The northern sky laid its silvery hues on the graves. Lucie made a sign of the cross before her children’s burial vault, raised the collar of her jacket, and slid her arm under Franck Sharko’s. A chill wind, down from the north, ripped the final leaves from the poplars, promising a harsh November. Word was, the coming winter would be rough. For Lucie and Sharko, it wouldn’t be nearly as rough as summer had been.
Alone in the wide alleys, the couple finally left the cemetery and returned to the center of Lille on foot. That midafternoon, the huge shopping centers remained full, the homeless begged for change or warmed themselves over subway grates, buses and trolleys shuffled their daily allotment of workers, students, and strollers: each one following his or her own path, unwitting participants in the great laboratory of evolution.
Franck and Lucie had planned to go to Café de la Grand-Place to talk, but on an impulse the inspector took his companion by the hand and led her to Rue des Solitaires, on the outskirts of Old Lille. They walked into a small, unassuming bar called the Nemo; the sign was new, the place having recently been bought by a retired trucker. The minute he walked through the door, Sharko felt his heart contract. He breathed in the good smells of old brick and porous cement. They sat down under a small, dimly lit archway. Sharko looked around with shining eyes.
“This is where I first met Suzanne. I was in the army. I haven’t been back here in so long.”
He took Lucie’s hands in his. His fingers had regained their thickness, his wrists their solidity.
“This place means so much to me—I wanted it to be here that I tell you I love you, Lucie.”
They looked at each other without a word, as they often did, then ordered two hot chocolates that were quickly served. Sharko ran his finger around the edge of his burning cup.
“Yesterday I heard you went to see your old captain and asked about coming to work at Quai des Orfèvres. Paris Homicide. Kashmareck likes you a lot. He seems to be going all out for you, and it’s a good bet your application will sail through. Why are you doing this?”
Lucie shrugged.
“I just want to be near you. I want us to be together, all the time. For us to be on the same team.”
“Lucie . . .”
“Manien’s squad has been cleaned out, thanks to your revelations. There are empty spots to fill. I’ve got no reason to stay here in Lille . . . too many memories.”
She sighed sadly and added:
“So as long as you haven’t resigned from the force, I’ll go where you are.”
“I can’t resign. Not now. Someone killed Frédéric Hurault, and made sure it was near enough to number thirty-six for me to catch the case. They found my DNA on his clothes, and I’m pretty sure I wasn’t the one who left it there. Hurault was the father of twin girls. I’m convinced this someone knew about Clara and Juliette. The murder was for my benefit. Now that I’m thinking more clearly, I’m convinced someone was using the body to send me a message.”
Lucie shook her head.
“You’re thinking too clearly. You know the power of coincidence as well as I do. And that’s all it is, a coincidence, nothing more. Nobody’s got it in for you. That murder is just one more lousy back-page item.”
“Maybe. But now that they’ve reinstated me, I can’t leave again without solving this one last crime.”
Lucie poured sugar into her chocolate and stirred it.
“Then I’ll do the same. And you’re the one I want to work with. If they’ll let us.”
Sharko ended up smiling.
“Jesus, two months ago, we both swore to give all this up!”
They fell silent as they drank their chocolate, each staring into the void. The memories of their last case were still so close to the bone . . . Georges Noland had finally given up the names corresponding to the remaining genetic profiles in Terney’s book. One man and three women, all young, who at that very moment were undergoing tests, ultrasounds, MRIs, unable to understand what was happening to them. Of course, Noland had talked, but who could be sure he hadn’t conducted other experiments, other inseminations, that weren’t recorded anywhere? And what if he’d had accomplices? How far had he gone in his lunacy? Had he told the police the whole truth, or was he still concealing a portion of it in his diseased brain?
As for Napoléon Chimaux, he was still out there somewhere, hidden in the jungle. Dislodging him and making him admit his share of responsibility would not be easy.
Coralie Lambert could not be saved. By the time she was hospitalized, millions of tiny men-of-war had already invaded her body; the retrovirus had multiplied as of the first months of pregnancy, initiating a process of inescapable death. Her baby had been born in perfect health but harboring within him a sleeping monster. They could only hope that the geneticists, biologists, and virologists would find a way to annihilate the virus before this innocent infant would someday turn into another Grégory Carnot or Félix Lambert.
Assailed by memories, Sharko pursed his lips. Evolution built marvelous creations, but it could also be extremely cruel. The cop often repeated to himself what Noland had told him during their last face-to-face: Evolution is the exception. Extinction is the rule. He was right. Nature was constantly trying things out, testing out millions, billions of combinations, of which only a small handful would endure through the millennia. In that alchemy, there were necessarily some monstrosities: AIDS, cancer, GATACA, the great plagues, serial killers . . . Nature didn’t distinguish between good and evil, it merely tried to solve an exceedingly complex equation. One thing was certain: it had taken an awful risk by creating mankind.
A couple entered, two kids holding hands who went to sit at a small round table. They looked at each other shyly, and Lucie could read the gentle glow of a nascent relationship. One day, perhaps, their chromosomes would embrace, their genes mix together. His blue eyes, her blond hair . . . the curve of a nose, the oval of a cheekbone, the little hollow of a dimple. Chance would decide who, between father and mother, would transmit which physical or mental particularity to the child. Their love would engender a thinking, intelligent being, capable of accomplishing beautiful things, who would prove that we were not merely survival machines.
Lost in her reverie, Lucie gazed absently at Franck Sharko and caught herself wondering, for the first time since they’d known each other, what the fruit of their union might be like. There would certainly be a bit of Clara and Juliette somewhere in that future being.
Yes, Clara and Juliette were inside of her, deep within her DNA, and not out there, six feet underground. It would take only a small spark to bring a part of her two treasures back to life.