I heard them! Someone was there, and then that someone left. I’m sure of it!”
“As if with the help of the Holy Ghost?”
The priest smiled with mild disdain.
“You could put it like that.”
She stood up and stretched. She was wearing tight jeans and a T-shirt she had won at the police marksmanship competition.
“So what do you think about all this, Father?”
“I don’t know what to reply. Of course, I don’t believe all these stories that are going around in Tarascon! Just imagine it, only yesterday some more people came to ask me to say masses to fend off the evil spell. Masses to fight the Tarasque … Some people believe in a curse, others are asking for processions through the places of the legend of the Tarasque. Do you see me telling the bishop that I’m off on a procession to the castle of Tarascon or in the marshes of the Camargue? Not to mention what the journalists would have to say.”
“Yes, I can quite understand!”
“Oh no you can’t! I’ve had official requests addressed to me to go and bless the waters of the marshlands. It’s as if the people in the town were possessed by this demon. Even the young lads from North Africa are talking about the Tarasque, can you believe that? I mean, it’s not even part of their culture … My predecessor did warn me, but I never thought it would go this far.”
She continued to stare at him, trying to catch his attention with female wiles, which had to be bothering him, but he did not show it.
“Each to his own monster. You have the Tarasque, we have the city football team.”
She pointed at the window.
“And do you know where this Gouirand is right now?”
“No, honestly, I don’t,” he replied, turning his hands up toward the ceiling. “I think he may have simply gone away on holiday.”
She turned back toward her computer and clicked on the criminal records file.
“O.K., I don’t see any reason to detain you. Thanks for coming in.”
“I have nothing to add except to say that this is the work of a madman!”
De Palma appeared in the doorway and tapped on the frame.
“Come in, Michel. I think you know Father Favier.”
De Palma held out his hand. Moracchini placed herself between the two men.
“I just wanted to check a few details again with the priest of Saint Martha,” she said. “But I’m through now.”
The priest got to his feet and picked up an old battered leather briefcase, which he had placed on her desk.
“Your colleague in Tarascon also questioned me twice.”
“The Tarasque ate him too!”
The priest stopped playing with his fingers and stared back at de Palma. He was wearing a curious expression, both eyebrows raised at a slant.
“It isn’t funny to say that, sir, really not funny.”
De Palma placed a hand on the priest’s back and guided him gently to the door.
“You’re absolutely right, it’s no joke.”
The man of God slipped out like a shadow and disappeared down the green corridor.
“We’ve got to lay hands on Gouirand. I’ll have him brought in.”
“Bérard too was a Knight of the Tarasque.”
“Really? I’m going to end up wondering who wasn’t.”
He handed her a sheet of paper, on which he had made a series of notes:
White spoonbill (Platalea leucorodia).
Shape and size of a pure white heron. Long black bill, shaped like a spoon at the end. The adult has an orange strip on its chest and, in spring, a long orange/yellow head crest. Immature: no strip, black wingtips, pink bill. Silent except during the breeding season when it produces a groaning call.
Shallow fresh and coastal waters, nests in colonies in trees, bushes and reed beds on marshy ground.
86 centimeters.
Can be observed in the Camargue in spring and autumn. Nests in North Africa. Groaning sound from nests (not in Camargue). Occasional clicking of bills.
Long neck, long feet. Flies with neck extended.
Feeds on aquatic invertebrates and small fish.
“Very interesting, Michel. But it doesn’t tell us much.”
“I copied it from a birdwatcher’s guide for the Camargue. Take another look.”
She read back through the notes, murmuring each word.
“Jesus, so it sings only when nesting, and that happens only in North Africa.”
“So the recording was a sound montage. A very clever one, but a montage all the same. I think we really are up against a madman of a kind we’ve never imagined before.”
“Any ideas?”
Moracchini had sat down on the edge of her desk; she was examining her nails and frowning.
“We’ll have to investigate the ornithology freaks. All those obsessed with our little feathered friends. You never know …”
“Yeah, but in the meantime Chandeler is out there in the wilds, with the psycho.”
“What can I say?”
“Nothing. Just say nothing.”
As he emerged from the reed bed, the man knew at once that his prisoner had given him the slip. Without knowing why, he felt it, but he had had to prepare the beast. And that was not an easy thing to do. He had been making it fast for a while, and the storms that span in the sky above the delta had swamped the air with electricity.
The beast was more uptight and dangerous than ever before.
He took out his knife and ran inside the house. Inside it was quiet. He stopped, his arms flailing in front of the staved-in trapdoor. In the late afternoon shadows, the white spoonbills were watching him with their glass eyes. They seemed to be laughing at the strange trick that fate had played on him.
He stayed still for some time. His mind was so clouded that he felt as if his cerebral convolutions were muddled together.
From the computer came the clicking of beaks and groaning. It was the spoonbills’ song of love and grace during their nuptial display. He smiled as though emerging from his torpor. The recording was on a loop. It dated back to the days when he had worked for an Algerian oil company.
After a moment, it seemed to him that the stuffed birds were coming to life on their varnished wooden stands. He walked over to them on tiptoe, uttering little cries, like quiet groans.
Tears filled his eyes. He wiped the sweat that was running down his temples. His hands were trembling, his guts churning. He tried to get hold of himself, but shakes and painful spasms were knotting his entrails. He went closer to the birds, and stopped less than a meter away. With the tips of his fingers, he stroked their marvelously white plumage. He sank his fingertips into the down of their long graceful necks.
He asked the spoonbills to give him the strength to fight through the crisis that was now submerging him, but the trembling soon turned to convulsions, and he collapsed.
He came round some time later, unable to tell how long the attack had lasted. The spoonbills were still there, he could hear the dry clicking of their long, spoon-shaped beaks and the groaning of the males.
Mad with rage, he went outside and headed for a lean-to beside the house. He returned a few minutes later with a jerry-can of petrol. His eyes were red with fury, and saliva was dribbling from his lips, twisted downward by an unknown pain.
He went inside the house and methodically spread fuel at strategic points. Then he nervily struck a match and rushed outside, pursued by the fire’s hot breath.
He stopped running a long time later, when he found himself on the road to Salins-de-Giraud. A column of smoke was rising in the distance, a huge exclamation mark above the marshes.
At that moment, he thought of the beast. Only at that moment did he realize that she would be furious and that nothing could stop her.